After all these years
back and forth
on and off
hot and cold
something about
the cozy inn
the scent of fresh linens
the knowledge that
each time I see Fritz
might be the last time
makes me toss
my jumbled thoughts out
the window.
I shut
the room’s door, step
closer to Fritz, pull
him onto the bed.
Finally, I’m almost
done, after my months
in Krauchenwies and Blumberg,
but each day of Reichsarbeitsdienst
is one day less
of a life that matters.
Soon, very soon,
I’ll be released, my path
to the university
finally clear,
where, God willing,
I’ll find a way
to act.
I tingle as I sit
beside Fritz on the train,
our last chance to be
alone before I head
off to university and he returns
to the front.
We have a compartment to ourselves,
a weekend to ourselves,
the world to ourselves,
if only for a few days.
We open the window, let
the spring air inside, and it wraps
around us like a soft blanket, a rare
reminder of bygone days.
I find myself at
a crossroads with Fritz as he
goes to fight
for this regime I oppose, but
even if I don’t know
what the future holds for
either of us, I know
I can trust
him with my secrets.
I need a favor—
some money and a voucher—
so I can get
a duplicating machine.
For a long moment,
Fritz pales, deflates, falters.
I can try.
The tremble in his voice betrays him.
But you must be careful, Sophie.
Something like that can cost
you your head.
For now, we let
the lovely breeze
carry us away.
After an impossibly brief
sleep in a cell with
another female prisoner, I’m back
on my chair in front of Herr Mohr
curtains drawn
lamp bright
walls close
once again mixing
a bit of truth with my lies.
Fräulein Scholl, tell me again, at what time
do you receive your mail each day?
In the morning
before we leave for class.
Have you purchased any
postage stamps recently? How many? Where?
Yes, I purchased perhaps ten or twenty
at the post office on Leopoldstraße.
He leans forward over the desk, steeples
his fingers, traps
me in his steely blue eyes.
The Gestapo is well aware
that someone has been mailing
treasonous leaflets like these
in Munich, in other cities.
Tell me the truth.
Were you involved?
I didn’t have the slightest
thing to do with that.
A knock summons
Herr Mohr, who marches
out, returns
a moment later,
chin high, lips pursed,
triumphant.
Your brother has confessed. We have
the evidence from your flat.
A chill passes
through my entire body,
like I’ve fallen
through thin pond ice,
the rushing water keeping
me submerged,
the mounting pressure keeping
me from finding
a way out.
I shudder, tremble, quake,
but I know what I must do, and I rise
up through the ice, chin raised.
I’d like to confess
as well.
My words slice the air, freezing
Herr Mohr in place, draining
his cheeks of color.
The war for Germany
is lost,
young lives
sacrificed in vain.
My voice strong
as my resolve, I tell
how Hans and I
came up with the leaflets last year,
bought paper, envelopes, stencils, stamps,
typed the addresses,
delivered our message.
We intended
to stop the current regime
by reaching the
German Volk who feel
the same way and convincing
them to join us.
But it’s not enough,
and Herr Mohr presses, insisting
we didn’t do it alone.
Small lies crack
the surface of my confession
as I do my best to keep
the focus on
us,
the suspicion off
friends who were
involved,
but in spite of myself
I’ve soon implicated
Alex as a helper, admitted
Traute and Willi knew
of our activities, confirmed
Herr Mohr’s suspicions.
I pause then,
trying to suppress
the panic growing inside me,
hoping at the very least
that I’ve placed
most
of the blame
on my brother and me.
His face hard, his eyes harder,
Herr Mohr asks
if I have anything to add.
I did the best I could
for my country. I don’t regret
what I did and accept
the consequences for my actions.
With these words
I finally
silence
Herr Mohr.
Herr Mohr hands
me the confession they’ve typed
up, listing everything I’ve told
them, asks me to
sign, leaving
the room to give
me time.
