My Dearest Dietrich, page 23
Reaching the apartment building, Maria pulled the key from her handbag, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. A single, flickering light bulb provided the only illumination against the blackout. She climbed the cement stairs, the air smelling of mildew and stale cheese. At the top, she unlocked the third door down and stepped inside the dark room, bracing herself for another sleepless night spent listening to Ermengarde’s snoring.
Of course, Ermengarde wasn’t within. She never was at this hour. Which officer was it tonight? Maria couldn’t fathom how the girl managed the energy to put in a full day’s work, and then go dancing all evening.
Maria turned on the desk lamp. Even so, the apartment was cold. And silent. And empty.
She hung up her coat, slipped off her shoes and the standard-issue apron and dress, and exchanged them for her worn dressing gown and slippers. She headed toward the kitchen—if a room approximately the size of a shoe-box could be called that—and winced at the pile of dirty dishes stacked upon the counter. Ermengarde hadn’t yet discovered the meaning of a division of labor.
Suddenly too drained for the effort it would take to prepare a pot of tea, she made her way into the bedroom and curled up atop her faded coverlet, trying to get warm. Slowly, she began to take the pins from her hair, letting the strands fall around her face.
A knock sounded.
“There’s a telephone call for you, Fraülein von Wedemeyer.”
Maria’s pulse kicked. Could it be Mutter? She’d phoned Pätzig the night of her arrival. She didn’t, wouldn’t, dare hope it was Dietrich. He didn’t even have her number.
Tugging the tie of her dressing gown tighter, she crossed the room and opened the door. The landlady stood aside to let her pass, doughy face partially shrouded in the darkness, the end of her cigarette glowing orange.
“Danke for letting me know,” Maria said.
She reached the communal telephone in the middle of the hall. The paint was dingy and peeling, and everything seemed to be coated with a fine layer of grime. The landlady’s steps plodded in the direction of her own rooms. Maria lifted the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Fraülein von Wedemeyer.” An unfamiliar male voice sounded over the crackling wires.
“Ja, I’m here. Who is this?” Her forehead wrinkled.
“Oskar von Scheffler. How are you?”
A jolt went through her. They’d enjoyed a pleasant enough walk back to Pätzig. She’d shown him some of the farm animals—he’d been particularly interested in the pigs. But why was he calling her now, of all times? And how had he known her number?
“I’m fine.” She kept her voice flat.
“I’m sure you’re wondering how I discovered your whereabouts.” He sounded as if he were leaning back in an easy chair in a fire-lit room, slippered feet propped up on a footrest, a glass of brandy at his side. And smiling.
Ought the mental picture calm or disconcert her?
“I was, actually,” she said at last.
His laugh rumbled low. “I happened to meet your sister Christine on my last day in the country. I asked her where you had gone, where you were staying. She told me. You don’t mind, do you?”
She said nothing. Why had her sister willingly given such information to a stranger? Of course, Herr von Scheffler had a charm about him. He’d probably told Christine his connection to Vater.
“You do mind. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only wanted to hear a friendly voice. It’s been a ghastly day. Those worthless—well, never mind. I thought talking to you might bring back memories of the clean air of Pätzig.”
She found herself softening, much as she had that day in the village. Between Ermengarde’s snide comments and the sharp-tongued ward sisters, she’d heard few friendly voices herself.
“It’s all right. You needn’t apologize.” She shifted her grip on the telephone.
He chuckled. “You sound like your vater. I remember we went fishing one afternoon. There was a particular kind he was trying to catch. Wooing it, you might say. Well, I got a bite on my line and began to reel it in. Only I lost my grip halfway and dropped the pole. I expected him to be angry, but your vater only said, ‘It’s all right. Better luck next time.’”
She laughed then. “That sounds like him. He was always more concerned about the feelings of others than his own wishes.”
“It’s done me good to hear your voice. And that laugh. May I call you again? And send a letter, from time to time? I’m trying to decorate my new apartment and not doing a very good job. I could use some feminine advice.”
