The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  “Halt!” The male voice echoes from below.

  My breath seizes. It can’t break free. The world closes in, time slowing down.

  Eickemeyer’s studio key. In my pocket. I have to get rid of it. The frantic thought blares above the numbness. I glimpse an open door nearby. A women’s restroom. I dart into the empty, white-tiled room. A faded ottoman sits by the door. Grasping the key from my pocket, I shove it beneath the cushion and race back out. It took only a few seconds. Hans stands where I left him, utterly still, almost catatonic.

  Perhaps they weren’t calling to us. Perhaps …

  Of one accord, we join the throng of students spilling into the halls. Several pick up leaflets, scanning them, passing them around. Murmured voices rise and ebb. Casually, unhurriedly, we make our way down the stairs.

  Surely there are so many of us. Surely he didn’t see our faces …

  A stocky man in workman’s overalls shoves through the crowd, pushing students aside. “You there. Halt!”

  Heads down, Hans and I keep walking. Toward the doors.

  Toward escape.

  Don’t look up. Ignore him. Ignore—

  “Stand still!” The man grabs hold of Hans’s arm. Hans jerks back. “Come with me. You’re under arrest.”

  I stand perfectly still next to my brother. All around, students stop and stare.

  “Whatever for?” Hans’s tone is even.

  “I saw you.” The man’s voice is sharp and guttural, his face inches from Hans’s. “You scattered the leaflets. You’re under arrest.”

  “That’s absurd. It’s an effrontery to take someone into custody at the university.” Hans glares, jaw jutted forward.

  “You threw leaflets over the balustrade.”

  I swallow. He saw us. There’s no way out. We’re surrounded.

  Trapped.

  In a split second, I make a decision. “Nein. I did.”

  The man turns to me, as if noticing me for the first time. Of course, he wouldn’t notice me first. I’m only a girl, after all. A nobody.

  I stare straight back at him.

  His pudgy face contorts in a gleeful sneer. “Both of you. Come with me. We’ll see what the rector has to say about this.” He grips Hans’s arm with one hand, mine with the other. His fingers pinch into my flesh. As he leads us up the stairs, I keep my gaze straight ahead.

  This is a test. Just a test. All I have to do is pass.

  Stay calm. I drill the order into my brain.

  Stay. Calm.

  We sit on straight-backed chairs against the wall of Rector Wüst’s office. Light streams through the windows, a pattern on the floor. Rector Wüst sits behind a massive oak desk. He eyes us with misgiving. On his desk sits a stack of the leaflets.

  A single knock.

  The door opens. Hans and I look up. Three men in trench coats and low fedoras enter the room. The shortest of the group advances toward Rector Wüst, who rises from his desk.

  “Inspector Mohr?”

  The man nods. “Heil Hitler.” He raises his arm in a perfunctory greeting, which Rector Wüst echoes.

  “Here are the persons in question.” Rector Wüst gestures to us.

  Inspector Mohr looks in our direction. I do not stiffen my shoulders under his gaze, neither do I slump them. I school my features into perfect calm.

  You are an ordinary college student. You know nothing of leaflets. You are innocent.

  The man who apprehended us—a janitor called Schmid jabbers at Mohr’s elbow. “I saw them throw the leaflets over the balustrade. Beyond a doubt, I know it was them.” He picks up one of the leaflets from the desk and hands it to Mohr. “Here. Read their sedition for yourself.”

  Mohr scans the leaflet, muttering the words to himself.

  “‘Our nation stands shattered by the demise of our men at Stalingrad. The ingenious strategy of the Great War corporal senselessly and irresponsibly rushed three hundred thirty thousand German men into death and doom. Führer, we thank you!’”

  He stops. Looks up. His eyes meet mine. Beneath the brim of his fedora, his gaze is penetrating. Other than the sharp gaze, he has an ordinary face. Squarish and middle-aged.

  With measured steps, he crosses the room.

  “Papers.” He holds out his hand for Hans’s identification. Hans opens his leather wallet and withdraws them. Mohr gives a compulsory scan, then turns to me. I reach into my coat pocket and hand over my folded identification papers. Our fingertips brush. He looks over the small booklet. The back of my neck begins to itch.

