The White Rose Resists

by Amanda Barratt

  The back doors of the van open. A guard hands a dark-haired woman inside. Traute takes in our group with a little smile before taking her seat. Gisela Schertling follows, her pretty features drawn and pale. Strange she hasn’t been released yet. She tries to take the seat next to me, but I shake my head. She squeezes beside Professor Huber instead, who stares down at the floor, hands in his lap.

  A muted voice says, “Danke.” I glimpse Annalise, hair falling over her face, being helped into the van. She looks up, brushing back her hair.

  Our eyes meet.

  My wife, my love. Months apart have left me starved for the sight of her face, the cadence of her voice.

  A wave of pain washes over me. All my fervent prayers were for her and my friends.

  God, it doesn’t matter what happens to me. But please. Spare my Annalise.

  She squeezes between the row of knees and hunched shoulders to the back of the van. A final woman—Katharina Schüddekopf—also climbs aboard before the doors slam.

  Annalise slides beside me. I gather the sight of her and press it into the folds of memory. Her face is pale and thin, making her hair appear darker. She grasps my hands and pulls them into her lap without taking her gaze from me. Her hands are cold, but her grip is strong.

  “Kirk.” My name on her lips is fragile, almost disbelieving. Her eyes seem to encompass every part of me.

  “My darling, how are you?”

  “Well.” A little smile flits across her cracked lips. “And you?”

  “I’m all right.” I mean it. Right now, hands intertwined with hers, I am.

  “You look thin. Are you getting enough to eat?” Her brow creases. How often I once kissed her there, in just that place.

  Poets say love forgets nothing. We like to agree with them.

  But circumstances prove how naive we are. I know I once felt her skin against my lips, but the memories have faded, withering in the weeks apart. There were moments when, God help me, I tried and failed to remember her smile, her voice, the curve of her cheek.

  She’s here now. I let the reality fill me like a refrain. She’s here now.

  “I’m fine.” I lean closer. In minutes, we’ll arrive at our destination. I have only minutes to do what I can to protect her. “Fight for yourself,” I whisper. “Promise me you will.”

  She nods, lips pressed together. I inhale her fragrance, tainted by the grime of prison, but still distinctly Annalise. “I’ll try. But what about you—”

  “Hey, you two,” the guard barks from across the aisle. “Shut it, and don’t make me ask twice.”

  We fall silent, still clasping hands. Alex shoots me a sympathetic glance. Prison has worn him down, his fine suit torn and wrinkled, his hair falling into his eyes and in need of a trim. But his eyes haven’t lost their essence, that blend of charm and fierce-heartedness that’s signature Shurik.

  All too soon, the wheels grind to a halt. The doors are opened, bringing spring breezes wafting into the stuffy van. As the guards unload us, I glimpse the brownish-gray stone of an immense structure rising skyward in faded Gothic splendor.

  Next in line, I clamber out of the van, feet hitting the cobblestoned courtyard. Munich’s Palace of Justice.

  A palace it may be. But I’m no fool.

  No justice awaits us here.

  It lasted fourteen hours. Decked in scarlet robes trimmed in gold, Freisler rampaged and relished every moment. Our defense attorneys sat like useless puppets. As the day wore on, our stomachs cramped and growled. While everyone went for lunch during the afternoon recess, the sixteen of us remained on our hard-backed benches. During the dinner break, we were put in a cell and offered bowls of congealed porridge. No one ate much.

  We all tried to defend ourselves. Only Willi was exempt from Freisler’s attacks, perhaps because he was blond and stoic, blue eyes emotionless beneath Freisler’s fury. “You almost got away with it,” Freisler said in a half-jesting tone. “But we were smarter than you in the end.”

  Falk Harnack, who had somehow been implicated, put his training as an actor to good use and declared that after the executions of his brother and sister-in-law, how could anyone think he’d become involved in a petty, childish prank like producing leaflets? Apparently, we’d all managed to conceal Harnack’s plans to introduce us to the resistance in Berlin.

