The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  Years from now, will we look back upon this afternoon in June as the beginning of something great? Only time will answer us. I smile faintly, grab the bottle from Hans, and remember the child with the teddy bear who opened my eyes to the truth of my own complacency.

  We, a humble group of students, cannot hope to change the tide of history.

  But we can leave our stamp upon it.

  We may not achieve greatness. We may not even change much of anything. But we will look back and know one thing.

  We were not silent.

  Sophie

  June 16, 1942

  I pin a swastika button to the lapel of my jacket before leaving the apartment. It stands out against the brown fabric, a miniature crooked cross surrounded by bloody red.

  I pick up my satchel and hurry out, locking the door behind me. I take the stairs quickly, hand trailing the banister, footsteps echoing in the silence.

  Outside, the sky is steel gray. Rain splatters down in fat drops, giving the facades of buildings a washed-out hue, darkening the limp swastika flags. Coated figures waste no time in scurrying toward their destinations, boots slapping against the forming puddles. Black umbrellas bob up and down.

  I walk, head down, heedless of the rain pelting my face and hair.

  We have a duplicating machine. I haven’t seen it yet. But with the machine in our—or rather Alex’s possession—everything is moving at full speed.

  And finally, finally Hans has given me something to do. I’m to purchase fifty stamps from a nearby post office. Then walk to another and do the same.

  A mix of fear and anticipation stirs inside my chest.

  Ignoring people when they give the Hitler salute, reading banned books beneath the covers during labor service, listening to BBC broadcasts with Vater … all of these are dangerous.

  But none as dangerous as this.

  A sleek motorcar drives past, windshield wipers squeaking at full speed against the glass. I glimpse men with grim faces and gray uniforms. Momentarily, I still. Muddy water splashes onto my shoes and stockings.

  The car drives on. I keep walking, scanning street signs. Water soaks through a hole in the sole of my shoe.

  At last (or is it too soon?), I reach the post office. A shawl-wrapped woman bumps into me as she exits, hurrying past without muttering so much as an apology.

  My heart quickens as I stare at the brick building. If I fail, Hans will lose what little faith he has in me. I’ll be trapped again, trapped by doing nothing.

  God, please …

  The beveled glass window bearing the words Post Office is smeared with tracks of rain. Inside, a queue stretches from desk to door.

  I let myself in and take my place at the end of the line. The air is damp and musty, and the coat of the elderly man in front of me reeks of stale cigarette smoke. I fix my gaze on my hands, knuckles white around the handle of my satchel, running my cover story over and over in my mind.

  You are a grieving sister. Your brother has died on the front. You need stamps to send letters to family and friends informing them of his death.

  The line inches forward. Those exiting the post office bump and jostle me as they pass. Out of the corner of my eye, I size up the clerk behind the tall counter. A bristly mustache bisects his round face.

  My stomach churns as the elderly man in front of me requests ten twelve-pfennig stamps. The clerk opens a drawer, rips off the requested quantity, and passes them over the counter. The customer hands over some coins. He turns and hobbles away from the counter.

  Time seems to stop. My surroundings blur. All except the man behind the counter.

  I walk with steps neither too fast nor too slow.

  “Ja?” Sunken patches of flab sag beneath the man’s eyes. He looks bored. Tired.

  “Fifty eight-pfennig stamps, please.” I don’t look directly at him, but I don’t avoid his gaze. After all, I’m a grieving sister. Not a traitor.

  He moves to open the drawer. Then he stops. His eyes flicker over me. “Fifty? So many?”

  “My brother has fallen on the front.” I keep my voice soft and sad. “We need to send letters to our family and friends, letting them know the news.” I give a little tug at the lapel of my jacket, hopefully drawing the man’s attention to my swastika pin.

  The clerk looks me over once more. I meet his gaze evenly, hoping all he will see is a pale girl in a brown coat. That he won’t notice my shallow breath or hear my pounding heart.

