“I can assure you it would be nothing you would ever be ashamed of, or that would place anyone’s life in danger. Just my impressions on how things are going here. Information on industrial production. What we have lots of, what we lack. Morale, the state of our workforce. Transportation issues.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“In case something happens to me. If I was unable to return across the border, or was detained, then you will know where you must try to go, and who you must contact.”
“Gaevernitz?”
“Or his boss, in Bern. An American named Allen Dulles. He arrived only a month ago, but he is reputed to be the personal representative of President Roosevelt. He has taken up residence in the city center, at 23 Herrengasse. I want you to remember that address. Can you?”
“23 Herrengasse. Allen Dulles.”
“Very good. But repeat it to no one. Not as long as you are on German soil, and certainly never to anyone in Berlin.”
“Of course.”
“And, Kurt?”
“Yes.”
“You should also know that I have been contemplating this kind of action for quite a while. It is one reason I was so appalled last year when I heard about the remarks made by that Folkerts girl. Now that I have chosen this path, we must remain above suspicion in every possible way. So I certainly hope that you have had no further contact with her.”
“No, sir,” he said dolefully. “I have not seen her at all.”
“And what about her circle of friends? I’m told the Gestapo has put a guard outside that fellow Bonhoeffer’s house, so I doubt anyone in his right mind goes there anymore.”
Kurt was aghast, but tried not to show it.
“No. She’s the only reason I ever saw any of them.”
“Good. Because this is not a game, Kurt, especially with the war going so badly. Many Germans will be trying to arrange the same sort of accommodations, and the authorities know it. Take great care in what you say and who you are seen with. Mere words are no longer worth taking a risk for. Mere words will not bring an end to our current disastrous situation. Actions, on the other hand, can make a difference, and may help build a better future. That is why I have made my choice. It is why you must be prepared to fill my shoes, if necessary. For the sake of our family.”
“I understand.”
“Very good. All right, then. You may go.”
So where had he gone? Straight back to Liesl’s. Exactly the place his father wanted him to avoid. And as Kurt stood on the Wannsee beach, gazing at the white villa across the water, he now realized why his father’s chat had prompted him to come here. Defiant or not, it was a triumph of action over words. Because now he was certain that action, not talk, was the only possible means of winning Liesl back. He must do something bold, something to convince her that he was mature, and courageous. As he stared across the waves he decided on his approach. He would take the first risky step that weekend.
HIS FATHER WAS RIGHT. There was indeed a surveillance man hanging around outside Bonhoeffer’s house when Kurt pedaled down the narrow lane that Sunday afternoon. The man was brazen, stationed beneath a telephone pole just across the street. His black trench coat and dark hat made it painfully obvious who he was working for. Perhaps that’s the way the Gestapo wanted it, planting the fellow like a scarecrow to keep everyone away.
Kurt pedaled past him until the pavement ended, then turned onto a dirt path that cut into the forest at the end of the street. Screened by the trees, he circled back to the right, behind the Bonhoeffer home. He leaned his bike against a tree and set off on foot, working his way toward the rear garden, where he ducked through a hedge and between bare rosebushes to the home’s rear door. He knocked lightly.
An elderly woman in an apron, who must have been Bonhoeffer’s mother, answered, not seeming at all surprised to receive a visitor at the back door. She invited him inside without asking his name, and then called upstairs to her son. The pastor appeared a few seconds later with a quizzical expression, but he immediately recognized Kurt.
“Come up to my study,” he said.
The room was small and spartan. Bookshelves took up an entire wall, and there was a dark wooden desk in the corner. A stack of foolscap, a fountain pen, and an inkwell indicated that Kurt had interrupted the pastor’s writing.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said.
“Quite all right. It gets a bit desolate here on Sunday afternoons anymore. The rest of my family often goes out walking, so I take advantage of the solitude. I take it you must have noticed my little friend out front?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, you realize that if he saw you going around to the back, that will only make him more suspicious.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Don’t worry. He’s usually pretty bored by this time of day. He doesn’t even come every day anymore, although he is always here on Sundays. I suppose one of my neighbors must have gotten nervous about all the students who were coming here and mentioned it to the authorities.”
“Do you really think that’s what happened?” He didn’t have the guts to tell Bonhoeffer about Stuckart.
“I only know for sure that one Sunday there he was, with a camera and a notebook. So, sadly, I felt I had no choice but to advise your friends to stop coming. But, of course, by then you had already stopped coming.”
Kurt realized the timing made him look suspicious.
“I can assure you that I never-”
“It’s quite all right. I never thought you did. I had already attributed your absence to girl trouble.”
Kurt blushed.
“You’re right,” he said. “It was Liesl’s decision.”
“I gathered as much. Especially from the way she defended you to the others. Almost like she was feeling sorry for you.”
“Defended me?”
“Some of them concluded from your absence that you were to blame for the man out front. But don’t worry. She set them straight.”
“It must be hard getting used to things like that.” He nodded toward the front window.
“Oh, that’s pretty mild, actually. Here, let me show you something.”
Bonhoeffer reached up to a shelf and plucked a postcard from between two thick volumes. He handed it to Kurt.
“I came across it in a bookstall in 1936. The ‘CC stands for the Confessing Church, of course. A reference to my seminary, the one the Nazis shut down.”
It was a short poem, quite nasty:
After the end of the Olympiade
We’ll bash the CC to marmalade.
Then once we’ve chucked out the Jews,
The CC we will terminate, too.
Suddenly there was a loud blast of static from below. Hitler’s amplified voice shouted up the stairwell. More promises of death and damnation for the enemy. A roaring crowd. It was only the radio, but Kurt felt wobbly all the same.
“Excuse me, will you?” Bonhoeffer said.
He disappeared for a moment. The volume of the broadcast dropped to a dull murmur just as he returned.
“My apologies. My mother likes to turn up his speeches.”
“She does?”
“Only so the neighbors will know we’re listening.” He shrugged. “She thinks she is teaching a lesson to
