Annalise wants answers.
On behalf of the White Rose, I will give her some.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Annalise
July 2, 1942
A KNOCK SOUNDS AS I’m finishing breakfast—ersatz kaffee and toast with a thin layer of marmalade. I leave the table, brushing crumbs from my hands, and open the door.
“Morning mail, Fräulein Brandt.” My landlady hands me two envelopes. As always, she’s wearing trodden-down slippers, graying hair in curling papers. She looks past my shoulder, into the apartment (what a snoop!).
“Danke.” I nod and shut the door, taking the letters back to the table. I take a sip of kaffee and dab my lips with a napkin, before picking up the first envelope. My name is written across the envelope in my eldest brother’s scrawl. I slit the envelope with my fingernail and skim the lines—his upcoming promotion to the rank of hauptmann, his talk about the girl he hopes to marry, his brief questions about my time at the university.
I fold the letter and set it down amid white china dishes and toast crumbs. Ah, Horst. What would he have become if not for National Socialism? As a boy, he was always building things, while I followed behind to help as much as little sisters are allowed. He would have made a fine architect, but like Vater, Horst’s mind is warped by Nazi greatness, a piece of raw wood left too long in the downpour of Germany above all else.
I pick up the next envelope. My name and address is typed across the front. I don’t know anyone who uses a typewriter for correspondence. Maybe it’s some kind of notice from the university.
The envelope tears as I slit it. I pull out two sheets of paper, small type filling both. Smoothing my hand across the creases, I read.
One cannot grapple with National Socialism intellectually because it is not intellectual …
My breath catches. Heat surges through my fingertips. I glance over my shoulder—once, twice.
Drawn by an insatiable curiosity, I read on. It criticizes Mein Kampf (the author declares it’s comprised of the worst German they have ever read and quotes Hitler as having written that one must betray a people, in order to rule them). It speaks of how three hundred thousand Jews have been murdered in Poland, the annihilation of Polish aristocratic youth, and the forced prostitution of Polish young women in SS brothels. The author demands an answer to the question of why the German people have remained apathetic in the face of these abominable crimes. Declares that everyone in Germany is guilty of them, repeating guilty thrice like a cry.
It ends with:
We ask you to make as many copies of this sheet as possible and to redistribute it.
I set down the pages. My hands shake. I stare at the words.
Someone has dared to risk the consequences of writing and circulating this leaflet.
Why was I chosen to receive it? An uncanny feeling crawls up my spine, as if I’m being watched. As if someone has read my mind and the unrest brewing there.
It’s true. Every word. The paragraph about the atrocities against Jews and Poles makes my stomach clench. Not only because they’re printed here, but because I’ve heard of them firsthand. Even now, the dreams, the fragments of Herbert’s words, fill me.
What can I do? It’s not as if I can change the outcome of the war, the treatment of those in Poland. I have no voice, at least not an acknowledged one.
My gaze falls on the last line, the plea to copy the leaflet and redistribute it.
How many in Germany are aware of the truth? Know instinctively, yet deny it because it hasn’t been laid out for them in black and white?
Could I, somehow, show them by copying and distributing this leaflet?
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. I don’t deny the fear shaking inside me. This is a far greater step than refusing to marry the candidate of Vater’s choosing. Defying the Third Reich, even in something as innocuous as distributing pieces of paper, could cost me everything.
Everything.
It would be easier to crumple the leaflet, throw it in the wastebin, and continue like everyone around me. Going about daily life as much as they’re able, living beneath the shadow of what Germany has become, yet taking no action against it.
I press my lips together, gazing at the typed words of the leaflet. Whoever the author is, they’re taking risks. Resisting the government because to do so has become a moral necessity.
Some things, you can’t wait to do until you’re strong enough.
Some things, you just have to do afraid.
