The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  I stand in the middle of the cell, heart pounding, nausea churning through my body in thick, hot waves.

  “Ninety-nine days,” I whisper into the emptiness.

  My legs give out. I collapse to the ground, arms wrapped around my knees. I rock back and forth, choking sobs shaking me to the core.

  I have less than an hour left.

  My breath comes in heaving gasps. I’m being smothered, suffocated by a crushing hand. Air. I need to breathe.

  There isn’t air. There’s only the four walls of this cell, closing in on me.

  Calm. I must calm down. Gain control, somehow.

  How?

  “God … God, help me.” A keening, guttural cry, wrenched from deep inside. “Do … not … forsake … me …”

  I curl my body into itself, head bent, trying to take deep breaths.

  Somehow I pick myself up off the floor. Smooth my fingers through my limp hair.

  I resume my place by the window. A knock comes again, followed by the face of the same woman warden.

  “You have visitors.” Her tone is softer this time, as if she too has learned what will happen. “Come with me.”

  Again a walk through more corridors. The unbolting of another door. The woman nods, bidding me enter. I do, uncertain of what awaits me.

  I do not expect to see my parents on the other side of the barrier. I drink in the sight of them, familiar, well-loved faces that have shaped my life.

  “Mutter?” I blink, afraid they will disappear, be taken from me.

  “Sophie. My Sophie.” Both of us reach across the barrier and clasp hands. Her touch is strong and warm.

  “My own mutti.” Almost beyond my control, I smile.

  Mutter pulls away and rummages in her worn handbag. She pulls out two pieces of chocolate candy—my favorite—and holds them out to me. “Would you like some?”

  Heat rises in my throat. Nothing has changed. Whenever she would visit me during labor service, she always brought along my favorite chocolate. I would always smile and take it.

  I’ll do no differently today. “Danke.” I take the wrapped pieces from her hands and place them in the pocket of my sweater. “I haven’t had any lunch.”

  Vater stands beside her, his frame large in the tiny cell. “My brave daughter.” He runs a gentle hand along my cheek. “I’m so proud of you both.”

  “We took responsibility for everything. That will fan the flames. People will rise up when they hear what has been done to us.” My voice is strong.

  Mutter takes my hands again, clinging to them. Tears glisten in her eyes. “You’ll never walk through our door again. How I always loved to see you come home. You brought the sun with you.”

  Her words tear my heart in two. Still I keep my smile in place. “Oh, Mutter. These few short years …”

  “Time’s up,” comes the woman warden’s voice.

  Seconds left. Only seconds with these who have given me life. Who taught me to live it well.

  God, why did it have to come to this?

  Vater pulls me into his arms, and we embrace across the barrier. I lean into the strong chest that has brought me comfort so many times, drawing in his scent. Countless childhood sorrows were cried out in the shelter of his arms.

  But this final time, I will not leave him with the memory of my tears.

  Next, I hug my mutter, clinging to her with all of my strength. If only I could relive a day, an hour of my girlhood, how differently I’d do things. I would listen more and love her better. Now it is too late.

  She takes my face in her soft hands, her gaze urgent as she looks into my eyes. “Remember, Sophie. Jesus.”

  I swallow. Her touch is breaking me apart. I can’t hold back the tears much longer. “Ja. And you must remember Him too.” I turn away, knowing I must. At the door, I pause and smile again, wanting their final picture of me to be brave and serene. Standing on the other side of the barrier, they look old and worn. Shattered.

  God be with you, my own beloved parents.

  The woman warden closes the door. Its click is harsh and final. Heedless of her presence, hot tears slide down my cheeks. I can control them no longer.

  God, I know I will see You soon, but this thing You ask of me is hard. So very hard.

  “Fräulein Scholl?” A voice draws my gaze up. Inspector Mohr stands to one side of the corridor, carrying a briefcase.

  “Herr Mohr.” I swipe a hand across my cheeks. “I’ve just said goodbye to my mutter and vater.” My voice cracks.

