“I have no influence in the matter.”
“What kind of lawyer are you?” I no longer care what any of them think of me. Nothing I say will change tomorrow’s outcome. My voice rises. “I’ve asked you three questions. You haven’t answered one.”
His face reddens. “You dare insult me! You should expect no mercy tomorrow. The People’s Court will uphold justice, and you will get what you deserve.”
“I have no further questions.” I grit out the words, turning away.
Seconds later, the door shuts.
CHAPTER FORTY
Annalise
February 21, 1943
MY CELLMATE SNORES SOFTLY, though it’s only afternoon. Here there is little to do but sleep and wait to be summoned. Here humans are chattel, moved at will.
I lie on my cot, spent from the cough that’s shredded my lungs, the headache pounding against my temples. I’ve asked to be treated by a physician. Thus far, none has been sent.
I’m permitted to rest, for now. But it’s only a matter of time before they come for me again.
I’ve been interrogated twice. Both times, I managed to hold my own against the questions, playing up the fact that I was a bored university student. My secret marriage to Kirk Hoffmann? Well, wasn’t that just like a film? Treasonous leaflets? Oh, I’d seen one of them. It had been sent to me in the mail. But I burned it as soon as I read it. Sophie Scholl? My friend, who talked with me about art and theology. “I’m sure you must be mistaken. She has no interest in politics.”
All the while, my insides knotted with fear for my friends. For Kirk. I suspect others have been arrested and interrogated. My cellmate told me Willi Graf is in custody. Beneath Willi’s mild exterior is a sharp mind. I know he’ll stay one step ahead of them.
I saw Sophie this afternoon. We passed in the corridor as I was on the way to my cell after interrogation. She looked tired and rumpled, the sweater I’d given her half buttoned, her eyes large in her pale face. But the expression in them assured me she’d not lost her fighting spirit. Our shared look of solidarity strengthened me more than anything has since arriving in this place of locked doors and endless voices and loud footsteps.
A set of footsteps comes down the corridor now. I tilt my head and listen, holding my breath, waiting for whomever it is to pass. Instead, the steps slow and stop. In front of my door.
My mouth goes dry.
A rattle as the key turns. The door moans on its hinges.
“Frau Hoffmann?”
I nod, rising.
“Come with me. You have a visitor.”
“A visitor? Who?” The question escapes, a remnant of the outside world, where questions are answered. Here everything is veiled, prisoners kept in a state of perpetual uncertainty.
Leaving my cellmate still asleep, I follow the guard, every step making my head throb worse. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seize my arm but lets me walk beside him. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, smoothing back the tangled strands.
As we pass rows of cells, I strain my ears for a familiar voice, looking down every corridor for a glimpse—just one—of Kirk. As before, nothing.
We stop in front of a door, and the guard fumbles with a set of keys. I wait, apprehension a patter in my chest. I thought visitors weren’t allowed since we’re in interrogative custody.
The guard gives me a push inside. The room is dim, a single light hanging above a scarred wood table. A man stands in front of the barred window, his back to me.
Vater. Even before he turns, I recognize him. I would know those broad shoulders, that always perfectly Aryan bearing anywhere.
It was May when I saw him last. The day I left for university. The past ten months have aged me more than just days. Then, deep down, I still craved something from him, though I’d never have admitted it. Approval. A parent’s love.
I’ve grown stronger since. Sure of myself and what I believe and secure in God. Has it died then? The craving?
I don’t know.
“Hello, Vater.”
He turns. I’m struck by how the months have changed him. His face bears new lines, gray threading his close-cropped blond hair. A white sling stands out against his uniform, cradling his injured arm.
“Annalise.” His tone is curt.
I pull my sweater tighter around myself, folding my arms across my chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing.” Weak light from the window bathes his features.
“How did you find me?”
