CHAPTER 10
No one in the White Rose knew what Hans and Sophie had planned for February 18, 1943. Not Alex, not Willi, and certainly not Lisa and me.
When I thought about it later, the decision to drop leaflets at the university seemed rash, one borne of impetuous youth, an act of hubris, of self-importance gone awry, but that was me trying to make sense of their actions, surely not the thinking of Hans and Sophie. The White Rose had managed to evade the authorities, but Hans knew he was being followed, and he may have suspected that time was running out. Perhaps that was why he and his sister were so determined not to involve others in dropping the last of the printed leaflets.
Before that fateful day, Alex told me that the men had journeyed out on two other nights to paint slogans in Munich, including DOWN WITH HITLER at the Feldherrnhalle, which Hans had suggested the night I was with them. How they achieved it, within eyesight of the guards who kept vigilant watch over the Nazi shrine, I never found out because the events of February 18 thwarted our actions.
A warm sun greeted me that morning as I stepped from my apartment. Katze had jumped onto the windowsill as he usually did when I departed for class, and I blew him a kiss. The air thrummed with a pleasant breeze, wafting the rich smell of the thawing earth over me. Winter’s end seemed imminent and the promise of an early spring assured. I had no premonition, no sudden fear about the day; in fact, the bright sun fed my good mood as I walked to the university. My optimistic disposition continued on my journey, despite the bare poplar trees lining the street, and the cool air still lingering in the shadows.
Lisa and I exchanged greetings in the Lichthof, the grand atrium of the building, with its open gallery and grand staircase, and then headed to our respective classes housed next to each other on the second floor. I sat through a particularly uninteresting biology lecture, more concerned about getting a taste of the good weather than listening to the professor talk about animal zygote formation. When the bell rang and the classroom doors opened, I met Lisa in the gallery corridor along with the other students, who in a bustling crowd pushed to their next lecture.
A rough bellow rose above the general commotion as we neared the balustrade. “You’re under arrest!” The man shouted his words again as an electric shock raced through my body. Lisa clutched my hand and we looked across the gallery to the staircase. What I saw sent me into a tailspin that made my stomach turn over. Lisa must have felt the same—feelings that we had to conceal from the other students. A custodian, whom I’d seen before in the building, pointed and screamed at two people who stood immobile on the stairs.
We watched with dread as the man directed his rage at Hans and Sophie Scholl.
Hans carried a large suitcase; Sophie was close by his side. As far as Lisa and I could see, our two friends remained calm, proclaiming their innocence in muffled voices, their bodies erect, yet somehow relaxed, as if they had practiced the posture in case of their arrest.
“The hall is locked,” the man yelled. “You can’t get away—I know what you’ve done. Come with me.” He picked up one of the many leaflets spread across the Lichthof floor, which I assumed had been tossed from the gallery above, and clutched it in his hands.
Muted conversations broke out among the students as the custodian herded Hans and Sophie up the stairs to the Chancellor’s office. The door closed and our two friends disappeared from view.
Lisa shuddered and we looked at each other, fear bubbling in her eyes—but we knew we couldn’t speak, shouldn’t speak for fear of incriminating ourselves. Saying nothing, we made our way through the crowd to the atrium floor, where we gazed upon the scattered papers. One student picked up a leaflet, read a few lines and then dropped it as if it were on fire. Others kept their distance from the strewn papers, which also had been deposited outside classroom doors and in the laps of the marble statues decorating the hall.
I read the first few lines of the tract in silence: Fellow Students! Shaken and broken, our nation is confronted with the downfall of the men of Stalingrad. Three hundred and thirty thousand German men have been senselessly and irresponsibly driven to death and destruction by the inspired strategy of our World War I Private First Class. Führer, we thank you!
I read no further because the doors burst open and a flood of police and Gestapo agents poured into the hall. Lisa nodded at me and then broke away, assuming it was safer to be apart than together.
The agents brushed past each of us with unflinching eyes, scrutinizing us from head to toe with neither a sneer nor smirk, but with enough of an inspection to make me feel guilty beneath my skin. I supposed they did this hoping that someone other than Hans and Sophie would admit to the crime, but no one broke, no one came forward. Their presence quieted the milling crowd. Two of the agents methodically gathered the leaflets in their gloved hands: from the floor, from the laps of the statues, from around the classroom doors. “Turn over any you have to us,” they shouted to the students. A few came forward with sheepish looks and handed the papers to the agents.
