“I would hope so!” I said, laughing. “You mentioned jewelry. Does Opa really work on gold and jewels?”
“Oh, yes. Even though it began as a hobby, he has become an expert. The jewelry he makes is quite beautiful. He hand-shapes silver and gold—in fact, Reichsmarschall Göring wears a ring that Opa made. The Reichsmarschall provided the stone—I think it’s a diamond—and Opa structured the gold ring around it.” Barret’s voice became bitter. “Then Opa discovered the stone had been taken—stolen, I should say—from a Jewish victim.”
“I saw Reichsmarschall Göring and his flashy rings in the newsreels back home. He looks like an arrogant buffoon!”
“He was quite a hero—an ace pilot—during the Great War,” Barret went on, “and was as popular as a movie star. Now he is in charge of the Luftwaffe—the Air Force.”
“He says Berlin will never be bombed or his name isn’t Hermann Göring.”
“Berlin was bombed in 1940,” Barret reminded me, “but it didn’t amount to much. However, it made Herr Göring and Hitler angry enough to blitz Britain fifty-seven nights in a row.”
“The bombs will come to Berlin again. The American planes have longer ranges now. I have to get out of here before then.” I sat on a chair at the worktable. “What I’d like to do is find a route for escape. I have thought of going to Bavaria. Perhaps I could discover where the secret trails are through the mountains to Switzerland.” I heaved a sigh. “But I’m sure Adrie would suspect I was there and she’d find me.”
“Sounds like you’ve already been reading and planning.”
“I have! Adrie thinks I’m learning German culture, but I’m learning German geography. I’ve been trying to find the best and easiest way out of here.”
“I thought you said this was a dream—a game you’re playing.”
“It’s becoming more than a dream, but it is still a secret. No one knows but you.”
“Well, my Princess of Secrets, I will ask Opa, ‘What would be the best route?’ I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he knows many routes of escape.”
“Please ask him. He said he’d help me.” I took a deep breath. “I’m not going to beg you to come with me, but—”
“I’ve thought about it, Wendy,” Barret cut in. “But I’m concerned that . . .”
“I know, I know. That you’d be a burden.”
“That’s one reason. The other is that if I did go and we were caught, they would find out I am Opa’s grandson. He would be in great trouble. He does so much to help people in quiet, secretive ways. I never want him to be caught.”
I felt a bit ashamed. I had almost forgotten that Opa was one of the principal men in the Third Reich. If anyone knew he helped me—or anyone else—to escape . . . I didn’t want to think about the consequences.
Barret, on the other hand, thought only of his grandfather and me—never of himself. I was realizing more and more what a wonderful person Barret was and how much . . . yes . . . how much I loved him.
40
The Winter War
During December, Barrett and I were able to meet twice a week or more, and before we knew it, Christmas was here. Celebrations were subdued because of the war. People were quiet and fearful. Germans realized they could not take over Russia as easily as they had when they’d walked in and claimed Czechoslovakia, France, and Poland. The entire world was on fire with hatred and killing.
Now Operation Winter Storm, which was supposed to resupply the German troops, failed to help the Sixth Army, and General Paulus’s men were without support and without supplies. Word crept out that the troops were starving and freezing to death as well as in pain and dying from their wounds. For the first time the question floated among the common people like a morning fog—silent, gray: Could Germany possibly lose this war? But still, it was something no one would outwardly ask.
Adrie gave me a necklace for Christmas. It had a golden heart with a ruby in the center. Engraved on the back was the word Daughter. I bought her a tortoise shell mirror with a matching comb and a brush trimmed in gold. Of course, the money came from Adrie, who had begun giving me an allowance. I also wrote a poem. It was hard enough to write in English; I didn’t dare compose it in German. It was probably awkward, grammatically, but I hoped Adrie would like it. I printed it by hand on a white Christmas card that showed a lone deer standing in the snow with a full moon overhead.
No matter if the world stops turning,
Or if the moon shuts off its glow,
Or if the sun should fade and vanish,
Or if the tides stop in their flow.
No matter who I am while living,
When I am old, or should I die.
My love for you remains forever,
You are the rainbow in my sky.
It probably sounded mushy, and I was almost embarrassed to give it to her. Still, I needed to tell Adrie that I would always love her. Someday, if I really did leave, I hoped she would remember these words.
Adrie loved the present and she kissed the card when she read my poem.
For Frieda I bought a linen handkerchief with at least two inches of pink and white tatting around it. I remembered how my mom—Aunt Nixie—had loved tatted hankies as presents. I was surprised to see Frieda’s tearful eyes when she opened the little package from me, and I wished I had given her more.
Frieda made gingerbread cookies and taught me to sing “Silent Night”—“Stille Nacht.” She had a deep alto voice that rang out like a church bell, and she stressed each word with feeling. I told her it did not make sense to me that warring nations sang the same Christmas carols, about peace on Earth, and yet were killing one another. Frieda did not answer. Instead she shook her head sadly and shrugged.
I never dared ask her about the brochure that I hid in my shoe.
41
White Rose Members Caught!
One Saturday, after visiting with Barret, I discovered Adrie was back from Munich and waiting for me. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “It’s so cold. I can’t imagine you staying out so long after being ill.”