“One of my colleagues phoned. An acquaintance from Munich.” He takes a step closer. “I’ve never been so humiliated.” The words are a hiss from between gritted teeth. “A daughter of mine entangled in treason against the Reich—”
My chin juts forward. “I know of no treason.”
“So you’ve nothing to do with the leaflets? The graffiti, slurs against the Führer plastered all over Munich?”
I do not answer. Nor do I break my stare.
“They tell me your husband’s here too. You’re married.”
“I am.”
“We had an agreement, Annalise. You broke it.”
“I fell in love.” My words are fierce. And the truest ones I’ve spoken in the past three days.
“With a traitor.”
“My husband is no traitor. He’s a good man.” A much better man than you will ever be.
“A good man is one I would’ve chosen for you. An officer to do your family and the Fatherland proud.” He blows out a husk of a sigh. “Why, Daughter?”
“What?” I whisper, caught by the word. Daughter. He hasn’t called me that since I was a child. Then it was his address to me, the closest thing to an endearment I’ve ever heard from his lips.
“Why did you do this? You were always a good girl. A bit unruly perhaps, but an obedient, loyal child.”
I press my fingers into my palm, the pain anchoring me.
A good girl. An obedient, loyal child. Since when did he ever show by word or deed that I was those things to him? Not in years. If ever, they are lost to my memory. I was always hungry for words telling me he loved me, something to show I was enough.
They never came.
“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You’re involved with these students, these rabble-rousers. Scattering leaflets, defacing buildings with treason.” He takes a step toward me, almost as if he would place both hands on my shoulders, as he did when I was little and he wanted to tell me something important. “Tell me you knew nothing about their activities.” His gaze is almost pleading. “Tell me your friends are guilty, and you are innocent.” He holds the words out to me, an offering almost. Denounce my comrades to save myself. I can lie on behalf of us all, but I cannot, will not do this.
“We are all innocent of any crime. The Scholls are ordinary young people. Hans is a sergeant, a medical student. He was at the front last summer. Sophie spent years in the labor service.”
“They are the perpetrators behind this outrage of dissent!” His words are a crescendo. “Judge Freisler will deal with them accordingly.”
The very name of the infamous People’s Court judge makes my limbs weak.
Silence hangs between us. “How is Mutter?” I venture to ask.
“She’s sick. Since hearing of your arrest, she went into a decline.”
I see Mutter’s face as it looked when I left her. So pale and gray. She wanted me to stay. If I had, I’d still be in Berlin, away from this prison and the fate of my friends.
I don’t regret being here. We did what needed—demanded—to be done.
But I do regret causing her pain.
“Tell her I love her.” My whisper is a broken thing. When was the last time I let myself break before him? But I’m breaking now, for my mutter and my brothers and the family I lost. “Will you … do that for me?”
His nod is almost imperceptible. “Auf Wiedersehen, Annalise.” He moves past me and knocks on the cell door.
My eyes fall closed. There’s no use in echoing a goodbye that will not be heeded. But something inside makes me murmur one anyway, my whispered words drowned by the key in the lock and the step of the guard.
Two hours after Vater leaves, a physician enters my cell. Apparently concessions are made after one receives a standartenführer as a visitor. Likely the only good his rank will ever do me. The thought makes my lips curve in an ironic smile.
The cold metal of the stethoscope presses against my chest as the doctor listens to my breathing. I sit on the edge of my cot, body shaking. With fever? Stress? Exhaustion? All three and so much more.
The doctor draws the stethoscope away. “You have acute bronchitis, which could turn into pneumonia.” He pauses, shifting on the low wooden chair. “Have you suffered from any lung conditions in the past?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll leave you with something for your cough and aspirin for your headache. Were you not here …” He looks away. “I’d recommend further treatment. But they won’t permit your release.”
I nod.
“If you grow worse, don’t hesitate to ask for me again.”
“Who should I ask for?” My voice is as limp and wrung-out as my body.
