Resistance Women Page 3

  For a moment he only gaped at her, but then he laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded in German, propping himself up on one elbow. “I assumed—”

  “Yes, you did assume.” She smiled wickedly. “It amused me to play along.”

  He ran his hand down her side from her shoulder to her hip and gave her buttocks a light slap. “What a naughty girl you are, deceiving me like that.”

  “I’m sure you have many secrets of your own.”

  “Not me. My life’s an open book.” He shifted onto his back, one arm holding her close, the other tucked beneath his head. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

  “I suppose the most important question is—” She paused, thought better of the questions that immediately sprang to mind, and asked instead, “How are we going to spend the day?”

  “First, breakfast. Then you should spend the day however you please. I could recommend a few programs for you, but I have hours of appointments and lectures ahead of me and I won’t be able to keep you company.”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly, crushed. “I didn’t mean—”

  “But I hope you’ll have dinner with me this evening.”

  “Dinner?”

  “And more after, if you’re willing.”

  He spoke nonchalantly, but his voice carried a thrilling undercurrent of promise. “I may be,” she replied, cupping his chin with her hand and turning his face toward hers for a kiss.

  For the rest of the Theaterkongresse, Greta spent her days with the French delegation and her nights with Adam. Sometimes a few of his colleagues joined them for dinner, and she marveled at her good fortune when they gave her their cards and encouraged her to contact them about jobs in various Berlin theaters—unglamorous, low-paying work that would help her get her foot in the door and could lead to something better. Yet somehow her all-important job search had faded in the shadow of her burgeoning romance with Adam. She had never fallen so swiftly or so hard, and it was as frightening as it was intoxicating.

  On the last day of the conference, she packed her suitcase with a heavy heart. She wished she and Adam were taking the same train back to Berlin, but he was staying on an extra day to teach a master class at the Universität Hamburg.

  Adam saw her off at the station. They had already exchanged cards, but after he kissed her goodbye and she began to board the train, she hesitated on the stairs. “Will we see each other again?” she asked, ashamed of the forlorn tone in her voice.

  “Of course, darling,” he said, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t we? As soon as I sort through all the work that’s piled up at the Staatstheater in my absence, I’ll call you.”

  “Promise you will.”

  He placed a hand on his heart. “I promise.”

  Greta smiled briefly and turned away to board the train before he saw the doubt in her eyes and mistook it for regret.

  Once home again, she threw open the windows to the balmy summer breeze and plunged into her work, tutoring, editing, and following up on contacts from the Theaterkongresse in search of a more lucrative and fulfilling job. The memory of Adam’s touch, his voice, and his keen gaze fixed admiringly upon hers as they discussed drama and politics haunted her day and night.

  Three days passed with no word from him, but she resisted the temptation to stroll past the Staatstheater in the hope of a chance encounter. Then, on the fourth day, when she returned home from delivering an edited manuscript to the publisher, her landlady met her in the foyer, a slip of paper in her hand. “A Dr. Kuckhoff phoned for you twice this morning,” she said, handing Greta the note. “He wants you to call him back at your earliest convenience. Are you ill?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” said Greta over her shoulder as she hurried off to return his call.

  Adam’s voice was warm and enticing, and when he asked her to meet him for dinner that evening, she immediately agreed. Conscious of Frau Kellerman’s watchful eye and reluctant to make her private life grist for her housemates’ gossip mill, Greta did not invite Adam to her room when he brought her home long after midnight, though both of them were slightly drunk and full of desire. On their next date, two nights later, they abandoned caution and crept upstairs, suppressing laughter, falling into each other’s arms as soon as she closed the door behind them. He left long before dawn while the rest of the house slept, carrying his shoes as he stole down the staircase.

