White Rose Black Forest(60)

“Or it could murder millions more.”

“That’s not for us to decide.”

“Yet we are the ones who have that decision to make. I have it in my hand, so I am the one.”

“Think before you do anything rash. Destroying that microfilm won’t stop the research. Nothing will.”

“At least I won’t be contributing to the possible deaths of millions of innocent people.”

“This is a race, between the Allies and the Nazis. What if the Nazis develop that bomb first? Do you think they’d hesitate to use it? On London, or Moscow, or Paris?”

“Who’s to say the Allies won’t use it? I’ve seen the destruction they’ve brought to Germany.”

“We don’t have a choice about whether the bomb is made—just who we help win the race to make it. Who do you want to win that race—the Allies or the Nazis?”

She uncoiled her fingers from around the microfilm and handed it to John.

“I know what you must be feeling.”

“How? How exactly are you able to reach inside me?”

“I know this isn’t straightforward, but it’s not our place to make these decisions. We have to trust in our allegiances. You’re doing the right thing.”

“By helping with the creation of the most destructive bomb in human history? You’ll excuse me if I don’t see the sense in that.”

“It is ironic, I’ll certainly say that, but having a threat like this could force the Nazis to see that the war is unwinnable.”

“You think that the threat of killing German civilians is going to bring the Nazis to heel? The Nazis care as much for the citizenry of this country as you might for something you dug out of your ear. They’ve used the people of this country for their own means since their inception. No threat against the people is going to end this, only the destruction of the Nazis themselves.”

John placed the case of microfilm on the table beside him. He picked up his coffee, long since cold, and took a swig anyway.

“Thank you for what you did,” he finally said. “Not just for the war effort, but for me too.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll need to get this film across the border into Switzerland.”

He looked down at his legs, encased in plaster of paris, jutting out in front of him.

“Your breaks are progressing well. We can probably take the casts off in another two weeks or so.”

“There’s no way we can expedite the process?”

“Not if you want your legs to work, no. I’m a nurse, not a miracle worker.”

“I disagree, Franka. I think you are a miracle worker.”

“Flattery? Is that all you have to offer me right now?” she said, and walked away.

Franka didn’t quite get the warm bath she’d wanted, but the three inches of tepid water she managed to gather still felt like a luxury. The picture of the dead bodies burning on the streets of Stuttgart hung in her consciousness as she sat in the water. John would take another two or three weeks to heal, and then he’d be gone. What was there for her after he left? The thoughts of ending her life were blunted. He’d shown her that she was still useful and could still make a difference in people’s lives. But what hospital would hire her now? She was a traitor to the Reich, had spent time in jail for sedition. There seemed little place for her in Germany. She had enough money for another year or so at least, but what then? What if she couldn’t work? She had aunts and uncles in Munich and cousins spread in cities and towns throughout the country, but would they accept her? Would they treat her as the traitor that the Nazis had painted her as? She hadn’t seen most of them in years. Her cousins on her mother’s side were strangers to her now. It didn’t seem enough.

This war would end soon. Everything was going to change. The act of living longer than Hitler and his regime would be her victory. It was more than millions of others would achieve. She longed for the day when the ideals that Hans and Sophie held up were the norm once more, when they would be revered as the heroes they were and she could at least be forgiven. Living long enough to see that time, whenever it came, would be enough.

John came into her mind again. It was ridiculous, but he was the closest thing she had to a true companion left in this life. She had no one closer. There was no one that she’d revealed as much of herself to in this entire world. And soon he would be gone. She thought of America. It was heartening that someone could believe in their country as he did and still retain themselves. His loyalty was to the people of his country, not to some regime that claimed to be working on their behalf. The “patriots” she knew were twisted and ruined by perverted ideals. Patriotism to the Nazi state was an abomination, and directly contrary to everything it should have stood for. The true patriots were the ones with a healthy suspicion of the government and every motive it acted upon. The true patriots were those who didn’t let themselves be overtaken by the Nazi rhetoric, those who remembered who they were, like Hans and Sophie. Like her father. And perhaps the true patriots were the ones who would welcome the armed missionaries who were undoubtedly coming to her country.



The calendar on the wall read January 20, 1944. Daniel Berkel was hunched over his desk, where he seemed to spend the majority of his time these days. Most of his job was shuffling paper, checking sources, and investigating disputes between neighbors and former friends. Because the act of denouncing neighbors could place them under arrest and potentially land them in jail, disgruntled citizens found themselves in a position of newfound power over the people they bore grudges against. All too often people condemned by their neighbors as enemies of the state were guilty of little more than encroaching on their land, or stealing their newspaper once too often. Just a week before, he’d dealt with a case of a jealous husband who had reported the handsome man next door. The agents tortured him just enough to get to the bottom of the matter, and the neighbor confessed to beginning an affair with the man’s wife. The agents released him. There was an art to torture. If the agent went too far, the suspect would end up confessing to trying to assassinate the führer. The art was finding the right balance. Every man and woman had a breaking point. The experienced interrogator knew when to proceed and when to desist, which methods to employ and to hold back. They had beaten the handsome neighbor with rods but stopped short of hanging him up, and most certainly stopped short of attaching an electrical charge to his genitals. That was for more extreme instances, but such cases seemed to be the norm these days.