concerned that Hitler’s overreaching ambitions could provoke another world war, and if the Reich fell, the nations of Europe would install their own puppet government in its place.
Mildred did not doubt Harro’s opposition to the Nazis, but as he cheerfully recounted his exploits to prove his bona fides, she began to have grave concerns about his judgment. Several years before, as the outspoken editor of the banned radical opposition magazine Gegner, he had tried to unite the Right and Left against the fascists, holding boisterous meetings in restaurants and rallying his comrades to march in May Day parades. He deliberately sought attention, hoping to inspire others to join his cause, but in March 1933, a squad of SS had burst into a Gegner editorial meeting and arrested the entire staff.
“Our prison was a cellar, our bed a cold stone floor strewn with hay,” said Harro, his mouth set in a grim, defiant smile. “Some of my colleagues were soon released, but a friend and I were stripped naked and ordered to run a gauntlet of guards armed with lead-weighted whips. Three times they ordered us to pass between their ranks while they beat us with all their strength.”
Sickened, Mildred pressed her lips together to hold back a gasp.
“After the third time through, my friend collapsed, unconscious, and later he would die of his injuries.” Harro absently fingered his scarred right ear. “I suffered injuries too, but anger kept me on my feet. I staggered, bruised and bleeding, to the starting point, clicked my heels together, and shouted, ‘Reporting for duty! Orders carried out plus one more for luck!’”
Rudolf nodded approvingly, but Arvid’s brow furrowed. “After all you had suffered, you mocked them to their faces?”
Harro shrugged. “Mockery was the only weapon at my disposal. It seemed to impress them. They declined to send me through the gauntlet again, and the leader told me admiringly that I belonged with them.”
Prevailing upon influential friends of Harro’s father, his mother had managed to get him released, half-starved, ill, with thick ropes of scars from the whips on his back and swastikas knife-carved into his thigh. He had required weeks to heal and regain his strength, but as soon as he was able, he had resumed his opposition work, though more covertly. Obtaining a post in the Luftwaffe Ministry was unlikely for someone with Harro’s record, and indeed, at first the personnel chief had declined his application for a commission. But soon thereafter, Reichsminister Hermann Göring had personally overruled the decision, impressed by Harro’s military lineage, persuaded by powerful mutual friends, and charmed by Harro’s aristocratic wife, Libertas, the beautiful, captivating, flirtatious granddaughter of Prince Philipp zu Eulenburg-Hertefeld.
As Harro described his professional duties, it seemed to Mildred that Arvid and Rudolf could barely contain their excitement. Fluent in five languages, Harro reviewed and summarized reports on foreign air forces for Göring, handled intelligence reports from Luftwaffe officers serving abroad, and disseminated confidential documents throughout the Air Ministry. There was no question that he had access to extremely valuable military intelligence, but when Mildred and Arvid exchanged a surreptitious glance, she knew her husband was wondering, as she was, what price the resistance might ultimately be forced to pay for it.
When the interview ended, the men wished one another good luck and courage, and Rudolf and Harro departed. Pretending to adjust the curtains, Mildred watched from the window as the men emerged from the building a few minutes apart and walked off in separate directions.
“What did you make of him?” asked Arvid, hugging her from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder.
Sighing, she turned in the circle of his arms and cupped his cheek in her hand. “His zeal is impressive, and when I think of the state secrets that cross his desk on any given day, I can’t imagine any better place to have an ally. And yet . . .”
“He’s reckless,” Arvid finished for her. “He’s intelligent and courageous, but impulsive, and he’s already too well known to the Gestapo.”
“Do you think you could rein him in?” asked Mildred. “Teach him discretion?”
“I don’t think discretion is in his nature. One careless moment of bravado could bring down the entire group.”
“We don’t have a group, not yet,” Mildred reminded him. “With his connections, Harro could help us develop one.”
“Or he could get us thrown into a prison camp.” Arvid shook his head, frowning. “I hate to let his access to military intelligence slip through our fingers, but I’m not convinced it would be