She smooths her hand across the crown of my head and lays the brush aside. Her face is pale, dark shadows beneath her eyes as if she spent a sleepless night.
Else, Else, more afraid for me than I am for myself. How kind you’ve been.
An hour passes. Breakfast arrives, and we eat the squares of brown bread and sip the cups of tepid ersatz. The warmth soothes my throat, and I hold the tin cup up to my nose, inhaling the fragrance, imagining real kaffee.
The indictment still sits on the table, along with my letter-writing pencil. While Else pins up her hair, I slowly form letters, tracing a single word onto the back of the page in the hope that, like our graffiti, it will embolden others with a courage beyond what they think they possess.
Freiheit.
Freedom.
A knock sounds. We both rise. I take Else’s hands firmly in both of mine, looking into her eyes.
“Promise me that someday you will go to my parents and tell them of our time together.”
Else nods. “I promise.”
She helps me on with my coat. The door opens. A guard stands outside.
“Prisoner Scholl.”
Before the guard takes hold of me, I turn, looking one last time at the woman who has been a companion, almost a friend in these few short days. “God bless you, Else.”
Else looks on with a kind, steadfast gaze. “God bless you, Sophie.”
I will see Hans today. The thought fills me with a kind of gladness during the ride to the Palace of Justice, crammed between two guards. How I’ve missed my brother during these four days apart.
We pull up before the massive, gray stone building, and I am hauled out. Handcuffs bite into my wrists. They hurry me inside, through a vast foyer of grand pillars, our shoes an echo on the marble floor. We ascend a set of stairs. Sun filters through a high glass cupola. A swastika hangs from the balustrade, an emblem of bloodstained red.
We enter an anteroom. To my relief, they remove the handcuffs. I barely have time to rub at the chafing on my wrists before they take hold of me again, and we march through a pair of doors.
I sense the gazes of everyone in the room turn to me, the low hum of murmurs escalating. I take it all in with a glance—uniformed SS and Wehrmacht officers interspersed with men in dark suits. They sit in rows of straight-backed chairs, the black-robed lawyers at their table along the side. Large, picture windows let in morning sunlight. A bronze bust of Hitler sits on a pedestal behind the empty bench. I yank my gaze away from it and from the swastika on the wall.
The room teems with men, not a woman in sight. Their stony faces regard me with open disgust.
I catch a glimpse of Hans. My heart leaps. They push me toward a bench where he and Christl sit with guards between them. I slide onto the end and look past the guard, toward them both. Hans smiles slightly. He looks well, thank God. Pale and tired, but still my strong, brave brother. On the far end sits Christl. Our eyes meet, and I wish I could take his hands in mine and squeeze them tight.
In the past four days, we’ve fought alone against the opposing forces. Now, we’re together again. No matter that this is a show trial where the word justice is a farce, the three of us won’t go down like silent lambs. Surely, we’ll be permitted to speak.
They’ll have no choice but to listen.
“Hans,” I whisper.
“No talking.” The guard roughly shushes me.
The undertone of conversation dwindles to a halt. A man enters the room. Freisler. In his bloodred robe and cap, he looks like an actor in a Shakespearian drama. Thin, almost gaunt, robe aswirl about him, he strides to his chair at the front of the room behind the oak bench. A cadre of assistant judges follow at his heels.
Freisler pauses before taking his seat. Chairs scrape as everyone rises. We stand too, forced up by the guards. A second passes. In a single movement, everyone raises their right arms.
“Heil Hitler!” The roar of voices fills the room.
I press my lips tight together, my arm at my side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hans and Christl also do not salute.
No concessions.
It’s one of Hans’s favorite phrases. Until the last, we’ll make none.
We resume our seats. Freisler removes his cap. His balding pate adds to his hawkish air.
He turns his gaze on us. Hatred glimmers from his eyes. I sit still and straight, hands in my lap, refusing to flinch.