  Huber came armed with copious notes and tried to use reason, as if he addressed a lecture hall of students instead of a courtroom of handpicked Nazis. His words did us proud as he stated his goal had always been “a return to our own basic values, to a state based on legality, a return of trust between man and man.”

  Freisler called him a bum.

  Alex attempted to explain what led him to take action against the regime, but every time he started to speak, Freisler cut him off, shrieking at him mercilessly for being part Russian. When Alex declared he’d no more readily shoot a Russian than a German, I thought Freisler would collapse from the force of his rage.

  I held my own against Freisler and refused to shirk neither responsibility nor the reasons for my actions. Freisler flung curses and slurs, but I turned a little and fixed my eyes on Annalise. What did I care what that maniac said?

  The judges believed Annalise knew vaguely about our activities, but her participation extended to procuring envelopes per the request of Sophie and myself. She didn’t flinch when Freisler called her “Hoffmann’s slut.” I wanted to bash his brains out.

  A shuffling as the doors open and the judges reenter the courtroom. The sixteen of us are seated on benches, flanked by guards. Blackout curtains cover the windows. Outside, the sky must be pitch. As the judges enter, everyone rises.

  Perspiration slides clammy fingers down my armpits. Two seats down, Alex’s face is gray.

  Annalise, Lord. Let it be well with her.

  With ceremonial flair (did the man never weary?), Freisler dons his cap. While the other judges look bored or muffle yawns, Freisler sweeps his icy gaze over us.

  “In the name of the German people …” Our names are read one after the other. Someone coughs.

  My empty stomach cramps. From where I sit, I can’t glimpse Annalise. One look at her would give me strength. Right now, worn-down with fatigue, I have little left.

  “That during a time of war, Alexander Schmorell, Kurt Huber, Wilhelm Graf, and Kirk Hoffmann …”

  A strange rushing fills my ears, Freisler’s voice an overarching echo.

  “Used leaflets to call for sabotage of armaments and for the overthrow of National Socialism. They have propagated defeatism and maligned the Führer in a highly reprehensible manner, thereby aiding and abetting the enemies of the Reich and demoralizing our troops. They are therefore sentenced to death. They have forfeited their honor as citizens forever.”

  The words barely penetrate. I want to shout at him to hurry and get to the fate of the others. After pausing a moment to let the verdict sink in, Freisler continues.

  Eugen Grimminger, who gave financial support to the Scholls, is sentenced to ten years. The other young men—friends of Hans and Willi—receive between seven years to eighteen months. Falk Harnack is surprisingly acquitted, doubtless due to some ulterior motive on Freisler’s part.

  Traute, Gisela, and Katharina receive one year each.

  “Annalise Hoffmann”—every nerve in my body tenses—“also a student and part of the group centered around the Scholls, as well as being the wife of that traitor Hoffmann. Like Lafrenz and Schüddekopf, she was present at meetings where discussions took place about the best manner to act in opposition to National Socialism. Frau Hoffmann was also in possession of a leaflet, which she did not turn in or destroy. However, there’s no evidence she had knowledge of the treason undertaken by the Scholls and the aforementioned others. She is therefore sentenced to two years imprisonment.”

  I release a long exhale as Freisler moves on. I don’t dare turn and search for Annalise’s face among the defendants. Tangible relief drains through my body. Two years. Tha
t’s all. Two years is bearable. By then, the war may even be over.

  She’ll go free. She’ll survive.

  Right now, nothing else matters.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Annalise

  April 19, 1943

  FOR KIRK, I MUST be brave.

  That thought alone pushes through the haze. We’ll be together again in the police wagon. He must only see my strength.

  An unbroken woman by his side for however long we’re given together.

  When we’re herded aboard the wagon and freed of our guards, I push through the crowd to the back, arriving before him. The atmosphere is charged, electric after the tension of the trial. The men sentenced to imprisonment and the girls talk and pass around cigarettes as they settle in their seats. Professor Huber takes a place in the corner. His shoulders are hunched, his features shrunken and tired in the semi-darkness. I watch as he pulls something from his pocket—a photograph, maybe—and fixes his gaze upon it.

