The Traitor

“What do you think he’s up to?” Lisa asked.

Her question deflated me, my sadness festering from the cruel fact that we had to watch every word we said, censor every public conversation, look with distrust upon every human interaction and emotion, and spend sleepless nights wondering whether the Gestapo was surging up the stairs to arrest us. “I don’t know, but he’s certainly attractive.”

Lisa clicked her tongue and pointed the tip of her closed umbrella at me. “Those are dangerous words. He’s good-looking, but I’d be careful.”

“I’m a pretty good judge of character,” I said, wiping the mist from my glasses.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“What then?” I asked irritably.

“A man like that can make you fall in love. Away from your father’s clutches you’re susceptible.”

“Don’t be absurd. No man is going to make me fall in love.”

“And why isn’t he in the army?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he has some medical condition—I’ve seen plenty of men who couldn’t serve for one reason or another—or the work he does is critical.”

“Not in insurance. He could be replaced by a hundred others.”

We came to the large avenue that led toward the apartment building my parents used to live in. Lisa and I hugged each other and said good-bye, promising to meet again after I had decided upon my course of study.

I trundled on through the drizzle, clutching my umbrella with my right hand, clenching my coat tightly about my neck with my left, trying to keep up with Garrick as he disappeared around a corner, turning north onto Ludwigstrasse. Large stone buildings lined each side of the street leading to the university, each one as gray and dreary as the falling night, blackout curtains clinging to the windows.

Garrick passed under the triumphal arch of the Siegestor, with its sculpted chariot atop, and into Schwabing, where I lived with my parents. He turned onto one of the shadowy streets, the trees stripped of leaves by November winds, bark wet and dripping from the drizzle, the two of us nearly alone in the fading day. Smells permeated the chilly air, so different from the fresh, clean sweep of the wind on the Russian steppes. Here, the odors of cooked sausage, potatoes, and eggs mixed with car exhaust and spent heating fuel.

He opened the door to a two-story house, its arched doorway, stones, and gabled roof neat and tidy in their Bavarian cleanliness. I stood behind a tree on the other side of the street and watched as a dark figure pulled the curtain down on a front window on the upper story. A warm yellow light flared from a side window and Garrick appeared with a notebook in hand, pen resting on his lips. He removed the pen from his mouth and wrote in his book; and, as if pleased with his words, he held it like a hymnal before closing it. Then, the shade was drawn and the room went black.

I gripped my umbrella and headed toward my parents’ apartment somewhat ashamed that I was stalking a man, as he had perhaps stalked us.

As I walked, I wondered what he had written. Whatever he had penned, it had taken only a moment. A strange sensation came over me, and, in my mind, I was standing next to him as he wrote the names in his book.

Natalya Petrovich and Lisa Kolbe.

CHAPTER 3

The early weeks of November were filled with excitement, and I rarely had time to think about anything except the university and moving.

I decided upon biology as a major, rearranged my class schedule, and removed myself from the rolls of volunteer nurses. My father, less than pleased with my choice, still hoped for a nursing career for me. He was somewhat mollified because my new major was at least related to my previous field and might allow me to work in a research capacity. Both he and my mother hinted (in their own ways, but the meaning was clear) that it was time for me to think about finding a husband, in addition to getting a job. That way, if I couldn’t find work after my studies, or the Reich came calling on me to produce children, I’d have a husband to support me. They didn’t take into account that men were scarce. These conversations with my father were one-sided and precipitated tension between us. I was treated like a child, I thought.

After several stressful weeks of living at home, I resolved to find an apartment of my own.

As luck would have it, my father had made friends with a widow by the name of Frau Hofstetter, who lived a few blocks from my parents in Schwabing. He would often slide her a few extra aspirin, or hard-to-get packets of bath salts, across the apothecary counter. The Frau always expressed her eternal gratitude, secretly, of course, because giving such “gifts” was a crime.

