The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  My words won’t save me. Nor, I doubt, will they change this man. But still I say them. If I don’t defend truth when it’s most difficult, who am I to have defended it in the first place?

  “Are you really proud, Herr Mohr? Are you proud of a country that sends thousands of innocent men, women, and children to their deaths because of their race? Because they are not ‘pure’ enough for you. How can anyone take pride in knowing many have been killed, even German citizens, because their physical health deemed them unfit to live? By whose standards? Who are we to judge who dies and who lives? We are not God.”

  Mohr opens his mouth, but I rush on.

  “You speak of victory. It is a lie. The worst kind of lie, because too many people have been forced to believe it out of fear of what will happen to themselves and their families if they speak their true feelings.”

  Mohr’s lip curls. “You would have done well to have nurtured some of that fear yourself. I hope, at least, you see that now.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t regret my conduct. I believe I’ve done the best I could for my country and my conscience. I’m ready to stand before God only with the regret I didn’t do more.”

  “God.” Mohr spits the word. “He cannot save you now.”

  A slow smile spreads across my lips. “He is the only one that can. If not in this life, then in the one to come.” Conviction, pure and warm, seeps through me.

  For a long moment, Mohr stares at me. He puts the cigarette to his lips, the tip glowing orange. Inhales. “Such passion,” he says softly, blowing the words out with the smoke. “So misguided. Work with us, Fräulein Scholl. Surely you see now how you were swayed by your brother’s actions. You looked to him for guidance, and he led you astray. The court would be sympathetic to such a statement made by a young woman.”

  For one shameful instant, the idea lures me. All I have to do is say the words. It would mean a lessening of the blow to my parents. A chance. Life.

  But what kind? One lived with the knowledge that at the last minute, I turned my back on my conscience? That would make me little better than Hitler and his generals.

  That is no life.

  I turn my gaze toward the window. Even here, in such a place as this, the sun shines.

  I swallow. “You’re asking me to let my brother take all the blame? To go against all I believe in order to save myself?” I shake my head, my voice strong. “Nein, Herr Mohr. My brother and I should receive the same sentence. If what we have done is a crime, we are equally guilty.”

  Snuffing the cigarette in an ashtray, Mohr rises. His broad chest lifts in a sigh. The party pin on his lapel glints up at me. “Very well then.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it across his palms. “I’ll ring for someone to return you to your cell.” He doesn’t look at me. “I have nothing further to say to you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Kirk

  February 20, 1943

  “TELL US ABOUT YOUR connection to Hans Scholl.” The voice on the other side of the light is knife-point sharp.

  “Scholl and I are both part of the Second Student Medical Company. It was only natural we would know each other.”

  “Gisela Schertling stated you and Scholl spent a great deal of time together. What did you do?” Inspector Kruger is a shadow. At first, the light was mild. Kruger has since turned it up. My eyes water.

  “We share similar interests in literature and philosophy. We’re fond of Goethe.”

  “You’re telling me you and Scholl got together and talked about Goethe?”

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  “Not a word about treasonous printed matter? Like this?” He passes a sheet of paper across the desk. I recognize the bold heading of our leaflet. Fellow Students!

  “Never seen it before.”

  “Even though almost two thousand copies of these leaflets were scattered in the university Lichthof just two days ago?”

  “I wasn’t at the university. I was working at the hospital where LMU medical students assist the physicians. I’ve already told you this.” My mouth is dry. My stomach, hollow.

  Why didn’t Hans tell me his plans? I could’ve stopped him. Or gone with him.

  Why did you do this, my bold, reckless friend?

  “Don’t tell me during your conversations about literature and philosophy, Scholl didn’t mention his own literary attempts,” Kruger says the last with a sneer. “You were good friends. You must have suspected something.”

