Greta and Adam separated to mingle through the crowd, the better to gather more impressions to compare later. Adam immediately went to his friend John Sieg, the former editor of theRote Fahne, a Communist newspaper officially forbidden by the Nazis but still published clandestinely by the Communist underground. In 1933, Sieg had been caught up in a wave of Nazi arrests and had spent four months in an SA prison, but that had not deterred him. With his connections to the underground, he would be a valuable ally.
Wandering the rooms, Greta soon found Mildred, radiant in her blue crepe de Chine dress, her golden hair woven into a bun. They conferred quietly before parting to work the crowd. Everything was in place. All around them, Germans and Americans chatted in lively groups or in somber pairs while liveried footmen circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres and cocktails for those who craved something stronger than tea.
An hour passed as Greta wandered through the ballroom, the dining room, theWintergarten, and the terrace, slipping easily into some conversations, eavesdropping on others as she accepted a cup of tea or nibbled on a canapé. Some guests revealed themselves less averse to the Reich than Greta and Mildred had believed. Others, though more circumspect, were unquestionably opposed, although whether they would be brave enough to join the burgeoning resistance was more difficult to ascertain. A few were so guarded and noncommittal that Greta could only guess where they truly stood. She imagined Arvid nodding approval and declaring that they should all be so careful and stoic, even among those they believed to be sympathetic to their cause. Studying them, marveling at how little they revealed of themselves, she wondered if they were more cautious because they already belonged to resistance circles and had more to lose if they were discovered.
Suddenly, a commotion near the top of the grand staircase heralded the arrival of the guest of honor. From across the hall Greta watched as the towering, dark-haired American shook hands with the Dodds. As his German publisher guided him through a swiftly gathering crowd of admirers, Thomas Wolfe tried to shake all the hands thrust at him, smiling and thanking his well-wishers, appearing somewhat embarrassed and yet still enjoying the attention. He had to be around six feet five inches tall, with rich, alert brown eyes, a boyish mouth, a small nose, and rounded cheeks. A moment later, Martha was at his side, her head barely reaching his shoulder as she tilted her face quite far back in order to grin up at him. Something in the proprietorial way she rested her hand upon his arm told Greta that Wolfe was yet another one of Martha’s conquests, or soon would be.
Only after observing the author from a distance for a while did Greta give in to the intrigue of his celebrity and introduce herself. She had readLook Homeward, Angeland his most recent book,Of Time and the River, in the original English, so they had a brief, pleasant chat about his work, mostly Greta complimenting his writing and Wolfe accepting her compliments. Her strongest impressions of him came later, growing out of what she overheard him say to others. He was affable and courteous, even when the crowd pressed too close, and he modestly deflected the unceasing flow of compliments Greta thought he honestly deserved. She quite liked him for that, and was amused by the way his thoughts often seemed to tumble from him in an unrestrained, disorderly flow. He took an immediate liking to Mildred, which to Greta suggested excellent judgment. She was flattered when she overheard him confide to Ambassador Dodd that he considered the Germans to be the kindest, most warmhearted, and most honorable people of all he had met in Europe
And yet other remarks left her feeling disappointed and repulsed. He expressed too much enthusiasm for what he described as the strength, vigor, and “noble spirit of freedom” of Nazi Germany. When Bella Fromm, visibly taken aback, reminded him of the Aryan Laws, Wolfe tossed back a drink, grinned, and said, “Seems to me the Nazis are simply showing the normal hostility toward the Jews.”
Some of his listeners grinned, but far more frowned in bewilderment or disapproval. Disgusted, Greta turned and left the room, certain that she would never again be able to enjoy his novels as she once had.
When she and Mildred met the following Saturday morning in the Tiergarten, they compared notes and found that they had reached strikingly similar opinions about most of the German guests. After they narrowed down the list to those they would approach about the resistance, Greta brought the subject around to the tea’s guest of honor. Mildred too had been dismayed by some of his behavior, especially a callous joke he had made about Jews influencing President Roosevelt’s administration, and his distorted, idealized notion of what Germany had become under Nazi rule. “His naïve enthusiasm reminds me of Martha’s when she first arrived,” Mildred said. “After she lived here awhile, her eyes opened and she saw the Reich for the horror it is. I can only hope Thomas Wolfe will undergo the same transformation.”
“That’s not likely to happen if he spends his entire visit attending parties and meeting fans,” said Greta, dubious. “That would have to be a whirlwind of change in a very brief time.”
“That’s true. He’s setting sail for New York at the end of June.” Mildred allowed a small conspiratorial smile. “He’s promised me a lengthy, detailed, thoroughly honest interview before he departs.”
