“Who is Gisela Schertling again?” Annalise walks beside me. I’m glad she’s with me. I missed her while she was in Berlin, her earnest determination and steady presence at our meetings. Since her return, she’s seemed different. Calmer and more driven than ever.
“A girl I know from the labor service. After I left, we exchanged letters on and off. Her vater is a prominent Nazi newspaperman. I wish I hadn’t encouraged her when she suggested coming to Munich. I’ve no doubt she’ll expect to be often in our company. She’s studying art history, so you’ll probably see her in classes.”
“Try not to worry.” Annalise loops her arm through mine. “We’re nothing if not good at maintaining our cover. Besides, you know Hans. Remember how he tried to keep me out of things?”
I nod. We walk in silence for a few minutes.
“Have you had word from Fritz?”
I shake my head. Slush seeps through a hole in my shoe. “Anxiety is like hunger. The longer it gnaws at you, the more used to it you become, though it doesn’t make enduring it any easier. He’s still somewhere in Russia. You know as well as I how bad things are there.”
“If only that little corporal would surrender and pull our boys out while some are still alive,” Annalise mutters under her breath.
I nod. But conceding to defeat isn’t something the Führer is known for.
“I wish I could tell you he’s alive and well. That he hasn’t written because he hasn’t had time.”
“I wish I could tell you I cared as much as I should.” I close my cold, cracked hands into fists inside my thin pockets. “But without any word and with how busy we’ve been, it’s easy to … forget. That makes me a horrible person, I know.”
“The last thing you are is a horrible person, Sophie. You’re tired. We all are. God watches over Fritz.” Annalise meets my gaze. The startling blue-green of her eyes stands out in her cold-flushed face. “Over all of us.”
I stop, facing her on the sidewalk. “Since when did you start talking so confidently of God?”
“Since Berlin.” She smiles.
We reach Gisela’s apartment and climb the steps. I press the bell. A few minutes later, the door opens. A striking blond wearing a green sweater that clings to her curves stands inside.
“Sophie!” Gisela gives a little laugh, shaking her curls. “How marvelous to see you. Come in, come in.”
We hasten inside, stomping slush from our feet. I introduce Annalise, and the three of us make our way upstairs to Gisela’s apartment. It’s tastefully decorated and cleaner than any student rooms I’ve been in. Tea things lay spread out on a cloth-covered table. Gisela invites us to take a seat, before sliding into her chair.
“Now, tell me everything.” Gisela pours tea into china cups. “You too, Fräulein Brandt. Say …” She tilts her head. “Brandt sounds familiar. Are you any relation to … ?”
“My vater.” Annalise takes the cup Gisela offers her.
“Is that so?” Gisela laughs. “What a coincidence. I’ll bet my vati knows yours.” She pours her own cup and takes a dainty sip. “So what’s it like here?” She leans forward. “It’s absolutely terrific to finally be in Munich. You must have all sorts of fun.”
“Not really.” Warmth from the teacup radiates through my chilled fingers. “We study a lot and go to lectures. We attend concerts sometimes. There’s one tomorrow night. You’re welcome to join us.” A concert. Ja, that will be safe. Let her think she’s included, just a little. Otherwise, she might get angry, even suspicious.
“Will Hans be there?” Gisela stirs her tea.
“Maybe. His schedule is pretty erratic.”
“I so enjoyed meeting him when I spent the weekend with your family.”
I shrug. “I doubt you’ll be seeing him much.”
“That’s a pity.” China clinks as Gisela sets her teacup down. “What are you studying at the university, Fräulein Brandt?”
Gisela and Annalise talk about art, while I sip my tea, half listening. My life bears little resemblance to the days when Gisela and I met in labor service. Once, we were friends, but I can no longer view her as such.
Now she’s yet another person from whom we must hide the true nature of our lives.
I press back a sigh, glancing at Gisela.
Secrets. So many secrets.
Kirk
December 15, 1942
Marry me, Annalise.
There is nothing I want more than to speak those words to the woman at my side. In them encompasses what my heart recognizes as truth.
