Boris’s gaze flicked from her legs to her face. “Good evening, Miss Dodd. I thought you might have changed your mind.”
She shrugged. “No better offer came along, so here I am.”
He smiled and started the engine. “I’m honored that you spent so much time primping for me that it made you late.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she teased. “I just threw on the first thing I grabbed from my closet and ran a comb through my hair.”
“When you bade your parents goodbye, did your father mention what he thinks of Chancellor Hitler’s decision to withdraw Germany from the League of Nations and the World Disarmament Conference?”
She arched her eyebrows at him. “Who’s asking? Boris, my charming dinner companion, or Comrade Vinogradov, first secretary of the Soviet embassy?”
His only reply was a grin and a shrug.
“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” she replied airily. “As I’ve told you, my father never discusses diplomatic matters with me.”
She gazed out the window, pretending to admire the lights in the Tiergarten, her smile fading. After the shocking announcement earlier that day, her father had warned the family that with a single decision, Hitler had rendered the League of Nations impotent.
“They might as well tear up the Treaty of Versailles,” Bill had said. “The only possible explanation is that Hitler intends to rebuild the German military.”
“The other members of the League won’t permit that,” their father replied. “They would have no choice but to respond with force while they still have the power to subdue him. We’d have another war.”
“Impossible,” Martha protested. “No one wants another war in Europe.”
“The German people don’t want war, even if certain irrational leaders do,” Martha’s father had said. “Everything depends upon whether the will of the people will constrain Hitler, or whether Hitler will reshape the will of the people.”
In spite of the rising tensions, Martha’s father, his counterparts in the German diplomatic corps, and other foreign ambassadors were expected to conduct business on behalf of their governments as always, and that meant mixing cordially with Nazi officials at embassy dinners and other functions. Martha skipped the duller affairs unless her mother specifically asked her to attend, but if the invitation mentioned drinks and dancing, or if the guest list included particularly handsome and charming men, she happily accepted.
One Saturday evening in late October, Martha attended a cocktail party at the Italian embassy. It was a joy to forget her cares for a few hours, drinking and dancing in the ballroom with the young people while their elders talked somberly in little groups in the drawing room. Boris was not there, which disappointed Martha because he had promised to come, but Putzi attended, and they had a jolly time.
After two glasses of champagne, Putzi confided that Hitler’s recent decisions troubled him. “His erratic temper is bad for the Reich,” he grumbled. “But what can I do? He’s surrounded by ambitious, unscrupulous men. He needs a good influence to counteract the bad.”
Martha shrugged and drained her glass. “He should spend more time with my father. You couldn’t find a more decent, honorable man, not in Germany and not in the States.”
“That’s a lot to ask of your father.” Suddenly Putzi brightened. “What Hitler needs is a woman.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard. They say he’s completely indifferent to women, although he’s been involved with a few rather young girls—”
“Hush!” Putzi seized her elbow and steered her away from the others. “Don’t you care who might be listening?”
“Are you kidding? My father knows you’ve tapped the phones at the embassy and our residence. Don’t you already know everything I think and say?”
“I didn’t tap your phones.”
“I didn’t mean you personally.” Martha took a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. “Some entry-level spook did it for you.”
Putzi heaved a sigh. “Martha, listen. I’m serious. All Hitler needs is the love of a good woman and he’ll calm down and become more reasonable. The right woman could transform the destiny of Europe.”
Martha raised her glass. “I wish her good luck and Godspeed.”
“Martha, you are the woman!”
She regarded him for a moment, uncertain whether to laugh or to be insulted. “I really don’t think so.”
Undeterred, Putzi cajoled and argued his way through the rest of the evening. When they parted company later that night, he must have imagined he detected some equivocation in her refusal, for he began calling her once or twice a day, until she found herself wavering. Perhaps it wasn’t such a crazy idea. Putzi considered Hitler a