  Head ducked low, Kirk makes his way toward me.

  “I saved you a seat,” I say softly.

  “So you did.” He smiles a little as he sits beside me. His face is pale, lines of fatigue aging his features.

  The motor rumbles. The van rocks back and forth as we begin to move, turning down the street and leaving the Palace of Justice behind. I turn, angling my body so I’m facing him in the cramped space. He reaches for my hands. I hold on tight.

  “My darling Annalise.” He shakes his head as if in wonderment. “You’re so beautiful.”

  My throat knots, but I smile through it. “Not really.”

  “When we first met, I remember thinking I’d never seen a smile quite like yours.” He reaches up, and traces his fingers across my jaw. His touch is sweet agony, breaking me apart. “I fell in love with you that night, and the only thing that’s changed is with every passing day, I love you even more.”

  I blink fiercely. In the darkness of the van, he looks at me with a sad smile. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Leaning into his touch, I nod, trying to stay strong. “I know.”

  “Nein, Annalise. I mean it. It really will be. You’ll be all right. And I will be too, knowing you are. God answered my prayer. I asked Him to save you, and He did.”

  He didn’t answer mine.

  Tears press against my eyes. But I don’t speak those words aloud. They would do neither of us any good.

  “Promise me something else. When you’re released, I want you to go live with my parents. They’ll take care of you, and … you can take care of them.” His voice falters. “They love you so much. Will you do that for me?”

  I nod, vowing with everything in me to do as he asks. “They’re my family too. I’ll stay with them always, and they’ll never want for anything.”

  “Thank God I have you.” He pulls my head down to rest on his chest and wraps his arm around me. Voices murmur and the van sways and we hold each other in the darkness. His chest rises and falls with every breath. My eyes slide shut.

  Let me forget everything else and remember you. Let me leave not a drop remaining of this moment, but draw it in and keep it close. Let our minutes last a lifetime.

  All too soon, the van stops. Bright white light flashes through the open back doors. One by one, we exit. Kirk and I cling to each other as long as we can. His lips brush my hair.

  “Everybody out,” comes the brusque voice of the guard. “Move along.”

  I press my lips against Kirk’s in a frantic, searching kiss. He tastes of salt—my tears or his? He crushes me against him, and I wrap my arms around him as tightly as I can.

  We’ve shared so many kisses. Our first, when he proposed by candlelight. And again, the tentative passion of our wedding night when we became lovers for the first time. Sleepy early morning moments stolen on the way to classes, and lingering ones late at night when we forgot the fatigue of the day and loved each other through touch.

  Is this to be the last?

  I must not think of that now.

  “Move along.” A hand grabs the back of my collar and jerks me away. I stumble after the guard and land hard on the ground, the impact jarring my body. We stand in the courtyard of a large gray prison building, the eerily bright flashlights of the guards the only light.

  “Annalise.” I turn at the voice near my elbow and look into Alex’s face. He gazes down at me with a soft smile.

  “Shurik.” I make myself smile at him, heart breaking at the gallantry and kindness still evident in his eyes.

  Kirk comes up beside us. He clasps Alex’s hand in both of his. “God be with you, my friend.” His face is steadfast in the white light.

  “And you.” Alex looks to me. “Both of you.”

  “Those sentenced to death on the right side, those to prison, on the left!” a guard shouts.

  Farewells are broken apart as the guards marshal us into lines. My body is numb as I stand next to Traute. Cold air needles my cheeks. On the other side, Kirk stands beside Alex. Tall and proud, shoulders thrown back. A guard hurries them onward, toward the doors of the prison. Kirk turns.

  Our gazes lock.

  “I love you,” I whisper, words caught by the wind. Hot moisture slides down my cheeks.

  He stops, smiling a brave and broken smile. “I love you.” His lips form the words I cannot hear. “I love you, Annalise.”

  I swipe the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand.