I love her.
In the months we’ve known each other, I’ve gone from attraction to mistrust to friendship. During the months in Russia and our reunion in Munich, my feelings have deepened, until it’s become as impossible to deny them as it would be to live without breathing.
Neither of us were in a concert-going mood, so she suggested she make good on her promise to cook for me. I sat on her sofa, alternately studying and watching her through the open kitchen door. Warmth from the stove burnished her cheeks, and she hummed softly as she prepared potato pancakes and ersatz meat—cooked rice patties fried in some kind of fat. I set the table while she put the finishing touches on the meal. The flicker of candles between us, we laughed and talked.
Watching her across the table, eyes alight as she laughed at one of my jokes, or chin propped thoughtfully in her palm as she shared about her time in Berlin, only served to seal the truth. One I’ve wrestled with in prayer, asking for my will to be aligned with His.
I want to marry her. Buy a house in the country after the war and watch our children grow—a girl with her reddish-gold hair and my smile and a boy with my eyes and her laugh. Grow old with her beside me, if the Lord wills we live that long.
How fragile life is. Yet with what tenacity the young cling to its threads.
Nothing is guaranteed. Not in war and not in life. I don’t know what the months ahead will bring, if we’ll both live to see the end of this war. In ordinary times, I’d court her slowly, savor every moment of the gentle unfolding of our love. These aren’t ordinary times. If we don’t reach for a future now, one or both of us might regret it later.
Let there be no regrets.
“Hey.” I nudge her shoulder. We’d been studying, but somewhere along the way, the books had been laid aside and she fell asleep, head resting on my chest, hand curled beneath her chin. I sat, listening to the sounds of the city pass by as her chest rose and fell with even breaths, my arm around her shoulders.
I don’t know how she can sleep. I’m never more wide-awake than when I’m with her.
“Kirk.” She blinks sleepily and smiles. “You’re still here. I must’ve fallen asleep.” She yawns, her lips parted in an o.
“No must have about it.” I grin, slipping my arm from around her shoulders. “I wanted to talk about Christmas.”
She sits up straighter on the sofa, smoothing her hair behind her ears. The candles left on the table wreath the room and her face in a honey glow.
“Christmas? It’s coming up, isn’t it? I almost forgot.” Her brow wrinkles. “Why do you want to talk about that?”
“Have you made plans to go to Berlin?” If she has, I won’t press her to stay. Much as I’d miss her, it would be wrong of me to keep her from her family.
She shakes her head. “There will be little Christmas cheer at our house. I figured I’d spare the train fare and stay in Munich. Hans and Sophie, Shurik, everyone, I think, will be with their families. So I’ll spend a restful day here with a few good books.”
You don’t have to spend Christmas alone, Annalise. Spend it with me.
Everything rational inside me says this is the wrong time. Our country is at war. We’re resisting a government that will stop at nothing to annihilate its traitors. I have little to offer her in the way of worldly wealth.
This may be the wrong time, but could it somehow be the right one for us?
God help me, I have to try.
I stan
d, heart pounding and throat dry. While Annalise watches, wide-eyed, I get down on one knee in front of the sofa.
“Kirk … what’s … what are you doing?”
“Spend Christmas with me. Spend every day with me.” My voice catches a little as I look into her eyes. “We don’t know what the future holds, you know that as well as I. And maybe this isn’t the right time, and I’m being irrational. But there’s one thing I’m sure of. I love you, Annalise. Marry me. Please. Marry me.”
For a long moment, she stares at me. Is it the candlelight, or are those tears in her eyes? “Oh, Kirk.” Her smile is sad. “You really are sweet.”
I gaze up at her, the tightness in my chest making it hard to breathe. What if, while I’ve been dreaming of her, all she’s been thinking about is our work for the resistance, seeing me as a friend and nothing more? The sudden thought punches me in the gut.
She exhales a long breath. “But this … us … it’s impossible.”
