The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  Mutter, wringing her hands. Kneeling by the bed in a swath of lamplight, praying for her son. Vater, swearing and vowing to go to Berlin and murder every last one of them if they harmed his children.

  That was before the war. Before things became much worse.

  I rest a hand against the nearest building, eyes closed, swallowing the cloying taste of memory. I disliked National Socialism before. After Hans’s brutal confinement, I loathed it.

  If Hans’s arrest taught me anything, it is this. The Reich punishes rebels, no matter their age, nationality, or sex.

  And printing subversive material is no mild offense.

  It’s treason.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sophie

  May 16, 1942

  LEAVING THE BEDSHEETS IN a tangle, I cross the worn floorboards and pull back the blackout curtain. Dawn streaks the sky, cresting over the pitched brown rooftops in shades of peach and gold. Barefoot, I stand looking out, hidden in the shadows, clad in a worn cotton nightshift.

  Sleep was an absent visitor. All night, I tossed and turned, thought and prayed.

  Gazing out at a wakening Munich, I draw in a shuddering breath. The words of Hans’s leaflet haven’t stopped haunting me.

  If everyone waits for others to begin, Nemesis’s avenging messengers will move closer and closer, and then the last victim, too, will be thrown in vain into the jaws of the insatiable demon …

  Hans, Alex, and Kirk. What they are doing is not born of a moment’s decision. They’re giving truth its rightful voice, even if it means risking discovery. Their very lives.

  I press my hand to my fast-beating heart, the warmth of my body penetrating my palm.

  I’m ashamed of the fearful thoughts crowding in, eclipsing all else. If I give into my fear, I’ll be no better than the rest. Buckling beneath the oppressing hand of the Reich out of cowardice. How often have I flung words forth with my brother, Fritz, Vater. How easy it is to trumpet truth, scorn the blinded. But when action presents itself, what do I do?

  Cringe away. Oh, perhaps not outwardly, but my inward feebleness longs for nothing more than a safe and simple life. My life—my family’s lives—will be neither of those things if I join Hans in his work.

  I turn away from the window, the blackout curtain falling into place. A desk and chair is wedged against the opposite wall, nearly bumping the footboard of the double bed.

  I settle onto the chair and pick up a small, worn volume. St. Augustine’s Confessions. I’ve carried it from place to place during the years of labor service, reading with a flashlight under the covers while the rest of the girls slumbered. The earnest words, as if the writer would prefer to tear his heart from his body rather than forsake God, were penned by a man who understood what it means to know the weight of one’s own emptiness.

  Perhaps today I can find comfort, some answer in these pages. I turn them slowly, gaze falling on familiar lines:

  But now my years are but sighs. You, O Lord, are my only solace. You, my Father, are eternal. But I am divided between time gone by and time to come, and its course is a mystery to me. My thoughts, the intimate life of my soul, are torn this way and that in the havoc of change. And so it will be until I am purified and melted by the fire of Your love and fused into one with You.

  I pause, caught by the words as if reading them for the first time: “Divided between time gone by and time to come, and its course is a mystery to me.” I recall the past, wonder about the future, and stand in the middle of both, betwixt and between.

  “Show me what to do,” I whisper, eyes closed, hands clasped beneath my chin. “You, O Lord, are my only solace.” I continue praying, resting my bent head on my arms, leaning my cheek against the page I just read. I’m weary. So weary …

  A crash from downstairs. I wake with a start, gingerly raising my head, neck stiff and aching. I must have fallen asleep. I stand, hair tangled around my face, walk to the window, and pull back the curtain. The sky is full morning, blazing with a radiant sun. The rays, spreading as if by a heavenly hand, mingle with the cloud-scattered blue. My breath catches.

  Freedom looks like this sunshine. Freedom to live without fear, to speak one’s beliefs without first glancing around and behind.

  Hans and his friends fight for that freedom, the written word their weapon.

  I will join them. I told Hans as much last night, but then, the decision brought with it no peace. Only anger and shock.

