My Dearest Dietrich, page 26
“I haven’t. It’s just a Bible. Could you try to get it back?” Dietrich asked quietly. “I’ve nothing else of my own with me. It would be a great comfort if I could have that.”
The young guard looked at him. Dietrich held his breath, trying to read the other man’s expression. Would he respond with anger? Punishment? Perhaps withhold it from him just because he knew Dietrich found it of value? Here they condoned treatment some would deem inhumane if tried on an animal.
Here men were given jurisdiction to trample over their fellow creatures.
Finally, a short nod. “I’ll see what I can do.” As if to reestablish his authority, he gave Dietrich a shove toward the courtyard, Dietrich’s answering danke muffled by the clomp of boots against the unyielding floor.
April 12, 1943
Tegel Prison
He’d gotten his Bible back.
And spent the last six days in solitary confinement in a different cell. The new cell at least had the distinction of a decent blanket, and from what he could tell, no bed bugs. But after nearly a week, endless hours broken only by the bringing in of food and the taking away of the bucket, he’d begun to wonder. Was this what it was to go mad?
Separation.
He’d scrawled the word on the only scrap piece of paper he had one hellishly long night.
Prison was a shadowland existence. Living neither in the past nor the future. He had no work to claim his hours nor the solace of knowing what had become of his family. He didn’t even know if his fiancée had been informed of his arrest. And God … even God seemed distant.
Each new item on the list chanted through his brain. Laughing at him, a man in a wrinkled suit, sitting on a cot in the dark.
Nothing had been said about interrogation, or the reason for his arrest. He didn’t want to appear eager and ask questions of the guards who carried in food. The man who’d given him back his Bible, Corporal Knobloch, was the friendliest of the lot. Apparently, the man had once known Martin Niemöller.
Dietrich stared at the gray wall, Bible on his lap, another day looming in front of him.
He needed a routine. Something beyond waking up, eating the bread, washing in the small amount of water provided. Occasionally, one of the guards brought a razor and stood glowering while Dietrich shaved. Then long hours, then another meal, more long hours, another meal, then bed. Sleep became a merciful angel.
When he slept, he no longer saw the ugly walls of the cell, heard the abuse of the guards as they berated prisoners for nameless offenses, calling them all sorts of vile epithets. Listening to these made anger boil inside at the treatment endured by those confined nearby.
When he slept, he could live inside his dreams.
A knock on the door. Dietrich’s pulse sped. They’d already gone through the food-and-bucket ritual. And he’d been permitted to shave yesterday.
The door opened with a metallic whine. A guard whose name he hadn’t learned stood outside.
“Schnell.” He jerked his hand toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Dietrich asked the question instinctually, though he probably wouldn’t get an answer. Prisoners were moved like cattle, as if they were brainless beasts oblivious to where they were taken.
“Interrogation.”
A surge of ice shot through his veins. The moment of reckoning. He glanced down at his attire with a wince. He was to meet whatever awaited him in a rumpled, dirty suit.
The guard held out a pair of handcuffs. Snapped them around Dietrich’s wrists.
He ignored the sensation of being trapped. Right now, his very life and the lives of those involved in the conspiracy depended upon his skillful handling of the questioning.
They marched him outside and into the back seat of a car, another guard climbing into the passenger seat. Dietrich stared out the window as they turned down the street, hungrily taking in the sights they passed. Trees. How wonderful it was to be so close to trees.
Sunlight warmed his face. He placed one manacled hand upon the window, letting warmth seep through his fingers. Warmth.
He closed his eyes in sheer pleasure.
Finally, the car stopped in front of an edifice of gray stone. The War Court. Uniformed officials marched across the courtyard, intent on errands. The vibrant colors of the swastika hanging in front of the building billowed in the breeze.
Red. For years, though really only days, it seemed his world had been cement walls and gray uniforms.
He almost laughed at himself. To think, he’d just admired the Nazi flag.
Maybe he actually was going crazy.