Kirk
July 2, 1942
I lean against a pillar of the Schmorells’ veranda. Conversation and laughter buzzes around me. Hans decided to take the evening off from our frenetic pace of producing leaflets—we’re working on the third now, and Alex invited everyone to a party at his family’s villa. He’s hosted many of these gatherings over the years, and I’ve always enjoyed his parents’ hospitality.
I look out at the grassy lawn, the elegant garden in full bloom, its floral fragrance a subtle perfume. The Schmorells’ are part of that group of people fortunate to have both money and taste. If Alex weren’t so sincere and considerate of others, looking at his house, one would think him spoiled.
Three figures make their way up the graveled path leading to the villa. Hans, arm in arm with Traute, alongside a middle-aged man familiar from the university. Professor Huber. He walks with his arms behind his back, shoulders slightly stooped, head tilted as he listens to something Hans is saying.
I quick-walk down the steps to greet them. I’ve only met Professor Huber in passing, though I regularly attend his lectures. Hans is curious about the older man’s views on our leaflets, and I suspect his decision to take the night off has more to do with feeling out Huber than giving us a break.
“Grüß Gott, Hans, Traute.” I shake Hans’s hand and make a slight bow in Traute’s direction. She returns the greeting with a smile, one hand resting elegantly on Hans’s arm, a picture in a trim gray suit, curls swept back from her face.
“Herr Professor, you remember Kirk Hoffmann?” Hans gestures to me. “He’s a great admirer of your lectures.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you, sir.” I hold out my hand, and Professor Huber returns the handclasp with a surprisingly strong grip. “Your lectures on Leibniz have inspired me to deepen my study of his work.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Professor Huber speaks in the same halting way due to his speech impairment, yet his tone is more reserved than when he’s behind the podium.
“Come, Herr Professor. There are some people I’d like you to meet.” Hans disengages his arm from Traute’s, leaving her standing there, as he escorts the professor up the steps. She watches them, hands clasped at her waist.
“He’s always on the hunt for a rousing discussion.” She gives a faint, accepting smile.
I nod. “That’s Hans for you.”
She leans closer. Her wide, almond gaze meets mine, her thick lashes blinking. “I know about the leaflets. Finally, Hans told me. I want to help. Hans says we need all the paper and stamps we can get, and I have friends in Hamburg who would be greatly interested in what we’re doing. He says Sophie already knows.”
“We all trust you implicitly.” I place my hand on her arm. “Hans is lucky to have you.”
“Is he?” Traute turns her gaze toward the veranda, where Hans makes introductions. “I wonder if he knows it,” she says softly.
I don’t know how to answer her. It’s true, Hans thinks of nothing but the leaflets. Especially with the recent announcement that the Second Student Medical Company will be sent to Russia later this month. I still haven’t told my parents, delaying the inevitable as long as I can.
Traute lifts her chin. She’ll stand by Hans and his leaflets, no matter their personal relationship (or lack thereof). Like Sophie, she believes in what we’re fighting for, and her level-mindedness will serve our group well.
“Come.” I offer her my arm. “Let’s join the others.”
She
slips her hand in the crook of my elbow with a grateful smile, as we ascend the veranda steps. Hans doesn’t even notice as she walks past him toward Frau Schmorell.
“Hello, Willi.” I greet the tall, blond man whom Christl recently introduced to Hans, Alex, and me. A fellow officer in the Second Student Medical Company, he’ll be shipping out with us later this month.
“Kirk.” Willi Graf gives a slight smile. “Good to see you again.” His words are quiet, as if he’s unaccustomed to meting them out often. I don’t know him well, but I sense he’s the type of person who wouldn’t say “good to see you,” unless he really meant it.
For several minutes, we chat about the Bach concert where Christl introduced us.
“Have you seen prior service in Russia?” I ask. Willi looks to be several years older than Hans and me. Or perhaps his thinning hair, the serious cast to his features make him appear so.
“In ’41.” Willi’s face tightens, at variance to the laughter drifting from the other side of the veranda. “You?”
“I’ve been to France, but not Russia.”
