The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

Alex is not a Communist. Nor is he merely Professor Huber’s student to be given a passing or failing mark. In the resistance, there must be equality. We’re all taking risks, we students more than Professor Huber. In the end, the fifth leaflet was a compilation of Hans’s draft with a few select portions from Alex. Kirk, Willi, Annalise, and I gave editorial feedback.

  Annalise and I hurry down the street after a run for envelopes between morning and afternoon classes. Little has changed since Annalise became Frau Hoffmann except that, at the end of our meetings, she and Kirk walk home together instead of parting ways.

  We’re all walking a thin line, balancing lectures and studying with our work on the leaflets. The men have the added burden of shifts at the hospital and roll call, although they’ve taken to skipping the latter and getting friends to cover for them.

  All of us are running on too-little sleep and pent-up nerves, rushing to gather supplies. With the first four leaflets, we averaged one hundred copies per edition.

  This time, we aim for thousands. The tide of the war is turning in favor of the Allies on both the western and eastern fronts. Our army has been surrounded at Stalingrad for months. They can’t hold out forever. “Victory at any price,” Hitler says, while his people pay bitterly for it. While countless die. While Fritz …

  “You look thoughtful,” Annalise remarks. “Close call in there, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” I shrug as we turn down Ludwigstraße. We got fifty envelopes each and dodged the clerk’s questions as to why we needed so many. “But what else is new?”

  Two boys in Hitler Youth uniforms stand on the corner of Ludwigstraße, jangling red collection cans.

  “Give to the winter relief fund, so none shall starve or freeze,” one calls to us, breath pluming from his lips. His companion jangles the can in his mittened fist.

  Annalise pauses and reaches into her coat pocket, but I grab her wrist. Her gaze flashes to mine.

  “Don’t you dare,” I whisper.

  “Give to the winter relief fund to support our glorious soldiers!”

  A woman stops and opens her handbag, praising the boys for their service. I duck my head and hurry past, Annalise following.

  “What was that about?” she asks, when we’re halfway down Ludwigstraße.

  “So none shall starve or freeze?” I fight to keep my voice from escalating. “You mean so our soldiers won’t? What about the people in the Polish ghettos, the forced laborers here in Germany? No one seems to care about them. But aren’t their lives just as important? We can’t support this cause, not even by giving a few marks. Even if …” I swallow, Fritz’s face filling my mind. “Even if it means the soldiers we know will suffer because of it. We must make no concessions.”

  “You’re really something, Sophie Scholl.” Awe emanates from Annalise’s gaze.

  “I’m not something. I’m just fed up.” A mix of sleet and rain pelts from the sky, landing on our hair and coats. “The other night, Hans and Willi were discussing what they’d do if they found a way to gain close proximity to the Führer. Hans told Willi about that pistol he brought back from Russia and said he’d have no hesitation using it. Willi said he didn’t know if he could. I was in the kitchen doing dishes, but you know what I wanted to say?”

  The lower half of her face partially hidden by the collar of her coat, Annalise shakes her head.

  “If I had the chance, if Hitler walked by right now and I had a pistol, I’d shoot. If a man can’t or won’t, a woman must. You have to do something to avoid being guilty yourself.”

  Annalise nods, though her eyes grow wide.

  Hitler has caused the death of hundreds of thousands, likely more than we realize at this moment. If it takes his death for the madness to stop, then is it wrong to support assassination? Greater minds than mine could argue both sides of this case. All I know is he’s worse than a murderer, and there is no court of justice in Germany today, except the people themselves.

  We approach the main university building, its stone-colored exterior blending with the dirty-gray sky.

  “You’d die though.” Annalise’s voice is quiet. “If you shot Hitler at close range, you’d be shot right back.”

  I stop, turning to face her. She looks at me, her curls a flame of color amid the gray. “Does that really matter?” A strange cold feeling that has nothing to do with the elements sweeps through my body. “So many have died in support of the regime. It’s high time someone died against it. How can we expect righteousness to prevail if there is hardly anyone willing to sacrifice themselves for a righteous cause?”

  Annalise says nothing other than a soft, “I know.”