The car door opened, and the guards led him across the cobblestone courtyard. He purposely slowed his steps to feel the fresh air on his face a few seconds longer. One of the guards gave him a shove toward the door, and they marched inside into an anteroom.
Windows let in sunlight. But sunlight was the only thing inviting about this place. Guards and men in suits paraded the halls. A life-size portrait of the Führer hung on one wall flanked by two swastikas. At the front desk, a cold-faced clerk directed the guards. They marched down the hall.
“They brought Daniel, and cast him into the den of lions.”
What was worse? Facing real lions, or human ones?
“Now the king spake and said unto Daniel, Thy God whom thou servest continually, he will deliver thee.”
The verse emboldened him as they entered the interrogation room. He’d never been inside an interrogation room and had tried to keep his imagination from conjuring all sorts of horrors. The reality looked like a place one would hold a meeting. Bright lights. Oak-paneled walls. A long, polished table. A narrow-faced man at a stenographer’s desk in the corner, pen and paper in front of him, a typewriter next to that. He didn’t look up as they entered.
No truncheons, whips, or anything else resembling torture devices. The room smelled of paper and ink, not metal and blood. Dietrich drew in a breath of relief.
The guard came around and undid his handcuffs. Dietrich rubbed his wrists.
The door at the opposite end of the room flung open. Roeder sauntered in, followed by Scheffler.
Gestapo, both.
Hans had always feared they’d fight to get jurisdiction in the case, if ever members of the Abwehr were arrested. Their chance to be the victorious party.
Dietrich linked his hands in front of him.
“Ah, Herr Bonhoeffer. Delighted to see you again.” Roeder smiled, as if this were a country estate and he the squire welcoming his guest. Only no welcome emanated from the man’s cool, gray gaze. More like the look of one relishing the sensation of power.
A feline pouncing upon a cornered maus.
“How have you found your accommodations? Tegel isn’t Charlottenberg, I know, but we do try.” The smile became a smirk.
“Herr Prosecutor, would you please explain why I am here?” Dietrich met the man’s gaze head-on. “To be frank, my accommodations are worse than what I’d offer a dog, and the sooner we get down to business, the sooner this nonsense can be cleared up.”
Roeder seated himself at the other end of the table, steepling his slim fingers atop the rectangular expanse of gleaming wood. Scheffler availed himself of the seat to Roeder’s left, spreading out an array of files. A uniform encased Scheffler’s wide shoulders, whereas Roeder wore a sharply tailored black suit and pinstripe tie.
“Very well then. Let us ‘get down to business.’ I must begin by informing you that we’ve arrested von Dohnanyi … and his wife. Keep in mind all you say will affect our treatment of them.”
Christel imprisoned. If the way Dietrich had been handled was any indication of how they treated the men, what did they inflict on women? Her poor children must be terrified, without their vater and mutter. Christel, alone … Christel …
His face must have paled, as Roeder’s self-satisfied expression grew, completely overtaking his hawkish face. “You didn’t know they’d taken your little sister too? Of course not. How could you have? Rest assured, she’s getting fabulous … treatment. So where were we? Ah, ja, you wanted to get down to business.”
Dietrich’s heart pounded. He straightened his shoulders and tried to stand taller. Scheffler coughed. The secretary’s pen scratched. Sunlight fingered a path across the table. Roeder began by asking him his name, birth-date, and residence for the benefit of the transcripts. Dietrich answered each question. They started out this way to lull him into a false sense of security, as much as for record keeping. But Dietrich wouldn’t let himself relax. And then …
“What do you know of treasonous activities in the Abwehr?”
“Nothing,” Dietrich answered automatically. “There are no treasonous activities in the Abwehr. Even if there were, I would know nothing about them. I’m a pastor.” He forced a sheepish smile. “Treason is completely beyond my comprehension.”
Better a lover of truth to tell a lie …
“Aha!” Roeder’s eyes gleamed. “So you admit, then, to there being a possibility for treasonous activity? Write that down, Herr Secretary. Be sure you wrote that down!”