  When I look up, he is gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Friedrich

  May 18, 1943

  I WALK THE ECHOING halls of Stadelheim Prison, a clipboard beneath my arm, a black bag in my other hand. Passing guards give curt nods of deference. I imagine what they see—a middle-aged man with dark hair and an angular face, wearing a white coat and striding with purpose in his step. In this place of so much death, I—Dr. Friedrich Voigt—am here to bring healing.

  The macabre irony has not escaped me.

  My rounds at the prison sick bay take an hour to complete. Commonplace cases. Many of these patients hope to use their ailments as fuel to petition for shortened sentences. They rarely succeed.

  According to the orderly, I have one more stop to make. One of the “death row prisoners” is showing symptoms of possible typhus. Having worked part-time at Stadelheim, along with Dr. Winter, for almost two years, I have access to all areas of the prison, permitted to come and go at will.

  The row of cells reserved for those sentenced to death is outwardly little different than the rest of the prison. Same gray walls with closed doors at intervals. Same spick-and-span cement floor. Same scent of staleness, as if even the building struggles to breathe freely.

  Only the placards on each door—Death Sentence—provide insight into the fates of those behind them. These prisoners occupy the cells for ninety-nine days—some less, some more—before they’re led through the courtyard and to the shed in back of the prison, their earthly miseries ended. A day, a week later, another wretched soul takes their place and the cycle begins again.

  “Right here, Dr. Voigt.” The guard inserts a key into the lock. The door grinds open.

  “Danke.” I give a crisp nod before entering. The guard shuts the door. He’ll wait outside until I knock to tell him I’m through.

  The cell is small, as they all are, especially the death cells. Cot. Table. Chair. Bucket. A barred window high on the wall lets in a feeble stream of afternoon light.

  My gaze falls on the young man lying on the cot. Dressed in a standard-issue prison uniform, in his early twenties. His brown hair is sticky with sweat, and stubble darkens his jaw.

  I set my bag and clipboard on the table. A metal dish of congealed porridge and a tin cup of murky water sit on the table, both untouched. A Bible rests on one edge (despite our country’s adherence to the Führer as our only god, they continue the practice of stocking every cell with a copy). A few bits of paper are stuck between the thin pages.

  After spreading out my supplies
and consulting my clipboard, I approach the cot with a stethoscope and thermometer. My knees creak as I kneel on the cold floor.

  Kirk Hoffmann’s eyes are closed. He shifts restlessly on the cot, turning and twisting. The rank odor of vomit and sweat stings my nostrils.

  “Kirk, can you hear me? I’m a doctor. I’m here to help you.”

  A low groan issues from his lips. I insert the thermometer and, while I wait for the reading, undo the buttons of his shirt. A blotchy red rash covers his torso. Typhus. And a fever of—I hold the thermometer to the light—40.6 Celsius.

  Kirk shivers, teeth chattering. I listen to his heartbeat and breathing before redoing the buttons and covering him with his blanket. Both the man and his cell need a thorough cleaning, though I doubt anyone will volunteer. Typhus is a feared disease. Curiously, German genetics are more susceptible than people of other countries. In this, we so-called Aryans are inferior.

  Kirk continues to toss. His head lolls back, and he moans something indistinguishable.

  “I didn’t hear you.” I place my hand on his arm. “What is it?”

  “My love.” The words emerge like a cry. “I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.” A dry cough racks his broad shoulders.

  Kirk Hoffmann is a political prisoner, not a murderer. Once upon a time, old Dr. Winter told me, murderers were usually all one saw in the death cells. Now so-named political prisoners are executed right and left.

  I know this because I’ve been called upon to witness the executions. To ascertain how long it takes for life to ebb from a decapitated body. I always fortify myself with a glass of something strong beforehand. Even with it, it’s all I can do to stay steely during those moments.

  Even now, the thought of what I’ve seen makes me want to retch.

  The young man is one of those tried in April, part of the group who scattered leaflets and painted the sides of buildings with slogans defaming the Führer. I remember walking from my home to my private practice and seeing the graffiti, treason encapsulated in tar-based paint.