The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  “All good things, I hope.” His mouth tilts in a sideways grin.

  Unlike the others, who wear suits, a coffee-brown turtleneck sweater encases Alex’s shoulders. His voice has a cultured quality, with intonations that mark him as not altogether German. Hans has told me of Alex’s Russian heritage; he’s the son of a German vater and Russian mutter, the latter who died before Alex’s second birthday. Alex lived in Russia until he was four, when his vater took him and a Russian nursemaid back to Germany. Yet Russia remains the land of Alex’s heart, and he was never more grieved than when our country invaded his.

  “There’s another grand thing about Sophie. Along with her lovely self, look what she brought us. Wine and a birthday kuchen.” Traute brings the kuchen from the table, Hans, the wine. They place both, along with plates and glasses, on the low table in front of the sofa. Traute claps her hands. “Gather ’round, everyone.”

  The young men waste no time. Traute settles on the sofa, along with Hans. Christl takes the armchair, and the rest, the floor, sitting cross-legged on the carpet near the table. The casual atmosphere loosens the tension between my shoulders, almost unrelenting since the day I started labor service.

  “Do the honors, Sophie.” Hans slips his arm around Traute, and she leans her curly, dark head against his shoulder.

  “Your birthday is soon?” Christl asks, as I move to cut the kuchen.

  “Ja, my twenty-first. On the ninth.” I cut and plate generous slices of the brown, sweet-smelling confection.

  Once everyone has been served, Hans lifts his glass.

  “Everyone, a toast. To Sophie. May she have the happiest of birthdays, enjoy her time in Munich to the fullest, and get high marks on every exam.” He winks at me.

  “To Sophie,” the group choruses with lifted glasses.

  “Danke.” I smile, sipping the fruity, earthy wine. I settle on the floor beside Kirk, smoothing my skirt over my knees.

  “Mmm. Wonderful.” Traute dabs the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief. “You must take a piece home to Herta, Christl.” To me, she adds. “Herta is Christl’s wife. They have the two sweetest little boys.”

  “I actually can’t stay long. I haven’t seen them much lately and promised to tuck them in.” Christl sets his glass on the table, a look of deep fondness in his eyes. As if, even now, he’s not with us, but in some lamp-lit bedroom, kissing his little sons’ fresh-from-the-bath hair and reading them a bedtime tale.

  “I hope I have the chance to meet them sometime.” The kuchen is sublime, buttery and rich. I savor another bite.

  “You will.” Christl smiles, his words as genuine as if it’s already done.

  “So what do you think of Munich, Sophie?” Kirk turns to me.

  I hesitate. Honesty is not a virtue in the Germany in which we live. Unless one’s honest opinions align with the Führer’s, of course. But these are Hans’s friends. I trust him enough to know he would never add someone to his close circle who didn’t share our beliefs.

  Plate balanced on his knee, Alex swirls the wine around in his glass. The reddish liquid reminds me suddenly, uncannily, of swastikas rippling bloodred in the wind.

  How long has it been since I’ve been able to give free vent to my feelings, trusting that no ideology-tuned ears are within range? Too long.

  “Red and black everywhere.” I meet Kirk’s eyes, sensing the gazes of everyone upon me—these bright young university men. “There’s not a great building in the city that isn’t plastered with one of Hitler’s symbols. It’s disgusting, scars on our beautiful architecture. Of course, Ulm isn’t much different.”

  “I wonder how long before it becomes our symbol of defeat, instead of victory?” Alex sets aside his half-finished plate as if he no longer has an appetite.

  “That”—Kirk’s tone is quiet, but distinct—“depends on the people.”

  Alex’s eyes, twinkling moments ago, now blaze with inner fire. Looking into them makes me start. Embodied in their depths is a passion the whole army of Hitler’s goose-stepping minions, puffed up with propaganda, can’t match, much less quench.

  I cannot tear my gaze away.

  “It’s our fault, you know.” Our casual circle seems to shrink, until we’re leaning forward, hanging on Hans’s words. “We’ve allowed ourselves to be governed without resistance by an irresponsible faction ruled by dark instincts. Worse than children. Children, at least, sometimes question their parents’ decisions. But have we questioned? Nein, we’ve let ourselves be led like dogs on a leash, panting after Goebbels’s every speech, Sieg Heiling like trained monkeys.” My brother spits out the words.

