The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  Sans the offending line, we still plan to print Professor Huber’s leaflet, addressed simply to Fellow Students, detailing the horrors of Stalingrad, urging the students of Germany to rise up against those holding them in political bondage.

  I hope Sophie rests while at home. She confided in me that she’s been having splitting headaches, and she rarely smiles these days, lost in a world of her own.

  As for my own family, I can’t help missing Mutter and my younger brothers. When Mutter called last week, she said Vater made it out of Stalingrad and is returning to Berlin to recuperate from a shoulder wound. She asked if I wanted to come home and see him. I didn’t give an answer.

  I hug my arms against my chest, staring at the blackout-covered window. Kirk is out there somewhere, running through the darkness, leaving the imprint of truth on the buildings of Munich.

  Kirk, Sophie, Alex, Willi, Christl, Hans. Mutter and Vater Hoffmann. My true family.

  For them, I would do anything.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Sophie

  February 15, 1943

  I STAND ON THE threshold of my brother’s room. Hans sits at his desk, head resting against the back of the chair, staring into nothing. Scraps of paper and two sheets of eight-pfennig stamps litter the desktop.

  I rest my hand on his shoulder. “Hans?”

  He starts, body jolting in an involuntary response. Then his gaze focuses. “Oh, Sophie.” He clears his throat. “All unpacked?”

  I nod. “I put the jam Mutter sent in the kitchen cupboard. I can tell you about our visit.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose, like he does when he has a headache. “Some other time. I’ll be going out in a bit.”

  “Where?” My fingers close around the worn woolen edges of my gray sweater.

  He doesn’t answer. He and Gisela picked me up at the Hauptbahnhof, and the three of us went out for an early dinner. With Gisela there, I spoke only of inconsequentials, asking nothing about the leaflets.

  “Where are you going, Hans?”

  He turns in his chair, facing me. For a long moment, he eyes me. “We’re going to graffiti the Feldherrnhalle.”

  I suck in a breath. The Feldherrnhalle, once a monument to the Bavarian army, is famous as the site of Hitler’s failed 1923 putsch. After he assumed power, Hitler immortalized the fallen “martyrs of the movement” with a bronze plaque and SS guard of honor who stand in ceremony day and night. All who pass the site are required to perform the Hitler salute or risk being stopped and questioned.

  If Hans succeeds, it will be a gesture of blatant defiance that could feed the unrest brewing since Stalingrad. But if he’s caught …

  “Not tonight, Hans.” I swallow. “Please.”

  “I’ve already arranged to meet the others.”

  “Unarrange it then!”

  He doesn’t reply. Just sits there, face grim and determined.

  I must make him see. Graffiti is one thing, but the guarded Feldherrnhalle … Maybe if he’d suggested this two weeks ago, I’d be begging to go along. But our work has taken its toll, and right now it threatens to break me. Each uncalculated risk heightens the likelihood of our carefully constructed house of cards collapsing, scattering us all.

  “Vater found one of our leaflets,” I say softly. “I must have accidently left it in a book I brought home. He came to me. I’ve rarely seen him so grave. ‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘I hope you two don’t have anything to do with this.’”

  Some of the hardness in Hans’s face fades, making him look young and boyish. And suddenly, as afraid as me. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him we were too …” My voice shakes. “We were too smart to involve ourselves with something like that. I lied to him, Hans.” My eyes fall closed, tears pressing against the edges. My head aches. Exhaustion ebbs through my body. Will there ever come a day when the weight of so much concealment will cease to crush me?

  Hans’s arms come around me. I lean into his chest, the musk of pipe smoke and the worn cotton of his shirt enfolding me. I let myself linger in the comfort of being held. Of being, for a moment, the one who isn’t strong.

  “How much longer?” His words whisper against my hair.

  “Until what?”

  Against my cheek, his chest lifts in a sigh. “Until it ends.”

  February 16, 1943

  “What are these for?”

  Hans and Alex look up. Stacks of leaflets cover the table—roughly two thousand copies. Hans must have brought them from Eickemeyer’s.

