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.
Any refusal would have been futile, and Hans gave in after a few days of fighting. Within weeks, she had become Hans’s equal in spearheading the group. She took over completely while he, Alex, and Willi were sent to the Russian front with their units at the end of that summer.
Franka continued working in the hospital, her secret life as a seditious traitor hidden from all but her closest confidants. Doubt and suspicion overtook her relationships with her colleagues and casual friends. She examined every word they said, every gesture they made. No one could be trusted. And within this isolation, Franka felt the lack of Hans in her life even more. Her regular letters, coded and repressed as they were, referred to their work with the White Rose as “the building project.” There was much to tell him. The writing and publication of the White Rose leaflets had gone into hiatus pending their return, but still the activity continued in the background. A Hamburg branch of the White Rose had been founded to help distribute the leaflets. She closed every letter to Hans with a paragraph only about her, only about them. No matter what else, she wanted him to know she thought of him every hour of every day and was counting down until his safe return. There were some things she knew the Nazis wouldn’t censor in the letters to soldiers at the front.
Her father didn’t return to the cabin that summer. The heartbreak was too much for him. He came to Munich at Christmas, a pale reflection of the man he’d been before the National Socialists had broken him. His job in the factory had been given to a local Nazi half his age. He had been demoted and was considering early retirement. Father and daughter met on the platform of the train station. His face was unshaven, his skin sallow, and he smelled of whiskey. They went to dinner but spoke little, afraid of what the other might say. They went for long walks in the city, passing the rubble of the bombed-out buildings that were becoming more and more common, and past the air-raid shelters that were being constructed all over. They spoke about the old days, the golden times in the cabin, and her mother. That was all. They barely mentioned Fredi’s name. It would have been too painful. It had already drained so much from them. They had no more left to give.
She left her father at the train station late at night on that Sunday in January. The tears came again as she hugged him.
“Will you be all right?” she asked as she drew back.
“Of course,” he said, but his eyes spoke a different truth.
“Would you consider moving here?”
“No, thank you. I’ll stay in Freiburg, where my work is, where your mother and brother are. I still visit her grave most days. I only wish I had somewhere to go to visit him. We’ll never know what those animals did with his body.”
Her father broke down on the platform, the tears gushing down his face. She offered to stay with him, to come back to Freiburg for a while, asked again if he’d stay, but he refused. They sat on a bench, waiting for the train, holding one another until the train finally arrived and she said goodbye.