“Hear, hear!” Annalise lifts her cup.
We sip our drinks while Ethel sings “Stormy Weather.” The words fit my mood. I pour Chianti into my cup, inhaling the subtle cherry fragrance. The liquid sloshes from the bottle, puddling on the low table in front of the sofa. I don’t bother wiping it up.
Bidding farewell to my friends made me realize how much they mean to me. Those few final words with Hans, our summer in Munich as fleeting as a full moon. Even the anxiety accompanying our leaflet production could be borne as long as we were together. Alex, warmth in his gaze, promising to remember me in his prayers while in Russia. Shaking Willi’s hand, his kind gaze and solid grip inspiring such trust (will there ever be an opportunity to ask him to join our work?). Posing for photos and trying to laugh, when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry.
I place my half-empty cup on the table and glance at Annalise. She stares into her cup. I didn’t miss the way Kirk looked at her and she at him—like they wanted to imprint the image of the other on their memories with ink that will not fade. Will their parting dim or strengthen their feelings? That’s always the question.
Ethel’s sultry voice fades as the record crackles to an end. I stand and move to change it. Annalise sets her cup on the table. This time, I put on Schubert’s Trout Quintet, one of my favorite classical pieces. One degenerate record is enough for tonight.
“So you’re off to Ulm tomorrow?”
I nod.
“Oh, the joys of armaments work.”
I don’t respond with something light and sarcastic. My thoughts turn to Vater, soon to go on trial. In the blur of removing any trace of our leaflet operation from the studio, selling the duplicating machine as a safety measure, planning last night’s farewell party, and today’s hurried goodbyes, I’ve managed to put the fast-approaching date all but from my mind. I pick up my cup. Already, the wine is growing lukewarm and flat. The air is stifling, blackout curtains cloaking the windows like smothering hands. We sit in dingy semi-darkness.
“What is it?” Annalise touches my shoulder.
I face her. Despite her youthful face, a concern older than her years fills her gaze.
“My vater.”
Annalise doesn’t take her hand from my shoulder. Her touch, rather than her words, urges me to go on.
“He’s standing trial for saying if Hitler doesn’t end the war, the Russians will be in Berlin within two years. A scourge of humanity, he called the Führer. His secretary overheard and denounced him. I’m surprised she had enough brains to know what that meant.” My tone is dry. “Of course, the authorities pounced on it. He spent the night in jail, before they let him go because he was in the middle of an accounting project for Ulm’s Finance Department. His trial is August 3. Mutter’s health is already weak, and with Hans and Werner gone … I’m scared, Annalise.” Admitting it eases the fear gnawing inside me. At home, I’ll have to be brave. A strong shoulder for others to lean on. But with Annalise, woman to woman, I can be honest.
Annalise’s expression tightens. “I wish I could say there would be justice.”
I shake my head. “I hold out no hope for that.”
She stares at the opposite wall, as if turning something over in her mind. Then she faces me. Her forehead is moist from the heat, and she looks as tired as I feel. “Kirk said God will be with us wherever we are.”
“That sounds like him.” I smile. I believe God is with us, but it is so difficult to trust, to follow after Him wholeheartedly when every day brings its own weariness, a new shade of darkness. Faith is trusting through the darkness, but sometimes I ask how and come up empty.
“Let’s take it one day at a time. Focus on making it back to Munich in the fall. We can produce new leaflets then. Work even harder. Every paragraph written, each leaflet sent is power. They might be able to imprison your vater, work us like slaves in their factories, but if we concentrate on coming back here, we can bear it. All of it.”
I nod, the determination in her voice bolstering my resolve. Joining us has changed Annalise. She’s no longer the uncertain girl I first met but a woman whose friendship I’m grateful for.
I pick up our cups and hand hers over. “To making it through, then?”
