Franka was in her apartment when the Gestapo came for her a few weeks later. Her trial was set for April, along with several other members—the panic that had overtaken the Nazis upon the initial arrests had seemingly subsided. The Gestapo questioning she underwent was milder than she’d imagined. She realized after a few minutes that they thought she was too gentle, too pretty, and too much of a girl to have had anything to do with an organization as reprehensible as the White Rose. It seemed like the investigators had already made their minds up about her, and all she had to do was play along. They knew that Hans and Sophie were the driving forces behind the movement, and that Willi, Christoph, and Alex were the other main actors. The interrogators merely wanted Franka to corroborate the story that they’d already formulated about the group and about her role as the leader’s unwilling girlfriend, the loyal Aryan girl misled by the traitorous dissidents. Her role seemed vital in the narrative the National Socialists were trying to spin to a fascinated, shocked German public. The lawyer her father hired could barely believe their luck.
“I don’t think they’d go so easy on you if you weren’t so pretty,” he said.
“The important thing is to get out of this alive,” her father said. “Say whatever you need to say to get out of this with your life. Denounce the organization. Save your skin.”
Franka wanted to speak up for the cause, wanted to tell the court that she was proud of what they’d done, and that Hitler was the murderous traitor. “How can I denounce my friends? That would mean turning my back on everything I believe in. How could I live with myself?”
“Don’t do it for yourself. Do it for me. I need you now, more than ever. Don’t leave me. Live on. For me.”
So she did. She denounced the White Rose in front of the court, stating that she’d been led astray by the dangerous revolutionary her boyfriend had turned out to be. Her heart was ragged inside her, every denial tearing another strip away. Her father smiled at her across the courtroom, giving her the thumbs-up as she declared her loyalty to the Reich. She thought of Hans, and the rousing final speech in support of freedom he’d given in that same courtroom. But as her father said, he was dead now, and so was the White Rose. She didn’t have to die with them. So she sold out everything she believed in to be there for him so he wouldn’t be left alone. Franka got six months in jail. The judge proclaimed that he hoped it would give her pause to reflect on the choice of company that she kept and that once she got out, she should fulfill her duty in marrying a loyal servant of the Reich, preferably a soldier serving on the front, and bear him many children to serve the führer. She cried as the bailiff led her out of the courtroom. The shame was more than she could bear. Willi, Alex, and the professor from the university they’d drawn inspiration from, Dr. Huber, were all executed also. They were the true heroes.
Franka avoided the dreaded KZs, the concentration camps, which had become the unmentionable horror in Germany, the truth that even the most hardened Nazi supporters didn’t want to admit to. She was sent to Stadelheim Prison along with several other former members of the White Rose, where Hans and the others had been executed. She sank into a deep depression. The ghosts of the fallen heroes of the White Rose haunted her dreams. Time passed. Her depression deepened. Her father regularly sent letters, and the promise of the next one was the only thing that kept her alive. His kind, hopeful words were the only sign of love or beauty in a world that had been stripped of such things. The letters stopped in October. Her father had been killed by a stray bomb dropped from an Allied plane. She was due to be released three weeks later. Her family was the victim of both sides in this useless, disgusting war. They had taken everything from her.
She lingered in Munich for a week or two after her release. There was little to remember from that time. She didn’t belong there anymore. She couldn’t pretend to be a part of their society anymore. The flags still flew over bombed-out buildings, and the swastika still adorned the countless coffins shipped home from the eastern front. A letter arrived from her father’s attorney in Freiburg. Her father’s will was ready. No one else would be in attendance. That was when she decided that she would end her life. There was nothing left for her. It seemed fitting to go back, to do it there in her hometown, near the place she’d known the most joy.
She heard the lawyer read her father’s will, endured his disapproving glares under the portrait of Hitler that hung above his desk, and the next day visited her parents’ graves. They lay nestled beside each other on a hill overlooking the city they’d lived in. Immediately after, she retreated to the cabin. The worst of the memories came at night, and sleeping alone was an unendurable torture. The pain became more than she could bear. She set out that night with no destination in mind, never thinking that she’d walk as far as she did, but there was always another hill to climb, another tree line to pass, and then she found him.
Franka finished her story. The candle, almost burned down, flickered in the room. The night was still outside—absolutely silent.
“Franka, what happened to Fredi? How did he die? What did the Nazis do to him?”
“I can’t talk about that now. I have to go.”
She shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the half-light of the bedroom.
