Hans greets Willi at the door,
leads him inside,
and that’s everyone—
the rest of us are already here:
Alex, Professor Huber, me.
Everyone’s talking
about the professor’s lecture on
the poet Heinrich Heine,
censored
for being Jewish,
denounced
by the Party
as a degenerate,
lauded
by the professor
for his brilliance.
I might not say
much, but I vow to fight
back
with action,
action,
action.
Warmed up and ready,
the professor and the boys turn
to the next leaflet, locking
wits over philosophical differences
in the drafts Hans and Alex present.
Far too communist.
The professor shakes his head.
Especially Alex’s draft.
One can be anti-Hitler without
leaning so far to the left.
You might find that conservatives
agree with you, but not
if you alienate
them completely.
Hans doesn’t deny
the merit in the professor’s arguments,
but my brother is
passionate in his own convictions,
and I fully agree
with him.
I press
my lips together, hoping
the professor will
give in.
Instead, he shakes
his head, finishes
his wine, bids
us farewell.
After the stamps,
nothing.
No new envelopes
turned in,
no new leaflets.
Perhaps the recipients
are doing as the White Rose
asked and passing them on
instead
of turning them in.
It’s time to step up
patrols, especially
at night.
We’re in for a l o n g night at
the flat, where we’ve set
up all the supplies, ready
to be put to use.
We man our battle stations. From
his pocket, Hans pulls out
some Pervitin—
pills meant to keep soldiers
awake at the front—
and the slim roll winds its way
around the room, ending
up in front of me.
Each of the boys pops
one without a second
thought, without missing
a beat of their work, but I had
no Pervitin at the factory, so I study
the small white tablet that falls
into my palm for
several
seconds
before placing
it on my tongue, holy
as a Communion wafer.
Within minutes, I feel
like I can do
anything.
All night long, my body tingles,
my fingers fly
as we duplicate
the leaflet, stuff
copies into envelopes, work
out the plan.
Alex and I will carry
suitcases full of them to
other cities and send
them from there.
We’ll use local
instead of long-distance stamps.
We’ll give the appearance
of a larger organization.
Yes, yes, yes.
We’re prepared to paper
this Reich with a call to action, and
I’ve never been so ready
for anything in my life.
The day of my first trip dawns
with a great, gaping hole
of anxiety gnawing
at my insides.
Yet my fear
of doing nothing
is greater.
I board the train, set
the rucksack on the shelf
in one compartment, glance
over my shoulder, move
to sit in the next one.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
Out the window, soldiers patrol
the station, one will board
the train as usual, looking
for anything suspicious.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
The four walls cage
me in as I prepare
myself to deny
everything.
It takes an hour for the first
leg of my journey, but the contents
of the rucksack
in the neighboring compartment
heavy
with a thousand
envelopes
filled
with treason
make each minute stretch
into days.
I hop off the train
in Augsburg to mail
the first few hundred
leaflets.
I buy stamps, fix
them on the envelopes,
slip them into the mailbox.
When the next train rolls
in, I’m ready for
the next stop:
Ulm.
When I arrive
in Ulm, I dash into
the neighboring compartment
for the rucksack, hustle
off the train.
It’s strange to be
here—home—with
no plans
to see my family today.
Instead, I have
firm plans
to give young Hans
one
more
chance.
He meets
me as appointed, shakes
my hand with a clammy
palm, accepts
the mountain of
2,500 leaflets I present
him.
I carefully instruct
him to address and mail
them from elsewhere, do
everything to keep our
families from suspicion.
He nods,
twitches,
nods again.
It’d be hard to
say who’s more
nervous, but
no one
will ever truly know,
since I hold
all my nervousness
deep inside.
Another trip, this time to
Stuttgart. Even farther
than Ulm, it’ll be
three
long
hours
on the train, with more
stops, more
soldiers, more
chances for
discovery.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
I press
my back against the
seat, try to ignore
the tightness down
my neck, do my best
to remember
to breathe.
I carry out the plan, send
all the leaflets, make
it back to Munich safely.
