The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  “It’ll more than do,” I replied. She grinned, and we bundled it all up in my briefcase and satchel. I left with a promise to be in contact soon and delivered the supplies to Hans and Alex. After another lengthy debate, they agreed to allow Annalise to come to the studio.

  Today, in the crowded Lichthof, I passed her a folded slip of paper:

  Leopoldstraße 38. 9:00 p.m.

  I reach the studio a half hour early. Hans, the basement’s only occupant, is setting up the typewriter.

  I toss my satchel on the table and spread out the stamps I’ve purchased. Combined with what the girls bought, it should be enough for the distribution of 120 copies of our fourth leaflet.

  Hans straddles the chair beside the typewriter. His face is drawn, the light casting haggard shadows over his eyes. He blows out a breath.

  “Everything all right?” I pull up my own chair, its legs scraping the floor.

  Hans looks up, pain in his gaze. “Traute broke up with me.” His tone is dull. “She still wants to help with the leaflets. It’s me she’s through with.”

  “Oh.” Judging from my conversation with her at the Schmorells’, I’m not surprised. “I’m sorry, Hans.”

  He clears his throat. “I’ll get over it. There’s too much to do to let myself wallow. I really cared about her though. She’s always been special, not like other girls. She’s so determined to take our leaflets to Hamburg, start her own revolution there. She’s stubborn and bright … and … if we’d only had more time. More time …” He scrubs a hand across his face. “But we don’t.” He glances at me, as if just now realizing he’s been talking out loud. “That’s life, I guess.” His smile is off-kilter, like a tie he’s put on crooked. “Let’s get started. The others will be here soon.”

  We work in silence. I sense Hans doesn’t want my sympathy any more than an adolescent boy would want his mutter fussing over a scraped knee. Hans has fallen in and out of love before. I only hope he resists the temptation next time, for both his sake and the girl’s. Our work is complicated enough without bringing in personal angst.

  We’re finishing preparing the duplicating machine when Alex arrives, followed by Sophie. She pierces her brother with a look, as if she knows what happened between him and Traute. He ignores her. Sophie moves to add her pile of stamps to mine.

  Alex and Hans have already finalized the draft and typed the stencil. Extra shifts at the hospital have left me low on spare time, so I had little to do with the composition of this one, though I wish I had. It’s our most powerful yet, every word ringing with the call to take action.

  “I’ll wait upstairs.”

  “Why?” Alex rolls up his shirtsleeves.

  “For Annalise,” I say, before turning away and heading up the stairs.

  I lean against the wall in the darkness of the entryway, listening for footsteps. I don’t have long to wait. Two raps sound. I open the door, and Annalise slips inside, dragging her bicycle along with her. She’s wearing a black coat and kerchief, face pale against the charcoal fabric. I help her prop the bicycle against the wall.

  “They’re all downstairs.”

  She tugs off the kerchief, reddish-gold curls clouding around her cheeks. “Let’s go then.” She stuffs the kerchief into the pocket of her coat and follows me down the steps.

  As we reach the bottom, I resist the urge to place my hand against the small of her back. To protect her. But I can’t. Now she’s one of us, I can’t protect her from anything.

  I push open the door, revealing the glow of the room and the figures of the people within. Sophie smiles. Hans stands next to the duplicating machine, arms crossed. Alex is the first to rise and greet her.

  “Well, if it isn’t Father Christmas. Welcome.” He grips her hand with a warm grin.

  Annalise smiles. “Hello, Alex.”

  “Nein.” He shakes his head. “Here, it’s Shurik. My Russian name.”

  “Shurik.” She tests the pronunciation. He chuckles and corrects her. She tries again, with more success. Sophie laughs.

  “You’ll be affixing stamps to envelopes.” Hans’s tone is curt, his eyes assessing. To her credit, Annalise doesn’t shrink toward me but meets his gaze head on.

  “Anything you want me to do, I’ll do it.”

  Hans gives a brief nod. “I’ll show you where to sit.” He jerks a hand in the direction of the table. Annalise follows him, unbuttoning her coat. She places it over the back of the chair he motions her toward and takes a seat. Hans places his hand briefly on the back of her chair.

