My Dearest Dietrich, page 8
“What do you think of him?”
The question rose to her mind, unbidden.
Even now, the strength of his hand around hers still filled her senses with startling power. When she lay awake on Tante Spes’s lumpy mattress, she turned the moment around and around in her mind until she’d relived it more times than she could remember. Holding his hand had given her an undeniable sense of peace, yet at the same time an exhilarating kind of confusion.
There was no way to rationalize this, nor cipher it out as she would some complicated mathematic problem. Two times two always came out four, but each new memory of Dietrich Bonhoeffer brought with it a new dimension, more questions.
During his visit with Grossmutter, upon her awakening, Maria had remained in her chair, content to keep to the shadows. She’d listened to their intelligent talk, marveling at his giftedness—how he could speak in such a way that provided simplicity and clarity with her, then converse with her Grossmutter with such erudite wisdom. Sometimes one of them would lower their voice and whisper so quietly that Maria couldn’t make out what they spoke. After leading them in prayer, Pastor Bonhoeffer had taken leave, his final remarks suggesting he’d not be in Berlin for some time. The nature of his business and reason for his departure, even Grossmutter didn’t seem to know. Or if she did, she didn’t let on.
Whatever he did, it was dangerous. Though by all appearances he seemed a loyal German, she knew enough of her own family’s anti-Nazi leanings to believe him anything other than against the regime. Her own cousin and uncle were deeply involved in resistance work. Exactly how much danger did Pastor Bonhoeffer undertake?
A knock sounded on the door, and a nurse poked her head in.
Maria stood. The operation couldn’t be over already …
“A telephone call for you, Fraülein von Wedemeyer. If you’ll follow me.” The nurse turned with such brisk precision, Maria was surprised the woman didn’t click her heels.
Past ranks of doors, down to the end of the hall where a telephone sat atop a small desk for use by family members of patients. It seemed a civilized sort of thing to have in a hospital that bore the scars of wartime like many Berlin buildings—broken windows repaired in haphazard haste, signs providing instructions as to the location of the air-raid shelter.
The nurse marched away smartly. Maria took a seat on the wooden chair in front of the desk and picked up the receiver. Probably Mutter on the line, wanting to know Grossmutter’s progress.
“Hello.” She rested one elbow on the desk. The last person at the telephone had left behind a scattering of cigarette ashes. Maria brushed them onto the floor.
“Fraülein von Wedemeyer.” The line crackled, and his voice sounded far away.
“Pastor Bonhoeffer. Where are you?” She sat up straighter, wishing for a silly, girlish instant that she’d worn a different dress and curled her hair, before remembering, warmth in her cheeks, that he couldn’t see her.
“Where isn’t important, but I’ll be in Berlin tomorrow. A welcome change in plans, I hope?” As he said it, he sounded hesitant. Hopeful.
“Ja, most welcome.” More heat filled her face. Oh, that sounded much too eager. Doris would have responded with something evasive and charming.
“How is Frau von Kleist? Her operation is today, is it not?”
“She’s in surgery right now. But it should be over soon.”
“When you see her, tell her I’ve been praying.”
“Ja, I will.”
Noises, like the commotion of a train station sounded in the background. Then another voice, quick and insistent. Pastor Bonhoeffer replied, something muffled she couldn’t catch, then came on the line again. “I have to go now. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow then,” was all she could get out before the line clicked.
She set the phone down, propping her chin in her hands, a ridiculous smile tugging at her lips.
It seemed the furthest thing from normal that the phrase “I’ll see you tomorrow” could hold such expectation.
But it did.
October 14, 1942
Berlin
Danger stalked the Abwehr. A ravenous hunter seeking its prey.
Case in point—General Oster, Admiral Canaris, Hans von Dohnanyi—to name a few of the hunted.
Dietrich’s preparations to travel on behalf of the Abwehr to the Balkans and Switzerland had been canceled with a speed that would have seemed surprising, if not for the nature of his journey. Though the Jews involved in Operation 7 had made it across the border and into freedom without incident, the large amount of foreign currency required for the trip had not gone undetected by the customs officer in Prague. Smuggling foreign currency out of one country and into another was a serious crime, one from which even the Abwehr wasn’t exempt. Hans, through a coded message, informed Dietrich it would be best to return to Berlin, and lay low for a time. Attempting to travel could lead to arrest at a border checkpoint.