  “These?” Hans gestures to the piles.

  “Ja. These.” I fold my arms across my sweater-clad chest, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

  Alex looks away. Hans rises, lanky frame filling the low-ceilinged room. For a long moment, he stares at me. Is he contemplating his next words, or has his mind wandered in another direction? Circles ring his eyes, and his skin is pale. He’s jittery, gaze darting to and fro with a glittery sheen. This morning, I found a half-empty bottle of pills in his room, drugs he’s using to keep himself alert.

  He needs rest. We all do. I didn’t fall asleep until he returned home after defacing the Feldherrnhalle, somehow managing to escape detection. When I finally did, it was fitful, dream-laced, and I awoke more exhausted than when I’d gone to bed.

  “I’m taking them to the university.”

  “The university?”

  Hans nods, absently picking up a stray copy and scanning the words.

  I want to shake him. Snap out of your haze and talk to me.

  “You’re going to leave them outside at night?”

  He shakes his head. His gaze meets mine. “I’m going to scatter them in the Lichthof during the day.”

  “During the … you can’t be serious, Hans.” I take a step closer. “That’s foolishness. You’ll be caught for sure. Shurik, tell him it’s too dangerous.”

  Alex scrubs a hand across his jaw, posture defeated. “I’ve tried, Sophie. Believe me.”

  “It’s a simple operation. Go in when morning classes are in session, scatter the leaflets, and leave before lectures let out. The Lichthof will be empty. It’ll take less than ten minutes.” Hans’s tone is pressing, convincing.

  “And if you’re caught?”

  “I won’t get caught. It’s no different than anything else we’ve done. Think of the flame it could light among the student body if they read Huber’s words. ‘The day of reckoning has come, the reckoning of the German youth against the most heinous tyranny our nation ever had to suffer. In the name of all German youth, we demand of Adolf Hitler’s state the return of personal freedom, the most precious good of the German people, of which he has cheated us in the most wretched manner.’”

  Hans recites the words like an orator, the impact of each sentence filling the air. My gaze has fallen on the typed lines dozens of times as we duplicated, folded, sealed them into envelopes, working most of today to crank out thousands of copies. Yet they still stir something inside me. Despite the exhaustion, the tension, the aching in my head, I sense … life. If we can rouse the student body to action, it could lead to widespread uprising. The Führer can’t rule Germany without the support of the people, especially the young.

  This could make a difference.

  I turn to Alex. “Are you going with him?”

  “He said he wouldn’t,” Hans cuts in.

  “It’s too risky. We’re going to Berlin next week. Once we meet with Harnack’s group, we can determine our next steps.”

  Hans turns back to the leaflets. “I won’t force you, Alex. I’ll go by myself.”

  “I’ll go with you.” I speak the words without fully contemplating them. But … ja. With me at his side, surely we can escape detection. It will be like he says. Walk in, scatter the leaflets, and leave. I can’t count the times I’ve walked the streets of Munich, leaving a trail of leaflets. Even in broad daylight. It’s surprisingly easy, as long as one is fearless.

  “Nein.” Alex st
ands, chair legs scraping the floor. Shadows darken his blue-gray eyes, eyes once so alight with life and love of it. “Take them at night, if you must. Leave them outside.”

  Hans barely gives him a glance. He strides toward me, placing his hands on my shoulders. He smells of pipe smoke, and his hair is boyishly tousled. “Sophie, are you sure?”

  I nod, meeting his eyes with a steady look.

  A smile eases across his lips. He trusts me now. When I first came to Munich, I had to prove myself to him. Now he trusts me.

  I won’t let him down.

  I won’t let any of us down.

  “Sophie. Please. Both of you, think about this.”

  “It’ll be all right, Shurik.” I smile, trying to reassure both him and myself. “Really.”

  “We won’t do it tomorrow,” Hans says, voice absent. “We’ll wait until Thursday.”

  “There’s no reasoning with either of you.” Alex’s voice is deflated, like he knows this is a battle he can’t win.

