My Dearest Dietrich, page 9
She plastered on a demure smile and dipped her chin. “Forgive me, Sturmbannführer Hartmann. I’m afraid my grief as a daughter threatens, at times, to overshadow the knowledge of the service mein vater rendered his country.”
The sturmbannführer gave her the sort of look one would give a misbehaving pup who’d accepted its punishment with whimpers and wagging tail.
Next the oaf would be patting her head.
“It’s quite all right, Fraülein von Wedemeyer. A slip of the tongue, and by no means a reflection of your heart, I’m sure.”
Maria pressed her lips together.
“We only came out for a quick lunch before I return Fraülein von Wedemeyer to her grossmutter’s bedside. She’s over at the Franciscan Hospital, recovering from an operation. In light of that, you’ll excuse us, I’m sure.” Wherever had Pastor Bonhoeffer acquired such smooth manners? As if he were a country squire and the sturmbannführer his to command.
“Don’t let me stop you.” The sturmbannführer gave a perfunctory smile. “Guten Tag to you both. Heil Hitler!” Another smart salute, echoed promptly by Pastor Bonhoeffer. With a crisp click of his heels, the sturm-bannführer returned to the table where his uniformed comrades sat.
Pastor Bonhoeffer said nothing as they passed by the outdoor tables where officers, businessmen, and a trio of middle-aged ladies lunched on surprisingly luxurious dishes. The tantalizing scents of schnitzel and bratwurst made Maria’s mouth water. Hospital food and Tante Spes’s cooking paled in comparison.
The bell above the door jangled as they entered. Circular tables covered in plain white crowded the low-ceilinged room. Iron light fixtures illuminated the wood trim and walls bedecked with photographs and paintings of der Führer with a muted glow.
A smartly dressed waiter stopped in mid-stride and greeted them with flung-out arm, his other hand balancing a pile of napkins.
“Heil Hitler, how may I be of service?” The red-cheeked waiter belted out the sentence in one breath.
“Heil Hitler, table for two, please,” replied Pastor Bonhoeffer.
Maria stifled an unladylike giggle. This ritual of greeting was laughable. Couldn’t they all just say “hello” and “how do you do,” as before? At boarding school, her teacher Elisabeth von Thadden had let the practice slide as much as possible—due to her own anti-Hitler leanings, Maria suspected. The same went for life at the von Wedemeyer and von Kleist homes. Despite her short time at the Vogels, she still noted the oddity of the practice, whereas most Berliners—like Pastor Bonhoeffer—had grown accustomed to it. What an alien world they lived in, where people risked arrest if they didn’t fling their arms out like tree branches and salute a man taking their country down the quick road to tyranny.
It would’ve been funny had it not all been so serious.
“Very good. Right this way, please.” They followed the waiter past clusters of tables, until he stopped at one near the furthermost corner. Depositing the napkins on a nearby table, the waiter pulled out her chair. She sat, smoothing her skirt.
“I’ll be right back with your menus.” The waiter hurried away.
The table was designed for four, and Pastor Bonhoeffer could have taken any of the seats. When he chose the one closest to her, Maria couldn’t help the warmth that rushed to her cheeks—a not altogether unpleasant sensation.
Had he done so only out of habit, or did he desire to be near her? A question meant to be analyzed with giggling scrutiny over a long chat with Doris. Only the intimacy of this luncheon seemed a thing too special to share with her old school friend.
Pastor Bonhoeffer smiled slightly. “I hope the lunch makes up for any unpleasantness caused by taking you here. I’m awfully sorry about that. I didn’t expect to run into any acquaintances.”
“It’s really all right.” And it was. Despite the ridiculous salutes and the visage of Herr Hitler on every wall, they were here, together. In the corner of a Berlin restaurant, the scents of baking and spices in the air. Just a man and a woman sharing a meal and time together.
The waiter returned with the menus, each presented with another salute, before speeding off toward another table. Obviously, finding men for military service ranked above providing sufficient staffing at a restaurant. Not that she minded. The less anyone bothered them the better.