“I admit nothing.” Dietrich kept his voice even, his gaze direct. “I spoke hypothetically. If there were to be any hint of anything taking place that dishonored our great Führer, I’d know nothing about it.”
“But you do.” Roeder spoke patiently, as if he explained to a child how to count to three. “Herr von Dohnanyi himself said you knew all about it.”
Than for a liar to tell the truth …
Sweat trailed between his shoulder blades. Roeder had to be lying. Hans wouldn’t have said anything like that. Would he?
“That can’t be true. My brother-in-law wouldn’t say anything of the kind.”
“Are you calling me an idiot?” The feline, unable to capture the maus as quickly as expected, grew livid. Roeder’s face reddened, his eyes bulging.
“Never, Herr Prosecutor. I’m merely explaining the truth.”
“Feast your eyes on this then.” Roeder handed a paper to Scheffler, who stood and handed it to Dietrich.
Dietrich scanned the typed page. It contained, in veiled verbiage, the points for Dietrich to use in Rome. In ecumenical terms, it outlined the German Protestant Church’s so-called desire to bring about a lasting peace with the Vatican, and their awareness of the aims of brother churches to do the same.
Below the typed letters, General Beck had scrawled the letter O, his code initial approving the document.
Dietrich laid the paper onto the table. He didn’t like holding it. “I don’t understand what the problem is.”
“Of course,” Scheffler said dryly. “Simple pastors don’t understand treason. But you won’t trick us by playing that game. Herr von Dohnanyi has already confessed to writing the thing with your help and General Oster’s support.”
Oster? Why had they come to that conclusion?
The O. They’d mistaken Beck’s code initial for Oster’s signature. Had Hans played along? Or not?
Dietrich’s feet ached to sit down, but he didn’t dare. Roeder would think him weak.
What should he say? What if what he said didn’t line up with what Hans had already implied?
He wiped damp hands against the sides of his pant legs.
“My planned trip to Rome was to further intelligence aims. The memo was written for that purpose. Our hope was if the Vatican read it, they’d be more eager to give out the information we were seeking. Information that would further our efforts to thwart the Allies.”
Dietrich studied Roeder’s expression. Did his statements match Hans’s? If not, what would Roeder do about it?
“Interesting.” Roeder drummed his fingers on the table. “More interesting still, because when my men entered Dohnanyi’s office, General Oster himself was there and seemed particularly anxious to destroy that particular piece of paper. I wonder why, since you say it’s so innocent?”
Dietrich kept silent. Scheffler seemed to be mentally picking apart each statement. He scrawled something on a piece of paper, one finger pressed against his mustache.
Roeder scoffed. “What? No quick rejoinder?” Again, that masterful smile. “I should think you’d have plenty to say on the subject, seeing as you were the one making the trip to Rome.”
“I honestly don’t. In all my dealings with the Abwehr, I merely followed the instructions of those wiser than I.” Over and over, Hans had made Dietrich rehearse statements like these.
This wasn’t a rehearsal. It was real, and these men were deadly. Each word he spoke would be torn apart and twisted. He’d thought he’d come prepared for this. But he hadn’t. Not really.
“So you’ve no names to give me? When we had our little chat with Schmidhuber, he mentioned a ‘clique of generals.’ I’m anxious to know who they are. Herr von Dohnanyi wasn’t willing to tell me. Won’t you be more obliging?”
“I don’t know what I must say to convince you of my ignorance.” How much longer would this last? The sunlight, so welcoming at first, now glared through the window and hurt his eyes. He blinked, seeing spots. “I only entered the Abwehr because my brother-in-law, who knows much about these things, thought it would be a beneficial way for me to serve Germany. Along with my duties there, I’ve also been employed in matters befitting my education. Writing letters of encouragement to friends at the front and so forth. I’ve not had the time nor the desire to embroil myself in a hotbed of intrigue.” He tried a conciliatory smile.
“Don’t you want your sister to be released?” Scheffler cocked his head, tone liquid. “She’s sick, you know. Prison has been hard on her. If you tell us what we want, we could have her out within the day. She could go home to those parentless little children of hers. Come now, Herr Bonhoeffer.”
