Vati’s tax accounting business is
doing so well that he finds
us a new home, right
on the Münsterplatz in the
center
of the city, opposite the
towering Münster itself.
We move in, delighted
by the most marvelous
home we’ve ever had,
even if it also means
that the ubiquitous
flags
parades
fanfare
will be stopping right outside
our doors each
time crowds amass
to celebrate
whatever else this
Reich has done.
Just like last summer, these
warm months mean
sketching by the Iller
picking berries with my siblings
enjoying the frische Luft outdoors
but unlike last summer, this one
also means
some snatched time with
Fritz
still very much a good friend
and perhaps something more
as we both learn
what we’re willing
to give, what we’re willing
to take, in spite
of our differences.
Together we celebrate
the glory we can still find
around us
as this regime works so hard to strip
splendor from the world.
I escape
into the freshness
of the daisies Fritz gives me, wrap
an arm around his neck, press
my lips to his,
his mouth tasting
of freedom.
Nothing’s happened at
any of Germany’s borders
yet, but
the mood in Ulm is
tense, tight, wound up,
the sense that something’s about
to blow ticking
in the background.
Fritz gets his father’s car one
fine Sunday, and with Hans and
Werner miraculously at
home too, we four pile
in, head to the
Bodensee, its glittering
waters beckoning
us to dive in.
Cursed with the
curse of girls, all I can do is
watch, but once they’re
done swimming,
I take the lead on
the way home, sitting
behind the steering
wheel, learning
everything
I need to know about
driving from my
teacher, ever-patient Fritz.
Someday soon
there might not be
any boys around
to do the driving.
My family and I huddle
around the radio,
the Führer’s speech blaring
through the sitting room:
Tonight for the first time
Polish soldiers have fired
shots upon our territory.
Since 5:45 a.m.,
return shots have been fired!
From now on,
bomb will be met by bomb!
Whoever fights with poison
will be fought back with poison.
Whoever ignores the rules of warfare
can expect the same
from us.
I will lead this struggle
as long as I need to
and how I need to
until the security of the Reich
has been guaranteed.
Faces pale
at the news that Germany
is now at war,
war that means
Fritz
Hans
everyone
could be sent
to battle any day,
thanks to the Vaterland
pulling the strings.
Fritz tells me
officers’ mail
isn’t
censored,
that I should
feel free
to say
what I like,
which is good
because I have
plenty
to say.
While the Blitzkrieg
hammers, pounds, blasts
far to the east, we only notice
ripple effects
here at home.
We drink
the last of our tea, spread
the last of our jam
on dry fruitcake, but
rationing is nothing
compared with the shadow
of war pressing close.
I know
that boys I know
might die, but I can’t let
them lose their souls
as well.
I take
each of my male friends
by the hand, make
each of them look
me in the eye, promise
never to fire his weapon
at the front.
Fritz doesn’t understand
why this defiance matters
so much to me,
won’t acknowledge
that our strongest weapon
is our refusal
to follow blindly.
Vati says nothing
but his smile
my father’s approval
when I stand up
for what’s right
means the world.
Fritz misunderstands
my opinion about
soldiers, the army, the war.
Wrong.
Regimes might change,
leaders might change,
orders might change,
but the profession of
a soldier is simple—
obedience.
Soldiers must carry out
the orders they receive
whether they find
those orders
good
or not,
and since I won’t be with
Fritz in the field, all I can hope
is that his conscience might
remember
mine
when it matters
most.
Waking in the night,
I worry about
Fritz
training boys in the
art of war
Hans
heading west with
the Wehrmacht
into France
Werner
not far behind
following in
their footsteps.
My boyfriend.
My brothers.
The three of
them are only a few drops in a
sea of soldiers
soldiers who might die
soldiers who might have to kill
and for what?
The walls of
my bedroom creep
toward me, stealing
my sleep for the rest
of the night.
Before becoming
a mother, Mutti used
to care for the sick, and when her
nursing friends visit, the rest of
us at home make
ourselves scarce, not wanting
to hear tales of
illnesses
injuries
hospitals.
But from where I sit
clear across the room today, nose in
a book, whispered words grab
my attention, all strung
together around
disabled children
vans
poison gas
murder.