“Why?” My voice is hoarse. I gather every ounce of strength, because I want her in my life, however she wants to be, even if it’s only as friends. The thought of that being all we ever share shreds me from the inside. I swallow, forcing out the words. “If you don’t feel the same, that’s … I understand. I know this is sudden and I couldn’t expect you to—”
She shakes her head, swiping a hand beneath her eyes. “It’s not that.”
“What then?”
She turns her face away. “I’ll always be my vater’s daughter,” she whispers the words in a voice so low it’s scarcely audible.
“That isn’t true.” I reach for her hands, wrapping mine around them. “That’s not all you are.”
Slowly, she looks up, so I go on. “You’re Annalise. The woman who sees the world in color, and paints the beauty in it. The woman who, whenever she laughs, makes you want to laugh too, just for the sheer joy of being near her. The woman whose heart breaks for her country enough to take action against it. You’re kind and caring, and I’ve never known anyone more stubborn when you set your mind to something.” At this, she gives a sound between a sob and a laugh. “Your vater, your family, we’ll worry about them later.” I pause, taking in her face, the crumpled expression there, as if she’s waging an inner war. “I’m afraid too. But I want to spend every hour, every breath I’ve got, loving you.”
She meets my gaze, tears shining on her cheeks. “Do you really mean it?”
“More than anything.” I couldn’t have spoken wedding vows with more fervency.
“Then ja, Kirk Hoffmann.” A slow smile spreads across her tear-streaked face. “I would like to marry you. Really, really like to marry you.”
“Are you sure?” My voice cracks.
She nods. “Ja.” A laugh escapes. “I’m sure.”
I stand, joining her on the sofa again. We look at each other, hands intertwined. Both of us wear hesitant smiles. Her lips part with gentle breaths.
I lean closer. Her gaze follows me. I cup her cheek. Her skin is so soft it steals my breath.
“May I”—I swallow hard—“kiss you now?”
Her smile deepens. “I was hoping you would.”
Slowly, not wanting to hurt or scare or do anything but love her, I press my lips against hers.
Heaven must have dreamt up kissing because I can’t imagine anything less ethereal could have conjured this sweetness. Our lips brushing, my hands tangled in the glorious silk of her curls, her hands clutching my shoulders. Tender. Knowing. Perfect.
Annalise.
How long we stay like this is anybody’s guess. Love must lengthen time because these few minutes pass like hours.
When finally, regrettably, we draw away, she meets my gaze, hands still on my shoulders. Her eyes glow with joy, but there’s a kind of sadness there too. The bitterness of war taints everything. Even something as new and wondrous as this.
“What is it?”
She only shakes her head before wrapping her arms around my shoulders, holding, almost crushing, me to herself, her whisper soft against my hair. “I love you too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kirk
December 17, 1942
THINK YOU CAN TAKE your mind off your girl long enough to focus on business?” Alex grins.
I shove his arm and he laughs. “Shut it, Schmorell.”
I glance at Hans, expecting some response. But he’s lost in thought today, taking long strides, slightly bent forward as if against the wind. Professor Huber has invited us for tea, a kind gesture toward students he also calls friends.
Doubtless he’s completely unprepared for what Hans plans to ask him.
We walk faster to keep up with Hans, the cold penetrating our layered outerwear. I barely heed it, thoughts turning as they’ve done the past two days whenever I’ve not been occupied with classes, hospital shifts, and resistance work (and often even then), toward the wondrous truth.
In four days, Annalise will become my wife. In a simple civil ceremony, we’ll speak vows that will bind us together, come what may.
It seems like a dream too incredible to be real.
But the preparations we’ve been making during every spare minute confirm how real it is. I’ll pay off my lease and move into Annalise’s apartment. Our marriage will remain a secret to everyone except my parents and our close circle of friends. Annalise is determined her family must not discover our marriage. “For now,” she says. “We’ll tell them when the time is right.”
I won’t argue with her. Though I’m uncomfortable with this concealment on top of everything else, she’s doing what she feels she must.
