Back in Ulm
after the boys leave,
I carry out
my despicable duties at the
armament factory,
trying to be grateful
for the life I lead here
far away from the pummeling,
punishing hammer of artillery
that I pray doesn’t reach
Hans or
Fritz or
the others.
I might not be brave
enough for actual sabotage,
but I work painstakingly slow,
manufacturing as few
arms as I can.
Away from Munich,
one thing is
clear.
I’m sure Hans can use
a second
duplicating
machine.
I must ask
Fritz again
for some money.
Almost as soon as I return
home, Vati’s hauled
into court, where he’s sentenced
to four months in prison
for calling Herr Hitler
a scourge of God
in his office.
It’s a name
Vati’s been calling
the Führer
for years.
But this time
his secretary
overheard.
After Vati’s trial, Mutti frets,
despondent,
but only for a day. She writes
the boys with a plan:
I give Mutti a hug—
all the support I can offer—
knowing that Hans’s pride
will never allow
him to plead
for mercy.
After such progress
in the investigation
during the summer,
the trail has gone cold.
No new leaflets,
no new envelopes,
no new evidence
of treason.
I’m back at my desk,
pacing, fidgeting, twitching,
waiting
for the phone
to ring.
I come home after
work at the factory for
a simple supper
with
Mutti
Inge
Liesl.
Almost half our chairs
here at home stand
empty, waiting for
Vati
Hans
Werner.
Once we wash
up the dishes, I grab
my flute, stand
on the sidewalk
as near as I can get to the
walls of Vati’s cell and play
a tune I hope
will lighten his soul:
The thoughts are free.
If Vati hears it, he’ll know
the message
is meant for him.
At home, I sit
at the piano, play the same Bach piece
I once practiced daily, stumbling
through the music like
I’m once again learning
to walk, feeling
each key
under my fingers,
each note
in my soul
light
airy
profound.
Until Mutti breaks
my musical trance, clutches
the paper to her chest, says,
Ach, nein! Not Ernst Reden!
and I’m frozen, knowing
another of our friends
has fallen,
killed
by this senseless war.
I get
to my feet, stand
at the window waiting
to be overwhelmed
with feelings
and yet
when
a single
tear slips
out of my eye
and rolls down my
cheek, I feel
nothing
at all.
I turn
to the room, wipe
that single tear
away,
say,
That’s it.
I’m going
to do
something
about this.
I go
to a friend’s for lunch, look
over my shoulder,
pause,
pull eighty Reichsmark
from my pocket, pass
it across the table to him.
This high school boy—Hans—
is the younger brother
of another friend
and he looks
naïve
eager
skittish
as he pockets the money.
His voice squeaks
but he says,
I’ll let you know
when I have it.
With the boys still away
my fear for their lives
mounting
every single night
my own long days
at the mind-numbing factory
in Ulm are crawling
to an end, like they are
for Vati,
who is soon—finally—
to be released.
This regime and
my shameful
complicity
in it make
me sicker every day,
and all I want to do
is stop,
do the right thing,
atone
for my actions.
Soon I’ll be back in Munich,
where I can convince
Hans I’m ready to do more
and I won’t
take no for an answer.
Chug, chug, screech.
The boys poke
their heads out the train’s door, spot
me on the platform, burst
into smiles.
Hans! Alex!
They’ve come
back, windswept and disheveled,
but alive.
Warm, smelling like
wet wool,
caked-on mud,
traces of sweat,
they wrap
strong arms around
me, around
each other, around
home.
Tonight
we’ll have wine
and sing
and talk
and breathe
until the sun comes up.
When we return to Munich,
Hans reminds me of me when I
was here the first time, falling
into this circle of
friends
smiles
camaraderie
at the safe haven of
the university’s halls
lectures
labs.
He even falls
in love, this time with
my friend Gisela
(already replacing Traute, now a friend)
all of this in spite of the world crumbling
to bits around us.
