by Kip Wilson
from the steps of our temple
once again captivated:
Freedom! Freedom!
Traute and I stare
at each other while the lines
from this leaflet thunder
in my ears
though
we say nothing,
the silence echoing
through the hall.
THE FUTURE
The bell rings, Traute and I bid
each other farewell, I turn back
to the lecture hall, the truth sharp in my mind.
Hans started
this without
me.
Duplicating leaflets and sharing
them with the world—
this was my idea.
My own brother excluded
me, probably thinking,
She’s only a girl.
And instead of me, he might
have brought someone else
into his confidence.
Certainly not Traute (another girl). Not
Christoph, not with his wife and
children. Maybe Alex?
Bitterness bubbles up inside me, but I can’t
confront Hans now—not when he’s leaving
for the front in a few weeks.
Not the time to talk
of a future
that might not happen.
INKY HANDS
The next time Hans comes
over, I almost say
something dozens of
times, but mostly I
observe
him with new eyes—
my brother I already
so admire,
the center of the circle here,
its sun—
and I’m already
less angry with him for doing
what I would have done myself
and instead I feel
proud,
especially when a glance
at his ink-stained fingers confirms
my suspicions.
Wear gloves
next time, I
silently beg.
ANOTHER LEAFLET
If I thought the first leaflet was
powerful, it’s dwarfed by the
second, with its attack
on each and every
one of us.
My heart aches
as I read
details
of the bestial
murder of 300,000 Jews
of the annihilation of the youth
of the Polish aristocracy
accusations
of
the
apathetic
behavior
of
Germans.
Worse, when I read
a German shouldn’t only feel pity—
no, much more: complicity
guilt washes over me
over what I’ve done
and haven’t done
and how I contributed to this
reign
of
terror
and I for one refuse
to be guilty
going forward.
A PROMISE
My resolve steadies
as I read the next leaflet’s call for
sabotage in armament plants,
sabotage at all gatherings,
sabotage in the areas of science and scholarship,
sabotage in all publications.
The boys are about to leave
for the front, but I swear,
when Hans returns,
he won’t be able to keep
me from his side.
WHITE ROSE
Another day, and
one more leaflet winds
its way into
my hands.
Breathless, I read
Every word
that comes out of Hitler’s mouth
is a lie.
While all of the leaflets are
dangerous, while all of them are
treasonous, this one is
more—pithy, sharp, aggressive.
My blood pulses
through my veins
as I read
We must attack evil
where it is strongest,
and it is strongest
in the power of Hitler.
The leaflet ends
with the most ironic
words of all:
The White Rose
will not leave you
in peace!
The White Rose is
the perfect name
for these efforts—
poetic, pure, full of mystique—
but the truth is
once the boys report
for duty, they’ll be away
at the front, they’ll be
leaving Munich
very much in peace.
Even though they must have spent
hours
typing, duplicating, sending
these leaflets,
there won’t be more after they leave.
Perhaps some of the recipients have made
more copies, sent them on, widening
the circle of the White Rose.
But many more have probably destroyed
the papers, too afraid to let
the ink stain their hands.
A LAST RESPITE
With time running
short, we all escape
to the mountains, invited
by Christoph’s wife, Herta,
for the weekend.
Tucked away in their
home a world away from
Munich, it’s easy to breathe,
easy to see
what still matters here:
the bubbly laughter
of children
the gentle kisses
of young lovers
the everlasting beauty
of the hills
the flowers
the sky
the things that
everyone
deserves.
AN APOLOGY
In Munich for only
one
more
week, I can’t
stay silent any longer.
I know Hans is
leaving for the front, I know
he might not return,
and in case he doesn’t,
I need him to know
that I know.
Leaflets in hand,
I present myself in the
atelier—a private space our new
friend Manfred offered
Hans for gatherings while he’s
away on business.
With one glance
at me, Hans breaks,
dissolves, spills
the truth.
I’m sorry for not telling you.
It was Alex and me—no one else.
But we can do more
together
if we make it back
alive.
I nod, we embrace, my fear
for his life eclipsing
all else.
ROBERT MOHR, GESTAPO INVESTIGATOR
June 1942
More envelopes
are turned in to the station:
addressed
to professors,
writers,
artists,
people typically sympathetic
to such weak, liberal ideas.
Leaflets
criticizing the Reich,
leaflets
calling for resistance,
leaflets
filled
with treason.
The hunt
for the masterminds
of this plot
begins.
THE END
FEBRUARY 20, 1943
A Golden Bridge
I have nothing
more to say,
Herr Mohr has nothing
/>
more to ask,
and yet the next
time he summons
me, he throws
me a lifeline.
You can still save
yourself, Fräulein Scholl.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
A sliver of light enters
the room, and I’m certain
the entire world can hear
the pounding in my chest.
Tell me you were only
following your older brother,
and I’ll recommend
setting you free.
My heart, beating
so confidently moments ago,
whimpers, withers, dies,
but my voice gathers
courage:
Nein.