  A quiet certainty settles within me now. I’m still afraid, but something stronger pushes beyond the fear. As if everything I’ve read and done and believed up until now culminates in this decision.

  I don’t expect Hans to be pleased, but he’ll come around. He and his friends will see the logic of having another person, particularly a woman, involved.

  I turn away from the sunlit window. A swirl of dust motes float in the air.

  I feel no rush of excitement, no heady thrill, as one might expect at such a venture. Only calm decision. I’m thankful for that. I can enter into this levelheaded without the sentiment of a firebrand, fully aware of who I am, what I will be doing. And what I risk.

  I move to wash and dress, purpose in my steps, trading the nightshift for my navy dress. I stand in front of the cracked oval mirror in the bathroom down the hall, brushing my straight, bobbed hair and pinning back one side. Brown eyes against a pale face stare back at me. I’m not pretty like Traute. Nor dashing like Alex and Hans. I’m ordinary. A girl from a middle-class family.

  I swallow, straightening my shoulders and inhaling a long breath.

  What little I have to offer, I will give. It’s prayer and benediction both. No matter the cost.

  That evening, I stand in front of Hans’s apartment door, prepared for a struggle. I raise my fist and knock. Footsteps sound from inside.

  My brother opens the door. He’s wearing his uniform trousers and a half-buttoned white cotton shirt. His gaze meets mine, and I sense his unspoken reproach. I can’t say I blame him, after I ran out last night.

  “May I come in?”

  He opens the door wider. I duck inside. Alex and Kirk sit in the front room, on either end of the sofa. They, too, are wearing half their uniforms, coats shucked on the back of the sofa. Alex takes his pipe from his lips and inclines his head in an almost courtly bow. Kirk gives me a quick smile.

  I’m invading a man’s abode (never mind the man is my own brother). Though their looks are friendly enough, I sense they note the invasion. Hans must have told them.

  Sophie is all right to be friends with, but to join in our work …

  I can almost hear their thoughts.

  “Hello, Kirk, Alex.” I set down my satchel.

  “It’s good to see you, Sophie.” Kirk stands. “Here, have my seat.”

  We exchange a smile as I walk past him and sit beside Alex. Kirk takes the armchair. Hans stands opposite him, thumbs looped in the belt holes of his trousers.

  The three men regard me in silence. I swallow.

  “These leaflets you’re working on. Do you have a production plan?” My tone is matter-of-fact. Hans will get no more hysterics from me.

  Hans sighs, shaking his head. A forelock of hair falls boyishly into his eyes.

  “You don’t need to know all this, Sophie.” Alex leans toward me, whelming me in the fragrant odor of tobacco. His tone is kind, despite the pinch of his words.

  Let them see I’m more than just a girl.

  “I can be useful, you know.” I direct my gaze toward Hans. “For the purchasing of supplies, the distribution of leaflets. No one would suspect a woman. We’re expected to be anonymous, so we blend in better. Tell me, who do you think will attract more suspicion? One of you soldierly types? Or a slip of a girl?”

  “All right. Suppose you’re mailing leaflets and you’re stopped and questioned. What would you do?” Hans folds his arms, gaze appraising. As if this is some kind of test.

  If it is, I’m not about to fail it.

  “Remember wh
at I told you Mutter did when the Gestapo showed up at our house? She didn’t cower or flinch. She just grabbed all the d.j.1.11 papers you’d left in your room and stuffed them in her market basket. Then she marched right past the officers and said she had to hurry to the baker’s. They let her go because she was a woman, and it was her quick action that day that saved you from greater incrimination later.”

  Am I mistaken, or has the stubborn refusal in his eyes been replaced by reluctance?

  “We do need help buying paper and stamps,” Kirk says. Alex nods, smoking thoughtfully.

  “There. I can do that.” I’m on my feet, looking into Hans’s eyes, grateful for my height which allows me to meet him eye to eye with a lift of my chin. My brother. My childhood playmate. Always I’ve been the tagalong sister, trying to keep up with him in everything. Striving to run the fastest, get the best marks in mathematics.