Still, secrets burn
my throat raw
with their desire
to escape.
Secrets about our work,
hidden truths I must bury
deep inside,
secrets I can’t share
with the rest of my family
best friends from childhood
even Fritz.
In the farthest reaches
of my mind lie
more secrets,
secrets of my own
past
guilty
role
in this terrible
regime.
I’ve fallen
asleep in the middle of the
afternoon only to wake
when a soft voice rises
up from across the flat.
Stalingrad!
Two hundred thousand German brothers sacrificed
for the prestige
of a military con man.
I rub
my eyes, get
to my feet, stumble
across the hall.
Christoph and Hans huddle
over a paper,
look up with a start, relax
when they see me.
Hallo, Sophie.
Good news! Christoph hands
the paper to Hans, bursts
into a smile. Herta had the baby.
A girl this time.
Congratulations! I cross
the room, give
him a warm hug.
I should be going. I hope
you like the draft. He nods at Hans.
We’ll see. Hans pockets
the paper. We’ll see.
That night Alex and Willi come
by with a suitcase, and I can see
from the way Alex carries it that
it’s not empty.
Before I can tell
them I want to come
along on their mission,
Hans turns
away from me, claps
Willi on the back, sneaks
something heavy, metallic
from his desk
into his coat pocket—
his pistol?
I’m coming with you. I get
to my feet, move
for my coat, but
they’re already heading
for the door.
Not this time. Some things
are too dangerous
for you.
Hans smiles, steps
outside.
Don’t wait up.
In spite of
everything
I’ve done, my
big brother still thinks
I’m nothing
more
than a little
girl.
A few days later our
sister’s visit eases
the tension in the air
at least a tiny bit.
Liesl is
soft-spoken,
calming, kind, and she lightens
the mood with tales of
Mutti, Vati, and
a neighbor’s new baby, sweet
as marmalade from home.
With a contented smile,
Liesl breezes around
the flat, and for the briefest
of moments I float, suspended
above the both of us—
me, in grave danger for my work,
her, blissfully ignorant
but safe and secure—
and I imagine
switching places with her.
But now that I know what
Germany has done, what
Germany is doing,
I’ll never return
to being the girl I was
all those years ago.
My desire to do something
to do the right thing
pushes all else aside.
I swoop
back into my own head,
all the more convinced
that the risky road
is the one
I must take.
That afternoon we gather
in our small sitting room
before the radio broadcast:
Hans, Liesl, and me
ready to find out what’s happening
to our army in Russia.
The daily OKW Bericht begins
with the sound of horns,
drums, more music.
Each deep note from
the glorious fanfare strikes
familiar. They played
this music before one of
the previous reports.
Bruckner? Brahms?
Across the room, Hans frowns.
Liszt.
Les Préludes.
Remember?
The last time they played
this glorious piece was when Germany invaded
Russia, but there can’t be any kind of
glory today. The last report revealed
Germany’s Sixth Army
fighting the enemy on all sides,
nowhere near victory.
We wait, anxious
for the latest announcement.
The music stops.
The fight for Stalingrad
is over.
Over? My breath catches
in my throat. Is it true?
Have we actually, finally lost?
Hans and I glance
at each other,
eyebrows raised.
What does this mean?
Who’s the victor?
They refuse
to admit we’ve lost,
but the last words
of the broadcast crash
over me with the ugly truth:
They died,
so that Germany may live.
Our soldiers
at Stalingrad,
dead.
I try to remember
the last words I wrote Fritz,
our last visit, last kiss,
but when I close
my eyes I can only picture
the once formidable German net unraveling,
the frozen Russian landscape
smoldering
in destruction, the lives
of those soldiers still there wasted,
and for nothing at all
in the end.
I hurry to find
his most recent letter.
A frosty wind whips
around me, across
an imagined tundra,
and the icy air bites
at my flesh, swallowing
me whole.
The broadcast ends, we digest
the news, thick and
hard to swallow as
gristle.