He certainly was persistent. What should she make of him? She couldn’t tell him she was engaged and to leave her alone. No one outside the family was to know about her and Dietrich. Nor did she want to push him away. He sounded lonely, perhaps as lonely as she. They could be friends, acquaintances, at the very least.
“I suppose you can.” She turned at the sound of footsteps. Ermengarde, coat slung over her shoulders, red-lipped and dressed in fashionable marigold organdy, clipped down the hall in her best pair of heels. “I have to go now.”
She said goodbye and hung up, returning to her apartment. Ermengarde stood in the center of the room, undressing, scattering her hat, heels, and coat in a trail after her. Maria pressed her lips together.
“I thought you’d be asleep.” Ermengarde arched one sculpted brow.
Maria shook her head. “I just got in half an hour ago.”
“Party was a frightful bore. No one of any interest showed up. Just a lot of puffed-up young striplings talking of victory. I’m dead tired and going to bed. Are you going to be up much longer?” Ermengarde flopped onto her bed, lighting a cigarette and winding her hair into pin curls. The picture of everything Maria didn’t want to be.
Maria turned down the coverlet and climbed into bed. She closed her eyes, as Ermengarde continued to put up her hair.
Drowsily, she replayed her conversation with Herr von Scheffler. He’d begun to say something, after he’d told her his day was ghastly. Something about someone being worthless, in a tone veering toward disgust. She shivered involuntarily.
Who did Herr von Scheffler mean?
And what exactly did he do?
Chapter Twenty-Three
March 31, 1943
Berlin
“All right everyone. Focus on the camera please. That’s right. Look this way.” The photographer’s head disappeared beneath the black cloth.
Dietrich reached up to straighten his tie. Only Sabine and her husband were absent today, by necessity rather than choice. The rest of the Bonhoeffers—those nearest and dearest to Vater—gathered in celebration of a birthday milestone.
Before he could lower his hand, the flashbulb shattered.
Sealing the moment, the group of them, in all their smiling, looking at the camera, not looking at the camera, glory. Standing in front of the family home, even the weather honoring the day by sending sunlight shining down upon them.
Everyone seemed to talk all at once, the children climbing down from older ones’ laps, smiles wider, perhaps due to the kuchen they’d eaten less than an hour ago. It had been a fine kuchen too, a treat for them all.
“Everyone, into the house for the birthday toast.” Klaus elevated his voice to be heard above the crowd. The photographer packed up his things. Rüdiger and the two Dohnanyi boys gathered up the chairs that some of the older adults had sat on during the picture.
As they made their way inside, Dietrich fell in step beside Hans.
“Did you get the money moved?” He leaned toward his brother-in-law, who, despite carrying the heaviest load of tension, had admirably managed to maintain a studied gaiety throughout the party, joining in the cantata performance with gusto.
Hans nodded, weariness in his gaze, the party smile leaving his lips. A large number of Reichsmarks belonging to the Confessing Church had been relocated from Hans’s safe at the Abwehr office to a more secure location. Precautionary measures. The attempt at the Zeughaus Museum had them on edge. It was still difficult to believe that Rudolf von Gersdorff’s efforts had come to naught—all because Hitler decided to leave the museum in the middle of the tour, minutes before the explosives were set to go off. Minutes. They’d failed by only minutes.
“I’ve been over my office with a fine-tooth comb. You should go through your desk too, in case something happens while you’re in Switzerland and Rome.”
Dietrich nodded. “The middle of April still set for departure?”
“All the paperwork should be in place by then. I’ve got the file in my office to give to you. Remind me if I forget.” They continued to the front door, the yard still overflowing with family members. The Dohnanyi boys eyed the large oak tree with a greedy look, as if imagining themselves high upon its branches.
The day would come when Hans would have time to teach his sons to climb trees, instead of working himself to the point of exhaustion plotting a government takeover.
