Germany and America, depending upon the wishes of his relatives and the restrictions of the Great War. Sophie was Polish by birth, petite and pretty, with dark ringlets and the alluring gaze of a film star. They had left the United States when the Great Depression had closed the factories, driving John and millions of others out of work. He had not fared much better in Germany, and he now earned a living through sporadic day labor. Sophie had worked as a stenographer and law clerk in a posh office on Potsdamer Strasse until her employer, a Jewish lawyer, had been barred from the profession. The Siegs were poor, but very much in love and happily married. Greta often envied them and reproved herself for it.
On that humid night, as thunder rumbled faintly and the open windows let in the scent of distant rain, Adam, John, and Sophie listened intently as Greta described the interview, her conflicted feelings, her hopes for the good that could come of the project, and her apprehensions for all that could go awry.
“In your place I would do it,” said Adam, his expression telling her that he knew it was her decision alone. “It’s part of our mission to tell the world the truth about Hitler.”
“But does his autobiography qualify as the truth?”
“It’s his truth, what he is and what he intends.”
“The German people have read his so-called truth,” said Sophie. “They didn’t recoil in horror. They embraced it. They made him their Führer.”
“The Americans and the British would view Lebensraum entirely differently than German nationalists do,” said Adam. “They wouldn’t be inspired by this book, but forewarned.”
Greta nodded. “Ideally, that’s what Murphy’s translation would accomplish, but—”
“You must do it, Greta,” John broke in. “Do you know of Ivan Maisky?”
Adam shrugged, brow furrowing; Greta and Sophie shook their heads.
“He’s the Russian ambassador to the United Kingdom. I’ve never met him, but we have mutual friends through the party. Maisky told one of my comrades about an exchange he had with David Lloyd George.”
Adam’s eyebrows rose. “The prime minister?”
“Former prime minister, but yes, the same fellow. According to my comrade, Maisky persistently warned Lloyd George that Hitler was a fascist with dangerous expansionist intentions. He urged him to read Hitler’s book and take all necessary precautions before it was too late. Eventually Lloyd George retorted, ‘I don’t know why you tell me all these things are in Mein Kampf. I’ve read it and they aren’t.’”
“Oh, my,” breathed Sophie.
“You must help these people prepare, Greta,” said John. “Get that book into English.”
Adam placed a hand on her shoulder. “Darling, if you’re involved—”
“I can make sure nothing essential is omitted this time.” Greta inhaled deeply, steeling herself. “I’ll do it. What other choice is there?”
The next morning, Greta went to her landlady’s office and told her she would accept the job. Visibly relieved, Frau Levinsohn promptly escorted her upstairs to the Murphys’ flat. After Greta and Dr. Murphy shook hands and made it official, he introduced her to his wife, Mary, and to his secretary, Daphne French, a young Englishwoman about Greta’s age. Greta felt as if she were joining another resistance cell, but a disconcertingly overt and jolly one, with the official sanction of the Ministry of Propaganda and promises of tea and biscuits when she reported for work the next morning.
In the weeks that followed, Greta came every day except Sundays to work on Dr. Murphy’s manuscript, sometimes editing his drafts, occasionally translating one chapter while he worked on another. Before long she came to know him, his wife, and Daphne quite well. They were all strongly antifascist, fond of German music and literature, and nostalgic for the Germany that once was. Daphne was an excellent secretary, but although she could type flawless copies of German documents as perfectly as if it were her first language, she spoke it haltingly. Mrs. Murphy was clever, tolerant, and encouraging, and she had a dry sense of humor that Greta found delightful, especially when Nazi officials were the target of her satirical barbs.
As for Dr. Murphy, he was intelligent, skilled, and as deft with German as he was English, and fluent in French and Italian as well. In conversations over a great many lunches, he revealed an impressive knowledge of science, art, and literature. Sometimes Mrs. Murphy and Daphne joined them for coffee breaks or to help sort documents and organize files, but it was usually just Dr. Murphy and Greta from morning to night in the parlor, in