Mutti’s face goes
white and my ears ring
with horror.
Innocent children
killed
by this regime.
Yet what can anyone
do
to stop it?
Now that this ugly truth
has reached my ears, all hope
I once held
for a better world
dies.
Turning away
would be cowardly,
so I’m determined
to make my voice heard—
to Fritz
to my family
to my friends
to anyone who’ll listen.
Some people look
at me, smile, think
She’s just a girl, but
Vati raised us to be
politically minded,
after all, and I’m not
about to forget
how I was
brought
up.
Away from home for
practice teaching—
a stint I hope will fulfill
my labor service requirement
for the Reich
so I can finally move
on to the university—
and everything feels
wrong.
This might be
a step closer to a future
that matters, but
I can’t see how life
can go on like this at all,
as though nothing
around us has
changed in the slightest.
I carry out my duties, focusing
on the children here, but when
night falls, I dive
deep into my books,
my writing paper,
the arrival of the day’s post.
Letters from my family slip
me snippets of home, while
mine to Hans and Fritz place
me in their back pockets
as they slice
their way west.
But I already know
nothing will ever
be the same again.
Fritz’s letter from Calais is
different from
his regular letters.
My throat tightens
as I read on to find lines
I never expected
(though I should have,
since I was the one who wanted
the both of us to fly free).
Still, I don’t need to hear
about her big, dark eyes
or her sad, dreamy smile.
I don’t need to hear
how Fritz says he
can’t
escape
me
even as he lies
in another’s arms.
I don’t need him to apologize
for hurting me.
We’ve both made mistakes,
both tired of me pushing
him away as often as I draw him near.
I know I’m difficult, but with the world
the way it is, someone has
to be difficult.
I’ll always love
Fritz, but I love
me more.
Herr Mohr studies me
across the desk, as though
the information I’ve been trying
so valiantly to conceal sits
printed across my face
or as though
he can read
my apprehension
of what’s yet to come.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
Is something bothering you,
Fräulein Scholl?
I decide to admit
the latter.
I’ve heard the Gestapo tortures
the accused for confessions.
Herr Mohr chuckles. You’re the victim
of misinformation. We don’t do that.
My eyes narrow. I don’t know what
to believe, but if his words are
true, I deserve
proof that the same holds
true for Hans.
I’m worried about my brother.
I’d like to see him.
If that would satisfy you. He gets to his feet, leaves
the room, opens the door beyond.
In a room exactly like
mine, Hans turns
his head to meet my gaze and
the courage he sends
me matches the courage I send
him and relief floods
me when I realize
that in spite of the
evidence they gathered
at Hans’s feet,
that in spite of my own
foolish actions,
we still have
a chance
to survive this.
As abruptly as the door opened,
it closes once more, snuffing
out all light and air and
hope, leaving
Hans and me on
our own once again.
Stay alert,
I warn myself, be careful,
but it seems
Herr Mohr believes
my lies so far.
When he asks
if I touched
any of the leaflets scattered
around the halls,
I’m relieved to tell the truth.
When I saw a stack
of those leaflets
on the balustrade,
I couldn’t help myself,
I couldn’t stop myself.
I gave them a shove toward
the atrium below, but I realize now
it was a stupid thing to do.
I bow my head,
clasp my hands,
a picture of innocence.
I regret it but
can’t change it.
Herr Mohr watches,
paces, stops, nods.
I understand, Fräulein Scholl.
We’ve all done things we regret.
Yet his questions
continue.
The boys have
their duty as soldiers, but
my duties continue, too—no
matter how much I’d rather
not
serve this Reich.
My attempt to replace
Reichsarbeitsdienst with
teacher training fails, and
the only way to study
at the university
is to give up
six months of my
life to the Führer.
Reichsarbeitsdienst
at Krauchenwies labor
camp means
bone-chilling cold,
armies of mice scampering
across the floor,
endless days of
mindless tasks:
6:00 a.m. wake-up
calisthenics
flag raising
National Socialist songs
ideology lessons
work, work, work,
nothing
that requires
a brain.
