up their new storefronts. Unsightly Roma camps were demolished overnight, although none of Martha’s Nazi acquaintances would tell her what had become of the Roma themselves. Then, in the last few weeks before foreign tourists would descend upon Berlin, familiar tokens of the new Germany began quietly disappearing. The ubiquitous signs in store windows declaring “Juden unerwünscht” were removed. Newsstand racks reserved for the rabidly antisemitic newspaper Der Stürmer were refilled with foreign papers. Many of the same books that the Nazis had thrown onto the pyres returned to bookstore shelves. Posters announcing the Nuremberg Laws and other regulations stripping Jews of their civil rights were torn down, every trace of paste and paper scrubbed from the brick.
“Germany primps for the tourists like a debutant for her coming out,” Martha remarked to her mother one afternoon as they were shopping on the Kurfürstendamm.
“No amount of fresh makeup can conceal such gross disfigurement,” her mother replied, an edge to her voice. “I’ll believe in the Nazis’ Olympic spirit of peace and fellowship when they close the concentration camps and send the prisoners home to their families, and not a moment before.”
It was her mother’s public vehemence rather than her beliefs that took Martha by surprise. Her mother and Bill had been skeptical of the Nazis from the very beginning, while Martha’s father was suspending judgment and Martha was enamored with their noble revolution, or whatever she had called it. Her cheeks flushed with shame when she remembered how enthralled she had been by the glamour and spectacle, how she had once cheerfully echoed every “Heil Hitler” sent her way.
Now the Germans were rehearsing their best behavior for when the world came to Berlin for the Games. Martha hardly dared hope their rehabilitation would be permanent, but at least for the moment the humiliation and abuse of the Jews had significantly diminished.
A few days before the opening ceremonies, as Martha was reading on the terrace, Fritz approached her to announce a visitor. His prim, sour expression kindled a memory, and for an electrifying moment she thought Boris had returned. Setting her book aside, she leapt up from her chair and followed Fritz into the house, quickly outpacing him on the way to the green reception room.
A large, dark-haired man stood at the window, his back to her, engrossed in the view of the Tiergarten.
“Why, Thomas Wolfe,” Martha exclaimed, swiftly crossing the room to greet him. “What a wonderful surprise. Are you here for the Olympics or for me?”
“Both.” Thomas swept her up in an embrace and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. “And also because Herr Hitler won’t let me take the royalties for my German translations out of the country. I had to come to Germany to spend them.”
“I can certainly help you with that. Germany isn’t as much fun as it used to be, but we can still find good champagne, extravagant dinners, and great music to dance to.”
“So it’s not all military marches, Wagner, and the ‘Horst Wessel Lied’?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’d be happy to indulge you.” With a playful grin, he bent low, his face so close to hers that their noses almost touched. “And what would I get in return?”
She smiled, amused. “Name your price.”
“Tickets to the Games.”
“Oh, that’s easy.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You can join us in the embassy box, but the competition will be an international scandal, in my opinion. The Olympic Games are supposed to bring together the greatest athletes in the world. It’s pathetic that some of Germany’s best won’t be allowed to compete because they’re not Aryan.”
He straightened, eyebrows rising. “Hitler would deny Germany a chance at a medal just to keep the Jews out?”
“Of course. How can he argue that Aryans are the master race if a Jew trounces them in a boxing match or what have you?”
“He can’t exclude all non-Aryans. The American team is full of ’em.”
Martha raised an imaginary champagne glass. “Then here’s to the American non-Aryans. May they leave the master race in the dust.”
Thomas grinned and mimed clinking his own glass against hers. “Hear, hear.”
She regarded him, amused. “You’re certainly singing a different tune. The last time you were in Berlin, you weren’t exactly rushing to the Jews’ defense.”
“I’m no antisemite,” he protested. “I have lots of Jewish friends. Don’t lump me in with these blasted Nazis over a few careless remarks. That’s not fair.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” She took his arm. “Let’s debate it as we spend your hard-earned royalties.”