“That’s exactly why I asked you to buy me these boots and this warm jacket.” I hoped she wouldn’t ask where I had been again. “So, how did everything go in Munich?”
“Very well, thank you. We caught the kids. They became too sure of themselves and were no longer careful. In fact, that girl—Sophie Scholl—gave herself and her brother away by tossing their extra bulletins from the second-floor atrium and onto the main floor of a university building. Stupid girl! The janitor saw Sophie and her brother and reported them to the police.”
“Where are they and what will happen to them?”
“They are in the People’s Court—Volksgerichtshof. They’ll have a fair trial and sentence.”
Frieda, who had been standing in the doorway, spoke up in German. “Who is the judge who has been appointed for their trial?”
“The presiding judge, Roland Freisler, Chief Justice of the People’s Court has already been called from Berlin.”
“Oh, he is very . . .” Frieda paused, searching for the right word. “. . . harsh.”
“He will see that justice is done,” Adrie said quickly in German to Frieda, and then in English to me. I realized Adrie was not yet sure how well I understood German.
As Frieda turned from the doorway, I saw disappointment—along with a flash of anger—cross her face.
“In other words, he is not kind,” I stated. Before Adrie could answer, I left the room and headed upstairs with Watcher at my heels.
I plopped onto my big chair by the window and stared at the somber world outside.
What would happen to the White Rose students? Adrie said they would receive a just trial, but I knew they would not. Even Frieda looked upset when she heard who the judge was. He would not be compassionate to the students. Adrie practically admitted that.
I fingered the three gold monkeys on my bracelet. They reminded me of the German people who said nothing, heard nothing, and
saw nothing. At least the White Rose group tried to speak out to the German people.
I thought about myself. I did not have a strong character, like Sophie Scholl or Johanna. I was upset when I saw bad things going on, but I wasn’t brave enough to stand up for what was right, like they had done. I felt tears rush to my eyes, and I put my hands over my face. I was just Wendy Taylor, who liked boys, nice clothes, and going to the movies. I wanted to see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.
On Saturday, Adrie was busy in her office typing up a report for the Abwehr. I was surprised when she told me that while she was in the university, she had met and talked with Sophie Scholl.
“What is she like?” I asked.
“Nothing special. I had a feeling she was one of them, as she seemed cautious about making new friends.”
Adrie frowned. “I examined the letter so many times, I memorized the first lines: ‘Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be “governed” without opposition by an irresponsible clique that has yielded to base instinct. It is certain that today every honest German is ashamed of his government.’ ” Adrie slammed her fist onto her desk. “Can you imagine? After all the Third Reich has done for Germany, these troublemakers decree it an irresponsible clique!”
“Students have a right to voice their own opinions. We had assignments back home where we had to pick some constitutional law or amendment and argue against it. It helps people to see the other side of things—”
Adrie interrupted. “Our government here—which in case you’ve forgotten, is your government—has proved it has God-given rights to take over Europe and bring a thousand years of power and enlightenment. Then these . . . Scheine . . . hand out poison to bring it down.” Adrie’s voice rose. “And that quote is only a miniscule part of the traitorous things they’ve said.”
“Johanna told me that—”
“I don’t want to hear anything that foolish girl told you.”
I ignored her and continued. “If an organization like the White Rose or the Bible Students is from God, it can’t be taken down or destroyed. If it’s not from God, it will simply fall apart eventually. So why not just wait and see what happens?”
Adrie stood up and pointed to the door. “Leave. I don’t want to argue with you about this.” She shut the door with a slam when I left.
To my surprise, Frieda was standing in the hall wearing a troubled expression. She put a finger to her lips. “Sei vorsichtig,” she whispered. Be careful.
Adrie stayed in her office for most of the day. I heard the radio turned on, and the news was mostly about the White Rose instigators’ trial tomorrow—Monday. It sounded as if they were already convicted—and I realized they did not stand a chance for a fair trial.
42
Death Trial
I slept late on Monday, February 22. As I headed down to breakfast, I passed by Adrie’s office, where she was sitting at her desk. She had the radio on, and the telephone was in her hand.
“Are you expecting an important call?” I asked, hoping to set aside yesterday’s argument.
“I want to hear the results of the trial with Sophie and Hans Scholl and their friend Christoph Probst. This one will be over quickly because after they found evidence—the printing press and more leaflets in Sophie’s apartment—she confessed.”
“What will the sentence be? Concentration camp?”
Adrie did not answer. She looked at me sideways, her eyebrows raised, as if to say, Don’t ask stupid questions.
I pressed on. “Death?”
“Of course.” The phone rang and she put her finger to her lips. “Shh!” She turned off the radio.
I did not want to hear any more, so I left the room. I went to the kitchen, where Frieda was peeling vegetables at the sink. Watcher was asleep on his blanket under the table. He must have whined or barked during the night, and either Adrie or Frieda had let him out of my room. He looked up at me sleepily, wagged his tail, and then sank his head down on his paws again.
Frieda pushed a plate of breakfast biscuits over to me and then poured cups of tea from the kettle for both of us. I picked out one bun glazed with cinnamon, apples, and walnuts. It was so good that I helped myself to a second.
