Squaring my shoulders, I close my fingers around the knob. The door opens.
Kirk stands on the stoop, wearing a brown overcoat, hair slicked back.
One look at him is all it takes. I can barely think, scarcely breathe, my thoughts reduced to three words. A single refrain.
Kirk is here. Kirk is here.
He smiles. It’s a little crooked around the edges as if he’s nervous too.
“Please, come in.” I step aside, wincing at my too-polite words. He walks past me, and it’s our first meeting at Hans’s apartment all over again. I’m lost in the scents of clean soap, something masculine. His warmth radiates through me for a too-brief instant.
We face each other in the semi-lit entryway. My bare arms prickle in the lingering cold.
“You look … you look …” He clears his throat. A hint of red stains his cheekbones. “I’ve missed you, Annalise.”
Longing seizes in my chest, his words all but my undoing. In this moment, my fiercest wish is for his arms to come around me, to lean into the solid strength of him. All the loneliness, the vacant weeks of missing him come flooding back. Every hour passed as if it were a day, every week, a lifetime. Now he’s here, and all I want to do is hold him and be held by him.
“I’ve missed you too.” I inhale through parted lips. Waiting. Hoping for him to take a step closer.
Is he battling the same emotions? There’s only half a meter between us. How easy it would be for one of us to cross it.
He draws a sharp breath, runs a hand along his clean-shaven jaw. Looks away. I brush my damp palms against my skirt.
When he looks up, he’s smiling again. “Come.” He holds out his hand to me. I clasp mine in his, our fingers closing around each other’s. “Let’s join the others.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kirk
November 18, 1942
TWO NIGHTS AGO, WE talked and laughed, brimming with the effervesce of old friends coming together again. I tried and failed to keep from looking at Annalise, the light of her eyes, her softly curling hair, the wide abandonment of her smile as she laughed at one of Alex’s stories.
Seeing her again made me realize how deeply and dangerously I’ve come to care for her. In the midst of a resistance more dangerous than war is not the time to give your heart away.
But the heart, in all its caprices, makes no allowances for time or place.
We reopen Eickemeyer’s studio and settle in for long hours of discussion. Hans has invited Willi to join our work, and I’m glad of it. We need his quiet steadiness. He lent much of it in Russia, a tempering contrast to Hans and Alex.
“We must join forces with the wider resistance movement.” Hans paces back and forth, gesturing with the cigarette in his right hand. Perched on a crate, Sophie looks up at her brother. “Mailing leaflets to random names out of a telephone directory is all well and good, but it isn’t enough.”
“We need to expand our reach to other cities.” Willi props his chin in his hand. He sits at the scarred wood table, across from me. “I have friends in Saarbrücken and Bonn who might be willing to start a group of their own.”
Hans nods. “That’s a start. Come on, what else? Shurik, why don’t you tell them?”
Beside me, Alex folds both arms on the table, leaning forward. “My friend Lilo says she can put us in touch with Falk Harnack.”
“Arvid Harnack’s brother?” While in Russia, we managed to listen to a few foreign broadcasts on Willi’s portable radio. Over the crackling airwaves, we heard of Arvid Harnack’s arrest, along with that of his wife Mildred, an American-born university lecturer. They, along with others, had been seized in a Gestapo action against the resistance group known as Die Rote Kapelle. The Red Orchestra. Hearing of the existence of a widespread resistance network thrilled us, especially Hans. One of the Red Orchestra’s leaders was an oberleutnant in the Air Ministry, proof that others in Germany—even among the highest ranks of the military—believe in the overthrow of the Reich enough to risk their lives for it.
Alex nods. “Lilo’s engaged to Falk. She says she can arrange a meeting. His unit is stationed at Chemnitz.”
“Do you think Falk Harnack has contacts in the wider resistance?” Traute stands behind Sophie, arms folded.
“Lilo assures me he does,” Alex replies. “She says he’ll meet us, if we’ll risk the journey.”