  “Are these yours?” He gestures to the suitcase and satchel sitting beside me on the floor.

  I nod. Mohr picks up the suitcase and satchel and carries them to the desk. A soft click as he unlatches the suitcase.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at Hans. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees. He shifts, shoulder bumping mine. His gaze flickers imperceptibly.

  What is he doing?

  “The suitcase is empty.” Mohr turns back around. “What were you doing carrying an empty suitcase?”

  “I was going to visit my parents in Ulm this afternoon.” My answer is swift. “I needed the suitcase for clean laundry.”

  Rector Wüst, Mohr’s men, and Schmid stand near the desk. All gazes level on us. Beside me, Hans shifts again. Alarm curls through me. I don’t dare glance in his direction.

  “There!” One of Mohr’s men dashes over. “He’s hiding something.”

  I do look now. He jerks Hans’s hands from between his knees, clawing his fingers open. Hans struggles. The man yanks something free, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. It’s ripped in half, the tear jagged.

  My heart accelerates. What was Hans trying to destroy?

  Mohr comes over, stride unhurried. He takes the half-ripped paper and scans its contents. His brow creases.

  Mohr looks up, gaze narrowing. “Where did you get this?”

  “A student gave it to me.” My brother’s voice is steady. “I don’t know who. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Mohr frowns. “Why did you tear it up?”

  “I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t want it to incriminate me. I haven’t even read the thing.”

  One of Mohr’s men crouches on the floor, gathering the remaining pieces from beneath Hans’s chair. Then it dawns on me. Christl’s draft. The one Hans showed me and then shoved back in his trouser pocket. He’s wearing the same trousers today.

  I let none of this show on my face. Another knock. More men in uniform stride in, carrying stacks of leaflets.

  “This is all of them, Inspector,” one of them says, adding to the pile on the desk.

  “So many.” Mohr lifts a brow. With methodical movements, he places the leaflets into my open suitcase.

  My mouth goes dry.

  Mohr latches the suitcase, faces us. “A perfect fit.”

  Of course it would be.

  I push the thought away. I must think as if I’m innocent, or it will all be useless.

  Mohr turns to the men with him. “Let’s get going.”

  One of the officers grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. He wrenches my hands behind my back. I still as the cold metal handcuffs noose my wrists. I fix my gaze on Hans, being given the same treatment. My brother stands proud, his expression fearless. A slant of sunlight falls upon his strong, handsome face.

  I am not afraid. I am not afraid.

  But I am.

  They march us from the office and down the stairs. Students crowd the Lichthof, almost as if they’re being kept there. I don’t dare look at any of them. To show recognition would bring that student also under suspicion. In case any of our group is among them, I keep my eyes down. The metal cuffs bite into the tender skin of my inner wrists.

  Dear God, this can’t be happening.

  Behind me, I hear Hans call out to someone, but I can’t make out his words.

  Out we go into the sunlit afternoon. Spring air wafts across my face.

  We’re herded int
o separate black cars. One of Mohr’s men crowds into the back seat beside me. The door slams.

  The motor starts, and we drive away, the university disappearing from view.

  At one time, Wittelsbacher Palace housed Bavarian monarchy. Its towering exterior of weathered stone still looks the part with ornate windows and Gothic carvings. A castle. A fortress.

  Now Gestapo headquarters.

  I’m led, still handcuffed, into the bowels of the building, through a warren of narrow, echoing corridors. The car holding Hans drove on ahead of mine. I don’t know where in this maze of a building my brother is, or if he’s here at all.

  My arm is numb from the grip of the guard. The gazes of those we pass—men in severe uniforms and dark suits—eye me with accusation. As if I’m a criminal in prison garb, instead of a slim girl in a brown coat.

  Allen Gewalten zum Trotz sich erhalten.

  I run the timeworn words through my mind.

  Help me, dear Lord.

  We enter an office lined with cabinets—the beveled letters on the door read “Reception Department.” Two uniformed guards sit at desks, turning over papers, telephones at their elbows. A woman stands behind a taller desk, bent over a clipboard. The man holding my arm removes my handcuffs and gives me a little push toward the desk.

