White Rose Black Forest(36)
They called themselves the White Rose, and their first mail drop was scheduled for a few months later, for that summer of 1942. There were no set rules or regulations for meetings or membership of the White Rose. No members list was formalized, and no one was sworn to secrecy or forced to place their hand on a Bible as they joined. It was understood that Hans was the driver of the organization and, as such, made the decisions about what direction the group was going. New members joined, always vetted by the existing ones, more on feeling than anything else. A Gestapo mole would mean arrest and prison, or worse, for all of them. The yoke of the Nazi state hung heavy on them, yet they laughed and had fun. They were still young.
None of the activities of the White Rose focused on the university, where most of them were enrolled. The group was an island in an ocean of Nazi loyalists, and they refused to take part in the university’s activities, all of which were sponsored or approved by the National Socialists.
Franka and Hans spent all their free time together now. There was more to their lives, more to their relationship than the politics of the White Rose. There was still time to be young and in love even as Germany sank deeper into the abyss.
In April 1942, weeks before the first mail drop, Franka and Hans walked hand in hand along the banks of the river. Other couples strolled past them. Some were teenagers, some were married couples with children scampering along in front of them, but none seemed fundamentally different from Franka and Hans. They passed an elderly couple sitting on a bench and staring out at the setting sun with contented looks on their withered faces.
“Do you think we’ll be sitting there together in fifty years?” She passed the words off as a joke, though the question behind them was quite deliberate.
“Of course,” he replied. “I could never imagine wanting to be with anyone else.” She was just about to say something when he spoke again. “In a way I’m jealous of other couples. They seem to be oblivious to the horrors around them. I can imagine there is some bliss in being able to remove yourself like that.”
“You could never do that, Hans. It’s not who you are. That’s part of the reason I love you so much.”
“That and my incredible good looks, right?”
“I didn’t want to say that first. I didn’t want to seem shallow.”
“Too late, I know now.”
“You’re different when we’re alone,” she said. “Lighter, somehow.”
“You see the real me, Franka—the person I want to be all the time.” He looked around to make sure no one could hear them before he continued. “You see the person that I’ll be for the rest of my life once the scourge of the National Socialist regime has been vanquished for good. That’s all I want—to live a quiet, simple life where I can be myself, with you.”
She believed him. She believed every word he said.
The leaflet was around eight hundred words. Franka spent her time poring over it like a starving person wolfing down food. Franka’s eyes clung to the third sentence, which read, “Who among us can imagine the degree of shame that will come upon us and upon our children when the veil falls from our faces and the awful crimes that infinitely exceed any human measure are exposed to the light of day?” It urged all those who adhered to German Christian tradition to “offer passive resistance—resistance wherever you may be, prevent the continuation of this atheistic war machine before it is too late.” The page ended with a poem of freedom, followed by directions to pass it on and to copy it as many times as possible. Across the top, the heading read: “Leaflets of the White Rose.”
It was Franka’s job to distribute a portion of the thousands they printed. She took a train back to Freiburg, the seditious papers in her suitcase. The leaflets were enough to have her executed. Nerves replaced the usual joy she felt on her trips home, but the train ride went without a hitch. Once back in Freiburg, she mailed the flyers to the list of addresses she carried. The mail from Munich was just as good, but the authorities wouldn’t be able to pinpoint where the White Rose was from if the letters were sent from Freiburg, Berlin, Hamburg, Cologne, and Vienna. Franka returned triumphantly a few days later. No one was caught. Another leaflet followed, and then two more. They followed the same protocol, took the same precautions. Thousands of leaflets of the White Rose scattered across Germany. The authorities didn’t recognize their effect, but soon she began to hear whispers on the university campus and beyond. People were talking about the White Rose essays. The conversation that the members craved had begun. The typewritten sheets were passed hand to hand, leaving excitement and disquiet in their wake wherever they went. The readers were astonished by their content. Some people met the leaflets with disgust, others amazement or disbelief. A ripple spread from Munich across the country. More than one person went to the Gestapo—after all, it was best to report things such as this straightaway. No sense letting someone else take credit for reporting such seditious words. The Gestapo began the search for the originators of the leaflets, but the members of the White Rose remained untouched. Hans was determined that this was only the beginning.
Franka had first met Hans’s little sister Sophie after she enrolled in the university in May 1942. She came to live with him. It was awkward at first. Franka had grown used to a certain sense of intimacy, which having Hans’s little sister there interrupted at times. But she was sweet and kind—if a little serious. Hans had never spoken of her joining the group. He thought it best to hide his illegal activities from her, but it wasn’t long before she came across some of the leaflets hidden in the apartment they shared. She demanded he let her join. Franka helped convince Hans. She felt emboldened by Sophie’s courage, and by her clearheaded determination to stand for what she thought was right. It was infectious.