by Kip Wilson
but I work painstakingly slow,
manufacturing as few
arms as I can.
THE VAST LANDSCAPE
Letter from Hans, August 1942
Dear family,
Russia is a giant church
with an infinite sky for a roof,
the music of thunderous artillery
resounding through the air, its organ.
Werner and I take long walks
in the countryside—
what a miracle he’s stationed
only a few kilometers away!—
we all trade schnapps and stories and songs
make friends with daughters of local farmers
and Alex and I share cigarettes
with Russian prisoners
until those in charge slap
our wrists for being kind.
We shake our heads,
objecting to the lack of humanity,
but here it’s hard to find
any humanity at all.
DUPLICATION
Away from Munich,
one thing is
clear.
I’m sure Hans can use
a second
duplicating
machine.
I must ask
Fritz again
for some money.
VATI’S TRIAL
Almost as soon as I return
home, Vati’s hauled
into court, where he’s sentenced
to four months in prison
for calling Herr Hitler
a scourge of God
in his office.
It’s a name
Vati’s been calling
the Führer
for years.
But this time
his secretary
overheard.
FACTORY LIFE
Letter to Fritz, August 1942
Dear Fritz,
Vati’s cornered
in prison while I sit,
helpless,
in front of the
same machine
doing the
same tasks
day after day
in the armament factory.
My soul aches.
MUTTI’S PLAN
After Vati’s trial, Mutti frets,
despondent,
but only for a day. She writes
the boys with a plan:
Vati’s been sentenced,
you and Werner
must write appeals for clemency.
Bitte, Hans.
Support from soldiers on the front
could help reduce Vati’s sentence.
I give Mutti a hug—
all the support I can offer—
knowing that Hans’s pride
will never allow
him to plead
for mercy.
SUFFERING AND SURVIVAL
Letter from Hans, August 1942
Dear family,
Vati’s imprisonment starts today.
I’m so sorry for him, and for you,
but writing an appeal for clemency
is impossible. I won’t beg. I just can’t.
It’ll be hard for Vati at first—as I know
all too well—but he’ll only become stronger.
Today Alex and I came across
a Russian body
no one had bothered to bury,
and the only thing we could do
was to give him peace
under his own soil.
His head
was detached,
his body
crawling with worms,
his heart
bled into the earth below
one with his homeland
forever.
ROBERT MOHR, GESTAPO INVESTIGATOR
August 1942
After such progress
in the investigation
during the summer,
the trail has gone cold.
No new leaflets,
no new envelopes,
no new evidence
of treason.
I’m back at my desk,
pacing, fidgeting, twitching,
waiting
for the phone
to ring.
HUMANS AND MONSTERS
Letter to Fritz, August 1942
Dear Fritz,
After another endless
day carrying out soulless
duties hunched
over armaments
in the factory, sitting
next to a Russian worker
imported to make weapons
to use against her countrymen,
all I want to do
is scream.
The poor girl doesn’t even understand
the things the overseers order
her to do, responding with the same
smile as always.
In rare moments of peace, I sneak
her snacks and she and I swap
vocabulary, demonstrating to
my German coworkers
that Russians are human beings, too.
So many women in front
of so many machines reminds
me of slavery, except
most of the German women
willingly chose
their own slave driver.
VISITING HOURS
I come home after
work at the factory for
a simple supper
with
Mutti
Inge
Liesl.
Almost half our chairs
here at home stand
empty, waiting for
Vati
Hans
Werner.
Once we wash
up the dishes, I grab
my flute, stand
on the sidewalk
as near as I can get to the
walls of Vati’s cell and play
a tune I hope
will lighten his soul:
The thoughts are free.
If Vati hears it, he’ll know
the message
is meant for him.
THANK YOU
Letter to Fritz, August 1942
Dear Fritz,
Danke for sending
me the money!
It will most definitely
be put to good use.
INTERMISSION
At home, I sit
at the piano, play the same Bach piece
I once practiced daily, stumbling
through the music like
I’m once again learning
to walk, feeling
each key
under my fingers,
each note
in my soul
light
airy
profound.
Until Mutti breaks
my musical trance, clutches
the paper to her chest, says,
Ach, nein! Not Ernst Reden!
and I’m frozen, knowing
another of our friends
has fallen,
killed
by this senseless war.
DEAD BOYS AND GIRLS
I get
to my feet, stand
at the window waiting
to be overwhelmed
with feelings
and yet
when
a single
tear slips
out of my eye
and rolls down my
cheek, I feel
nothing
at all.
DECIDED
I turn
to the room, wipe
that single tear
away,
say,
That’s it.
I’m going
to do
something
about this.
ACTION
I go
to a friend’s for lunch, look
over my shoulder,
&nb
sp; pause,
pull eighty Reichsmark
from my pocket, pass
it across the table to him.
This high school boy—Hans—
is the younger brother
of another friend
and he looks
naïve
eager
skittish
as he pockets the money.
His voice squeaks
but he says,
I’ll let you know
when I have it.