  The woman looks up. She’s slim, brown hair knotted in a tight bun. Probably in her thirties.

  “Name.” Her tone is businesslike.

  “Sophia Magdalena Scholl.” I rub my wrists where the cuffs bit into them. My shoulders ache.

  Her pen scratches. “Date and place of birth.”

  “May 9, 1921. Forchtenberg.”

  “Residence.”

  “Number 13 Franz-Josef-Straße.”

  She notes it on her clipboard, then glances up. “Empty your pockets. Remove all jewelry and valuables.”

  I unfasten my simple leather wristwatch and pass it across the desk. The woman places it in a labeled box, followed by my coin purse, a box of matches, a handkerchief. I have nothing else. She finishes her notations and strides from behind the desk, clipboard in hand.

  “This way.”

  I follow her down the hall and into an anteroom. She closes the door. The bare-walled room is lit by a bright overhead light. A low wooden table sits in the center.

  “Remove your clothes and give them to me.”

  I take off my coat and lay it on the table, followed by my sweater. My roughened fingertips catch on the soft material. I remember Annalise’s smile when she gave it to me. “It’s perfect.”

  Annalise. Was she at the university? Did she see us being led away?

  What about the rest of our friends—Alex, Willi, Kirk? Do they know we’ve been arrested? Are they planning escape? We never talked about what to do if something like this happened. We should have.

  It’s too late now.

  My fingers tremble as I unbutton my blouse. I draw in a deep breath through my nose. I must be calm.

  God, help me.

  I stand in my underthings beneath the harsh lights. My arms prickle with cold. She’s searching my clothes. Finished, she turns to me. Her hands run along my body. I stand still as she frisks me, staring at the dirty gray wall opposite.

  She looks up. Her pale blue gaze finds mine, tinged with something beyond businesslike coolness.

  “If you have anything incriminating, give it to me and I’ll get rid of it. I’m an inmate too,” she whispers.

  I smile at the irony. Just where would she think I’d be hiding something? I’m practically naked, and she’s already searched my clothes.

  “There isn’t anything.”

  “Admit nothing. The interrogators are a canny bunch. You must be careful.”

  “I have nothing to hide.” Is this a Gestapo trap, putting me in close proximity with a sympathetic woman? If so, I won’t fall for it.

  “I’m Else Gebel.” The woman offers a little smile.

  “Sophie Scholl.” I say, then realize she already knows that.

  “You can get dressed. You’ll go back out to be fingerprinted and photographed, and then they’ll take you for questioning, I suppose.”

  I reach for my clothes, their comforting warmth sliding over me. Combing my fingers through my hair, I follow Else from the room.

  “Inspector Mohr” reads the black letters on the door. I’m led inside by a broad-faced man wearing a gray suit and swastika armband. He motions to a bench against the wall. I sit, grateful for a momentary respite. The anteroom looks like an ordinary office. Desk, typewriter, and telephone. The man who led me inside thumbs through a stack of papers, barely looking at me. On the opposite end of the room is a closed brown door.

  I swallow, my mouth unbearably dry. Am I prepared for interrogation? Of course we always knew it was a possibility. But there’s a difference between knowing something is possible and facing it. Today was supposed to be an in-and-out operation. In spite of the risk, I was sure I’d be going home this afternoon.

  What will they do to me? Hans told me they tortured Falk Harnack’s brother. If they torture me, will I be strong enough to stand it?

  My stomach cramps.

  A red light flashes above the door, making a low humming sound.

  “He’s ready for you.” The man opens the door.

  I stand and smooth my hands across my skirt.

  “Schnell, Fräulein. He doesn’t have all day.”

  My legs tremble, and I put all my concentration into taking slow, even steps. I step through the open door without a glance back. It closes behind me. Inspector Mohr sits at a polished desk.

  He looks up. “Sit down.”

  I walk toward the chair, sensing Mohr studying my every move. A falter, the slightest show of fear, could add fuel to my implication.