I read the words that make
me sound like an incredibly
brave girl, and I vow
to remain true to who
I am on paper, though the
chilling wave of dread rising
within me tells
a different story.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
There’s no way
out
of this cage.
After a fierce goodbye hug
from my parents, I balance
everything in my arms so I can board
the train to Munich:
a suitcase with
fresh laundry
my most treasured books
paper, envelopes, pens,
a satchel with
a bottle of wine
a homemade birthday cake.
A whistle, and the train chugs,
puffs its way out of the station, and I lean
my head out the window to call
a last goodbye.
I’m about to turn
twenty-one, and
my future is
finally
about to begin.
With the train’s last
mouthful of steam billowing
behind me into the sky,
my fingers twitch,
my heels bounce in anticipation.
Before the train has even
come to a halt, I jut my
head out the window, my
heart already bursting with glee.
Hans!
I wave and
he waves back and
the train stops and
we run for each other and
hug and I almost can’t believe
how happy I am
that I’m finally here.
I’m in love
with everything
and everyone and every
single moment spinning
past me
in bright swaths of color
here in Munich
now that I’ve
earned the right
to learn in a place
where I can
finally
make
a
difference.
My life becomes
discussions of literature in Hans’s flat,
cheap dinners at sidewalk cafés,
walks to the English Garden
with
books
music
friends,
our spirits light as dandelion fluff.
We all know
we’ll be sent back
to serve the Reich soon enough,
but now that I’m here
to live and learn among
such fine minds, my eyes must
reflect the world and
all its brightness
back to them.
As if in a dream, the sun
i n c h e s
toward the horizon, sending
golden ripples of warmth and
joy through the trees towering
over us and sprinkling
our blanket with
droplets of light
as we lounge
on the sweet grass.
I wish
I’d brought
my sketchbook
along. If I had, I’d
draw Alex,
half-Russian
half-German
fully charming, playing his balalaika,
his pipe, his thoughtful expression,
his best friend, Christoph,
young, melancholy, devoted
to his wife, Herta, and
their two small children,
his eyes glowing moons
when he speaks of them,
bright, assertive Traute,
the current in Hans’s long
list of girlfriends that’s sure
to get longer.
Instead, I laze away,
imagining
their completed sketches
on paper as the five of us share
music, wine, stories,
while I take
in deep breaths
of rose-scented air, savoring
these singular moments, tucking
them in a deep
corner of my mind
far removed
from the harsh reality of
the outside world
and locking
them away to remind
myself that life like this
can exist.
As I settle into
my newfound freedom,
finding
a place to live
taking
my first classes
slipping
beside Hans and his
friends like a slim volume of
poetry among their thick tomes
something shakes
me back to the ominous
darkness closing in around us.
Chilling rumors dart
from mouths to ears
about plans Herr Hitler is
carrying out, plans that have blown
up and expanded
and twisted, plans
that have become
reality to Jews in
Germany, in
Poland, and beyond:
countless concentration camps
unwanted resettlement
systematic
murder.
Summer arrives
with a letter from Fritz,
in Russia leading
his unit east, and he shares
more details that make
all the rumors I’ve heard
undeniable.
I say
a prayer too,
but I fear
our prayers
will do
nothing.
I’m standing
in the corridor during a
break between lectures
when Traute bursts
forward, thrusting
a paper at me.
Read this.
She whispers, stealing
a glance over her shoulder.
I hold
the paper close, skim
the typewritten page, take
in its daring, fearless words.
It’s as though whoever wrote
this was reading
my mind.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
A leaflet—just like
the bishop’s.
I read
more.
I read on and on, digesting
a passage by Schiller,
an author whose works sit
on our shelves at home, until I come
to words I recognize well, this
time by Goethe.
Traute and I stare
at each other while the lines
from this leaflet thunder
in my ears
though
we say nothing,
the silence echoing
through the hall.
The bell rings, Traute and I bid
each other farewell, I turn back
to the lecture hall, the truth sharp in my mind.