“Russia.” Willi pauses. “Russia is a world far removed. The dimensions of war found there …” He stares across the lawn and says no more. Yet the undertone of misery in his gaze is unmistakable.
As the sky turns to milky twilight, the group moves into the Schmorells’ parlor, settling themselves on damask-upholstered settees and plush armchairs or standing around the fireplace. A gilded mirror hangs above the mantel, and a sleek grand piano shines in a corner of the room. Willi’s gaze is instantly drawn to it.
Alex bounds toward us, grinning. Despite the warm weather, he’s dressed in a cream-colored turtleneck sweater and tan suit jacket, completely at ease in his elegant surroundings. “You’re more than welcome to use the piano, Graf.”
“You don’t mind?”
“We’d be delighted.”
Willi needs no further invitation. Soon he’s coaxing the strains of a Beethoven sonata from the instrument, his large frame at variance to the slight piano bench, yet completely at home upon it.
Professor Huber sits on the settee, in conversation with Hans and another student whom I’ve seen briefly around the university.
“I recently received an interesting piece of printed matter,” the young man remarks. “A leaflet by a group calling themselves the White Rose. Have you heard of it, Herr Professor?”
“Ja,” Professor Huber says slowly. “I’ve heard of it. I received a leaflet myself, actually.”
I tense. Hans leans forward. Sophie, standing by the piano next to Willi, turns slightly.
“The White Rose?” Traute’s friend Katharina props her elbow on the arm of her chair. “What’s that?”
Hans turns to her with a look of surprise. “You don’t mean to say you haven’t heard of the White Rose?”
Be careful, Hans.
Katharina shakes her head. Willi finishes the piece and stops playing, glancing in the direction of the conversation.
“I’ve got one of their leaflets here.” Hans reaches into the pocket of his suit coat. “I received two of them. Have a look, if you care to.”
Katharina takes the leaflet and unfolds it.
“So you got one too, Herr Professor?” Hans’s voice is as casual as if he’s inquiring whether or not Professor Huber read the day’s newspaper, yet I catch the undertone of expectancy. “What did you think of it?”
Professor Huber pauses, his bearing stiff and uncomfortable. His forehead creases, as if he’s pondering a difficult subject from the lecture podium. “I’m not certain the leaflet’s impact will be worth the terrible risk incurred by its author. It was well-written, I suppose.”
“I thought it made some good points,” is all Hans says in reply. “When you’re finished, Katharina, I’d like it back.”
Katharina nods, blond head bent over the paper. Willi turns back to the piano, soft music unfurling through the room.
Hans’s expression remains unchanged, but I can tell he’s disappointed. He admires Huber, and his veiled protests against National Socialism disguised as philosophical commentary. With enough encouragement, Hans would likely ask the professor for his intellectual support of our endeavors.
I glance at Alex standing beside me, the mirror a backdrop behind him. “I guess we can’t expect any support from him,” he mutters.
“Professor Huber doesn’t know any of us well.” I keep my voice low. “It’s understandable he’d be guarded around strangers. He’d be a fool if he weren’t.”
Alex shrugs. “Not that it matters much. We’ll soon be in Russia. We can’t exactly continue printing leaflets from there.”
“Russia.” I clap my hand against his shoulder. “Your homeland, Shurik.”
He flashes a smile almost childlike in its anticipation. “Perhaps the Wehrmacht will be doing us a favor, sending us there.”
I see the pain on my mutter’s face as I tell her, the added hours to my vater’s evening prayers. They’ll trust and pray, but not even my pastor vater and his wife are immune to fear. I hate causing them that.
I force a smile for Alex’s benefit. “Perhaps.”
Annalise
July 3, 1942
There’s only one person I trust enough to show the leaflet to.
Sophie.