I meant it lightly, but Annalise looks as serious as if she’s taking a vow. Glass clinks. Schubert plays. “To both of us making it through.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kirk
July 26, 1942
Warsaw, Poland
THREE DAYS OF TRAIN travel passed as the cars bearing us to the eastern front left Germany and crossed Poland. Days of talking amongst ourselves, reading books, writing letters, and staring out the smudged glass at the scenery. Poland is a desolate landscape, wide and empty. Thatched farmhouses sit in groves of birch, and the fields bear the marks of plunder and neglect.
Finally we reach Warsaw. After being shown to our quarters, we’ve been given the evening off. Most of the Second Student Medical Company will likely seek out the nearest bar to sate their thirst with Polish vodka.
Hans, Alex, Willi, and I head for the center of the city to have a look around.
We walk through gray-hued streets, passing piles of rubble where buildings once stood. In our uniforms, the four of us walking side by side, the denizens of the city give us wide berth. Our boots make a harsh sound on the cobbled street. A woman holding two small children by their hands, dress lank on her shrunken frame, scuttles past without so much as a glance. Two boys dressed in dirty, too-large shirts crouch on the sidewalk as we pass, bony hands outstretched, calling out something in Polish. I don’t recognize their words, but I understand the cadence of their cries and the look in their wide eyes—food, please.
Alex is already rummaging in his pockets. He pulls out his iron ration bar and hands it to the youngest of the two children. Terror shines in their eyes. They see our uniforms, not our souls. I fumble for something to give, and hand the other child a brown-paper wrapped piece of dried meat. Shaking, as if from fear, he takes the food, whispering something through cracked and bleeding lips. I nod, wishing I could do, offer more, but we move on.
On the next street, SS officers in pressed uniforms and women in furs exit sleek motorcars and enter a three-story building that looks like a hotel. Sultry music spills out as the double doors open, revealing a glimpse of plush carpets and crystal chandeliers.
We walk on, encountering more beggars, Polish citizens with warscarred expressions, bars with swinging doors and raucous music, and the shells of bombed-out buildings.
Warsaw is a city trampled by German jackboots.
I glance at Willi. Beneath his gray-green cap, his face is grim. Stationed in Poland before, he’s no stranger to the destruction the German army has wreaked upon this country.
Up ahead, a massive brick wall looms high, crowned with barbed wire. SS guards stand rigid on either side of the entrance. The eerie quietness grows with every step as we draw closer.
Hans nudges me, pointing toward the gates. “What is that?”
I’m not sure. But I intend to find out. “Excuse me … Ja, I’m speaking to you.” I hail a passing adolescent boy. His wrists and ankles stick out from his tattered clothes.
He skids to a stop, shoulders hunched, head bent.
I smile, trying to look unthreatening. “What’s that?” I point to the wall. Even if he doesn’t understand German, he’ll at least follow my gestures.
He darts a glance toward the wall, then back down to his holey boots. His ears stick out from beneath a ragged cap. “Getto,” he mumbles.
“Ghetto,” I repeat. “Ghetto for whom?”
“Żydzi.” His gaze flickers up.
“He says it’s a ghetto for Jews,” Alex says quietly.
“Oh.” I swallow. “Here.” I pull a few cigarettes from my pocket, part of my army ration. “For you.” Even if he doesn’t smoke, he can use them to trade.
The boy doesn’t move.
“For you,” I say again, pointing fro
m the cigarettes back to him.
Recognition glimmers in his eyes. He inches out a grimy hand. I continue to hold out my palm, smiling. In a flash, the boy grabs the cigarettes and pockets them. He takes off down the street at a run. Not like a mischievous kid getting away, but as if he’s used to running for his life, used to fearing being shot at.
The four of us draw closer. The stench is overpowering. Humidity, decaying garbage, and an odor like rotting meat. Bile rises in my throat. A few meters away, a corpse is sprawled on the street. An old man. Dried blood coats one side of his head. His clothes may have once given evidence of his identity, but they’ve since been stripped from him.
“Now what?” I whisper to Hans. We can’t go in—the signs posted near the gates declare Authorized Personnel Only.