One day, she told my father of her hope to find a young woman to help care for her: to do dishes, tidy up, and to “make sure I’m not dead in the morning.” These responsibilities came with a small payment each month and the free use of an extra bedroom with its own entrance on the front of the house.

The bedroom joined the other rooms by a main connecting hallway. The opportunity to hear “movement” in the dull rooms and to “know that someone is there” gave the widow great satisfaction. The new tenant would have kitchen and bathroom privileges, and, if required, access to the small sitting room where the Frau spent most of her time.

Spending my free time caring for a seventy-five-year-old woman was less than thrilling, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. My father’s income was barely enough to support my mother and him, food shortages were rampant, and, most important, I needed my freedom. The time had come to make my own way in the world.

It didn’t take long for me to pack the few things I owned and move to my new home. I accomplished it all in a couple of trips, and, by the time classes were in full swing, I was settled into the Frau’s residence.

My room was pleasant and faced south, toward the street. A few streaks of November sun splashed through the window in the early morning. As the seasons changed, the room would be brilliantly lit in the spring and summer, perhaps dappled with light from quivering oak leaves. The furniture consisted of a bed, framed by an antique walnut headboard with carved foxes and hunting dogs cavorting across its top, a modest curved kneehole dresser with a bluish mirror from the 1920s, and a simple, but solid, mahogany chair, which sat next to a small table.

The inside door led to a hallway lit only from the sunlight coming in from the main entrance. The other rooms extended from this hall and led also to Frau Hofstetter’s bedroom at the back of the house. I surmised my landlady was more comfortable away from the street noise and also enjoyed her access to the tiny garden behind her room.

We saw each other daily, as I completed my list of tasks. For the most part, the Frau ambled about her home clad in a housedress with her gray stockings rolled down to her ankles. When the temperature would fall, the stockings would rise. Often she fell asleep in the small sitting room with a newspaper or book covering her lap. I was responsible for cleaning, but she insisted on cooking. If my studies prevented me from eating, she would knock on my door while balancing a plate of food, usually extra potatoes and fried eggs from her supper. She was generous, but also insistent that I be meticulous in my work.

Much of my time was spent studying at my dresser under the glare of my old desk lamp, or curled up in bed, attempting to read from the soft glow of an oil lamp. My only company at night was the hiss and rattle of the radiators.

In early December, Lisa and I received an invitation from Hans and his sister Sophie for dessert, wine, and conversation at their apartment on Josefstrasse, where they lived in two large separate rooms. Lisa came for me that frigid night, the air as clean and crisp as ice, and we trundled our way shivering and rattling down the streets.

Sophie, whom I recognized as someone I’d seen in an auditorium class, answered the door. Her brown hair ran down her neck to her shoulders and rested in a rather severe wave across her forehead. A boyish quality infused her face, and depending on how she turned her head, she gave the appearance of having somewhat masculine features. She exuded a seriousness in her manner, a like characteristic of her brother, her eyes searching, her lips often pursed. She welcomed Lisa with an affectionate “hello,” and introduced herself to me. I told her that I was a friend of her brother’s, which elicited an immediate warm smile.

I took off my glasses and swiped at the lenses with a clean handkerchief, the transition from cold to heat momentarily blinding me with condensation. When I put them on again, the rooms came into view. They were sparse but retained a cozy feel: pictures adorned the flowered wallpaper, chairs and pillows invited the visitors to take their places in comfort. The table held cakes, an assortment of chocolate and vanilla pastries, tea, and wine. A bottle of schnapps sat gleaming like a spirit overlord at the end of the table. It appeared that Hans and Sophie had their own connections when it came to obtaining food and drink.

I studied the crowd of guests. Willi Graf and Alex Schmorell were missing from the gathering—I thought they might be attending—but a few others were unexpected.

Professor Kurt Huber, for one. I recognized him as the instructor of the class that Sophie and I attended. He sat hunched in the corner as if he were sitting on pins and needles, crossing and uncrossing his legs, smoothing his pant legs with his hands. His long, oval face was topped by a half-bald pate adorned only by the graying hair that grew halfway back and down the sides of his head. He glanced at me and then turned away. Having no reason to introduce myself, I decided to wait until the evening’s social strictures had relaxed under the influence of the Riesling wine.