  With a grunt, he opens the drawer, muttering as he counts out fifty stamps. I pull coins from my jacket pocket, sliding them across the counter as he passes me the sheets of stamps. He opens another drawer and fumbles for my change. I hold out my palm. His fat fingers brush mine as he places the cold metal discs in my hand.

  “Danke,” I murmur. My fingers close around the coins, and I slip them into my pocket, whisking the sheets of stamps into my satchel.

  Head down, I turn and walk out of the post office. No one looks up as I pass. The door shuts behind me. Raindrops sting my cheeks.

  I turn the corner, pent-up breath coming out in a whoosh. My legs go suddenly weak, but I force them to keep moving.

  No longer am I a helpless bystander. By handing these stamps to Hans, I’ll show him I can be useful, that he can trust me, the same as he trusts Kirk and Alex. Affixing these square miniatures of Hitler’s face to envelopes means our words will be delivered. Read by people who desperately need to be woken up.

  I smile, as I walk through the rain, steps lighter than they’ve been all day.

  This is only the beginning.

  My smile vanishes with the realization, leaving me suddenly sapped of energy. It’s foolish to be giddy over one success. Countless more must follow for there to be any real progress.

  Countless acts.

  Unknown risks.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kirk

  June 18, 1942

  WE BEGIN TONIGHT.

  I walk to Eickemeyer’s studio, steps fast, keenly aware of the approaching blackout and lack of other travelers. The air is dank and humid, weighted with anticipation. Or so it seems to me.

  A man strolls down the sidewalk, an umbrella swinging at his side. I force myself to slow as I stride past. Speed is a cue for one to take notice.

  We need no notice this night.

  I reach the studio, a pale, stucco-sided building set back from the street. Not so much as a flicker of light glimmers from the blackout-covered windows. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I pull out a key—the three of us each have one. It turns smoothly. I glance behind—just once—to make sure no one is watching, then close and lock the door behind me in the darkness. I don’t bother with a light, groping my way through the blackness until I reach the door to the basement. I descend the narrow, creaking steps with light footfalls.

  “Hans?” I know better than to not announce my presence.

  The door opens. Hans appears in the crack. “Kirk.” He grins. “You’re just in time. Alex is already here.”

  “Is Sophie coming?”

  “Not tonight. She had a bad headache. I told her to stay home and rest. She gave me stamps though. A hundred of them. She said she got them without a problem.”

  “You should be proud of your sister.”

  The studio looks much the same as when we visited it when Eickemeyer was in Munich. Dingy and spacious, sprinkled with sculptures and crated artwork belonging to an artist friend of Eickemeyer’s.

  Except for two additional items resting on now-cleared tables. A Remington typewriter. And our duplicating machine.

  What would Eickemeyer say if he knew what we planned to do in his studio? I suspect he guesses it isn’t to drill like good little Hitlerites, but we’re keeping him in the dark as to particulars. It’s better this way. For all parties concerned.

  Alex sits in a chair pulled near the typewriter. “Hey, Shurik.” I clap a hand to his shoulder, greeting him by his Russian nickname.

  He turns. “Finally decide
d to join the party, did you?”

  I laugh and pull up a vacant chair. Sheets covered in Hans’s scrawl, and a few in Alex’s and mine, are already scattered on the table.

  Shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open, the dim light casting smoky shadows on his rumpled hair, Hans takes a seat in front of the typewriter. He meets our gazes.

  “Let’s get to work.” His eyes are alight with energy, despite the late hour. “I’ve read each of our drafts.” Hans picks up one of the papers and holds it up to the light. “There’s good material in each. I propose we blend them together.”

  Alex and I nod.

  “Once we’re in agreement a paragraph should be included in the leaflet, we’ll type it out. I’ve already disconnected the typewriter ribbon.” He carefully lifts a precious sheet of wax stencil paper and inserts it into the typewriter.

