Martha searched her memory and conjured up the image of a petite, dark-haired, pretty young woman, with expressive hazel eyes, luminous skin, and light brown hair. “Sure, I remember. She seemed like a sweet girl, smart too. I liked her.”
“Then will you help?”
“If Sara’s brother was an American, I’m sure my father would pull out all the stops,” she said, hesitant. “But since Natan is a German citizen, I don’t think the embassy can intervene.”
Mildred’s face fell. “I see.”
“Not to worry,” said Martha. “Even if the embassy can’t get involved, I know someone else who might, as a special favor to me.”
As soon as Mildred left, Martha phoned the offices of theRegierungspräsidentof Cologne, 580 kilometers west of Berlin in the Rhineland. Her call was put through to newly appointed administrative president Rudolf Diels so quickly that she briefly indulged in the flattering notion that her name was on a short list of intimate friends for whom his secretaries had been instructed to interrupt all other work. When Martha asked Rudolf to come to Berlin to see her as soon as possible, he agreed to meet her the next day.
Rudolf had once been chief of the Gestapo, but he had been removed from office in April after his superiors decided he was not ruthless enough to suppress the SA. Two months later, he narrowly escaped losing his life in Hitler’s bloody purge after Reichstag president Hermann Göring, a close friend, had warned him that enemies were conspiring against him. Rudolf had fled to Switzerland, where he remained for several weeks until passions cooled. Upon his return to Germany, he served briefly as deputy police president of Berlin until he was appointedRegierungspräsidentof Cologne. Though he had been knocked down a few rungs in the Nazi hierarchy, he remained very powerful, for he possessed influential friends, a vast intelligence network, and files of incriminating evidence on his political enemies, entrusted to an associate in Zurich who had orders to publish if Rudolf met with foul play.
The following evening, Martha arrived at the rooftop club of the Eden Hotel to find Rudolf waiting for her at their favorite table. Most of the other tables were occupied by businessmen in expensive suits, Nazis in full regalia, and ladies in gorgeous dresses and sparkling jewelry. Couples danced as Oskar Joost’s orchestra played a lively fox-trot, drowning out the fine patter of rain on the adjustable glass roof overhead.
Martha saw the maître d’ at Rudolf’s side, bending deferentially to better hear his confidential instructions, but he was otherwise alone. Although none of the guests openly stared, Rudolf nonetheless commanded the room, as if a dark energy radiated out from him, evoking tension and wariness in those within its range. Crossing the room to join him, Martha felt anew the pull of his charisma and the dark beauty of his scarred face. Once she had sat on his lap and kissed his scars, one by one, as he wryly explained how he had earned them fighting duels years before, when he was a hotheaded student proving his manhood to other, equally hotheaded schoolmates.
Rudolf rose with sinuous grace, kissed her hand, and guided her gracefully into a chair adjacent to his. “What a great pleasure it is to see you again,” he said as he seated himself. “You are as exquisite as I remember.”
His smooth baritone sent an enticing shiver up her neck, but she dared not be tempted. “Oh, come on,” she said lightly. “It hasn’t been that long since we last met.”
“It was before you went on your tour of the Soviet Union.” He studied her, smiling faintly. “Did you find communism in practice as impressive as in theory?”
“It met my expectations,” she said, offering a little shrug. Her departure had been covered widely in the press, and many had interpreted it as a public declaration of her opposition to the Nazi regime. They were not wrong, but whether Rudolf saw it that way or believed, as her parents did, that she had gone impulsively out of starry-eyed infatuation for Boris, she could only guess.
“Tepid praise,” said Rudolf. “Are you still seeing the Russian?”
“You know I am.”
“Yes, I know,” he acknowledged. “As for myself, I rarely see Vinogradov these days.”
“I suppose not. I understand things have become rather chilly between Moscow and Berlin since the Night of the Long Knives.” Martha had seen for herself that few German officials attended parties at the Soviet embassy anymore. Nazi agents posted outside the consulate kept a watchful eye on all who came and went, noting license plate numbers and the frequency and duration of visits.
“Chilly?” Rudolf shook his head, amused. “Hitler and Stalin do not see eye to eye on everything, but there is no reason why they should not continue to cooperate on matters of mutual interest.”
They paused as the waiter approached bearing an excellent bottle of champagne and a silver dish of ripe, plump strawberries, his demeanor betraying a hint of terror that he had either arrived too soon and had interrupted an important moment, or had not arrived promptly enough. As he poured, Martha’s eyes met Rudolf’s and she smiled, pleased that he remembered her tastes. She almost regretted that things had not worked out between them. If not for Boris, she might be tempted to give him another try.
When the waiter departed, Martha nibbled a strawberry and sipped her champagne, sighing with pleasure as the orchestra struck up a buoyant swing tune. “We should dance later,” she said, watching other couples circling the dance floor. “After we finish this bottle. Do you still prefer slow dances?”
“Is that why you asked to meet me, so we could dance?”
“No, but now that I’m here, it seems like a fine idea.”
He smiled, his gaze penetrating. “Are we here to discuss German and Soviet relations? Perhaps you’re gathering intelligence for your father.”
She was so surprised she laughed. “That’ll be the day.” She toyed with her glass, resisting the temptation to drain it in one gulp. “I’m here on a personal matter.”
His eyebrows rose. “Personal?” he echoed lightly, deftly infusing the word with countless delicious possibilities.
She nodded. “A favor for a friend.”
Briefly she explained the situation, deliberately nonchalant, as if it were all a simple mistake that could easily be sorted out, with no harm done and no hard feelings afterward. Rudolf listened without comment as she spoke, his expression one of polite interest, as if she were describing a rather ordinary shopping excursion or the weather. She knew him, though, and she knew his mind was working swiftly in the depths, though not a ripple betrayed him on the surface.
“What is this Herr Weitz to you?” he asked when she finished, refilling her glass. “A new lover?”
She leaned forward to take her glass in hand, teasing him with a glimpse of décolletage. “Why? Are you jealous?”
“Certainly.”