Panic overtook me and I tried with all my might to squelch it. My hands tightened and my fingers reddened from the fists I had unintentionally made. A hundred questions, or so it seemed, raced through my mind. What would happen to Hans and Sophie? What would happen to me? If I was arrested, would the agents come after my mother and father? I imagined the Gestapo dragging my mother from her apartment; my father being beaten by the guards so he would confess the guilt of his treasonous daughter. What of Alex and Willi and even Professor Huber? What would happen to Garrick and the others involved with the White Rose, no matter how minor their roles?
These black thoughts were too much to bear and I struck them from my mind. I took careful breaths to calm myself and turned my face away from the other students.
As I fought back tears, the police and agents continued their work, until the Chancellor’s door opened, and I watched, stunned, as Hans and Sophie stepped out, both handcuffed. My friends, surrounded by long-coated Gestapo agents, were pushed forward through the crowd, their eyes fixed straight ahead, neither of them glancing at anyone they knew. They were ushered out the door and into a waiting car.
That was the last time I laid eyes upon Hans and Sophie Scholl.
Much later, we were released from the hall. I stepped over the tiled head of Medusa encircled by stars, through the doors of the Lichthof, past the stone arches and into the sun. The warmth felt strange against my skin after the chill that had shaken me inside. Students had gathered outside as well, unable to get into the building, unintentional observers to Hans and Sophie’s arrest. Lisa, without a look or word, passed by me and turned south on Leopoldstrasse, certainly headed home to brood about the arrest, as was I, both of us stupefied by what had happened.
I spotted Alex Schmorell on the edge of the crowd, standing tall and aloof. He apparently had watched as Hans and Sophie had been taken away. It was dangerous to draw attention to each other, so I kept my distance. He vanished like the sun blotted out by a cloud and I was left with the memories of Russia, Sina, our times together at Hans’s apartment, the confrontation with Garrick at Ode, and the tempestuous night of painting anti-Nazi slogans, wondering if I would ever see him again.
Despair filled me. As much as I hated to think it, as much as I wished for everything to return to the way it had been, those times were over.
The White Rose was crumbling around me.
* * *
I spent a fitful night, barely sleeping at all, comforted only by Katze. Every brush of wind against the door, every shadow that managed to creep around the blackout curtains chilled my blood. I expected the Gestapo to knock on my door at any moment. The thought of escaping crossed my mind, but to where? I couldn’t in good conscience leave my mother; travel was difficult in the winter despite the springlike weather; my friends would be of no use—it would be better if I stayed away from Lisa. My closest relatives were in Russia and a journey to Leningrad was impossible—even if they were still alive to welcome me.
In the morning, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. What greeted me was the image of a woman older than her years, black hair disheveled, plumlike circles showing under the rims of her glasses, a frown that couldn’t be undone by mere good wishes and prayers.
I said nothing to Frau Hofstetter at breakfast except for a few sentences that I’m sure made little sense to her. “It’s possible I may be away for a time. Would you please look after Katze while I’m gone?”
“What?” Her face puckered. “What’s this about? You can’t leave me with your cat. How will I get along with all the work that needs to be done around here?”
“My mother’s not well,” I said, making up an excuse. “I’ll be back when I can.”
“Well, you’d better, or you’ll be out on your ear with no money.”
I reassured her that I wouldn’t walk out on her, but I’d planted the seed in case I needed to leave Munich.
I dressed and returned to the hall for my class with Professor Huber. He skulked about the auditorium with a scowl on his face, showing much less animation and enthusiasm than in previous lectures. I wondered what must be going through his mind now that Hans and Sophie had been taken away. After class, students murmured in the hall about the professor’s physical and mental condition. I was not alone in noticing the change in his demeanor.
I walked back to my room as despondent as I had ever been in my life. I put the key into the door and was surprised to find it unlocked.
I grasped the knob and pulled it toward me.
He was sitting in my dresser chair at the foot of my bed, his booted feet resting upon my spread. The blackout curtains had been lifted, and when I opened the door fully, the light struck his blond hair. Katze was nowhere to be seen, but something dark and metallic on the sheets caught my attention. It was a Luger, which I recognized from its distinctive curved handgrip.
I closed the door. My nerves fired in unison and limbs tightened when I surveyed my room in shambles.
“How was class?” Garrick asked, casually, with no emotion. He pushed back in the chair, so it rested on its two hind legs, and lit a cigarette. “Do you have an ashtray?”
