me,” said Martha, tempted to suggest Rudolf Diels, who would surely prove to be as fascinating a guide as he was a dinner companion. Or perhaps Boris Vinogradov, whom she had been getting to know at various embassy functions. He was tall and blond with gorgeous blue-green eyes, a charming if inelegant dancer and quite the flirt. He spoke little English, and she spoke no Russian, but they managed to stumble along well enough in German.
But Rudolf and Boris were her friends, not Bill’s, and Martha was well pleased with his choice—Quentin Reynolds, a journalist, formerly a sports reporter with the New York Telegram and recently appointed an associate editor of Collier’s Weekly. He was tall, burly, and quite handsome, with curly red hair, blue eyes, and a ready grin. Martha was not entirely disappointed that flirting with the Prince of Darkness and the Russian first secretary would have to wait until she returned to Berlin.
Since Bill was bringing a friend, Martha suggested inviting Mildred Harnack too. Soon after the Dodds’ arrival in Berlin, Martha had asked Mildred to join her for lunch at the Palm Courtyard at the Esplanade, and they had become fast friends over their mutual love of literature and writing. They shared many favorite authors in common, and they eagerly recommended novels, new and classic, to one another. Mildred had asked Martha to join her literary salon, and at Martha’s invitation, Mildred had attended several teas and other functions at the embassy. Mildred spoke German perfectly and would have been excellent company on the road. Unfortunately, she had to decline, as their three-week itinerary would prevent her from returning to Berlin in time for the start of the new school term.
Thus it was a party of five rather than six that departed Berlin on a warm, sunny Sunday morning. Bill drove the old family Chevrolet, their father took the front passenger seat beside him, and Martha sat in back between her mother and Quentin. Martha soon teased out of him that he was a native New Yorker of Irish ancestry, he despised the Nazis, and he hoped to write a novel or two someday. He would make a fine traveling companion, she thought, smiling to herself as she settled back to enjoy the ride.
As they drove south through picturesque countryside and charming villages, Quentin asked Martha’s father how he was settling into his new job. After taking the precaution of declaring his remarks off the record, Martha’s father explained that he would not be officially recognized as the American ambassador to Germany until he could present his credentials to the president. However, Hindenburg had withdrawn to his estate at Neudeck in East Prussia to recuperate from an undefined illness and was not expected to return to the capital until the end of August. Until then, Martha’s father kept busy organizing his office, meeting his staff, briefing American news correspondents, and handling routine diplomatic issues. He had also lodged official protests with the German government regarding the violent attacks on Americans. “Foreign citizens are under no obligation to offer this Hitlergruss, this Hitler salute,” he said. “If the current administration can’t establish that as official policy, I may have no choice but to urge the State Department to issue a travel warning.”
Quentin’s eyebrows rose. “The German government would find that offensive, deeply humiliating.”
“Indeed, which is why I’m confident they’ll do whatever is necessary to avoid it.”
It was almost eleven o’clock when they arrived in Wittenberg, where their first stop was the Schlosskirche. It was there that in 1517, Martin Luther had nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door of the church’s main portal, sparking the Protestant Reformation.
“I sometimes attended services here when I was a student,” Martha’s father reminisced as they climbed the front steps, but when he tried to open the door so they could look around, he found it locked. Disappointed, they descended the stairs just as a Nazi parade emerged around the corner of an adjacent street. While Martha looked on eagerly, the others exchanged wary glances, and by unspoken agreement, they quickly departed in the opposite direction.
They spent an hour strolling around Wittenberg before climbing back aboard the Chevrolet and continuing south to Leipzig. They reached the city at one o’clock and went immediately to Auerbachs Keller, one of the most famous restaurants in Germany and a particular favorite of Goethe. “Do you recall the scene from Faust that took place in this very room?” Martha’s father asked as they sat around a