  “Glad to have you with us.” He gives a slight smile.

  “Danke, Hans.” Annalise turns and looks up at him. “I’m grateful to be here with all of you, helping. The leaflets are brilliant.”

  He shrugs. “We should have written them long before now.”

  The rest of us move to our various positions. Sophie to folding leaflets and placing them in envelopes, Alex to typing addresses, and Hans and me to the duplicating machine.

  The motions of cranking the handle are now as familiar as breathing, and I can do my part with little mental effort. Hans demands speed and perfection, but that doesn’t stop me from glancing up every so often to watch the group at the table. Annalise’s head is bent over her work as she pastes stamps to envelopes. How earnest she is.

  How deeply every glance entangles her in my heart. I must keep my guard up. Yet every time I’m with her, against all judgment and reason, my guard breaks down a little more.

  We’re leaving for Russia before the end of the month. There’s little doubt that this will be the last leaflet before our departure. Hans and Alex labored to make it the boldest yet.

  Every word that comes out of Hitler’s mouth is a lie. When he says peace, he means war, and when he uses the name of the Almighty in the most sacrilegious way, he means the power of the evil one, of the fallen angel, of Satan.

  Alex is eager to see his homeland. But I know what we’ll encounter. The broken bodies we tend now at the hospital will seem like mere scratches compared to men fresh from the field of battle.

  Still, go I must, and try to do what good I can. My friends will be with me; that’s one consolation.

  Several hours later, we finish for the night. Tomorrow, we’ll mail the leaflets we’ve duplicated tonight in postboxes across Munich.

  I pick up a stray leaflet and scan the words. Annalise comes up behind me. Her hair brushes my shoulder. Warmth and softness radiate from her body. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to lean into her, press her close, an antidote to my exhaustion.

  When I glance at her, she’s not looking at me, but at the leaflet in my hand. Then her eyes shine as they look into mine.

  “What?” I can’t help my smile.

  She doesn’t smile back, but takes the leaflet from my hand. Hans wipes a rag across the duplicating machine. Sophie shoves leaflets into her brother’s satchel. Alex places the typewriter in its case.

  “‘We will not remain silent,’” she reads aloud. At her words, the others look up. Annalise’s voice fills the air, the room, and each of us down to the marrow of our weary bones. “‘We are your guilty conscience. The White Rose will not leave you in peace.’”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Annalise

  July 23, 1942

  AS QUICKLY AS IT began, it ended. I’ve worked alongside Hans, Sophie, Alex, and Kirk for two fleeting weeks—barely enough time to draw a breath between trips to the post office, smiling at the clerk sweetly enough for him to hand over fifty stamps without asking why, and nights hunched over the table, sealing envelopes and pasting stamps. Despite the tension and exhaustion, for the first time I’ve known what it is to work for a cause that truly matters.

  Now the men are off to the front, the girls to their homes, and the requisite armaments work required of females who want to continue their university studies.

  I can’t deny how empty the prospect makes me.

  The morning air is damp, and I’m glad I wore a sweate
r over my cranberry polka dot dress. Munich’s Ostbahnhof is packed with soldiers who look too young and families who look too scared. Gone are the parades and banners of the beginning of the war that lauded Hitler’s soldiers as the gods of the twentieth century. In their place are men all too human.

  Men who may not come back.

  Our group lingers outside the freight yard, the men reluctant to enter the fenced enclosure separating the platform from the street. Linden trees bloom in a neat row, the morning air fragrant with their sweet honey scent. Sophie, Alex, and Hans sit in a huddle on a bench, heads bent in conversation. Christl, the only man in our group in civilian clothes, stands in front of them. Stationed with a Luftwaffe unit, he isn’t being sent to the eastern front. Kirk and Willi—a new friend of Hans whom I met at last night’s farewell party—chat quietly off to one side. Willi’s arms are folded, his jaw set, though he gives a brief smile at something Kirk says. Kirk chuckles. His uniform fills his broad shoulders, cap set at a jaunty angle on his freshly cropped hair.

