My Dearest Dietrich, page 4
She did sway back and forth, eyes closed, humming along softly. In this music, there was no war, or sorrow. A bit of unhappiness, perhaps. And longing. For joy and love and other things forbidden.
Did Pastor Bonhoeffer, man of brilliance and theology, hear the same cadence to the notes as she? Somehow, though she couldn’t be sure, she sensed he did.
The tune died away. He turned, met her eyes. Smiled—something wonderful in it. Though the song had been a gift given to her, perhaps he’d taken equal pleasure in the unwrapping.
Nein. Not perhaps. He truly had. The smile proved it so.
And as Maria lay awake that night, staring out her window at the inky sky, she let the moment linger. Replaying the music and his smile over and over in her mind, until the familiarity of each second became as real and ever-present as her own breathing.
Chapter Three
July 9, 1942
Rome
The trip had been for naught. Or rather, the answers they hoped to receive had not accompanied their arrival in Italy.
Hans was getting frustrated. Dietrich sensed it in the way his brother-in-law paced back and forth across the faded carpet in their hotel suite. They all were. They’d traveled first to Venice and met with Wilhelm Schmidhuber, legally part of Munich Military Intelligence, illegally a fellow conspirator. Then the three of them headed together to Rome. They’d been awaiting news from London and Bishop Bell for days now. It still had not arrived.
It was maddening—this reticence. After all the work they’d done, the lists of names they’d provided. Why couldn’t Bell convince those in Britain that there were men in Germany who loathed what was being done in their country? People who longed for peace and restoration, even at the cost of working against the Reich.
People like himself and Hans.
“I don’t understand.” Hans fingered his cigarette, his usually meticulous light brown hair rumpled from the many times he’d run his hand through it. “Bell assured us he’d make progress. He was optimistic. Well where’s that optimism now? That’s what I’d like to know.”
Dietrich crossed the room and opened the window. At the rate his brother-in-law was going through cigarettes, soon neither of them would be able to gulp a decent breath of air through the haze of smoke.
“Bell didn’t make any promises he couldn’t keep. He only said he’d do his best.” Earlier in the morning, the streets had been fairly empty. Now they teemed with activity—cars, pedestrians, all the noises of humanity going about the business of living.
“His best?” Hans chucked the cigarette in an ashtray and shoved his hands in the pockets of his navy blue suit. “His best isn’t good enough. Not when Uncle Rudy“—even here they used code names, Uncle Rudy being Hitler’s—”is doing his best to make the situation in Germany more treacherous by the day. Soon it’ll be too late. No one will want to help us, because they’ll believe—most already do—that all of his countrymen are part and parcel with him and the evil he perpetrates. The world will cease to recognize the existence of a good German. The writing’s already on the wall.”
Truer words were never spoken, but they’d already dwelt on them month upon month.
“Don’t despair, Hans.” Dietrich placed his hand atop his brother-in-law’s shoulder. How thin Hans had become. He’d always owned defined features and a fair complexion, but even the grueling work of finishing law school hadn’t taken as much of a toll as the years of conspiratorial activities. “There’s still time. Bell is working just as hard as we are on the British government case. We’ll return to Germany, you’ll see Christel and the children again. Meanwhile, Bell will keep us informed of the proceedings as they unfold.”
“Ja, Dietrich, you’re right.” Hans heaved a weighty sigh. “We’ll go home.”
“And our trip wasn’t a total waste. We made contact with friends.” They’d had lively and motivating discussions about how the German church should function in the wider world after the war. “That was a good thing, ja?”
“You say that about every trip. Maybe that should be your new name, ‘Good Thing Dietrich.’” Hans cracked a smile, a sign of youthful vitality beneath weary features. “You wrote to Sabine?”