  For Greta, July passed in glorious, sensuous pleasure and soaring hopes. She and Adam spent so many evenings together that in order to avoid offending Frau Kellerman’s sense of propriety, she occasionally suggested that they go to his place instead. He always found a reason to decline. Her place was closer, he might say, or his cleaning woman had not been in and the mess embarrassed him. Greta would have been suspicious except that Adam readily introduced her to his friends whenever they crossed paths at a restaurant or in the Tiergarten, the former royal hunting preserve that was now a lovely public park, 630 acres of walking paths and riding trails winding through forest groves, cultivated flower gardens, fountains, and statuary. One of Adam’s colleagues even hired her to organize his theater’s chaotic script library, a job that would pay fairly decent wages for as long as the project lasted. His acquaintances were unfailingly friendly and courteous, with not the faintest trace of disapproval behind their smiles. So she ordered herself not to spoil things with pointless worry.

  Then, one day in early August, they had just taken a table at a café popular with theater folk when Adam spotted a director with whom he urgently needed to speak. “I’ll be right back, darling,” he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek. “Order something good for us.”

  She did as he suggested, but when the waiter departed, Ursula slipped into Adam’s vacant chair. “So,” she said, drawing out the word, raising her eyebrows. “You and Kuckhoff?”

  Greta shrugged noncommittally, but she could not suppress a smile.

  “I see.” Ursula sat back in her chair and eyed her appraisingly. “Well, if you’re sleeping with him to advance your career, I’d be the last person to judge you, but I certainly hope you don’t fall in love with him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t think his wife would like it.”

  For a moment Greta could only stare at her. “His wife?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  Greta shook her head.

  “I suppose he also didn’t mention that he has a son with his first wife?”

  First wife? So there were two? And a son? Feeling faint, Greta shook her head again.

  “He really should have told you. A few years ago his first wife left him for Hans Otto—yes, that Hans Otto, the actor—and a year or two later, Kuckhoff married her sister. Somehow they’ve all managed to stay friends.”

  Suddenly Greta was certain that she was about to be violently ill. “Will you excuse me?” she murmured as she stood, blood rushing in her ears. Ursula called after her as she fled the café, but Greta did not look back. As she walked home alone, she could only wonder if Adam had seen her go.

  The next morning, he was waiting for her on the corner just down the block from the theater where, she thought bitterly, she had a job thanks to him. Her employer, one of his friends, was either oblivious to the nature of her relationship with Adam, or, she realized with horror, he and every other acquaintance to whom Adam had introduced her assumed that she knew she was the other woman.

  At the sight of Adam, she pursed her mouth and continued briskly straight ahead, but he quickly moved to intercept. “Greta—”

  “Don’t speak to me.”

  He caught her by the elbow. “I said you could ask me anything. You never asked if I was married.”

  She yanked her arm free. “That’s the sort of detail people of integrity usually volunteer.”

  “My wife and I have an open relationship.” His gaze was earnest and pleading. “I’ve told Gertrud about you. She wants to meet you.”

  “That will ne
ver happen. I’d be too ashamed to look her in the eye.”

  “Greta, please. What we have is unique, powerful, inexorable. We both know it. Do you think this happens every day?”

  “We’ve had two months,” she retorted shakily. “You’ll forget me in another two.”

  “You know I never will. Greta, I love you.”

  The words she had so longed to hear rang hollow. “Then call me when you’re single.”

  Heart aching, she pushed past him and strode off to the theater, blinking away tears of anger and disappointment. He did not follow.

  Chapter Three

  October 1930

  Sara

  After her last class of the day, Sara Weitz hurried off to meet her brother and sister for lunch to celebrate Natan’s promotion to associate news editor of the Berliner Tageblatt. Glancing at her watch, she decided to walk from the University of Berlin to the Palast-Café rather than take the Untergrundbahn. Why descend into stifling underground darkness on such a beautiful autumn day when cool, refreshing breezes swept the streets and sunlight streamed down from cloudless blue skies? Winter would be upon them soon enough.

