The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  “Oh, stop, you!” Mutter laughs, giving his hand a playful slap. “You men and your food.”

  Our shared laughter binds the cracks between us. I let it reach inside and warm me.

  The only sure thing about these moments of togetherness is that they are fleeting.

  Annalise

  June 7, 1942

  You are going to meet Sophie’s brother and friends. Your stomach will steady. You will be brave.

  Standing outside Lindwurmstraße 13, twilight brushing the city, I repeat the mantra over and over in my mind. Outwardly, I’m a girl in a burgundy dress, hair pin-curled, a swipe of just-purchased cherry lipstick contrasting with my fair skin. Inwardly, I’m a tumble of nerves, the build-up of a lifetime’s uncertainties conglomerating in this moment.

  What if they dislike me? What if I’ll always remain the girl outside the circle, never invited in? What if—

  I must move past these emotions. If I don’t, nothing will ever change.

  I try the front door. It’s open, so I let myself in. The entryway is still and dark. The narrow stairs creak as I climb to the second floor. A single door waits to the right. I straighten my shoulders and push my hair behind my ear. Then give a firm knock and step back, clasping my hands at my waist.

  The door opens.

  It’s him.

  For a long moment, we simply stare at each other. My heart thuds. He’s even more arresting up close. Tall, dark-haired, the slightest of smiles curving his strong jawline. He wears a button-down shirt and gray trousers, hair curling over his forehead. With one hand, he holds the door open, revealing echoing laughter and soft lamplight.

  “Good evening.” I utter the words with a calm I don’t feel.

  “Hello.” He holds out his other hand. “You must be Sophie’s friend, Annalise. I’m Kirk Hoffmann.” His fingers twine with mine. His grip is firm, but not unduly strong. He smiles, the half moon of a dimple appearing in his cheek. It’s a smile unlike any I’ve ever seen. Genuinely, achingly kind.

  Kirk.

  “Ja. I’m Annalise.” Our fingers part. My hand falls into the folds of my skirt, suddenly bereft.

  “Come in.” He holds the door wider. I step past him, senses caught in a wash of clean soap and something masculine and spicy. Standing on the threshold, I take it all in. Three men and two women sit in a circle of sorts in the apartment’s front room, laughing, talking.

  Conversation breaks off, and five sets of eyes look up. Sophie jumps from her perch on a lumpy sofa and rushes to greet me.

  “Annalise! You’re here.” She clasps my hand in a quick squeeze and faces the group. “Everyone, this is my friend, Annalise Brandt. Annalise, this is Alex, Traute, Christl, and Hans.” She points to each in turn.

  “Hello.” My smile is uncertain.

  “And you’ve already met Kirk.” Sophie glances at Kirk, standing behind my shoulder. He smiles, gives a quick nod.

  “Come and sit down.” Sophie leads the way to the sofa. “Alex, give Annalise your seat.”

  A striking young man with reddish-blond hair rises. “Gladly.” He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips with a slight bow. His hair falls into his eyes as he looks up. “Alexander Schmorell, at your service, Fräulein Brandt.” He grins, roguish, disarming.

  “Please, call me Annalise.” I flush at his chivalry.

  Hans crosses the room and shakes my hand. “Welcome, Annalise.” He and Kirk could be brothers, same brown hair and handsome looks. But Kirk is taller, and in appearance Hans seems the older of the two.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. All of you.”

  The other young man—Christl—ambles over. “We don’t stand on ceremony. If Herta and the children were here, they’d be climbing all over you in an instant. The children that is, not my wife.” Christl takes a pipe from his mouth with one hand and reaches to shake mine with the other. His handclasp is brief and friendly, his broad smile radiating warmth.

  “I wouldn’t mind. I love children. In their innocence, they embody everything that’s right with the world.” I clamp my lips shut, hearing Vater’s words: What are you trying to do? Sound like a philosopher?

  “I couldn’t agree more. My boys are my pride and joy.”

  “How lovely.” I smile.