Hans started
this without
me.
Duplicating leaflets and sharing
them with the world—
this was my idea.
My own brother excluded
me, probably thinking,
She’s only a girl.
And instead of me, he might
have brought someone else
into his confidence.
Certainly not Traute (another girl). Not
Christoph, not with his wife and
children. Maybe Alex?
Bitterness bubbles up inside me, but I can’t
confront Hans now—not when he’s leaving
for the front in a few weeks.
Not the time to talk
of a future
that might not happen.
The next time Hans comes
over, I almost say
something dozens of
times, but mostly I
observe
him with new eyes—
my brother I already
so admire,
the center of the circle here,
its sun—
and I’m already
less angry with him for doing
what I would have done myself
and instead I feel
proud,
especially when a glance
at his ink-stained fingers confirms
my suspicions.
Wear gloves
next time, I
silently beg.
If I thought the first leaflet was
powerful, it’s dwarfed by the
second, with its attack
on each and every
one of us.
My heart aches
as I read
details
accusations
Worse, when I read
guilt washes over me
over what I’ve done
and haven’t done
and how I contributed to this
reign
of
terror
and I for one refuse
to be guilty
going forward.
My resolve steadies
as I read the next leaflet’s call for
The boys are about to leave
for the front, but I swear,
when Hans returns,
he won’t be able to keep
me from his side.
Another day, and
one more leaflet winds
its way into
my hands.
Breathless, I read
While all of the leaflets are
dangerous, while all of them are
treasonous, this one is
more—pithy, sharp, aggressive.
My blood pulses
through my veins
as I read
The leaflet ends
with the most ironic
words of all:
The White Rose is
the perfect name
for these efforts—
poetic, pure, full of mystique—
but the truth is
once the boys report
for duty, they’ll be away
at the front, they’ll be
leaving Munich
very much in peace.
Even though they must have spent
hours
typing, duplicating, sending
these leaflets,
there won’t be more after they leave.
Perhaps some of the recipients have made
more copies, sent them on, widening
the circle of the White Rose.
But many more have probably destroyed
the papers, too afraid to let
the ink stain their hands.
With time running
short, we all escape
to the mountains, invited
by Christoph’s wife, Herta,
for the weekend.
Tucked away in their
home a world away from
Munich, it’s easy to breathe,
easy to see
what still matters here:
the bubbly laughter
of children
the gentle kisses
of young lovers
the everlasting beauty
of the hills
the flowers
the sky
the things that
everyone
deserves.
In Munich for only
one
more
week, I can’t
stay silent any longer.
I know Hans is
leaving for the front, I know
he might not return,
and in case he doesn’t,
I need him to know
that I know.
Leaflets in hand,
I present myself in the
atelier—a private space our new
friend Manfred offered
Hans for gatherings while he’s
away on business.
With one glance
at me, Hans breaks,
dissolves, spills
the truth.
I’m sorry for not telling you.
It was Alex and me—no one else.
But we can do more
together
if we make it back
alive.
I nod, we embrace, my fear
for his life eclipsing
all else.
More envelopes
are turned in to the station:
addressed
to professors,
writers,
artists,
people typically sympathetic
to such weak, liberal ideas.
Leaflets
criticizing the Reich,
leaflets
calling for resistance,
leaflets
filled
with treason.
The hunt
for the masterminds
of this plot
begins.
I have nothing
more to say,
Herr Mohr has nothing
more to ask,
and yet the next
time he summons
me, he throws
me a lifeline.
You can still save
yourself, Fräulein Scholl.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
A sliver of light enters
the room, and I’m certain
the entire world can hear
the pounding in my chest.
Tell me you were only
following your older brother,
and I’ll recommend
setting you free.
My heart, beating
so confidently moments ago,
whimpers, withers, dies,
but my voice gathers
courage:
Nein.
The girl’s fate
is out of my hands.
