My friends are shadowy figures beside me as we walk, footfalls brisk on the cobblestones. Though the mandatory blackout has long since fallen, were it any other evening, we’d laugh and trade whisper-jokes that poke fun at Hitler.
Tonight, the men on either side of me stare straight ahead, each lost in his own thoughts. If they at all mirror mine, I do not envy them the restless hours ahead.
In minutes, we reach the street where we are to part ways. A peeling poster plastered across the brick of a nearby building declares: “With the help of all Germans, total victory will be ours.”
If what Eickemeyer told us is victory, then I welcome defeat.
“Good night.” Alex grips my hand.
“Night,” I reply, turning to Hans.
“Danke for coming.” Hans’s face is murky in the darkness.
“Hans, Eickemeyer’s studio?”
“Our base of operations.” Hans’s tone is smooth. “We’ll need one, you know. Good night, Kirk.” He nods to Alex, then walks away, steps firm and even.
I hurry through the familiar streets toward my apartment, passing few others. The buildings crouch in their places, windows hidden by swaths of black. I shove my hands into the pockets of my trousers and walk faster. Eickemeyer’s voice echoes in my ears.
“Women. Children. One on top of the other, on top of the other. Round upon round, falling into the pit.”
I will not sleep this night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sophie
May 15, 1942
THE PROFESSOR’S VOICE ECHOES through the crowded lecture hall. I shift in my seat in the back row, notebook resting on the desk, pencil in hand. I fix my gaze by rote on the man behind the podium, pretending to listen. In reality, I couldn’t be more disinterested.
Volk and Race is among my list of course requirements, a hackneyed conglomeration of ideological rhetoric, as if the professor recycled the scraps from a dozen Hitler Youth meetings. Across the hall, a row of young men in tan uniforms—members of the National Socialist Student Association sit military-straight, listening intently.
“Purity.” The professor lifts one hand. “That is what we seek as an Aryan people. A pure, united Germany rising up as one against the taint of Bolshevism …”
Applause ripples through the room, which I don’t echo. Someone coughs.
Fingertips resting on the paper of my notebook, I glance at the girl sitting next to me. She looks straight ahead, chin propped in one hand. Daringly cropped reddish-gold curls brush her jawbone, and she wears a fitted cream blouse and burgundy pleated skirt—more fashionable than most female students.
I look away, focusing my eyes on the professor, letting my mind drift. Thankfully, not all my lectures are like this. There are a few who dare to speak truth. Professor Kurt Huber is one of them. He lectures on philosophy twice a week to a packed hall of students. Rarely have I met someone with a less likely persona. He’s short, balding, and limps, more than walks, to the podium. His tone is at first husky and garbled, as if from an injury to his larynx. But when he gains his voice, it strengthens, and I’m caught up in his words and ideas, his rendering of the thoughts of philosophers such as Kant and Leibniz.
The dry remarks he occasionally interjects barely veil his contempt of current ideas. Speaking of a seventeenth-century philosopher, he recently said with a half smile, “Take care when you read his work, students. As a Jew, he may contaminate your minds.”
His lectures have me counting the days until the next, striving for excellence in my notes and assignments.
A rustling sounds to my left. I steal a glance. The girl with the reddish curls is no longer looking at the podium.
Instead, she’s reading, head bent, hand shielding the volume concealed between the covers of her notebook.
For several minutes, I alternate between pretending to focus on the professor and watching her. She’s completely engrossed, softly turning pages, fingers cupped around the top of the book in an effort to conceal it. In an instant, I’m taken back to my time at the Fröbel Seminar, where I trained as a kindergarten teacher in a vain attempt to avoid the labor service. One evening, chafing at being required to listen to a speech by Hitler on the radio, I brought a book along. Seated in a shadowy corner, I did just as this girl is now, until our teacher noticed and motioned for me to put the book away. I was fortunate in her latitude. I could have been expelled.
I risked for Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain. What is this girl reading?
