The cars screech to a
halt, officers pull
us out by the arms, haul
us inside and off to
separate
rooms, my heartbeat
pounding
all the while,
boom-boom,
boom-boom.
They swing
the door shut, unlock
my handcuffs, order
me to sit, rush about with
coats, hats, cases, papers
as I try not
to give in to the
overwhelming,
sickening
knowledge spreading through me:
the two of us are trapped
in this net because
of me.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
I take
a deep breath and prepare
to fight
for our lives.
I carefully blend
a cupful of lies
into the bucket of truth
spread out in front of me
as Herr Mohr shoots
question after question,
trying to catch me off-guard.
Fräulein Scholl, why were you carrying
an empty suitcase with you to the university?
So I could pick up clean laundry
from home.
And why were you at the university
if you were planning to head to Ulm?
So I could let my friend Gisela know
I couldn’t meet her for lunch after all.
Why were you and your brother
in the corridor upstairs?
So I could show him the Psychological Institute
where I take classes.
His eyes narrow,
his voice icy,
Herr Mohr is good at this,
but he doesn’t know
that I’m good, too.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
My voice sounds
so calm telling these lies,
I barely recognize
the words as my own.
I step outside, inhale
the frische Luft deep
into my lungs, make
my way to the Iller,
fourteenth-birthday
sketchbook and
pencils in hand,
alone
but never
lonely.
Slim, tall birch trees reach
up toward the sky
like fingers,
the river rushes
past its banks,
and I sit
on my favorite rock, write
Sophie inside the
new cover, open to
a blank page, draw
the beauty of this world,
one line
at a time.
I might not be
the best-behaved
girl
I don’t want to be
the prettiest
girl
but
I’m most decidedly
the smartest
girl.
In a family with five
teenagers, five
strong opinions, five
lives entwined,
we often travel
as a pack.
Inge!
Hans!
Liesl!
Sophie!
Werner!
Mutti calls the lot
of us to the table, to grace, to
the discussion and togetherness
that await.
We traipse
in from the world
beyond our doors, our
young blood
thick as mud as we
talk, sing, laugh,
think
very
much
as
one.
I won’t ever come
close to the German ideal:
long blond braids
shining blue eyes
thoughts of Kinder, Küche, Kirche
(children, kitchen, church).
Instead I decide
to become the most me
I can.
I bend
my head forward, delight
in the snip, clip of
the scissors, the chunks
of hair quietly cascading
over my shoulders to
the ground below,
the scrape
of the razor at the bottom
of my boyish cut.
I aim to become
not only the most
me
but the best
me
I can.
It’s Mother’s Day, and
we five carry
out our plans to free
Mutti from the mundane.
We rise
with the sun, sneak
out of our rooms, divide
the tasks.
Inge and Liesl prepare
eggs, toast, marmalade,
Hans produces a
sheet of paper to compose
an original poem,
Werner and I step
outside, head
for the garden, pick
a bunch of daisies.
Like sunlight warming
the breakfast table,
Mutti shines, reveling
in the glory of her
day before leading
the lot of us
to church, basking
in what truly makes
her happiest:
the five
of us.
One warm summer night
a group of us gather
around a campfire
my sisters
our closest friends
just us girls.
The fire crackles, shooting
sparks into the dark
night, humming with
possibility, and soon I’m stepping
closer to the flames, prepared
to inspire the others.
Everyone leans
close as I pull the booklet from
my pocket—
a worn, beloved copy of
The Lay of the Love and Death of Cornet Christoph Rilke
by Rainer Maria Rilke,
one of my favorite poets—
and share the story of a
young soldier charging
into battle, sacrificing
himself
in a moment of true glory.
The girls sigh
in unison, enraptured,
as my voice trembles
over the last line,
of an old woman weeping
over the cornet’s death.
May we all become
so noble.
Not far away, my brothers gather
with their friends around their own
campfire.
I imagine
Hans sharing
a Swedish or Russian folk song,
all the boys welcoming
him back
to their sides when he finishes,
tackling him with
open arms, claps on the
backside.
Hans isn’t much older than
I am, and yet he’s already managed
to charm most everyone who crosses
his path:
teachers
parents
girls
and even
boys
some of whom seem
to charm
him right back.
Concerning the duration of service
and the strength
of the National Labor Service
to Article 3
of the National Labor Service Law
I hereby decree:
that the duration of service
amounts to six months
until further notice
that the strength of the National Labor Service
is prescribed to be
200,000 men.
The Führer and Reich Chancellor
Adolf Hitler
Vati disapproves of
the service decree like
he disapproves of
everything else
this regime
does.
Mutti
presses her lips
together, shakes
her head, does the
only thing she can: prays.
