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CHAPTER 1
May 31, 1942 Sigtuna, Sweden
A dictatorship is like a snake. If you step on its tail, it will bite you.
The words played through Dietrich Bonhoeffer's mind as the taxi trundled through the streets of the ancient Swedish royal city. He stared out the sun-streaked window, his reflection an overlay. Nausea churned through him. But it was no longer due to yesterday's turbulent flight from Berlin to Stockholm. Nein, he'd recovered from that quickly enough.
The sensation of being observed, followed, occasioned a queasiness of an entirely different nature. One not easily shaken away.
The cramped taxi interior was rife with stale cigars and desperation — the former belonging to the profusely sweating driver, the latter his own, albeit concealed.
He'd worked too hard over the past few days for some hitch to prevent this meeting from going off according to plan.
The taxi jolted to a halt in front of the Nordic Ecumenical Institute.
Dietrich paid the driver — who barely nodded — grasped his suitcase with one hand, and opened the taxi door with the other. Afternoon sunlight warmed his face, the air pure and fresh.
With practiced calm, he scanned his surroundings, taking in the several-story, stone building, the manicured lawn, and wide steps leading to the front door. Had he been followed? Or was the sensation of a spider crawling up his neck due to pent-up nervous energy? A figure ambled around the back of the building, wearing a worn cap and carrying a toolbox.
Only a handyman.
Not the Gestapo.
Dietrich strode toward the door, black oxfords crunching on the gravel. He climbed the steps and gave a firm rap to the tarnished gold door knocker.
Would Bishop Bell still be here? Or would the hour trip from Stockholm to Sigtuna to see the Bishop of Chichester have been undertaken for nothing?
A fresh-faced maidservant opened the door.
"Yes?"
"A visitor here to see Bishop Bell and Harry Johansson, if I may." Dietrich shifted the suitcase in his palm, posture erect, conscious of the clipped syllables that marked him as bearing an accent from the Führer's country.
There were few reasons for a German not in uniform to be visiting neutral Sweden. The last thing he needed was undue attention.
"Follow me please." The girl opened the door, motioning him down a narrow, dimly lit hall. Thankfully, she hadn't inquired his identity.
Though the papers within his suitcase didn't weigh much more than a loaf of bread, the knowledge of their existence made the case seem lined with lead.
The girl opened a door, revealing a room paneled in wood and cluttered with bookshelves and a well-used oaken desk. But what drew Dietrich's attention was the gray-haired gentleman sitting, large hands loose between his knees, in a wing chair near the window. The conversation between him and the lanky blond man sitting on the edge of the desk drew to an abrupt halt. Both gazes swung in Dietrich's direction. Bell's eyes widened in shock.
"Hello, George." Dietrich smiled. He hadn't seen his friend since the spring of 1939. Much had changed in his life — and in Germany — in the interim.
"Dietrich!" Bishop Bell rose to his feet. He opened his mouth, as if to exclaim over the unexpectedness of his arrival, but Dietrich spoke up first.
"You haven't changed a bit." Though nearing sixty, Bell looked in robust health, the space of years adding a few lines around the eyes, a few inches to his girth, but little else. Pressing on, Dietrich continued. "And this must be Mr. Johansson. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, at your service." He held out his hand to the Swede, and the man shook it heartily.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." Johansson's smile was equal parts congenial and curious.
After a few minutes of pleasantries, Johansson left the room, leaving Dietrich and Bell alone. The second the door clicked, Bell's facade changed into stark astonishment.
"Whatever are you doing here? I heard you were in Norway on your way to the front lines." He sank down heavily into his chair.
"You mean what other reason would I have for being in Sweden, now of all times?" Dietrich took an unoccupied seat, placing his suitcase beside it. In another time and place, he'd have relaxed in the comfortable easy chair, stretched out his long legs, and settled in. Not today. The pressure of what he'd come to relay made him sit stiff and straight. "It's a long story. In short, I'm officially employed by the Abwehr."
"You work for Germany's Military Intelligence?" Bell leaned forward, gaze darting to and fro, as if unable to grasp the weight of Dietrich's words.
"In a word, ja, I do." There wasn't much time. Someday after the war, when he and Bell could meet again, he'd explain everything. Right now, he need only hit the high points. "My brother-in-law, Hans von Dohnanyi, is at the heart of my involvement. And the conspiracy." It was only a word.
But a weighted one. Laden with so many implications ... so many lives.
On instinct, he scanned the room, checking for telephones that could be tapped, open windows where anyone could overhear.
Under the Malicious Practices Act, communication with England or any enemy government wasn't only dangerous. It was treason. Punishable by execution.
A treason he committed with all his might and main.
Heart pounding, he leaned forward, voice cut to a whisper. "It's not just a conspiracy. There are plans ... plans in place for the overthrow of the German government and the assassination of Adolf Hitler."
Bell's sharp intake of air sliced the atmosphere like the whistle of a bullet.
"It's true then," he breathed.