  He nods, gaze somber. His mouth opens as if he wants to speak, then just as abruptly he closes it again. He did well not to speak. His words can offer me no solace.

  The woman warden pulls at my arm and leads me away.

  Soon the waiting will be at an end, and I will be free. Finally free from everything. I sit alone in my cell after the prison chaplain’s visit, hands listless in my lap, body empty of tears.

  The familiar grinding of the key in the lock, the groan of the door. A man stands outside, another prison warden.

  “Fräulein Scholl, it’s time.” His voice is not unkind.

  I rise. My legs no longer tremble as I follow him down the corridor. He pauses before a barred door and turns a key. He looks back at me. Compassion fills his weathered face.

  “This isn’t customary. You have a few moments.” He hands me a cigarette, a match. Uncertainly, I take both.

  I walk through the open door. Inside an empty cell stand Hans and Christl. Both are wearing prison uniforms, but their faces remain unchanged. My brother’s eyes glow with a kind of radiance. Christl smiles, gentle and crooked.

  I pass the cigarette and match to Hans, and he strikes it against the wall. A flame flares to life in the dim room. He lights the cigarette and shakes out the match. Puts it to his lips and inhales, then passes it to Christl, who does the same, then passes it to me.

  We’ve already received communion of the sacred kind. But this moment together is nearly as hallowed. A communion of souls. Friendship and ideals have bound the three of us together.

  As we have begun, so we will end.

  I let the cigarette fall to the floor. Then turn to Christl and put my arms around him. He embraces me. Hans pulls me close, and I hold on to my brother, my friend. He’s always been both to me.

  We stand in a circle of three in the center of the cell.

  “In a few minutes, we’ll be together again,” Christl says.

  “In eternity,” I whisper.

  The door opens. Two men enter the room. Both are dressed in black.

  “Sophia Scholl.”

  I let them take hold of my hands and bind them with handcuffs. My gaze clings to Hans and Christl. I need no courage from them. I only want to look at their faces as long as I can.

  The men take hold of my arms, one on each side. I pause and look over my shoulder.

  “Freiheit,” I breathe.

  Outside, sun streams from behind clouds. A breeze stirs my hair. Our footfalls echo as we walk across an open courtyard.

  There is purpose in this. In death, as in life. Someday perhaps my story will be told, and others will remember. That to witness wrong and stay silent is as much a crime as committing evil oneself. That youth does not exempt one from responsibility. That freedom is a gift.

  I pray they will remember. For I will not be here to tell them.

  The span of my life flashes through my mind. All of its joys and sorrows, moments of hope and heartache. I have been blessed. With family, friends, the love of a good man, and a yearning to do what is right. All of those things have made me who I am. And every experience has brought me to this place now.

  We stop before a small brick building, and the door opens.

  A memory rises up. Of swimming in the Danube on a summer’s day, floating on the expanse of glittering blue water. Of joy and laughter and surrender.

  I was at peace then.

  And I am free now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  An
nalise

  February 26, 1943

  “THEY’VE BEEN EXECUTED.” INGRID, my cellmate, crouches next to my cot, voice at a whisper. “I heard two of the guards as I was scrubbing the floor.”

  They’re just words. Letters and syllables. But they slam into me with visceral intensity.

  “All of them?”

  Ingrid nods. “The very day of the trial. There were three. One called Probst. And a brother and sister by the name of Scholl.”

  I swallow, pressing my hand to my midsection. Nein. Please God, nein.

  My eyes fall closed. Christl, with his earnest gaze and gentle heart. Hans, the leader I always sought to impress, Sophie’s big brother.

  Sophie …

  My brown-eyed friend with her passion and ideals and smile that crinkled her eyes. I remember her wistful sigh as she spoke of girlish dreams of love, the flash in her gaze as she argued with Hans, the determined set to her jaw as she cranked the duplicating machine, dark hair a curtain around her cheeks. She’d shown me the meaning of courage.

  She was the truest friend I ever had.

