White Rose

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White Rose Page 6

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,

 

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