Mohr sets his cigarette in an ashtray, jotting notes. Tendrils of smoke curl upward. I swipe a strand of hair away from my face.
Mohr lays down his pen.
The interrogation continues.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Annalise
February 18, 1943
POUNDING.
I sit up on the sofa and blink, groggy with sleep. What time is it? My joints ache and my body is hot with fever. A glance at the table pulled next to the sofa reveals an empty breakfast tray and several wadded-up handkerchiefs, bringing back foggy memories of this morning, when I woke with a sore throat, too feverish to attend my scheduled classes. The room is shadowed. Dim.
More pounding.
I stand on shaky legs and cross the room, leaving my blanket on the sofa. I’m still in my nightdress, feet clad in woolen socks.
I open the door.
Two men in fedoras and trench coats stand outside. I glimpse a flash of my landlady’s face behind them before she vanishes from view.
“Gestapo.” The single word is clipped. It slams against my fever-fogged mind.
“What can I—”
“We’re looking for Kirk Hoffmann. Is he here?”
“Nein.” I shake my head, pulling the collar of my nightgown closed.
They push past me, boots tracking muddy prints across the floor. The narrow-faced one in front strides through the apartment, throwing open doors, tearing through cupboards. Clatters. Crashes. Our dignity tossed aside with our belongings.
I stand in the center of the room, while the other officer leans against the wall. His tall frame knocks a picture crooked—one of my paintings.
The first officer finishes his search and comes back into the room.
“Where is Kirk Hoffmann?”
They’ve discovered something. The realization filters through my feverish mind.
Kirk was supposed to be on duty at the hospital today; the reason why he couldn’t stay home and take care of me. Performing the work of a doctor’s assistant, not scattering leaflets or painting graffiti.
The officer strides forward, right up to me. “Answer the question.” He shoves his face close to mine. His breath reeks. My mind whirls.
“How should I know? I’m not his keeper.” My voice emerges raspy. Whatever happens, I can’t lead them to Kirk. But I don’t know where he is, where not to lead them.
“Who are you then?”
My throat is raw and dry. My legs waver. I need to sit down. But the officer blocks my path to the sofa, gaze drilling into me.
I draw myself up with the dignity of a standartenführer’s daughter. “Pardon me, gentlemen. I’ve been ill. I’ll go into the kitchen and fetch a glass of water, then return and answer your questions.” I move to sweep past him, but he grasps my forearm.
“You’ll answer our questions now. Who are you and what is your relationship to Kirk Hoffmann?” His grip tightens, crushing my arm. I’m thirsty … so thirsty …
“I’m … Frau Annalise Hoffmann. His wife.” The moment the words are out, I wonder if I’ve said the right thing. In our two months of marriage, I’ve remained Annalise Brandt to all but a few. Perhaps giving my name as Annalise Brandt, daughter of the great standartenführer would have made them show me some respect in whatever awaits us.
But nein. Kirk is my husband. I won’t deny him like Peter in the courtyard.
“Is this his residence?”
“This is our apartment. Tell me, what did my husband do? We live very dull lives, I’m afraid. We’re students at the university.” A cough wracks my body. I press my hand to my mouth. My lungs and chest ache.
He ignores my question. And my coughing. “When is your husband expected to be home?”
I wipe my hand against the back of my mouth. If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d have tried to keep coughing. Anything to avoid his questions.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. The other officer smokes, leaning against the wall, letting the ashes fall onto the rug.
“Don’t worry. We’ll wait. Sit down.” He gives me a shove in the direction of the sofa. I stumble.
“Let me at least get dressed.” I turn my gaze away from my interrogator and toward the officer with the cigarette. He’s younger, his posture suggesting a lack of zeal for the job. Perhaps he might take pity on a sick young woman in her nightgown.
He stares at me, cigarette trailing smoke. “Very well.”
“Go with her,” the other officer says. “Watch her.”