Before Hans can answer, the sound of tramping feet reaches my ears. We instinctively move away from the center of the street and onto the sidewalk, standing against an abandoned brick building on the Aryan side of the city. If there’s anything we’ve learned, it’s how to become invisible. To observe.
About forty men and women trudge toward the gates, herded by SS soldiers. Their clothes are tattered, their faces chalky from lack of sun and nourishment. They walk with eyes focused on the ground, shoulders stooped, bodies drawn into themselves. All wear armbands emblazoned with the Star of David.
A young woman near the middle of the queue catches my attention. Most of the women wear kerchiefs, but her shoulder-length curls are uncovered. Their color, that peculiar mix of gold and red, is the same shade as Annalise’s. She turns slightly, her profile in view. Other than her hair, she looks nothing like Annalise. Her face is pinched and aged beyond her years. She stands in the queue, gaze down, hands folded over her waist, next to a man about the same age. The sun glints on her hair, making it shine.
The gates open, and each person passes a piece of paper to the guard, who gives a cursory glance before handing it back. Another guard searches them, a quick running of his hands down their bodies, before they move forward, swallowed by the gates and whatever is behind them.
“Jewish workers.” Willi’s gaze is riveted on the group. “They must be allowed to leave the ghetto for factory work or something like that.”
“How long have they been kept here?” Hans asks.
“A couple of years, maybe. I imagine conditions behind the walls are indescribably awful.”
We linger a few moments more as the queue grows shorter. “Let’s go,” Hans mutters.
We turn and head in the opposite direction.
A cry. A shot. I start. Spin around, heart thudding.
The woman with the reddish-gold hair lies in front of the ghetto in a spreading pool of blood. Beside her, in the blood, is something round and brown. A potato.
A scream builds inside of me. I force it back. Alex and Willi are pale. Hans’s mouth is a tight line.
“Why?”
“She must’ve been smuggling food.” Willi’s eyes close for an instant, as if to wipe away the images.
“And that was enough to shoot her?” Alex’s face matches how I feel. Frantic. Disbelieving.
“For them, ja” is all the reply Willi gives. What else is there to say? A Jewish life was taken. I don’t need to see the inside of the ghetto to know many more lives are taken daily, and will continue to be.
Life, all life, is precious. A dull mourning I will not soon shake rises in my chest.
Just before we turn the corner, I glance back once more.
One of the guards drags the woman away by the feet, her head lolled back, exposing the pale skin of her throat. The ghetto wall rises high, an impenetrable force of brick. The queue shuffles forward.
We walk on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sophie
August 3, 1942
Ulm
THE HARD-BACKED CHAIR PRESSES into my spine. In the courtroom, the air is sticky and tinged with the odor of perspiration. A fly buzzes above the head of the balding man in the seat in front of me.
Beside me, Mutter’s face is pale, her lips set in a thin line. I take her hand. It’s clammy. Shaking. I squeeze hard, willing her to look at me and draw some courage from my gaze.
She stares straight ahead, eyes never leaving her husband, my vater, as we wait to hear his fate.
Fräulein Wilke stands in the witness box, wearing her BDM uniform, her hair in two long braids, though she’s at least my age.
“What exactly did Herr Scholl say, Fräulein Wilke? Would you repeat it for the benefit of the court, please?” The district attorney’s brow glistens with sweat, his rotund frame garbed in a black suit.
The presiding judge leans forward.
Fräulein Wilke turns slightly in the witness box, facing the judge, not Vater. Her chin lifts. “He said our Führer was a scourge of humanity.” Her voice falters, as if she’s unused to so many gazes on her.
A collective gasp of outrage filters through the courtroom.
“And that if the Führer did not end the war soon, the Russians would be in Berlin within two years.” Fräulein Wilke dares a glance at Vater. He sits on a bench against the wall, flanked by two guards. His expression is blank, but I can tell he’s fighting an internal battle. Vater is many good things, but an even-tempered man is not one of them.
“Then he dared … he actually dared to compare our Führer to Attila the Hun.” Fräulein Wilke grips the witness stand, as if overcome.
Mutter turns to me. “How bad do you think it will be?” she whispers.