I wish I could be
so light of heart, but
with everything I now know,
I’m ready to do whatever I can
to turn the German tide
against itself.
In the new flat I’m sharing
with Hans, I corner him, tell
him what’s been worming
through my mind since he left
for the front.
I have ideas, plans, ways
we can share our views
with the university
the city
our country
the world.
I can’t wait any longer.
Cheeks pale, his lips
a thin line, Hans nods.
I knew
you’d want to help right away.
A pause.
I’m sorry again I didn’t tell you
in the summer.
I was only trying
to protect you.
Danke.
I raise my chin.
But I don’t need
anyone’s protection.
The next time I’m in Ulm, I find
out from young Hans
that he indeed procured
a duplicating machine with
the money I gave him.
But someone he thought
was a trusted friend informed
the Gestapo
so Hans did the only thing he could
before it was too late:
he took the machine
to the Schiller Bridge, threw
it in the Danube, drowning
my hopes along
with it.
Back in Munich, and Alex brings
Christoph by to visit,
and his face is long, his eyes
tremendously sad.
Christoph tells
us the same thing I told Hans:
I need to do something.
We all agree we can’t endanger
Christoph, not with Herta and their
young children at home—
especially not with
the family’s third baby on the way—
but Hans of course sparks
to life, challenging
Christoph with something less risky:
drafting a leaflet.
Something that can
open people’s eyes.
Something that shows Germans
that losing to the Allies
could be the best thing for Germany.
Christoph pulls
his pipe from his pocket, goes
back to sit beside Alex, takes
a pinch of tobacco from his pouch.
Hans follows,
lights a match,
its flame
sizzling to life.
Drawing in a deep breath
of thick, smoky air,
Christoph nods, his eyes no longer
sad but whirring
with new purpose.
To prepare
for our next leaflet mailing,
I take it upon myself to head
to the post office
on Ludwigstraße,
where the clerk eyes
me with suspicion
making me eye
the door
as he hands
me the one hundred stamps
I request.
Next time,
smaller amounts,
more
post offices.
At the stationery store,
a stack of envelopes
a pile of paper
ink
for the machine.
Whenever the boys are
ready, we’ll have
all the materials
we need.
After months of inactivity,
a clerk at the post office
on Ludwigstraße
has reported
something suspicious:
a
young
woman
buying
one hundred
stamps all at once.
A young woman:
not what I expected
at all.
This
manhunt
is
picking
up
speed.
After another
late-night meeting with
Hans
Alex
Willi
I sleep in, skipping
my morning lecture and letting
the diluted February sun kiss
me awake through the window.
I hear Hans rummaging
in his desk across the flat,
and I rub my eyes, wondering
if last night’s talk
was just talk
or if
he’s ready
to carry this out.
I’m up.
I splash
water on my face, get
dressed, run
a comb through my hair, make
some toast—
the most normal things
in the world—
and when Hans emerges,
cheeks pale,
pupils wide,
I ask
him about the suitcase
under the bed.
A smile filled
with recklessness spreads
across my brother’s face,
and I can’t help
grinning back, though
if I’m honest with myself
my insides are equal
parts
dread
and
excitement.
I nod,
fingers trembling
with a rush of anticipation,
when I realize
he and I are really
going to do this.
We pull on our coats, wind
our scarves around
our necks like nooses, pick
up the briefcase,
the suitcase, and step
outside into Franz-Josef-Strasse.
The sun that woke
me so gently now blinds
me, painting
the street with harsh strokes.
I stop, squinting,
before following
Hans down the block
toward the university.
Blood pumping,
chests heaving,
Hans and I arrive
at the main doors of
the university just as
Willi and Traute tumble
outside, ten minutes
before the lecture ends.
For a moment,
the four of us stare
at one another,
breathless.
Their eyes popping wide,
Willi and Traute freeze,
taking in the two of us arriving
near the end of the lecture,
carrying
the suitcase
Hans’s briefcase.