Dietrich smiled at the mention of his beloved twin sister living in England with her Jewish husband and young daughters. The Bonhoeffers had smuggled them out of Germany at the beginning of 1938, mere months before Kristallnacht. If they’d delayed, Sabine and her family would have joined the thousands of others shipped to labor camps, all because Gerhard Leibholz, a baptized Christian, had the blood of God’s chosen people in his veins. Sabine and Gerhard would have been worked to death in Poland. The children, beautiful Marianne and Christiane, gassed … never to return …
Dietrich shoved the thoughts aside. Sabine was safe. Marianne and Christiane, happy and well with their new schoolmates in England.
Hans pulled his spectacles off and cleaned each lens with a handkerchief. “Well, there’s nothing left to keep us here. I’ll go down to the telegraph office, then check our mail and see if there’s been any news. If not, we’ll leave for Berlin on the next available flight.”
“Always thinking ahead, you are. Maybe that should be your new name, ‘Good Plan Hans.’” Dietrich picked up the overflowing ashtray and dumped it in the wastebasket, while his brother-in-law donned his fedora and headed for the door.
He situated himself on the couch to wait for Hans’s return. Everything had already been packed. They traveled light on these trips—one suitcase each and a late-night flight into Germany. Made things easier that way.
Since his return from America in 1939, his life had been a paradox. Stretches of study, writing, and solitude, followed by thunderbolts of travel and activity. Both had taken him places he’d never dreamed he’d go. In his writing, he explored new themes and printed new materials until the Gestapo put a stop to the latter last year. Now he found himself in the interesting position of a pastor forbidden to preach, and an agent fighting against the side he was supposed to be working for.
He pondered the words he’d written only a few weeks ago. “It is worse for a liar to tell the truth than for a lover of truth to lie.” Years ago, if he’d written the same sentence, it would’ve been simply that: a sentence. These days, the words weren’t mere letters, but a living reality that demanded, fairly screamed, to be acknowledged. A reality that could extract from all of them, from him, the heaviest and most final of costs.
Somewhere in the hotel, a pianist sent music drifting through the air, bringing with it a wave of memories. Of playing the piano as Fraülein von Wedemeyer looked on with an expression of unparalleled joy. Listening to her expound over dinner on her decision to study mathematics. Though neither of them knew a great deal about the subject, they managed to discuss it for over an hour. Probably not making much sense.
She occupied his mind these days, did Fraülein von Wedemeyer. He would have attributed it to the long hours spent traveling with nothing to do but think. But he knew himself better than that. And in a letter to his friend Eberhard, he’d revealed more than he should have.
I haven’t written to Maria. It really wouldn’t do, not yet. If another meeting proves impossible, the delightful memory of those few, highly charged minutes will doubtless recede into the realm of unfulfilled fantasies, which is amply populated enough already….
There were some disadvantages to having a friend one could tell anything to. Sometimes, one ended up revealing too much. Since he’d written the letter on a train that was far from a smooth ride, maybe he could blame the bumps for jarring his brain.
Unfulfilled fantasies. What kind of a phrase was that?
One from a man who wanted something more in his life than platonic friendships and close family. He’d been content with those relationships for so long, how could it be possible that one evening, a few hours could birth in him a longing he couldn’t seem to shake?
He’d taken the matter to prayer, seeking answers. Somehow it seemed easier to forget about her. There was the timing, for one thing. But that was only the start of it.
At any rate, he’d be heading back to Klein-Krössin upon his return. Though the Gestapo had forbidden him from publishing further works, they hadn’t said anything about writing them. And ideas simmered in his mind that he longed to delve into. Of course, there wasn’t any point in hoping Fraülein von Wedemeyer would be at her grossmutter’s. By now, she had probably begun her requisite term of national service. It would be forward, more so than he wanted to be right now, to attempt to contrive another meeting.
A key turned in the lock. Hans opened the door, hands bereft of any letter or telegram.
“So there’s our answer. Silence.” He flung his hat on the end table and strode into the bedroom.
“Perhaps this time.” Dietrich followed and picked up a suitcase that waited by the door of the empty hotel room. He well understood Hans’s frustration. They, and those who believed as they did, were working on all fronts. Infiltrating. Conspiring. Even attempting assassination. Attempts that had so far been a shocking failure. “But time hasn’t run out yet.”