We reach Huber’s door, and Hans gives a brisk rap. For a distinguished intellectual, Huber lives in a rundown part of town. Buildings crumble with age, and the close-set street bears the marks of people struggling to make ends meet. A few children wearing clothes too small for their growing bodies play a game of tag amongst the puddles, taking advantage of the weak sunlight.
The door opens.
A girl of about twelve peeps out, regarding us with a curious gaze.
“Hello, Birgit. You remember me. Hans Scholl. I was here before.”
She nods. Two long braids dangle down her pinafore. “Are you here to see Vater?”
“We are. He’s expecting us.”
“Won’t you come in then?” She opens the door and shows us where to hang our coats.
We follow Birgit through the Hubers’ apartment. The temperature varies only by a few degrees from outdoors until we reach a crowded sitting room where a coal fire crackles in a blackened hearth. Professor Huber sits near the blaze, turning the leaves of a book.
“Your guests are here, Vater.” Birgit settles at a table covered with schoolbooks and bends to her work.
“Danke, Birgit.” He gives her a fond smile, then rises to greet us, one hand leaning heavily on the back of his chair. “Ah, Hans, Alex, Kirk. Christmas greetings to you all. Please, sit down.” He motions to a worn sofa and a kitchen chair that wobbles when I sit.
Frau Huber bustles into the room, little Wolfgang clinging to her apron. With the air of a gracious hausfrau, she pours tea and passes around a small plate of lebkuchen before leaving the room, Wolfgang in her arms.
I glance at Hans. He drums his fingers on his trouser leg. Slowly, testing, he and Huber begin to discuss politics, but it doesn’t take long before their conversation turns into full-out debate. Birgit hunches over her textbooks, a pencil in hand, mouth moving in whispered recitation.
Hans pulls our first two leaflets from his pocket.
“Remember these, Herr Professor?” He passes the leaflets into Huber’s hands.
Spectacles tilting over his nose, Huber turns over the pages. “Ja. I received these last summer. The leaflets of the White Rose.”
“We wanted to speak with you about them.”
“You know my thoughts already.” Huber passes them back to Hans, hand twitching with a tremor. “Leaflets are all well and good, but there must be drasti
c action. Drastic action from within the Wehrmacht itself.” His voice rises. “There’s a limit to passive resistance. Unless blood is shed, it will not work!”
“We wrote the leaflets.”
“What did you say?” Huber’s gaze sharpens.
“We wrote the leaflets, Herr Professor.” I speak up. Huber’s attention swings in my direction. “All of them.”
“We’ve come to solicit your support,” Alex says. “We’ve long admired your lectures. Your intellect could be a great help to us.”
Huber sighs, kneading the soft flesh of his chin. The skin beneath his eyes is baggy and waxen. Life under a dictatorial regime is a constant battle, and right now, Huber looks worn-out well and truly.
“Listen, Herr Professor.” Hans lowers his voice. He flicks a glance at Birgit, dutifully studying, as if noticing her presence for the first time. “Could you send her out of the room?”
Huber nods. “Birgit.” The girl looks up. “Go to your mutter. You’ve done enough studying for today.”
Birgit clambers off her chair. “Wiedersehen, gentlemen,” she calls with a smile.
“We’re only heating two rooms. Our bedroom and this sitting room.” Huber’s fatherly smile vanishes after his daughter closes the door. “That’s all we can afford.”
I nod. “These are hard times.”
“Continue, Hans,” Huber says.
“We’ve recently met with a member of the resistance in Berlin. Several high-ranking officers are planning a coup. They intend to assassinate the Führer and rebuild the government.”
The color drains from Huber’s face. All except his eyes, which become brighter. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.” Alex gives a faint smile. “I heard it myself.”
Hans rushes ahead. “My plan is to form resistance cells at all major German universities and create a widespread network of contacts across Germany. Already, we have members in our group with connections to students in Hamburg and the Rhineland. We want you to join us. We’ve plans to produce a new leaflet after the holidays. You have a powerful way with words. We’d welcome your assistance.”
The White Rose Resists Page 20