  We walk through the doors and into the echoing Lichthof. Annalise says no more about our conversation, but the finality of my words echo in my ears the remainder of that long, winter day.

  Kirk

  January 18, 1943

  “I can’t believe you left her there. What if she wakes up?”

  “Sophie …” Hans sounds placating.

  Unbuttoning our coats in the entryway of Eickemeyer’s studio, Annalise and I exchange glances. Hans and Sophie stand at the bottom of the basement steps, Sophie’s arms crossed over her chest.

  “What’s the matter?” I keep my voice light. With our fifth leaflet finalized and enough supplies gathered, we have many a late night ahead. Whatever Hans and Sophie are arguing about, we’ve no time for.

  They turn. “Hans left Gisela asleep in my room at our apartment. They were listening to records, and she asked to spend the night.” Sophie’s tone is flat.

  Hans blows out a sigh. “She won’t wake up. If she does, I’ll tell her I had to work a late shift at the hospital, and you were with Annalise.”

  “That’s not the point, Hans. Don’t you see—”

  “Why are you so opposed to Gisela, anyway?”

  “Opposed—”

  I hold up a hand. “All right, you two. Let’s get to work. No sense wasting time.”

  Sophie presses her lips together but follows the rest of us into the basement. Alex hunches over a typewriter, a pile of envelopes to one side. Willi sits in a chair next to him, chin propped in one hand, reading over a copy of the leaflet.

  Hans and I take charge of the duplicating machine. Sophie, Annalise, and Willi fold leaflets, affix stamps, and seal them into envelopes, while Alex types addresses. I don’t ask Hans about his relationship with Gisela. His fascination with that beguiling blond is one thing about him I don’t understand. Sophie has told me Gisela shows no signs of negativity toward National Socialism. In fact, somewhat the opposite. Hans seems to trust her. The rest of us keep our distance.

  Hours pass. The work is grueling—turning the crank hundreds of times, hunching over the table to affix stamps and seal envelopes. My shoulders burn. We trade shifts often, but it’s a constant battle to keep my eyes open, my mind clear. I keep a close eye on Annalise. Though she’s a willing member of our group, she’s also my wife. I can’t help but want to protect her.

  I type addresses, while Alex works with Hans. This time, we’re using directories from outside Munich, addressing leaflets to residents of Augsburg, Stuttgart, Ulm, Salzburg, Vienna, and Frankfurt. The fine line of type in the worn address book blurs. I blink fiercely. Focus.

  At the duplicating machine, Hans curses. He stops cranking. Swears again.

  “What’s the matter?” I mumble around the pencil between my teeth, fingers poised above the typewriter keys.

  “Something broke.” Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, hands covered with ink, Hans fiddles with the duplicating machine, taking it apart. Alex watches over his shoulder. After a few minutes, Hans holds up a ratty piece of ink-coated fabric. “Blasted belt tore.”

  I yank the pencil from my teeth, resisting the urge to sink my head into my hands.

  “Too bad Traute’s uncle couldn’t get her anything. One night in, and this machine’s already giving us problems,” Alex mutters with a look of disgust.

  “You�
��re the one who bought it. Why couldn’t you have gotten something decent, instead of this second-hand piece of garbage?” Hans slams his fist on the table. “We don’t have time for delays. The rest of you don’t seem to realize we don’t have time!”

  “Don’t shout at me, Hans Scholl.” Alex’s nostrils flare. “You’re the one who’s been cranking too fast. That’s likely what broke it. That shopkeeper was nothing but a liar, telling me it had hardly been used.”

  “What do we need to fix it?” Annalise’s voice is weary but firm. From her seat beside Annalise, Sophie eyes the two men with a look of growing unrest.

  “A piece of fine silk fabric.” Willi walks over and picks up the strip with two fingers. “About this size.”

  “I could take off my shirt.” Alex grins at his own lame joke. No one joins him. If the machine breaks down, our work is kaput. Finished.

  Fine fabric …

  I stand so quickly my chair almost tips over. “Don’t do anything. I’ll be right back.”