“Courage, Mutter.” I squeeze her hand. “See how brave Vater is. He’s not afraid, and neither should we be.”
Mutter nods. She’s wearing her nicest summer dress, a narrow-brimmed hat, graying hair pulled into a tidy bun. This morning, she straightened Vater’s tie and made sure his suit was pressed and his mustache trimmed before we left for court. These two decent, ordinary people don’t belong in a courtroom like common criminals. I inhale a sharp breath.
Vater’s right. Hitler is like Attila the Hun. If only he’d restrained himself enough to wait until he was at home to say so, instead of in the hearing of his secretary, the loyal little Nazi.
The trial drags on. Vater is given a chance to defend himself, and he does his best to deflect Fräulein Wilke’s statements.
I track the judge’s expression. It remains unconvinced.
Finally, Vater is told to stand as his sentence is read. Between the two young guards, he looks stooped and old, dark hair threaded with gray, the skin around his jaw sagging and pasty. My heart thuds dully, matching the ache in my temples. Mutter squeezes my hand, her sweaty grip clenching my fingers.
Please, God …
The judge rises. “Robert Scholl, you are charged with malicious slander of the Führer and sentenced to four months imprisonment. You are also required to pay all court costs in full. You will be granted a three-week reprieve before serving your sentence to allow you time to sort out your business affairs. The court permits this leniency out of its regard for your service in the community.” He drones on, but I scarcely hear him. Mutter exhales, some of the color returning to her cheeks.
I expected worse. But how will we manage with Vater imprisoned, our income gone?
A half hour later, the three of us walk home in the afternoon heat, through familiar streets. Children pedal by on bicycles, summer flowers decorate window boxes with splashes of color. The endlessly high spire of the grand Ulmer Münster rises skyward, tip piercing the heavens.
I look up at Vater, walking between us in the center of the cobbled street. He’s said little since leaving the courthouse, only pressed Mutter close against his chest for a moment. I’ve always looked to my vater as a source of strength. Now his own is gone.
“What will you do, Robert?” Mutter peers up at him, as we turn down Münsterplatz.
Vater stops, taking Mutter’s hands in both of his. I stand on the outskirts of their circle of two.
“I’ve already arranged for Eugen Gr
imminger to manage the business while I’m away.” He says away as if he’s leaving for a trip, not a prison sentence. “He and Inge will work together. We’ll manage, Magdalena.” His tone is firm, as if, by the resolve of his words, he can make them come to pass.
Mutter nods and gives a little smile, a vote of confidence. But I can tell she’s shaken. Her health hasn’t been strong in several years, fault of her heart condition. Without my brothers and now Vater, there will be no man for her to lean on. I must do all I can to take their places.
Hitler has tied all our hands. Because of him, Vater must go to prison and I must work in an armaments factory during summer vacation, laboring for the Reich, instead of helping my own family.
My chest burns.
“You’re frowning, Sophie.” Vater tweaks a strand of my hair. “Come now, chin up. Remember, Allen—”
“Gewalten zum Trotz sich erhalten,” we finish the Goethe quote together. Despite all the powers, maintain yourself. It’s our family’s equivalent of squaring one’s shoulders and getting on with it. We’ve repeated the phrase to ourselves and each other over the years, until the words flow from our tongues as naturally as breathing.
I smile, to show him I’m all right. He wraps a solid arm around my shoulders, giving them a quick squeeze. Tears press against my eyes, but I blink them away. He slips Mutter’s hand into the crook of his arm, and we move in the direction of our apartment.
When the labor service extends your term another six months: maintain yourself.
When your brother is arrested for belonging to an illegal youth organization: maintain yourself.
When you don’t know if your closest friends will return from Russia on their own two legs or in a wooden box: maintain yourself.
When your vater is sentenced to prison: maintain yourself.
When you look around and all you see is evil and injustice …
“Allen Gewalten zum Trotz sich erhalten,” I whisper, squinting into the blindingly bright sky.
The White Rose Resists Page 15