“The proceedings of the People’s Court will now begin in the case against Hans Fritz Scholl of Munich, Sophia Magdalena Scholl of Munich, and Christoph Hermann Probst of Aldrans near Innsbruck.” Freisler pauses. “These three are charged with traitorous aiding and abetting of the enemy, preparations for high treason, and demoralization of the armed forces.” His voice escalates with every charge.
“Call Christoph Hermann Probst.”
One of the guards leads Christl to stand in front of Freisler’s bench. His voice is quiet as he answers the initial questions about his birthplace, age, and marital status.
“Speak up!” Freisler shouts. “You cowering idiot!”
“I wish to say a few words in my defense.” Christl folds his hands in front of him. His shoulders are stooped. Already, he looks crushed. Freisler’s court is no place for this gentle, pure-hearted man. “Namely that I didn’t know what I was doing when I wrote the leaflet—”
“What’s this? Not know what you were doing? You expect the court to believe you composed the leaflet in your sleep?”
“That is not what I mean to say.” Christl lowers his gaze. “I suffer from psychotic depression—”
“Psychotic depression! And that is your excuse for treason against the Reich? I suppose every man should be allowed to suit himself then, hmm? Psychotic depression!”
I cringe as he calls Christl a horrible name. Hans’s face is taut, his lips pressed in a thin line.
“I’ve admitted fully to my actions and retracted all statements. The leaflet I wrote was not a final copy—”
“Then you mean you planned to add more to this outrage of sedition?” Freisler picks up a piece of paper, Christl’s pieced-together leaflet draft. “More along the lines of ‘Roosevelt, the most powerful man in the world.’ That cripple! The man cannot even walk. He is not fit to run a country. Yet you elevate him above the Führer, the greatest leader this world has ever known.”
“I did not know what I was doing. I’m apolitical—”
“Apolitical.” Freisler’s body shakes. To look at him, one would think he’s having a seizure. “You are a subhuman! No better than the lowest of Jews.”
“Please, Herr President. My children—”
“No German child should be raised by a vater like you. You whimpering parasite. End of questioning.”
Christl keeps his gaze down as the guards take hold of him. He looks up for an instant as he slides into his seat. His jaw is tight, and a slow burning fills his eyes.
He wouldn’t have pleaded for himself if not for Herta, Michael, Vincent. Baby Katja. To him, those four are more than life, than anything. My chest aches. Freisler was moved by none of it. Christl humiliated himself for nothing.
“Call Hans Fritz Scholl.”
Two guards lead Hans forward. My brother faces Freisler, hands clasped in front of him, his bearing proud. A comma of hair falls slightly over his forehead. It makes him look young.
We’re all so young.
“Aha! The ringleader.” Freisler ignores the preliminary personal details. “We have here before us an example of German youth. He has been given every advantage in being permitted to study at Ludwig Maximilian University for the purpose of becoming a physician. But how does he repay us?” Freisler waves a piece of paper in his clenched fist. “By writing and producing this seditious trash.”
“It is not trash.” Hans’s tone is even, his gaze direct. “It is what I believe. And it is true.”
“You call this truth? Stating our Führer is insane? That our glorious cause is fought for nothing?” His
face purples. “Do you admit to writing these leaflets?”
“Ja.” Hans nods.
“Then you admit to stating the war is a farce?” Freisler leans forward. “That the German people will be defeated?”
“It is only a matter of time.” Hans’s voice rises. “Hitler has led the German people down a road which can only lead to ultimate defeat. Anyone who comprehends military strategy cannot help but realize this. Every life lost in this bloodbath is a life lost in vain.”
“How dare you—”
Hans continues. “Germany will have to give account for its actions when the war is over. Then you will be standing where we stand now. The slaughter of innocent Jews, the destruction in Poland. As a soldier—”
“As a soldier!” Freisler shrieks. “You are not a soldier. You are a disgrace to Germany and to manhood.”
