don’t know. Just be careful,” she begged, and Martha promised she would.
The next day, Martha dressed, fixed her hair, and studied her face in the mirror, frowning slightly. She had worn almost no makeup as befitted the Nazi ideal, and she was not happy about it. But she had no time for second thoughts about her appearance, for Putzi arrived fifteen minutes early to drive her to the Kaiserhof. He seemed even more anxious than she was for the date to go well.
Putzi escorted her to the elegant Kaiserhof tearoom, where they met another lunch guest, the famous Polish singer Jan Kiepura. “Where’s the chancellor?” Martha asked Putzi after they were seated and a quick glance around revealed that her date was not in the room.
“He’s coming,” Putzi replied. “Not to worry.”
The three chatted and drank tea for quite some time, and Martha was just beginning to wonder if she had been stood up when she heard a commotion near the front entrance, the scrape of chairs against the floor, and shouts of “Heil Hitler!” Moments later, Hitler entered the room with his usual entourage of Nazi Party men, bodyguards, and beloved chauffeur, a set of companions Boris contemptuously referred to as the Chauffeureska.
Martha smiled and tried to catch the chancellor’s eye, but to her surprise, he never glanced her way as the maître d’ led his group to a nearby table. As Hitler and the Chauffeureska seated themselves and began perusing their menus, Martha raised her eyebrows at Putzi in a significant glance and picked up her own menu.
The men at the chancellor’s table ordered lunch; Martha and her two companions ordered theirs. After the first course, one of Hitler’s aides came over to their table and invited Jan Kiepura to meet the chancellor. Martha feigned indifference, but she could not help feeling slighted as Hitler invited the singer to be seated and the two men conversed earnestly throughout the second course.
“Kiepura is a Jew on his mother’s side,” Putzi murmured. “I don’t think Hitler knows.”
“I hope you aren’t planning to tell him.”
“Of course not,” Putzi replied, wounded. “It’s none of my business.”
Martha managed a tight smile, wondering why she was there when her ostensible date seemed to have no interest in acknowledging her existence. The food was excellent, so at least there was that.
As the second course was cleared, Putzi excused himself, walked over to Hitler’s table, and spoke briefly, bending close to his ear. Soon he returned to Martha and said that Hitler had consented to be introduced to her.
Martha rose, hiding her surprise, for she had assumed consent had already been given. She followed Putzi to the other table and remained standing while he made a formal introduction. Hitler rose, took her hand, and kissed it politely. He murmured a few phrases in German that she did not quite catch, so she smiled and nodded in reply, wishing Putzi would translate for her.
It occurred to her that Hitler’s little mustache did not look as ridiculous in person as it did in photographs. His face was unexpectedly soft and weak, with pouches under his eyes and fleshy lips. His hands were small and surprisingly feminine. His only distinctive feature was his eyes, which Martha found startling—very pale blue, intense, unwavering, even hypnotic.
The chancellor spoke again in German, his tone polite and perhaps a bit embarrassed, and Martha smiled back, though she grasped only every third word or so and he could have been rudely propositioning her for all she knew. After a brief time he shook her hand, and raised it to his lips for another kiss, which Martha assumed was his way of bidding her goodbye, for as soon as he released her hand, Putzi escorted her back to their table.
“Are you going to translate any of that for me?” she murmured.
“Just the usual pleasantries,” he replied quietly, pulling out her chair. “He thinks you’re very pretty, sufficiently Aryan despite your dark hair.”
Martha bit back a derisive laugh and sat down. Over dessert and coffee, she and Putzi chatted idly, while at the other table, Hitler and Kiepura resumed their conversation, sober and intent.
“What are they talking about?” Martha asked Putzi in an undertone.
“Music,” Putzi replied. “What else?”
What else indeed. Martha muffled a sigh and finished her cake. From time to time, Hitler gave her a few curious, abashed stares, but they never exchanged another word, not even when the chancellor and his Chauffeureska rose and departed.
Martha watched him go, bemused. Most men she met tried