“Nein?” Hans hefted his suitcase toward the door, as if hauling Britain, Bishop Bell, and Prime Minister Churchill right along with him. He flicked a glance over his shoulder, gaze impervious as steel. In Hans’s eyes, raw and stark, lay mirrored the despairs of many. “But it is running out. Darting away from us like a kite left untended in the wind. And the day is coming when it will be too late to grab hold of the kite and pull it back to safety. Mark my words, Dietrich. The day is coming.”
Chapter Four
July 20, 1942
Pomerania
Though she’d traveled but a day’s drive from Klein-Krössin, the Vogel house—the Vogel family—seemed a universe away. Or perhaps the sphere of Klein-Krössin was the other world, and the one she dwelt in now, the way everybody else lived.
Maria’s back ached with the weight of carrying six-month-old Freida for hours on end. She’d warmed to the younger Vogel children; they were sunny enough, if a bit mischievous. But Gottfried, at only eight, was already being molded into an image of his vater, the great Standartenführer.
Softly shutting the bedroom door, where she’d laid Freida, four-year-old Lisa, and six-year-old Helga, Maria hurried in search of Gottfried, who’d recently declared himself “too important to take naps.”
Fulfilling her stint of national service—required of all German young women after graduation—hadn’t seemed like a difficult task after the laborious work of passing her exams at Wieblingen Castle School.
She hadn’t known the half of it.
Forcing away a wave of crushing homesickness, Maria patted the pocket of her burgundy skirt, just to make sure Grossmutter’s letter still rested within. She turned the knob of the front door and let herself outside.
Hopefully, she could occupy Gottfried with a book and gain a few moments to herself to read Grossmutter’s words.
Along with his impressive rank, Standartenführer Vogel also owned a large manor house and farm, the latter worked, these days, by Russian prisoners of war. Maria shivered to look at them. Haunted circles ringed their eyes, their features a mix of defiance and defeat. More than anything else, they seemed hungry.
She brushed fingertips across her other pocket, where a half slice of bread rested. One of the young Russians had eyes so like Max’s, his frame gaunter than the others. She’d risked the wrath of the Vogels and the detection of the soldier guarding the prisoners to smuggle the young man—Boris, his name was—something to sustain him, since he’d vowed not to escape until he could safely return to his family in Russia.
Shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, Maria scanned the front yard for any sign of Gottfried. The air smelled summer-ripe and fresh, the sky unadulterated blue. She opened her mouth to call for him when he appeared from behind a bush. He carried a stick in the manner of a rifle and goose-stepped down the avenue, chest puffed out, singing lustily.
When Jewish blood splashes from the knife
Hang the Jews, put them up against the wall
Heads are rolling, Jews are hollering.
Icy cold soaked Maria. Such a stream of vileness coming from the mouth of a towheaded, pudgy-cheeked child.
Hate. When modeled for the impressionable, it was a sword too easily taken up.
“Gottfried!” she shouted. “Come here. Now.”
He turned, midstride. Still carrying the stick, he sauntered over. She crossed her arms, breathless with horror and shock. Of course, Gottfried’s favorite game was “playing soldier.” But never … this.
“Fraülein Maria.” He smiled up at her, showing a gap between his front teeth. His smile made her outrage bubble all the more. She bent down, gripping his shoulders with both hands.
“I don’t ever, ever, want to hear that song again. Is that understood?” Her gaze bore into him.
Had she uttered those words to any of her own siblings, they’d have hung their heads, shamefaced and apologetic. No apology or shame evidenced itself in Gottfried’s gaze. He lifted his head, eyes defiant, challenging.
“Why? Why do you forbid me from singing it?”
She tightened her grip around his fleshy shoulders. “Because it’s vile and evil and wrong. And I won’t have it while you’re under my care.”
“The Jews are our enemy.” He spoke the words slowly, as if she were an imbecile in need of learning the simplest fact. “Vater says so. Who do you think taught me the song?”