  “Kirk, where—” Annalise calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the stairs, grabbing my coat and opening the door. After hours in the musty basement, the night air hits my face like a clarifying breath. I pull my coat tighter around myself and stand on the stoop. The street is still.

  I give myself no time for second-guessing and start walking, my footfalls on the cobblestones and my quick breaths the only sounds.

  In less than five minutes, I’m standing in front of a brick house two streets down.

  My pulse quickens.

  Two swastika flags hang limp, one from each front window.

  Fine fabric indeed.

  Heat floods over me despite the cold, sweat trailing down my back. Crouching low, I creep across the lawn. My heart thuds. Not a single light shines from the two-story building—no doubt the residence of some wealthy Nazi.

  Five steps away.

  Four.

  Three.

  My shoe slips on the frost-slick grass. I grind my jaw, steady myself, taking the final steps to the window.

  Blood pounds in my ears. I glance both ways. Nothing.

  The fabric flutters slightly, as if stirred by a breath. My fingers are centimeters away.

  I reach out. Grab hold. A tug. Another.

  In an instant, the flag is in my hands, fabric chilled and moist. I ball it in my pocket and force myself to retreat as quietly as I came. With each crunch of my shoes on the frozen ground, I expect footsteps pounding behind me, voices shouting halt!

  I barely breathe until I’m well away from the house. I run then, light on my feet, flattening myself against buildings whenever I hear a sound.

  I let myself back into Eickemeyer’s. Everyone sits around the table, slumped and defeated. Alex smokes. The typewriter and pile after pile of sealed envelopes clutter the tabletop.

  “Salute the flag, proud German youth!” I pull out the flag, brandishing it high.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Do you think it will work?”

  “Give it here, and we’ll see.”

  We cluster around, breathless, as Hans and Willi bend over the machine, measuring the fabric, cutting it to size. Annalise slips to my side and takes my hand in hers, her slim, warm fingers squeezing mine. For several minutes, they work to put the machine back together, voices low, movements quick in the flickering light. Hans takes a fresh piece of paper, feeds it into the tray. No one speaks. Willi turns the handle.

  Clack-clack.

  Sophie lifts the newly inked page, holding it up for us to see. “It worked.” Her voice is a little breathless.

  “Führer, we thank you.” Alex says in a perfect impression of Goebbels.

  We laugh together, a wave of release.

  When our laughter dies down, Hans turns to the machine. “Back to work.”

  Three hours later, shortly after 4:00 a.m., we finish.

  “What’s our final count?” Hans wipes his brow with a handkerchief.

  “Almost two thousand.” Annalise adds a stack of envelopes to the pile.

  “That’s great.” A little smile plays across the edges of Hans’s mouth. “Excellent. For tonight, at least. We’ll do another batch tomorrow. As far as distribution, I’m covering Salzburg. Shurik’s taking Vienna and Linz. Sophie, Augsburg and Stuttgart. Willi is heading to Cologne, Bonn, Freiburg, and—”

  “Saarbrücken.” Out of all of us, Willi looks the least sleep-deprived. Despite Hans and Sophie’s favorite “maintain yourself” quote, it’s quiet Willi who embodies its meaning. “I got hold of a duplicating machine a few days ago.”

  “You what?” Hans stops latching the typewriter case.

  “A friend in Munich had a contact. I got another machine. I’m taking it to Saarbrücken with some leaflets.”

  “To your friend Bollinger?”

  Willi nods, strands of blond hair falling over his broad forehead.

  “Over Christmas, your friends weren’t interested.”

  “Heinz and Willi Bollinger were. They’re forming a circle in the Saarbrücken area. Willi Bollinger said he was willing to print and distribute our leaflets if he had supplies. I’m bringing them.”

  “Let me get this right.” Annalise, hands tucked in the pockets of her bulky sweater, stands next to the massive pile of envelopes. “You’re going to transport leaflets to those cities?”

  “To give the impression of a wider network,” Hans says. “If leaflets start appearing, postmarked beyond Munich, it will make it look like a far-reaching organization is behind them.”