  Now, I want him to see me as an equal. Realize I can do more than participate in intellectual debates.

  I can join this resistance.

  I will join it.

  “If we’re caught,” Alex says quietly, “they’ll treat her as a girl.”

  Hans looks past my shoulder to Alex. “In the occupied countries, women are already receiving the same punishments as men for resistance and sabotage.” He turns to me, placing both hands on my shoulders. His touch is warm, his gaze piercing mine. His chest lifts with a weighty breath. “You can’t forget then?” His tone is almost pleading.

  I shake my head. “I’ve felt powerless for too long.” My heart races, though my tone remains calm. “I know the risks. They’re worth it to me. If I’m not willing to pay the price, then who am I to expect others to do so? If I do not fight against, aren’t I as good as fighting for?”

  “Then you feel as we do.” He looks as if he wants to pull me close, wrap me in his arms, and remain my protective older brother, but instead he nods. I return the nod. Our relationship will change from here on out. We’ll be comrades fighting on the same battle lines. He won’t be able to shelter me like he’s always tried to do.

  I turn to the others. Alex rises and holds out his hand. “Za pravdu i pravo.”

  “What?” I smile.

  “It’s Russian. It means ‘for truth and right.’” He winks at me.

  “Za pravdu i pravo.” I repeat, annihilating the pronunciation.

  Alex laughs and we all join him, becoming, if only for a few seconds, simply four young people enjoying a joke.

  I settle into my seat beside Alex and turn to Hans. “Now, will you answer my questions?”

  “If you’re wise, you won’t ask many. I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  “Fair enough.” What one doesn’t know one cannot repeat under interrogation. Knowledge equates guilt.

  “The three of us are writing a leaflet. Alex is getting ahold of a typewriter. That’s the extent of our accomplishments. Other than a great deal of discussion.”

  “No duplicating machine?”

  “They’re hard to come by, not to mention expensive.” Alex leans back against the sofa, propping his hands behind his head. “You need an order stamped to get a new one. Only officers and Party officials can get the stamp.”

  A little burst of excitement ricochets through me. Fritz will be in Munich on leave. If I have the order made out, perhaps he could get his commanding officer to stamp it. Surely I could make up some pretext.

  “My fiancé, Leutnant Fritz Hartnagel, is stopping in Munich on leave. He might be able to help us.”

  Kirk’s brow furrows. “What are his political views?”

  I pause, taking time to form my words. Sometimes I marvel at the irony. Out of all the men to fall in love with, I chose one who loves me, cares for my family … and believes in loyalty to the Wehrmacht.

  I hadn’t chosen Fritz though, not really. He chose me. I let myself be chosen, and loved him for it, despite the complexities of our relationship.

  “He believes in duty to the oath he took. But he’s beginning to change.” I think of the letters we’ve exchanged. I’ve argued and reasoned. He’s listened, countered, and begun to see truth, the senselessness of the war angering him. “Now his greatest wish after the war is to have a farm and keep chickens.” I smile. “I won’t tell him what we need the machine for. I’ll say we want to increase the circulation of Storm Lantern.”

  “Storm Lantern is a little publication we’ve circulated among family and friends for a few years,” Hans says to Kirk and Alex. “A lot of theological and philosophical stuff.”

  “Might be worth a try,” Alex says. “I’m still working on finding something used.”

  “When are you meeting Fritz?” Hans asks.

  “On the twentieth. He only has a few hours. He wants to visit his family too.”

  “Don’t tell him anything. If he even begins to suspect, drop the subject.” Hans’s gaze is serious. He knows Fritz, likes him even. But friends have been known to turn in friends for no other reason than it was their so-called duty. Even the secretary who denounced Vater had no grudge against him, just his politics.

  I’ll be venturing into dangerous territory by even broaching the subject.

  But I trust Fritz. He wouldn’t betray our family.