When Alex stops
by later Hans gets
to his feet, announces
their plan to do some work
in the clinic, but
the look he shares
with Alex tells
me they aren’t planning
to go to the clinic at all.
Alex doesn’t carry
a suitcase full of leaflets, but
instead Hans slips
on his coat, slides
some tools into
his pocket
a can of tar
thick brushes,
and I know
what they aim
to do.
Of course, with
Liesl here I can’t
even beg
to come along—
not out loud, at least.
My lips purse,
my eyes narrow,
my glance
the only way I can
share my message:
Take me with you.
When Hans and Alex leave
anyway, I let
Liesl’s calming voice distract
me from missing
out on the thrill of
danger in the dark.
She talks about
Fritz, Werner, others we know
at the front, but I only see
boys who might now be
dead, littered over the frozen earth
like rusted tin soldiers.
There is so much I want
to say, but the only words
I can muster betray
my need to escape
these
four
walls:
Why don’t we go outside for
some frische Luft?
Outside with Liesl, armed
with the cover of darkness, I stop
at a freshly whitewashed wall, running
my hand over the perfect canvas,
whispering Nieder mit Hitler, tracing
the invisible words with my finger.
Liesl goes pale, scans
the street, skittish
as a mouse.
Talk like that is dangerous.
Her whisper shatters
the quiet around us
like a gunshot.
A thrill passes
through me as I glance
at the shadows
around us.
The night
is the friend
of the free.
The next morning, when we head
down Ludwigstraße toward
the university, washerwomen scrub
the walls
the sidewalks
the advertising posts
clear using wire brushes, trying
to hide the words that still remain
thick as the tar
they were painted with:
Freedom!
Down with Hitler!
We admire
the artwork as we pass,
Hans’s raised eyebrows
the perfect picture
of innocence.
Like white doves,
gliding through the air
from above.
Was ist das?
Sheets and sheets
of paper.
I pick one up.
These words are treason.
My blood thunders,
choking
me in place
as footsteps
reach my ears
from three floors up,
from two figures
striding away,
alone.
Halt!
The bell rings
and in perfect synchrony
the lecture hall doors swing
open, students stream
out, like dancers
in an elaborately choreographed
production, sweeping
down both sides of the staircase
toward the papers falling
to the ground.
My feet freeze
in place, my gaze surveying
the atrium, taking in
the area littered with leaflets picked
up by students, professors, everyone—
being carefully read.
Already I feel
like we’ve won.
Chest heaving,
I rush
three long flights
past others exiting
the lecture halls.
A boy and a girl.
Students.
Halt!
I take the boy
by the arm, and then the girl.
You
are
under
arrest.
The custodian grips
our arms, leads
us to his superior’s office, calls
the Gestapo, and
the two of them glare
at us, eyes narrow,
arms crossed.
It all feels like a dream:
familiar
expected
inevitable.
They take
the suitcase,
the briefcase,
and I’m relieved
there’s nothing else
for them to take.
The telephone rings,
and I answer,
Robert Mohr,
expecting usual daily minutiae
only to learn
that the custodian at the university
has apprehended two persons
suspected
of distributing
treasonous leaflets.
My hands tremble
with excitement
as I slip on my coat,
set my hat on my head,
step into the patrol car
that delivers me
to the university,
sirens blaring.
Hans fidgets,
his knee bouncing
with incredible speed,
his gaze f l i t t i n g
around the room
like a caged bird.
I clear
my throat ever so
slightly to remind
him that
above all
we must
not
show
our fear.
Hans’s elbow
bumps
my side,
he slips his
hand into his
pocket, pulls
out a folded
paper, begins
ripping it into
tiny
pieces.
Ach, Hans.
With careful, slow movements,
Hans discreetly shreds
what he can, and I shift
in my seat, try to shield
his hand.
The first bits fall
to the ground noiseless
as snow, and Hans continues,
trying to free
his hands from treason.
You there!
And I fear
these deadly snowflakes
have just snapped
this trap
around us.
That student
has something in his hand.
He’s trying to destroy it.