Frieda, who went back to peeling turnips and potatoes, looked over at me occasionally with serious glances. Was something bothering her? I looked to see if I had spilled tea or food onto the printed tablecloth, and brushed away a few crumbs. “Is everything all right, Frieda?” I asked in German.
Frieda opened her mouth as if to speak, but then turned away, her attention on the job at hand. “Ja,” she said, nodding quickly.
At that moment Adrie burst into the room. “Well, the trial is over, and all three of those students are on their way to the guillotine.”
“What?” I jumped up. “Guillotine? You mean they’re . . .”
“Yes.” She looked at her watch. “They’re dead by now, and they got exactly what they deserved. This is what happens to traitors.”
“You said they’d get a fair trial.”
“They d-did get a fair trial,” Adrie sputtered. “They confessed, remember?”
“Confessed to what? To voicing their opinions? They were not shooting or killing anyone.” I headed for the door. “There is no freedom of speech here. There’s no freedom of anything here.”
“Don’t you dare speak of your government in that way,” Adrie warned. “You’ll end up at the guillotine yourself, if you keep this up.”
Frieda did not look at me, but as I turned to leave, I could see her hands shaking and suddenly blood streamed from her fingers onto the vegetable peels.
“Oh, Frieda,” I whispered.
She quickly tucked her bleeding fist into her apron. Her other hand she held to her mouth as if to hold back a scream.
I could not face Adrie again, so I raced up the stairs to my room and closed the door. The very thought of that brother and sister facing the guillotine just a few moments ago made me ill.
I didn’t know how long I sat there. Maybe an hour. No one came to see where I was or what I was doing. Adrie didn’t attempt to talk me out of my anger and shock at the outcome of the trial. She was probably tired of arguing with me or trying to make me the perfect German maiden she wanted for her daughter.
Frieda was so upset too. Was it because of the students? Or was it because of my attitude and the things I said? Poor Frieda! Her hand was cut badly, but she did not want Adrie to see.
I stood up and went to the window. The trees were bare, their limbs like skeletons. The world outside was gray.
This is Berlin, Germany, I thought. And I do not belong here.
43
A Gift from My Father
It snowed this week—three days in a row. On Wednesday, after the snow had melted a little and been packed down, I put on my boots and warm jacket and walked to Barret’s house. Watcher trotted along ahead of me. Barret had made hot chocolate and cookies. I was always amazed at the things he could do without his sight. Since it was bright and sunny, we brushed off the snow from the picnic table and benches, then sat and enjoyed the bright sunshine. Because it was too slippery to drive, Opa stayed home that day and joined us.
We talked about the terrible fate of the White Rose students. “I wonder if Johanna had to face a guillotine,” I said. “I can’t bear to think about it.”
“Now that you’ve lived here for a while, how do you feel about your own life here?” Opa asked.
“I don’t want to stay here another day.”
Opa gave me a long, serious look. “Barret told me you might want a way out.”
“I’ll go whenever and wherever you say.”
“The war is coming closer and will become more violent. It will be more difficult for you to leave by then.” He began his usual task of filling his pipe bowl with tobacco. “My advice to you now is to get out while the getting’s good—as they say in England.”
“But it’s winter, Opa,” Barret objec
ted. “It would be better to wait until spring, ja?”
“By the time she’s ready, it will be spring,” Opa added. “A few months ago I wouldn’t have encouraged your leaving, Wendy, but since the surrender in Stalingrad, and the loss of German submarines in the North Atlantic, I am sure Europe will be invaded before long. Then there will terrible times ahead here in Germany—and Berlin, especially. There is much to do if we are to help you escape. I must contact people along the way who will help you make your way to Denmark.”
“Denmark? I never thought of Denmark,” I told him.
“Once you are in northern Denmark, you are only a few miles by boat to Sweden, which is neutral and willing to take refugees.”
“Is that what I will be? A refugee?”
“Ja, you are seeking refuge, right?” Opa answered.
“Oh, Wendy Vendy, I will worry about you . . . ,” Barret started to say.
“We must keep personal feelings out of this, Barret,” Opa said with a frown. “We will provide Wendy with maps, addresses, names, bus and train routes—along with identification papers.” He turned to me. “You will most likely need to show papers at every train depot and border, Wendy. I will get them together for you.”
A shiver went up and down my back. Opa spoke rationally and realistically, I knew my escape was really going to happen. But could I do it? Could I get to Denmark by myself in the middle of a war?
“What about money?” I asked. “I don’t expect you to provide the funds. I will start saving right away. . . .”
Opa laughed. “Oh, my child, your father prepared for whenever you would need help with your life—either here or in America. He knew quite well, even before you were born, what was ahead here in Germany—especially with Hitler as the Chancellor.” Opa motioned to the barn door. “Come in here with me. I have something to show you.”
Once inside the barn, Opa opened a cabinet that was stacked with books. He looked them over, then pulled four books from the top shelf. Reaching back into the empty space, he dragged out a rough, unpolished wooden chest. Motioning for us to gather around, he set the chest on the table and turned on the overhead light.
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