by Kip Wilson
including
the shredded bits
dusting the floor
beside his shoes.
We collect the pieces,
hand them to the inspector
when he arrives,
cheeks pale,
eyes blazing.
My chest puffs
with pride
for the Vaterland
today.
GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS
Gestapo agents arrive,
handcuff us, lead us out
past the sea of students
that splits, with
half of them staring,
half averting their gazes
as we pass.
Hans raises his voice,
calls out to Gisela standing
with the rest of the crowd,
Tell Alex I
won’t be around later.
They yank us
toward the door
and the waiting police car
that whisks us away.
BEFORE
1943
Word from Fritz
Finally, a call, some news, a huge
sigh of relief.
Fritz lies in a field hospital
just outside of Stalino,
his frostbitten fingers
amputated,
but his frozen body
alive,
at least for the moment.
Many others are
not. The capitulation
of Germany’s Sixth Army tells
a truth clearer than any headline.
All those young, dead soldiers.
Germany cannot,
should not
win this war.
We must fight
to ensure
its defeat.
THE PROFESSOR
A few of us gather
at the flat a week after the
spectacular defeat at Stalingrad
to discuss our next plans.
Professor Huber pulls
out a draft of a leaflet,
the first time he’s shared
his own words with the group.
We listen,
eager and twitchy,
as he reads,
Fellow Students! Our shocked people stand
before the loss of men at Stalingrad.
The ingenious strategy of
the World War I corporal has led
to the irresponsible and senseless deaths
of three hundred thousand German men.
Führer, we thank you!
We let out
a collective breath.
This is brilliant, forceful, bold.
Exactly what we need.
OUR SHAMEFUL ARMY
We’re aglow with
excitement from the first lines of
the professor’s leaflet,
but as he goes on, even I can see
that certain parts aren’t
in line with what we aim
to accomplish.
Glances shoot
around the room
when the professor shares his hope
that our glorious army
might be saved.
Our glorious army fills
us with shame.
HANS AND ALEX
Hans and Alex wordlessly agree
to disagree
with the professor.
After an awkward pause, Hans speaks
for them both
for us all
carefully asking if they can strike
a few lines, clearly hoping
he’ll understand.
But Professor Huber frowns,
and it’s hard to argue
with someone we asked to join
because we value
his opinion.
HEAVY WORDS
The professor shakes
his head, evidently not used
to such suggestions,
least of all from a student.
But I understand
why the boys won’t
print it
exactly like this.
Go ahead and destroy it then.
The professor pushes
himself to standing, heads
for the door.
We watch him leave,
his flimsy sheet of
paper bearing
a weight
as heavy
as a bomb.
DOING SOMETHING
After the professor leaves, I stuff
a small stack of
leaflets into my bag, pull
on my coat, slip
into the street, sleek
as an alley cat.
After sitting
on the sidelines
like a caged tiger
for a week,
I can’t wait
to
face my fears
to
break out of my complacency
to
do whatever I can.
I hunt
for deserted streets, leaving
leaflets on each car, inside
each telephone booth.
My heartbeat matches
the pounding of my heels over
the pavement as I turn
the corner.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
The rush is
undeniable.
TRANSFORMATION
Letter to Fritz, February 1943
Dear Fritz,
I was just back
home for a visit. Home!
The 150 kilometers between
Ulm and Munich
transform
me until I arrive
fully realized
resolute
ready.
But now that I’m here,
I can admit to you
(and only you) that
I’m still filled with fear.
I’m just as afraid for you.
It’s been two weeks since
your letter from Stalino, and
even though I don’t know
how you are, I’m filled
with love and gratitude knowing
you’re at least alive.
MOUNTAINS OF PAPER
Breathless, I arrive
late after scouring
the city for all the
envelopes I could find.
There aren’t nearly enough.
The boys have
been hard at work, the newest
leaflet in neat stacks piling
up next to the machine.
I read the same lines Hans used
from the professor’s draft:
Fellow Students!
Our shocked people stand
before the loss of men at Stalingrad.
My mind drifts,
zooming far to the north,
farther to the east,
to the field hospital where
Fritz still lies in grave danger.
All these young
lives sacrificed for the Reich—
this is why they wanted
Germany’s youth in the first place.
MACHINES
Hans is a machine,
falling into the same rhythm
as the captivating beast in front of him,
inking the stencil
winding the crank
again and again.
Alex is a machine,
collecting the copies,
folding, stuffing, stacking.
Willi is a machine,
poring over lists of names,
typing envelopes, collecting
them in stacks by city.
If any of us are caught,
our parents
our siblings
our sweethearts
will suffer.
But tonight my thoughts drift
to Christoph.
Christoph, with his
<
br /> wife
small children
new baby.
Christoph, with so much more to lose,
with the Gestapo stepping
up efforts to find us,
with more soldiers on the streets,
more eyes watching everything.