Herr Hefner
crosses the room
in two giant strides,
grabbing
the incriminating evidence
from the male student,
including
the shredded bits
dusting the floor
beside his shoes.
We collect the pieces,
hand them to the inspector
when he arrives,
cheeks pale,
eyes blazing.
My chest puffs
with pride
for the Vaterland
today.
Gestapo agents arrive,
handcuff us, lead us out
past the sea of students
that splits, with
half of them staring,
half averting their gazes
as we pass.
Hans raises his voice,
calls out to Gisela standing
with the rest of the crowd,
Tell Alex I
won’t be around later.
They yank us
toward the door
and the waiting police car
that whisks us away.
Finally, a call, some news, a huge
sigh of relief.
Fritz lies in a field hospital
just outside of Stalino,
his frostbitten fingers
amputated,
but his frozen body
alive,
at least for the moment.
Many others are
not. The capitulation
of Germany’s Sixth Army tells
a truth clearer than any headline.
All those young, dead soldiers.
Germany cannot,
should not
win this war.
We must fight
to ensure
its defeat.
A few of us gather
at the flat a week after the
spectacular defeat at Stalingrad
to discuss our next plans.
Professor Huber pulls
out a draft of a leaflet,
the first time he’s shared
his own words with the group.
We listen,
eager and twitchy,
as he reads,
We let out
a collective breath.
This is brilliant, forceful, bold.
Exactly what we need.
We’re aglow with
excitement from the first lines of
the professor’s leaflet,
but as he goes on, even I can see
that certain parts aren’t
in line with what we aim
to accomplish.
Glances shoot
around the room
when the professor shares his hope
Our glorious army fills
us with shame.
Hans and Alex wordlessly agree
to disagree
with the professor.
After an awkward pause, Hans speaks
for them both
for us all
carefully asking if they can strike
a few lines, clearly hoping
he’ll understand.
But Professor Huber frowns,
and it’s hard to argue
with someone we asked to join
because we value
his opinion.
The professor shakes
his head, evidently not used
to such suggestions,
least of all from a student.
But I understand
why the boys won’t
print it
exactly like this.
Go ahead and destroy it then.
The professor pushes
himself to standing, heads
for the door.
We watch him leave,
his flimsy sheet of
paper bearing
a weight
as heavy
as a bomb.
After the professor leaves, I stuff
a small stack of
leaflets into my bag, pull
on my coat, slip
into the street, sleek
as an alley cat.
After sitting
on the sidelines
like a caged tiger
for a week,
I can’t wait
to
face my fears
to
break out of my complacency
to
do whatever I can.
I hunt
for deserted streets, leaving
leaflets on each car, inside
each telephone booth.
My heartbeat matches
the pounding of my heels over
the pavement as I turn
the corner.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
The rush is
undeniable.
Breathless, I arrive
late after scouring
the city for all the
envelopes I could find.
There aren’t nearly enough.
The boys have
been hard at work, the newest
leaflet in neat stacks piling
up next to the machine.
I read the same lines Hans used
from the professor’s draft:
My mind drifts,
zooming far to the north,
farther to the east,
to the field hospital where
Fritz still lies in grave danger.
All these young
lives sacrificed for the Reich—
this is why they wanted
Germany’s youth in the first place.
Hans is a machine,
falling into the same rhythm
as the captivating beast in front of him,
inking the stencil
winding the crank
again and again.
Alex is a machine,
collecting the copies,
folding, stuffing, stacking.
Willi is a machine,
poring over lists of names,
typing envelopes, collecting
them in stacks by city.
If any of us are caught,
our parents
our siblings
our sweethearts
will suffer.
But tonight my thoughts drift
to Christoph.
Christoph, with his
wife
small children
new baby.
Christoph, with so much more to lose,
with the Gestapo stepping
up efforts to find us,
with more soldiers on the streets,
more eyes watching everything.
Christoph isn’t a machine at all,
but a thinking, sensitive soul, aware
his actions are a moral necessity, are
high treason, are
punishable by death.
I have no desire to die,
but I won’t let my fear paralyze
me. Because like the others,
I too am a machine.