“You know I don’t smoke.”
“That glass will do,” he said and pointed to my dresser.
The one I’d used for the rose he’d given me still sat there. I walked to my dresser, shocked by what I saw: the drawers had been pulled from the case, their contents dumped on the floor; my school notebooks and papers had been ripped apart, their pieces lying scattered beside clothes and toiletries.
I picked up the glass and handed it to him. My bed was in an equally deplorable state, the sheets wadded, crumpled, from a thorough search, the pillows ripped open, feathers lying in wispy piles on the floor.
“Where’s Katze?” I asked, thinking that the worst had happened. Shaking, I took off my coat and sat on my ransacked bed within an arm’s reach of the Luger.
“He’s safe with the Frau.” He smiled and crossed one leg over the other. “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke, but I suppose at this point it doesn’t make any difference. The Frau had no objections.” He puffed on the cigarette and pointed to the pistol. “You don’t know what I had to go through to get that cat for you. I must have searched fifteen alleys before I found a mother and kittens.” He lifted his right hand and formed the outline of a gun with his forefinger and thumb. “Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom,” he said, his fingers repeating the action of each word. “One was still alive when I finished. I wondered whether I should finish Katze off today—put him out of his misery. He must have been a very unhappy cat living with a traitor, but I suppose you weren’t able to fill his head with too many seditious ideas. I considered skinning him alive and leaving his carcass hanging from the door—but even I’m not that cruel.”
“You . . . didn’t,” I stammered, a horrible understanding dawning upon me. “You . . . couldn’t . . .”
“Couldn’t what?” Garrick swung his legs from the bed to the floor and leaned toward me, parallel to my right side. “Couldn’t kill a cat? Couldn’t love you?”
I grasped my chest, unable to breathe for a moment.
“Relax. You’ll have plenty of time to consider your betrayal of the Reich. I suppose you’re wondering whether Hans and Sophie turned you in. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first there’s some unfinished personal business.” He crushed his cigarette into the glass and lit another. “The real irony of the situation is that I really do care for you, but we got off on the wrong foot from the beginning. I told you the truth when I said we couldn’t see each other anymore. I didn’t want to get involved in something that might disturb my sleep.”
My hand crept toward the Luger. Was I crazed enough to use it, fighting for my life like an animal in a trap?
Garrick looked at my hand. “Go ahead—shoot me.” He picked up the pistol and wrapped my right hand around the grip, positioning my forefinger on the trigger. “One clean pull is all it would take.” He guided my hand toward his head until the muzzle was positioned in the middle of his forehead. “Kill me, but if you do, you’ll surely die. I’m of much better use to you alive than dead.”
I sighted down the barrel. How easy it would be to put a bullet into his brain, but I knew he’d already declared himself the winner of his game. I’d be hunted down and exterminated if I played on. My mother and my father might die as well. The situation was hopeless. I released my grip on the weapon, and it fell harmlessly upon the bed.
“A wise choice.” Garrick patted my hand, and then resumed his relaxed position in the chair. “Hans and Sophie told us everything.”
“Us?”
“The Gestapo, of course. Don’t play dumb, Natalya. The moment you walked in the door, you knew.”
“I knew, but didn’t want to believe it.”
I also wanted to say, I don’t believe you. Hans and Sophie would never betray their friends, but even saying that would be enough to incriminate me. I looked toward the door, thinking I might run away.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “There are two more agents outside—waiting.” He drummed his fingers on his thighs. “God, how I hate this. I wanted things to be different—in all the months I tried to infiltrate this group, I hoped you’d be the one I could turn to, an informer who would turn them in for their traitorous activities. Imagine Hans and Sophie and Christoph Probst writing and distributing those terrible leaflets! Probst was an outsider. No one suspected him until Hans and Sophie were arrested. Lies told by Germans who took advantage of all the opportunities generously given by the Führer—our education, our welfare.” He lifted the glass with the cigarette butt in it and studied it in the light. “If you look closely, you can see a rainbow. Sunlight broken into its component parts. Broken—just like Hans and Sophie and, I suppose, Alex. He’s involved, too, I’m sure—but he’s disappeared. He can’t escape any more than you can. The White Rose is a house of cards about to fall.”
“I don’t know what Hans and Sophie have been doing,” I said. “They haven’t told me anything. And who is Christoph Probst?” Words failed me; my protest was weak and insignificant for I suspected the evidence must surely be mounting against Hans and Sophie.