But my indifference toward Professor Huber turned to surprise as another face came into view.

Garrick Adler was seated on a pillow embroidered with green vines and the purple trumpets of morning glories, his legs crossed in front of him. I had missed him when I first came in because his body was partially concealed behind a chair. Garrick smiled in his bright way and I felt a blush rise in my cheeks, a signal of his attractiveness. However, my ardor was dampened by the suspicious nature so masterfully orchestrated by the Reich and instilled in all of us.

Lisa wandered off to speak to Hans and an artist friend. Knowing few in the crowd, I found myself drawn to the food and drinks table—my shyness overcoming any urge to converse with anyone. I sat in a chair across the room and couldn’t help peeking at Garrick now and then. He was speaking to a man I didn’t know and as soon as their conversation ended, I felt his gaze upon me before I glanced his way. He got up from the floor, grabbed his pillow, and plopped it next to my feet.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

I found myself admiring his bright smile and broad shoulders, and he looked up at me like an adoring puppy. Then, I pictured him writing Natalya and Lisa in his book the night I had followed him and the thought sent a shiver up my spine. Was it paranoia or reality? Despite that disturbing image, I found his attention flattering.

“A last-minute invitation …”

“How do you know Hans and Sophie?” he asked, filling in my broken thought.

I wondered how much I should reveal, but also considered that anyone who knew the Scholls well enough to be invited to a house party would know something about them.

“I served with Hans on the Eastern Front for three months before we were called home. I was a nurse and he was a medic. We’re both at the university now.” I threaded my fingers together and placed my hands in my lap, trying to quell my social discomfort. “I’ve seen Sophie in class, but we’ve just met.”

“We’ve been friends for about a year,” Garrick offered. Dimples formed at the end of his smile. “They’re interesting people of the right sort.”

I was perplexed by what he meant. “Right sort?”

He placed his arms behind him like pillars and leaned back in a comfortable pose. His long legs stretched in front of mine, blocking me from leaving the chair. “Politically … and they’re nice people. Solid Germans with their feet on the ground. They understand politics and literature.”

Hans had already communicated his feelings to me about the Nazis when we were in Russia. His words, “The Reich must be condemned,” came rushing back. I couldn’t carry on the conversation without lying or incriminating myself, so I nodded in an absentminded way. Thinking of a ploy to end our talk, I asked Garrick, “Would you mind getting me a glass of wine?” I offered a bemused smile. “I seem to be boxed in.”

“Of course,” he said, and rose from his resting place. “Don’t go away … I have a question to ask you.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. A question? I had no idea what he had in mind. I had questions for him but didn’t know him well enough to ask. He glided off to the table and was about to lift a glass, when he was engaged in conversation by a woman, a slim brunette whom I didn’t know.

“I think you have an admirer.” Lisa stood beside me with a wineglass in one hand and a dish holding a chocolate pastry in the other.

“Shhh,” I ordered. “I don’t need a boyfriend or a husband. My studies come first.”

She chuckled. “That’s what you say now, but remember what I said about men who can make you fall in love.”

“Yes. You needn’t remind me.”

Even as I objected to my friend, part of me basked in the attention Garrick offered. I was the quiet and shy one compared to Lisa, who always seemed prettier and more vivacious than I. It was the first time any man had really looked at me, and he was coming close to overriding any objections I might hold. Any woman would have found him a prize, as confirmed by the one at the table, who grasped his arm, touched his shoulder, and threw her head back in flirtatious laughter.

Garrick finally disengaged himself from her; she pouted as he walked away. “Good evening, Lisa,” he said with little warmth upon his return. He handed me the glass and took his spot on the pillow.

“You remembered,” Lisa said flatly.

“I never forget a name or a pretty face.”

“Flatterer,” Lisa said, and turned on her heels.

Garrick sighed and leaned back on his elbows.