  I get up from my chair and move to stand behind Hans’s shoulder. He settles his fingertips on the keys. The typewriter clacks. Inked letters march across the sheet, impressing themselves into the stencil paper.

  Leaflets of the White Rose

  It sounds so … organized. Like we’re more than three university students in a basement. Like the words we risk our lives to pen could actually make a difference.

  Hans takes up a page covered in his loping handwriting. He clears his throat.

  “‘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?’” He looks up.

  I let the words settle inside, take root. How many times have similar thoughts crossed my mind? Once, we could lay claim to a civilized nation. Even after the Great War. Now who among us who knows the truth can do so? Not a one.

  Alex nods. “I like it. It’s forceful.”

  “And true,” I add.

  “Good.” A little grin creeps over Hans’s face. “Because I labored over an hour on that paragraph.” He turns to me, forehead creased. “Kirk, are you good with a typewriter?”

  I shrug. “I’ve used one before.”

  Hans stands and gestures to the chair. “It’ll be faster if I dictate and you type. That way I can self-edit as I go.”

  My heart pounds as I take the still-warm seat. My fingers hover over the keys, poised and ready. Hans rereads the paragraph, slower this time, as I type.

  Pencil can be erased, forgotten. Ink is finality.

  Nothing is more unworthy …

  “The next part’s yours, Shurik.” Hans rounds the table and points to a place on one of Alex’s papers. “Except you used the word evils. I suggest crimes. Crime implies something that’s legally wrong. It’s more concrete.”

  “That makes sense. But other than that, you agree with what I’ve written?”

  Hans nods, resting one hand on the back of Alex’s chair. “One hundred percent.” He reads aloud. “‘Who among us can guess the extent of the shame that will come upon us and our children when someday the veil has fallen from our eyes, and crimes of a most atrocious nature, infinitely exceeding all measure, will come to light?’”

  My fingers fly over the keys, as I strive to keep up.

  Hours pass. Alex packs and lights his pipe, whelming the air with aromatic smoke. My shoulders begin to ache. Hans presses his finger to his upper lip, forehead creased. We work on. Most of the words are Hans’s, with a few insertions from Alex and 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.

  For so long, we’ve been guilty of doing nothing. Now, we’re taking action. I feel little fear. Trepidation, perhaps. And urgency. Deep, soul-throbbing urgency.

  Offer passive resistance—RESISTANCE—wherever you may be. Prevent the continuation of this atheistic war machine before it is too late, before the last cities, like Cologne, lie in ruins, before the nation’s last youth has bled to death in battle for the hubris of a subhuman.

  We close with a quotation from Goethe:

  Now I meet my brave ones,

  Who convene at night

  To remain silent, not to sleep,

  And the beautiful word of freedom

  Is being whispered and stammered,

  Until in strange newness,

  At our temple’s steps,

  Delighted we call out anew:

  Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!

  Hans lowers the paper. The Goethe, read in his baritone voice, rich with passion, has lured us all into a kind of trance, even me at the typewriter.

  His voice is hoarse, perhaps with the strain of dictating, perhaps with some deeper emotion, as he adds a sentence from memory. “We ask you to make as many copies of this sheet as possible and to redistribute it.”

  The keys clack as I type the final words. It’s a call to action. The answer to those who read the leaflet and ask: what now?

  Distribute and pass on. Spread the word. Don’t be silent.

  I snatch the sheet of stencil paper from the machine and push back my chair.

  “That’s it then.” My eyelids are heavy, weightier still because I must report for duty at the hospital at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.

  But … we have a leaflet.

  “We’ll reconvene to begin mimeographing within the next few days.” Hans stands, takes the stencil paper from me, and stares down at it.

  “Then we’ll distribute the leaflets?” A curl of smoke rises above Alex’s head. Alex, who longs for the garb of a Russian peasant but is forced to wear that of a Wehrmacht officer. Alex, who fits into the life of the carefree artist, but studies medicine to please his vater. Alex, who I’m proud to call my friend.