During the streetcar ride, I’m acutely aware of the pieces of paper in my satchel. As I descend the steps behind a mustached man wearing a Party armband, my heartbeat trips over itself. The air is sticky, and sweat slides down my back, my dress clinging to my skin as I walk through Schwabing, toward Sophie’s apartment on Mandlstraße. I’m weary after a long day of classes, pretending to be interested in a lecture on the Führer’s favorite painters, while the words of the leaflet ran through my mind like a newsreel on repeat.
I reach the apartment building and ring the bell. I glance behind me as I wait. A hausfrau stands on the stoop across the street, beating rugs. Dust clouds around her. Two boys in knee socks push a hoop, quarreling loudly over whose turn it is.
The door opens. A woman stands inside.
“Ja?” She wipes reddened hands on a dishtowel.
“I’m here to see Sophie Scholl.”
“Second door at the top of the stairs.”
“Danke.” I ascend the creaking staircase and knock when I reach Sophie’s door.
A minute passes. Maybe two. The door opens.
“Annalise.” Sophie greets me with a smile. “Come in.” She opens the door. Schoolbooks lay scattered across the sofa. “I’m in the process of being a good student, but you’re welcome to have a seat wherever you can find a place.” She piles the books on the floor, then settles onto the sofa, stockinged feet tucked beneath her.
I join her, though I don’t sit with such casual abandon. Old habits die hard.
“I’m sorry. I should have called first.”
“You’re welcome here,” she says. “I’m low on practically everything, or I’d offer you something to drink.”
“I didn’t come for refreshments.” I reach into the satchel I’d propped against the sofa. “I came to show you something.” I rummage for the leaflet. “I got this in the mail and wanted to know if you’d seen one.” I retrieve the papers and pass them to her.
She takes them, smoothing the creased sheets with her palm. Slowly, she scans the words. I wait, sitting stiffly upright. A clock ticks. I try to read her features, but they remain blank.
Several minutes pass. She hands the pages back to me. I keep the leaflet in my lap, the paper brushing my clasped hands.
“What do you think of it?” Her gaze meets mine.
I take a deep breath. My life over these past months has been a series of crossroads. Taking paths different than those others would choose for me. It started the day I cut off my braids and told Vater I intended to study at university.
Now I’m faced with another, more defined fork in the road.
I’ve already made my decision. It’s time I voiced it.
Sophie nods. Belief is a dangerous thing. I might regret trusting her. But I’ll regret it more if I don’t.
“This leaflet is the truest thing I’ve ever read. Our country has been lied to again and again. These words are honest. Powerful. I wish every German could read them.”
“They are honest.” Sophie tilts her head, eyes on me as if taking my measure. “I’ve read the other leaflet, and it’s equally so.”
“There are more?” My breath catches. More clarifying truth printed on cheap paper. The prospect makes me almost giddy.
“One, I think. Hans showed it to me.”
I pause, drawing in both breath and courage. “Do you think truth is worth taking risks?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s say someone wanted to do as it says: copy and redistribute the leaflet. Would a person be justified in risking to get pamphlets into the hands of their fellow citizens?” My heart pounds in my ears. A breeze from Sophie’s half-open window—blackout curtains pulled aside—dries the sweat beneath my arms.
Sophie rises and crosses to the window. I watch her from my seat on the sofa. What is she thinking? Was I too impulsive?
I shouldn’t have done this. If anything comes of my plan, and I get caught, I don’t want her incriminated. I hate second-guessing myself. Yet I sense this is something I cannot do alone
Time passes while she stands facing the window. The few minutes seem like hours.
Finally, she turns and looks directly at me. Her bobbed hair brushes her cheek, and she stands in the center of a dying puddle of sunlight. “I think if someone was set on doing as you said, they would have to have a solid plan in place. And they’d have to be certain they were willing to risk the consequences. Absolutely certain.”
“But you believe it’s worth it?” Why am I looking to this girl to be my moral compass? Because I’m scared? Because I have no one else?
Sophie nods. A strange half smile edges her lips. “Ja, Annalise. Truth is worth everything.”
The White Rose Resists Page 12