At night: locked
up in the barracks
with ten other
girls
chattering and giggling
like a flock of southbound
geese while I’m trying
to read and all
I want to do
is break
out of here toward
somewhere
I can make
a difference.
Bad as it is to
be a cog in this
terrible machine,
the worst comes
today,
when we learn
we’re to have
six
more
months
in this straitjacket.
I’ll never
get out of here
never
make a difference
never
escape.
The war booms
on while I sit
here helpless, unable
to do anything to
stop it.
I turn twenty at
Krauchenwies, surrounded
not by family and friends
but the same
group of girls who
shatter
my reading time with
their incessant interruptions
every
night.
I don’t even try
to celebrate.
Fritz marches east, part of
the next big invasion—
the next big thundering
storm cloud—
his words jumping
off the page.
I can almost feel
the scratchy wool
of his uniform
as though he’s pressing
me to his chest, but
it suffocates
me as much as it comforts
me.
Though I can’t imagine
the dangers people face
on all sides of this war daily,
Fritz’s letter ignores
the horror, focuses on
me, responding to
my news of extended labor service.
His words empower
me as only he can:
In spite of everything that’s come
between us,
no one
knows me
so well.
Back at home from
labor service, and Hans is
here for a few
days too, in between his
l o n g stretches
of time at
the university and
the front.
My big brother doesn’t say
a word as he hands
me a letter, a printed
sermon
by a bishop:
The words steal
the breath
from my
lungs, trapping
the air in
my throat.
It’s just
like Mutti’s
friend said:
innocent people,
murdered.
But.
A response.
A condemnation.
This bishop, standing
up in the
face of
tyranny!
Someone has typed
up his sermon, duplicated it, sent
it to households across Germany.
A leaflet.
It’s brilliant.
Leaflets like this can reach
individuals with a message
for the masses, can spread
the truth, can show
the world what’s happening.
Leaflets like this might make
people act.
Jews six years and older
are forbidden to appear
in public without
displaying a Jewish star.
The Jewish star should
consist of a yellow
Star of David on a black
background with the
inscription Jude.
It should be fixed
over the left breast
of all clothing.
This order goes into
effect in 14 days.
On behalf of the Interior Minister
Reinhard Heydrich
Soon after Jews
are ordered
to wear stars, new
rumors circulate.
Jews from Ulm,
deported—
first to Stuttgart
then out of Germany
entirely.
Where
are
they
being
sent?
It’s that time of year again:
the collection drive for
wool
furs
warm socks
to send to the soldiers at the front.
But my family and I are through
with this regime, through
with its Führer, through
with these attacks on innocent
countries, innocent people.
This
war
must
stop.
We’ll give
nothing.
We’ll do
nothing that will
help prolong
the war,
I tell Fritz.
He valiantly tries
to explain why help is
needed but soon recognizes
the futility of his efforts.
Once again in the night,
worry and
despair and
hopelessness worm
their way through me, the walls
once again pressing
close, and
all I can do is pray
for the oppressed
wherever they might be
for my brothers
that they survive this war
for my faraway friends
whose letters do
nothing to bring
us closer
for Fritz
whom I hope to come to love,
hard as it is some days
for my own soul
desperate, hungering
beyond measure, finding
satisfaction only in nature:
the sky
the stars
the silent earth.
A handful of snowy days
in the mountains
with Hans
his girlfriend Traute
our big sister Inge
some other friends—
hoping the arrival of
1942 will bring
with it the change we all
so badly desire.
We ski, drink tea, sit
around the stove by candlelight,
our discussion focused
on these turbulent times.
We share
intellectual awakening,
but we’re all too mired
in our own despair to know
what to do about it.
When the day’s done, I turn
in to sleep, clinging
to hope that this
self-contained utopia might become
more than the dream it will feel like
when our holiday ends,
when I go back
to my next term
serving this Reich
I despise.
Reichsarbeitsdienst in Blumberg,
and homesickness crashes
into me with ferocity, not
so much for home itself, but
for the feeling of
home.
It aches
to be so far away
from the life
I once knew,
from the life
I hope to lead,
from the life
everyone around
us deserves.
Like the winter relief
collection, my role working
for this Reich is part of what
allows this regime
to continue.
Each day I serve it
makes me want to fight it
all the more.