by Kip Wilson
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.
HOMESICK
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.
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
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.
MUTINY OR LOYALTY
Letter from Hans, February 1942
Dear family,
I’m a prisoner (again),
punished this time
with my entire unit
in the student company for mutiny.
I didn’t do anything myself
(except refuse to name names),
but with one of my best friends
accused, I lose all respect for informers
stepping forward to denounce others
when we’re interrogated separately.
The result is four weeks
confined to barracks, all of us,
when we—and certainly I—have
much more important things to do.
Still, nothing will divert my attention
from what really matters.
MY PURPOSE
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.
DANGEROUS GAMES
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.
BETWEEN THE LINES
Letter from Hans, March 1942
Dear family,
I wonder
if you received my last letter.
My own mail
is very irregular.
I sympathize with the Gestapo, spending hours
deciphering all the messy handwriting,
but duty is duty,
after all.
THE END
FEBRUARY 19, 1943
Denial
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.
SILENCED
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.
MY CONFESSION
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.
BEFORE
1942
Early Birthday
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.
MUNICH HAUPTBAHNHOF
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.
MY ARRIVAL
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.
THE ENGLISH GARDEN
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.
SUNSET
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.
RUMORS
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.
A PRAYER
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.
It’s shocking,
the way my commander
callously tells me of
the slaughter of
all the Jews in occupied Russia,
the way he matter-of-factly supports
this behavior.
How happy I was
to return
to my field cot
to you
to my prayers.
I say
a prayer too,
but I fear
our prayers
will do
nothing.
A LEAFLET
I’m standing
in the corridor during a
break between lectures
when Traute bursts
forward, thru
sting
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.
Isn’t it the case that
every honest German today is
ashamed
of his government?
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.
Carry out passive resistance—
resistance—
wherever you are, impede
the atheistic war machine before
it’s too late!
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.
And the beautiful word of freedom is
whispered and stammered,
until in unfamiliar novelty we cry
