Anyone who has followed our work for more than half a second knows that a major obstacle to truthful telling of White Rose history is, has been, and for the foreseeable future will continue to be Inge Aicher-Scholl and her heirs. In addition to Inge's still-mindboggling refusal to grant me an interview, the overwhelming majority (about 90%) of Scholl Archives are off limits for the next 20 - 25 years.
Inge and her heirs have controlled the White Rose story almost mercilessly for the past sixty-four years. They've browbeaten anyone who's deviated from her carefully crafted half-truths, including (but not limited to) Christian Petry, Vincent Probst and the Probst family, and even Fritz Hartnagel, Inge's own brother-in-law and Sophie Scholl's sometimes-boyfriend.
She controlled photographs, Borg*-ing copyrights from dozens of White Rose friends and associates with her "Copyright Geschwister Scholl Archiv" stamp - even when they had not granted her copyright permission. She refused her own family members (specifically, the Hartnagels)
Showing posts with label fritz hartnagel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fritz hartnagel. Show all posts
Monday, November 2, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Chapter One: Roses at Noon (the creative nonfiction novel about the White Rose)
CHAPTER ONE
May 1, 1942
It is so cold today. Cold and snowing. I wonder if I am making the biggest mistake of my life. Yesterday I footed numbers in Daddy’s office, checked his arithmetic to keep his clients happy. He had the heat turned up. Even Inge laughed now and then.
But today, today. The signs flashed by, Mering, Nannhofen. I told myself over and over, Sophie, you have waited two years to be in Munich with Hans. With Hans! I will admit it out loud. It was great fun seeing him waving to me from the platform. His arm around Traute, that casual romance that gives him the very breath he breathes. She looked the picture of elegance, every hair in place, her shoes matching the skirt she wore. I really should not like her, you know. But there is something so un-Nazi about her, we are at once kindred spirits.
May 1, 1942
It is so cold today. Cold and snowing. I wonder if I am making the biggest mistake of my life. Yesterday I footed numbers in Daddy’s office, checked his arithmetic to keep his clients happy. He had the heat turned up. Even Inge laughed now and then.
But today, today. The signs flashed by, Mering, Nannhofen. I told myself over and over, Sophie, you have waited two years to be in Munich with Hans. With Hans! I will admit it out loud. It was great fun seeing him waving to me from the platform. His arm around Traute, that casual romance that gives him the very breath he breathes. She looked the picture of elegance, every hair in place, her shoes matching the skirt she wore. I really should not like her, you know. But there is something so un-Nazi about her, we are at once kindred spirits.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Just the Facts, Ma'am
I'm one of the lucky few who has been taught by excellent teachers from the very beginning. No other component of education ranks as high as the women and men who, underpaid and undersupplied, stand in front of classrooms day after day. Somehow, each year I managed to be assigned to yet another person who would have been honored as Teacher of the Year, were life completely fair.
Except for my third grade teacher. Poor thing, she had to take over our class barely six weeks into the new school year, assuming the wooden desk of one of those venerated educators. And she was no Mrs. T. She did not understand how to challenge us, motivate us to think out loud, like Mrs. T did. She mistook mischief for badness, sass for impudence.
The new person did not take us outside to explore wildflowers, or sit us down in small groups to work on assignments. Instead, she hung bad handwriting samples on the bulletin board to encourage classmates to mock poor cursive. And my Ps and Qs always, but always, took front and center of her disdain.
Whether naturally lazy or just ill-equipped, this woman could not teach. Yet I took two things away from her class that I do indeed remember to this day. First, she demonstrated the power of reading aloud. When she ran out of things to say, she would pick up a book, say Charlotte's Web, perch on a stool, and read to us for the rest of the day. I still enjoy hearing words spoken, words crafted to sit on a white page, but spoken instead. It's magic, that rhythm. No mistake that mysticism often invokes chants uttered, not sung.
And her second gift to me? Something she never intended as such. When she got angry, she would mete out fact-writing as punishment. The greater the offense, the more facts you had to write down. It didn't matter what, as long that Big Chief tablet contained nice neat lists. Of facts.