“Mildred, that’s wonderful,” Greta exclaimed. Switching to English, she said, “That’s quite a—what’s the phrase?—a scoop.”
Mildred laughed. “Yes, it is—or it will be, if I can publish it.”
“I’m very happy for you,” said Greta sincerely. No one more deserved a bit of publishing luck than Mildred. As Goebbels’s Reichskulturkammer hadtightened its chokehold upon the publishing industry, her “Brief Reviews” column had been canceled and permission to publish scholarly articles had become increasingly difficult to obtain. An exclusive interview with an acclaimed author whose works passed Nazi restrictions and sold exceptionally well in Germany could create new opportunities for her—and the income would surely be gratefully received.
Later that month, Adolf Hitler addressed the Reichstag, speaking earnestly of Germany’s desire for peace, understanding, and justice for all. Hitler repudiated the very thought of war—a senseless horror that would accomplish nothing—and insisted that Germans had no interest whatsoever in conquering other peoples. “The principal effect of every war is to destroy the flower of the nation,” he declared as he offered thirteen specific proposals to secure peace in Europe. “Germany needs peace and desires peace!”
In the days that followed, newspapers around the world tentatively praised Hitler’s overtures, although several European leaders asked for reassurances regarding certain military matters. Hitler’s replies apparently diminished their fears, but although tensions eased, the tone of the foreign press remained watchful and wary.
“Of course Hitler wants peace,” said Adam. “He wants peace to buy himself time to prepare for war. And I think he’ll get it. The world wants peace so desperately that they’d prefer to be lulled into complacency than to challenge him.”
Greta hoped Adam was wrong, but she feared he was right. World leaders, men who ought to be more skeptical, clung to what Hitler said and ignored what he did. Even as the Führer promised peace, the Reich government passed laws requiring air raid shelters to be constructed in all public buildings. Why would he squander time and money on bunkers if he did not expect to need them?
Chapter Thirty-one
June–July 1935
Mildred
Thomas Wolfe had brought a whirlwind of excitement to Berlin, and Mildred, longing for a respite from the steadily worsening constraints of the Reich, had allowed herself to be swept up in it. Wolfe had granted her a lengthy interview at the St. Pauli bar on the Rankestrasse, unabashedly candid as he described his creative process, his feelings about the South of his childhood and the present day, his opinion of other authors, and his collaboration with his editor, Max Perkins. In the days that followed, on several long walks through the Tiergarten, the paths shaded by abundant foliage and the air fragrant with masses of pansies in full bloom, he confided in her more deeply about his writing, his fears, and his childhood.
“I was made to believe that whatever I did that didn’t put money into my pocket was wrong,” he said, a corner of his mouth turning wryly. “Even today I feel that if I didn’t make any money on my books I’d believe I was a failure. But I know that isn’t a good thing. The best things are not done for money. Don’t you believe that?”
Mildred agreed, but she vehemently disagreed when he praised the National Socialists, and with equal frankness told him what life was really like in Hitler’s Germany—the oppression, the stifling of writers and artists, the protestations of peaceful intent belied by the ongoing militarization of the country. He listened willingly, unafraid to challenge his own opinions, and eventually acknowledged that he may have misjudged the Nazis and would be more skeptical in the future.
But his visit was not all deep, heartfelt conversations on long, companionable strolls. Martha escorted Wolfe all around Berlin on a merry, boisterous dash of parties, dinners, teas, newspaper interviews, radio broadcasts, photo shoots, lectures, and all-night drinking bouts. Mildred and Bill often accompanied them, but it soon became evident that Martha and Wolfe were spending a great deal of time together in private as well.
“Wolfe’s practically moved into the embassy,” Bill grumbled as he and Mildred sat observing the towering author and his petite, flirtatious partner make a comically unlikely pair on the dance floor. “You know how Martha is with a new conquest. Our parents look the other way but I’m sure our mother is distressed. I wish Martha would settle down.”
“With whom? Thomas Wolfe?” Mildred watched them dance, dubious. “Are they in love?”
“I think they imagine themselves to be. Don’t tell Martha I said this, but I think her heart still belongs to the Russian. She and Wolfe fight a lot, with shouting and tears on both sides. Martha accuses Wolfe of drinking too much and wasting his talent. Wolfe doesn’t know why it’s any of her business, since they’ve only just met.”
“They must shout rather loudly for you to pick up all that.”
“That they do,” said Bill shortly. “Never mind. This is just a fling. It won’t last.”
Mildred was quite sure it would not, and not only because Wolfe planned to stay in Germany a mere six weeks. In the meantime, if a brief, torrid affair helped Martha get over the heartbreak of losing Boris, Mildred supposed some good might come of it.
