“Don’t be silly.” She had confessed that she was seeing Boris shortly after her strange date with Chancellor Hitler. There was already too much deceit poisoning the world. “They know I’m with you.”
“And they still let you leave?”
Martha laughed lightly, and as he turned the car onto Tiergartenstrasse, Boris grinned back. They both knew there was very little her parents could do to prevent her from doing as she pleased.
Exhibit A: her upcoming tour of the Soviet Union. Her parents were vehemently opposed to the trip, even though she had explained that it was not admiration for communism that compelled her but love for Boris. As much as she adored him, she could not ignore her nagging worries that their romance was doomed. She needed to learn more about him, his beliefs, and his country before she could possibly know whether they had a chance at a future together. And she needed to know. Every day, as her feelings for him grew stronger, so too did her concerns that the differences between their two worlds were irreconcilable, and she ought to get out now rather than set herself up for worse heartbreak later.
She did not confess her worries to Boris, but she suspected he knew. “I could show you the Soviet Union,” he had protested when she first announced her trip. “You’ll get a much better sense of my country that way than on an official government tour, with everything scripted and curated to impress.”
“If you’re there, you might influence me even without meaning to,” she had said, running a hand through his hair and kissing his cheek to soften the blow. “I have to reach my own conclusions.”
He had nodded grudgingly, but they argued about it later, spoiling a lovely evening walk through the Tiergarten with baseless accusations and biting retorts. They were both such passionate people that their relationship inevitably shifted dramatically through peaks of great joy, valleys of anger when they declared it was over between them, and the muted middle ground of remorse and reconciliation. Mildred, who disapproved of Boris only slightly less than Martha’s parents did, called it the “Russian roller coaster” and encouraged Martha to disembark. Martha laughed off her friend’s warnings even as she secretly thought she probably ought to heed them. Could she really marry Boris and make a life with him in the Soviet Union, a country so unlike America? Her trip would help her decide one way or the other.
But that journey was a week away, and she refused to let any worries about the future of their relationship spoil their outing. The night’s coolness had burned off with the dawn, and the bright sunshine and cloudless skies promised a hot, sultry day, perfect for swimming and sunbathing.
They drove about twenty kilometers west to Gross Glienicker See, a beautiful serene lake with secluded coves and sandy beaches surrounded by lush forest. In a private spot on the northern shore, they spread their blanket in the sunshine, stripped down to the swimsuits they had worn beneath their clothes, and plunged into the cool, pristine lake, refreshed and exhilarated by the sensuous touch of the water upon their skin, their mutual desire, and the anticipation of pleasure. By unspoken agreement they said nothing of Nazis or politics but luxuriated in idleness, speaking little and then only of the fine weather and the beautiful scenery. They glided together and apart, closing their eyes and lifting their faces to the sky, sighing as the concerns of Berlin and of the future were washed away.
When they tired of swimming they lay in each other’s arms on the blanket, baking in the sun, plunging into the lake again when the heat became unbearable. When they were fatigued, they dozed; when they were hungry, they moved their blanket into the shade, unpacked the picnic hamper, and dined on sandwiches, beer, and vodka. Martha had not felt so content since she had arrived in Berlin, with the crystal lake shimmering in the sunlight, the blue sky above endless and serene, and Boris, lacing his fingers through hers, smiling as he smoothed her windblown curls from her face, pressing his lips to hers and lingering there, his mouth warm and hungry and tasting faintly of beer and mustard.
The temperature continued to rise throughout that glorious, lazy, sunbaked day, and they agreed that it was probably unendurable in the city and they were clever to have escaped it. But they were obliged to return, so at five o’clock they reluctantly dressed, shook the sand from the blanket, packed up the Ford, and headed back to Berlin.
As they left the lake behind, Martha sighed contentedly, relaxed into her seat, and pulled up her skirt to the bottom of her bathing suit to soak in the last sunbeams and enjoy the cooling breezes stirred up by the car’s swift passage. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Boris glancing frequently at her sun-kissed thighs. “Keep your eyes on the road or we’ll end up in a ditch,” she teased.
“How can I?” he retorted, his voice a low, thrilling growl. “You’re the most delicious distraction.”
She smiled and tilted her head back, enjoying his attention.
The car sped from cool shade into patches of brilliant sunshine where the scent of pine and earth came to her sharp and pungent. They passed between bicyclists traveling in both directions, men and women alike, some carrying small children in little wagons on the side or in baskets on the front. Occasionally a motorcycle sped noisily past them, the riders’ faces obscured by leather helmets and thick goggles. Others traveled on foot, women in pairs, strolling leisurely with a basket dangling from an elbow or with armfuls of flowers, sturdy men striding along with knapsacks. Martha’s heart warmed to the German country folk, so simple, friendly, and earnest as they enjoyed the beauty of their land.
It was nearly six o’clock when they reached Berlin, and, knowing that she might be recognized, Martha pulled down her skirts and sat up straight as befit an ambassador’s daughter. Boris said something in Russian, a mournful complaint understandable in any language. Mildred laughed, so charmed by his admiration that a few minutes passed before she realized that the streets were curiously empty for a balmy Saturday evening—no couples strolling arm in arm, no stout gentlemen walking their dogs, no friendly groups meeting up outside restaurants or theaters. Mildred spotted a few sparse clusters of men on street corners, but they were strangely static, turned inward, sometimes glancing warily over their shoulders at the police, who seemed to be out in greater numbers than usual.
Beside her, Boris shifted in his seat and inhaled deeply, and she knew he sensed the unsettling, electric tension in the air too.
As they approached the heart of the city, Martha’s heart sank with dismay at the sight of heavy army trucks, machine guns, soldiers posted here and there, black-clad SS officers marching, and more police, their green uniforms standing out against the stone buildings.
“Where are the SA?” said Boris, slowing the car to give way to a heavy military truck turning onto the boulevard before them.
Martha’s breath caught in her throat as she looked around. There was not a Brownshirt to be seen.
Traffic slowed to a crawl, and when they reached the Tiergarten, they discovered more military trucks loaded with soldiers and what Martha guessed were stores of weapons. Armed soldiers had taken up positions on the sidewalks and in the park, and some streets were blocked off and heavily guarded. Her heart thudded as they approached a checkpoint, but the soldier scrutinized the diplomatic plate on Boris’s Ford and waved them through.
“Boris,” she said shakily, “what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” He inched the car along, nodding politely to the soldiers who made way for them. “Stay calm.”
She nodded and clasped her hands together in her lap, willing her features into a dispassionate mask. At last Tiergartenstrasse 27a came into view, but her breath caught in her throat at the sight of more trucks, soldiers, and armaments arranged across the street before it. Not far away, Standartenstrasse was entirely roped off, a cordon of green-uniformed police barring passage to all.
“I have to get to my embassy,” Boris said as they drew closer to the residence.
“I know. Just drop me off at the end of the driveway.”
“Are you sure?”
She inhaled deeply and nodded. Keeping one hand on the wheel and his eyes on the streets and soldiers, Boris reached for her hand and squeezed it. She clasped it in both of hers and held on tightly until he brought the car to a halt in front of the residence. There was no time for parting endearments; she snatched up her bag and hat, darted from the car, and ran down the driveway to the front entrance without looking back.
Hurrying inside and shutting the door hard behind her, Martha was momentarily blinded by the darkness of the foyer, dizzied by the sudden coolness of the air after hours of blazing sunshine. Dropping her belongings, she stumbled up the stairs to the main floor, her breath coming in quick gasps.
“Martha, is that you?” she heard her brother call. A moment later he held her by the arms and was peering into her face, his expression drawn and tense. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”