  “In the course of my friendship with Hans Scholl, he gave the impression of being fully dedicated to German victory. In our service together at the front, I found him a perfect soldier, desirous to do his duty for the Fatherland. I’m shocked to discover he would be behind something so defamatory. It’s not like him at all.” Perhaps it’s not customary for a Christian to pray he will be a convincing liar. But today I pray that prayer and mean it with all my heart.

  “Scholl himself mentioned you procured stamps for him in January. Stamps used for the distribution of leaflets.”

  The Gestapo will do anything to get information, even give false evidence. What has Hans told them? Beneath the desk, I wipe damp hands across my trouser legs.

  “It’s true I purchased a quantity of stamps for Scholl, at his request. He said he needed them to send letters to his family and comrades on active duty. This seemed to me a reasonable request. Scholl promised to reimburse me at a later date, since he said he was short on funds.”

  “And did he?”

  “Nein. It was such a small matter between friends. I’d forgotten all about it until now. Scholl was always performing little kindnesses for those in his circle. I was happy to return the favor.”

  “Those in his circle? Like Schmorell? We have a reward for a thousand marks posted, to be granted to anyone with information regarding his whereabouts. Both Scholl and his sister Sophie have detailed Schmorell’s participation in full.”

  I draw in a shallow breath. They incriminated Alex? Or was the interrogator just telling me this so I would affirm it?

  My head pounds. Though they put me in a cell with a cot, I didn’t sleep last night. Worry for the Scholls and Annalise kept me awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, panic a vise around my throat.

  “Schmorell was part of Hans Scholl’s circle of friends. But I never knew him to be involved in anything untoward. Alex is an artistic type. Always sculpting or making music. Between you and me, he’s got more imagination than brains.” I try to sound like I’m playing along with the interrogator, leaning forward, adding a chuckle at the end.

  “Artistic, you say? Have you heard of the ‘artwork’ appearing around Munich? ‘Freedom. Down With Hitler.’”

  “I’ve seen the graffiti, ja. Who in Munich hasn’t? But I doubt Alex would waste good paint on something like that. It’s too expensive.”

  “Enough! Admit you knew Scholl and Schmorell were involved in high treason. Christoph Probst was their accomplice.”

  Christl? This is the first his name has been mentioned. What does he have to do with it? Except …

  Hadn’t Hans mentioned Christl had written a leaflet draft?

  “You guys are crazy.” I laugh, hoping Kruger didn’t notice my momentary pause. “Probst? He’s too busy having brats. Three children in as many years of marriage. He hasn’t got time for anything else.” Never would I have spoken such about these, my dearest friends, if not to protect them. Out of all of us, Christl must be kept safe.

  “What about you then? Your wife is in custody too, you know. It will fare better for both of you if you tell us everything.”

  Annalise. Her name hits me like a fist to the gut. The look in her eyes as we were led to the Gestapo car hasn’t stopped haunting me. The way her body shook next to mine on the seat, her eyes filled with fear, her face flushed with fever.

  I force thoughts of her away. If I let them in, they’ll be my undoing.

  “Annalise is the daughter of an SS officer. Do you honestly thin
k we would have any part in activities, which, as you’ve said, are equal to high treason?”

  “Your wife herself admitted your marriage was a secret. She stated her vater had no knowledge of it.”

  “That has nothing to do with the case at hand.”

  “While you are in our custody, Herr Hoffmann, everything is relevant.” Kruger rises. He switches off the light. I blink, vision blurred by blotches of white. “We will find out the truth about each and every one of you.” He leans forward. “And then you will pay the price.”

  Sophie

  February 20, 1943

  The cell door creaks open. I turn from where I’ve been standing at the window, staring out at the canvas of blue sky from behind black iron bars.

  Else—my cellmate since arriving at the Wittelsbacher Palace—hastens past the guard. The door groans closed, the key scraping in the lock. A smile lights up her pale features.

  “Did you have a good rest?”

  I nod. “Ja. Danke.”

  “I have news.” She sits on the edge of her cot, folding her hands in front of her. “It’s about the prisoner brought in earlier today.”