Head bent against the bracing October wind, Dietrich made his way toward the hospital. He didn’t much like lying low. If only he could be put to more use. It seemed almost criminal to sit and do nothing when many of his fellow Confessing Church pastors were incarcerated in concentration camps—Martin Niemöller among them. Niemöller, a man who’d initially supported Hitler, who had at first shown hesitancy about speaking boldly on behalf of the Jews, now suffered alongside them.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold crept across Dietrich’s shoulder blades. Unlike the majority of Germans, he knew the truth of what went on in those camps. Gassings, torture, mass shootings where bodies fell into ditches in piles of desecrated humanity. Martin was safe for the moment, but how long could anyone withstand the hellishness of that existence?
He turned the corner leading to the hospital, the street and its pedestrians colored in gray and brown, enlivened only by the Nazi flags hung at intervals. The grande dame Berlin had been stripped of many of her jewels by bombings, rationing, and lack of able men to keep up the streets. Her consolation prize for the loss of her beauty?
These moronic flags. Symbols of dictatorship and tyranny.
The hospital was before him now. Dietrich glanced up at the stone edifice.
Again, he’d see Maria. A prospect that probably filled him with too much enthusiasm. He couldn’t possibly be developing feelings of a … romantic nature toward Ruth’s barely-out-of-her-teens granddaughter? Why, at thirty-six, he was practically middle-aged. Not much of a catch, for all practical purposes. Still living with his parents, drawing only a limited income from the Pastor’s Emergency League, and, well, last he’d looked in the mirror, he didn’t quite fit the dashing, dark, and handsome type. None of these deficiencies had plagued him in the past.
Until Maria. Her smile, so sweet and bereft of guile. Her eyes, shaded with sadness, a sorrow he longed to alleviate.
He entered the double doors and climbed the stairs leading to the patient rooms. Skirting the usual nurses, doctors, and visitors, he found his way to Ruth’s chamber.
A knock, then a pause.
Maria opened the door, letting herself out and closing it behind her with such speed she nearly knocked both of them over. He grabbed her arm, chuckling at the astonished expression on her face.
“Steady there. And where are you escaping to?”
“Grossmutter just fell asleep.” She looked down at his hand against the dark green fabric of her sleeve. The lavender fragrance she wore mingled with the antiseptic scent of the hospital. Someday, if they ever had cause to be apart, he’d pull out this memory from the pockets of his mind, and smile over each little detail. Her hair, skimming her collarbones in soft waves of golden brown. Standing but inches apart, her foot bumping his. Her gaze fluttering up, then down.
He hastily took a step back, forcing propriety to eclipse the crazy turn of his thoughts.
“Ahem … How is Frau von Kleist?”
She straightened her shoulders, smoothing both hands down the front of her skirt. “In some pain since the operation. Her eyes are bandaged, and she mustn’t move her head until it’s certain the stitches will stay. She didn’t get much rest throughout the night, so I’m hoping she’ll sleep for a few hours. You might do better to come back for your visit later in the day.”
“Will you return to your tante Stahlberg’s for the afternoon?” he asked, scrutinizing her face. She looked a bit pale. No doubt the hours keeping vigil had taken a toll on her.
Maria shook her head. “I should stay here in case she needs anything.”
While her dedication to her grossmutter was admirable, she ought to get some fresh air. And he was as good a person as any to play escort, considering he knew his way around Berlin.
“What about lunch? Will you eat?”
She shrugged. “They usually bring in a tray. If not, I’m sure I can scrounge up something. I’m an expert scavenger,” she added with a half grin.
“Why not dine with me? The fresh air will do you good, and I’m sure I can find us some fare better than what’s on offer here.” He managed to sound nonchalant. After all, this wasn’t what Americans called a date. It was simply a friend of the family offering to supply lunch to a hardworking young woman who didn’t know her way around Berlin.
