The officer opens the suitcase of an elderly couple, who watch with looks of undisguised fear. The Gestapo is on the lookout for smugglers of black market food. Not subversive printed material.
I weave my way through the crush of passengers, toward the next compartment. My ankle gives a painful twist, but I keep moving beneath the murky light.
Almost there. The baggage rack is two rows ahead.
Two soldiers block my path.
“Pardon me.” I force a demure smile. Dressed in my drab brown coat, I can’t play the pretty fräulein card. Still, the men move aside.
I reach the overhead baggage rack and grasp the rucksack, pulling it down, shoving my handbag inside, and securing the straps to my shoulders. The officer is still checking luggage and asking questions. I keep my gaze straight ahead as I wait in line. Sweat trickles down my back despite the drafts of cold air leaking through the doors.
Almost to the exit. Following two soldiers, as if I’m part of their group, I descend the train steps and leave the station behind.
A sharp wind buffets the air and scrapes my lungs. Groping darkness stretches before me, save for the milky light of the half moon. A burgeoning glow in the sky, ethereal.
The streets are empty. I try to convince myself the hard part is over, that all I have to do now is locate a few mailboxes and dump the leaflets. But the exhaustion weighing me down doesn’t dull my nerves. It heightens them.
God, please. Protect me.
I wing the desperate prayer heavenward and walk on, a solitary girl through empty streets. Darkness is an echo, magnifying everything. My own rhythmic footsteps, the rasp of each breath. Allied bombings have scarred Stuttgart, and I pass blackened shells of destroyed buildings. In the moonlight, the holes and gaps in their exteriors are skeletal eye sockets.
I spy a postbox up ahead and walk toward it. I glance in every direction before pulling the rucksack off my shoulders. My chilled fingers fumble to undo the buckles. A lock of hair dangles in front of my face. I shove it behind my ear. With one hand, I pull out a pile of envelopes. With the other, I lift the cold metal handle, the chipped paint pressing into my fingers as I feed the envelopes in. They fall from my hands, hitting the bottom with little thudding sounds.
Support the resistance movement—distribute these leaflets!
The final line of our leaflet pushes me onward.
Securing the rucksack to my back again, I hurry to the next postbox. Slush seeps through a hole in the bottom of my shoe. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I find my way easier now. In two hours, I’ve located three more mailboxes and gotten rid of half the leaflets.
The mail slot clanks closed. I’ll finish the job tomorrow, taking a streetcar to the outskirts of the city and depositing the rest in postboxes there, so too many don’t appear in one place.
Footsteps. Behind me. My throat clenches.
I slide the straps of my rucksack over my shoulders and turn slowly, as if I’ve every right to be out in the middle of the night mailing a letter.
A policeman walks toward me, his shadow looming large behind him. I pretend not to see him and walk crisply away from the mailbox.
“Halt!”
Every inch of me goes cold.
Always innocent.
My brother’s voice echoes in my ears.
I stand still and wait for the policeman to approach. A breeze blows hair into my face. I school my features, making them a blank slate.
When he stops in front of me, I look directly at him.
“Papers, please.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my wrinkled identification papers. He takes and scans them, gaze hidden by the black brim of his cap.
He looks up, eyes two beady pebbles in a lumpy face.
“What are you doing out so late?”
“Mailing a letter.” It’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“What letter could be so important that it couldn’t have waited until morning?”
The straps of my rucksack dig into my shoulders.
The rucksack that still contains three hundred leaflets.
“It was to my fiancé.” Oh, please let him not have seen me put more than one envelope into the mailbox. “I’m so busy during the day, I don’t have time to write until late at night. But I know how hearing from me lifts his spirits.” I put a bit of Annalise into my words, her flair for drama.
The policeman nods, as if accepting that here is no dissident, just a young woman sending letters to her soldier boyfriend. “Take care, fräulein. The streets aren’t safe at night.”
I nod, smile. “Of course. Danke.” I walk past him before he can wonder why I needed a rucksack to mail just one letter.