“So you claim not to know Probst? When he was questioned at the university, Hans tried to tear up and eat Probst’s next diatribe. He failed and we matched the handwriting.” Garrick sneered. “Even your defense is pathetic. You might as well tell me everything—or save it for the judge—but if I had the choice, I’d much rather confess to me than to him. He has a reputation for getting the truth out of those who come before him.”
Katze meowed in the sitting room across the hall. His call was the only noise in the house.
“Why don’t you arrest me?” I asked, my hands trembling as I spoke. “Get it over with, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I want,” Garrick said. “It’s what you’ve made for yourself.”
“I have nothing more to say.”
“But I do.” He rose from the chair and pushed it across the floor to the dresser. “I hope the Frau doesn’t mind what we did to her furniture. She can clean up the mess; it will give her something to do as she readies for a new tenant.” He crushed his cigarette inside the glass and replaced it on the dresser. “How will your mother cope when she finds out that the two people she loves most are in prison? It’ll be hard on her, so hard she might break.”
I pushed myself off the bed and rushed toward him. “Leave my mother alone! She’s suffered enough. She knows nothing of this.”
He shoved me away, and I stumbled backward. Garrick crept toward me, inching closer to my face. “And still you know nothing? Well, here’s what I know.”
I fell back on the bed, fearful that he might strike me.
“There was an incident in Nuremberg, not long ago, where leaflets were distributed and an SS guard was assaulted by two young women. They knocked him silly, actually. He was lucky to wake up with nothing more than a bad cut and a headache. He put together a description of the women and sent it off to Berlin and Munich, along with the leaflets he found.”
My throat tightened, tongue dry against the roof of my mouth. Garrick leaned over me, his mouth forming a cruel smile.
“I remember that night vividly despite having too much schnapps,” he said. “We had a date and you didn’t show up. When I saw the leaflet and the description of the two women, it wasn’t hard to figure out, especially when you lied about your whereabouts with Lisa Kolbe.”
“I didn’t lie,” I said.
He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “You’re lying now!” He let go, stepped back, and pointed to the door. “Two agents are standing outside ready to take you to headquarters. They won’t be as kind to you as I’ve been. Talk! Save yourself.”
I stared at the floor, unable to speak.
“Lisa Kolbe’s been arrested. She’s on her way to Stadelheim Prison.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re trying to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.”
He turned to me, his face flushing with rage, his body puffing up from his own sense of power like a man whipping a beast of the field. “Do you know a man by the name of Dieter Frank?”
Any sense of hope, any feeling that I might escape the Gestapo’s clutches evaporated with his question. Of course, I knew the artist whose studio we used to prepare our leaflets. I realized I couldn’t defend myself against his accusations; Lisa and I and the rest of the White Rose were finished. I shook my head, not looking at his face.
He grabbed my arm roughly, pulling me toward the door, my feet sliding over the floor, my gaze sweeping across the room that had been my sanctuary since I’d moved away from my parents, my studies and possessions strewn across the floor like chaff. I sobbed as he pushed me out into the arms of the two waiting Gestapo agents, one of whom slapped handcuffs on me.
I looked back briefly. Garrick picked up the pistol from the bed but said nothing to Frau Hofstetter, who stood near the open hall door with Katze in her arms, the cat’s green eyes focused on me. The Frau’s eyes were red and swollen.
The men led me down the walk, pushed me into the seat of a waiting sedan, slammed the door, and within seconds, I was on my way to Gestapo headquarters.
The house, Frau Hofstetter, and Katze faded away.
* * *
I had never been inside Wittelsbacher Palace, the Gestapo headquarters in Munich on Brienner Strasse, until the time of my arrest. Nothing stirred me in the car as we wound down the avenue toward the immense redbrick building with its arched cathedral windows—neither heat, nor cold, nor the cigarette smoke from one of the agents. The radio crackled, but none of the words made any sense. The world drifted by like I was in a small boat on a river, observing the shores through a smoky lens.
One of the agents, a man I knew only as Rohr, grabbed my right arm as we exited in front of the building. The other agent sped away in the car—Garrick had stayed behind. If the Renaissance-style structure wasn’t formidable enough, the crowds who swarmed around the endless parade of criminal suspects intimidated me as well. Perhaps these people were part of a Gestapo plan, a tactic used to humble their prisoners. There were no boos or hisses, only suspicious eyes marked by intense stares and the desperate feeling that one could be attacked at any moment for an offense against the Reich.