“You don’t drink?” I asked.

“Rarely. It doesn’t agree with me.” He tapped his jacket pocket and lifted the flap, exposing the top of a cigarette pack. “I smoke now and then—it calms me down.”

I sipped my wine and let its warmth settle in my stomach. “You don’t seem the type who would get upset easily.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Sometimes the war gets on my nerves. I see what’s happening and there’s nothing at the insurance service I can do about it.” His mood darkened and he stared across the room at nothing in particular. “Our men come home in boxes, and I have to deal with the grieving widows and parents and my nerves can be overwrought.” He tapped his right leg. “I can’t serve.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, sympathy pricking me for the injury he suffered. “The Russian Front wasn’t a day at the fair, either. Much of what I had to deal with was upsetting—so much so that I decided to suspend my volunteer nursing in favor of my studies.”

“That’s a shame.” He pushed himself off his elbows and leaned toward me. “Let’s not talk about the war, it’s too depressing.” His mood brightened in a flash. “Regarding that question I mentioned.” He paused and gazed at the floor before looking up at me. “May I ask you out—that is, if you don’t have other engagements?”

His question caught me off guard, and I’m sure my eyes widened in surprise at his sudden proposal.

Before I could answer, Hans clapped his hands and called for everyone’s attention. I was relieved to be saved by our host as the group gathered around him and took their places in chairs or on pillows and cushions.

Hans, who looked much more relaxed than he had been in Russia, quieted the room in his role as the congenial master of the group. He offered a rare smile, leaned against the table, welcomed us to his home with Sophie, and joked about living with his sister. Their arrangement had fostered a “new amicability,” he said. After sparring with the group, he read poetry from Schiller and Goethe, which went on for some time, and his words were applauded by the crowd except for one—Professor Huber.

The academician rose as the last poem ended, and, after pulling on his coat, walked past Hans and Sophie and out the door without so much as a good-bye. A blast of bitter wind cut through the room. Hans continued his congenial banter with the crowd, apparently unaffected by the professor’s exit. He talked for some time about various subjects: philosophy, ethics, man as a social being. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as the hour grew late; Garrick watched Hans with a studied intensity.

As the evening drew to a close, I still hadn’t answered Garrick’s question about going out. We were interrupted at times by Lisa and Sophie, who spent most of the evening talking with each other.

“How was Stuttgart?” I heard Sophie ask a young woman, and then address a similar question a few minutes later to another woman. “How was Hamburg?”

Both of these young women answered in the affirmative and talked with some animation about the beauty of both cities. The conversations seemed out of place and Garrick must have felt the same way, for he listened with one ear cocked toward them before turning his attention back to me. Mostly, these intrusive discussions were a welcome distraction to small talk with Garrick as I drank my second glass of wine.

Finally, I had to give him some kind of answer. I screwed up my courage, for it was the first time I had been asked out by a man rather than a collegial schoolboy. The image of my strict father intruded in my thoughts. I took a breath. “I’m busy with classes until the break, and I live with a seventy-five-year-old woman who doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

The smile that had graced his face most of the night faded. “That’s not a ‘no.’”

“I guess not.” I put the empty wineglass on the small table next to my chair. “If I can spare the time, I’ll let you know.” He seemed somewhat placated by my noncommittal reply and grasped my hand warmly.

“I look forward to it,” he said. “Let me give you my phone number and address.”

Of course, I knew where he lived, having followed him home after the museum visit. I didn’t reveal my own, only a few blocks from his, as he handed me a hurriedly scribbled note.

Lisa appeared next to my chair with our coats. “Time to make a discreet exit before we’re regaled with more poetry.”

Garrick laughed and stood up on his long legs. He was at least a head taller than I was, and I was considered tall for a woman. Lisa gave me my coat and I put it on, placing the address in the pocket.

“It was nice to see you both again,” he said. “I should be getting home myself.”

We said our good-byes to Hans and Sophie and headed for the door. Lisa pushed me past it with a friendly shove as she hurried us to the street. “Quick, let’s get out of here before your admirer follows you home.”

