Sara asked for their names, ages, and addresses. He regarded her appraisingly but asked no questions, and two days later he produced a list of about a dozen journalists. At the next meeting of her study group, Sara took Mildred aside, gave her the folded paper, and asked if she could convince her contacts at the U.S. embassy to intervene.
Mildred scanned the list. “I don’t see your brother’s name.”
“He’s not leaving. I almost wish he would, except I’d miss him, and my parents would be heartbroken.”
Mildred smiled understandingly, folded the paper, and slipped it into her pocket. She made no promises, but in early February, Natan told Sara that the obstacles preventing his friends from emigrating had inexplicably vanished. “I don’t know what you did,” he said, embracing her in a bear hug that lifted her feet nearly off the ground, “but thank you.”
“All I did was pass on a list.”
“To those men and their families, that was everything.”
As winter passed, Sara continued her studies, dreading that any day her exemption would be revoked and she would be expelled from the university. Her father’s job seemed secure as long as Mr. Panofsky remained in charge, and with the American ambassador’s family residing in his home, the Gestapo surely would not risk an international incident by harassing him. Natan said very little about his job search, but it seemed to Sara that it had stalled, if it had ever truly started. She stopped reading the Berliner Tageblatt in protest, but Natan, amused, reminded her that it was not the publishers’ fault he was no longer permitted to work for them. “Depriving yourself of the best news reporting in the city won’t get me my job back,” he pointed out. “I still read the Berliner Tageblatt and I intend to continue.”
“How can you be so loyal?” she asked. “The publishers didn’t fight to keep you. They’ve already replaced you. I’ve seen the new bylines.”
He shrugged. “They have to keep the paper going, and they can’t do that without reporters.”
Sara marveled at his forbearance. In his place, she would resent every new reporter who had accepted a job unwillingly vacated by a Jew. Surely they knew they were profiting from the misery of Natan and his former colleagues.
When she shared her feelings with Dieter, he sided with Natan. “If your brother and your parents still read the Berliner Tageblatt, why shouldn’t you?” he asked reasonably. “Some of these new writers are really quite good.”
“They can’t be as good as Natan,” she retorted, and Dieter quickly replied that of course they weren’t, he hadn’t meant that at all. Natan had been wronged and the paper suffered for it, but he was resourceful and Dieter was confident that he would figure out something.
Eventually Sara acquiesced, but when she resumed reading the paper, she insisted that it was not as good as before. “Some of the new reporters write fairly well,” she conceded one morning when Natan asked her for her honest opinion. He had joined the family for breakfast, something he indulged in more often lately, now that his schedule permitted. “This M. A. Holtzer, for example, has a fluid style.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” said Natan. “M. A. stands for Mathilda Alisz.”
“A woman?” their mother remarked. “And she’s not trapped on the society page? How marvelous!”
Sara scanned the front page until her gaze lit upon another newly familiar name. “Konrad Dressler is quite good too. Informative, but never didactic or sensationalist. A graceful, yet straightforward style. And yet—”
Natan’s eyebrows rose. “A complaint?”
“No, a concern. Criticism of the Nazis is woven through everything he writes, so subtly that he wouldn’t be condemned for it, yet readers who agree with him couldn’t mistake his true meaning.” Sara spread the paper out flat and held Natan’s gaze over the table. “Do you know him well enough to warn him to be careful?”
“I do, and I could, but I don’t think he’ll change.”
“So he’s as stubborn as you?”
“He should be. I taught him everything he knows.”
Sara smiled sweetly and pointed at the second paragraph of Dressler’s editorial. “Including this rather eccentric use of the dative construction instead of the genitive?”
“What?” Natan spun the paper around and studied it, frowning. “How did that happen?”
“As editor, you would have caught that error. Say what you will, the paper isn’t as good as it once was.”
“They’re doing the best they can in difficult circumstances. We all are.”
“Then why don’t you let Papa find you a job at the bank?