expect upon their arrival in Berlin. Martha listened politely, but she soon began to develop an intense dislike for the embassy’s second in command and passionately wished she were motoring along with her brother instead. George Gordon was a gentleman of the old school, impeccably attired in an elegant, finely tailored suit more expensive than any her father had ever owned, complete with gloves, stick, and a proper hat. He had a ruddy complexion and gray-white hair, and the tips of his mustache curled upward as if to approximate the smile he had yet to offer. He spoke in a clipped, formal, and unmistakably condescending accent, and he was clearly rendered aghast by the Dodds’ lack of pretension and uniformed servants. President Roosevelt had heartily endorsed her father’s plan to live modestly and limit expenditures, but apparently no one had told Gordon. Most ambassadors were men of means who entertained foreign dignitaries lavishly, paying from their own pocket when they inevitably went over budget. If Gordon expected a man as principled as William Dodd to continue in that style while millions of unemployed Americans were going hungry, he was in for a rude awakening.
Finally Gordon announced that he had important political developments to discuss with the ambassador in strict confidence. Recognizing their cue, Martha and her mother left the two men alone to talk, slipping gratefully into the relative peace and quiet of the other compartment, fragrant with the flowers that had been presented to them at the pier.
“What an insufferable fellow,” said Martha, moving aside a pile of bouquets and settling down in a seat by the window.
“He’s only doing his job,” her mother replied mildly, but her face was drawn, as if Gordon’s demeanor had confirmed her worst fears of what the European dignitaries would expect of her as the ambassador’s wife.
“I suppose so,” Martha conceded. “Let’s just hope he lets Dad do his.”
She gazed at the passing scenery for a while, murmuring reassuring replies when her mother worried aloud about the duties facing her, the sudden and dramatic disruption to the comfortable pattern of her days. Eventually the rocking of the train and the rumble of the wheels upon the track lulled Martha to sleep.
She woke with a start three hours later when the train shrieked to a halt at the Lehrter Bahnhof, the majestic train station on the Spree in central Berlin. Stiff and yawning, she barely had time to rub the sleep from her eyes and put on her hat before she and her parents were ushered outside to the platform, where a crowd of people speaking in German and English awaited them. Gordon pointed out a few representatives from the U.S. embassy standing near the front, while several officials from the German foreign bureau were easily identified by their swastika armbands and lapel pins. Perfectly placed to observe the scene was a crush of newspaper reporters and photographers. Their flashbulbs popped blindingly until Martha could no longer discern faces through the spots before her eyes, but she gamely smiled first this way and then that as people called to her.
Eventually the furor subsided and a smiling man of medium height bounded forward to introduce himself as George Messersmith, the counsel general. Martha immediately recognized his name; her father had mentioned reading his dispatches to Washington describing the state of affairs in Germany. Martha took an instant liking to him as he courteously brought forward prominent members of the crowd who wished to meet the ambassador and his family—German officials, American expatriates, and representatives from other foreign embassies. Martha was most pleased to meet the leader of the American Women’s Club, a lovely blonde, slender and tall, with large, serious gray-blue eyes and a manner that suggested thoughtful contemplation of her words before she spoke. The club presented Martha and her mother with a lovely bouquet, and before long so many other groups had showered them in beautiful roses, orchids, and other blossoms that their arms became too full to accept any more.
At a word from Messersmith, Martha’s father took the press corps aside, read some brief prepared remarks, and invited questions. After a few moments, a plump, golden-haired woman who looked to be around forty approached Martha and her mother and offered to help carry their flowers. “Thank you,” said Martha, inclining her head toward her mother.
“It’s the least I can do for a coworker,” the woman remarked as she took on more than half of Mrs. Dodd’s burden. She seemed just about Martha’s