The professor’s guttural voice fills the hall, as he pontificates on the greatness of the Aryan race. I glance around, scanning the other students in our vicinity. They’re taking notes or looking at the professor. Carefully, I lean over. The girl reads on.
I catch a glimpse of the spine. Heinrich Heine’s Book of Songs.
The girl looks up. Her eyes widen. Her exhale stills.
We stare at each other, gazes locked. My heart drums. Heine was a nineteenth-century poet.
He was also Jewish. Today his books are banned.
The girl is the first to look away. She stuffs the book into the satchel at her feet, then stares straight ahead.
The remainder of the lecture is completely lost on me. As the professor drones on, I’m keenly aware of the girl beside me, who dared to read a forbidden book during a lecture on Volk and Race.
Heine is one of my favorite poets. I even spoke up once during a BDM meeting, proposing a discussion of Heine’s poetry. My suggestion was met with aghast faces all around, as the leader replied in a cool tone that we only discussed true Aryan authors.
I can hear my reply, muttered under my breath, but still audible. “Whoever doesn’t know Heine, does not know German literature.”
To read Heine—or any banned author—is to go against the tide. To read it in a class populated by National Socialist Student Association members is audacious.
Finally, the lecture ends. Footsteps and voices fill the hall, as students gather their things and disperse out the double doors. A few linger behind to speak to the professor. I slide my notebook and pencil into my satchel.
When I look up, the girl is watching me. Her satchel hangs from one hand, and she stands near the middle of the row. Her gaze flickers with uncertainty.
She’s afraid I’m going to report her.
I move closer, until we’re standing a step apart. Impulsively, I whisper a stanza by Heine.
“I at first was near despairing;
Never hoped to endure as now,
And at length the whole I’m bearing;
Only, do not ask me how.”
Faint color brushes her pale cheeks. “You saw,” she whispers. “That was stupid of me.” She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have been reading.”
“I like him too.” I smile. “His Book of Songs is one of my favorites.”
The girl visibly relaxes. “Really?” Her forehead creases. “But isn’t he—?”
“Degenerate?” I finish. “What great writer isn’t?”
“I found it at a used bookshop the other day, wedged way in the back.” She gives a hesitant smile. “As a child, I was captivated by his poems. I’m glad to have a copy again.”
“I wouldn’t bring it to the university though. Especially not during this lecture. You’ll likely not have it, or your place here, long if you do.”
She nods. “I won’t.” Then she holds out her hand. “I’m Annalise Brandt.”
“Sophie Scholl.” We shake hands. A smudge of paint mars her forefinger. “Are you an art student?”
She gives a rueful glance at her hand. “Ja. It’s my major. What are you studying?”
“Biology and philosophy,” I reply.
My gaze lands on my simple wristwatch. Almost one. I’m to meet Hans in front of the fountain near the university entrance at one.
“I have to go. I’m late to meet my brother.” I grab my satchel from the seat.
“Of course.” She gives a shy smile. “Danke.”
“It was
nice meeting you.” I return the smile, and Annalise’s deepens. “Auf Wiedersehen.”
“Wiedersehen.” Annalise moves down the row, and I follow behind as we exit the lecture hall. I flit through the corridors of the university building, passing students hurrying to and fro. The sweet summer air beckons as I let myself out the double doors.
The sun pierces through the clouds; wind stirs my hair around my cheeks as I stride across the grounds. Hans will … well, knowing Hans, he’s probably late too. Caught up in a discussion with one of his friends or finishing his shift at the hospital where he interns.
My steps quicken as I reach the fountain. Water splays in delicate arcs, catching the sunlight in glittering dance and play. I move closer, tilting my face and letting the mist fan my flushed cheeks.
I perch on the sun-warmed stone edge, satchel propped beside me, face tipped toward the sun. In my time at university, other than Hans’s circle, I’ve kept mostly to myself. Traute has been welcoming and helpful, and Alex, Kirk, and Christl already seem like old and dear friends.
Still, I find myself hoping this won’t be my last encounter with the girl who studies art and reads Heine’s poetry.