Christoph isn’t a machine at all,
but a thinking, sensitive soul, aware
his actions are a moral necessity, are
high treason, are
punishable by death.
I have no desire to die,
but I won’t let my fear paralyze
me. Because like the others,
I too am a machine.
HANS’S IDEA
After we all push
ourselves to duplicate, fold, stuff
the leaflets into
all the envelopes we have,
huge stacks remain.
We stand and survey
the achievement like generals:
Fifteen hundred?
Two thousand?
So many.
It’s a good
problem to have.
And Hans has a solution.
What if we bring
them to the university
while classes are in session?
PLANNING A REVOLUTION
I can barely control
my excitement about
Hans’s idea,
but the others don’t seem
to agree.
In broad daylight?
Alex says.
Too risky.
Willi frowns, shakes
his head, his face blanching
pale as paper.
Even though the Gestapo must
be looking for us,
I’m so proud
of my brother,
so glad someone else thinks
as I do—
that we can always do more,
that we should always do more.
I for one am ready
to do more.
Leaflets
all around the university
in the bright light of day
for everyone to find
is simply brilliant.
Students will surely rise
and join us in this fight
once they know
the truth about the Vaterland.
THE END
FEBRUARY 22, 1943
If Words Could Kill
The trial will take place
today
with the three of us
Hans
Christoph
me
accused of
treason against
the Reich.
The defense attorney visits
my tiny, stale cell, and
after our first exchange, it’s clear
he has no plans to provide
any useful defense.
Since he’ll be no help in the
courtroom, perhaps he can be
of some help now, answering
the questions burning
through my mind.
If the verdict is the death
penalty, how will they do it?
Hanging, or guillotine?
What? He blanches,
his mouth dropping
like bomb bay doors.
And what about my
brother? As a soldier, he deserves
a firing squad at the very least.
Flustered, shaken, shocked,
the attorney sputters
to his feet, marches
for the door, refuses
to respond.
FREEDOM
After I read
my indictment, sign
my life away
on the bottom, I write
a single word—
Freiheit—
on the back of the paper.
Across the room, my
cellmate has tears in
her eyes, but I turn
to the window, let
the sunshine warm
my face.
Such a lovely day.
But what does
my death matter
if it means
more students will continue
what we started
if it means
our actions will start
a revolution
if it means
others might live?
The sun still shines.
I open my eyes, take
in the beauty that I know
lies beyond these walls, insert
my spirit into a sunbeam, send
a ray of hope into
this hopeless
world.
ELSE GEBEL, PRISONER
When they take Sophie
to stand trial, I wonder
if I’ll ever see her again.
I’m already afraid I won’t.
It was my job
to make sure
she didn’t kill herself,
my job
to pay attention
to each and every word
my job
to gather
any information
that could incriminate
others.
But this young girl showed
such emotion
such conviction
such devotion
to her brother
that I couldn’t imagine
betraying her.
ENEMY OF THE REICH
Handcuffed, hauled
down the corridor, treated
like a criminal,
now I have some idea
how it must have felt
to be
Jewish
on Kristallnacht
or anytime since.
Shame burns
through me that we did
nothing
to stop the beginnings of
the ugly wave of
hate.
BEFORE
1938
Kristallnacht
I stand frozen
as torches light
up the night sky.
I think of Luise and my other
Jewish classmates, thankful
they already left Germany,
but other Jews still live
in Ulm, including
the Einsteins, no longer
in our building, but
not far away.
Right here, right now,
thumping boots fill
the streets with the first smash of
glass, deadly shards, inside and out.
Half of the faces on
the street light
up with glee,
the other half quake
in terror.
I feel only shame
that all I can do
is shudder, shiver, shut
my eyes.
I don’t wait to find
out what’s next to be
smashed, cut, burned.
Only one thought fills
me as I race home:
I
am
such
a
coward.
AFTERMATH
We don’t do
anything,
not even with
smashing glass
the synagogue burning
people
pushed into the street
beaten, pummeled
dragged to the banks of the Danube
huddling
indoors instead, identical grim
expressions on our faces.
We don’t do
anything
to make it stop.
Vati goes out to check
on the Einsteins,
and I wonder
if there’s something more
we can do.
But I don’t
say
a word.
THE END
> FEBRUARY 22, 1943
Roland Freisler, Judge
The interrogation transcripts
enrage me.
These corrupt youths!
These rotten traitors!
These terrible excuses for German citizens!
I will make sure they learn
that this Reich of ours
is no home
for rubbish like them.
They will pay for their impudence.
I enter the courtroom late,
right arm raised.
Heil Hitler.
FIRST, HANS
Guards lead all three of
us into the courtroom, past uniforms,
steely glances, heartlessness, and we take
our seats, pale and shaky.
Will any of us walk
away from this?
The judge of the People’s Court
wastes no time calling
Hans forward, insulting
him for his
choices, his
actions, his