  Jürgen Wittenstein, a friend of the Scholls also leaving for the front, mills around, taking photos. I raise my own camera to my eye and snap pictures, wind tangling my curls around my cheeks. I’m glad I thought to bring it. I want, need something to remember this moment by during the months apart. The faces of my friends on little squares of black and white. Noticing, Jürgen smiles at me in understanding. He knows what pictures mean, how a simple image can conjure a thousand memories.

  I snap Sophie, Hans, and Christl. Christl jots something in a notepad, while Hans looks on. Sophie’s forehead is creased in that familiar way, a daisy pinned to her dress, her sweater bulky around her shoulders. No one is smiling.

  “Hey, Scholls!” I call. “Smile for the camera.”

  They look up. Christl shoves the notepad in his trouser pocket with a grin. “Let’s get a picture before I go. The four of us.”

  A memory captured in time. Hans with his arm slung around Sophie, Christl on Sophie’s other side, his hand on Alex’s shoulder.

  “Ready?” I focus the camera. Alex pulls a face, making Sophie laugh. “One, two, three.”

  They’re smiling this time, Sophie’s mouth open mid-laugh, Christl’s eyes disappearing into slits, Hans glancing at Sophie and chuckling, Alex looking into the camera with a crooked grin. Brother, sister, and friends, arms around each other.

  Snap.

  “Perfect.” I fiddle with the camera, preparing to take the next photo.

  Christl grips Hans’s hand and claps Alex on the back, bidding his friends farewell with quiet words. I watch him walk down the street, glancing back once more. For once, the light has left his eyes.

  “Don’t I get a picture?”

  I spin. Kirk gazes at me, a faint smile playing across his lips. All around us, families say their goodbyes on the outskirts of the station. Desperation makes some heedless of German dignity, a knowing desperation that this goodbye may be the last. Men in uniform sweep up their children and cuddle them close, kiss wives and sweethearts full on the mouth. The display of affection spears me with longing.

  I want a husband to kiss and call my own. Not as Vater wanted for me—brood mare to a virile stallion, reproducing little foals for the Reich. I want love.

  I want … Kirk.

  I nod, unable to form a reply.

  “Alex, come here.” Kirk waves. Alex jogs over.

  “At your service, Hoffmann.”

  “Give him the camera.”

  I pass the camera into Alex’s hands. “Do you know how to work this thing?”

  “Of course.” Alex rolls his eyes. “I’ve got one back home.”

  “It’s time the photographer was in one of the pictures.” Kirk turns to me.

  “Ready?” Alex holds the camera to his eye, squinting. “Smile.”

  It happens so fast. I’m not even sure who started it. If he put his arm around me first, or if I put mine around him. We smile for the camera. The wind blows my curls into my eyes.

  Snap.

  When Kirk withdraws his arm from around my waist, I realize it’s possible to mourn the lack of something one has only known for seconds.

  The troop train slogs into the freight yard, belching smoke. Its high-pitched whistle pierces my ears. Its arrival means goodbye. I will our final moments together to stretch out, to last and last. For the parting not to come at all.

  Foolish, wistful thoughts.

  “We have to join our company,” Hans calls.

  Alex hands the camera back to me. I slide its strap around my neck, while I thank him.

  “My pleasure.” He walks toward Hans and Willi, and the group of uniformed men head toward the freight yard. Kirk turns away, leaving me standing on the cobblestones. Sophie and I follow as far as the gate. They salute and report to the officer stationed there, the gate opens, and the men are swallowed up. Stubborn, sudden tears press against my eyes.

  No goodbyes. No … nothing.

  “Come.” Sophie tugs my hand. “This way.”

  Women and children gather on the other side of the gate, the more daring ones standing on a cement ledge which gives them a boost in height. Sweethearts hold hands through the iron slats, a little boy balanced on an elderly man’s shoulders lifts a chubby hand and waves to a soldier on the other side. “Vati! Look at me!”

  “Hey there, my little man.” The child’s grin widens as his vati waves back.