We exchange
a greeting,
but my brother and I
have a job to do.
With a meaningful nod
to our friends, we turn
to the door, Hans holds
it open for me, and I lead
the way inside.
We pass
through the main doors, head
upstairs to the corridors surrounding
the lecture halls, set
the suitcase on the ground,
open it.
Hans nods at me, watches
me reach in, pull
out a stack of leaflets.
He grabs
another thick fistful from
his briefcase, places them
strategically
down one end of
the deserted corridor,
like a soldier
setting up machine guns.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom,
my heartbeat
pounds,
my heels
thunder
as I race
down the corridor,
where I place
small stacks
of thin papers
on the floor
beside each
lecture hall door,
where they
will be
impossible
to miss.
Briefcase empty, Hans heads
for the back door, bursts
outside, spins
around, wild joy spreading
across his face until I catch
up, lift the suitcase,
wrinkle
my forehead in a frown.
There are still some left.
My words hang
in the air like flak, shocking
us both for a moment.
Let’s go back in.
Hans leads
the way through the doors,
the air inside now oppressive.
I follow
Hans back inside
toward the lecture halls
once again.
Our footsteps sound
more urgent now
as we hurry
up the marble steps
to the third floor, open
the suitcase once more, place
the last stacks of leaflets
on the balustrade.
We exhale,
sharing
a relieved smile.
Finished.
The suitcase should feel
light in my hands,
but now that it’s finally
empty, its weight is
heavy as stones.
Hans heads
for the stairs, leather briefcase limp
at his side, and I follow,
our footsteps as innocent
as any
good
German
student.
We’ve done
so much today—
more than we’ve ever dared—
and yet,
the stack of papers on
the balustrade whispers
to me
More.
I rest
my hand on it, the paper
sacred as a Bible.
I breathe, give
the stack a gentle push, and step
back to listen
to the papers fluttering
down to the ground
like a swarm of butterflies.
Just after we slide
into 1943, the news coming
out of Stalingrad
of a losing battle the Führer’s not willing
to concede
shows how drastically the tide’s turning
against this Vaterland.
Over breakfast, Hans and I stare,
shocked
saddened
outraged.
This can’t
go on. We’re going to lose
an entire generation.
My voice breaks.
Behind my words,
terrible fear for Werner, Fritz,
other boys still there.
You’re right. Hans nods, sighs,
pauses. I’m going to draft a new
leaflet, ask the others to do
the same. Then we’ll invite
everyone over to make plans.
A shiver races
down my spine as I read
the beginning of Hans’s new draft.
These matter-of-fact words will
surely wake
Germany from its slumber.
I nod, energized
by these lines, energized
to do something more to
somehow save
the boys I love
far away on the eastern front.
I picture them
freezing
shivering
holding the line
and for what?
With winter about to grip
German throats with full force,
Russian troops closing
in like the jaws of a giant
trap, supplies running
as low as morale,
it’s time to bring
these boys home.
We must speak
our minds—
we, the youth
of this terrible Reich,
our voices rising
in protest.
Hans meets
my gaze, his expression
resolute, making
me proud we’re in
this together.
Waiting for the others to arrive,
I remember the first
leaflets Hans and Alex wrote
back in the summer, with their
call to an elite slice
of the population, asking
educated readers to use their intellect
to make a stand.
Those leaflets had seemed so
wise to me back
then, but maybe they weren’t
what was needed to mobilize
this Volk.
Now that we understand
how much deeper this threat goes—
our own soldiers
freezing on the eastern front,
Russian peasants
watching their homeland destroyed,
entire swaths of young Polish nobility ruthlessly
murdered,
the Jewish inhabitants of the Warsaw ghetto,
carted away on transports
heavy as hearses—
we have a duty to share
the truth with the masses.
Attacks on freedom
can be countered by appealing
to intellect.
Attacks on people
must be countered by appealing
to morality.
I can only hope
all morals aren’t
already lost.