  “You’ll have to take trains. Don’t you know what they’re doing on trains these days? They’re searching luggage, checking papers, looking for black market food and deserting soldiers.” Annalise’s voice escalates. “You’re young men, not in uniform, traveling alone. If you’re searched and caught with the leaflets, you’ll be arrested and interrogated. What will happen to us then?”

  “I’ve already thought of that.” Alex massages the stem of his pipe. “When we board the train, we’ll stow our luggage in the baggage rack of one compartment, then take seats in a different one. If our cases are searched, there’ll be less of a chance of tracing them back to us.” He’d answered Annalise’s question as if she’d a right to ask it. Hans, on the other hand, looks up from beneath a wayward shock of hair, as if annoyed someone would dare question his plans.

  “None of you have passes?”

  “Alex and I have forged travel papers,” Hans says. “Willi doesn’t though.”

  I look to Willi. His features are steady and impassive. “You’re going without travel papers?”

  Willi shrugs. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

  “What if you get caught?” Sophie’s voice is quiet.

  Hans glances at her. “It’s the nature of passive resistance not to get caught.”

  “Tell that to the Gestapo,” Alex mutters.

  “What’s our part?” Annalise turns to Hans.

  “I’m leaving the duplicating machine and studio keys in Kirk’s care. The two of you will run off as many leaflets as you can while the rest of us are away.” Hans shoves envelopes into two canvas rucksacks.

  I already knew Hans wanted Annalise and me to stay behind. I can’t deny the prospect chafes. I’d rather be boarding a late-night train along with the others, spreading our resistance movement beyond Munich. I can’t help but think he’s protecting me—us—now that we’re married. As he protects Christl.

  I look around the room at the haggard faces of my friends stowing our supplies, so we can trudge home through the cold and dark, to equally cold and dark apartments to catch a few hours’ sleep, before getting up to do it all over again.

  This time, I’ll let myself be protected. For Annalise’s sake. Were she not my wife, I’d insist on helping with the transportation of leaflets. Without travel papers, if need be.

  But next time, I won’t be left behind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sophie


  January 27, 1943

  En Route to Stuttgart

  BITING AIR WHISTLES IN from a crack in the train compartment. I sit motionless on the hard bench seat, fingers folded atop the handbag in my lap.

  My head aches from the sheer effort of keeping my features calm, my mind alert. I can’t remember the last time I slept more than four or five hours straight. Over Christmas, probably.

  The train is dingy and dimly lit, crowded with civilians, soldiers. Their heads loll as they sleep, or try to, nodding and jerking back to wakefulness at intervals. The air smells of unwashed wool and stale smoke. Somewhere in the compartment, a baby fusses.

  I keep my gaze on my handbag. Not once do I look in the direction of the next compartment, where, wedged between a battered black suitcase and a green duffel bag, I stowed my rucksack, seven hundred envelopes within.

  It’s three hours from Munich to Stuttgart. Once there, I must retrieve my rucksack, exit the train, and deposit the leaflets in mailboxes across the dark city. Laid out in basic language, it sounds straightforward.

  It’s anything but.

  I’ve already done the same, two days ago in Augsburg. Two hundred leaflets, a hundred without stamps. I bought the stamps at the post office near the train station, then shut myself in a stall in the station’s lavatory. The cramped stall stank of urine, and I crouched on my haunches on the cracked linoleum, affixing stamps to envelopes as fast as my fingers could fly. Thankfully, mailing them was a straightforward process, and I arrived in Munich late that same night. I lay awake for hours, exhausted but sleepless.

  Beneath my coat, my stomach gurgles. I packed a slice of bread in my handbag, but hunger is a luxury I can’t afford. Along with fear, sleep, or any similarly inconvenient human need.

  Like Fritz. Thinking about Fritz is a human need. Worrying about whether he is safe. Or sick. Or dead. News from Stalingrad is fed out in scraps. As if nobody really wants to say how bad it is. That alone coils dread inside me. The press never hesitates when it comes to declarations of victory.

  Over an hour later, the train lurches to a stop. I wait until the narrow aisle is crowded with passengers, before rising. A Gestapo officer in a leather trench coat makes his way through the crowd, stopping at random to check papers. My throat goes dry.