Sweat trickles down my back. Hans defends himself and his actions without flinching. Finally Freisler shouts that his ears can no longer take being assaulted with such poison, and Hans is led away. Our gazes lock as he passes by me on the way to his seat. I nod.
If only Vater could see you today. He would be so very proud.
“Call Sophia Magdalena Scholl.”
I rise before the guard can haul me to my feet. He grasps my arm and walks me to stand before the bench where Freisler and the assistant judges sit. Freisler’s face glistens with sweat. The black-robed judges stare at me solemn-faced.
My legs shake. I draw in a steadying breath. I have no need to fear him. He can only do the worst to me, and I am already prepared for that.
“The little sister of that defeatist swine. What do you have to say for yourself?” He leans forward, pinning me with a glare.
Standing before Freisler, I’m alone and exposed, a girl in a room of men who see me as evil. I lift my gaze briefly to the ceiling.
Nein. Not alone. God is with me, and He is my strength.
My mouth is dry. I clear my throat. “I fully admit to having participated in the writing and distribution of the leaflets.” Thank God my voice is strong and doesn’t waver or shake.
“Your brother’s puppet?”
I will fight back. And I will speak truth as long as I can. This may be my last chance to do both. “Nein. I did it of my own free will. And I would do it again. We wrote the leaflets to proclaim the truth to the German people about the evil around them. The horror you and everyone would see if you looked beyond the propaganda being—”
“Shut your mouth, you impudent dummkopf—”
I raise my voice and keep talking. “The propaganda being blasted throughout Germany, blinding the eyes of German citizens to the truth. To thinking for themselves. To morality.”
“You dare to speak of morality! I suppose you think calling for sabotage in factories producing weapons for the war effort a moral action?”
“All we did was toward the aim of shortening the war and saving lives that are being lost by the thousands in a vain pursuit of total victory. What we said and wrote is what many people believe. They just don’t dare say it out loud. Somebody, after all, had to make a start.” My hands form fists at my sides. I look at Freisler, the other judges, then turn slightly and fix my eyes upon the audience. Pride shines from my brother’s eyes.
“You vile girl. You … you disgrace to German womanhood!” Freisler rages.
The rest of the room is strangely quiet. Not one in the audience of men meets my gaze.
“You may do what you like with us today.” I turn back to Freisler, my voice echoing through the silent courtroom. “You have that power now. But someday, all of us must stand before God and give account for our actions. Before Him, no one will be able to hide. Not even you.”
Let them hear it. Let someone, one person, be stirred by our words.
“Shut up!” Freisler slams his fist on the table. “This courtroom has heard enough pollution. Take her away.”
I keep my head high as I’m led away from the bench. Hans and I exchange glances as I slip into my seat.
We succeeded.
Despite Freisler, despite it all, they heard the truth.
After a brief recess, the court gathers to hear the verdict. I draw in a deep breath. My stomach clenches.
Everyone in this room already knows the outcome, even us. What will happen next is simply a formality.
Someone coughs. A commotion sounds outside the courtroom. Raised voices. Heavy footsteps. I start. Vater fights his way through the courtroom, while a guard grapples to restrain him. Following Vater is our mutter. And Werner, holding onto her protectively.
My eyes burn. My parents. My brother. My precious family.
Here. For us.
I want to go to them, to hold them, embrace Vater and Werner and hug my mutter close. They are only steps away. But I am trapped.
Red-faced and panting, Vater works his way toward the defense attorney’s table. The guard releases him, and he bends down and whispers something in my lawyer’s ear. Abruptly, Klein stands and walks over to Freisler.
“The vater is here and wishes to speak in defense of his children,” Klein says.
“Remove him from court!” Freisler shouts, slashing his arm up and down for emphasis. “All of them. Schnell!”
The guards grasp hold of my parents and herd them from the room. I glimpse my mutter’s pale, scared face looking back at me as the guard drags her away. My throat swells.
“One day there will be another kind of justice.” Vater turns at the door, fighting against the guards. “They will go down in history!”
