Mildred laughed, so charmed by his admiration that a few minutes passed before she realized that the streets were curiously empty for a balmy Saturday evening—no couples strolling arm in arm, no stout gentlemen walking their dogs, no friendly groups meeting up outside restaurants or theaters. Mildred spotted a few sparse clusters of men on street corners, but they were strangely static, turned inward, sometimes glancing warily over their shoulders at the police, who seemed to be out in greater numbers than usual.
Beside her, Boris shifted in his seat and inhaled deeply, and she knew he sensed the unsettling, electric tension in the air too.
As they approached the heart of the city, Martha’s heart sank with dismay at the sight of heavy army trucks, machine guns, soldiers posted here and there, black-clad SS officers marching, and more police, their green uniforms standing out against the stone buildings.
“Where are the SA?” said Boris, slowing the car to give way to a heavy military truck turning onto the boulevard before them.
Martha’s breath caught in her throat as she looked around. There was not a Brownshirt to be seen.
Traffic slowed to a crawl, and when they reached the Tiergarten, they discovered more military trucks loaded with soldiers and what Martha guessed were stores of weapons. Armed soldiers had taken up positions on the sidewalks and in the park, and some streets were blocked off and heavily guarded. Her heart thudded as they approached a checkpoint, but the soldier scrutinized the diplomatic plate on Boris’s Ford and waved them through.
“Boris,” she said shakily, “what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” He inched the car along, nodding politely to the soldiers who made way for them. “Stay calm.”
She nodded and clasped her hands together in her lap, willing her features into a dispassionate mask. At last Tiergartenstrasse 27a came into view, but her breath caught in her throat at the sight of more trucks, soldiers, and armaments arranged across the street before it. Not far away, Standartenstrasse was entirely roped off, a cordon of green-uniformed police barring passage to all.
“I have to get to my embassy,” Boris said as they drew closer to the residence.
“I know. Just drop me off at the end of the driveway.”
“Are you sure?”
She inhaled deeply and nodded. Keeping one hand on the wheel and his eyes on the streets and soldiers, Boris reached for her hand and squeezed it. She clasped it in both of hers and held on tightly until he brought the car to a halt in front of the residence. There was no time for parting endearments; she snatched up her bag and hat, darted from the car, and ran down the driveway to the front entrance without looking back.
Hurrying inside and shutting the door hard behind her, Martha was momentarily blinded by the darkness of the foyer, dizzied by the sudden coolness of the air after hours of blazing sunshine. Dropping her belongings, she stumbled up the stairs to the main floor, her breath coming in quick gasps.
“Martha, is that you?” she heard her brother call. A moment later he held her by the arms and was peering into her face, his expression drawn and tense. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”
“Traffic,” she managed to say. “Trucks and soldiers and SS everywhere. What’s going on? Has there been a coup?”
“Schleicher has been shot and killed.” Bill led her into the green reception room. “We don’t know what’s happening. Martial law has been declared in Berlin.”
For a moment she turned over the name in her thoughts without recognition, until suddenly she remembered—General Kurt von Schleicher, Adolf Hitler’s predecessor as chancellor, well regarded as an officer and a gentleman and a shrewd politician. Though he had resigned months before, he retained a great deal of influence in the Reichswehr and was feared by the Nazis, who saw in him a potential rival to Hitler.
“Why did they shoot him?” Mildred sank into a soft chair away from the window, distressed. “What has he done? Hitler can’t shoot everyone who opposes him or there won’t be anyone left to run the country.”
“They killed Schleicher’s wife too.” Bill’s words came in a rush, strained and harried. “From what I’ve been told, several of Göring’s police appeared at their front door and demanded to speak with him. When a servant said he was out in the garden, the police stormed into the house, through his office, and out the back door. They found Schleicher walking with his wife in the garden, facing