Hans stands
frozen,
surrounded by so many boys brushing
past us, so many bags heaved
up the steps, so much
enthusiasm
energy
testosterone
that the rest of my family and I step
back, blend
into the brick wall with
other well-wishers, lift
our hands in goodbye
as Hans boards
the train bound for Göppingen
for Reichsarbeitsdienst—
national labor service.
I picture my brother’s circle of
admiring friends
here in Ulm, hope
his natural charisma will
attract new ones wherever
he goes,
no matter
the circumstances.
One last distracted look
over the crowd, and
Hans’s smile breaks
through his cloud of hesitation
before he moves
forward
leaving life with us
behind.
We’ve lived
on Olgastraße in
Ulm for a few years now,
in a rented flat
in a lovely building
owned by Jakob Guggenheimer,
a Jewish businessman.
Peppered with
homes, churches, shops,
Olgastraße is
an immense serpent circling
the center of the
city, which means it’s
important enough to get
a new name
this year.
They tear
down the old signs, raise
the new ones pronouncing
it as
Adolf-Hitler-Ring
outside our very doorstep,
despite the fact that our building
houses
several Jewish families
including the Guggenheimers,
the Einsteins.
The Führer makes
no secret of how
much he despises
the Jews, but for our
neighbors to see
this clear sign when they step
outside each morning must
be a baton to the back.
We non-Jews are meant to celebrate
the new name, but this feels
more like a
funeral than a
birth.
The signs begin
to appear like
mushrooms after a rain.
On the Stuttgarterstraße bridge:
Juden in Ulm nicht erwünscht!
(Jews not wanted in Ulm!)
On park benches:
Nur für Arier
(Only for Aryans)
On Jewish storefronts:
Hier kauft kein Deutscher
(Germans don’t shop here)
As if Jews
aren’t people like us
at all.
Some girls I know take
dancing lessons, curl
their hair, paint
their lips as red
as the flag.
Not me.
My short-as-a-boy’s hair flops
over my eyes as I feel
this music, razzle
this jazzy beat, shaking
my hips as I move
across the floor toward him
and the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Everyone else admires
those who know
how to foxtrot
how to waltz
how to tango
but Fritz—
this boy, a
freshly minted officer—
seems instead entranced
by strange, ridiculous
me.
Thud, thud, thud.
It’s them: the Gestapo.
A blur of black boots and
uniforms sweeps inside, searches
our home, their presence pressing
us against the walls with
no escape.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
Vati stands strong as a
fortress, distracting
them while Mutti secrets
away incriminating
books by banned authors—
Heinrich Heine
Stefan Zweig
Thomas Mann—
but the officers are still
suspicious, and they herd
Inge and Werner out the door.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
My sister, my brother, scrunched
together in the back of the patrol car,
heads turned toward
home as they’re carted
away, away, away.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
We soon learn there’s been
an enormous wave
of arrests throughout Germany
of hundreds of teenagers
including Hans, on his military base
all of them accused
of getting together
in youth groups other than
the Hitlerjugend
singing banned songs
reading banned books
things we do
because
ideas
cannot
be
banned.
Everyone knows
the Hitlerjugend
is the only legal
youth organization in
Germany,
just like everyone knows
the National Socialist Party
is the only legal
political party in
Germany,
but we never expected
our own to get
caught in this trap.
When they ask
me at school if
I’m embarrassed about
my brother’s arrest,
my face flames,
not with embarrassment
but with indignation.
It’s a good day to disappear
into nature, to become
one with
the trees
the hills
the sky.
I wouldn’t mind slipping
away all by myself, but when
Fritz stops by—
home for the weekend from
his first command—
Liesl and I can’t tumble out after
him quickly enough.
We amble away
from the city, away
from all angst, into
the heart of a fairy-tale
forest that reminds
me how very
lucky
we are to live
and breathe
on this great Earth
flourishing
with wonder.
After whirlwind weeks of
arrests
accusations
realizations
lies begin to settle on the ground
while the truth rises, high
and bright and undeniable.
First Inge, then Werner:
released
cleared
not
guilty.
But Hans still sits
in prison, can’t
even come home, though
it’s almost Christmas. I send
him a gift, they refuse
to let him have it.
I want to zoom
across the miles, slap
the warden, rescue
my brother from
this trap.
At home, secret
glances between
Mutti and Vati make
me wonder if there’s
something
they’re not telling me,
but everything pales
in comparison to
the injustice of
my brother locked
away, and I’m left
with the same indignation,
bubbling
blistering
burning
inside.
The next time I see
Fritz, winter accompanies
him, coating
the hills with
fresh powder, sending
us indoors, down to a
smoky
buzzing
room
humming with accordion
music and
wine and
song, and Fritz and
I are dancing so
close that a
circle forms
around us, staring
at the two of us,
lost
in each other.