The doors slam, drowning his voice.
For a moment, all is utter silence. Freisler gathers himself and asks for closing statements. The three of us are ordered to stand. My head spins. I can still see Mutter’s anguished eyes.
In spite of my outward bravery, I’m still just a girl who’d give anything to feel her mutter’s arms around her.
“My only desire has been to end this bloodbath and spare Germany the agony of new Stalingrads.” Christl swallows. “I ask for clemency on behalf of my wife and children.”
“Scholl, Hans.”
“I request all punishment be given to me, and that Christoph and Sophie be spared.” My brother’s voice is strong, his gaze firm as he faces Freisler.
Oh, Hans.
“If you have nothing to say in your own defense, keep silent.” Hands folded on the table, Freisler fixes his unblinking stare on me. “Scholl, Sophia.”
I say nothing. What’s the point?
Freisler dons his cap. Chairs scrape as the court rises.
“In the name of the German people …”
I barely listen as Freisler reads the verdict aloud. It’s as if I’m existing in a haze of fog, floating upon clouds. Floating far, far away …
“They are to be punished by death. Their honor and rights as citizens are forfeited for all time.”
The words cut through the haze. My eyes fall closed.
“Today you hang us,” Hans calls out. “Tomorrow it will be your turn!”
“Remove them from this courtroom!”
Guards hurry us from the room and out the double doors. My heart thuds dully. The corridor is a mass of people and voices.
In the midst of it, Werner shoves toward us. I drink in the sight of him, his frantic efforts to reach us. The crowd lets him pass, this young man in Wehrmacht uniform. He reaches our side. Hans clutches his hand. Tears fill Werner’s eyes.
Not since childhood have I seen him cry.
“Stay strong, little brother. No compromises,” Hans whispers, his words a benediction. His own eyes are moist.
I fight back a sob. I will not cry here.
Werner nods, face crumpled. I reach out to him, our hands clasping, clinging. Impatient, the guards push us onward. Outside, two black cars sit parked near a back entrance. White sunlight streams from behind feathered clouds. I breathe in fresh air through the tightness in my lungs.
Christl and my brother are shoved into one car.
I rivet my gaze on them, barely heeding the roughness as I’m prodded into the second, along with a guard. The engine starts, and the driver backs up and turns, leaving the courtyard of the Palace of Justice behind.
Where we go, I know not. Only what will happen there.
“Ninety-nine days,” I whisper. “Ninety-nine days.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Sophie
February 22, 1943
I STAND MOTIONLESS IN front of the barred window of a cell in Stadelheim Prison. Long days stretch ahead of me, one after the other. How will I fill them? Do they even have meaning in view of what awaits me at their expiration?
Sunlight bathes my face. Eyes closed, I bask in its rays, my quiet breaths the only sound in the sparse gray cell.
“Dear God.” Those two words encompass my prayer. I can conjure no others. “Dear God.”
A knock, then the cell door opens. I turn. A female prison warden comes inside. Her face is a map of hardened-over miseries.
“Fräulein Scholl, come with me. You’ve been summoned to the prison office.”
I follow. Only mild curiosity penetrates the fog in my brain. We walk dingy corridors, footsteps echoing. Pausing before a half-open door, the woman nods.
“They’re expecting you.”
Hands at my sides, I cross the threshold. The chief prosecutor sits behind a desk in a dimly lit office, flanked by two guards. I stand before him.
“Sophia Magdalena Scholl.” His tone is granite.
I nod.
“In his decree of February 22, 1943, the Reich Minister of Justice has chosen not to grant clemency, but to let justice take its course. At 5:00 p.m. today, the execution will be carried out.”
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My mind is a screaming, writhing thing. My heart stammers, everything inside of me shaking.
“You’re dismissed.”
I force myself to turn and walk out of the room. The woman warden waits for me outside. She takes my arm. In minutes, I’m back in my cell, the door locked behind me.
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