White Rose

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White Rose Page 5

by Kip Wilson

what to do about it.

  When the day’s done, I turn

  in to sleep, clinging

  to hope that this

  self-contained utopia might become

  more than the dream it will feel like

  when our holiday ends,

  when I go back

  to my next term

  serving this Reich

  I despise.

  HOMESICK

  Reichsarbeitsdienst in Blumberg,

  and homesickness crashes

  into me with ferocity, not

  so much for home itself, but

  for the feeling of

  home.

  It aches

  to be so far away

  from the life

  I once knew,

  from the life

  I hope to lead,

  from the life

  everyone around

  us deserves.

  Like the winter relief

  collection, my role working

  for this Reich is part of what

  allows this regime

  to continue.

  Each day I serve it

  makes me want to fight it

  all the more.

  BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

  After all these years

  back and forth

  on and off

  hot and cold

  something about

  the cozy inn

  the scent of fresh linens

  the knowledge that

  each time I see Fritz

  might be the last time

  makes me toss

  my jumbled thoughts out

  the window.

  I shut

  the room’s door, step

  closer to Fritz, pull

  him onto the bed.

  MUTINY OR LOYALTY

  Letter from Hans, February 1942

  Dear family,

  I’m a prisoner (again),

  punished this time

  with my entire unit

  in the student company for mutiny.

  I didn’t do anything myself

  (except refuse to name names),

  but with one of my best friends

  accused, I lose all respect for informers

  stepping forward to denounce others

  when we’re interrogated separately.

  The result is four weeks

  confined to barracks, all of us,

  when we—and certainly I—have

  much more important things to do.

  Still, nothing will divert my attention

  from what really matters.

  MY PURPOSE

  Finally, I’m almost

  done, after my months

  in Krauchenwies and Blumberg,

  but each day of Reichsarbeitsdienst

  is one day less

  of a life that matters.

  Soon, very soon,

  I’ll be released, my path

  to the university

  finally clear,

  where, God willing,

  I’ll find a way

  to act.

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  I tingle as I sit

  beside Fritz on the train,

  our last chance to be

  alone before I head

  off to university and he returns

  to the front.

  We have a compartment to ourselves,

  a weekend to ourselves,

  the world to ourselves,

  if only for a few days.

  We open the window, let

  the spring air inside, and it wraps

  around us like a soft blanket, a rare

  reminder of bygone days.

  I find myself at

  a crossroads with Fritz as he

  goes to fight

  for this regime I oppose, but

  even if I don’t know

  what the future holds for

  either of us, I know

  I can trust

  him with my secrets.

  I need a favor—

  some money and a voucher—

  so I can get

  a duplicating machine.

  For a long moment,

  Fritz pales, deflates, falters.

  I can try.

  The tremble in his voice betrays him.

  But you must be careful, Sophie.

  Something like that can cost

  you your head.

  For now, we let

  the lovely breeze

  carry us away.

  BETWEEN THE LINES

  Letter from Hans, March 1942

  Dear family,

  I wonder

  if you received my last letter.

  My own mail

  is very irregular.

  I sympathize with the Gestapo, spending hours

  deciphering all the messy handwriting,

  but duty is duty,

  after all.

  THE END

  FEBRUARY 19, 1943

  Denial

  After an impossibly brief

  sleep in a cell with

  another female prisoner, I’m back

  on my chair in front of Herr Mohr

  curtains drawn

  lamp bright

  walls close

  once again mixing

  a bit of truth with my lies.

  Fräulein Scholl, tell me again, at what time

  do you receive your mail each day?

  In the morning

  before we leave for class.

  Have you purchased any

  postage stamps recently? How many? Where?

  Yes, I purchased perhaps ten or twenty

  at the post office on Leopoldstraße.

  He leans forward over the desk, steeples

  his fingers, traps

  me in his steely blue eyes.

  The Gestapo is well aware

  that someone has been mailing

  treasonous leaflets like these

  in Munich, in other cities.

  Tell me the truth.

  Were you involved?

  I didn’t have the slightest

  thing to do with that.

  SILENCED

  A knock summons

  Herr Mohr, who marches

  out, returns

  a moment later,

  chin high, lips pursed,

  triumphant.

  Your brother has confessed. We have

  the evidence from your flat.

  A chill passes

  through my entire body,

  like I’ve fallen

  through thin pond ice,

  the rushing water keeping

  me submerged,

  the mounting pressure keeping

  me from finding

  a way out.

  I shudder, tremble, quake,

  but I know what I must do, and I rise

  up through the ice, chin raised.

  I’d like to confess

  as well.

  My words slice the air, freezing

  Herr Mohr in place, draining

  his cheeks of color.

  The war for Germany

  is lost,

  young lives

  sacrificed in vain.

  My voice strong

  as my resolve, I tell

  how Hans and I

  came up with the leaflets last year,

  bought paper, envelopes, stencils, stamps,

  typed the addresses,

  delivered our message.

  We intended

  to stop the current regime

  by reaching the

  German Volk who feel

  the same way and convincing

  them to join us.

  But it’s not enough,

  and Herr Mohr presses, insisting

  we didn’t do it alone.

  Small lies crack

  the surface of my confession

  as I do my best to keep

  the focus on

  us,


  the suspicion off

  friends who were

  involved,

  but in spite of myself

  I’ve soon implicated

  Alex as a helper, admitted

  Traute and Willi knew

  of our activities, confirmed

  Herr Mohr’s suspicions.

  I pause then,

  trying to suppress

  the panic growing inside me,

  hoping at the very least

  that I’ve placed

  most

  of the blame

  on my brother and me.