  But the young soldier’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Sophie and I wait in silence. Minutes pass. The freight yard is an undulating wave of Wehrmacht gray.

  “Look.”

  I glance in the direction Sophie points. Our friends stride through the crowd, heading toward us. My gaze locks onto Kirk, walking between Alex and Hans, the picture of a dashing soldier. Yet the sight of him in uniform doesn’t swell my heart with pride, but makes it ache with sorrow.

  “We were worried you wouldn’t wait for us,” Hans says.

  Sophie, standing on the cement slab, clinging to an iron spike with one hand, meets her brother’s eyes. “You know I’d always wait for you, Hans.”

  Jürgen snaps more photos, and I watch absently. He captures Sophie, sweater-clad arms spread wide, satchel slung around a fence spike while the young men pose below.

  “Look, Annalise,” she calls. “I’m a bird!”

  Jürgen laughs.

  Snap.

  Sophie, looking down at the boys from the other side of the gate. They talk and trade jokes. In one hand, she holds a daisy, clutching the spike with the other. She is no longer smiling.

  She too knows time is running out.

  Kirk climbs onto the cement slab, gazing down at me. “I wanted to say goodbye.” His tone is quiet.

  I hoist myself up, so we’re almost eye-level, facing each other across the barrier, one hand wrapped around the damp, cold metal of the fence.

  “I … I didn’t think we’d get to.” I raise my gaze to his, noticing the little things. The tiny scrape along his jaw as if he cut himself shaving. The faint line of freckles on the bridge of his nose. The amber of his eyes.

  If only I had paper and pencils. After my hands sketched him, my heart would not forget. But it’s too late for that. I’ll only have the photos … and my memories.

  “Will you write to me?” He reaches out. Our hands meet across the barrier, holding tight, his touch warm against my chilled fingers.

  “Ja.” Surely, he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t care, just a little. “I’ll write.”

  “Do you believe in God, Annalise?”

  I laugh, startled by the change in topic. “Kirk Hoffmann, you really are the son of a pastor. Bringing up theology now, of all times.”

  “I didn’t ask you about theology. I asked if you believed in God. We’ve never talked about that.” His eyes are earnest.

  I can’t lie to him. I sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “This morning, before I left, my mutter told me God goes with us everywhere. And that even if we
aren’t where we want to be, He can use us for good. I thought it might comfort you to know that as you return to Berlin.”

  The train whistle wails.

  “Wiedersehen, Annalise.” He reaches up and, ever so gently, tucks a tendril of hair behind my ear. Unbidden tears prick my eyes. I must not cry. Not now.

  “Be safe, Kirk,” I whisper. I want to sob and beg him to come back. Tell him that if he does I’ll do anything, even listen to his talk about God.

  I can’t ask him that. It’s a promise he cannot guarantee, much less vow to keep.

  He nods. Smiles once more, sad and sweet. He climbs down and walks toward his comrades boarding the train, shoulders straight, Wehrmacht uniform pressed, boots gleaming. I keep my smile firmly pasted in place as we watch them go, Sophie and I. The train chugs out of the station, the forms of the men leaning out the windows passing all too quickly, their called-out last words lost in the wind and whistle-shrills and pluming smoke.

  When all that’s left of the train is tendrils of smoke and the dispersing groups of families and friends, Sophie turns to me. She hugs her arms across her chest, wisps of hair escaping from her bobby pin and falling around her face.

  “After four years of war, you’d think saying goodbye would be easier.” She gives a brittle smile.

  I shake my head. “Some things never change.”

  Sophie

  July 23, 1942

  That evening, Annalise and I retreat to my apartment. Alex bequeathed us his remaining stash of Chianti, and I pour generous portions into teacups—the only clean glasses I can find. Annalise settles onto my sofa, stockinged feet tucked beneath her. I cross to Hans’s record player, crouch down, and leaf through the stack of records before finding the one I want at the bottom of the pile.

  “They’re not telling us what we can listen to tonight.” I place the needle on the record. Ethel Waters’s rich voice crackles mournfully onto the air.