Hans inhales a drag of his cigarette. “However much or little he knows, it’s imperative we broaden our horizons if we hope to have any real effect. But the Gestapo and military police are cracking down, searching trains, and checking papers. We don’t have passes or travel permits. If we’re caught, we’ll be charged with desertion.”
His words sink into the room. Sophie’s brow furrows. Annalise glances at me. Our eyes meet. I offer her a slight smile. She looks away without returning it.
Our work comes with risks too numerous to name. The opportunity to meet with a man like Falk Harnack may not come a second time.
“I’m willing to chance it,” I say.
Alex nods. “You know I’m in.”
“It’s settled then.” Hans looks between us. “Shurik, Kirk, and I will meet Harnack at Chemnitz. Shurik, you’re in charge of making arrangements with Lilo and Harnack.”
Alex nods.
Hans pinches the bridge of his nose, still pacing. “We’ll need funds if we’re to increase production. All of us can contribute, but our allowances won’t cover everything.”
“I’ve asked Fritz for a loan,” Sophie says quietly. “I know he’ll send me the money.”
“I can write my vater.” From her seat on a crate, Annalise looks to Hans. “I’ll say I need it for living expenses.”
Hans gives her a long look. Since she’s joined us, slipping into our circle like she’s always belonged, it’s been easy to forget who her vater is.
Annalise, though, never forgets. The rest of us keep our work secret from our families for their safety, not because they’d disown us if they knew. In joining us, Annalise has turned aside from ever fully being a part of her family again. As well as accepting the danger to herself, she’s dealt with this loss too. It makes me even prouder of her, the woman she’s become.
“That’s a good idea.” I nod, smile. “Everything helps.”
She gives me a grateful look.
“Traute?”
Traute’s gaze meets Hans’s.
“Didn’t you say your uncle in Vienna is in the wholesale office supply business?”
She nods.
“We need a duplicating machine. A bigger one.”
Traute doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll go to Vienna and see what I can do.”
Hans looks at Traute, admiration in his eyes. “Danke.”
“I’ll give my aunt our leaflets too and take some to Hamburg when I’m there next. There are already groups in the city meeting at bookshops and cafés, discussing ways to take action. I’ve friends who regularly attend the meetings. They’d be eager to help.”
“I’ll rely on you to establish contact.” Hans flashes Traute a quick smile. “Let me see, what else? We’ll need someone in charge of our finances, recording amounts received and the names of those who make a donation, even if they don’t know what they’re donating to. That way, after this is all over, we can repay our debts.”
“I can do that,” Sophie says quickly.
“Great. After we talk to Harnack, we’ll have a better idea of how to proceed.” Hans’s eyes glimmer as he looks at each of us. Willi watches him thoughtfully. Alex leans forward, collar unbuttoned, pipe in his mouth. “Harnack may doubt many things about us, but our determination won’t be one of them.”
Kirk
November 28, 1942
Chemnitz, Germany
“Do you see him?” I glance at Hans, voice cut to a whisper.
Hans shakes his head. “Not yet.”
The three of us stand outside the gates cordoning off the barracks and military camp. Two sentries guard the
entrance, and every so often, a uniformed soldier comes in or goes out. None of them is Falk Harnack.
I shove my hands into my pockets, fingers stiff with cold, every sense on alert. The trip was an agony, sitting motionless on the hard bench seat of the train, willing ourselves to be invisible, our faces blank as military police walked the aisle checking papers at random. Each time I thought: This is it. We’re going to be caught and charged with desertion. But each time, by some miracle, they passed us by.
“How long should we wait?” Alex’s cheeks are ruddy with cold. None of us are in uniform. That alone brings us, as men of military age, under suspicion.
Hans’s jaw tightens. “As long as we have to.”
The sky is winter gray. One of the sentries stomps booted feet, breath clouding like cigarette smoke from his pale lips.
The gates swing open. A tall man strides past the guards with the briefest of nods. A wool overcoat is slung over his uniformed shoulders like a cloak. His polished black boots crunch on the frozen ground as he heads toward us.
