White Rose

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White Rose Page 8

by Kip Wilson


  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.

  DAY ZERO

  FEBRUARY 18, 1943

  The Suitcase

  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.

  DOING SOMETHING

  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.

  THE UNIVERSITY

  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.

  WILLI AND TRAUTE

  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.

  NO TURNING BACK

  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.

  PAPER SOLDIERS

  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.

  HURRY

  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.

  ESCAPE

  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.

  FINISHING THE JOB

  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.

  RELEASE

  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.

  BEFORE

  1943

  The Beginning of the End

  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.

  WARTIME WISHES

  Letter
to Fritz, January 1943

  Dear Fritz,

  I’m following the news, filled

  with worry since I know

  you’re near Stalingrad. I hope

  you’re not caught up in

  the horrors

  of this war.

  I visit you so often

  in my thoughts that

  I sometimes feel

  like you’re close enough to touch,

  and just in case, I whisper

  into the void,

  stay strong, stay good.

  Wishing you

  a hard spirit

  and a gentle heart!

  A NEW DRAFT

  A shiver races

  down my spine as I read

  the beginning of Hans’s new draft.

  The war is nearing

  its inevitable end.

  These matter-of-fact words will

  surely wake

  Germany from its slumber.

  Hitler cannot win

  the war, only prolong it.

  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.

  A MORAL OBLIGATION

  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.

  THE GATHERING

  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.

  DISSENT

  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.

  ROBERT MOHR, GESTAPO INVESTIGATOR

  January 1943

  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.

  PERVITIN WACHHALTEMITTEL

  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.

  A LONG NIGHT

  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.

  JITTERS

  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.

  ON THE TRAIN

  I board the train, set

  the rucksack on the shelf

  in one compartment, glance

  over my shoulde
r, 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.

  FIRST STOP

  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.

  ANOTHER CHANCE

  When I arrive

  in Ulm, I dash into

  the neighboring compartment

  for the rucksack, hustle

 

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