The streets were pitch-dark, devoid of light from the extinguished streetlamps, the homes shrouded by blackout curtains as we walked. The only sources of light were a small sliver of moon and the steady stars that sent their cold beams cutting through breaks in the swiftly flowing clouds.

Garrick’s interest quickened my thoughts and my step. My kisses had been limited to schoolboys, with little romantic attraction flowering from my lips. Those were minor crushes that came to nothing. My father had kept a close watch on me; my mother didn’t object to his intention of keeping his daughter pure for her marriage day. He didn’t have to worry—I was shy and uncertain with men and certainly wouldn’t have given away my virginity. Any fascination I had with the body came merely from studying it, but with Garrick I had the strange feeling that the world of love might open for me. However, I wasn’t rushing into anything because, in these times, keeping to yourself, not drawing attention, was the best way to stay out of trouble.

“How do you think my hair would look if I cut it shorter?” I asked Lisa, and wrapped a few strands of my shoulder-length locks around my fingers. I was thinking of Lisa’s style, which was similar to the woman who had struck up the conversation with Garrick.

“My God, Natalya,” Lisa replied with horror biting into her voice. “You can’t be serious.” We turned the corner toward my apartment, and I caught the look of concern on her face despite the dim light. “You’re not going out with him?” Her words sounded like a command rather than a friendly question. “You don’t even know him.”

“How can I get to know him, if I don’t go out?” I asked. “He doesn’t seem like a bad man. He said things tonight that made me reconsider my impression of him. He has a leg injury that keeps him from serving.”

We strolled up to my apartment. Frau Hofstetter’s neat, tidy house was as bland and unremarkable, like a dark cube in the shadows, as every other dwelling on the block.

“Forget Garrick for a few minutes,” Lisa said. “Can I come in—out of the cold? I have something to share with you.”

I was somewhat leery of the hour and of disturbing the landlady. “I suppose—as long as we’re quiet.”

“Don’t worry—what I have to tell you requires secrecy—in a way, silence.”

I opened the door and we stepped into the dark, the blackout curtains drawn. By the time I switched on my lamp, Lisa had taken off her shoes, removed her coat, and settled under it on my bed with her back resting against the walnut headboard. As the radiator clanged, I lifted the chair from its normal resting place at the dresser and positioned it at the end of the bed.

“Come closer,” Lisa said and then shivered. “It’s cold in here.”

What is so important! What does she have to tell me?

Intrigued by her somber expression, I moved the chair closer to the headboard and leaned toward her.

She fluffed my pillow and settled back again. “Have you heard of the White Rose?”

I shook my head.

“Are you sure your landlady’s asleep?” Lisa asked.

I looked at my watch. “At this hour she’s tucked away in bed.”

“What I have to tell you can never be repeated.” Her voice hummed low under the radiator’s noise. “Hans, Sophie, and Alex have taken a stand against the Reich.”

My heart beat faster at her words.

Lisa’s arms trembled as she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

“This is a very dangerous business, but something has to be done,” she continued. “Everyone in the White Rose was chosen for their intelligence, their convictions, and their politics, including me.”

I wanted to wrap my arms around her as the words spilled from her mouth and tears, close to falling, glistened in her eyes.

“What have you done?” I asked, shaking, as if the coldness of the room had entered my bones. “Are you in danger?”

“Let me finish.” She straightened her back against the headboard and looked at me. “Hans and Alex wrote four leaflets against the Reich that were mailed in June and July before you went to the Front. Some were distributed at the university. The words are treasonous—questioning the will of the German people to stand up against a corrupt government, a dictatorship of evil; calling National Socialism a ‘cancerous ulcer’; pointing out that since Poland fell, three hundred thousand Jews have been murdered …”

My breath caught and my stomach twisted from my memory of seeing Sina and her children slaughtered by the SS. On top of my agony came the sudden realization that others knew about the heinous crimes being committed. Others know! I felt as if chains had dropped from my body.