  How quickly they stole her from this world. As if she, a twenty-one-year-old student, possessed a power the highest echelons of the Reich feared. They should have been given ninety-nine days for clemency appeals … for the verdict to be amended … for the war to end. Ninety-nine days.

  They’d tried and executed her in less than one.

  Dear God …

  A touch on my arm.

  “Someone’s knocking. Compose yourself. Quickly.”

  I draw in a long breath and steel my features as the door opens.

  “Come, Frau Hoffmann.” The guard jerks his hand toward the door.

  Ingrid doesn’t look at him. I heed her example and keep my eyes down as I follow the guard into the corridor. Dr. Voigt’s medicine has eased my cough and the ache in my head. Yet I’d gladly exchange the ache now possessing my heart for mere physical symptoms.

  “Schnell.” The guard snaps the word. “Inspector Krämer is waiting.”

  Another interrogation. Sitting in the glare of white light as a thousand questions fire at me one after the other, sometimes the same ones every hour in an attempt to catch me giving different answers. It would be easier to confess, just to get them to shut up and leave me in peace. The temptation is undeniable. Right now, I’m exhausted enough to succumb to it. It would be easy … so easy …

  But there are still those alive to save. Alex. Kirk. Willi. I will fight and I will live, and when this is all over, I will tell the world the story of my friends.

  I keep my shoulders straight as I’m led inside Inspector Krämer’s office. I know it well, every contour of the hard-backed chair, the meticulous desk. Behind the desk sits Krämer. He eyes me with his sharp gray gaze while he cracks his knuckles. I grit my teeth.

  “Sit.”

  I do, smoothing my hair back from my face. Krämer flicks on the light and points it in my eyes. I wince. Krämer’s nose is large and flat like a spatula. Dully, I wonder if his mutter dropped him on it as a baby and that’s what made him so emotionless.

  “Now then, Frau Hoffmann. We’ve conducted another search of your apartment.”

  Bile rises in my throat. I imagine Vater’s face, shrewd and impassive, and try to make mine a mirror of his. What could they have found? Kirk was always careful, more than the Scholls. He destroyed all his draft contributions to the leaflets.

  But amid the pressures of exhaustion and frenetic activity, it’s easy to let something slip.

  Krämer passes a piece of wrinkled paper across the table. The heading of our fifth leaflet stares up at me in the glow of light.

  “Ever seen this before?”

  “Nein.” My answer is immediate.

  “It was in your apartment.”

  I try to appear flustered, giving a little gasp. “Are you sure? Where?” That’s right. Play the stupid little hausfrau.

  “In the pocket of this.” Krämer opens the drawer of his desk. He holds up a piece of cloth, unfolding it like a flag.

  A gray winter skirt. Mine.

  Sweat trickles down my back. I blink against the light. A frantic clamor rises inside me.

  Think, Annalise.

  “You’ve been lying, Frau Hoffmann. When you’ve been admonished to tell the truth. You thought you had me fooled, didn’t you?” He leans forward, sour breath wafting over me. “I would not advise further deception.” His tone is low. Lethal. A shiver spiders up my neck. He steeples his slender fingers atop the desk. “Now, I will repeat the question, and you will answer truthfully. Have you seen this before?”

  My lungs are tight, but I don’t allow myself to take more than shallow breaths.

  I can still play the game. Nothing can be proved by my possessing a leaflet.

  I nod.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Forgive me, my brave, my dearest friend.

  “Sophie Scholl gave it to me.”

  “When?”

  “A few weeks ago, I think. She said she thought I might find it interesting.”

  They don’t know I know about the Scholls. Now that they’re … oh, I must think it … gone, they can be implicated without harm. Perhaps if I wasn’t so desperate, I’d find another way. But there isn’t time.

  “And did you?”

  I shake my head. “I only glanced at it. Political literature bores me. I must have shoved it in my skirt pocket and forgotten about it until now.”

  “Did you not think to turn it in to the Gestapo? That leaflet is crawling with treason. As a loyal citizen of the Reich, it is your duty.”

  “I told you I only glanced at it. I was busy that day—”

  “Too busy for loyalty to the Führer?”

