When Hans came home from the Russian front, he was more determined than ever to spread the ideas of the White Rose. In his time as a medic on the front he had witnessed how the German soldiers had been stripped of any chivalry, mercy, or humanity. The career army officers who had once followed a strict code of honor now fully subscribed to the Nazi racial dogma that drove the Wehrmacht and SS forces alike. The war on the eastern front was sold as a defensive crusade against communism, but, Hans told her, it was actually a ploy to provide the living space that Hitler had promised the German people. The real crusade was against the Jews. Hans had spoken to dozens of soldiers who had witnessed the mass murder of thousands of Jewish civilians, lined up along the edge of mass pits that would become their graves. He was changed by what he’d seen. Franka held him as he lay shaking in bed on the first night he returned.
The newspapers were full of stories of heroic victories against the communist hordes on the eastern front. The Russians were portrayed in caricature as beasts, dismissed as uneducated subhumans unworthy of existence. Only the Jews were a lower form of life. Only they were more beastly, more inferior to the Russians, whom the dashing Aryan soldiers would vanquish with ease. The Battle of Stalingrad changed perceptions that the Nazis were invincible. The members of the White Rose took careful note. Hitler refused to give the order to let his men retreat, condemning them to death in a frozen city over a thousand miles from home. The German Sixth Army was wiped out. The official reports held that the hundreds of thousands who died were heroes, and stated that their sacrifice would lead the Reich on to greater victories to come. The members of the White Rose knew better. They knew that Nazi victory was no longer inevitable and that for the first time, Germany was looking defeat square in her cold, gray eyes. Hitler had tasted his first major loss. The White Rose wasn’t going to pass up such an opportunity.
Stories of the regime cracking down on any defiance, no matter how inconsequential, littered the newspapers. A man was put to death for stating that Hitler should be murdered for allowing so many German soldiers to die. The Gestapo beheaded a waiter for making fun of the führer and executed a businessman for daring to state out loud that the war was going badly for Germany. In Berlin, fifty people were executed for transmitting sensitive information to the Russians in what became known as the Red Orchestra affair. The men involved were not executed by guillotine—the official method of the Nazi executioners. They were hung on meat hooks and left to die in agony. The women, who were sentenced by the court to life in prison, were executed by guillotine on Hitler’s personal orders.
Franka knew several people arrested by the Gestapo for careless words, or writing the wrong thing in letters. The Nazi grip on Germany was tightening, even as it entered its death throes. Somehow the White Rose managed to avoid the sprawling tentacles of the Gestapo, but they all felt the pressure of what they were doing. Franka felt the fear of arrest in everything she did now. They all did, but it only made them more determined to press on. There was no talk of backing down. That would have meant giving in.
They wrote and printed more leaflets. Franka played her part once more. She read through the latest paper as she sat in the bathroom on the train to Cologne to distribute the latest set of flyers.
“We will not be silent,” the leaflets read. “We are your bad conscience. We will not leave you in peace!”
Thousands were mailed all over Germany.
The excitement she’d once felt was usurped by terror at the thought of her capture. Surely it was a matter of time. It was a question of who would capitulate first, the White Rose or the regime itself. The tides of war were turning against the Nazis—Stalingrad and the defeats since had proved as much—but the Gestapo was as formidable as it had ever been. Thoughts of leaving the group had been germinating inside her for weeks. They began to sprout. She made up her mind on the train back to Munich to take a break, to go away for a while, and to convince Hans and Sophie to do the same. They were operating with an abandon that would lead to their deaths. Nothing else seemed logical. Telling them was going to be the hard part. Hans and some of the others had begun a graffiti campaign on the walls of the University of Munich, daubing anti-Hitler slogans in tar on the walls and roads of the old university. They were going too far.
It was February 1943. The Allied bombers had taken the night off from their relentless pounding. Franka stole down the street in the darkness, came to the studio where they printed the forbidden leaflets. She gave the secret knock. Willi answered the door and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. Sophie sat at a desk in the corner, writing. Hans was operating the stencil machine, his sleeves rolled up, his face red and sweating.
“Can I speak to you, Hans?”
He nodded and gestured to Alex to take over. Franka led him into the back room, where they sat down.
“I want you to stop,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The Gestapo is closing in, and you know it. They’re asking questions all over the university. They know we’re based here. It’s only a matter of time before they find us. Perhaps it’s time to stop while we’re all still alive. You are no use to the resistance if you’re dead.”
His hand was shaking as he picked up his coffee mug. “We can’t stop, not now that we have the nation’s attention. Perhaps the Gestapo is getting closer, but that only raises the stakes. We have a platform that we must use while we can. No one has ever had the chance to do what we’re doing. We can’t waste that. That’s exactly what the Nazis want.”
“Everyone admires what you’ve done.”
“What we’ve all done. We’ve all played our part, you included, Franka.”
“Of course, thank you. I’m proud to have been a part of this, in some small way, but what can we achieve if we’re dead or in jail?”
“You don’t think I know the risks? A child knows that anyone who speaks out against the regime is dead. But does that not necessitate our work even more? Does that not inflate the importance of what we’re doing? We’re the only people spreading ideas of freedom in a country that needs them more than any other. We’re giving bread to the starving minds of the masses. If we disappear, then so does the dream of a better nation.”
“Do you really think that you can bring down the most powerful regime in Europe with a few leaflets?”
“Do you appreciate anything we’ve been trying to do here?”
“Of course, I do . . .”
“I don’t think that we can change anything alone. We can only change if the entire German nation stands with us against the Nazis. That’s what this is about. That’s what this has always been about—spreading the idea of freedom and planting the seeds of truth in people’s minds.”
“I don’t want to see you die, Hans. I love you.”
“And I love you, Franka, but this is bigger than us. We’re creating a dissonance that has the power to challenge the greatest evil ever to befall our country, or maybe even the world.”
“Can’t you just stop for a while?”
“Not now. Perhaps the Gestapo is closing in, and perhaps I will die soon, but history will not judge me kindly if I don’t take this opportunity we’ve been given. And how could I leave my sister to do this alone anyway? You’ve seen her. If anything, she’s more passionate about this than I am. There’s only one way for me, and for the White Rose, and that’s forward.”
“It seems that nothing I can say will change your mind.”
His bloodshot eyes remained unmoved.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”