Silence fell as they each perused the menu. Maria’s gaze fell on the prices. Ought she order the least expensive item? Could Pastor Bonhoeffer afford their lunch? He didn’t seem to have any steady employment, so where did his income originate?
Doris would have paled in horror at the thought of asking such a question. But Maria didn’t want to put Grossmutter’s friend in financial difficulty because of his kindness to herself.
“Are you sure you can afford this?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
He glanced up from where he’d been studying the menu, spectacles tilting slightly over his nose. For a moment, he looked rather taken aback. Then, a teasing smile edged his lips.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re not an ordinary young lady, Fraülein von Wedemeyer?”
“Ja. Mutter has ever since I was old enough to walk,” she replied, deadpan.
His smile deepened and his spectacles tilted down even farther. The gold-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly aura that suited his personality. She resisted the urge to reach out and push them up, trail her hand along his jaw … She looked down at the menu, forcing away the impropriety of such thoughts.
“In answer to your question, ja, I can afford to pay for lunch. I’m rather good at footing the bill, or so most of my friends tell me. I remember one time, when I was teaching a class of seminarians, I was set to travel to Berlin the next day, and I asked them what they would like me to bring back—either chocolate or cheese. Almost in unison, everyone suggested I bring back both.” He leaned back in his chair, hands resting atop the menu, eyes twinkling.
“So what did you do?”
“Brought back large quantities of both, with a particularly large portion for Herr Bethge, since I had it on good authority he was the one who put them up to it.”
The waiter returned, and they placed their orders—schnitzel for him, potato pancakes and salad for her, along with ersatz kaffee and cream for both of them. When the waiter disappeared along with their menus, Maria resumed their conversation.
“Herr Bethge is a friend of yours?”
Warmth filled Pastor Bonhoeffer’s gaze, the sort of warmth her own eyes might emanate when she spoke of Max or her sisters.
“The very best. Though we’ve known each other for less than a decade, sometimes it seems we’ve grown up together. Like brothers, I suppose. My parents would agree, since they’ve practically adopted him. Our running joke is that we’re both so familiar with each other’s experiences and feelings, we’d make terrific biographers. Though we’d have to decide beforehand which stories ought to be left out. He might resort to bribery to prevent me from telling the world about his terrible lack of housekeeping skills.”
They sat laughing. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her laugh like this. Months, undoubtedly, but it seemed a lifetime. In childhood, she’d thrived on fun and games. War had absented both from her life.
And as she laughed, she almost forgot the pain of losing Vater.
He’d want her to laugh. To go on living.
Their laughter faded, and they straightened in their seats like errant schoolchildren when the waiter arrived with their meal. They responded with suppressed smiles and hasty danke schöns.
Instead of turning his attention to their food, he leaned toward her. His scent—a mingling of soap, typewriter ink, and an essence that could only be described as him—swept over her with such comfort she was tempted to steal his handkerchief just so she could inhale the fragrance whenever she wanted.
“Tomorrow night, my sister is giving a send-off party for her son, Hans-Walter, who’s soon to join up. Herr Bethge will be there, along with most of my family. I thought you might … that is … would you care to join us?” His smile turned tentative. Earnest. “It would make me very happy.”
It already made her even more so, just by him asking. The rivaling trepidation and anticipation in his eyes as he awaited her answer. Was this how all courtships progressed?
Could what she shared with Dietrich Bonhoeffer even be called by that name?
Whatever the name, and whatever her uncertainties, she relished the way he made her feel when they were together—safe and joyful and a dozen other things she couldn’t name. She wanted to know more of him, to meet his family and friends. Wanted suddenly, ridiculously, to make them her family and friends.
“Ja, Pastor Bonhoeffer. I’d love to come to your family party.” She almost laughed at his relieved expression. As if he’d actually expected her to refuse.
“I’ll look forward to it then.” They turned their attention to their meal. Silverware clinked against china. A young lady plunked out a folk tune on a nearby piano.
