White Rose Black Forest(40)

She heard the lawyer read her father’s will, endured his disapproving glares under the portrait of Hitler that hung above his desk, and the next day visited her parents’ graves. They lay nestled beside each other on a hill overlooking the city they’d lived in. Immediately after, she retreated to the cabin. The worst of the memories came at night, and sleeping alone was an unendurable torture. The pain became more than she could bear. She set out that night with no destination in mind, never thinking that she’d walk as far as she did, but there was always another hill to climb, another tree line to pass, and then she found him.

Franka finished her story. The candle, almost burned down, flickered in the room. The night was still outside—absolutely silent.

“Franka, what happened to Fredi? How did he die? What did the Nazis do to him?”

“I can’t talk about that now. I have to go.”

She shut the door behind her, leaving him alone in the half-light of the bedroom.





Chapter 8

It had been a week since she’d found him. The pain in his legs had reduced to a simmer now, but he was still bound to this bed, trapped in this cabin. The light of the day outside was dying, the sun tossing out bright oranges and reds that cut through the snow-dusted glass of the window in his room. He ran through Franka’s story again and again, searching for inconsistencies that weren’t there. He hadn’t seen her since last night, since she’d walked out after telling him about her past. It had been hard not to tell her what he knew about the activities of the White Rose. He thought back to his training, to the interrogation techniques he’d learned. Her eyes betrayed a profound truth. He knew she wasn’t lying, but he also knew that she was holding something back. She’d told him most of her story, but there was something else, a missing piece. Regardless, it was almost impossible to imagine she was a Gestapo agent. If she knew he wasn’t German and had reported him, he would have been in a windowless room, staring into a spotlight. She was a traitor to the cause, had served time for activities against the regime, and had escaped the guillotine only by being underestimated by the men who’d tried her. Had she somehow worked out who he was? How? He reached over for the glass of water beside his bed and took a cool drink. If she had worked out that he wasn’t German, what else had she worked out?

Today’s weather was fine. It wasn’t easy to tell through the frost-encrusted window, but it hadn’t snowed. The cabin was likely accessible now. The world could encroach on their hidden place. He looked around. There was no room in the cabin for a listening place, for clandestine Gestapo men peering at him through holes in the wall. He heard everything that went on when she brought wood in, when she made herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. He’d heard her take a bath earlier and knew that she was reading in the rocking chair by the fire in the living room right now as she listened to the radio. She acted with absolute abandon in front of him. She listened to illegal radio stations and often spoke about her disdain for the regime. If he were a Luftwaffe officer, as his credentials said, then she could expect harsh treatment from the Gestapo if he reported her illegal activity. She was telling the truth when she said she knew. There was no other explanation. Somehow she knew.

A noise from the living room told him that she’d gotten out of her seat and was in the kitchen now. Her footsteps came toward his door, followed by a knock. The door opened. Her face was colorless and drawn. It was rare that he saw her during the day unless she had a specific reason for coming into the room. She usually came only at mealtimes, but it was still at least an hour until dinner.

“Are you well?”

“I’m quite comfortable, Fr?ulein.”

It was a discipline, a learned behavior, to fight back his instincts, to not reveal himself. He had heard her bedsprings creaking through the night and saw the rings under her eyes now.

“Franka? You’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”

“What?”

“It’s not your fault you’re alive and they’re not. And you shouldn’t feel shame for not wanting to die.” The words came without thought or ulterior motive. He was surprised at himself.

“I sold out the last thing I believed in.” She turned to him, her voice muted, her eyes on the floor. “I had nothing else in this life. At least if I’d spoken out—”

“You’d be dead now, and so would I. What good would that have done? Who would that have served? Hans is dead, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t live on.”

“It’s ridiculous—I’ve never revealed this much to anyone before. I don’t even know you.”

“Confidants are hard to come by these days.”

Could he trust her? Was her story real? What were the chances of finding someone like her? He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t, not while he knew she was holding something back.

“Franka? Is it all right if I call you that?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I want to thank you for telling me your story.”

“Are you going to report me?” she said.

“For what?”

“For listening to banned radio stations? For making seditious claims against the führer?”

“I’m not a Nazi.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Not every German in uniform is a Nazi. You should know that better than most.”