I return to the train station and sink onto a metal bench in a corner of the third-class waiting room, rucksack on my lap. Across from me, a solitary man finishes his cigarette, its blackened stub glowing. My heartbeat slows, though my temples throb with a driving ache.
I was lucky. That’s all. The policeman could have kept asking questions, searched my rucksack. Personal business is a thing of the past. Privacy, nonexistent.
I remember my prayer. Perhaps it wasn’t luck but a divine hand keeping me from danger.
I stare at the window covered in blackout paper, waiting the interminable hours until dawn, not daring to open my handbag to pull out the bread or to close my eyes even a moment. I’m not sure I could sleep even if I wanted to.
What about next time?
Is each act of daring, every risk only another on the road to the final one?
Where our luck will run out and nothing will be able to save us.
Annalise
January 28, 1943
Munich
“Are you sure?” Kirk touches my arm as we stand in Eickemeyer’s studio.
I meet his gaze. “Sophie and Alex aren’t back yet. The three of you can’t do this alone. I can help.”
He swallows. There are circles beneath his eyes, his jaw shadowed with stubble. Raw fear and love war in his gaze, as if he wants to pull me into his arms and keep me there. I steel myself against it, fighting weakness. If I surrender to it now, it will shatter me.
Finally, he nods. “All right. She’s in, Hans,” he calls. “Give her a route.”
Hans pushes past Willi to come toward us.
“Cover the area from Karl-Theodor-Straße down to Schleißheimer Straße. From there, go home, not to the studio. Each rucksack contains roughly a thousand leaflets. Don’t bring any back, unless you absolutely must. Questions?” In that moment, this lanky youth with the curling brown hair and handsome face is nothing so much as a general commanding his troops. His tone is terse, his gaze glittering with a strange tension.
I shake my head, trying to stand tall, to ignore the thrum of fear beating inside my chest. “I understand.”
We wrap ourselves in winter woolens, stash leaflets in satchels and rucksacks.
“Let’s get moving. It’s after eleven.” Hans claps his hands.
Willi drops his cigarette butt into an empty kaffee cup and pulls a dark cap over his hair. We gather our bags and make our way up the stairs into the dark entryway. Hans opens the door, peers out, glances both ways. The weight of my satchel digs into my palm. Mittens would make my fingers unwieldy. Soon, they’ll be freezing. Beside me, Kirk stands perfectly still. His coat smells of ink and the spice from his shaving lotion. I inhale, the band of tightness around my lungs loosening a centimeter.
Hans turns. Nods.
We exit the building. Hans locks the door. Willi’s solitary shadow vanishes into the blackness. Kirk lingers a moment. His gaze holds mine—my husband who encircled me in his strong arms only this morning as dawn crested the city.
I offer a slight smile, then resolutely turn and walk away.
It’s bitterly cold—“too cold for anyone to want to be anywhere but their beds,” Hans had said. “The streets will be ours.”
A half moon shines like a silver thu
mbnail. I imagine bombers cutting through the blackness, loosing fire upon the streets of Munich. Unexposed, in the open, there would be little time to make it to a shelter.
God—the shaky prayer fills my heart—protect us all this night.
I keep a brisk pace, alert for footsteps, voices, movement. Doubtless, policemen and block wardens are still on the prowl. My steps echo in my ears, and my breath comes in short pants. Time blurs. The cold air dries the roof of my mouth and burns my lungs.
I turn onto Karl-Theodor-Straße, remembering Hans’s instructions.
“Parked cars. Telephone booths. Sides of buildings. Doorsteps.”
I fumble in my satchel and pull out two or three leaflets—a flash of white in the blue-black darkness. A grocer’s, desolate at this hour, is on my right. I place a leaflet on the stoop, wedge one in a crack of the shop window. It takes only seconds.
I hurry onward, leaving leaflets in my wake. Darkened houses. Shops. Benches. On the window of parked cars. Inside telephone booths.
A propaganda poster, sun-bleached and ragged with age, depicts the Führer with an arm raised in victory, a crowd of adoring troops in his wake. The image of a lie. How cruelly we’ve all been lied to.