“My name is Dr. Friedrich Voigt.” He rests a hand against my knee. The briefest of touches. His eyes are gentle. Compassionate, almost. As if he understands how powerless one truly is in this place. Our gazes hold.
“I’m Annalise,” I murmur.
He gives a faint smile and reaches into his bag, withdrawing a bottle and a paper packet.
The door opens. “Time’s up.” The guard’s voice is brusque.
Dr. Voigt flicks a glance at the guard. “I’m instructing the patient as to her treatment. You’ll permit me a moment more.” Yet when he turns to me and explains the medicine and dosage, his voice is cool, his words perfunctory. He leaves within minutes, bag in hand.
After pouring a dose of the medicine onto a spoon and swallowing the syrupy-sweet liquid, I lie down on my cot, hands folded across my middle, staring at the ceiling. Images flicker through my mind. Alex grinning, strumming his balalaika, tossing it aside and grabbing my hands, whirling me in a dance. Sophie hurrying down the street to buy envelopes, pausing beside a horse and cart stopped near the curb. Laughing as she patted the horse’s neck, before stepping into the shop.
Kirk pressing a kiss against my lips as his mutter carried in the Gesundheitskuchen amid smiles and sunlight and the sweetest of joy.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Dear God, what will become of us?
Sophie
February 21, 1943
He is the last person I expect to see when the cell door opens.
“Fräulein Scholl.” Inspector Mohr comes inside. My gaze lands on the parcel in his hand. He sets it on the table. From her seat on her cot, Else watches him warily.
“Ja?” I rise from my cot.
“I thought … you might like some fruit. Apples.” He gestures to the paper-wrapped parcel. “A packet of cookies as well.”
I’ve had answers and retorts to his every question, but I don’t know what to say to this. This Gestapo interrogator showing me a kindness? It baffles me. What place do small kindnesses have when he and his kind are working to send us to our deaths?
I regard his face in the dim light. In a different world, would he have been a better man, one who stood by morality and conscience? The question tugs at me, but I do not entertain it. Everyone, regardless of circumstances, breeding, or time, always has a choice.
And Mohr has chosen to bring me fruit.
He clears his throat, obviously expecting a response.
I nod. “Danke, Herr Mohr.” I expect him to leave, but he lingers, shifting in the cramped, gray-walled space, looking out of place in his tailored overcoat and hat.
“There is something else.”
I wait for him to continue.
“Your family.” He pauses. “I’ve included paper, envelopes, and a pencil in the parcel. You ought to write to them tonight. At Stadelheim, they will only permit a short note.”
He means for me to write farewell letters. Now, while there’s still time.
Again, I nod. “I will.”
“Good.” Mohr is visibly relieved. He moves toward the door and knocks.
Before being escorted out by the guard, Mohr turns. Framed in the doorway of the cell, one might think him a proud, important man.
But in his delusion, he is poorer than the humblest prisoner.
I watch him go. Should I hate or pity him? Right now, I don’t have the energy for either emotion.
Else has opened the parcel and spread the contents out on the table. Two apples and a packet of butter cookies. Several sheets of writing paper and envelopes.
“Do you want anything?”
I shake my head. “Maybe later.” I manage a faint smile. “I’d best get started on these.”
She nods.
I pull my chair up to the table and pick up the pencil. Getting on with things, Vater would call it. “Don’t hesitate, but take up the task at hand,” he would say. His voice, that rumbling baritone, over my shoulder as I sat at the kitchen table with a pile of dreaded homework. “The task at hand, Sophie.”
Ja, Vater. The task at hand.
The page stares up at me in all its blank whiteness. My breath shudders when I draw it in.
God, how? How am I to do this?
The plea encompasses not only the letters but every step of the journey that lies ahead.
Gracious God, You have shown Yourself strong before. Please, do not fail me now.
Slowly, the words come. How faltering and small they seem. How ill-equipped to convey my heart. My pencil stumbles, and several times I have to put it down and take long breaths until I can go on. A letter to my parents. Then one to Inge.
