by Kip Wilson
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.
ROBERT MOHR, GESTAPO INTERROGATOR
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.
THE MAILBOX
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.
BEFORE
1939
Hot and Cold
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.
SPRINGTIME WISH
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.
AT THE UNIVERSITY
Letter from Hans, April 1939
Dear family,
Now that my term of Reichsarbeitsdienst
is over, I’m finally here,
soaking up everything from zoology
to Greek, botany to Nietzsche,
my thirst to learn all I can
remaining unquenchable.
Words of great philosophers
tumble into my ears
through my mind, whispering,
Knowledge is power.
I relish every moment here, despite knowing
that as soon as the semester ends,
knowledge won’t matter,
at least not to the Reich.
Instead of our minds,
they merely want our young, able bodies,
carting us off to the fields of East Prussia
for voluntary farm work to feed our Volk.
Voluntary, they say, and yet,
we didn’t volunteer.
OUR NEW FLAT
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.
A SUMMER VISIT
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.
DRIVING LESSON
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.
WAR
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.
FRONT AND HOME FRONT
Letter to Fritz, September 1939
Dear Fritz,
I got your
letter—danke schön!
I hope you receive
mine, although I’m not
sure what comfort
letters from
home will be
with the Blitzkrieg
and its
bombs
bullets
artillery
striking around you.
Don’t forget
all the innocent
people the Blitzkrieg
hurts.
You’re probably thinking,
It’s for the Vaterland,
but I’m sorry,
that’s
no
excuse.
P.S.
Do they monitor
the mail
I send you?
RESPONSE
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.
1940
Promises
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.
TOY SOLDIERS
Fritz misunderstands
my opinion about
soldiers, the army, the war.
Our opinions really aren’t
all that different.
I feel that I must
defend the side of the soldier,
that I must
defend the side of duty
because duty is my daily life,
but I want the same things as you:
truth, justice, the greater good.
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.
LIFE AT THE REAR
Letter from Hans, May 1940
Dear family,
The sudden Blitzkrieg,
a drawn-out Sitzkrieg,
now our marching orders
and we move out,
leaving Germany behind
passing through Luxembourg, arriving in France—
the tail end of a gray Wehrmacht wave
of occupation.
Ordered to commandeer the best houses,
I’d feel more at home in the straw.
What are we, thieves?
Yet I’m one of them, like it or not.
We’re twitchy, nervous, apprehensive,
the boredom and anxiety
at the rear
slowly driving me mad.
Not far away, artillery rumbles,
dark flak paints the sky,
the war a pot about to boil over,
as we wait, trapped inside.
SELFLESSNESS
Letter to Fritz, June 1940
Dear Fritz,
People shouldn’t be
ambivalent
about the world around
them simply because
everyone else
is ambivalent.
People who
refuse
to open their eyes
are more than ambivalent—
they are guilty.
How can we expect
justice
in this world
if we’re not prepared to
sacrifice ourselves
for what’s right?
DARK NIGHTS
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.
THE FIELD HOSPITAL
Letter from Hans, July 1940
Dear family,
Casualties flow
thick as the muddy Somme
through the doors
to my hands.
Today I counted
twenty operations, two amputations.
I don’t know how much longer
I can watch this butchery of ours.
TRUTH IN RUMORS
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?
WOMEN’S WORK
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.