Chapter 8
It had been a week since she’d found him. The pain in his legs had reduced to a simmer now, but he was still bound to this bed, trapped in this cabin. The light of the day outside was dying, the sun tossing out bright oranges and reds that cut through the snow-dusted glass of the window in his room. He ran through Franka’s story again and again, searching for inconsistencies that weren’t there. He hadn’t seen her since last night, since she’d walked out after telling him about her past. It had been hard not to tell her what he knew about the activities of the White Rose. He thought back to his training, to the interrogation techniques he’d learned. Her eyes betrayed a profound truth. He knew she wasn’t lying, but he also knew that she was holding something back. She’d told him most of her story, but there was something else, a missing piece. Regardless, it was almost impossible to imagine she was a Gestapo agent. If she knew he wasn’t German and had reported him, he would have been in a windowless room, staring into a spotlight. She was a traitor to the cause, had served time for activities against the regime, and had escaped the guillotine only by being underestimated by the men who’d tried her. Had she somehow worked out who he was? How? He reached over for the glass of water beside his bed and took a cool drink. If she had worked out that he wasn’t German, what else had she worked out?
Today’s weather was fine. It wasn’t easy to tell through the frost-encrusted window, but it hadn’t snowed. The cabin was likely accessible now. The world could encroach on their hidden place. He looked around. There was no room in the cabin for a listening place, for clandestine Gestapo men peering at him through holes in the wall. He heard everything that went on when she brought wood in, when she made herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. He’d heard her take a bath earlier and knew that she was reading in the rocking chair by the fire in the living room right now as she listened to the radio. She acted with absolute abandon in front of him. She listened to illegal radio stations and often spoke about her disdain for the regime. If he were a Luftwaffe officer, as his credentials said, then she could expect harsh treatment from the Gestapo if he reported her illegal activity. She was telling the truth when she said she knew. There was no other explanation. Somehow she knew.
A noise from the living room told him that she’d gotten out of her seat and was in the kitchen now. Her footsteps came toward his door, followed by a knock. The door opened. Her face was colorless and drawn. It was rare that he saw her during the day unless she had a specific reason for coming into the room. She usually came only at mealtimes, but it was still at least an hour until dinner.
“Are you well?”
“I’m quite comfortable, Fräulein.”
It was a discipline, a learned behavior, to fight back his inst
incts, to not reveal himself. He had heard her bedsprings creaking through the night and saw the rings under her eyes now.
“Franka? You’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”
“What?”
“It’s not your fault you’re alive and they’re not. And you shouldn’t feel shame for not wanting to die.” The words came without thought or ulterior motive. He was surprised at himself.
“I sold out the last thing I believed in.” She turned to him, her voice muted, her eyes on the floor. “I had nothing else in this life. At least if I’d spoken out—”
“You’d be dead now, and so would I. What good would that have done? Who would that have served? Hans is dead, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t live on.”
“It’s ridiculous—I’ve never revealed this much to anyone before. I don’t even know you.”
“Confidants are hard to come by these days.”
Could he trust her? Was her story real? What were the chances of finding someone like her? He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t, not while he knew she was holding something back.
“Franka? Is it all right if I call you that?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I want to thank you for telling me your story.”
“Are you going to report me?” she said.
“For what?”
“For listening to banned radio stations? For making seditious claims against the führer?”
“I’m not a Nazi.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Not every German in uniform is a Nazi. You should know that better than most.”
“And not everyone in a Nazi uniform is a German.”
“There is no room for questioning the government in time of war,” he said, feeling the hollowness of his words.
“The White Rose felt quite the opposite.”
“And you consider yourself a true patriot, for speaking out against the government?”
“I did once. I’m not worthy of the name now. Not after what I did. Hans, and Sophie, Willi and Alex. They were the true patriots.”
Silence hung heavy in the room. This was the time. The opportunity was dangling in front of him.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know people. It’s part of my job. I was trained to recognize when someone is hiding something, and I see you are.”
“What about you, Herr Graf?” She spat the name out as if it were sour. “What are you hiding from me?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Oh, isn’t it?”
He was aware of the gun under his pillow and knew what effect reaching for it would have on this conversation, on all of this.
“There’s something in you that you haven’t told me about.”
“You’ve told me nothing!” she shouted.
“I can’t divulge the details of the mission that I’m undertaking—”
“I know, for the good of the Reich. You reach inside me, and when I give, you only ask for more.” She stood up. “You say you’re not a Nazi, but you’re just like them. Maybe you’re the one who’s hiding something.”
She made for the door and slammed it behind her, but the lock didn’t catch, and it came ajar. The entire cabin quaked as she stomped to the kitchen. He heard her pull a chair up to the table and then the sound of her weeping.
He fought the weakness he felt within himself.
She wept alone.
What could he do stuck in this bed, in this cabin, in these mountains? Could he trust her? It was the same question, over and over in his mind, unchanging. Could she do what he couldn’t now? It was true that she’d revealed much of herself, but he could tell there was something else lurking. He could feel it. What had happened to Fredi, her brother? She’d glossed over him in the story as if he’d faded into nothing. Why wasn’t she visiting him if he was in an institution nearby? It was the last part of the riddle, the final puzzle piece. Once revealed, secrets could not be unsaid, and the pistol he’d stowed under his pillow might be his only recourse. He had to be sure. Her life depended on it.