  Hans nods. “Then we’ll distribute the leaflets.”

  Annalise

  June 19, 1942

  Since the party, Kirk and I have seen each other in passing at the university. Each time, we stop and chat, ordinary niceties about the day and our classes.

  Is there more beneath the surface, or is my hopeful mind conjuring things that don’t exist? Is the smile that creases the corners of his eyes when he looks at me something special, meant for me alone, or how he looks at everyone?

  With all the might inside me, I hope it’s not my imagination. That when he asked if I’d meet him for an evening walk through the Englischer Garten, it’s because he genuinely wants to get to know me, not because he feels sorry for Sophie’s lonely friend in Munich.

  We’ve arranged to meet in front of the Seehaus restaurant, located on the banks of the Kleinhesseloher Lake. Wind stirs the hem of my red, polka dot summer dress, the breeze prickling my arms. I clutch my handbag and scan for Kirk. My shiny low-heeled shoes pinch my toes. I can’t deny I made an effort to look nice for him, setting my unruly hair in pin curls last night, brushing on a layer of lipstick.

  Finally, I spot him striding across the grass toward me. He waves. I wave back and brush a curl behind my ear. My heart speeds up at the sight of him. He’s wearing a light brown suit, shrugging on the jacket as he walks. Wind riffles his hair.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He smiles apologetically. His tie is askew. I resist the sudden urge to straighten it for him.

  “You’re not late. I’m early.”

  “Shall we?” He offers his arm. The gesture warms my cheeks. Not that I haven’t experienced male chivalry before. The young officers Vater invites to dinner have it honed to a science. With them, though, it always seems forced, their compliments as wooden as their marching. With Kirk, nothing seems more natural, though his smile suggests a touch of shyness.

  I rest my hand on his arm—not just my fingertips—and together we move away from the restaurant and begin a slow circuit around the lake. Being on the arm of a man I actually like is an entirely new experience, and not an unpleasant one. The warmth of him, the swell of muscles in his forearm make me want to lean closer, instead of draw away
.

  “Beautiful.” I look out at the lake, the shadows of sunset turning its surface to flame.

  He nods, and we walk in comfortable silence. The sweet crispness of the evening air, like biting into a freshly picked apple, brings a smile to my lips. I steal a glance at him. He catches me watching him and grins.

  “We’re not saying much, are we? What must you be thinking? ‘He sure is a nice fellow. Invites me out, and then ignores me.’”

  I smile. “Nein. Anyone can chatter endlessly. Silence is something special.”

  “That it is.” He nods. “But I think we can break it for a while, don’t you?”

  Laughter escapes my lips. “I think so.”

  “Hans always says the lake reminds him of home. You?”

  I shake my head. “Nein, home … home is in Berlin. We’ve lived there since I was little.”

  “Who does ‘we’ include?”

  He asks the question in a light tone, but it sends a skitter through me nonetheless. My family is part of my life, like it or not. If only I were Sophie, with her tax-consultant vater and sprawling family in Ulm. If only Hans were my brother, not Horst.

  I shove the thoughts aside, ashamed.

  “I have three brothers. Horst, a year younger than me, is in the Wehrmacht. Heinz is fifteen, and Albert is two years younger. They’re still in school.” Which Heinz gives the barest amount of attention to, consumed with rising in the Hitler Youth, while Albert struggles to get even passing marks.

  “All brothers then.” He grins. “Poor you. Were you always getting dragged into ball games?”

  I shake my head. “Never dragged. I liked playing with them.” For as long as it lasted.

  “And your vater? What does he do?” Again, a casual question.

  With a complicated answer.

  I swallow, looking straight ahead as we turn down a wooded path, high-reaching elm branches creating a shaded shelter above. How easy it was at the party to simply be an ordinary university student, instead of the daughter of an SS officer.

  But if I hope to have any kind of relationship with Kirk, even friendship, I must tell him the truth.

  Our eyes meet. “What does your vater do, Kirk?”