She shivered. She’d not met Standartenführer Vogel, off fighting on the Russian front. She’d glimpsed his photograph from its pride of place on the mantle, a brawny man bedecked in uniform, sporting a severe gaze and a mustache much like the Führer’s. But surely he couldn’t have transferred this much hate to his child.
Surely he could.
“Well, he’s not here. I am. And if I catch you singing that ever again, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.” Her hands ached, perspiration beading her forehead.
He smirked, half laughing. “Nein, Fraülein, you won’t. Because if you do, I’ll tell Mutter I saw you with that Boris. I’ll tell her I saw the two of you together, if you know what I mean. And even birdbrains like you know what the penalty for that is. So I can sing that song anytime I want.”
She took a quick step back, like one who’d been slapped. With another triumphant grin, Gottfried darted away, marching with his stick. Singing all the louder.
Shaking, she made her way toward the house, until she reached the front steps. She sank down upon the warm stone, pressing her fingers against her eyes.
She was trapped. Gottfried’s words rang in her ears. She had no doubt that the boy would tell tales and delight in doing so. The edicts they lived under had sapped many things, loyalty foremost. Children were encouraged to report parents for listening to illegal broadcasts, speaking in a derogatory way about the government, and on the list went. Those who did were lauded as good citizens of the Fatherland. Neighbors turned in neighbors. Friendship held no weight. It was all duty, duty, and Germany forever.
Their country was being destroyed. Not only by battle and bombs, but by an all-encompassing allegiance to a regime that spread its poison like a toxin through the country’s veins. Lethal.
She didn’t want any part in it. Though she may be forced to continue her national service, she’d not let the Vogels rule her. She’d continue to feed Boris, tell the little girls bedtime stories about a Lord other than Adolf Hitler.
She’d resist. Even in the small ways.
Dreading the thought of an evening with Frau Vogel, listening to her grating voice laude the merits of this young officer or that—the woman’s fondness for her seemed sincere, but only as far as parceling her off to a Nazi like her husband, Maria fingered Grossmutter’s letter. A woman’s place was to run a proper German home, look pretty for her husband, and bear good, strong Aryan children for the Fatherland. Frau Vogel had said as much, when Maria happened to mention that she’d considered pursuing further education in mathematics.
Gottfried had either wearied or decided his singing wasn’t getting him any attention. He sat beside a bush, legs stuck out in front of him, terrorizing some insect. Though her conscience pricked, she let him alone, and turned to the letter instead.
Dear Maria,
I hope this letter finds you well and adapting to your work with the Vogel family. I think of you often, and imagine all you are doing and thinking, now that you have graduated from school.
I had a good, long chat with your mutter on the telephone yesterday. She says she will write soon, but until then, wishes you to know she is thinking of and praying for you.
She’d always been more Vater’s daughter than Mutter’s. They’d continually clashed, perhaps more because of their similarities than their differences. But of late, she’d welcome communication from any of her family. Eagerly, she scanned the next paragraph.
I know a visit from you will be out of the question for some time, but I still reflect, with fond memories, of your last stay at Klein-Krössin. Another person, I believe, also enjoyed your company. After your departure, your name happened to come up during one of my evening chats with Pastor Bonhoeffer. His expression spoke clearly how much he enjoyed your company, and the deep satisfaction he would find in a renewal of the time the both of you spent together. To be sure, his duties occupy him exceedingly, but if either you or he would simply say the word, I know I could arrange a meeting. An eventual understanding between the two of you would be a fulfillment of one of the dearest wishes of my heart—seeing two people I love joined together in that sacred union of hearts and lives. Do tell me your thoughts on this subject.
I must close for now. But Lord willing, I will write again soon and trust to find a reply from my little Maria reaching me before long. Until then, I remain,
With affection,
Grossmutter
Maria gasped. She’d expected a letter full of chatter and family news. Not this. It was incomprehensible. Grossmutter must be out of her mind to even write such words. Pastor Bonhoeffer and her? Why, he was Grossmutter’s theologian friend, the author of Nachfolge, the man whose confirmation class she’d been deemed too childish to join …