  I sit up straighter and try to look confident beneath the gazes of the three men. “Leave it to me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sophie

  May 20, 1942

  THE KNOCK HAS BARELY sounded on the front door, before I’m flying into the hall, skidding a bit on the newly polished floor. I pause, gathering my breath, smoothing a hand down the front of my navy dress. My pulse hammers in the hollow of my throat.

  I open the door, peering into the afternoon sunlight. Fritz stands on the stoop.

  “Sophie,” is all he says. Then I’m in his arms.

  There are times when words become the least important things, and this is one of them. I press my cheek against his chest, the warmth of him radiating through the scratchy fabric of his uniform coat. His strong arms hold me tight, almost crushing. He smells of musk and travel dust, his face buried in my hair. Our lips meet in a kiss born of longing and need.

  It’s what I’ve dreamed about for months. Him, alive and well, clinging to me as if to life itself. In moments of physical oneness, the distance between us ceases to exist. Or maybe, ceases to matter.

  When he lets go, I’m filled with an almost tangible ache. I take in the sight of him. He’s thinner, the uniform once a perfect fit, hanging on his frame, his angular cheekbones more pronounced. I’ve changed too. My hair, once cropped short as a boy’s, has grown longer, almost brushing my shoulders, and I’ve had to take in my skirts due to the rationing.

  Such differences are only outward. They matter little. What matters is everything inward. That’s what we’ve always shared.

  “Missed me, have you?” A grin stretches his mouth.

  “Oh, Fritz.” I smile. “Come in. We’ve tea and kuchen.”

  A regretful look replaces his grin. “I wish I could. But I don’t have long. Can we go somewhere, just the two of us?”

  “Of course.” My answer is automatic.

  I haven’t seen him in months, and all he can give me is hours. War steals everything. Even time.

  But voicing such reproaches would do neither of us good. I shut the door. My skirt brushes my thigh, and I feel the piece of paper in my pocket, the one containing the order for the duplicating machine. I ignore it. For now.

  He smiles at me, his gray hat with its black brim tilted at just the right angle atop his dark hair. “Where should we go?”

  Home. I want to say. To Ulm and the banks of the Danube and the world before the war.

  Instead, I return his smile. “Shall we take the streetcar to the Englischer Garten?”

  A stroll through the bustling Marienplatz wouldn’t seem right when we only have a few hours together. Our romance has deepened among nature, holidays mostly—swimming in the North Sea then lying on its ban
ks to sun ourselves dry, skiing the Austrian Alps all day and dining by firelight in a quiet restaurant, holding hands across the table, deliciously exhausted.

  It’s foolishness to try and recapture our former closeness through a location. This seeking to capture happiness is yet another sign of my own weakness.

  “If you like.” Fritz offers his arm.

  I slip mine through his, and we stroll down the street. The fragrance of the chestnut trees lining the sidewalk perfumes the air, and the sky is unadulterated blue. An afternoon for lovers.

  If only the texture of our love could be as simple as the weather.

  “How’s your family?”

  I relay the latest news—Mutter’s health is still poorly, Werner’s somewhere in Russia, Vater still awaiting trial, Inge keeping busy at home, Lisl with tutoring.

  “And what about Sophia Magdalena?” He looks down at me, blue-eyed gaze half teasing, half searching. “How is she?”

  Lonely. Confused. Preparing to mount a campaign against the cause he’s fighting for.

  But I say none of those things.

  “She’s here.” I lean my head against his shoulder, needing his closeness. “That’s enough.”

  After a half-hour streetcar ride and a short walk, we reach the Englischer Garten. The rolling parkland dotted with trees and woven with small graveled paths isn’t the woods around Ulm, and the Kleinhesseloher Lake isn’t the River Danube, but it will suit our purposes.

  Arm in arm, we move down a wooded pathway. In the distance, children sail wooden boats on the lake’s sun-brushed surface. A breeze fans my cheeks.

  A bench sits in an alcove of trees. We settle onto the wrought-iron seat. I smooth my skirt over my knees. Fritz pulls his cap from his head and places it in his lap. I turn to him.