The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  For a long moment, Huber stares into his empty cup, chin dipped low. I’ve heard of people who think the future can be read in the pattern of the leaves. I don’t believe that, and I doubt Huber does either, but to the three of us, casting glances back and forth, it seems he stares into the cup long enough to read a thousand futures.

  For us, the decision grew organically, out of long discussions and months of debate. We’re asking Huber, here and now, line drawn in the sand, to choose.

  Only God knows what it will cost him. Only He knows what it will cost any of us.

  Finally, Professor Huber looks up. He nods. “Well then, consider it yours.”

  Annalise

  December 20, 1942

  “This time tomorrow night you’ll be a married woman. I say we celebrate. Chianti?” Sophie pops the cork on a bottle. “Pour please.” She hands me the bottle, along with two dubiously washed glasses. “Duke Ellington, here we come.”

  I stifle a gasp. “Sophie … we could get into trouble.” You couldn’t be my vater’s daughter and not hear his lectures on the Swingjugend, rebellious German youth who thrive on the sultry beat of American music and duck joining the Hitler Youth and BDM. Many have been arrested and sent to work camps. Swing is as dangerous as it is exhilarating.

  Sophie shrugs. “Now that we live in the garden house, we’re the only ones in earshot. Besides”—riffling through a stack of records, she looks over her shoulder and gives an impish grin—“it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”

  I laugh in spite of myself, pouring wine into the glasses from my seat on the sofa. The electrifying strains of swing crackles from the record player. In the center of the room, Sophie does a little twirl, singing along, her accented English blending with the deep voice on the gramophone. I cover my giggles with my hand.

  “Come on!” She scampers across the room, pulling me up with her. We sway and sashay to the music, doing our best impression of swing (which I can only imagine since I’ve never seen it done). I spin her out, and she twirls, skirt spiraling. Her eyes crinkle as she laughs, and her hair swishes around her face. Round and round, we spin, the room, her face, the apartment blurring in a whirl of giddiness, laughter, and crackling music.

  “Ah, I’m dizzy!” She gasps for breath. We collapse onto the sofa. I hand over her glass, and we sip our drinks. I glance at Sophie, who’s still breathless, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. She smiles at me, a look of warmth and joy.

  Friendship. A bond that brings two souls together, regardless of family and background. A rare gift indeed, to call someone a true friend. In Sophie Scholl, I’ve found the truest friend I’ve ever had.

  Wherever our lives take us, I’ll forever be glad to have had her in mine.

  The music stops. Sophie moves to turn it off and stashes the record in a cupboard. We sit, legs tucked under ourselves on the sofa, facing each other in the lamplight, half-empty glasses in our hands.

  “Where is everyone tonight?”

  “Kirk and Alex went to see about a duplicating machine.” Sophie sets her glass on the low table. “I don’t know where Hans is. When I got home this afternoon, he was gone.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he went over to Willi’s to talk over his trip to Saarbrücken.”

  “It’s a good plan. I only hope Willi’s friends are receptive. Telling someone new is always dangerous, but we haven’t any choice if we want to expand our group beyond Munich.” She sighs, all levity gone from her expression, then shakes her head as if to say enough. “Let’s not talk about work tonight. It’s the eve of your wedding. Looking forward to becoming Frau Annalise Hoffmann?”

  The heat of a blush spreads across my cheeks. “Kirk is … he’s everything I ever wanted but didn’t know existed.”

  Sophie smiles, leaning her cheek against the back of the sofa. “He’s a good man.”

  “I didn’t think it was possible to love and be loved like this.” I meet her gaze. “My parents … well, I can’t remember affection between them, much less more.”

  “You haven’t told them?”

  I shake my head. “It’s to be a secret. For now, at least.”

  “It’s a beautiful thing, the love between the two of you. The culmination of that love in the vows you’ll share. Sometimes”—her voice catches—“I think it won’t ever happen for me.”

  I don’t miss the pain in her gaze.

  “What about Fritz?”