I rip a small piece from the roll of tape in my pocket and secure the leaflet.
Right over the Führer’s face.
Opposition can be cathartic. Tonight, I taste its force.
Head bent, I stride on, flitting in and out of doorways, scattering leaflets. Bending up and down, leaving our words behind.
Tear off the mantel of indifference with which you shroud your heart! Cast your decision before it is too late!
In the distance, a car rumbles. My breath seizes as its outline turns down the street. Headlights doused due to blackout regulations, it drives slowly toward me. Seconds before it passes, I press myself into a doorway, my shoe leaving a muddy print against the leaflet I just placed.
I scarcely dare to breathe until it passes. My legs shake as I step into the open. For the moment, undetected.
I look up, down, all around. In the middle of this black and empty street, I’m completely alone. Defenseless. I grit my teeth and keep walking, doggedly leaving the leaflets. Gone is my former exhilaration. Now it’s just cold and dark and frightening.
Faster. Hurry. I leave two leaflets on an iron bench. The pages flutter as I drop them.
I pass familiar landmarks rising out of the shadows—the Church of St. Ursula, its spire a narrow finger pointed toward the sky. In the clutch of night, it looks nothing like Kandinsky’s painted rendition, geometric strokes depicting a landscape of bold color.
There is no color in this world of darkness.
I force myself to empty the satchel. My wristwatch is hidden by the sleeve of my coat, but I figure I’ve been out three hours. A lifetime.
I trudge through the night to our apartment. With frozen, shaking fingers, I unlock the door and let myself inside. The front room is scattered with books and unwashed clothes and dirty dishes. Legs aching, I shuffle into the bedroom.
I take off my winter coat and scarf, exchanging my clothes for a flannel nightgown and woolen socks. Kirk hasn’t returned. My stomach gurgles, but I can’t summon the strength to prepare food. Not that we’ve much to prepare. I crawl beneath the covers and pull them over my head, trying to get warm, to stop the shaking.
I press my cheek into the pillow and close my eyes, but I can’t slow the thudding of my heart, much less sleep.
An hour later, the door rattles, and footsteps come into the bedroom. Kirk undresses and climbs into bed beside me. In that murky space between wakefulness and sleep, I lean into the heat of his body. He wraps his arms around me, his chin against the top of my head. Minutes pass. His breaths begin to even, and I place my hand over his heart, letting each beat radiate through my fingers.
Kirk
January 31, 1943
Women and babies. Some things never change. The moment Christl steps into the Scholls’ apartment, Sophie and Annalise crowd around him, peppering him with questions.
“What color eyes does she have?”
“How do the boys like their baby sister?”
“Does she favor you or Herta?”
Christl smiles and laughs and answers their questions, but his bearing is tense, his laughter slightly hollow. He unwinds his scarf and shrugs out of his coat. Alex takes both and invites him to sit, clapping him on the shoulder. Hans and I are already in the front room, where we’ve spent the past hour studying. We see Christl rarely these days, as he spends what little free time he has with his wife and children.
I rise to let him have my seat, and he sinks onto the sofa, opposite Hans. Alex pulls up a dining-room chair, and Sophie and Annalise hasten to the kitchen to bring tea.
“What is it, Christl?” Alex frowns with concern.
Christl kneads a hand across his forehead. “Herta’s unwell. Puerperal fever.”
Hans looks up. “Is it a serious case?” For centuries, puerperal fever has robbed countless newborns of their mutters. But we have better medical treatment now. And Christl, as a physician in training, should be able to see his wife gets the best care.
“Moderately.” Though Christl hasn’t participated in our leafleting activities, he looks as tired as the rest of us. “With the other two, she was fine. No complications. Just a healthy baby.” He meets Alex’s gaze. “And now—”
Alex refuses to let him finish that sentence. “How are her spirits?”
“She tells me not to worry. ‘I’ll soon be up and about again,’ she says. But she’s so pale, so small in that hospital bed …” A sheen films his eyes. “Thank goodness the boys are staying with my stepmother. I’ve been given so little leave, and with my studies … it’s terrible I can’t be with her more.” His features are haggard, bereft of his usual winning smile.