I move toward the bedroom, the young officer at my heels. My gaze takes in the unmade bed where Kirk and I lay only hours ago, the indentation in his pillow, his volume of Rilke on the bedside table.
What is happening to us, my love?
The officer leans against the doorframe, watching as I pull a woolen skirt and sweater from the armoire. I give him a searing glance. He flushes and looks down at his boots. I force myself to pull my nightgown over my head and dress in the clothing. I run a brush through my hair and sit on the edge of my bed to pull on my stockings and lace up my shoes.
He follows me to the kitchen, in chaos after the search. I turn on the tap and fill a tumbler with water. The cool trickle down my throat eases the rawness. We return to the front room, and I sit on the edge of the sofa. Time drags, but my mind races.
What’s happening? It’s an ordinary Thursday. What could have gone wrong?
An hour (or is it longer?) passes. Then footsteps, a key in the lock. My heart pounds.
Dear God, let it be someone else, anyone else …
Kirk opens the door. I watch helplessly from the sofa as he takes in the two officers. A flicker of shock and alarm flashes through his eyes, before he schools his features into a hard, blank stare.
“Kirk Hoffmann?” The officer in charge unfolds himself from his seat.
“Ja.” Kirk meets his gaze square on.
“You and your wife will come with us. You’re to be taken in for questioning.”
“On what grounds?” In his uniform, Kirk is the image of a perfect German soldier. Perhaps they’ll realize they’ve made a mistake. They aren’t here for us after all.
“No questions.”
“You can’t just—”
The officer takes a step toward Kirk. “No questions.”
In seconds, he’s pulling Kirk’s arms behind him, snapping on handcuffs. The younger officer comes toward me. For a moment, apology fills his eyes, before he hauls me to my feet. Cool metal closes around my wrists, chafing. Panic slides sharp talons around my throat. I try and wriggle my wrists, but I can’t move.
Dear God, this can’t be happening …
I meet Kirk’s gaze, clinging to it like a drowning woman, as the men lead us from the apartment and into the night.
Sophie
February 19, 1943
It’s been ten hours since the start of my second interrogation. Still the questions come.
Bright white light from a desk lamp glares directly into my eyes. Across the desk, Mohr is a shadowy figure, blurred by the light. His distinguishing characteristic is his voice, rising and falling depending on the question and my answer.
I’m slipping. Hour after hour, I’ve tried to hang on, to parry the questions, to stay alert. But I’m weakening. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I sense it.
Mohr reaches into a drawer of his desk. Deliberately, he pulls out a pistol, placing it between us.
“A .08-pistol. Found in our search of your apartment.”
They’d searched our apartment. My chest tightens. We’d become careless out of exhaustion over the past weeks. Stupid. Stupid.
What else had they found? Leaflets? The typewriter?
I envision our front room, as we’d left it before going to the university. What had Hans done with the typewriter? Was it at Eickemeyer’s?
The table. Toast crumbs. A cup with half-drunk tea. The typewriter in its case. Shock punches the breath from my lungs.
Dear heaven, had we left leaflets lyi
ng about too?
My gaze falls on the pistol. Mohr waits for my answer, likely wondering at my pause. “It belongs to my brother. Hans is an officer. He served in Russia during the break between summer and winter semesters.”
“If the pistol was to be used for the purpose of fulfilling his duties in the Wehrmacht, why keep it in his personal quarters?”
Stop. I want to scream. Just stop.
Instead, I face Mohr, eyes stinging in the light. “I couldn’t say.”
“Know how to use it?”
I shake my head.
“A total of 186 9-mm caliber bullets were found in your desk. What were they doing there?”
“Hans must have put them there.” That much is true. I’d make up a reason why, but if Hans has given another explanation and our stories don’t match, it would bring our innocence under more doubt.
“You don’t know the purpose of bullets stored in your own desk? You’re not an idiot, Fräulein Scholl.”
“It isn’t a crime to own a weapon.”