  She presses her lips together, eyes falling shut for an instant. “I care for him. Truly I do. We’ve been engaged for such a long time. It’s like everything’s on hold until the war is over. Love. The future. Peace. That’s why I’m happy for you and Kirk. You’re not waiting. You’re seizing the moment and living in the present.” She smiles wistfully, eyes large and sad in her expressive face.

  More than anyone I’ve met, Sophie Scholl, with her strong yet gentle spirit, deserves to love and be loved. My heart aches for her.

  I place my hand on her shoulder. “The time will come for you too, Sophie. I know it.”

  She nods, but I sense it is less about affirmation and more to reassure me.

  The door bursts open, bringing with it a gust of cold air and laughter. Hans and Gisela stagger in, windswept and out of breath.

  Sophie rises. “Hans, you’re home.”

  He unwinds his scarf, cheeks ruddy with cold. “Gisela and I went for a walk through the Englischer Garten.”

  “Ran, mostly. It started to snow.” Gisela laughs, unbuttoning her coat.

  “Take off your things and get warm. I’ll walk you home in a little while.” Hans and Gisela share a smile. “I’ll be right back.” He heads down the hall toward his room.

  Running her fingers through her snow-damp curls, Gisela walks toward the sofa. “You know, Sophie, your brother can be quite charming.” A smile tugs at her plush lips.

  From my place on the sofa, I glance at Sophie. She doesn’t seem to have heard Gisela’s offhand remark. Instead, her gaze follows Hans.

  And in her gaze lies fear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Annalise

  December 21, 1942

  TODAY, KIRK HOFFMANN, I become yours.

  Over and over, the words whisper through my mind, anchoring me to reality. Because the girl who walked through the door of the registrar’s office this December morning on the arm of a man in a pressed suit who can’t take his gaze from her face, can’t stop smiling … can it truly be me?

  Joy is like aged paper. It crumbles.

  Who’s to say this joy, this moment will hold fast? Outlast an hour? A year?

  “You all right?” Kirk asks. We sit holding hands on a backless bench in the unheated corridor.

  I nod, smiling, trying to convince myself and him that ja, I am all right, that everything will be. “Absolutely.”

  Kirk’s parents sit on the bench opposite us, dressed in Sunday best—wool coats, a little navy hat atop Frau Hoffmann’s graying hair. I can’t help my shyness around them. We met once before, three days ago when Kirk introduced us at his apartment. The difference between them and my own parents rattles me—the way Kirk’s vater clapped a hand to his son’s back and congratulated us when we met outside the registrar’s office, how his mutter smiled and kissed my cheek and called me daughter.

  “Next,” calls a male voice from inside.

  The four of us rise, steps echoing on the worn hardwood. The cramped office smells of mothballs. Behind a desk sits a tired-looking man who eyes us from behind overlarge spectacles. A picture of the Führer hangs above the desk in a black frame. I force my gaze away from his unsmiling face.

  First, we must produce paperwork: birth certificates, certificates of Aryan ancestry, our already-applied-for marriage license. My heart thuds like a kettledrum as we stand before the desk while he scans our papers. Not in the way of a nervous bride, but out of fear that the registrar, who issued us the license a few days ago, might suddenly connect my name with Vater’s and refuse to
perform the ceremony. Though that likely wouldn’t be legal, since I’m of age, I can’t quash the fear that’s dogged me most of my life, that of Vater’s interference.

  The registrar looks up, owlish gaze landing on me. “Let us begin.”

  The Hoffmanns sit on slat-backed chairs off to one side, their gazes on the two of us. On the other side of the desk, the man rubs a finger beneath his nose and flips through a small black book.

  Kirk and I grab hands without being told to. He squeezes my damp fingers, twining them through his, his touch wordless reassurance.

  It takes less than ten minutes. There are no sentimental readings or songs sung by warble-tongued sopranos. The vows are perfunctory, the tone of the man reading them, bored. Halfway through, he sneezes loudly into a handkerchief and stuffs it back into his pocket before continuing.

  When I imagined my wedding, as little girls do, I envisioned a church with stained glass windows, a dress of flowing white, violin music for the processional. Not a freezing office with Hitler on the wall and a balding registrar whose nose drips.