Maria lifted the warm cup of ersatz to her lips, savoring the creamy drink. She lowered the cup, suddenly chilled, despite the steaming drink. Her lungs tightened.
On the opposite wall, a large painting of the Führer—brown-uniformed and modeling the swastika on his right arm—hung in gaudy splendor.
And his eyes …
They seemed to be watching … staring … directly at Dietrich.
Maria shivered.
Chapter Eleven
October 15, 1942
Berlin
Feet firmly planted on the ground, Bonhoeffer. No more thoughts of unfulfilled fantasies.
Like arriving at a family gathering with a woman at his side. One who made him smile when there was nothing really to smile about. Who, when she slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, made him imagine outlandish things …
A church with a long aisle. Maria in a white dress, gliding to his side.
Walks in the Tiergarten, pushing a baby pram.
Ja, outlandish. Especially in wartime. Especially in Germany.
The blue sky of afternoon had given way to the dusky gray of approaching twilight as he and Maria made their way down the street. The party for Hans-Walter, the Schleichers’ eldest son, wouldn’t be a late one. No party was these days, what with blackout curtains and the threat of air raids.
But it was a party nonetheless.
Tonight, Maria wore the dark red suit that matched the roses in her cheeks. She’d added a few curls to her honey-brown hair. They bounced against her shoulders as she walked, like threads of purest gold.
Enough of this …
“It’s getting cold.” He wore a substantial overcoat atop his three piece suit, far greater protection against the wind than her knee-length skirt and light jacket. Should he offer her his coat?
“I don’t think so.” She turned those radiant blue eyes on him. “I like evening walks. At Pätzig, I used to adore staying out with Max well after dark. Whenever it rained, we would tear outside and run through the gardens, getting completely soaked and shrieking like mad. It was fun.”
Well, she’d answered that question. She answered a lot of questions, did Maria, in that fresh, unaffected way of hers. Some of the stories she told of her childhood years … It was little wonder her mutter’s hair hadn’t turned completely white, fretting over all the scrapes her kinder got into.
“It doesn’t sound like it,” he replied. Whenever it rained, he tended to use an umbrella or stay inside like any normal person would.
She spun to face him, walking backward along the sidewalk, curls swirling in the breeze. Twilight illuminated the laughter in her eyes.
“You wouldn’t know, since you haven’t tried it.” Teasing filled her words. “You don’t know if you’ll dislike something until you’ve given it a fair go. If you ever visit Pätzig and it rains, you absolutely must go outdoors.”
With that sparkle in her gaze, the list of places he wouldn’t go for her had dwindled to nothing.
“If you say so.” He chuckled.
They reached the Schleicher family home, situated next door to the Bonhoeffers. Both homes had been constructed in 1935, due to his vater’s desire for a smaller residence to retire in, along with a consulting room downstairs to see his roster of private patients. The Schleichers—his sister Ursula and husband, Rüdiger—had built their house next door, which meant that both homes always had plenty of Bonhoeffers coming and going.
Dietrich opened the gate and motioned for Maria to precede him up the small, graveled path. She hung back once they reached the door, smoothing a hand across her skirt.
He turned the knob and entered the foyer, Maria following. Dietrich took off his overcoat and hung it up. Voices drifted from the living room, mingling with a Schubert piece being played on the piano—Renate, probably, since she’d been practicing it last time he’d been over.
Footsteps sounded, and Eberhard appeared, a glass in one hand, a plate in the other. A boyish smile spread over his friend’s face. Though only two years younger than Dietrich, Eberhard, with his dark hair and athletic build, managed to look no older than his late twenties.
“I thought I heard footsteps.” Eberhard set his empty plate and glass on the hall table. “Wondered if you were coming or not.”
“You know I wouldn’t miss this.” The men shook hands. It was then Dietrich noticed his friend’s attention wasn’t on him, but on the young woman still by the door, hands clasped in front of her, looking less at ease than he’d ever seen her.
Eberhard quirked a brow.