  “You needn’t stay. Sophie and I can finish up.”

  Hans didn’t mean it to be a dismissal; he cares too much about Alex for that. But it echoes like one nonetheless.

  Alex hesitates, looking torn. Then he walks toward the door, picks up his coat off the back of the sofa, and shrugs it on. At the door, he pauses, gaze falling on us. His throat jerks. I look back at him, lips pressed together. Reflected in his eyes is the bravery and despair of the resistance we’ve undertaken. My heart aches to see it now.

  With one final glance, Alex turns away. The door clicks shut.

  By the table, Hans scans a piece of paper. He holds it up, two creased pages covered in cramped handwriting. “Christl’s leaflet. He gave it to me finally. It’s brilliant. I want to begin distribution as soon as possible.

  I smile. “Christl always did have a way with words.”

  A knock sounds. “It’s Gisela.” Hans refolds Christl’s leaflet and places it in the pocket of his trousers as he strides toward the door. “I asked her to come over.”

  I scan the apartment. Leaflets are piled on the table, along with stamps and stacks of envelopes. Panic vises my chest. “Hans, wait!”

  He turns, hand on the knob.

  “We can’t let her in here. Look at the place.”

  “She already knows, Sophie,” is all he says before opening the door.

  I stand next to the sofa, arms hugged across my chest. Gisela steps inside. In seconds, Hans has her in his arms. Their lips meet in a hungry kiss.

  Gisela knows.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s been at our apartment often enough during the past weeks, she’d be an idiot if she didn’t suspect. How can Hans trust her so much?

  I press my hand to my churning stomach.

  I don’t. Not the way I trust Annalise or Traute. Gisela isn’t one of us, and it’s obvious she still holds National Socialist views. If we’re caught and Gisela’s connection with Hans is discovered, would she hold back during an interrogation? Or betray us all?

  They stand by the door, still kissing, Hans’s fingers tangled in Gisela’s hair.

  Squaring my shoulders, I turn and walk down the corridor to my bedroom, leaving them alone. Once in my room, I close the door behind me and curl up on my narrow bed, squeezing my eyes shut.

  You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known, Sophie Scholl.

  Fritz’s voice. There it was, filled with laughter, as my seventeen-year-old self snuck into his barracks, blatantly violating the no visitors rule. Now I would never take risks for something so foolish, and the girl who once had is someone I no longer recognize.

  If he knew what I was doing now, would he still call me brave?

  The question rises, lingers.

  It will be weeks before he’s released from the hospital. We need time together, unscarred by war’s demands. To sit in some sun-dappled spot overlooking the Danube with our arms around each other, to say what cannot be conveyed through empty pen and paper.

  To somehow find a new beginning.

  “I miss us, Fritz,” I whisper into my pillow, a tear sliding down my cheek. “I miss you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sophie

  February 18, 1943

  I DRESS TO BE inconspicuous. A gray skirt, the burgundy sweater Annalise gave me, and my brown, button-down coat. Anyone who saw Hans and me walking across the university grounds toward the Lichthof would think us two ordinary students on our way to classes. It’s a spring-like day, unusually warm, sun scattering its rays with a liberal hand.

  In ten minutes, it will be over and done. In and out. Just like Hans said. I’ll be on a train to Ulm in a couple of hours, leaving Munich and its cares for another long weekend at home.

  I glance at Hans as we approach the wide front entrance. He looks at me and gives a little smile. Both of us slept until nine this morning, and his gaze is clearer than I’ve seen it in weeks.

  In and out.

  In my left hand, I carry my suitcase. Seventeen hundred copies of our sixth leaflet are within. No fear drums inside my chest. Only purpose. In ten minutes, we’ll be long gone, the leaflets left behind. Our ideas scattered for our fellow students to read.

  Read … and act.

  Hans pushes the door open. Our footsteps echo on the stone floor. We turn left.

  The clatter of footsteps breaks the quiet. I start. Beside me, Hans tenses. Traute and Willi hurry down the stairs, carrying their satchels. I blink at the sight of our friends. Traute wears a blue spring jacket. A red scarf wraps Willi’s neck, the ends showing through his open coat.