  One part matches my dreams, though. I imagined a man gazing at me with his heart in his eyes. Kirk is. I dreamed his voice would shake a little with emotion when he said, “I will.” Kirk’s does.

  Ja, this moment, this man are everything I imagined and more.

  There are no rings for either of us. Aside from the expense, we want no outward sign of our union. The registrar raises an eyebrow at this too, but Kirk only smiles, and whispers, “One day.”

  I nod and smile.

  One day.

  God willing, there will be a one day for us. Today I let myself believe it.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” The words linger in the air and in my heart.

  Wife. Kirk Hoffmann’s wife.

  I can scarcely take in the fullness of it. How rich and true and right it is. For so long, I’ve been Standartenführer Brandt’s daughter. Kirk has given me a gift today, the gift of new belonging.

  I turn, fingers slipping from Kirk’s, to greet the Hoffmanns. In an instant, Kirk’s hand is on my waist, pulling me toward him. Our gazes mingle, and I ache from the sheer magnitude of love mirrored in his.

  Hands framing my shoulders, he presses a soft kiss against my lips, vowing with his touch as much as he did with words. I love you. No matter what happens, I love you.

  “There,” he says when he draws away, a boyish grin teasing the corners of his mouth. “Now it’s done properly.”

  The Hoffmanns surround us. Pastor Hoffmann clasps my hands in his warm calloused ones. His eyes are kind. “Welcome to our family.”

  Frau Hoffmann draws me close. She smells of rosewater and her embrace is strong, as if she has enough strength to transmit it to others without losing any herself. “My very dear daughter. I pray God’s blessings on you and my son.”

  “Danke,” I whisper, throat tightening. An ache for my own mutter pierces through me. If only she could have joined in the sacredness of today. But Vater would never have allowed it. I shiver at his fury if he knew what I’d just done.

  It’s too late, Vater. You don’t own me anymore.

  We sign the license and prepare to leave the office. Just before we exit, the registrar hands Kirk a thick black book, emblazoned with a gold eagle atop a swastika. The letters on the spine spell out Mein Kampf.

  “A gift from the Reich. To get your family library started off right.” He cracks a faint smile.

  I stiffen. Kirk gives a tight nod. “Danke.” He puts the book beneath his arm, and we leave the office.

  Sunlight shines from the sky and the air is biting cold. The street bustles with pedestrians wrapped in coats and mufflers, hurrying with purpose in their steps. We pause outside the registrar’s office.

  “Well.” Pastor Hoffmann rubs his hands together. “What now?”

  Kirk and I exchange glances. We’d been so occupied with actually getting married, neither of us had thought about afterward. I hadn’t gone to the market to buy anything for our dinner, which left us with the option of a cheap restaurant. Inwardly, I wince, then rebuke myself for it. What does it matter where we go or what we do, as long as we’re together?

  Frau Hoffmann smiles at the two of us. “We’ll go to our house, ja? I’m making schnitzel and red cabbage. And Kirk’s favorite Gesundheitskuchen.”

  My breakfast of dry toast was hours ago. Just thinking about a slice of rich, buttery Gesundheitskuchen—good health cake—makes my mouth water.

  Kirk turns to me. “What do you think?”

  I give Frau Hoffmann a grateful look. “I’d like that. As long as it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you.”

  “No trouble at all. It’s not every day your only son gets married, especially to such a pretty woman.” Pastor Hoffmann’s eyes twinkle. I glimpse Kirk in his vater’s face, a mirror of what my husband will be at that age—broad shoulders a little stooped, face lined with creases, hair turned silver. The idea of Kirk as an old man fills me not with the distaste of youth for aging, but with intermingled dread and hope. Hope that such a day will find us. Gut-deep dread that it won’t.

  “It’s settled then.” Frau Hoffmann nods. “You come with us, and I’ll cook for you.”

  Kirk chuckles. “There’s one thing you’ll learn quickly in our family, Annalise. Mutter always gets her way when she’s set on something.”

  “You’ve finally caught on.” Frau Hoffmann laughs. “My son has a pretty thick head for it to take him twenty-three years to reach this conclusion.”