"Never more so," Dietrich said. "And we need you, George. I traveled from Berlin with the express purpose of meeting with you to ask — beg — you on behalf of my friends in Germany to aid us in getting word of our plans to the British government. When — if — the coup succeeds, those involved want to know that Britain will be willing to negotiate peace. With your contacts in the House of Lords, you can speak to Anthony Eden.
As foreign secretary under Churchill, Eden can help us, if only he can be convinced." Dietrich's words came faster now, rushing out of him. "Hans and General Oster believe that many more officers under Hitler could be convinced to join us if they could be certain we had the support of the British government. In the way of gaining such support, you could do a great deal for us."
Bell pressed a hand against his lined forehead. "Of course. Of course. I'll do my utmost. But the secret memorandum you sent to me last year ... none of them took it very seriously. They reject the idea that anti-Nazi forces in Germany could have any effect, except after complete military defeat."
"Field Marshals von Bock and von Kluge don't agree. They're determined, along with General Beck and General Oster and others, to see the government overthrown after Hitler's assassination. Until that event takes place, we cannot gain much headway."
"Field Marshals von Bock and von Kluge," Bell murmured, as if committing the names to memory. He nodded. "Give me all the names and information you can, Dietrich. I'll use it to the best of my abilities. You know as well as I that Churchill is vehemently opposed to any discussion of peace.
He wants the war won, and at all costs. After these long years of fighting, the lines between Germans and Nazis have become blurred. Almost to the point of being indistinguishable. And can you blame them? London has been ruthlessly bombed ... hundreds of civilians killed. They've endured great losses dealt by the hands of Hitler and his generals. It's little wonder they're cautious at the idea of this 'resistance.'"
Dietrich stood and paced toward the window, staring out but seeing little of the vista of blue sky and sunlight. Instead, the faces of the hunted and defenseless rose before him, an endless line of specters who would forever haunt him. Those Germany had ordered euthanized because they believed their state of health decreed them unworthy of life.
And the Jews. God's chosen ones. No matter he stood in a room in neutral Sweden, he could not ignore the fact that, by order of the Führer, millions of them were being systematically murdered, crammed into railcars like cattle shipped to the slaughterhouse. Women. Children.
Souls.
He swung back around, facing Bell. A swirl of dust motes floated in the sunlight, the rays landing on Bell's thinning gray hair. His friend would aid their cause, get the truth to those at the top. But would he succeed at convincing them?
"Only a few know of my involvement," he said quietly. "Many believe because I'm part of the Abwehr that I've deflected, turned away from standing with the Confessing Church." He swallowed. "Germany has sinned, George. We must all pay the price of bringing the nation to repentance. Christ calls us to suffer on behalf of others. My suffering involves putting aside qualms of conscience. I lie. I create falsified memorandums to disguise the true nature of my journeys."
"And participating in plans that involve murder?" Bell met Dietrich's gaze. There was no censure in the man's eyes. Only a demand for honesty.
Dietrich nodded. He would not allow himself to squirm beneath such talk, however uncomfortable it made him. "Perhaps that, too, is part of Germany's punishment. That we are forced to resort to such means." He resumed his seat, drawing out his suitcase to gather papers for Bell to take with him. "We've gone too far for any other course of action. It must be done."
His brother Klaus's words resurfaced, their refrain an eerie cadence in his ears, as Dietrich prepared to expound on details of the conspiracy, relaying things that, if known, could lead to deadly consequences as fast as the time it took for a Gestapo finger to squeeze the trigger.
If you step on its tail, it will bite you.
CHAPTER 2
June 8, 1942 Klein-Krössin Manor Pomerania, Prussia
Ah ... the memories he had of this place.
Dietrich approached the cottage, afternoon sun warm on his face, the twitter of birdsong high on the air. Klein-Krössin had always been a haven for him, a small corner of serenity. A place for thinking and writing, long conversations accompanied by kaffee and firelight.
After the wearying travel to and from Sweden, he needed this respite more than ever.
He'd have knocked — had Ruth von Kleist-Retzow not thrown open the door first.
"Dietrich. How good to see you!" Though Ruth's hair had long since turned white as the snowy alps, and her skin boasted more than a few lines and furrows, the brightness of her smile put to shame a hundred electric bulbs.
"Ruth." He embraced the woman, then held the door for her to reenter the house. Inside the small foyer, it smelled just as a home ought. Clean, like soap and polish. Welcoming, like strudel and sauerbraten.
"You look tired, Dietrich." The woman's keen eyes missed nothing.
"The Abwehr keeps me busy." Though Ruth had more than a slight inkling about the true nature of his activities, such things weren't spoken of in broad daylight, even in the relative safety of Klein-Krössin.
"And besides, who isn't tired these days?"
"Well, you're free to stay as long and often as you choose." Shoes tapping on the gleaming wood floor, Ruth led the way into the parlor. It was a room used and loved; its state both tidy and disordered. Though everything was spotlessly clean, photographs cluttered the mantle — Ruth's many children and grandchildren, and pillows and throw-blankets adorned the two floral-upholstered sofas. A window set ajar let in summer's fragrance and the sound of muted honking — Ruth's beloved geese.
