After thinking it over and getting her parents’ reluctant consent, Martha called Putzi and agreed that he could play matchmaker.
Martha had no idea what to wear for the date Putzi arranged, lunch at the Kaiserhof, a grand hotel seven blocks away on Wilhelmplatz, just southeast of the Tiergarten. She understood that Nazis preferred women to be seen and not heard, to be demure and lovely ornaments on the arms of great men. Wives were expected to be meticulous housekeepers and fecund mothers, but Martha would definitely break it off before it went that far.
Still undecided with only one day to go, when Mildred came over to work on their column, Martha begged her to help her choose the perfect dress and accessories for a very important date. “You know what German men like,” she said. “You married one.”
Mildred smiled and set down her pen. “Who is this special fellow?” she asked as they went upstairs. “Putzi Hanfstaengl?”
“For the last time, no. Putzi is just a friend. You probably wouldn’t approve, but—” Martha shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Never mind? You can’t leave it at that.”
“Well—” Martha glanced over her shoulder. Her family had begun to suspect that Fritz sympathized with the Nazis, and one couldn’t be too careful. She waited until they were alone in her room before taking a deep breath and plunging ahead. “Putzi thinks Hitler needs a girlfriend to make him a more pleasant, reasonable person, so . . . he arranged a date. With me.”
Mildred recoiled, horrified. “You can’t mean it. A date with that fascist monster? How could you agree to that? You know what he is, what he stands for!”
“It’s only lunch,” said Martha, defensive. “I haven’t agreed to be his concubine.”
Mildred grimaced and pressed a hand to her stomach. “Now I really do feel ill. I don’t understand. Hitler’s odious, vile, cruel. What will your parents say when they find out?”
“They already know, and anyway, if my father knew who the alternative was, he’d push me into the chancellor’s arms.”
“I can’t believe that. Anyone would be better than Hitler.”
“If I tell you, you have to swear to tell no one, not even Arvid.”
Mildred frowned and nodded, marking an X over her heart with a finger.
“Boris Vinogradov.”
For a moment Mildred could only stare at her. “The first secretary of the Soviet embassy?”
“So you see my problem.” Martha dropped onto the bed, her hands in her lap. “The United States hasn’t officially recognized the Soviet Union. It would put my father in a very difficult position if word got out that I’m seeing one of their diplomats.”
“That’s not your only problem,” said Mildred. “Arvid has friends at the Soviet embassy, and—I don’t have any proof, but Boris Vinogradov almost certainly works for the NKVD.” When Martha barely shrugged, she added, “That’s the Soviet intelligence division. It’s quite possible that he isn’t trying to romance you, but to recruit you.”
“All the more reason for me to see other men.”
“Agreed, but this man?”
Martha threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “The last time I saw Carl Sandburg before leaving for Germany, he told me that I should take notes on anything and everything. He urged me to ‘find out what this man Hitler is made of, what makes his brain go round, what his bones and blood are made of.’”
“So you’re saying you’d date Adolf Hitler because you think it would be good research for a future book?”
“If you were single, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely not. The very idea makes my skin crawl.”
“Then my books are destined to be more exciting than yours,” Martha replied. “Now, are you still willing to help me decide what to wear?”
After a moment Mildred nodded, but it was obvious she hoped Martha would find nothing suitable and would have no choice but to cancel the date.
“Nothing too glamorous or revealing,” mused Martha as they studied her closet. “And yet still elegant and alluring. If I’m going to change the course of European history, I’d better look the part.”
They settled on a pearlescent light mauve crepe de Chine suit and a hat with a tiny veil that added modesty without concealing any of her enticing features. “You look very pretty,” said Mildred as Martha turned and posed in front of the mirror. “Too pretty.”
“I know you disapprove,” said Martha, turning her back to the mirror, “but if there’s even the slightest chance that Putzi is right, and I could influence the chancellor for the better, shouldn’t I try?”