  “It’s Alex Schmorell, isn’t it?” A shudder passes through me. Alex, so handsome and fine, inside this place, dragged into the undertow along with us. Could I have somehow shielded him?

  The question is a painful echo.

  Else shakes her head. “It’s a man called Christoph Probst.”

  Breath leaches from my lungs. I cling to the cold cell wall, legs weak beneath me.

  “Nein.” I press my lips together, hot tears choking my throat. “Nein.”

  “Sophie, what?”

  Else’s face is a blur through my tears. “Christl is innocent. He has a family. A wife and two little boys. A baby daughter, just born.” I press my hand to my mouth, droplets of salt and water sliding over my fingers. “He’s so … good, Else. So good. He doesn’t deserve this. All he did was write a few words. That’s all.”

  “I’m sorry,” Else whispers.

  I swipe my hand across my cheek, gulping back a sob. “He has the most … radiant smile. To look at it is to watch the sun rise.”

  Memories. Christl laughing as he lifted his little Michael onto his shoulders, a look of pure joy on his face. Christl, passionately declaring only action could provide our absolution. Never have I seen such love in anyone’s eyes as when he spoke of his wife.

  “My Herta. The best and dearest of women.”

  All he wanted was to live in a loving world, to give love to those around him. An ordinary man who saw darkness and sought to eradicate it.

  “Surely he will receive a lighter sentence.” I gather myself, drawing in a long breath. “Imprisonment only. And the war will be over soon.”

  One miracle. Christl’s release. Would that be too much to ask?

  I sink onto the edge of my cot, head bent, aware of Else’s gaze upon me.

  In such a world as this, there are no miracles.

  February 21, 1943

  Do you know what you are being charged with? the gaze of the prosecutor seems to ask. He passes a stack of papers across the desk.

  “In accordance with regulations, here is a copy of the indictment. Your trial will take place tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. at the People’s Court in Munich. The president of the People’s Court, Judge Freisler, will preside.” He pauses, as if expecting some reaction from me. I don’t give him the satisfaction of one. “You’ve been charged with high treason,” he adds.

  I only stare at him, hands limp at my sides.

  “If you will sign this, stating you are in receipt of the indictment.” He sets a piece of paper before me, along with a pen. I bend over the desk and slowly form my name. Hair falls into my face. I must have left my bobby pin back in the cell.

  The pen clicks against the desk as I set it down. I pick up the indictment, the three-page document weightless in my fingers. Only words. My life is one long lesson in their power.

  “Take her away.” The prosecutor opens a leather binder, as if I’m no longer in the room. The guard grasps my arm and leads me out of the office, into the maze of corridors.

  Where are they taking me now?

  Physically, I’m in their control. Only my spirit remains my own.

  Footsteps meet my ears. A guard comes down the other side of the corridor, holding onto the arm of a woman.

  Annalise. Pale, her hair a flame around her face. She walks erect, shoulders back.

  Our eyes meet.

  Those who have never been denied underestimate the power of a single look. In the moment our gazes meet, much is said that words cannot convey. Perhaps more than has ever been said in the course of our friendship. Neither of us beg for strength. We both give it to each other, like a cord from which heat flows. It makes me brave to look at her, remembering all that’s passed between us. The conversations and shared secrets. Laughing and sipping Chianti. Working late into the night, bolstering each other onward. She smiles softly, and I recall the moment I first saw that smile, when she bid me goodbye after I caught her reading Heine.

  We were girls then. Experience, not time, has made us women.

  We pass each other. I don’t dare look behind me.

  The guard unlocks the cell, and I step inside, carrying my indictment papers. Else sits on a chair next to the wooden table, rubbing a spot on a shoe with a piece of cloth. The door groans shut.

  I slowly scan the typed words of the indictment. In emotionless legalese, the three of us—Hans, me, and Christl—are charged with high treason, conspiracy, of having attempted during a time of war to give aid to the enemy against the Reich, and of demoralization of the armed forces.