If he hadn't already come to terms with the why of his lifestyle — what man of his age and capabilities was exempt from use in battlefield service for the Fatherland? — enjoying such luxury would have brought with it a hefty measure of guilt. But he was being used by God, a task a thousand times more important than any job dictated by the Führer. Used to minister, to write, to conspire.
The last he could never forget, not even at Klein-Krössin.
"I can only manage a week at the most, this time. But I hope to get plenty of work done while I'm here."
"You're still writing Ethics?" Ruth motioned for him to sit on the sofa opposite her.
"Ja." Whenever he had the time and God provided the inspiration. Dietrich always made good progress in the writing studio Ruth had fixed up for him in her attic. It was there he'd finished Nachfolge, a book that had received more acclaim than he'd expected, even in America where it was known by the title The Cost of Discipleship.
Of course, nothing bearing the name of Dietrich Bonhoeffer was printed in Germany these days.
"So tell me, Ruth, how are you doing?"
The lady opened her mouth to respond. But footsteps, quick and clattering, cut her off.
A girl stormed into the room. Ja, stormed was the only way to describe it. Mud splattered the front of her skirt and blouse, dotted her nose. She wasn't tall in stature; neither was she particularly petite. But what she didn't own in height, she made up for with indignation.
"You wouldn't believe what that dummkopf Friedrich Schiller did! Remember those strawberries I gave to Greta just this morning? I found him in front of the butcher's, attempting to take them from her. I tried to get the basket away from him, but he pulled and pulled. And you once said he was such a Liebling. Liebling! If that boy is this much trouble at nine years old, I shudder to think of what a terror he'll be at fifteen." She planted both fists on her hips.
Dietrich sat motionless, trying to suppress a chuckle. Of course the situation wasn't at all humorous — a boy stealing a girl's fruit. But the way this fraülein, whoever she was, looked so royally indignant warranted a bit of mirth.
"I see." Ruth's smile was almost too patient, as if she'd witnessed such outbursts before. "I'm sure you gave him what he deserved, dear. In fact, I pity Friedrich Schiller for having the misfortune to meet with your wrath. I doubt he'll come back for another helping anytime soon."
The girl nodded. A strand of honey-colored hair dangled down her cheek.
"But, Maria, it isn't good manners, as you well know, to barge into the room in such a helter-skelter fashion. Especially when we have company."
It was as if she suddenly noticed his presence. The girl — Maria — clapped both hands over her mouth. Shock and mortification raced through her eyes in rapid succession.
For a moment, no one said a word. Maria stared at him. He looked steadily back. Ruth glanced between them both, hands folded in her lap as calmly as ever.
Finally, Maria pried her hands away from her mouth.
"Grossmutter, who is that?" She pointed at him as if he were some sort of unwelcome spider.
Ruth laughed in that silvery way of hers. Before she could make introductions, Dietrich stood and crossed to where the girl was.
"Allow me to take the liberty of introducing myself. I'm Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
And you are?" He smiled, wanting to ease her discomfort. After all, it wasn't her fault she'd fallen in the mud or been unaware of his arrival.
Her chin angled slightly. She had an arresting face, almost girlishly round in its angles and planes, yet proud and startlingly lovely. "Maria von Wedemeyer."
Now it was his turn to be shaken. Gone were the long braids and shapeless pinafores he remembered about the little girl he'd attempted to take on for confirmation classes. The Maria before him, with her expressive blue eyes and upswept, albeit tousled, hair, was twelve years old no longer.
He cleared his throat, realizing she expected him to say something along the lines of polite conversation. "It's ... um ... very nice to meet you. Again."
She held out her hand, though it, too, was a bit muddy. He took it anyway, unable to unglue his gaze from her face. She appeared recovered from her earlier outburst and gazed back, unblinking. Her fingers clasped his, not hesitating or limp, but warm and decisive, and it was probably longer than necessary before he found his senses and pulled away.
Maria faced her grossmutter. "Why did you not tell me Pastor Bonhoeffer was arriving this afternoon?"
Ruth laughed again, as if the whole situation were as entertaining as a comic opera. "Why? Would you have made more of an effort in your appearance?"
Maria shrugged, a flash of laughter in her gaze. "Oh probably. It's a good thing I refrained from dragging Friedrich Schiller in here by his ear. He's a good deal muddier than I at the moment." She grinned, as if accustomed to giving her grossmutter what for.
"Why don't you go and change, Maria." Ruth inclined her head toward the door.
"Of course." Maria turned her attention back to him, a flush suffusing her cheeks. "My apologies for my sudden entrance, Pastor Bonhoeffer. It's a habit of mine while here at Klein-Krössin."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "My Dearest Dietrich"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Amanda Barratt.
Excerpted by permission of Kregel Publications.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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