  Laughing, the four of us move down the street. I look up at Kirk, and he slips an arm around my waist, pulling me toward his warmth. Our steps crunch on the frosted cobblestones. We smile, a wordless exchange meant for the two of us alone. I lift my face toward the warmth of the sun.

  Today, if only for a little while, there are no clouds in the sky.

  Kirk

  December 21, 1942

  I stand in the doorway of the bedroom, one hand propped against the frame. Earlier, as we unpacked my belongings, this room was ordinary. Now, lamplight softens the space in shadows, suddenly intimate.

  Annalise stands near the window, back turned to me, fingers fumbling with a clasp. I cross the room, throat dry.

  “Here,” I whisper. “Let me help you.”

  I push her hair back, exposing her neck. She sucks in a breath. My fingers brush the softness of her skin, the wispy tendrils of her hair. I unhook the clasp of the simple silver pendant and place it on the desk.

  “Danke,” she breathes. Slowly, she turns to face me.

  I look into her eyes. Her breath shudders. My heart thuds.

  “I know I could never make you as happy as you’ve made me today.” I swallow. “But I intend to spend the rest of my life trying.”

  She presses her fingers to my lips. “Don’t you see, my darling?” A soft smile curves her mouth. “You already have.”

  I wrap my arms around her, overwhelmed that this woman, beautiful in body and spirit, is my wife, and there’s nothing to keep us from loving each other. Our lips meet in a slow kiss. She sighs, the kiss deepening, my fingers twined in her hair, her hands on my shoulders.

  A siren whines.

  We start, jerking away. The shrill cuts through the air.

  “Do you think it’s a false alarm?” Annalise’s eyes are wide, her hair tangled around her cheeks.

  “I don’t know. But we can’t take any chances.” I grab her hand, pulling her from the room. “Come on.”

  We hurry from the apartment, grabbing our coats, locking the door behind us. Our steps are loud as we race down the stairs, hand in hand, into the cold street. The sky is soot. People surge through the alley toward the air-raid shelter. Annalise and I are swept up in the frantic, jostling crowd. Footsteps pound. A baby wails. Sirens shriek.

  A man stands at the shelter door, pushing people in. “Hurry now, hurry!”

  Gripping hands, we descend the steep stairs. The light is murky. Men, women, child
ren line the walls, some on benches, some crouched on the floor. There’s no unity in their dress, a mix of coats, pajamas, business suits.

  Their expressions, though, are the same. Resignation mixed with fear.

  Annalise and I make our way to the back, walking through the narrowing pathway, as more and more bodies find their way into the bunker. There’s a sliver of space at one end of a bench. Annalise sits, and I stand next to her, back pressed against the cold wall, hand on her shoulder.

  A slam of finality as the shelter door shuts, dimming the sound of sirens.

  Trapping us.

  Minutes pass. An explosion sounds, distant. Still, it trembles through the walls, reverberates through me. A clatter, like water trickling over tin, as a child uses the bucket in the corner, shielded by his mutter’s skirt. The air is dank and smells of urine and stale cigarette smoke and too many bodies packed into one place.

  Another boom. The light flickers. The shelter shudders. A child cries.

  I keep my hands steady on Annalise’s shoulders. “It’ll be all right,” I whisper.

  She turns, looking up at me, face half hidden in the scant light. “We’re together, at least.” She gives a weak smile.

  “There’s no one I’d rather be stuck in a shelter with.” I grin, but it comes out forced. I rub my thumb over the scratchy wool of her coat, tracing circles on her shoulder.

  This is supposed to be the happiest night of our lives. We’re supposed to have hours to love each other, fall asleep twined in the other’s embrace. Instead, there’s no certainty we’ll make it out of the raid alive. Everyone’s heard the stories of people suffocating in bunkers from the heat of the bombs, walls caving in, burying them beneath layers of rubble. Sharp fear grinds inside my chest.

  Love makes one want to live. It is its blessing and its curse.

  An eerie silence falls over the bunker. Men stare at the ceiling, a woman rocks a bundled-up little girl in her arms. We’re all waiting for the next one. The one that may not pass us by.

  An hour later, the all-clear sounds, and we file out of the shelter.