Hours passed. Dinner never came. His water glass ran dry, and his chamber pot remained. He could hear her outside, could hear every footstep, but he didn’t make a sound. He knew they were at a tipping point, and she had to be the one to make the next move. He waited. The cuckoo clock in the hallway chimed eleven. The impenetrable black of night had turned the window into a mirror, reflecting the yellow glow of the oil lamp.
The sound of her footsteps came. She stood at the door a few seconds, the light of the oil lamp dancing through her blue eyes. He didn’t speak.
“I’m going to tell you what you want to know, but not for you, for me,” she said, her voice faded and dull. “I’ve been carrying this around with me for too long. Hans was the only person I told, but there were some details I couldn’t share even with him.”
She stared off into nothing, the words tumbling out of her mouth.
Fredi was almost fourteen when they took him to the institution in 1939. His size was beginning to work against him. He was already almost six feet tall, and as his body grew, his limbs seemed to wither. The sight of him walking was a memory now, and Thomas was struggling to lift him in and out of his wheelchair each day. Franka was going to Munich to begin her new life. Her father had encouraged her to the point of almost forcing her to take the job. He insisted that she had her own life to live and that Fredi was going to prove too much for either of them. It was best that the professionals look after him. Franka accepted her father’s wishes without protesting, but deep down she knew that it was her selfishness that was driving her away, her own wish to live a separate, independent life. She was twenty-two. Daniel was the only love she’d ever known. She wanted more. Freiburg seemed poisoned to her now. Munich, the big city, would offer a new hope.
Fredi was better than any single person she had ever known. Hatred, malice, vindictiveness, and spite—the emotions that formed the bedrock of Nazism—were beyond him. Love was all he knew. Those who knew him felt the radiance of this love. It was impossible to resist. He took with typical optimism and good grace the news that he was moving into the home, declaring that he’d have a chance to make hundreds of new friends. And so it was. When Franka came back to visit in November 1939, a few weeks after he’d moved in, it seemed as if he’d been there his whole life. Everybody knew him. Everybody loved him, and he spent almost an hour introducing her to his new friends there, from the nurses who greeted him with beaming grins, to the patients who couldn’t move, or talk, who greeted him with a nod or a raised hand. No one was immune to his spirit.
Franka came back to visit as often as she could. She returned to Freiburg every three weeks or so, visiting Fredi each time with her father, whom the staff all greeted by name. Fredi seemed happy and in the best place. Her father reiterated that so often that she began to believe it, and the guilt of her moving to Munich eased. His condition stabilized. The doctors offered no hope of a cure, but the degeneration in his limbs slowed. Fredi could get around the institution with ease in his wheelchair, and he always had somewhere to be, someone to see and cheer up.
Franka knew several of the nurses from her time in school and kept in touch with them about Fredi’s progress in between visits. The more time went on, the more at ease Franka and her father became. Their new life with Fredi was better than ever. Their father could relax for the first time in what seemed like many years. Franka’s peace of mind over Fredi’s welfare allowed her to launch into her new life with verve and passion. It seemed as if equilibrium might be possible.
The news came without warning. It was April 1941, and Franka was called to the phone at work. It was one of the nurses she knew from the institution, crying as she spoke.
The black SS vans came without warning on a Tuesday afternoon. It was a fine day, and all the patients, even those in catatonic states, were brought outside. The older patien
ts who were able to stand were told to line up. The head nurse objected but was pulled away and arrested. Men in white coats who didn’t identify themselves as doctors examined the older patients’ mouths. The staff were assured that it was all routine and would soon end. The patients were put into groups, some with an ink stamp on their chests from the attendant. One group was allowed to return inside, while the other, much larger group was herded to where the vans were parked. The patients were loaded into the vans, some in their wheelchairs, others hobbling on crutches, and some carried on stretchers. One child asked the SS commandant where they were going, and he told them they were going to heaven. They went to the vans with reassured smiles on their faces.
Fredi was nervous. It was as if some instinct told him that they were lying. Fredi fought, flailing at the nurses, begging them to let him stay. Screaming nurses who tried to come to his aid were held back with the flat edge of rifles and thrown to the ground. A smiling SS man put a hand on Fredi’s shoulder and told him that they’d soon return with wonderful stories to tell, and that where they were going offered free ice cream. Soothed by lies, Fredi began to calm. The same SS soldier took the handles of Fredi’s wheelchair and pushed him to the black van to take his place with his friends. The SS men started the children in song as if they were sending them on a day trip to the fair. Fredi waved as the door slammed behind him, and the sound of the children singing lilted through the air as they drove away.
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