  After a few more pleasantries to me, Christl turns to Alex, and the two move toward the other side of the room, heads bent in conversation. Voices drift from the adjoining room, and Sophie, Hans, and Traute are nowhere in sight. A painting on the wall across from the sofa catches my eye, and I cross the room to get a closer look. A print of Franz Marc’s Blue Horses. Standing before it, I drink in the colors and textures.

  “It’s remarkable, his use of color.” A voice sounds behind me. I turn. Kirk stands at my side, so close our fingers almost brush.

  “He paints boldly,” I say, voice soft. “As if he’s trying to say ‘I’m not ashamed. I’m free.’”

  “Are you an artist, or simply a good judge of character?”

  A smile tugs my lips. “Hopefully, both. But ja, I’m a student of art. This is my first semester at the university.”

  “That’s it,” he says, almost under his breath.

  “That’s what?” I look away from the painting and into his face.

  “I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles, the dimple flashing again.

  My cheeks flush. I don’t dare admit I’ve seen him before, watched him, wondering. Dreaming.

  He braces one hand on the wall, body turned toward me. Again, that heady mix of fragrances fills my senses. “How do you like your studies?”

  I bite my lip. If I reply with my true feelings, they could be construed as disloyal to National Socialism. If I answer with something trite, I’ll despise myself later.

  The voices of the others reverberate in the background, Sophie’s laughter mingling with Alex’s. This is a group marked by oneness of mind. These people couldn’t meet so freely if they didn’t share the same feelings.

  “Art, I love unreservedly. But the way it’s presented at the university leaves me cold and disappointed.” I look at the painting again, the mingled blues and reds. The majesty, magic, and at the same time humanness of the painted animal. “Art is supposed to be expression, but there it’s … empty. How can one be creative if one is told how to create?”

  His gaze holds mine. I’ve never been looked at like this before. Not merely studied, but seen. “Aptly spoken, Annalise Brandt.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kirk

  June 7, 1942

  I NEVER HEARD HER name before tonight.

  In less than an hour, she has captivated me more than anyone I have ever met. From the moment I opened the door and saw her standing in the shadows—a vision in a dark red dress, a faint smile on her lips, gaze hesitant. When I took her hand, I suddenly, inexplicably, never wanted to let go.

  We stand in front of Hans’s cheaply framed Franz Marc print, her words lingering in the air.

  “How can one be creative if one is told how to create?”

  It’s a statement as startling as it is true. Her eyes darkened, her voice brimming with passion. She isn’t speaking out of mere intellect, but as if every word is pulled from some hidden, precious place inside her.

  “What are you studying?” Her reddish-gold curls brush her jawline as she looks up at me.

  “Medicine. I hope to become a doctor, but it’s taking a long time. My studies keep being delayed, the semesters shortened.”

  “I doubt there’s ever been a generation of young people who’ve had to exercise more patience than we.” She gives a wry smile.

  I chuckle. “You’re probably right.” Delay after delay as we’re told to put the interests of the Reich above our own. We don’t matter, as long as our country succeeds. I’m all for selflessness, but I can see very little of it in Hitler’s plans for Germany.

  “Why medicine?” she asks, head tilted.

  I pause. It’s not a question I’ve oft
en been asked; why one path over another. In truth, I chose medicine because I knew I couldn’t be responsible for shedding blood in this war of aggression. “I like helping people. Mending things that are broken. Making right what needs to be.”

  Her lips soften in a smile. “I like that. Making right what needs to be. There’s so much broken in the world, it’s good to know someone’s still trying.” Lamplight frames her in a butterscotch glow.

  “The way I look at it, we should all be trying. We may not be able to change the universe, but if we can be a force for good in our corner of it, at least that’s something, right?”

  She turns her face away and looks back at the painting, expression almost … troubled.

  Great job, Hoffmann. Five minutes with a pretty … nein, beautiful girl, and what do you do? Sermonize. Very smooth.

  “I’m sorry.” I rub the back of my neck with a sheepish grin. “I’m not usually so philosophical with people I’ve just met.”