Hans is finally released
back to his unit
while awaiting
his court date.
I’m positive
they’ll find him
not guilty
when the time comes.
Until then, I wait,
pacing, fists
clenched, mind
racing.
Acquitted
of
all
charges!
My parents don’t share
any details, but I don’t care
because Hans is free—
as he should be.
Still, I won’t forget
how my brother was
treated.
I pay close attention to
Vati when he calls
the Führer a wolf, ready
to devour our
country whole.
Fritz comes to Ulm
when he can, but I’m too
impatient
bored
reckless
and decide
to sneak off with
my friend Lisa
to visit him on
his base in Augsburg.
The look of surprise
on his face that evening
when he sees
the two of us is
worth all the effort—
until the reality of
nightfall hits
and we admit we have
nowhere to sleep.
I know
he won’t leave
us out on the street,
and he doesn’t, smuggling
us to his room, matching
my boldness with a share of
his own.
But once there, I can’t help but think
how my brother was arrested
on a base just like this, and
the injustice of it all rises
up in me once more, driving
a thick wedge in my
mind between
us Scholls
and
them.
A summer trip up
north with
Inge
Werner
my friends Annelies
and Lisa
means
adventure
over the
swelling waves
and chilling breeze of the
North Sea
inspiration
among the artists at the
colony at Worpswede
escape
from the once overwhelming
civilization of Ulm, now
eroding
at its very
foundation with
soft music turned harsh
beloved books burned
true art marked degenerate,
all hints that a terrible future
presses close,
and I fling myself
into nature,
the trees
so immense
and me
so very small.
Fritz loves
the snapshot I send him
from our holiday,
writes back,
Fritz tells me
not to work too hard
on my return to
everyday life in Ulm,
but I already know
the idyll of
my childhood is
fading away, stomped
flat by something that feels
like doom.
Back home, holidays over,
and the only thing that has any
appeal is art.
I’d like to become
an artist, but anyone
who wants to do that
must become a fully
realized human being—
something that feels
out of reach
now.
I’ve got to
work on
myself.
Sometimes I stop, think, wonder.
It’s been five years since
Herr Hitler’s thundering rise
to power, and
in that time so much has
changed in our small city:
red flags draped
over offices, schools, homes
armed soldiers blocking entrance to
Jewish businesses
thick, hard dread
spilling over the streets
sharp as glass.
I shudder, ponder, frown.
What will the
next
five
years
bring?
Hours later, with my head spinning
from all the questions,
Herr Mohr pauses, lights up, fills
the room with
the most welcome
smoke.
I breathe
in the nicotine, imagining
Hans
next door, answering
questions about
his service in the Wehrmacht
on the western and eastern fronts,
his medical studies,
our childhood together in
Forchtenberg
Ludwigsburg
Ulm,
the friends we made
there and
here in Munich and
the walls edge closer and
I can’t breathe again.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
I picture
my brother’s pale face,
his fingers tingling, knee bouncing,
and send a wave of courage
his way.
I know Hans will need
the courage,
especially
when they ask about
what I did today,
when they ask about
what he did today,
when they ask about
each of our friends,
when they ask
questions best answered
with lies.
I step out
of the interrogation room,
confer
with Inspector Mahler,
the agent questioning
Fräulein Scholl’s brother.
We discuss
the students
the leaflets
the suitcase.
Between the two of us,
we’ll slip in
the right questions,
trip up
their canned responses,
discover
if they’re lying.
Herr Mohr asks the same
questions again and again,
his voice growing sharper,
more insistent each time.
Fräulein Scholl, what time
does the morning mail arrive at your flat?
I squeeze my eyes shut, imagine
Hans next door being asked
the very same question.
At nine thirty
in the morning.
And did you find anything in your mailbox
this morning? Or did your brother?
I didn’t. I told my brother he didn’t
get any mail either.
Sweat beads up
on the back of my neck.
I hope
our statements
line up.
Each time Fritz returns
to Ulm, I feel
confused, conflicted.
Our lives are so different.
I’m seventeen,
he’s twenty-one,
I want to study,
he already has a career.
Sometimes I’m sure
I don’t want
this, don’t want
him,
yet sometimes I wonder
what the harm would be in
conversing
laughing
spending
time with someone I truly
care about,
despite
our differences.
With Hans away in Munich,
his first semester studying
medicine, Fritz off training
a fresh batch of new soldiers
for what feels like
some
sinister
purpose,
I’m stuck at home with my
older sisters, parents, younger brother.
Germany might not be
at war, but this doesn’t
feel like peace, and
the heavy clouds over Ulm make
me want to float
away
away
away
down the Iller
over the Alps
out to sea,
somewhere
where I can take
my dream of
a perfect world and
find the courage to
turn it
into reality.