Christoph’s excited voice carried on the wind. “I think I’d like to know what it’s like up there. Wouldn’t you?”
Now surely held more import than someday.
“You never forget anything.” Dietrich gestured to the boys. “Why don’t you go play with them? Klaus won’t care if you’re there for the speech, and … they need you more.”
Hans watched his sons, as if seeing them for the first time in many months. He nodded, clapped a hand on Dietrich’s shoulder, then crossed the yard, calling to his sons.
Dietrich smiled after them and followed the rest inside. Lotte and Ursula, along with Renate, distributed glasses. Everyone had chipped in something to purchase the wine. Yet another way they pulled together during these hard times.
Dietrich moved to stand next to his parents, who sat in pride of place on the sofa. He smiled at Vater.
“Having a happy birthday?”
A smile creased his vater’s lined cheeks. He placed his hand around his wife’s. “I’m a fortunate man, Dietrich. Very fortunate.”
Renate hurried over, handing Dietrich a glass, then raced to stand beside Eberhard before Dietrich could get out a hasty danke. Dietrich smiled at the sight of them together, willing away the ache that spread through his own chest.
He had received a letter from Maria two days ago. If it hadn’t been for Frau von Wedemeyer’s edict, they could have been the other engaged couple at the party. At least they were permitted to correspond. She’d sent him a picture with the last one. Taken last summer before her vater’s death, it showed her, face turned slightly away from the camera, hair pinned up. When he had seen her in Berlin, she’d looked older, with her curled hair and dark red suit. But her smile remained unchanged. Small, serene, yet with traces of the mischievous girl who teased him about running in the rain.
He missed her.
Love. What pleasure and torment it could bring to a man.
Klaus stood in the center of the room, the rest of them forming a very crowded circle around him. He held up his glass.
“I’ll try to keep this brief, Vater.”
Everyone chuckled. Dietrich knew his vater wasn’t much for this sort of thing but would go along with it and be gratified anyway.
“Growing up with you to lead and guide our family is a privilege I’m sure all of us children realize the magnitude of. You led us, not so much with words, but by example. Which, as the old saying says, speaks far louder. You raised us to value truth and intelligence and encouraged us to pursue our talents for the good of mankind. You have done the same for each of your grandchildren, and it is with our hearts full of love and gratitude that I wish you, on behalf of everyone present, a very happy birthday.” Klaus spread his hands, a gesture encompassing them all. “Everyone, a toast. To Karl Bonhoeffer. Husband, Vater, Grossvater, physician, and friend.”
Everyone lifted their glasses. “To Karl Bonhoeffer.”
“To Grossvater!” Bärbel called out, half a beat later than the rest.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Glasses clinked.
Hans entered the room, the boys two steps ahead. Instead of looking relaxed, as Dietrich had hoped, a too-studied calm and control owned his brother-in-law’s features.
Directly behind them, another figure followed. One wearing an official uniform and a severe expression on his smooth Aryan face.
Dietrich tensed.
Not today. Not today. Not on Vater’s birthday.
The official brushed through the crowd, pushing past the youngest children as if they were little more than troublesome ants. “Karl Bonhoeffer?”
Vater? They were here for Vater? He hadn’t done anything …
“Ja, that is me.” Vater stiffened on the sofa, still holding his wine glass.
Hans placed a hand on each boy’s shoulders. Christel stood against one wall, face pale in contrast with her bright red party dress. Eberhard slid a protective arm around Renate.
“I’m here with greetings from our Führer.” The man pulled out a document from a leather binder, holding it out with a flourish. “And to present you with the Goethe medal as a token of gratitude to your lifetime of service to Germany.”
Dietrich exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. They weren’t going to be arrested. The Goethe medal was a great honor, and one Vater certainly deserved. Although if the benefactor of the medal knew how often its recipient had called him insane, Dietrich doubted the privilege would have been extended.
“I … I am honored.” Vater seemed about to say more, but the official began to read.