“It is to conceal information.” Mohr withdraws several sheets of stamps. He passes them across the desk.
I press my lips together, keeping my face blank. Four sheets. One hundred eight-pfennig stamps. The Führer’s profile glowers up at me from each one.
Oh, Hans.
“Care to explain their purpose?” Mohr leans forward, arms folded on the desk.
“I’ve never seen them before.”
“You’re lying, Fräulein Scholl. You said you’d purchased stamps a week ago.”
“I purchased fifteen stamps of various denominations. Not these.”
“Eight-pfennig. The same kind used to mail the leaflets.”
“As I said, I know nothing about them.”
“There are one hundred stamps here. Found in your brother’s desk. All of them could not have been purchased at the same post office without suspicion. Someone had to go to a great deal of trouble in order to obtain them. This is proof”—he stabs his finger against the sheet of stamps, voice rising—“proof your brother is part of a treasonous organization against the German government.”
“It proves nothing except that he likes to write letters. My brother is a medical student, a soldier. He is not the person you’re looking for.” I dig my nails into my palm.
Stay. Alert.
“What about this?” The desk drawer creaks as Mohr opens it again. He holds up a little notebook. Tightness spirals through my body.
A notebook with a faded blue cover. The record of expenses incurred during the leafleting operation, along with lists of those who donated and the amounts given.
I know every line in it.
“It’s in your handwriting.” Mohr licks the tip of his thumb and leafs through the pages. “An expense record, perhaps? For materials purchased to produce leaflets.” He sets the notebook on the desk.
“It is a record of expenses,” I say. “Some friends have loaned me money for living expenses in Munich—”
“You’re lying!” Mohr slams his fist onto the desktop. “I ordered you to tell the truth, and you are blatantly defying that order.”
“Nein.” My voice escalates. “I’m answering your questions to the best of my ability.”
The door opens. “Inspector Mohr?” A male voice. “A moment, if you will.”
Mohr rises without a word to me. The man at the door comes into the room. Mohr exits. The door clicks shut.
I blink against the light, turning my gaze from it. I close my eyes. A kaleidoscope of spots dance before me. A minute passes.
I open my eyes, focusing. The clock on the wall reads 5:00 a.m. My eyes are gritty. The secretary is long gone, leaving Mohr and me alone for the past several hours.
Only a door separates my brother and me. Hans, in the next room, also being interrogated. How is he holding up? Is he evading the questions? Or breaking beneath them?
Earlier I seemed momentarily distracted, and Mohr asked what was wrong. I ventured to voice my concerns about Hans’s welfare, saying I knew it was often the case to use force during interrogation. Mohr gave me an almost fatherly smile, got up, and opened the connecting door. For a moment, I glimpsed my brother’s face—deathly pale in the eerie light. Our gazes met. Then the door shut.
“See,” Mohr had said. “I told you he was all right. We’re not the monsters you believe us to be, Fräulein Scholl. Just good citizens of the Fatherland, doing our jobs.”
Hans isn’t all right. He’s pale and exhausted.
But Mohr was right about one thing. Those employed within these walls are “good citizens.” Following orders. Doing their jobs.
Model German patriots.
I resist the urge to let my face fall into my hands.
How long can it go on?
For a moment, I let my posture relax. Crumple. Almost. Tension knots my neck muscles. My sweater is damp at the armpits.
The door opens. Mohr steps inside, and the other man exits. Leather creaks as Mohr takes his seat. For a long moment, he regards me, features shadowy in the unrelenting light.
“It’s no use, Fräulein Scholl. We have your brother’s confession.”
Everything within me stills. This is just another trick. Hans wouldn’t have …
Mohr picks up a sheet of paper. “‘Because I—as a citizen of Germany—wish not to show indifference toward the fate of my nation and its people, I resolved to act upon my convictions and print the truth that has been denied to my countrymen. That is how I came upon the idea of writing and producing leaflets.’” Mohr lowers the page. “Your brother takes the blame for everything. Read his statement for yourself.” He slides the paper across the desk.
