by Kip Wilson
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.
TWO DAYS LATER
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.
SECRETS
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.
LIFE AND DEATH
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.
LEFT BEHIND
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 VISIT FROM ULM
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.
ARMED FORCES REPORT
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.
VICTORY AND DEFEAT
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.
HOPELESSNESS
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.
The situation here is hopeless.
Unless I’m saved by some miracle
or killed outright, the only other outcome
I can imagine is Russian imprisonment.
A frosty wind whips
around me, across
an imagined tundra,
and the icy air bites
at my flesh, swallowing
me whole.
NIGHT MISSION
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.
FRESH AIR
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?
DOWN WITH HITLER
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 MOST BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK
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.
DAY ZERO
FEBRUARY 18, 1943
Jakob Schmid, Custodian
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!
PAPER SNOW
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.
JAKOB SCHMID, CUSTODIAN
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.
CAPTURED
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.
ROBERT MOHR, GESTAPO INVESTIGATOR
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.
HUMMINGBIRD
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.
EVIDENCE
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.
CAUGHT IN THE TRAP
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.
JAKOB SCHMID, CUSTODIAN
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,