  She turns, the troubled look erased from her eyes. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips—lips tinted a distracting shade of red. “I started it, remember? Of course, we could talk about the weather. If you wanted to.” Her tone is teasing.

  “It’s been unseasonably warm for this time of year,” I say, deadpan.

  “Unseasonably.” She gives a vigorous nod, a laugh escaping. “There. We’ve gotten that out of the way. Feel better?”

  “Very.”

  “Admiring Hans’s painting?” Sophie’s voice breaks into our laughter. I like Hans’s sister. Really, I do. But couldn’t she have picked another conversation to interrupt?

  Annalise nods. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

  Sophie looks between us. “We’re about to have tea and strudel. Care to join us?”

  I motion for Annalise to precede me. We cross the room and join the others. I settle onto the floor next to Alex and Sophie, and Annalise joins Hans and Traute on the sofa.

  Christl passes out plates, as Traute fills them with thin slices of strudel. Hans’s low table is looking more battered by the day, cluttered with books, the strudel platter, a teapot, and cups. I spy a piece of paper covered in his scrawl poking out from the corner of one book. A draft for our leaflet?

  And it’s there. The secret, hanging in the air. Concealed by our gaiety, lingering regardless. Christl knows what we’re doing, though he’s not involved in the practical aspects. Hans hasn’t told Traute. We’re keeping them out of it for their own good, though they share the same views. What we’re planning is dangerous, the fewer involved, the better.

  What of Annalise? What are her views? Laughter spills from her lips as Christl regales the room with a story about his boys. The sweet sound threads inside me, settling in a place I didn’t know was empty.

  Our gazes meet. Remnants of laughter linger at the corners of her mouth, in the form of a gentle smile. Her eyes sparkle, as if she too senses whatever sudden, powerful thing is between us.

  I lose myself in her eyes, in the warm lamplight, the friendship all around me. In Christl’s story, Hans and Traute with their arms around each other, Alex’s laughter, Sophie’s deep brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Annalise, a newcomer, yet sitting in our midst as if she belonged.

  It’s enough.

  Tonight, it’s all enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kirk

  June 15, 1942

  “COMING?” I LEAN OVER the stair railing, as Alex and Hans trundle up the steep steps, boots making scuffing sounds. Each of them carries one end of a wooden crate.

  “It’s not the lightest thing in the world to haul around, you know.” Alex’s face is red from exertion. Hans goes backward up the narrow staircase.

  “Careful,” he cautions as they turn a corner. “Careful … Alex!”

  I help them once they reach the top. We gain Alex’s apartment—third door down—and set the crate in the middle of the room. I shut the door. Alex and Hans flex their fingers. Blackout curtains drape the room in shadows.

  Like a child at Christmas, I kneel beside the crate. Alex heads into the next room, returning with a butter knife. I raise a brow.

  “I don’t have a crowbar,” he says, handing it to me.

  I work the knife around the edge of the crate, prying the top off, revealing layers of wood shavings. Hans crouches beside me. Together, we reach inside. My fingers touch cool metal. We lift … and there.

  Gleaming black and shining silver. A simple crank handle.

  A duplicating machine.

  Ours.

  I stare at it. Silence fills the room. We’re all riveted: Alex from where he’s seated on his sofa and Hans and I kneeling on the floor, surrounded by scattered wood shavings. A weight settles inside me. Even the ownership of such an item could bring us under suspicion.

  We’ve taken our first steps. Today those steps have led us to the edge of the Rubicon. With the distribution of our first leaflet, we’ll cross it.

  Then there will be no going back.

  “Von Galen’s sermons must have been printed on a machine just like this.” I rest a hand on its edge, the metal smooth beneath my fingertips.

  “We should have gotten one long before now,” Hans says. “The very day we read that first sermon.”

  All of us remember when we were introduced to the words of Clemens von Galen. Last summer, the Scholls discovered a leaflet in their mailbox, which Hans later showed to me. I wish I could meet the brave soul who dared to copy and anonymously mail Bishop von Galen’s bold words denouncing the Reich’s euthanasia program. I don’t know the total number of copies distributed. But each represents a person no longer denied truth.