We all have something that gives life its purpose, makes each breath worth the taking. In this mad world, Christl clings to his family. I can’t bear to think what it would do to him if he lost any of them, especially Herta. He adores her. Though they’ve been married three years, they still look at each other with the tender awe of newlyweds.
Sophie and Annalise stand in the doorway between the kitchen and front room. Their gazes radiate concern. Sophie crosses to Christl’s side. She crouches in front of him, face lifted to his. Afternoon sunlight falls on her pale face, illuminating the two of them, a swirl of dust motes in the air.
“We’ll pray for Herta,” she whispers, gripping his hands. “God will hear us, and He will have mercy on her. You must believe it, Christl.”
Christl nods, ducking his head. “Danke, Sophie.” His voice cracks. They look at each other for a long moment, as if through Sophie’s gaze, Christl pulls in strength.
He clears his throat. “I didn’t come to make you all sorry for me.” He smiles, a shadow of the old Christl, the one whose quiet grin could make you believe in goodness. “Something smells great. Is that for us?”
“Of course.” Sophie rises, and in a few minutes, we’re clustered around the table, eating toasted bread and drinking tea amid the clutter of the apartment. Annalise settles beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. She’s become so pale, faint bruises beneath her eyes. But she smiles at me, a look between lovers. Such moments are sunlight, and in spite of it all, with Annalise, I find its brightness still.
“So … the leaflets?” Christl pushes aside his empty plate.
“We’re in full operation.” Hans replies, tone vague.
“I figured that. People are talking, you know. The other day, I heard someone in the barracks mentioning their uncle found a bunch outside his shop. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Gestapo are already on the hunt.”
“I know they are.” Hans takes a bite off the corner of his toast. When he sets it down, his hand isn’t completely steady. “Why wouldn’t they be? We’re causing a stir.” A shadow of a defiant smile edges his lips.
“Tell me you’re being careful.
That you’re taking every precaution.”
“Don’t worry about us.” Hans’s gaze flickers to Christl, then back to his plate. “You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“What are you really doing, Sophie?” Christl leans forward, eyes earnest. Pleading. Sophie sits across from him, hair tucked behind her ears, fingers wrapped around her cup of tea.
“What we believe to be right.” She gives a slight smile.
“You’re taking greater risks. I know it. I fear for you all. The Nazis are still in power. If they discover someone is succeeding at opposition, they’ll stop at nothing to hunt them down. We’ve all heard the stories. The sentences are harsher. Once a casual joke at the Führer’s expense got you imprisoned. Now … you’re executed. And you are undertaking much more than casual remarks.” He pulls out his pipe, but instead of lighting it, he places it on the table and stares at it. Then he looks up, meeting our gazes. “I believe with all my heart in this cause. Perhaps if I’d no one but myself to care for, my life would hold less value, and I’d be the first in line to sacrifice it. But I don’t want to die at their hands, and I don’t want any of my friends to either. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe I’m a coward. But there it is.”
“We have no aims of martyrdom.” Hans’s jaw tightens. “But we’re not stopping.”
For a long moment, no one speaks, each lost in his own thoughts. I admire Christl. I don’t admire him any less for wanting to stay alive for the sake of his family. To daily anticipate, to wish for death, one would first have to surrender hope.
Is clinging to hope in spite of everything an act of bravery or naivety?
Finally, Christl meets Hans’s eyes. “Would you let me write something for your leaflets? You don’t have to print it if you don’t like it.”
Hans sighs, shaking his head. “Christl …”
“I want to do it. In that way, at least, I could work alongside you. What is it that British author said? ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ Please, Hans. Let me use mine.”
Sophie turns an inquiring gaze on Hans. In the stillness of the Scholl apartment, Hans regards Christl. It’s an easy matter to risk oneself. To gamble with the future of a friend gives any good man pause. Despite his complexities, Hans Scholl is, at heart, a good man.
The White Rose Resists Page 24