We entered the headquarters. I was rushed up the steps to the second floor, where I was instructed to sit on a wooden bench until Rohr was ready to see me. A soldier stood guard, although he showed little concern for anything except his rifle, which he was polishing to a gleam with a handkerchief. My hands throbbed in my cuffs; my back ached and the unpleasant hall air pressed cool against my skin. To my left, on another bench, a group of young men and a woman sat in a daze. I didn’t recognize any of them, but I wondered if the net thrown to capture the White Rose had been tossed over a wide sea. Most sat with their heads bowed, saying little or nothing to each other, with disquieting expressions on their faces.
Uncomfortable, I sat for about twenty minutes before a tall woman with a pad and pen opened the agent’s door and escorted me inside. Rohr had taken off his coat and seated himself behind his large oak desk. His Nazi Party pin, affixed to the lapel of his brown suit, shone in its glory. He was a man of moderate size with black hair and oval face, not unpleasant in look or demeanor, but with the pinkish skin of a newborn, a florid characteristic innate to many native Bavarians. I had trouble analyzing him, a most inscrutable man who showed little emotion. Rohr, like me, wore glasses, but he had the annoying habit of putting them on and taking them off absentmindedly, as if they were a prop for his ego and official status.
He fumbled with his glasses, pinched his nose, and said to me, “Take a seat.” The woman, a secretary, took her place in a dark corner and began recording our conversation on her pad. She would be a witness to all that went on in the room.
“What are the charges against me?” I asked impulsively, although he had not permitted me to speak.
He picked up a pen and tapped it on the large pile of documents in front of him. “I will ask the questions. You answer.”
I nodded.
“How long have you known Herr Adler?”
I thought back to Kristallnacht, when he’d stood next to Lisa and me at the remains of the smoldering synagogue. Garrick’s voice seeped into my head, a distant memory. “The SA set it on fire with gasoline, and then tried to throw the Rabbi in the flames. He wanted to save the Torah scrolls. They’re dogs, all of them. They had the Rabbi arrested. He’ll end up in Dachau for sure. Pigs.” At the time, I thought he was referring to the SA—now I realized his hateful words were meant for Jews and the Rabbi. I had been blinded by a handsome man whom the Nazis used to good benefit.
“We met four years ago,” I said, “but we’ve been acquainted for only a few months.”
“Herr Adler has informed me of his investigation into the White Rose and his association with you.” He stuck the pen cap in his mouth and sucked on it for a moment, then took off his glasses. “I believe you know more than you’re telling . . . and we will sit here until the truth comes out.”
I sat upright in my chair, hunger gnawing at my stomach, aware that Rohr intended to make this a long process.
He picked up a file from his desk, opened it, and shifted two brilliantly white sheets of paper under his desk lamp before returning his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “The charges against you are: attempted murder upon an agent of the Reich; treason by subversive acts, including the writing and distribution of seditious material, specifically in Nuremberg; and consorting with traitors and misfits. Do you have any idea what this means for you and your family? Your father has already been sentenced to prison for sedition. If you’re lucky you might get an adjoining cell.” His lips parted in a shallow smile.
“I have visited my father once since his imprisonment. He has sworn his allegiance to the Führer.” I hoped the agent didn’t hear in my voice the disappointment that filled my head. “He knows nothing of these charges levied against me. I am innocent.”
He stared at me as if I were a disobedient child. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you know what these charges mean? A Sippenhaft, a collective punishment”—he turned the lamp toward my face and suddenly the room became warm and uncomfortable—“and something far more lethal might be in store for you—execution. Do you know how the President of the People’s Court doles out his ultimate penalty? By guillotine.” He paused to let his words sink in. “However, it would be up to him to sentence you, or dispense leniency if he sees fit.”
I twisted in my seat, trying to ease the pain of the handcuffs while imagining the flashing metal blade positioned above my neck. A violent tremble racked my body.
Rohr took note of my discomfort and turned to his secretary. “Unlock these, please, so we can get on with it. She’s not going anywhere.”
The woman rose, left to get the key, and returned after a few moments. She bent over me, grasping my hands, turning, twisting, until the cuffs clicked open and fell away. Relief poured into my arms and shoulders as the pressure subsided. I massaged the raw skin on my wrists while she returned to her seat.
“I’m sure we can have a civil conversation without fear of an escape attempt, can’t we, Fräulein Petrovich?” He slid an oak box carved with Nazi insignia across his desk so it rested in front of me. “Cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke.”