She refuses
to betray her brother.
She refuses
to let me help her.
With her conviction,
her confession,
her brashness,
she has brought all of this
upon herself.
When my cellmate, Else, tells
me they’ve captured
another member of the
White Rose, I stiffen,
frozen, waiting for the
verdict. Who?
You’ll be glad to hear it’s not
the friend you were worried about—
Alex Schmorell?
I press
my lips together, wait
for the blade to fall.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
It’s someone you hadn’t mentioned.
Someone named Christoph Probst.
Christoph?
Christoph?
In an instant, I’m back
at his cozy home a few
months ago, surrounded
by his family—
his children—
safe
from everything
except
fate.
Nein.
I turn
from Else, face
the wall, this news
a boulder attached
to my heart, dragging
me to the depths.
I kiss each guest hello
Traute
Alex
Christoph
the boys’ new friend Willi.
Not much later, Professor Huber—
my favorite philosophy professor, whose
lectures even medical students attend—
stops by.
It’s meant to be
a lighthearted evening at
Manfred’s atelier before
Hans and the others have to catch
an early-morning train
that will take them far
away to the eastern front
and the death
and destruction
that awaits them there.
But the air crackles with fear
of the unknown
sizzling off the boys
burning their shadows
into my mind,
and I hope
beyond hope that
they all return, especially
Hans.
After the boys catch their train,
I’ll be off to Ulm, with
nothing more
than the promise
of a bleak summer working
in an armaments factory,
but I know I’m lucky
my summer also holds
the sanctuary of home
no danger of losing my skin—
my dread channeled instead
toward the lives
of others.
But first, tonight.
I open bottles of wine and breathe
in conversations and freeze
time in moments, capturing
each gesture
each glance
each grin
cataloguing
them in my heart.
As if the mood couldn’t
get darker, Manfred shares
gruesome details
from his latest trip to Poland.
My skin grows
cold as he recounts
how squads of deadly SS Einsatzgruppen
marched in
rounded people up
smashed rifle butts against bone
left behind pits heaped high
with layers of Jewish bodies.
Hans and I share
a glance as
images I cannot un-imagine
fill my mind with
horror.
I catch a similar glance
between Alex
assigned to the same unit as Hans
and Christoph
assigned to a unit near home to be close
to his young family.
Christoph and I are staying
here,
Hans and Alex are going
there.
The silence
shrouding the room
overwhelms.
When conversation gradually starts
up again, the boys turn
their attention to the weapons
they’ll carry to the front, to the question
Will you fire them
or not?
Willi, the only one
who’s already spent
time on the eastern front, raises
his eyebrows, glancing
at the others.
He says nothing.
If I have to,
Hans whispers,
in defense.
But Alex shakes
his head.
I’m half-Russian and won’t shoot Germans,
half-German and can’t shoot Russians.
I take comfort knowing
that at least someone refuses
to be part of this madness.
Even one less bullet
can mean
one more life.
Over empty wine bottles, discarded
glasses without a drop remaining,
the last conversations lower
to a melodious hum
between
Manfred and me
Christoph and Alex
Professor Huber and Hans.
With the sendoff almost
over, all I can hope
is that we’ll have a reunion
some months down the road.
His eyes wide and bright, Hans shakes
Professor Huber’s hand,
Christoph blinks furiously like he’s willing
back tears, whispers
earnest thoughts to Alex.
Manfred bends
toward me as I help him return
the studio to order.
You must write them
cheerful letters while they’re away.
They’ll see terrible
things in the east.
I nod, remembering
Fritz’s latest letter, hoping
Hans won’t have
similar experiences, praying
this madness might come
to an end.
Manfred’s lips press
together in a grim line,
his unspoken words hanging
in the air
like rain clouds.
I close my eyes and pray
that the world will
somehow change.
But I know it isn’t
going to change
on its own, so I know
I must pray
for the courage to
bring it about.