Hair falling into my eyes, I check my watch again. A quarter past one. By now, the back of my navy cotton dress clings to my skin, dampened by the fountain’s spray.
The hand on my watch ticks forward. I wait.
And still Hans does not arrive.
The streetcar lets me off not far from Hans’s rooms on Mandlstraße. Linden and chestnut trees bloom in neat rows. Their fragrance perfumes the air, its sweetness one of the few pleasures not rationed.
Walking briskly, I scan the shops and apartments, their stucco exteriors painted in shades of dusky rose, buttercream, and pale blue, roofs shingled in brown. Soon, Hans’s rooms will become mine, while Hans moves to Lindwurmstraße to be closer to the university’s medical school. For now, I’m staying with an elderly professor who is Hans’s good friend.
Reaching the apartment building, I push open the door and hurry into the entry hall and up the spiral staircase, until I reach Hans’s door on the second landing. I knock once. Twice. No answer. I sigh and shift my satchel beneath my arm, fumbling for the key in my dress pocket.
My key is newly cut and sticks as I jiggle it in the lock. Hair falls into my eyes.
Finally, the door opens.
The front room is in its usual state of chaos. Books on every table and chair. Cigarette ashes on the rug. Dirty tea things and crumbs scattered across the table. I pause to admire a new French impressionist print on the wall beside the window. A lake scene done in a blur of vivid green and startling blue, a flash of orange depicting a sunset sky.
Bad housekeeping notwithstanding, I do admire my brother’s taste in art.
I tidy up and wash the tea things, glancing toward the door every few minutes, expecting to hear Hans’s step on the stair and his key in the lock.
I rub a cloth across the kitchen counter. It’s nearing six.
In the two weeks since I’ve arrived in Munich, my brother has been kind and attentive, helping me find my bearings around the city, introducing me to acquaintances. He’s also been distant. Preoccupied, as evidenced by this afternoon, when he apparently forgot about me.
I move to the front room and pick up a pile of books to move them somewhere other than the overcrowded table. My shin slams into the sharp table corner. Pain splinters my leg. I stumble, the volumes clattering around me with a terrific thud.
Rubbing my throbbing shin, I bend to pick up the scattered books. A wayward piece of paper catches my eye. I snatch it up. Hans’s scrawl fills the page.
Nothing is more unworthy of a civilized nation than to let itself be “governed” without resistance by an irresponsible faction ruled by dark instincts. Is it not true that every honest German today is ashamed of his government?
The words wrest the breath from my lungs. I stare down, the paper like a live coal in my shaking hands. It’s frayed around the edges, several lines crossed out with thick, diagonal slashes, notes scribbled in the margins. But I can’t stop reading. Parts are incoherent, scraps of thought pulled together piecemeal. My brother’s voice reverberates in my mind, snippets of conversations we’ve had over the years woven through the text.
Not since Bishop von Galen’s sermons on euthanasia have I read such bold words on paper.
I clutch the page against myself, hands shaking, my heart a wild thing inside my chest.
If the Gestapo searched this apartment, like they did our home in 1937, the consequences for Hans would be dire. Worse than before, even.
What does my brother intend to do with this? I skim the page. On the front, near the top right corner, two words catch my gaze.
Leaflet One
Bile fills the back of my throat. I well remember how the discovery of a leaflet in our mailbox containing Bishop von Galen’s statements on the murder of the ill and the degradation of our country shook our family last year. Hans’s eyes glowed as he grasped my shoulders.
“What we really ought to have is a duplicating machine of our own.”
I shake my head, standing in the front room surrounded by clutter and scattered books. There’s something of self-preservation inside each of us, no matter how brazenly we fling our words, how lofty our ideals. It’s there, innate, like trying to catch oneself from falling.
Vater, facing trial in the coming months for remarks about Hitler overheard by his secretary. Hans, still in his teens, spending weeks in prison because of his membership in a group not conforming to Hitler Youth ideals. It doesn’t matter if Vater’s words were true—of course, every one of them was. Nor if the purpose of Hans’s group was to give young men an outlet beyond endless marching and propaganda speeches.
