yet it was good advice. Why shouldn’t I learn all I could about your home?”
Mildred knew that Germany was not perfect, that like the United States it grappled with various economic, political, and social problems, but now, exploring Bremen with Arvid, she felt a keen sense of relief. Greta—dear, smart, serious, skeptical Greta—had painted a far too ominous picture of her country.
Mildred and Arvid left Bremen just as the bells of St. Peter’s Cathedral rang out the noon hour. The sun shone brightly in a perfect blue sky as they set out in a gleaming cream-colored Mercedes convertible that Arvid had borrowed from a cousin, passing through forests and farmland, rolling hills and charming villages. For hours the beautiful scenery captivated Mildred’s attention, but after they stopped for lunch in Hanover and continued southeast through Lower Saxony, she felt waves of trepidation rising and receding with increasing frequency. Although Arvid never boasted, she knew that his distinguished family was admired and respected throughout Germany, especially in academic, political, and religious circles. They were, as Greta put it, intellectual royalty. Mildred had far humbler origins. Her father, a handsome, unfaithful, irresponsible dilettante who had habitually squandered his pay at the racetrack, had been temperamentally incapable of holding on to any job for long. Mildred’s mother, an intelligent, self-reliant Christian Scientist, had supported the family with domestic work and by taking in boarders, but despite her best efforts the family had moved every year one step ahead of landlords demanding overdue rent.
Mildred wondered how much of this Arvid had revealed to his family. Although they had been unfailingly warm and gracious to her in their letters, Greta had warned that the Harnacks and their extended clan of Bonhoeffers and Dohnányis might receive her with cold disdain.
It was early evening by the time their borrowed Mercedes crossed the Harz Mountains and descended into the hills of eastern Thuringia. When they reached Jena, Arvid pointed out the university, the city square, and other significant landmarks they passed on the way to his childhood home. Eventually he pulled up to a tall white half-timbered residence with black shutters, balconies on the first and second floors connecting the two perpendicular wings. Arvid’s mother had moved with her children into this house when Arvid was fourteen, after his father’s suicide. Mildred took a deep, steadying breath as Arvid parked the car and turned off the ignition. “They’re going to love you,” he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. She managed a smile.
As he escorted her up the cobblestone path to the front door, her heart thumped as several men and women and two eager young boys hurried outside to welcome them. Her nervousness faded as they embraced her, smiling, greeting her warmly in German and English. As Arvid proudly made introductions, Mildred felt a curious sense of recognition when she learned that the handsome young man with Arvid’s warm smile was his seventeen-year-old brother Falk. The two lovely women with familiar blue eyes and bobbed blond hair were his sisters, Inge and Angela, and the two cheerful boys were Inge’s sons, Wulf and Claus. Mildred also met several cousins, including one Arvid had often mentioned when reminiscing about home—Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran minister, a round-cheeked, bespectacled fellow with a strong chin.
Next Arvid escorted Mildred inside to meet his mother. “My dear child,” Mutti Clara said warmly in flawless English, clasping Mildred’s hands and kissing her on both cheeks. She had strong features and a keen, intelligent gaze, and she wore her graying light brown hair in a soft chignon. “You are even more beautiful than Arvid described. Welcome to Germany. Welcome home.”
She summoned the family to gather around the supper table, where Dietrich led them in prayer. The meal of bratwurst in a vinegar and caper sauce, potato dumplings, and cabbage rolls, with poppyseed cake for dessert, was delicious and satisfying after a long day of travel. Everything was seasoned with warm smiles and laughter as the family teased and praised one another, joking in Greek and Latin, quoting Goethe, quizzing Falk and the younger boys on their schoolwork. Mildred marveled at how delightful it was, and how very different from the family dinners of her childhood, marked by tension between her parents, worries about money, and her father’s frequent absences.
At the end of a perfect evening, Arvid took her home—at long last, a home they would share, a suite of rented rooms in a house on the Landgrafenstieg, small but cleverly arranged