  Christl nods. “Yet some have spoken out. Bishop von Galen, for example.”

  “Who’s reading him?” Darkness creeps through the window, a shadow falling on Alex’s features. Soon, it will be time to draw the blackout curtains. “He preached three sermons, which a few brave souls dared to duplicate, resulting in a few hundred copies, likely little more. That’s not enough. Germany has been allowed to nap in the middle of carnage. It’s time to wake up, for this country to rub its eyes and look around and see the truth.”

  Christl glances up. He’s no longer the gentle family man, smiling at the mention of his little ones, but a revolutionary with a fervor Goebbels, no matter how many stupid speeches he gives, could never emulate. His hands draw into fists. “It’s not just ‘this country.’ It’s our country. When this madness has ended, those who are left will be judged by the world, no matter what they thought amongst themselves. It’s action that will stand the test. Only action provides absolution.”

  The words remain in my mind long after the men leave for their lodgings. I stand at the window, peering through a crack in the stifling blackout curtain, the evening chill soaking into my bones.

  “Only action provides absolution.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annalise

  May 3, 1942

  Berlin, Germany

  BERLIN IS A PRISON. My vater, my jailor.

  I’m leaving—escaping both—today.

  I descend the stairs, case in hand. My new low-heeled black shoes make little sound against the carpet of our family’s Berlin mansion. Before Hitler claimed power, we knew nothing of such riches. We lived in a cramped apartment in a low-rent district of the city, where the faucet leaked and the queue for the communal bathroom snaked down the corridor.

  Now our residence boasts suites for each member of the family. Now I have new clothes to wear at university, a real leather suitcase.

  But at what price do these luxuries come?

  They wait for me near the front door. Mutter, the model German hausfrau, dressed in a serviceable gray dress. Wide hipped, big boned, blond haired. Once she may have been pretty, but birthing four Aryan children has left her worn and faded. At twenty-one, I’m the oldest, the only girl followed by a string of boys.

  Vater stands beside her. On two weeks leave from the eastern front, he isn’t in uniform today, though one wouldn’t know it by his posture. Shoulders square, back straight as a broom-handle, hands behind his back. Angular face, steel-blue eyes. Ever the standartenführer. With his blond hair, he’s far more the model German than the Führer. Hitler is squat and dark, and his mustache makes him appear cartoonishly absurd.

  I’ve already said “Auf Wiedersehen” to my brothers who are off to school for the day. My twenty-year-old brother, Horst, I haven’t seen since Christmas. He’s away, doing the duty of an able-bodied German son, serving the Fatherland in the Wehrmacht. Offering himself like the sacrificial lamb to be shot, blown up, or destroyed in whatever method our enemies are making use of at the moment.

  “You’re ready, dear?” Mutter’s eyes are two wide question marks in her round face. This parting is not easy for her. I hate to cause her pain, but cause it I must.

  I will break free of this cage.

  I nod. I set down my suitcase and wrap my arms around her. She hugs me back, doughy arms clinging as a child’s would, as if she wi
shes she could stop time and keep us frozen in this moment forever. A rebel knot nooses my throat, though I’ve already vowed not to cry. Without me, Mutter will be lost, the only woman in a house of Nazi-crazed men and of boys pushing to become Nazi-crazed men.

  She’ll survive, I tell myself. She’ll find strength.

  “You’ll write and tell me everything?”

  “I’ll write. And call. You’ll hear from me so often, you’ll forget I’m even away.” I kiss her gently on her smooth cheek. Her skin smells like faded lavender.

  Mutter nods. Her chin quivers, but no sobs escape. Vater says only the weak shed tears. Weak, meaning those not of the Aryan race. Poles, Jews, and the mentally ill are always termed weak. It’s one of Vater’s most scathing epithets. I suspect it’s why my littlest brother, Albert, no longer cries. Not even when he fell down the stairs and broke his arm last year. He only lay there, gritting his teeth. So brave it was almost eerie.