What matters is what happens to those who take chances.
What matters is what will happen to my brother, to our family, if he is discovered.
Steps sound in the corridor. My heart hammers as I stand frozen. Hans’s light whistling, the fumbling sound of his key in the lock. The door opens.
“Hey, Sophie.” He smiles offhandedly, tossing his satchel on the sofa. He’s in uniform, likely fresh from duty at the hospital, cap atilt atop his hair.
I say nothing as he closes the door. Not one word. He crosses the room, eyebrows raised. “What’s the matter?”
I hand him the paper. He takes it, skims the lines as if seeing them for the first time.
He looks up. “What of it?”
My hands ball into fists. “What are you thinking?” The low words emerge from between gritted teeth.
His expression changes, the smile falling, something dark and serious taking its place. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I snatch the paper from him, jabbing the top corner. “Don’t play games with me. Leaflet One. You’re writing leaflets. Do you have a duplicating machine? Do you?”
He doesn’t answer.
My fingertips dig into the paper’s edge, crinkling it. “You don’t deny it then?”
Slowly, he shakes his head.
For a moment, my eyes fall closed. It’s true. My fears realized.
“How long have you been planning this?” I ask softly.
“Practically, only a couple of weeks. Mentally … years, I guess.” He gives a half smile.
“And if you’re discovered? There will be a price to pay for all of us. It’s not just your life, Hans. It’s Mutter, Vater, Inge. Every one of us.”
He nods. Swallows. “I know. If you think I haven’t considered that, you’re wrong. But I can’t continue to do nothing. Not anymore. Not after what my friend Eickemeyer told us about what’s happening in Poland. People—good, innocent people—murdered by our soldiers. Little children, Sophie, shot in cold blood.” His gaze flares. “Here it isn’t much better. They’re taking away Jews, hauling them to camps, while the rest of us are being drugged by lack of knowledge. It’s got to stop.”
“Are you
doing this by yourself?” My voice is dull. Hollow.
He shakes his head. “Kirk and Alex are helping. They’ve accepted the risk, same as me.”
Of course Alex, daring and fearless, a Russian heart beating beneath his Wehrmacht tunic, would be first in line to join such a cause. And Kirk, with his ties to the Confessing Church and passionate desire to see wrongs made right, wouldn’t hesitate to accept the cost.
I walk over to the sofa and sink down on the sagging edge, clasping my hands in my lap.
Hans joins me, sitting on the other side. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, shoulders lifting in a sigh. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper. “After all the talks we’ve had, the views we’ve always shared … you kept this from me.”
“I’m sorry.” His gaze meets mine. “I thought I could protect you.”
“So now I need protecting?” Pain leaks into my voice, in spite of myself. I thought we were equals. It stings that Hans concealed something this important.
“From this, ja.” He blows out a breath. “Please, Sophie. Forget you saw anything.”
“I can’t do that.”
He slams a fist into his palm. “I won’t let you become involved. It’s one thing to sacrifice my neck, but I’ll be dashed if I let you risk yours.”
“Why?” My voice escalates, anger rising inside, hot and sudden. “Because I’m a woman?”
He doesn’t answer.
I can’t take anymore. Not tonight.
Grabbing my satchel, I head for the door. I look at him, still sitting on the sofa, hands limp, watching me in the dimness. “I thought you knew me better. But if you think I’ll stand by and watch you take risks alone, Hans Scholl, then you don’t know me at all.”
I slam the door, the forceful jolt releasing some of the pressure inside. I clatter down the steps and out of the building.
The sky is the gray of used dishwater. Sticky air clings to my skin. I move slowly down the street, remembering.
On a grim November day in 1937, the Gestapo burst in on our family and arrested Inge, Werner, and me. Hans, away at basic training, was picked up at his base. Though the rest of us were released within a week—myself within hours—Hans languished in a cold cell throughout the Christmas holidays, while the Gestapo drilled him about his involvement in a dissident youth group: the Deutsche Jungenschaft vom 1.11.1929, known as d.j.1.11.
The White Rose Resists Page 4