ROBERT MOHR, GESTAPO INTERROGATOR
The girl’s fate
is out of my hands.
She refuses
to betray her brother.
She refuses
to let me help her.
With her conviction,
her confession,
her brashness,
she has brought all of this
upon herself.
THE NEW PRISONER
When my cellmate, Else, tells
me they’ve captured
another member of the
White Rose, I stiffen,
frozen, waiting for the
verdict. Who?
You’ll be glad to hear it’s not
the friend you were worried about—
Alex Schmorell?
I press
my lips together, wait
for the blade to fall.
Boom-boom,
boom-boom.
It’s someone you hadn’t mentioned.
Someone named Christoph Probst.
Christoph?
Christoph?
In an instant, I’m back
at his cozy home a few
months ago, surrounded
by his family—
his children—
safe
from everything
except
fate.
Nein.
I turn
from Else, face
the wall, this news
a boulder attached
to my heart, dragging
me to the depths.
BEFORE
1942
The Farewell Party
I kiss each guest hello
Traute
Alex
Christoph
the boys’ new friend Willi.
Not much later, Professor Huber—
my favorite philosophy professor, whose
lectures even medical students attend—
stops by.
It’s meant to be
a lighthearted evening at
Manfred’s atelier before
Hans and the others have to catch
an early-morning train
that will take them far
away to the eastern front
and the death
and destruction
that awaits them there.
But the air crackles with fear
of the unknown
sizzling off the boys
burning their shadows
into my mind,
and I hope
beyond hope that
they all return, especially
Hans.
After the boys catch their train,
I’ll be off to Ulm, with
nothing more
than the promise
of a bleak summer working
in an armaments factory,
but I know I’m lucky
my summer also holds
the sanctuary of home
no danger of losing my skin—
my dread channeled instead
toward the lives
of others.
But first, tonight.
I open bottles of wine and breathe
in conversations and freeze
time in moments, capturing
each gesture
each glance
each grin
cataloguing
them in my heart.
MANFRED’S TRIP
As if the mood couldn’t
get darker, Manfred shares
gruesome details
from his latest trip to Poland.
My skin grows
cold as he recounts
how squads of deadly SS Einsatzgruppen
marched in
rounded people up
smashed rifle butts against bone
left behind pits heaped high
with layers of Jewish bodies.
Hans and I share
a glance as
images I cannot un-imagine
fill my mind with
horror.
I catch a similar glance
between Alex
assigned to the same unit as Hans
and Christoph
assigned to a unit near home to be close
to his young family.
Christoph and I are staying
here,
Hans and Alex are going
there.
The silence
shrouding the room
overwhelms.
SAVING LIVES
When conversation gradually starts
up again, the boys turn
their attention to the weapons
they’ll carry to the front, to the question
Will you fire them
or not?
Willi, the only one
who’s already spent
time on the eastern front, raises
his eyebrows, glancing
at the others.
He says nothing.
If I have to,
Hans whispers,
in defense.
But Alex shakes
his head.
I’m half-Russian and won’t shoot Germans,
half-German and can’t shoot Russians.
I take comfort knowing
that at least someone refuses
to be part of this madness.
Even one less bullet
can mean
one more life.
EXPECTATIONS
Over empty wine bottles, discarded
glasses without a drop remaining,
the last conversations lower
to a melodious hum
between
Manfred and me
Christoph and Alex
Professor Huber and Hans.
With the sendoff almost
over, all I can hope
is that we’ll have a reunion
some months down the road.
His eyes wide and bright, Hans shakes
Professor Huber’s hand,
Christoph blinks furiously like he’s willing
back tears, whispers
earnest thoughts to Alex.
Manfred bends
toward me as I help him return
the studio to order.
You must write them
cheerful letters while they’re away.
They’ll see terrible
things in the east.
I nod, remembering
Fritz’s latest letter, hoping
Hans won’t have
similar experiences, praying
this madness might come
to an end.
Manfred’s lips press
together in a grim line,
his unspoken words hanging
in the air
like rain clouds.
I close my eyes and pray
that the world will
somehow change.
But I know it isn’t
going to change
on its own, so I know
I must pray
for the courage to
bring it about.
TH
E WARSAW GHETTO
Letter from Hans, July 1942
Dear family,
After the long journey
through Germany and Poland,
Alex, Willi, and I clump together,
ambling through Warsaw
in train-crumpled uniforms,
trying to s t r e t c h our legs.
We share cigarettes,
coughing not when the smoke
enters our lungs,
but when we stub them out
and breathe in the polluted city air
that seems to grow thicker around the ghetto,
where the situation is just
as we’ve been informed.
What’s happening here
makes me sick to my stomach.
THE ARMAMENT FACTORY
Back in Ulm
after the boys leave,
I carry out
my despicable duties at the
armament factory,
trying to be grateful
for the life I lead here
far away from the pummeling,
punishing hammer of artillery
that I pray doesn’t reach
Hans or
Fritz or
the others.
I might not be brave
enough for actual sabotage,