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White Rose

Page 9

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,

 

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