  From campus she strolled west on Unter den Linden, her satchel slung over her shoulder, heavy with books and papers. With the first few days of the term, American literature had become her favorite course and Frau Harnack her favorite teacher. Like Sara, Frau Harnack was new to the university, a graduate student in American literature who had recently transferred to the University of Berlin. At first Sara and her classmates had not quite known what to make of their lively, warmhearted teacher, who treated her students as equals and sometimes broke into song to illuminate a particular literary point, but Frau Harnack soon won them over with her kindness and genuine concern for their well-being. Her stories about life in America so vividly illuminated the texts the class analyzed that Sara had recently begun to think that perhaps she ought to pursue a doctorate in the States after graduation.

  She shook her head to clear away the daydream. It was tempting to lose herself in fond imaginings in such uncertain times. Her father’s job as a manager at the Jacquier and Securius Bank was secure, Natan’s career was on the rise, Amalie was happily married to a wealthy baron, and so the family did not struggle to make ends meet, unlike so many unfortunate others. Yet they could not ignore the political turmoil that stalked the borders of their comfortable home in the Grunewald. They tried to ignore the surge of antisemitism in Germany, concealing their apprehension and living exemplary lives, taking care not to provoke spite and fear from their Christian neighbors. That had always been enough to shield them in a modern, cosmopolitan city like Berlin. Their Jewish elders assured them it would suffice this time too.

  Sara cut through the Tiergarten to avoid the Reichstagsgebäude and whatever crowd might have gathered to observe the opening of the new Reichstag that afternoon. The results of the September 14 election had stunned everyone—except perhaps the leader of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, an Austrian named Adolf Hitler. Although the National Socialists had existed as a fringe party for years, this time they had won six and a half million votes, increasing their representation from 12 seats to 107.

  “How could anyone vote for the party of Adolf Hitler?” Sara’s mother had wondered aloud, aghast, after the results had come in. “He served nine months in prison for treason.”

  “People are struggling,” Sara replied, thinking of her fellow students, their weary faces, their threadbare clothes, their grim prospects, their anger and hopelessness. “They can’t find work and they’re afraid of what the future holds.”

  “Then along comes this loud, angry man,” Natan said, “promising to take them back to a mythical golden age of prosperity, swearing to punish Germany’s enemies for wronging them. Some people respond to that—in this case, vast numbers of people.”

  As Sara approached the Palast-Café, it occurred to her that it might have been more appropriate to celebrate Natan’s promotion with a picnic in the Tiergarten near the Reichstagsgebäude. He probably would have preferred to munch a sandwich while observing the size and temper of the crowd awaiting the arrival of the new deputies.

  She spotted Amalie standing alone outside the Palast-Café and hurried across the street to meet her. Although only a few days had passed since Sara had seen her sister for Shabbat at their parents’ home, Amalie greeted her with a fond embrace as if they had been apart for weeks.

  Amalie was breathtakingly beautiful, willowy and tall, with dark, expressive eyes and ebony hair that shone like silk whether it cascaded down her back or was put up in a carelessly elegant chignon, as it was then. Some kind people generously said that Sara resembled her, but Sara was dubious, and not only because she was several inches shorter, her hair was a lighter brown, and her eyes were hazel. Amalie was the beauty of the family, and everyone knew it.

  Amalie’s hands were smooth, her fingers long and graceful, and even when resting on her lap they seemed poised to move to music she alone heard. She was a wonderfully gifted pianist, but a few years before she had given up the professional concert circuit for marriage and motherhood. She rarely played in public anymore, restricting herself to a few benefit concerts a year and informal performances at the numerous parties they hosted at their luxurious home on Tiergartenstrasse or her husband’s ancestral estate in Minden-Lübbecke. Her husband, the Baron Wilhelm von Riechmann, was an officer in the Wehrmacht and as handsome as she was beautiful. Their daughters, three years old and ten months, were dark-haired and lovely like their mother and cheerfully exuberant like their father.