  Off to the side, Vater views our parting without emotion. I retrieve my suitcase and let its weight strengthen me.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Vater.” We could be two associates bidding goodbye after a business meeting. The coal of anger in my stomach gathers tinder. How little he cares for me.

  How foolish I am to even want him to.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, Annalise.” He looks me up and down, as if I’m one of his troops on review. I hold my breath, skeptical I’ll pass inspection. My blue skirt suit is new, a rarity in these days of rationed clothes. Upon Vater’s return from the front, Mutter happened to broach the subject at dinner about my getting some new things for university. A couple of days later, a box appeared on my bed with the suit, two skirts, two dresses, a blouse, and a sweater. All exceptional quality and just my size. Mutter purchased the matching hat atop my short curls—short because I hacked off my reddish-blond braids with the kitchen shears when no one was around. German girls are supposed to wear their hair braided or in a simple bun, though I can’t see why. I like my chin-length hair. It makes me feel confident, like a film star, though my skin is bare of cosmetics.

  Right now, I do not feel confident. In front of Vater, I shrivel.

  “You’ll study for a year.” Our agreement issues from his lips, a reminder. I need none. Agreeing to our arrangement is the only way I’ve convinced him to allow me to attend university. I’m to get my fill of “whatever it is I’m going to school for” and return to Berlin after a year’s time to perform the real task of an Aryan woman. Vater will choose a marriage candidate. I’m to submit, my body given over to childbearing like a good broodmare for the Reich.

  “A year.” I hesitate, looking up into his iron gaze. What am I waiting for? A hug? A handshake?

  Nothing. I’m waiting for nothing.

  He doesn’t even touch me. Just stares, no doubt counting the seconds until he can return to his study and dwell on military maneuvers for the Fatherland. I won’t embarrass myself by waiting any longer. He doesn’t need to see the hurt I strive so desperately to hide. He isn’t worth it.

  I flash Mutter a smile. She returns it faintly. I stride toward the door, turn the knob, cool metal pressing into my damp palm.

  Vater’s black Mercedes waits at the curb to drive me to the train station. I clatter down the steps in my new shoes, the warm May air soothing my skin. The driver takes my suitcase and opens the door. I climb in, settling onto the smooth leather seat. The door closes with a firm bang. I sit straight, fingers clenched in my lap as the driver stows my suitcase. My breath comes easier now. I relax my hands, flattening them against my skirt.

  A rumble as the engine starts.

  Just before we turn down the street, I glance once at the house, the stately brick, manicured shrubs, and mullioned windows. How do prisoners regard the bars that once kept them captive? Loathing? Triumph?

  A mix of both stirs through me as the house disappears from view. I do not call it home. Home, if any place in my life could be termed such, is the little apartment in the low-rent district where we lived before the National Socialist German Workers’ Party sank its teeth into our family. Vater smiled there sometimes. Mutter spoke louder, more freely, her laughter honey warm.

  Munich, my destination, will be home. There, art and study will encompass my life. I intend to drown in it, soaking in hue and texture before my world becomes a black-and-white landscape of a husband I do not love and childbirth and the endlessness of doing my duty.

  But not yet.

  “I will be free,” I whisper. The driver glances over his shoulder, but I doubt he catches my words. I say them again, a smile blooming on my lips.

  “I will be free.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kirk

  May 6, 1942

  Munich

  WHAT IS THE MEASURE of my life if I stand by and do nothing? Does the blood of Jews stain my hands any less because mine did not pull the trigger? How can I go on, day after ceaseless day, occupied with study, friends, concerts, lectures?

  How can any honest German continue with life as usual while our country sinks deeper into the mire of dehumanization?

  I remember the moment these thoughts first turned through my mind as clearly as if it were yesterday. November 10, 1938. My life is two parts—divided down the middle in a sweeping, chilling slice. The tenth of November is that slice.

  Sitting at the desk in my apartment, staring at a blank page on which I’m supposed to be writing a research paper, I see their faces, burned into my soul with searing clarity. Their eyes …

  Their eyes haunt me.