Simply?
Perhaps complicated was a better word.
Maria met his gaze, obviously not half as fazed as he by the notion. “Very well, Pastor Bonhoeffer. Since Grossmutter is asleep, I think I can spare an hour or two. Give me a minute to get my hat and coat.” She disappeared inside the room, leaving him standing out in the hall like a schoolboy with his hands in his pockets.
Where ought he to take her? They shouldn’t go far. Since rationing had increased, many establishments had closed down. And there weren’t many places within the vicinity of the hospital.
Except, well, one.
She emerged a minute later, a light gray coat belted at her waist, a little black velvet hat perched atop her head.
“Smart enough for Berlin?”
“For anywhere, I should think.” He motioned for her to precede him down the crowded hall. Ought he to have offered his arm? How had his sister Sabine and her husband, Gerhard, walked when they’d been courting? A pointless rumination, since he and Maria were certainly not courting.
Out into the crisp air of Berlin they went. Sunshine fell upon the city, adding color to the drab streets. A trio of young people zipped past on bicycles. All the Jews in the city had been forced to relinquish theirs. The wrongs of the regime hit him afresh. Discrimination—the same kind he’d seen displayed toward the African Americans in New York, only worse. A Jewish schoolgirl couldn’t bicycle to school, while her German counterpart could. Of course, few Jews remained in Berlin anymore, and if they did, they daily ran the risk of discovery by the Gestapo.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, as Maria gave him a glance of puzzlement.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
“Several things. None of which you responded to.” She gave a smile equal parts confusion and amusement. “You were far away just now, Pastor Bonhoeffer. Thinking of something sad, it seems.” Her eyes, blue as the Danube, probed his.
“How well you read me, Fraülein von Wedemeyer.” A sleek, black motorcar sped down the street in a rumble of fumes and exhaust. Probably someone on Reich business, since with fuel rationing, few used their cars if they could just as well walk.
“Let’s not talk of sad things today.” The pleading look she gave him was all the permission he needed to forget, for a little while, war and tension and counterintelligence. “Where are we going?”
He gestured across the street. Neon lights above the restaurant entrance spelled out the word Alois. Maria pressed her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
She leaned toward him, voice cut low. “But … that’s … isn’t it owned by the Führer’s brother?”
“Ja.” With the tide uncertain as to the Abwehr’s loyalties, appearing in such a place with an attractive Fraülein could only help maintain the conspiracy’s cover. And since everyone knew the restaurant’s ownership, it was actually the safest place Maria and he could talk. “Alois uses his half brother as a marketing technique. But the two rarely have any contact with each other. We’re quite safe.”
She looked mildly reassured. Still, he cupped her elbow as they approached. Café-style tables lined the sidewalk, most filled by bier-drinking officers, several of whom turned and fixed Maria with long looks of appreciation. He caught her quick intake of breath.
What had he been thinking? He shouldn’t have brought Hans von Wedemeyer’s daughter here. Best to turn around and find somewhere else, even if it meant a longer walk. And while they walked, offer what apology he could to the woman at his side.
Before Dietrich could redirect their course, Otto von Hartmann, one of the SS officers who skulked around Abwehr headquarters in Berlin, unfolded himself from his seat at one of the tables, and headed their way, his boots snapping across the sidewalk. Hans called him a hungry dog sniffing for scraps.
“Heil Hitler.” Hartmann executed a perfect salute. But his eyes focused on Maria.
Maria looked at him, uncertainty in her gaze. A chill slid through him. It was happening again, as it had so many times before. He’d never forget the first.
Time slowed, pulling him into the past.
June 19, 1940. Eberhard and he had been enjoying a break after a pastors meeting, lunching in an outdoor café. The sun warmed their skin. The strudel he’d bought for them both melted in his mouth, mingling with the familiar sweet and nutty taste of kaffee. Eberhard had mentioned a book. Dietrich stretched out his legs, reaching for his fork.