  His face hard, his eyes harder,

  Herr Mohr asks

  if I have anything to add.

  I did the best I could

  for my country. I don’t regret

  what I did and accept

  the consequences for my actions.

  With these words

  I finally

  silence

  Herr Mohr.

  MY CONFESSION

  Herr Mohr hands

  me the confession they’ve typed

  up, listing everything I’ve told

  them, asks me to

  sign, leaving

  the room to give

  me time.

  I read the words that make

  me sound like an incredibly

  brave girl, and I vow

  to remain true to who

  I am on paper, though the

  chilling wave of dread rising

  within me tells

  a different story.

  Boom-boom,

  boom-boom.

  There’s no way

  out

  of this cage.

  BEFORE

  1942

  Early Birthday

  After a fierce goodbye hug

  from my parents, I balance

  everything in my arms so I can board

  the train to Munich:

  a suitcase with

  fresh laundry

  my most treasured books

  paper, envelopes, pens,

  a satchel with

  a bottle of wine

  a homemade birthday cake.

  A whistle, and the train chugs,

  puffs its way out of the station, and I lean

  my head out the window to call

  a last goodbye.

  I’m about to turn

  twenty-one, and

  my future is

  finally

  about to begin.

  MUNICH HAUPTBAHNHOF

  With the train’s last

  mouthful of steam billowing

  behind me into the sky,

  my fingers twitch,

  my heels bounce in anticipation.

  Before the train has even

  come to a halt, I jut my

  head out the window, my

  heart already bursting with glee.

  Hans!

  I wave and

  he waves back and

  the train stops and

  we run for each other and

  hug and I almost can’t believe

  how happy I am

  that I’m finally here.

  MY ARRIVAL

  I’m in love

  with everything

  and everyone and every

  single moment spinning

  past me

  in bright swaths of color

  here in Munich

  now that I’ve

  earned the right

  to learn in a place

  where I can

  finally

  make

  a

  difference.

  THE ENGLISH GARDEN

  My life becomes

  discussions of literature in Hans’s flat,

  cheap dinners at sidewalk cafés,

  walks to the English Garden

  with

  books

  music

  friends,

  our spirits light as dandelion fluff.

  We all know

  we’ll be sent back

  to serve the Reich soon enough,

  but now that I’m here

  to live and learn among

  such fine minds, my eyes must

  reflect the world and

  all its brightness

  back to them.

  SUNSET

  As if in a dream, the sun

  i n c h e s

  toward the horizon, sending

  golden ripples of warmth and

  joy through the trees towering

  over us and sprinkling

  our blanket with

  droplets of light

  as we lounge

  on the sweet grass.

  I wish

  I’d brought

  my sketchbook

  along. If I had, I’d

  draw Alex,

  half-Russian

  half-German

  fully charming, playing his balalaika,

  his pipe, his thoughtful expression,

  his best friend, Christoph,

  young, melancholy, devoted

  to his wife, Herta, and

  their two small children,

  his eyes glowing moons

  when he speaks of them,

  bright, assertive Traute,

  the current in Hans’s long

  list of girlfriends that’s sure

  to get longer.

  Instead, I laze away,

  imagining

  their completed sketches

  on paper as the five of us share

  music, wine, stories,

  while I take

  in deep breaths

  of rose-scented air, savoring

  these singular moments, tucking

  them in a deep

  corner of my mind

  far removed

  from the harsh reality of

  the outside world

  and locking

  them away to remind

  myself that life like this

  can exist.

  RUMORS

  As I settle into

  my newfound freedom,

  finding

  a place to live

  taking

  my first classes

  slipping

  beside Hans and his

  friends like a slim volume of

  poetry among their thick tomes

  something shakes

  me back to the ominous

  darkness closing in around us.

  Chilling rumors dart

  from mouths to ears

  about plans Herr Hitler is

  carrying out, plans that have blown

  up and expanded

  and twisted, plans

  that have become

  reality to Jews in

  Germany, in

  Poland, and beyond:

  countless concentration camps

  unwanted resettlement

  systematic

  murder.

  A PRAYER

  Summer arrives

  with a letter from Fritz,

  in Russia leading

  his unit east, and he shares

  more details that make

  all the rumors I’ve heard

  undeniable.

  It’s shocking,

  the way my commander

  callously tells me of

  the slaughter of

  all the Jews in occupied Russia,

  the way he matter-of-factly supports

  this behavior.

  How happy I was

  to return

  to my field cot

  to you

  to my prayers.

  I say

  a prayer too,

  but I fear

  our prayers

  will do

  nothing.

  A LEAFLET

  I’m standing

  in the corridor during a

  break between lectures

  when Traute bursts

  forward, thru
sting

  a paper at me.

  Read this.

  She whispers, stealing

  a glance over her shoulder.

  I hold

  the paper close, skim

  the typewritten page, take

  in its daring, fearless words.

  Isn’t it the case that

  every honest German today is

  ashamed

  of his government?

  It’s as though whoever wrote

  this was reading

  my mind.

  Boom-boom,

  boom-boom.

  A leaflet—just like

  the bishop’s.

  I read

  more.

  Carry out passive resistance—

  resistance—

  wherever you are, impede

  the atheistic war machine before

  it’s too late!

  I read on and on, digesting

  a passage by Schiller,

  an author whose works sit

  on our shelves at home, until I come

  to words I recognize well, this

  time by Goethe.

  And the beautiful word of freedom is

  whispered and stammered,

  until in unfamiliar novelty we cry

 

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