  “Of course not. I would have reported the leaflet had I remembered it. The life of a university student is arduous. I simply forgot. As I said, I’m not interested in political matters.”

  “But your husband is?”

  I rub damp palms across the fabric of my skirt. My clothes are rank with the scent of my own sweat. “I’ve already told you. My husband is apolitical. He’s a serious medical student. Most evenings, it’s difficult for me to pry him away from his books long enough to eat a decent dinner.” I laugh, but it sounds tinny.

  “Your husband has confessed his participation in the leaflet production and distribution.” The words are measured.

  Don’t pause. To pause is to equate guilt.

  “My husband would never have confessed—”

  “He did. This morning.” Krämer riffles through a stack of papers, picks up one. “Listen to this: ‘My disgust at the atrocities perpetrated by our country in the name of German victory led me to produce and distribute leaflets during the summer of 1942.’”

  Had Kirk actually said that? Or was it a lie to get me to admit guilt? “Kirk would never have said such a thing.”

  “Are you accusing us of presenting you with false evidence?” Krämer shoves the paper across the desk. “There. His signature.” He jabs a finger toward the bottom of the page. My breath seizes.

  Kirk Hoffmann

  I recognize the script. The sloppy H that blends into the o.

  The world tilts like a swirling top.

  How had they gotten him to confess? The painful truth is Hans and Sophie can now be blamed for everything. Unless … Kirk didn’t know they’d been executed.

  “Now, do you believe us?”

  I nod, body ebbing of energy.

  “Are you prepared to make a full confession?”

  Again, I nod.

  “Well, then?”

  I need you to promise to fight for yourself, whatever it takes. I’ve got to know one of us, at least, will survive …

  I should forget Kirk ever spoke those words. Make a full confession and join my husband in whatever fate awaits us. It would be easier than fighting to survive.

  I’m so tired of fighting.

  If I confessed, maybe they’d let me see Kirk one l
ast time. We could hold each other and say goodbye and forget everything else.

  If something happens to me, I can endure it. But I couldn’t endure, knowing you …

  Kirk didn’t ask. He begged. His pleading gaze brands itself in my mind.

  If I confess, I’ll be breaking both my promise and Kirk’s heart. He only has so much strength, and it would shatter him if I broke down, simply to join him in the conflagration consuming us all.

  For him to be strong, I must be too. I must maintain the facade. For him. Not for me.

  I swallow, my throat like parchment. The words I must utter feel like a betrayal. Shaming me down to my core.

  My lips part. “I had nothing to do with my husband’s activities.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Kirk

  April 19, 1943

  BENEATH A RADIANT MORNING sky, the green police van trundles through the streets of Munich. I sit on the hard bench that wraps the interior of the vehicle, Alex on my right.

  The space to my left is empty. I don’t know what has become of my wife, my Annalise. Daily, hourly I pray she’s somehow been freed. But in case the opposite is true, I want only her by my side in the short moments before we reach the Palace of Justice.

  The van lurches to a stop. It’s windowless, the faces of the men around me lined in shadows. The few minutes we stood in the courtyard, waiting to be loaded into the van, gave me the first breath of fresh air that’s touched my face in weeks. The sky is radiant because I beheld it once, not because I see it now.

  Similar thoughts have formed the basis of the almost two months I’ve spent in prison. Months marked by endless interrogations and an ever-growing certainty as to what awaits me. After my fifth interrogation, I finally confessed, shouldering the blame, insisting mine was the voice behind every one of the six leaflets. It wasn’t until it was too late that I learned of Hans, Sophie, and Christl’s trial and deaths. I’d already marked myself as guilty enough to merit the same fate. Which, if what we’d done is criminal, is the truth.

  At the beginning of April, the trial date was set. Like the trial which sealed the fate of the three before us, our presence is merely a formality (though I’m sure Freisler will thoroughly relish shrieking at us). The verdict is already predetermined, like most of those meted out in the so-called People’s Court, an ironic name for a system that rarely considers the people and esteems itself as the highest form of law.