Dietrich tightened his jaw. He wouldn’t put it past these men to fabricate the extent of her illness in order to break him. But if what they said was true and she genuinely was sick. Oh, Christel, Christel …
Roeder swore and slammed his fist against the table. “Don’t you know you’re dealing with the highest authorities in the country? We could make your current accommodations look like a room at the Hotel Adlon if, in future, you don’t prove yourself a more apt conversationalist. Keep that in mind while you’re sitting in the dark.” His voice echoed off the high ceiling.
Dietrich didn’t flinch.
Drawing in a breath, Roeder wiped a hand across his forehead. “You’re a canny liar, Herr Bonhoeffer. Rest assured, I’ve dealt with canny liars before. Dealt, being the operative word. Enough.” He flicked his fingers toward Scheffler, who stood.
“Wait.” Dietrich wanted to return to the prison and slump onto his cot from mental exhaustion but instead kept his tone calm, authoritative. Who knew when he’d get this chance again? “I’d like to be allowed to write letters. My elderly parents are, no doubt, anxious about me and would be comforted by a word of assurance regarding my welfare. You understand, I’m sure.”
Roeder and Scheffler put their heads together, whispering. Interminable seconds passed. Roeder chuckled. “I find it ironic that you, who will not cooperate with me, expect me to cater to you.”
Again, Dietrich chose silence.
Roeder sighed. “Very well. You may write to your parents, once every ten days. The letters will be read and censored by me. If you receive letters in return, those will also be read by me, then handed over to you.”
A letter every ten days. And censored by Roeder himself. Letters that would have to be written as an act, a facade for the benefit of the Gestapo. But at least he’d be able to reassure Mutter that he was well.
Could he try for another favor?
“I’d also like to request permission to correspond with one other person. My young fiancée is no doubt equally concerned. She’s an officer’s daughter, you know. Both her vater and brother served the Fatherland faithfully, until their deaths on the Russian front.”
“A letter to your parents is latitude enough.”
“I should think it’s regulation.” Dietrich shot the words back without thinking.
Roeder’s hands curled into fists. “Take the prisoner away,” he bellowed to the guards who’d appeared in the doorway. Then as if collecting himself, he smoothed one hand down the front of his pressed suit. “This won’t be our last meeting, Herr Bonhoeffer. Nor, I assure you, our most productive.”
April 18, 1943
Pätzig
Maria tucked the letter into her skirt pocket. Now wasn’t the time to dwell upon why Herr von Scheffler continued to write to her, this letter a polite congratulations on her brother’s confirmation. She wanted word from Dietrich. Not this man. Something about him, buried just beneath the surface, sent chills down her spine.
Today, she had more important things to think about.
Across the lawn, her brother-in-law Klaus sat unoccupied beneath a tree. Just as she’d instructed him in the note she’d passed him before the confirmation service.
Pätzig wore springtime like a schoolgirl wore ribbons. Bright and beautifully. Here in the garden, children playing lawn games, tables set for tea—it was as if they existed in an idyll.
But the outside world entertained no such fantasies.
Serving work finished, she left the group of guests who milled about the lawn dressed in made-over finery and hurried to where Klaus sat.
“Danke for meeting me.” She gave him a smile. When Ruth-Alice had announced her decision to marry the von Bismarck’s son, Maria hadn’t been keen on the first break in the family unit. She’d since grown in real affection for the husband her sister had chosen. He now served in the Wehrmacht, a reluctant duty-fulfiller.
“The pleasure’s all mine.” He smiled his easy, handsome smile, making room for her on the bench. “I’m only curious what’s behind your cryptic message.”
She smoothed her hand across the rough wood of the seat. Overhead, wind rifled the spreading branches of the ancient tree. “I need your help.” She faced Klaus.
“What? You want me to rescue you from those dragons at the hospital?” He grinned, his tanned, lined face accustomed to wearing such an expression.
