White Rose
Page 8
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