Lastly, to Fritz.
When you hear what has happened, I pray you will understand. I beg you, do not worry about me. My faith lies in God, and I am not afraid. I do not have to ask myself the question, Would I do it again? The answer is already before me. There’s freedom in such clarity.
Be strong in the life ahead of you. Never compromise, no matter what others around you do. I know you will become a man I would be proud of. I’ve seen you grow into such a man in the years we’ve spent together, and I’m already so very, very proud.
Please do not let anything stop you from living fully and loving without reserve. We are granted many gifts in this life. Love is perhaps the greatest of them. Hold it tight.
You are in my heart as you have always been, and I will think of you until the last as I have always done.
Yours always,
Sophie
I fold the letter and slip it into the envelope, address the front, then lay it on top of the other two. I’ve done all I can.
Outside, the light is fading. I move slowly toward my cot, leaving the three white envelopes in a pile on the table. The bulb in the cell switches on, illuminating the room in penetrating brightness. I look up at it, as does Else.
Neither of us say a word.
I lay down on my cot, turning onto my side to face Else. We exchange a smile. I’m glad she can still smile at me. It makes me braver than I might have been if I were alone.
After a pause, she says, “Tell me about your family.”
So I do. Several times, we laugh over incidents from my childhood. Hans has always been a leader, I tell her. Often he led us into mischief-making, like swimming in the Danube in the middle of winter. How cold we got, and what a scolding Vater gave us when we came home drenched and shivering.
“How will your parents take it, when they find out what has happened?” There’s kindness in Else’s gaze as she asks.
I swallow, throat suddenly tight. “I worry most about Mutter. Her health is not strong, and to lose two children at once … I pray she’ll be granted the strength to bear it, that it will not completely shatter her. Werner is on the Russian f
ront, and she already worries for him so. But Vater is different. He will understand better what we have done. He always taught us to think for ourselves.” I tuck my hand beneath my chin. “Vater will be proud of us.”
“You’re fortunate to have grown up in such a family.”
“Ja,” I whisper too softly for Else to hear. “I’ve been very fortunate.”
Else rises and readies herself for bed, then we bid each other good night. The light shines in a steady gleam, as it will shine all night, but I close my eyes anyway, the thin blanket tucked around my shoulders.
I must think only of this moment. Not tomorrow.
Oh, God. Be with me. My heart is weak and feeble, but You are my strength.
As clear as a whisper in my ear, the truth fills my mind. I don’t have to do this alone. I am not alone. I am His. And He will walk beside me. Through everything.
For years I’ve wondered if my love for Him was enough, questioned my worthiness to enter His presence. Tonight, I question no longer. Holy peace floods through me, inexplicable, but present.
And with peace, comes sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sophie
February 22, 1943
I OPEN MY EYES. Else stands over me, already dressed, hair loose around her shoulders.
“Time to get up,” she says softly. “I’ll help you get ready.”
I rise from the narrow cot. Else hands me a cake of soap, and I go to the sink in the corner of the room and splash water over my face. Its coolness trickles down my cheeks. How refreshing I’ve always found these morning rituals. Cleaning oneself to start the day.
Else beckons me to sit at the table. She takes up her own hairbrush and works it through my limp strands with gentle strokes. As if she stands in for the mutter who is not here today.
“I had a strange dream last night.” I fix my gaze on the window, morning sunlight filtering through the bars. “I was carrying a baby up a steep mountainside to a little church to be baptized. The baby wore a long, white gown, and I held it fast in my arms, like keeping it safe was the most important thing in the world to me. Suddenly a crevasse opened in the mountain, right over where I stood. I had just enough time to lay the child on the side of safety before I fell into the abyss.” I turn in my chair, looking up at Else. “It’s a sign. The child represents our idea. It will survive, but we must die because of it.” The dream was so vivid, and vivid still is the warm glow of hope it brought.
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