a concentration camp without even the pretense of a trial.”
“Ah, yes, their trials.” Clara sighed. “I remember them well. I wish more had come of my work in Berlin than a stern condemnation of the farcical Nazi judicial system from the New York judiciary. I was so annoyed by their silence that I started a book, a collection of quotes from Hitler and other prominent Nazis. Let them condemn themselves with their own words.” Suddenly she brightened. “You could help me. You could send me anecdotes and quotes from Berlin, choice bits that don’t make it into the papers.”
“I’d like to help, but . . .” Mildred put her last blouse on a hanger and shut the closet. “As I told you, our mail is censored. A letter containing disparaging stories about prominent Nazis would probably never make it out of the country. Worse yet, anything I put in a letter could be used against me, or against Arvid.”
Clara studied her, frowning. “Wouldn’t it be worth it, to make the American people aware of what they’re really like?”
“Worth my life? I’m sorry, Clara, but if I’m going to risk my life, and Arvid’s, and his family’s—” She shook her head. “It will have to be to accomplish something no one else can do, and in no other way.”
Disappointed, Clara shrugged and let the subject drop, but as the days passed, Mildred sometimes caught her old friend studying her, worry and suspicion in her eyes.
It was the first, but regrettably not the last, uncomfortable exchange of Mildred’s visit. In their Madison days Clara had been confident and outspoken, but over the years she had become more blunt and less thoughtful, quicker to judge and unwilling to temper her criticism. On one occasion, when Mildred mentioned that she planned to inquire about faculty positions at the universities she visited on her lecture tour, Clara winced and said, “I don’t mean to be cruel, but don’t you realize that people who have been teaching American literature for years, and are already living on this side of the Atlantic, and have earned their doctorates haven’t been able to find work?”
“I understand jobs are scarce,” said Mildred, “but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Why waste your time? You know you’d never leave Arvid, not for the best faculty job in America.”
“No, I probably wouldn’t,” Mildred conceded, forcing a smile. She had no intention of leaving him. If she were fortunate enough to land a faculty position in the States, she would convince him to return with her or she would decline the offer. Still, she thought it unkind of her longtime friend to imply that it was presumptuous of her to inquire.
Of all the friends she had hoped to see while she was in New York, after Clara, Martha had been at the top of the list. As soon as Arvid booked their tickets, Mildred had written to Martha at her new address on Central Park West to let her know when she would be in the city. No reply came before they sailed, but eight days after her arrival, a small package arrived for her at Clara’s apartment. It was dense and solid, wrapped in heavy brown paper with a postmark from Ridgefield, Connecticut. Unwrapping it, Mildred discovered a book with a red cover and the title and author printed in gold type on the spine. “Through Embassy Eyes,” Martha read aloud, “by Martha Dodd.”
Astonished and apprehensive in equal measure, Mildred settled down in a chair by the window and opened the book. Inside the front cover she found an ivory-colored envelope holding a letter written on ivory stationery with a black border, which she recognized as the same one Martha had used in May 1938 when she had shared the sorrowful news of her mother’s unexpected death from heart failure.
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you while you’re in the city,” Martha had written. “I so wanted to introduce you to my darling Alfred and to hear all the news from Berlin, and to see the expression on your face when I handed you my book. Can you believe it? After all my talk about my audacious ambition, I finally did it. It’s part memoir, part juicy exposé. If I have to be a bit indiscreet to open people’s eyes about what’s going on in Nazi Germany, then so be it.”
Mildred’s heart plummeted. How indiscreet had Martha been? Surely she would not have been so eager to drive up book sales and