Beneath the glaring light, I take it in—typed words against white paper.
At the bottom of the page is my brother’s signature. Unmistakable.
A slow heat rises inside me. I raise my eyes from the paper to Inspector Mohr.
“There’s no point in lying.” He leans forward, voice low. “You took part in your brother’s activities. Come now, Fräulein Scholl. Admit the truth. Who else is responsible for writing and distributing the leaflets?”
My hands are shaking from stress and fatigue. The light burns my eyes.
I’m not ashamed of what I did, not one single piece of it. I would do it again without hesitation. I clear my throat, gathering the words from deep inside. After I voice them, there will be no taking them back. I meet Mohr’s gaze—what a weak, misguided man—without flinching.
“I am.”
Mohr stares at me without speaking. He draws in a long breath, a sigh. I confessed. He should be elated.
I confessed.
God, help me.
“Our scientific report specifically states the author of the leaflets is a man.”
Sudden energy rallies through my body. I have a cause now. I must forget about everything but fighting for it. No one but the two of us will bear this blame. Someone must remain to continue the work when this is all over.
For we will not be.
“Then your scientific report is wrong. I participated as much as my brother. In everything.” I’m strong again and the words flow seamlessly. “In the summer of 1942, we resolved to act on our convictions that Germany has lost the war and every life sacrificed on the altar of victory is a life sacrificed in vain. The decision to produce leaflets as a form of passive resistance was made by both of us.”
I pause. A heavy weariness possesses my body.
Dear God, I don’t have the strength to go on.
“May I be allowed to rest now?” My voice cracks.
Mohr nods, some of the steel in his eyes softening. “Ja. In a little while, you may rest.” He switches off the bright light, faces me. “Twenty-one years old. A mere girl.” His voice is distant, musing. “Such a waste.” He rubs a hand across his eyes.
I turn my gaze away, too tired to contemplate his words or the expression in his eyes. A minute passes.
He picks up the phone on his de
sk with a click. “Stenographer. We have a confession.”
Sophie
February 20, 1943
My third interrogation. In the hours of endless questions, Mohr has drilled me on every aspect of our activities, probing for new information. He maintains it’s impossible the two of us accomplished so much alone. Over and over, I give evidence to the contrary, listing dates and numbers of leaflets, casting blame upon ourselves with the same fervency I once deflected it.
I mentioned Alex though. At first, it was a slip of the tongue in the blur of questions. But Mohr pushed relentlessly until I admitted Alex was our accomplice. I played down his involvement as much as I could.
Still I betrayed him.
A cold sickness soaks through me, to my core. Have I ever known such soul-crushing regret? So many regrets.
How many will pay because of them?
Mohr sits back in his chair and lights a cigarette. It’s late morning, five hours since we began. The curtains are pulled back. Sunlight weak as broth filters into the room.
“It fascinates me that you, a young woman who has enjoyed every advantage and educational opportunity, would be so blatantly misguided. All the Führer has done has been for people like you, the next generation. And you repay his generosity with this?” Mohr picks up one of the leaflets, tosses it back onto the desk. “Sedition! Treason!”
He seems to want to argue with me. Why, I have no idea. What does it matter to him to convince me he’s right and I’m wrong? It seems our philosophy, as well as our actions, are now on the dock.
Yet the words pull at me, begging for release. My beliefs are worth defending. Even if, in doing so, I alter no one’s opinion.
I face him across the desk. “If the Führer keeps on, there will be no next generation. They’ll all be dead. Tens of thousands of German lives were lost at Stalingrad. And all for what? Victory? That word has no meaning.”
“It has great meaning! It means Germany will again be able to hold its head high after the abominations of the Great War and the Treaty of Versailles.” Mohr leans forward, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “It means we, the German people, will be able to take pride in ourselves because we have, at long last, a leader to be proud of.”
The White Rose Resists Page 28