  Sara had never seen a couple more devoted to each other or more perfectly suited, despite the difference of religion. She sometimes wished that Dieter looked at her the way Wilhelm looked at Amalie, but she knew that wasn’t quite fair. She and Dieter had been together only a few months, and surely true love needed more time to take deep root and flourish.

  Unlike Wilhelm, Dieter had not grown up surrounded by comfort and luxury. After his father died in a muddy trench in France in the Great War, his mother had raised him on a housekeeper’s wages. He had gone to work in a carpet shop when he was only twelve, continuing his education on his own as well as he could with borrowed books. Eventually one of the shopkeeper’s suppliers, a successful importer, had recognized his latent abilities and had taken him on as an apprentice. Since then Dieter had risen steadily in the business, determined to become a partner one day. He was pragmatic and sensible, and he expressed his affection by bringing Sara American and English books he collected on his business travels, and by encouraging her to pursue her education, even though hers already far surpassed his. Unlike many other men Sara knew, Dieter did not need her to be helpless and ignorant so that he might feel strong and wise.

  “I suppose we could have chosen a better day to celebrate Natan’s promotion,” Amalie mused after they had chatted for a bit and their brother had still not appeared.

  “He’s probably at the Reichstag as we speak, cornering delegates and pressing them for exclusives.”

  “But he’s an editor now. Shouldn’t he assign that to a reporter?”

  Sara laughed. “Can you imagine Natan content to sit behind a desk managing things instead of chasing down an exciting lead?”

  They waited a while longer, joking about how to punish Natan for his tardiness when he finally appeared, but eventually hunger drove them inside the café.

  “Shall we talk politics?” Amalie teased as they were seated at a small round table covered in a white damask tablecloth.

  “Please, no, anything but that.” Sara kept her voice low and glanced about, suppressing a smile. “I wouldn’t want to start a brawl. They might not let us come back. How are my darling nieces?”

  Amalie’s face glowed as she described her daughters’ latest antics, from the baby’s attempts to walk to her elder sister’s amusing observations and turns of phrase. The conversation shifted from family matters to Sara’s studies and back to the chil
dren, diverting now and then, as the waiter took their orders and brought them their savory soup and delicate sandwiches, to wondering aloud about how Natan might be spending his afternoon.

  After lunch, the sisters decided to stroll through the Tiergarten, but they had only just put on their coats and were heading for the door when a loud crash of shattering glass startled them. “Sara,” Amalie cried, pulling her out of the way as a second brick tore through what remained of the front plate-glass window.

  “Heil Hitler!” a man shouted outside. Boots pounded on pavement and other voices took up the cry.

  The door swung open and a couple darted inside, breathless and wide-eyed. “Don’t go out there,” the man warned shakily, ushering his companion farther into the room. “They’re rioting, from the Reichstagsgebäude to the Potsdamer Platz and God knows where else.”

  Heart thudding, Sara stole to the broken window, stepping carefully over fragments of glass and staying close to the wall. Peering through the frame, she glimpsed a throng of men—dozens, hundreds of men—storming down the street, breaking shop windows and shouting: “Heil Hitler! Deutschland erwache! Juda verrecke!” One man paused and raised his hand in the air, holding something that gleamed in the sunlight. There was a puff of smoke, and Sara flinched while others in the café shrieked at the sound of a gunshot. Other pistols fired in reply, some distant, others frighteningly near.

  “Madam, please step back from the window,” a man called out. Glancing over her shoulder, Sara spotted the maître d’ waving guests toward the back of the café.

  Sara obeyed, and when she returned to Amalie’s side, her sister clutched her arm. “I have to get home,” she said, as the sounds of shouting and breaking glass rose just beyond the window. “Sylvie and Leah—”

  “They’ll be perfectly safe indoors.”

  Amalie shook her head, frantic. “The nurse always takes them to play in the park at this time of day.”