He smiled. “Neither do I, but I find it relaxes some people—opens them up. Cigarettes can be hard to find these days.” He returned the box to the corner of his desk and leaned back in his chair; his face disappeared in the glare. “Tell me the facts about the charges I’ve read. I caution you, I’ll know if you’re lying.”
I squinted into the light. “They are false. I was in Nuremberg when I was a child. I passed through it on the train from Berlin when I returned from my nursing duty at the Eastern Front.”
“Now I know you’re lying. Your friend Lisa Kolbe tells a much different story. You accompanied her to Nuremberg.”
I looked into the glare, determined not to show the tight fear that constricted my body. I was certain Rohr was bluffing, hoping to get me to admit to the crimes. Lisa would never betray me. We had taken an oath to protect one another—all those in the White Rose had sworn to do the same. Still, part of me wondered if she had been tortured; perhaps she had broken under the powerful blows of the Gestapo.
Sweat broke out on my brow from the heat. I thought of summer days, roses in bloom, and picnics with my parents in the Englischer Garten on the banks of the Isar, anything to take my mind off the shadowy figure of Rohr and his questions. I remained silent.
“All your friends are here or on their way to prison.” His hands appeared from the halo and rested on the table, his fingers threaded together. “Hans Scholl, Sophie Scholl, Christoph Probst, Willi Graf. We know there will be others . . . your friend Alexander Schmorell.”
“None of them have done anything—”
He leaned forward past the light; his pink face shining scarlet with anger. “How do you know that? I’m losing patience! There is a limit to my generosity when it comes to traitors! Your head will soon be on the block. Think on that for a time—while I eat my lunch.”
Rohr lurched from his chair, shoved the file into his desk, and locked the drawer. The secretary followed him out, closing the door behind her.
I was alone in the locked room, and, for the first time since my arrest, my resolve began to crumble. What if Rohr’s words were true? If Hans and Sophie and the others were under arrest, subject to Gestapo interrogation, what hope would there be for me? The Sippenhaft Rohr spoke of would come to pass and my mother, already of fragile mind because of my father’s imprisonment, would be questioned and possibly sentenced to prison because her daughter was a danger to the state. I shook in my chair; my stomach ached and my head swam from lack of food.
Rohr had given me no orders to remain in my seat, so I got up and walked to the window. It was barred and at least ten to fifteen meters above the street, so escape was impossible. The clouds had thinned, throwing splashes of sun on the crowds below. Shivering, I sat down and studied the formal furnishings of the room: the grand oak desk, the green-felt ink blotter, the wall calendar with each day marked off by a red X, the rolled blackout shades, the unassuming draperies that hung from the top of the tall window to the floor, the chairs, some in red leather, others in gold fabric festooned with black swastikas. The room befitted the Gestapo and gave me no comfort in its opulence. I was alone with no one to help.
I hung my head and sobbed, trying desperately to keep my voice from rising to a pitiful scream. I tried my best to hide my tears by wiping my eyes on the hem of my dress.
* * *
Two hours passed before Rohr returned, accompanied by his secretary. He sat in his heavy oak chair, but this time lowered the lamp shade so the light wouldn’t shine in my eyes. The afternoon was growing long and my stomach was tied into knots; my hunger had turned to apprehension. “It looks as if you’ve been crying,” he said. “Are you ready to talk?”
I shook my head.
“Very well,” he said. “You’ve had your chance. Your silence is a testament to your guilt.” He turned again to his secretary. “Take her away.”
The woman approached me with the cuffs but said nothing as Rohr held my hands behind my back. A female guard escorted me to a basement cell containing a small window. She took off the cuffs and told me that another guard would be back soon with paperwork for me to fill out. I would have no visitors, she added.
Orders were given: change into a prison dress; complete paperwork giving name, address, and other personal facts; don’t make noise; the lights will be on all night. A guard brought a small meal of bread and cheese, the sun set, and the lights blazed on in my cell. I crawled into bed and pulled the blanket over my head, trying to block out the constant illumination. It took me several hours to fall asleep, after which I dreamed of my parents, Lisa, and the White Rose. The nightmares were horrible visions of death and blood, screams before the guillotine blade fell, lopping off heads into a metal bucket—sights too terrible to envisage, too terrible to sleep through. Many times I woke up during the night, sopped with sweat, my arms and legs numb with tension, convinced that I was going to die.