“Hans Scholl?”
“Ja.” Hans steps forward. “Corporal Harnack?”
The tall man nods.
“It’s good to finally meet you.”
“Likewise.” The men grip hands. “Come.” Harnack gestures toward the road. “I’ve reserved a room at the Sächsischer Hof.”
We say little as we walk down the frosted road toward the city of Chemnitz. Harnack hails a taxi on the outskirts of the city, and we ride the rest of the way to the hotel. Crammed into the back seat, elbows and knees poking into each other, the four of us exchange cautious glances. The interior of the taxi is rank from its previous occupants, and the driver keeps sniffing and wiping a hand beneath his dripping nose.
Finally we pull up to the hotel and exit the taxi. Our boots sound staccato on the tile floor as we enter the lobby. Once the Sächsischer Hof must have been the epitome of nineteenth-century grandeur. Now the lobby’s furnishing shows wear marks, and muddy footprints track across the checkered tile.
Harnack registers at the front desk (under an assumed name, of course). We climb carpeted stairs and walk down a deserted hall. At room 204, Harnack unlocks the door. One by one, we enter the darkened room.
Harnack flips on the light. The bulb flickers, then burns bright. Blackout curtains cover the only window. Harnack hangs his coat on a wall hook, then removes his cap and sets it on the low table in front of the sofa. One by one, he tugs off his gloves and places them next to the hat. The three of us stand clustered near the door.
Slowly, he turns. And for the first time really looks at us, pale blue gaze piercing.
“So you made it undetected.” A slight smile flits across his chiseled face.
Hans nods. “We managed to escape detection, sir.” Though only a few years older than us and beneath us in rank, Harnack commands respect.
“Clever evasion or beginner’s luck?” Harnack shrugs. “Since I wasn’t there, I couldn’t say.”
Hans stiffens.
Harnack withdraws a silver case from his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and taps it against the edge of the case. He takes a seat on the sofa. A gilded mirror with a crack in it hangs on the wall above the sofa, capturing Harnack’s reflection.
“Take off your things and have a seat.” He gestures to the sofa. “I didn’t expect you to bring a crowd, Scholl.”
The three of us remove our outerwear and hang it on the wall hooks.
“Alexander Schmorell. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Alex sticks out his hand, which Harnack shakes, cigarette in his mouth.
“Kirk Hoffmann. It’s an honor to meet you.” When Harnack grasps my hand, both his grip and gaze take my measure.
Alex and I move toward the sofa and sit on opposite ends, Harnack between us. Hans remains standing, hands in his pockets.
“All of you are involved in this leafleting campaign?”
We nod.
Harnack takes a slow drag of the cigarette.
“As for our leaflets, we thought you might take a look.” Hans withdraws folded copies of our four leaflets from the inner pocket of his suit coat. He passes them to Harnack.
Harnack unfolds one and smooths it across his knee.
It takes twenty minutes for Harnack to read the leaflets. We watch him, collectively holding our breath. We’ve poured our lifeblood into those pages. They represent hours of sleepless nights, debates, probing for just the right word.
Hans flexes his fingers, gaze never leaving Harnack. I shift in my seat. Every so often, Harnack mutters something indistinct, scanning the words and smoking his cigarette, a deep furrow knitting his brow.
Finally, he looks up, cigarette long since burned to a nub, ashes scattering the rug.
“Well?” Alex leans forward.
Harnack spreads out the leaflets on the low table. “Their style is academic, philosophical, and too florid to have any impact on the general population. It’s blatantly obvious this is the work of privileged intellectuals with little knowledge of how to influence the working man.” He glances up. “The realities of resistance are much harder in practice than in theory. It’s useless to approach any of it with idealism.”
Alex frowns. “You think that’s what we’ve done?”
“Not entirely. But you’ve a great deal to learn if you hope to have any effect beyond academic circles.”
Harnack’s words sting. But there’s more at stake here than our pride. Harnack is right. We’re middle-class university students. Our writing reflects that.