  My hand begins to shake. I set the indictment on the table.

  “Our trial is tomorrow,” I say softly.

  Else nods.

  “Will you get into trouble if you read the indictment?” Suddenly, I want the comfort of other eyes besides mine upon these cold, final words.

  She shakes her head and picks up the pages. As she reads, her face turns pale, her eyes, afraid.

  When I first stepped through the doors of Wittelsbacher Palace, I thought I might be able to escape the worst. This indictment has laid bare my illusions for what they were. Illusions.

  My footsteps are loud in the tiny cell as I cross to the single, barred window. I close my eyes and lift my face up, letting the sun warm it. How I’ve always loved the sun. As a child, I never tired of lying on a blanket, falling asleep caressed by its rays.

  I’ll never lie on a blanket beneath the sun again.

  My chest tightens. I don’t fear death, but I mourn the loss of the life I might have lived. I’ll never again listen to the soaring notes of a violin or run barefoot across warm grass. Never again feel the pleasant burn in my legs from climbing the Alps, reaching the top breathless and windblown, the world spread before me, close and faraway all at once.

  Fritz and I will never marry. I’ll never hold the soft warmth of a newborn child in my arms. Feel a lover’s kiss against my lips, his hands around mine as we circle the room in dance.

  I cannot help my longing for those things any more than I can help my need for breath. I’ve always thought life a joyful thing, the world a gift. In spite of bombs and war, the insanity of hatred, the darkness crushing all around me.

  Now that very darkness will destroy me too.

  I draw in a breath, imagining myself drinking in sweet mountain air instead of the dank must of the cell.

  Turning, I glimpse Else lying on her cot, the indictment beside her on the gray blanket. Sadness fills her eyes. As if she too realizes there are no more illusions.

  I smile a little. “Such a fine, sunny day,” I whisper. “Isn’t it?”

  Else nods.

  “And I have to go. But so many die every day on the battlefields, all those promising young men. What will my death matter if, because of our actions, thousands will be awakened and stirred to truth. Surely, the students will revolt when they
hear what has been done to us.”

  “I’m sure of it,” is all Else says. She looks at me with a strange kind of wonder, her cheek against the faded pillow slip.

  “I could just as easily die of a disease. But there would be no purpose in such a death.” I straighten my shoulders. “My only regret is that I didn’t do more, that I’ve sold my life too cheaply.”

  “You don’t know what the sentence will be.” Else sits up, arms wrapped around her knees. “It might be a long imprisonment.”

  I shake my head. “If Hans is sentenced to death, I must not get a lighter sentence. I’m as guilty as he is.” I sit on the edge of my cot. I’m calm again. Numb, maybe, but in control of myself.

  “At the very least, everyone receives ninety-nine days before execution. The war might be over by then,” Else says. “It won’t be long before the Allies invade.”

  I suppose it’s possible. But what is the point, really, in letting myself clutch at another illusion?

  A knock sounds on the door. Else and I look up. A man in a suit steps inside the cell.

  “Sophia Magdalena Scholl?”

  I rise.

  “I am Attorney Klein, your defense.” A wisp of a mustache frames his thin upper lip. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Can you confirm my brother is entitled to a firing squad? Since he’s a veteran of the war.” My voice is steady. At the very least, Hans should not have to die a humiliating death.

  Klein takes a step back, shock evident in his gaze. He fiddles with the rim of the hat in his hands. “I … I believe your brother has been stripped of all rights as a soldier.”

  “And what of me? Will there be a public hanging?”

  I must ask these things. I must know.

  Klein’s face blanches. He coughs. “I’m not certain.”

  “Can you at least tell me what will happen to my family?” I close my hands into fists at my sides. “Will they be arrested too?” I well know the government protocol of Sippenhaft—collective responsibility. When one sins, all suffer.