  Please duplicate and pass on—the plea at the end of von Galen’s leaflet.

  Finally, in our own way, we’re answering that plea.

  “How does it work?” Alex stands. After making discreet inquiries, Alex purchased the duplicating machine, donating thirty-two marks from his allowance for the purpose. Fritz was unable to fulfill Sophie’s request for an official stamp, so we bought our machine second-hand.

  “You feed the paper through here.” Hans gestures like a university lecturer. “And turn the handle. The papers come out there. It’s quite simple, really.” He gives the handle a turn. He’s shucked his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “Simple, huh?”

  “It’s very well designed.”

  Alex leans down, running his fingers along its edge. “Nothing is ever simple, Hans.” He looks up, brow furrowed. Hair falls over his high forehead. A beat passes.

  Hans nods. Swallows.

  Alex isn’t talking about the machine.

  We undertake more than merely printing words on paper and passing them around. We undertake resistance against a regime that has taken down armies with the ease of leveling dominoes. We’ve thought about it, talked about it, and now the tangible evidence sits before us. A duplicating machine. Metal and silver. Ink and treason.

  “But simple things aren’t worth doing, anyway.” Alex’s face eases into a grin. “Isn’t there a Goethe quote about that, Hans?”

  “Not Goethe, I don’t think.” I stand and brush the shavings from my hands. The springs of Alex’s sofa groan as I sit.

  “Definitely not Goethe.” Hans stands and pulls up Alex’s desk chair. Books and papers clutter the surface of his desk. Along with a few love letters, I suspect. Alex exists as the center of an orbit of female admirers.

  I shift positions and cross my legs. “So what of these leaflets? Do we have a name?”

  “Not yet.” Hans pulls the chain of Alex’s desk lamp. Light filters into the room. “Any suggestions?”

  “It has to be something memorable.” Alex paces back and forth, tunneling a hand through his hair. Wood curlings sprinkle his gray trousers. “Some kind of symbol. A knight, maybe?”

  “Nein.” Hans shakes his head. “Nothing military.”

  “We want to represent truth. Truth is the opposite of darkness. It’s light.” I’m
thinking out loud. “Truth is …”

  Hans picks up something from Alex’s desk. A faded flower. The remnants of a white rose.

  I expect him to make a crack about which one of Alex’s girlfriends bestowed this upon him, but instead he holds it by the stem. Turns it in his fingers. The petals are wrinkled and aged with time. White has faded to cream. Yet the unspoiled purity of the rose remains.

  “Truth is a white rose.” As he finishes my sentence, a light enters Hans’s eyes. “The White Rose.”

  Alex grins. “I can’t think of a more apt name. Remember that book, Hans? The one by that author with the pen name of Traven? It was also called The White Rose.”

  “Peasants fighting against exploitation. Ja, I remember.”

  “Leaflets of the White Rose.” It slides off my tongue. Fitting. Fragile purity against blackness.

  A simple symbol to fight a complicated battle.

  Alex disappears into the adjoining room, returning a moment later with a single bottle. “Cheap bier, I know, and warm at that.” He opens the bottle. The sharp, yeasty scent fills the air. “But I think this moment deserves a toast. To the White Rose.” He swigs from the bottle, passes it to Hans.

  Hans holds up the bottle. “To truth.” He drinks and hands it to me.

  “To freedom.” The daring words mingle with the bitter taste of alcohol. We exchange glances, the ensuing silence almost sacred. We’ve thrown our lots in together. Together, we’ll work and sacrifice and risk. Come what may.

  “It’s a start.” Hans slaps his hands against his knees. “But our work has only begun. The text of the leaflet needs to be finalized. Distribution planned. We’ll need paper and ink and stamps. All of these must be bought at separate locations. Purchasing vast quantities in one place will only arouse suspicion. Particularly, stamps. Sophie can help us.”

  “Your mental lists are endless.” Alex takes another drink.

  “My mental lists are necessary.” Hans snatches the bottle. I watch them, my friends, drinking and talking, purpose beneath every word, even the joking ones.