Mildred did not doubt Harro’s opposition to the Nazis, but as he cheerfully recounted his exploits to prove his bona fides, she began to have grave concerns about his judgment. Several years before, as the outspoken editor of the banned radical opposition magazineGegner, he had tried to unite the Right and Left against the fascists, holding boisterous meetings in restaurants and rallying his comrades to march in May Day parades. He deliberately sought attention, hoping to inspire others to join his cause, but in March 1933, a squad of SS had burst into aGegnereditorial meeting and arrested the entire staff.
“Our prison was a cellar, our bed a cold stone floor strewn with hay,” said Harro, his mouth set in a grim, defiant smile. “Some of my colleagues were soon released, but a friend and I were stripped naked and ordered to run a gauntlet of guards armed with lead-weighted whips. Three times they ordered us to pass between their ranks while they beat us with all their strength.”
Sickened, Mildred pressed her lips together to hold back a gasp.
“After the third time through, my friend collapsed, unconscious, and later he would die of his injuries.” Harro absently fingered his scarred right ear. “I suffered injuries too, but anger kept me on my feet. I staggered, bruised and bleeding, to the starting point, clicked my heels together, and shouted, ‘Reporting for duty! Orders carried out plus one more for luck!’”
Rudolf nodded approvingly, but Arvid’s brow furrowed. “After all you had suffered, you mocked them to their faces?”
Harro shrugged. “Mockery was the only weapon at my disposal. It seemed to impress them. They declined to send me through the gauntlet again, and the leader told me admiringly that I belonged with them.”
Prevailing upon influential friends of Harro’s father, his mother had managed to get him released, half-starved, ill, with thick ropes of scars from the whips on his back and swastikas knife-carved into his thigh. He had required weeks to heal and regain his strength, but as soon as he was able, he had resumed his opposition work, though more covertly. Obtaining a post in the Luftwaffe Ministry was unlikely for someone with Harro’s record, and indeed, at first the personnel chief had declined his application for a commission. But soon thereafter, Reichsminister Hermann Göring had personally overruled the decision, impressed by Harro’s military lineage, persuaded by powerful mutual friends, and charmed by Harro’s aristocratic wife, Libertas, the beautiful, captivating, flirtatious granddaughter of Prince Philipp zu Eulenburg-Hertefeld.
As Harro described his professional duties, it seemed to Mildred that Arvid and Rudolf could barely contain their excitement. Fluent in five languages, Harro reviewed and summarized reports on foreign air forces for Göring, handled intelligence reports from Luftwaffe officers serving abroad, and disseminated confidential documents throughout the Air Ministry. There was no question that he had access to extremely valuable military intelligence, but when Mildred and Arvid exchanged a surreptitious glance, she knew her husband was wondering, as she was, what price the resistance might ultimately be forced to pay for it.
When the interview ended, the men wished one another good luck and courage, and Rudolf and Harro departed. Pretending to adjust the curtains, Mildred watched from the window as the men emerged from the building a few minutes apart and walked off in separate directions.
“What did you make of him?” asked Arvid, hugging her from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder.
Sighing, she turned in the circle of his arms and cupped his cheek in her hand. “His zeal is impressive, and when I think of the state secrets that cross his desk on any given day, I can’t imagine any better place to have an ally. And yet...”
“He’s reckless,” Arvid finished for her. “He’s intelligent and courageous, but impulsive, and he’s already too well known to the Gestapo.”
“Do you think you could rein him in?” asked Mildred. “Teach him discretion?”
“I don’t think discretion is in his nature. One careless moment of bravado could bring down the entire group.”
“We don’t have a group, not yet,” Mildred reminded him. “With his connections, Harro could help us develop one.”
“Or he could get us thrown into a prison camp.” Arvid shook his head, frowning. “I hate to let his access to military intelligence slip through our fingers, but I’m not convinced it would be worth the risk.”
A few days later, Arvid returned home from work just as Mildred was leaving for the Abendgymnasium. Rudolf had come by the law firm that morning to ask if he should arrange a second meeting.
“I asked him to tell Harro that I appreciate his time and trust, but although I’m very interested, I can’t see him again,” said Arvid. “It’s simply too dangerous.”
Mildred agreed. It was some consolation to know that Harro would continue his opposition work with or without them. She wished him success, for they were on the same side even if they dared not work together.
Chapter Twenty-nine
January–February 1935
Sara
The first time Sara, Amalie, and their parents were permitted to visit Natan at KZ Oranienburg, they were escorted into a small office with one wooden chair and bars on the windows. Twenty anxious minutes later, Natan was brought stumbling into the room—handcuffed, filthy, unshaven, held upright by two guards, one on each arm. Bursting into tears, Sara’s mother hurried to ease him into the chair.
For a moment, Natan blinked at his family in disbelief. “Good to see you,” he said hoarsely, as if he were welcoming them to his flat and not to hell on earth. “Glad you could come.” A fit of coughing prevented him from saying more, but he managed a slow, ironic grin, revealing the gap of two missing teeth.
A guard remained in the room with them throughout their visit, but when Sara and Amalie pleaded, he unlocked Natan’s handcuffs so that he could eat some of the food his mother had packed. He chewed and swallowed slowly, carefully, as if his jaw pained him, but he saved most of the food to take back to his cell, along with the clean, warm clothes they had brought, several books, and a packet of letters from friends. Most were unsigned, with subtle clues only Natan would recognize to identify the authors, full of good cheer, innocuous enough to pass the censors.
While Natan ate, they shared news of the family and the neighborhood, carefully editing the facts for the guard’s ears. Natan said very little about the conditions he endured in the prison, but his thin, disheveled appearance confirmed their worst fears. His hair had been hacked off, his clothes were threadbare and stained, and a faint sour odor clung to his skin. Even so, his bloodshot eyes were alert, and he never cringed when the guards shifted their weight or touched the rubber truncheons on their belts. All the while, he held his left arm close to his side, and when Sara embraced him, he stiffened in pain.
Abruptly and all too soon, the guards ended the interview, but before they shackled Natan’s hands again, Sara darted forward to murmur in his ear, “We’ll be back to see you soon. We’re going to get you out of here.”
“Don’t bring Mutti next time,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Don’t let her see me like this.”
The guards took him away before Sara could vow that next time he would leave the prison camp with them. It was just as well that she had not given him false hope. A fortnight passed and a second visit was granted, but although Mildred’s contacts at the American embassy continued to pressure the commandant, he would not release Natan.
It was also just as well that Sara had not promised Natan to convince their mother to stay at home. When she tentatively suggested it, her mother drew herself up, pale and dignified. “Of course I’m going to see my boy,” she said. “Nothing would keep me away.”