  The room’s furnishings look filched from the palace’s prior occupants—dark wood and rich carpet. Burgundy velvet drapes with gold tassels cloak the two windows. Afternoon sunlight filters in, landing on the desk. A secretary sits at a small table off to the right. She looks away, lips pursed, when I glance at her.

  Mohr pulls out a sheet of paper and places it in front of him. His dark hair is sparse and thinning, his hairline receding. He steeples his fingers beneath his chin and regards me for a long moment.

  I meet his gaze. An innocent person has nothing to fear. So I shall be innocent.

  “Well, Fräulein Scholl. Shall we begin?”

  “If you were traveling to Ulm this afternoon, then why were you at the university?”

  “Because I’d made plans to have lunch with a friend the previous day and wanted to tell her I couldn’t make it.”

  “Your friend’s name is?”

  “Fräulein Gisela Schertling.” In the tapestry of truth and lies, it’s best to weave in as much truth as possible and make up only what is necessary. It’s easier to slip up with an invented story than an established fact.

  Mohr jots down the name.

  “And where was Fräulein Schertling?”

  “At Professor Huber’s lecture Introduction to Philosophy. I knew the lecture would be getting out around 11:00 a.m.”

  “Herr Schmid said you were on the third-floor gallery at 11:00 a.m. Professor Huber’s lecture room is on the second floor. Why were you upstairs?”

  The party pin on Mohr’s lapel glints in the sunlight. My lips are dry. I force myself not to moisten them with my tongue. “When we passed the second floor, the lecture hadn’t let out. To pass the time, I decided to show my brother the psychology department, where I often attend lectures. That is upstairs.”

  “Can you describe the location of the leaflets?” Mohr’s gaze never leaves my face. Even when taking notes, it still seems like he’s watching me.

  I shrug. “My brother and I had already noticed the leaflets at the entrance to the second floor. They were scattered around, stacked in piles. It was the same on the third floor, except there was a pile on the balustrade.”

  “Did you read them?”

  “
Briefly.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  “My brother laughed at the leaflet. He stuck a copy in his pocket.”

  “I didn’t ask about your brother’s reaction, did I, Fräulein Scholl?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Nein.” I give a little smile. That’s right, look embarrassed, abashed. “I’m sorry. I saw them so briefly, I didn’t have time to form an opinion. As I said before, I’m apolitical. There were a lot of them though. Whoever scattered them must have worked quickly.”

  “Herr Schmid said he saw you push the leaflets off the balustrade into the Lichthof. Why did you do that?”

  Beneath the desk, my hands are damp with sweat. My neck aches from sitting so stiffly. I swallow. “It was a foolish act, with no premeditated thought behind it. I have a playful nature and like to play pranks. I realize it was a stupid mistake, which I now regret.”

  Mohr ponders this for a moment. He reaches into his coat and extracts a silver case. He opens the case and takes out a cigarette. Taps it against the edge of the case.

  “Why were you carrying an empty suitcase?”

  He already asked me this. He must be trying to trip me up. Mohr is not an interrogator for nothing.

  “I’ve already told you. I intended to fill it with laundry I dropped off when I visited my parents in Ulm from February 6 through February 14.”

  He reaches into his desk and retrieves a lighter. “Train fare is at least fifteen marks. That’s a lot of expense, just for clean laundry.” He flips the lighter with the pad of his thumb. A flame glows. He touches the tip of the cigarette to the flame. Not once does he take his gaze from me.

  “It wasn’t just for laundry. I planned to visit a friend who’s recently had a baby.” That too isn’t a complete lie. I did plan to visit Ruth Düsenberg, an unwed girl my parents have been helping during her pregnancy.

  “You were in Ulm last week. Why didn’t you visit her then?”

  A pulsing ache starts in my temples. “I wanted to see her and the baby again, since she’s leaving for Hamburg soon. I’d already told my parents I was coming on Friday to spend the weekend at home. I only pushed my trip up one day to visit Fräulein Düsenberg. My sister Inge’s boyfriend, Otto Aicher, is on furlough, and we intended to travel to Ulm together. He was getting in on the 11:30 train. I’d arranged to meet him at the Holzkirchner station.”