  It was after midnight when it began. I was nineteen, home after completing my term of National Labor Service—six months of manual labor building the new autobahns. I did not intend to remain home long and would soon begin the next round of required service, this time in the Wehrmacht. My parents’ way of life—their piety, their distrust of Hitler’s Reich—dug beneath my skin like splinters I couldn’t pluck out.

  I’d never denounce them. Nor did I agree with them, a state of affairs that led to years of arguments and tense silences. Including that night. I had escaped at ten p.m., slamming the front door, leaving my mutter standing in the hallway, arms folded against her sweater-clad chest, pain etched upon her features. I ended up at a nearby bierhalle, planted on a stool, nursing my second drink, the yeasty scent heavy in the air, its taste in my mouth. Smoke hazed the dim-lit room, familiar raucous laughter sounding at the other end. The source of that laughter stumped across the room, carrying an empty tray. Herr Koch.

  He leaned burly arms on the bar, smelling like he’d just eaten a keg of sauerkraut. Sweat shone on his apple-cheeked face. No matter the weather, the man always seemed to glisten with perspiration.

  “Keeping yourself scarce around here lately, Hoffmann.”

  “I’ve been away,” I muttered into my drink, fingers clenched around its handle.

  Herr Koch said something else, likely starting in on a joke, and I stood, knowing the only way to escape him was to leave. I plunked a few coins down on the bar’s grooved wooden surface. As I headed toward the door, I sensed Herr Koch’s gaze on me. Once, I’d enjoyed nothing better than swapping stories with him, one of the few times I felt like more than the Lutheran pastor’s son. But tonight, I was riled. Angry at Vater for his refusal to embrace National Socalism. Angry at myself for the words I’d flung at him. Traitor. Disgrace. Ashamed to have you as my vater.

  I pushed through the door, its hinges groaning. Cold air slapped my face. I pulled up the collar of my coat, shoving my hands in my pockets. The wool of my collar chafed my skin as I walked, long strides eating up the distance, alone with my simmering thoughts.

  I glanced up. The moon glimmered, a silver oyster in the sky. A strange glow emanated in the distance. It gave the inky sky an orange tinge. A gust of wind bore the faint, acrid scent of smoke.

  Something was on fire.

  Footsteps pounded the cobblestones, rushing past me. I walked doggedly on as a group of men jogged down the street, roun
ding the corner. I kept walking, turning the opposite way, headed toward my parents’ house.

  A crash, like the contents of a china cabinet smashing. I started. It came from somewhere nearby, perhaps the next street over. A shout followed.

  Light gleamed from a nearby two-story business—Wollheim’s Fine Furniture. A greenish-gray van sat parked next to the building. Instinctively, I slipped into the shadows, pressing myself flush against the clammy brick of a building across the street.

  The windows. I’d traveled this route dozens of times, always noting the shop’s stylish window displays. This night, a spider web of cracks pockmarked the glass, punctuated with gaping fang-like holes. Crystal shards littered the ground.

  But not only the windows. Broken and battered furnishings lay in front of the shop like debris after a storm. A chair with one leg. A lampshade. An end table.

  Had they been vandalized? My heart beat faster. I should get the police.

  Figures emerged from within the shop, forms vaguely illuminated. Two women, a man between them grasping one arm each. Both women wore kerchiefs over their hair and bulky coats.

  I took the risk of getting closer. My curiosity had vanished. I don’t know what replaced it. Maybe it wasn’t my mind that forced my feet to move nearer to the group across the street, but a divine hand.

  An elderly man walked behind the two women, also held by force, his left arm gripped by a uniformed Brownshirt. Behind him, the only member unescorted, toddled a little boy. The child looked hastily awakened from dreamland. A tiny nightcap sat crooked on his head, his shoulders covered by a coat several sizes too large. In one hand, he clutched a toy bear.

  The Wollheim family. And three SA, swastika armbands reddish smears on their biceps.

  Each breath seemed to squeeze my lungs as I bore silent witness to the scene.

  Dear God, what is going on? Not a prayer so much as a plea.

  “Schnell!” barked the man carrying a flashlight. “Out, Juden. Out!”

  Juden? These people were Jews? My brain hadn’t made the connection until that moment. My stomach knotted.