Trumpet fanfare blasted across the radio loudspeakers. Breaking news: France had surrendered! The crowd erupted. Several daring lads jumped onto chairs, a jubilant couple bounded onto the top of an empty table. Music swelled through the air, the familiar refrain of “Deutschland über alles”—Germany above all else.
Eberhard sat still as if he’d turned into one of the statues at the Tiergarten.
The crowd didn’t just sing the anthem, they roared it, arms flung out in the Nazi salute, tears of patriotism streaming down ladies’ cheeks, men with puffed-out chests and fervor in their eyes. The exact moment his own feet had moved, Dietrich couldn’t tell. But he stood among the rest, arm out, mouthing the words of the song.
He turned to Eberhard, who hadn’t budged. “Are you crazy? Stand up. We’ll have to run risks for many different things, but the silly salute is not one of them.”
Slowly, Eberhard got to his feet, his delay in reacting likely unnoticed by the rest of the crowd, now belting out the “Horst-Wessel-Lied.” His best friend raised his arm, facing the loudspeakers, the melee of the crowd drowning the fact that the both of them only pretended to sing.
That day, they’d remained inconspicuous, two men feigning patriotism while inwardly plotting resistance.
Two years later, their involvement had deepened to levels even Dietrich hadn’t foreseen.
And today, as he had then, Dietrich raised his arm in a perfect Nazi salute.
Free in conscience.
Full of revulsion.
Chapter Ten
October 14, 1942
Berlin
He could have been a member of the Schutzstaffel—the SS—with his perfect Nazi salute, his crisp “Heil Hitler.” And this from Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a man who had been the head of an illegal seminary for the Confessing Church, who’d moved his students from one site to the next in an attempt to outwit Gestapo interference.
The two opposites didn’t reconcile themselves.
Crisp autumn air blowing her hair away from her shoulders, Maria nodded politely to the specimen of Aryan manhood facing them. Close-cropped blond hair, broad shoulders encased in his gray and black uniform bearing the insignia marking him as an SS sturmbannführer—a major.
“Good to see you, Herr Bonhoeffer.” The man’s thick lips formed a smile some might have called handsome. To Maria they looked like two fat sausages curving upward.
“Likewise, Sturmbannführer Hartmann.” Pastor Bonhoeffer’s answering smile appeared friendly and at ease.
“And who is the lovely fraülein?” The sausage lips continued to smile, as the sturmbannführer’s pewter gaze swept her from head to toe. As if he were a buyer at an auction, and Maria the current item up for sale.
Boarding school and life at secluded Pätzig had sheltered her from men, but she wasn’t stupid. Real gentlemen didn’t look at ladies with such unabashed admiration.
“Fraülein Maria von Wedemeyer.” Pastor Bonhoeffer slid his fingers around her elbow once more. His warm touch couldn’t completely allay the chill scrambling spiderlike down her spine, but it did lessen it. Some. “Her vater, Major von Wedemeyer, fell at Stalingrad at the end of August.”
Maria looked down at her worn shoes, planted side by side on the crumbling cobblestones. She’d bargained on a quiet lunch with Pastor Bonhoeffer, not discussing a loss all too raw with this bratwurst-lipped minion of Hitler.
“Ah.” Maria glanced up in time to see the sturmbannführer’s smile fade, giving way to an expression of polite sorrow. “Then, my dear Fraülein, your vater received a great honor. To give one’s life for the glory of our Führer and Fatherland is the greatest of privileges. You should be a very proud young lady.”
His words and that patronizing expression … could there be any greater slap to the loss she felt? What happened to the days when an “I’m very sorry” sufficed as the response when someone suffered a loss? Why did their world have to turn everything into a patriotic tirade?
Maria lifted her chin. “I’d rather be a very happy one and know that my vater still lives.” A surge of vindication shot through her at the sturmbannführer’s astonished expression.
Beside her, Maria sensed Pastor Bonhoeffer tense.
Perhaps she’d been too rash. She’d always been one to let her words fly without thinking. Didn’t her cousin and uncle—Fabian von Schlabrendorff and Henning von Tresckow—play the roles of adoring citizens of the Fatherland, all the while despising every second of it and plotting secret coups?