“Come here, Fraülein von Wedemeyer. I want you to meet someone.” Dietrich motioned her forward.
Maria came to his side, a shy smile on her lips.
“Fraülein von Wedemeyer, this is Eberhard Bethge. Eberhard, this is Fraülein von Wedemeyer.” Dietrich smiled as he made the introduction. He’d written Eberhard about Maria, but the two had never met. What would Eberhard think of her? Knowing his friend, Eberhard always had an opinion.
And it mattered that these two thought well of each other.
Mattered for reasons he hadn’t fully ciphered out, yet existed nonetheless.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Herr Bethge. Pastor Bonhoeffer has been telling me a great deal about you.”
“That doesn’t sound promising. Did I suffer much in the translation?” Eberhard cracked a droll grin.
“Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” Maria’s smile held her former ease.
“I’ll take you to task later.” Eberhard flashed Dietrich a look of mock severity. “For now, let’s join the others.”
They entered the living room just as everyone applauded at the end of Renate’s piece. Eberhard headed toward the piano. The gazes of the rest of the room swiveled in their direction. Maria stood at his side, her shoulder almost brushing his, smiling tentatively.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Frau von Kleist’s granddaughter, Fraülein von Wedemeyer. I invited her to join us for the evening since she’s staying with her grossmutter in Berlin.”
The assembled guests offered smiles and curious glances. Dietrich’s older brother, Klaus, and his wife, Emmi, with their children Walter, Thomas, and Cornelie. Hans and Christel, along with their young ones: fourteen-year-old Klaus; Christoph, a year younger; and their daughter, twelve-year-old Bärbel. Rüdiger and Ursula, with their son, Hans-Walter, sitting beside them in uniform, a pretty young lady in the chair nearest to him. Their daughter, Renate, remained on the piano bench, Eberhard at her side.
“Welcome.” Ursula hurried across the room, greeting Maria with a warm smile. “We’re very glad you could come. Any friend of Dietrich’s is a friend of ours.”
“Danke schön. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Where are Mutter and Vater?” Dietrich asked.
“They’re a bit under the weather this evening. Vater thinks he’s catching a cold, so they decided to stay home tonight. I took them over dinner a half hour ago.” Ursula tucked behind her ear a wisp of gray-streaked hair that had escaped from its old-fashioned bun.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry to hear that.” Dietrich tried to hide his disappointment. He’d wanted them to meet Maria, particularly his mutter. And the next time the family met together, Maria would likely be gone.
Hans unfolded his lanky form from his place on the sofa beside his wife and joined Ursula. “Very glad you could come, Fraülein von Wedemeyer.” He offered a friendly but tired smile. With all the hours Hans put in at the Abwehr, it was a surprise his brother-in-law had been able to make the party at all.
If only Dietrich could be of more use. If only the currency issues didn’t cast his name under suspicion at the moment, since he’d had a hand in procuring the passports for Operation 7. Were there any updates? He’d see if he could find a quiet moment alone with Hans later in the evening.
“Please, do come in and sit down, the both of you.” Ursula motioned to a pair of empty chairs near the piano. “Eberhard and Renate are about to perform a duet. We never miss an opportunity to make music together, Fraülein von Wedemeyer. Dietrich is particularly good on the piano.”
Maria tilted her head toward him. “I had the pleasure of hearing him play at Klein-Krössin. Both my grossmutter and I were quite impressed.” Sudden sadness crossed her gaze.
When they’d been together at Klein-Krössin, her vater had still been alive.
The look vanished almost as quickly as it had come, as Maria listened to Ursula. As if she determined to remain cheerful by sheer force of will. A remarkable trait. He admired it.
They found their seats. Christel shushed everyone as Eberhard and Renate began to play, Eberhard on the flute, Renate at the piano. Music filled the room with strains of joy, each note a permission for everyone to think of nothing but the piece, dwell on no thought but that of melody and harmony. Even Hans relaxed, slipping his arm around Christel. Tall and earnest in his uniform, young Hans-Walter shared a smile with the girl at his side.