“In the name of the German people, I bestow on Professor Emeritus Dr. Karl Bonhoeffer the Goethe medal for art and science, instituted by the late Reich President Hindenburg. Signed the Führer, Adolf Hitler.” Stiffly, the man procured a box from under his arm and took out the medal. With a click of his heels, he crossed to Vater and pinned the coin-sized medal to his coat lapel.
“Danke.” Vater looked down at the medal, touching it with his fingers.
“I will intrude upon your party no longer. Heil Hitler!” The official saluted, clicked his heels again, and retreated to the door.
The grandchildren eagerly crowded around for a peek at the medal.
Dietrich made his way through the crowd to Hans, who sagged against the wall.
“You all right?” If they weren’t in the middle of a conspiracy, looking at his brother-in-law would have made Dietrich recommend a strong sleeping draught and bedrest for a fortnight.
“I don’t know what came over me,” Hans whispered. “When I saw that official car pull up, I panicked. I led the man inside, without even looking to see who he was. All the time, I was thinking, ‘I don’t know why they’ve come for Vater. He hasn’t done anything.’ I should never have lost my composure.”
“You didn’t. I was the only one who noticed it.” Dietrich stepped aside as Lotte carried empty glasses toward the kitchen. “We’re all on edge. It’s understandable. But look, nothing happened today.” He tried for a reassuring smile.
“Nein.” Hans sighed. “Not today.”
April 5, 1943
Berlin
Rolling the kinks from his neck, Dietrich picked up the phone. His stomach growled. Was it already lunchtime? He’d spent the morning in his room, working on a few pages of Ethics. He’d made more progress than in a long while. A good thing, too, since he wouldn’t have time to write once his travels began.
He’d call Hans and ask him if tomorrow was all right to meet and go over final preparations, then see if he couldn’t get Lotte to fix him a sandwich. Calling the Dohnanyis at lunchtime might not be the most polite thing to do, but at least he knew he’d find Hans at home.
He gave the operator the number. Waited.
Seconds ticked by.
Nothing. Why no answer?
Then, a click, someone picking up the phone.
“Dohnanyi residence.” A gruff voice. Terse. Not Hans.
Dietrich slammed the phone down.
Blood rushed in his ears, the realization jabbing every nerve with needles of dread. Of reality. Of something much talked over, long expected, finally happening.
The Gestapo were searching Hans’s house. Arresting him.
Next, they’d come here.
His eyes slid shut. His soul sent up a silent prayer. Then he took a breath and opened his eyes.
He didn’t have much time. Every moment must be used rationally. No feeling, only logic.
Upstairs, his parents napped, their afternoon custom. He wouldn’t rouse them.
Like a spectator in a nightmare, he made it up to his room, unsure how his legs had worked enough to carry him. In a glance, he assessed the four walls, his neatly made bed. The rows of books. The desk. His desk. Where the Gestapo would soon search. His footfalls echoed louder than usual on the hardwood floor.
He’d left his writing materials scattered. He straightened them, pens in their drawer, two pieces of scrap paper into the wastebasket. Everyday tasks. Empty tasks. Perform them he must.
He opened the desk drawer where everything lay in readiness for this moment. The fictitious diary entries he’d written while in Switzerland last year, he placed on top. Hans had looked them over, declaring them the perfect mix of ponderous clergyman and bright intellectual. How long ago that day seemed. Next, the letter he’d typed out on specially procured paper, the one dated 1940, typed for the benefit of making the Gestapo think he’d joined the Abwehr from the very beginning, instead of, as they’d surmise, to avoid a military call-up.
There. What should be there was in place. Now to get rid of what shouldn’t.
Methodically, he turned over each piece of paper, no matter how insignificant. Some reinforced his status as a good Lutheran. He left those in his desk. Others, he added to a pile. He couldn’t miss a single one. A slip, two pages stuck together, leaving anything unchecked, could spell the end for him and Hans.