  “Hello, Traute, Willi.” Hans greets them as if this were any ordinary morning at the university.

  “We left Huber’s lecture early. We don’t want to be late getting to the neurology department.” Willi’s gaze lands on the suitcase in my hand. Questioning. “Coming with us, Hans?”

  “Not today. We’ll meet later.”

  “All right.” Willi and Traute move past us. Traute. I forgot to tell her … Quickly, I glance over my shoulder.

  “The ski boots you wanted to borrow are on the back stairwell. Just go in and get them, in case I’m not home this afternoon.”

  She turns, black curls brushing her cheeks. She smiles. “Danke, Sophie.”

  Then they’re gone, disappearing through the swinging front doors.

  Hans and I exchange a quick glance. Time is running out. We race up a flight of stairs. As we enter the Lichthof, I lift my gaze to the high-vaulted ceiling. Sun sparkles through the glass dome. The Lichthof is marble and echoing. Vast. And empty.

  Our footsteps pound in time with my heart. We hurry two flights up to the third floor. Flashing a glance over my shoulder, I crouch beside a pillar, unlatch the suitcase, yank an armful of leaflets from the top. Hans grabs several stacks, his satchel in one hand, the leaflets in the other.

  We part ways. I dart down the hall, bending down, placing piles of leaflets at intervals. On the opposite side, Hans does the same.

  Bend.

  Place.

  Bend. Place.

  Half running, I scatter leaflets outside of classrooms, on stair steps. My heart hammers. My breath heaves in and out. There’s no time to stop. To think. By the time classes release—which can’t be more than seven minutes away—our bags must be empty.

  I skid, nearly tripping on the slick surface. Pausing for a second, one hand lighting on the balustrade, I glance at the far-away floor below. Two marble statues flank the grand main staircase. Their cold, white eyes are empty. Watching.

  I retrieve the suitcase, flit down the stairs to the second floor. My hair bumps my cheeks. Sweat slides down my back beneath my coat. Hans’s footsteps are loud beside me, his breathing heavy.

  We scatter leaflets in front of classroom doorways, along the row of square marble pillars on both sides of the first floor. Hans fills his arms and races across the empty room to the other side.

  Bend. A stack of leaflets in front of each pillar. The pillars
are massive, hiding me as I place the leaflets. I rush forward, into the open. Exposed.

  Papers fall from my fingertips, skating across the floor. I kneel on the stone tiles to grab another stack.

  “Hurry.” Hans grasps my arm, pulling me to my feet. “We have to go.” We half run toward a side entrance. The door to the outside is straight ahead. I pause, pulse racing, ears attuned for footfalls, voices. Hans looks down at me. “Sophie. Come on.”

  “The suitcase isn’t empty,” I whisper, the realization striking me suddenly. “There are still some left.”

  “What?” he gasps.

  “Let’s go. Back to the third floor.” I start running before he can answer, toward the stairs, back up. My legs burn.

  The world blurs, time suspended. Breath pants from my dry lips. Sun streams from the glass ceiling, blinding. I set the suitcase down. It falls open. Grabbing a handful of the remaining leaflets, I scatter stacks along the edge of the balcony, on the floor.

  Almost finished.

  Hans grabs the last pile from the suitcase, placing it on the edge of the marble balustrade.

  “We have to go,” he whispers. His eyes are dilated, his jaw tense. “Now.”

  I grab the suitcase. “Coming.”

  In a flash, I glimpse the stack on the balustrade. My fingers are a touch away.

  The German name will remain defiled forever unless the German youth at last stand up, avenge and make atonement …

  In a single movement, I reach out, push. The leaflets rain downward, into the void. A cascade of paper and sunlight.

  For an instant, I watch their fall, mesmerized.

  The bell shrills. Students pour out of classrooms, books in their arms, satchels swinging. Hans and I slow our steps, blending into the crowd.

  “You there!”

  My heart jolts. I fling a glance at Hans. His face is impassive.