THE FUTURE
With the boys still away
my fear for their lives
mounting
every single night
my own long days
at the mind-numbing factory
in Ulm are crawling
to an end, like they are
for Vati,
who is soon—finally—
to be released.
This regime and
my shameful
complicity
in it make
me sicker every day,
and all I want to do
is stop,
do the right thing,
atone
for my actions.
Soon I’ll be back in Munich,
where I can convince
Hans I’m ready to do more
and I won’t
take no for an answer.
OMINOUS AUTUMN
Letter from Hans, October 1942
Dear family,
Today I received your news
that Vati’s to be released early,
and my thoughts are with you all.
I can’t wait to be home—just two more weeks.
I hope I’ll see Werner
one last time before I leave.
At least we’ve been able to spend time
together here.
It’s fully fall now, and my frosty breath
mingles with cigarette smoke,
hanging over me like a cloud.
Soon it’ll be winter.
ULM HAUPTBAHNHOF
Chug, chug, screech.
The boys poke
their heads out the train’s door, spot
me on the platform, burst
into smiles.
Hans! Alex!
They’ve come
back, windswept and disheveled,
but alive.
Warm, smelling like
wet wool,
caked-on mud,
traces of sweat,
they wrap
strong arms around
me, around
each other, around
home.
Tonight
we’ll have wine
and sing
and talk
and breathe
until the sun comes up.
THE BREADWINNER
Letter to Fritz, November 1942
Dear Fritz,
Though Vati is home now,
today he was informed
he can no longer work
as a tax accountant.
We expected this after
his court sentence, but
it’ll still make
things quite difficult for us.
Even if he finds
some bookkeeping work,
it won’t pay as well,
so we might not be able to keep
the flat on the Münsterplatz.
Danke for offering
to help—we'll need it. But for now,
I’d be most grateful if you could
send me a package of envelopes.
ARRIVAL IN MUNICH
When we return to Munich,
Hans reminds me of me when I
was here the first time, falling
into this circle of
friends
smiles
camaraderie
at the safe haven of
the university’s halls
lectures
labs.
He even falls
in love, this time with
my friend Gisela
(already replacing Traute, now a friend)
all of this in spite of the world crumbling
to bits around us.
I wish I could be
so light of heart, but
with everything I now know,
I’m ready to do whatever I can
to turn the German tide
against itself.
FRANZ-JOSEF-STRASSE
In the new flat I’m sharing
with Hans, I corner him, tell
him what’s been worming
through my mind since he left
for the front.
I have ideas, plans, ways
we can share our views
with the university
the city
our country
the world.
I can’t wait any longer.
Cheeks pale, his lips
a thin line, Hans nods.
I knew
you’d want to help right away.
A pause.
I’m sorry again I didn’t tell you
in the summer.
I was only trying
to protect you.
Danke.
I raise my chin.
But I don’t need
anyone’s protection.
TOO YOUNG
The next time I’m in Ulm, I find
out from young Hans
that he indeed procured
a duplicating machine with
the money I gave him.
But someone he thought
was a trusted friend informed
the Gestapo
so Hans did the only thing he could
before it was too late:
he took the machine
to the Schiller Bridge, threw
it in the Danube, drowning
my hopes along
with it.
ALEX AND CHRISTOPH
Back in Munich, and Alex brings
Christoph by to visit,
and his face is long, his eyes
tremendously sad.
Christoph tells
us the same thing I told Hans:
I need to do something.
We all agree we can’t endanger
Christoph, not with Herta and their
young children at home—
especially not with
the family’s third baby on the way—
but Hans of course sparks
to life, challenging
Christoph with something less risky:
drafting a leaflet.
Something that can
open people’s eyes.
Something that shows Germans
that losing to the Allies
could be the best thing for Germany.
Christoph pulls
his pipe from his pocket, goes
back to sit beside Alex, takes
a pinch of tobacco from his pouch.
Hans follows,
lights a match,
its flame
sizzling to life.
Drawing in a deep breath
of thick, smoky air,
Christoph nods, his eyes no longer
sad but whirring
with new purpose.
THE REAL ME
Letter to Fritz, November 1942
Dear Fritz,
I have a
request
confession
prayer.
I haven’t told anyone
else about this, but I know
you’ll understand.
I’m filled with
fear
and nothing but
fear
and all I want
is for something
to take
this fear
away.
Please think of me
in your prayers.
You’re forever
SUPPLIES
To prepare
for our next leaflet mailing,
I take it upon myself to head
to the post office
on Ludwigstraße,
where the clerk eyes
me with suspicion
making me eye
the door
as he hands
me the one hundred stamps
I request.
Next time,
smaller amounts,
more
post offices.
At the stationery store,
a stack of envelopes
a pile of paper
ink
for the machine.
Whenever the boys are
ready, we’ll have
all the materials
we need.
ROBERT MOHR, GESTAPO INVESTIGATOR
December 1942
After months of inactivity,
a clerk at the post office
on Ludwigstraße
has reported
something suspicious: