ALSO BY EOIN DEMPSEY
Finding Rebecca
The Bogside Boys
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2018 by Eoin Dempsey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503954052 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503954056 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781503954069 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503954064 (hardcover)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
First Edition
This book is for my son Robbie
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
White Rose Black Forest is inspired by true events. However, certain factual elements and the timing of events have been altered for the sake of the narrative.
Chapter 1
The Black Forest Mountains, southwest Germany, December 1943
This seemed a fitting place to die. A place where she had once known every field and tree, every valley, where the rocks had names, where meeting places were described in clandestine languages adults could never understand. A place of gushing mountain streams shining like burnished steel in the summer sun. This was where she’d felt safe. Now even this place felt poisoned, ruined, all beauty and purity choked to death.
The quilt of snow was thick on the ground, unrelenting as far as she could see in any direction. She closed her eyes, pausing for a few seconds. The haunted howling of the wind, a rustle in the branches of snow-laden trees, the rushing of her breath, and the beating of her heart. The night sky loomed above. She kept on, the crunching sound of her footsteps resuming. Where was the right place to do such a thing? Who would find her? The thought of some children out playing in the snow coming across her body was too much to bear. Perhaps it would be better to turn back, to relent for one more day at least. A tear formed in the corner of her eye and slid down the numbed skin of her face. She walked on.
The falling snow began to thicken, and she adjusted her scarf to cover her face. Perhaps the elements would take her. That would be a most fitting end—a return to the nature she’d loved so much. Why was she even still walking? What was there to gain from wandering through the snow like this? Surely the time had come to just be done with it, to end the agony. She reached into her pocket and felt the smooth metal of her father’s old revolver through her gloves.
No, not yet. She continued forward. She’d never see the cabin again. Or anything or anyone for that matter. She would never know how the war would turn out, or see the National Socialists fall or that madman stand trial for his crimes. She thought of Hans, his beautiful face, the truth in his eyes, and the unimaginable courage in his heart. She hadn’t even had a chance to hold him one last time, to tell him that he was the reason that she believed that love could still exist in this grotesque world. They’d cut his head off, tossed it into the casket alongside his body, and laid him down beside his sister and his best friend.
The snow was still coming down, but she kept on, the trees of the forest on her left as she crested a hill. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and something ahead caught her attention, a mound in the snow about two hundred yards away. A body, crumpled like a bunch of rags in the pristine white. No footprints leading to it. It wasn’t moving, but the still-attached parachute ruffled in the wind, licking at the snow like a thirsty animal. She instinctively swiveled her head, even though she hadn’t seen a living soul in days. She moved forward with caution, the paranoia ingrained in her making her perceive every shadow and every breath of wind as a deadly threat. But there was nothing and no one.
The snow was gathering on his unmoving body, much of him almost invisible against the film of white. His eyes were closed. She brushed snow off his face and reached for his pulse. The patter of his heartbeat came through the skin in his neck. Icy-white breaths plumed out from between his lips, but his eyes remained closed. She drew back, looking around in a desperate search for some kind of help. She was utterly alone. The nearest house was hers—the cabin her father had left her—but that was almost two miles. The closest village was five miles or more—an impossible distance in these conditions even if he were conscious. She brushed the snow off his chest to reveal a Luftwaffe uniform with the insignia of a captain. Of course he was one of them—one of the monsters who had destroyed this country and taken away everyone she had ever loved. Who would know if she left him to die? She should just leave him like this. Soon they would both be dead, and no one would ever know. It would merely amount to two more bodies in the snow to join the deluge. She trudged a few paces away. Her legs stopped moving, and then, before she realized she’d made the decision, she was bent over him once more.
She tapped him on the cheek, calling out. She pulled up his eyelids but elicited no response other than a gentle groan. The Luftwaffe captain was propped up by the backpack he wore, his head lolling back, his arms spread on either side. He was tall, probably six feet or more, and might have weighed almost double what she did. A claw of anxiety dug into her as she thought about the impossibility of carrying him back to the cabin. There was no way. Still, she tried to lift him and managed only a few inches before her legs gave way and she slipped, dropping him back onto the snow. His backpack must have weighed at least fifty pounds and the parachute another ten. The parachute could stay on for now, but the backpack had to come off. After a few seconds of trial and error, she undid the straps on his backpack and pulled it out from under him, causing his body to collapse back onto the snow with a gentle thud.
She put the pack to the side and glanced at the sky. The snow was coming heavier. They didn’t have long. She checked his pulse again. It was still strong, but for how much longer? An impulse drove her to plunge a hand into his jacket pocket. She took out his identification papers. His name was Werner Graf. He was from Berlin. And in his wallet was a picture of a woman she assumed was his wife, posing with two smiling daughters around three and five. He was twenty-nine—three years older than she. A deep breath billowed out of her lungs as she stood to stare at Werner Graf. She had trained and worked to help other people. That was who she had been—and who she could be again, if only for a few hours. She placed the papers back into his pocket before moving around behind him again. She put her arms under his armpits and heaved with every sinew of strength she had. His upper body moved, but his legs caught in the snow, and he let out a loud yelp of pain as they came free. His eyes were still closed. She placed him back down and moved around to examine his legs. His pants were ripped, and she almost recoiled as she felt broken bones pressing against his skin. Both legs were broken below the knee. It was possibly the fibulae but certainly the tibiae that were affected. They would heal in time if set properly, bu
t walking was going to be impossible for now.
Perhaps it would be better to let him pass gently in his sleep and die here in the snow. She went to his backpack and opened it to find several changes of clothes, and more papers, which she placed at the side. At the bottom, she found matches, food, water, a sleeping bag, and two pistols. She wondered why on earth a Luftwaffe pilot would be carrying such things. Two guns? Perhaps he was dropping behind enemy lines in Italy, but that was hundreds of miles from here. There was little time. Wasting time on questions would cost Werner Graf his life. She thought of his wife and daughters, innocent of the crimes he might have committed on behalf of the Reich.
She wasn’t carrying much herself—just the loaded revolver. It was all she thought she’d need tonight.
Memories of the snowbound winters of her youth came to her, the times she’d spent in this very field. The tree line she’d been skirting was only a few hundred yards away, and that distance had proved the gap between life and death for Werner Graf. She would never have found him if he’d landed in there—even if he had survived the landing. She took the sleeping bag out of his backpack, opened it up, and spread it across him before leaning down in front of his face.
“You’d better be worth saving,” she whispered. “I’m doing this for your wife and daughters.”
The field they were in was on a plateau, with the trees leading down a hill to a valley below. The conifers were covered in snow that drifted to ten feet deep or more. It took a minute or two to get over to where the trees were. She crouched and burrowed into the snow. The powder was soft, and she was able to make quick progress. No one else was coming. This snow cave would be their only chance of making it through the night. Thoughts of ending her own life could wait until she saved his.
She went to check on him. He was still alive. A tiny light flickered within her, like a distant candle in a dark hollow. She made her way back over to the hole, not thinking about how she was going to get him there, just focusing on digging, one handful at a time. Another twenty minutes and the snow cave was big enough. She climbed down inside, using her own body to smooth out the snow. She made a shelf with her hands before poking out an airhole in the top with a long stick she’d taken from outside.
She made her way back over to where Werner lay, took the backpack and the sleeping bag, and brought them across to the snow cave. It was just long enough for him to lie down, with enough space to sit up. It would do. She made her way back across to him. It must have been after midnight. The relative safety of the morning seemed years away. There would be no way to move him farther than the cave until the blizzard subsided. She took the nylon of the parachute, still attached to the straps across his shoulders, and heaved. An ugly grimace of pain came over his face as his body slid along the snow. She grasped the parachute again, pulling as hard as she could. Her legs gave way, but she’d dragged him six more feet. This was possible. Hope ignited within her, sending streams of adrenaline through her beleaguered body. She heaved again, and again. It took twenty minutes. She was wet with sweat under her thick scarf and coat, but they reached the edge of the snow cave. It was the first time she’d felt anything like triumph in what seemed like a lifetime. Perhaps since the first leaflets of the White Rose, when the excitement of standing up for what was right had overtaken them, when the promise of a better future for the German people had seemed like a reality for the first time in a generation.
Werner Graf was still unconscious. Nothing was going to wake him. Not that night. The goal of him opening his eyes again drove her forward. It didn’t matter who he was anymore, just that he was a human being and that he was still alive. She took a few seconds to rest before pushing him down the slope she’d constructed into the cave. He moaned again, the bones in his legs giving a sickening crack as she pushed him down.
The snow was still drifting down from the dark sky above, and the wind howled like a voracious wolf. The cave lit up as she struck a match she’d taken from his backpack. She hadn’t really looked at him before. He’d only been a stricken body, not a man. He was handsome, unshaven, with short brown hair. She extinguished the match and reached around to pull the sleeping bag around him. She lay down next to him, able to hear the pitch of his shallow breaths and the dull thudding of his heartbeat within his chest. They were going to need each other’s body heat to make it through this night. She put an arm around him. She hadn’t touched a man like this since before Hans died, ten months earlier. Overcome with exhaustion, she spiraled into a deep sleep.
The sound of screaming jarred her, yanked her from the escape of sleep. It took her a few seconds to realize where she was, what was going on. The dark of the cave dulled her senses until she peered up at the opening above her head. The light of the moon was visible now. His head flipped to one side. His body was still warm. He was dreaming. She settled back down beside him, using his arm as a pillow. Her eyes were just closing when he screamed out again.
“No, please, no! Please, stop!”
Her blood froze. What he said was unmistakable—it was English.
Chapter 2
She lay motionless, paralyzed by shock. No more words escaped his lips. His eyes were still clamped shut. It was still night. She was still lying beside this man, whoever he was. His chest expanded in time with his breath, more solid now. She had already saved him, but to what fate? She tried to reason that he was indeed Werner Graf. But how could he be? What Luftwaffe officer would call out in English in their sleep? She wasn’t fluent by any means, but she knew the smooth rhythm of English words. It wasn’t hard to recognize. Who was this man, and what would happen to him if she turned him over to the local police? It would be tantamount to giving him to the Gestapo. He was dressed in a Luftwaffe uniform. If he was British or American, there was no question that he would be treated, and shot, as a spy. She would die before she’d help the local Gestapo extend its reign of terror. So what was she to do?
She raised herself off his body and shimmied out of the snow cave. The icy air bit at her exposed face and felt almost liquid as she pulled it into her lungs. The snow had stopped. The clouds had been cleared aside like a soiled tablecloth and revealed the stars burning against the ink black of the sky. The winds had calmed to a gentle tickle on the tree branches. All else was unmoving. What would happen if she left him? Would he ever emerge from his sleep? Would he even be able to raise himself out of the cave once he came to? The field she’d dragged him across was smoothed over, beautiful now. Anyone could have wandered past them and never known that they were there. But the morning was coming. They were isolated up here. People were rare but far from unheard of. She estimated that she had at least three hours until the low winter sun limped over the horizon to illuminate the forest—only three hours before they might be spotted. A cross-country skier could happen upon them as they were struggling back through the snow, and then any decision-making would be taken out of her hands. This man would succumb to the Gestapo by the consensus of strangers. It was always easier to side with the Gestapo—a citizen would be rewarded for doing so, thrown in jail for not. It required supernatural strength not to do the Gestapo’s bidding. That was the genius of their system—it took fortitude of an almost unimaginable scale to do the right thing. Not reporting your neighbors was as dangerous as the antisocial activities that the Gestapo was so interested in. It meant that they had spies everywhere. It meant that the “German look”—a swift, furtive glance to make sure no one was watching—was a part of everyday life now.
The specter of her previous plans returned. She had expected her body to be found the next day, had wanted it that way. She could have wandered into the middle of the forest, where no one would have found her for months, where her flesh would have faded from her bones, leaving only the white of her skeleton to be uncovered. It seemed she had little choice now but to abandon those plans and help this man instead. If she left him in the hole, he would die. If she turned him over to the authorities, he would die. She would have to live with
the knowledge that she had helped further the perverted will of the Gestapo and the regime they represented. If she waited until dawn, she might meet someone else who would force her hand, and he would die, and perhaps she along with him. There didn’t seem to be any choice at all.
The snow had smoothed over the footprints she’d made getting here, but she knew these hills and meadows, snow covered or not. She began hiking back to the cabin. It would take more than an hour to get there, and the same to return to him. Was he a spy, or an escaping prisoner of war? But if he was a POW, why would he have jumped out of a plane into Germany? Perhaps his plane had been shot down or had run into some technical trouble and he’d been forced to bail out. Why else would he be here, in the middle of the mountains? Freiburg was only around ten miles away. Maybe he had been blown off course. Yet she’d heard no plane and seen no flak in the sky on the way out here. The bombing raids were coming more frequently. Even here. Thoughts of the bomb dropping brought with them the memory of her father, and the pain that had driven her out here with his pistol in her pocket soon followed, but the remembrance of the man in the snow cave forced her back into the moment, driving her feet forward.
She made her way down the hill she’d found the man on, back the way she came, and soon she could no longer see the snow cave, nor the tree she’d dug it under.
“Try not to worry about things you can’t control,” she said out loud.
It felt good to hear her own thoughts, felt almost as if there were someone there with her and she wasn’t alone in trying to save this man’s life.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Why are you getting involved with this man you don’t know?” The words had come out as if spoken by someone else.
She was in a state of near exhaustion when the cabin came into view. The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open. She had never expected to come here again, yet she had left it immaculately clean, a gift for the people who would find it. She took off her snowshoes, leaving them at the door as she went inside. She removed her gloves before fumbling with the matches that lay on a nearby table. The room glowed from the candle she lit, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror before jerking her eyes away. She had no desire to confront her own reflection. The embers of last night’s fire were dead in the fireplace. The wood was out back. That would be a job for later. She paced down the hall into the living area and found a bottle of brandy she then stuffed in her coat pocket. She put her hands on her head and searched her mind for anything else that might help her on the way back here with him. Her journey alone had been arduous enough. She began to wonder if it was even possible and contemplated sitting down and closing her eyes, just to rest for a while.
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