“Very well.” Hans crosses to stand beside the sofa. “Please, go on.”
For an hour, Harnack goes over the leaflets one by one. Not once does he mince words, but he does point to several sections where we’ve succeeded in conveying our point in a succinct and convincing way. We don’t wince at his criticisms, nor beam at his praises. We simply listen and absorb.
“Do you think if we produce new material we have a chance?” Alex asks when Harnack has laid the fourth leaflet aside and lit a fresh cigarette.
“A chance at what, precisely?”
“At doing something of value for the resistance.” I speak up, immediately regretting how eager I sound.
Harnack gives a soft laugh. “Perhaps it’s time I told you something of the resistance.”
“I wish you would.” Hans’s tone is terse, but there’s no mistaking the flash of excitement in his eyes. Harnack gives a little smile, a shake of his head.
“I presume you know there’s a wider movement in Germany.”
“Vaguely,” Hans says. “We’ve heard the foreign broadcasts about the Red Orchestra. The arrests of your brother and the others.”
A shadow falls on Harnack’s face. He puts the cigarette to his lips, inhales. “What we’re seeking is a united force. Where all are of one accord, if not on everything, at least on our main aims and goals. If we’re scattered, each smaller group with their own objectives, none of us will accomplish much of significance. Everyone must think of themselves as part of one group, not as Communists, or Social Democrats, or conservatives. Our aim must be threefold—assassinate Hitler, overthrow the government, and come to an agreement of peace with the Allies.”
I draw in a sharp breath.
For so long, we’ve wondered about the resistance beyond our circle in Munich. Now, we have evidence it exists from the lips of a man who’s part of it.
“A military group is making preparations for a coup.”
“What can we do?” Hans sits on the edge of the low table, facing Harnack. “How can we make contact?”
Ash falls from Harnack’s cigarette. A single set of footfalls sounds in the corridor. Harnack freezes, still until they fade.
“I can put you in touch with people in Berlin.” He meets Hans’s gaze. “It’ll take time to arrange. When I know more, we’ll schedule a meeting.”
We talk long into the night, the hours flying by—midnight, one, two. We discuss what the new government might look l
ike, the roles we might play.
“I intend to take up politics after the war.” Hans props his elbows on his knees. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”
“We’ll need good men like you,” Harnack says, his brief nod greater affirmation than a string of words from someone else.
As we shrug into our coats to make the trek through the wintery streets to the station, I pull Harnack aside.
“Your brother and his wife?” Harnack’s underlying darkness has not escaped my notice. He’s not only a contact in the resistance, but a man fearing the fate of those he loves dearly. The mere act of meeting with us attests to his incredible bravery and his urgency for as many voices as possible to rise in protest so his family’s sacrifice will not be in vain.
Harnack’s face is pale and haggard in the dim light. “They’re to stand trial in the next few weeks.” He glances away, quick. “I wish I could say they can expect justice.” He reaches out, clasps my hand, grip tight. No longer is his gaze that of an assured leader instructing those below him, but of a man cracking beneath unbearable strain. Throat jerking, Harnack swallows. “But I no longer delude myself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Annalise
November 30, 1942
Munich
ON A COLD MONDAY evening, I answer a knock at my apartment door. Kirk stands outside.
“Hey.” He gives a crooked grin.
“Hello.” I try unsuccessfully to hide my answering smile. “Come in.” Warmth blooms inside me that not even the winter air can dispel. I’ve just finished dinner and am in the process of washing the dishes. An apron covers my woolen dress, and my hair is damp from where I pushed it behind my ear with soapy hands. Schoolbooks clutter the table, and two of my blouses and some towels hang on a makeshift clothesline stretched across the room.
“Smells good in here.” He takes off his overcoat and leaves his shoes by the door.
“It smells like potato pancakes.” I head into the kitchen and plunge the remaining dishes into the rinse water. I’m so focused on cleaning the mess I don’t see him approach until I look up and find him next to me, just behind my shoulder.
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