She didn't realize that whenever I pulled an encyclopedia off the shelf, or went down the hall to the library, I was in heaven. There is so much to know. And the more you learn, the more you know, the bigger you realize this old world is. That hunger is hardly satisfied by feeding on the fruit of knowledge. You go from writing "Texas is the very best state in the United States" (an acceptable third grade fact in Houston), to comprehending how it gained independence, to its flora and fauna, to the surrounding states, to Valley Forge. And before you know it, you wind up studying overseas, still fascinated by the people and cultures and trees and all that make this planet ours.
And before you know it, you wind up searching for the truth about a group of college kids who were beheaded for daring to speak the truth about Hitler.
The usual dust cover summary of the White Rose will tell you that they were a group of friends at the University of Munich, who committed to resist Hitler and began to do so by writing leaflets calling for the overthrow of the regime. That on February 18, 1943, two of them (Hans and Sophie Scholl) threw leaflets over the balcony of the main university building that housed the lecture halls and classrooms for philosophy and the humanities. That the janitor saw them and had them arrested. That they, along with Christoph Probst, were tried and beheaded on February 22, 1943. That fourteen others were tried on April 19, and four more on July 13. In all, six were murdered, and eleven served prison sentences.
The dust jacket version of their story leads the casual reader to believe that these wonderful young students were near saints. One extant edition of letters highlights innocent love affairs, sexless liaisons without even a breath of a kiss. They are ascribed purity of heart, purity of mind, and above all, purity of soul. Their all too real spiritual struggles jump off the page and dominate the telling.
But this pretty terrible third grade teacher inadvertently taught me to chase rabbits. You never know. You can end up in Wonderland with Alice, at tea with Bugs, or pursuing the science of burrowing animals. Chasing rabbits will at least get you off dead center.
I learned for starters that the literature about them is all wrong. Yes, there are bits and pieces of it that ring true, but not nearly enough. These wonderful young students were that same mix of good and bad that you and I are. When they fell in love, it was with hormones raging, riddled with angst and guilt and desire. Pure passion.
They fought our battles too. Christoph's demon was his clinical depression, knowing that his father had died of the same disease, by his own hand. He found solace in a solid woman, whom he finally married after the birth of their second child. His family hobnobbed with the premiere banned artists. Emil Nolde painted a portrait of Christoph and his sister.
Willi Graf decided very young to distance himself from Hitler's hordes. He marked through names of friends who joined Hitler Youth, leaving his address book a stark reminder of how few were courageous. When Willi was 15, he and 11 friends marched alone in a throng of several hundred thousand Hitler Youth boys, their lack of proper attire and proper flag a thumb in the eye of the city fathers. Assigned to a medical unit on the Russian front, he witnessed unbelievable bestiality by his "comrades". His nightmares ended only with his execution.
These kids coped with drug addiction, sexual addiction, and stupid jealousies. They wrote love letters, sketched scenes from their hometowns, and went skiing over New Year's. Sophie loved the Variety Club, Hubert started a string quartet, Alex sculpted a bust of Beethoven. Several excelled at fencing, one was allegedly a petty thief, a couple played piano, and they all devoured every banned book they could find.
They had their mentors too. Carl Muth, friend of Hans Jonas, instructed them how to find answers to theological questions on their own. Wilhelm Geyer (whom Julius Streicher named the most dangerous artist in Germany) taught Sophie how to paint and Alex how to make stencils. Eugen Grimminger funded their efforts with roughly the equivalent of $50,000 in real money. And a regular army guy, Commander Buehl, managed to outwit the Gestapo and protected several who were in his Student Company.
Some had Jewish family members. Christoph's beloved stepmother Lisl was Jewish, as was Eugen Grimminger's wife Jenny. Most had neighbors they had seen destroyed, financially or physically. They differed from their classmates by perceiving the Nazi noose as an outrage that needed righting, as illegal acts against human beings. And the ones who saw Warsaw? Well, no words can describe the fury that possessed them from that day on.
They didn't come close to overthrowing Hitler. They painted anti-Nazi slogans up and down the main streets of Munich, "seventy times," the Gestapo screamed. Though the tar-based paint kept their graffiti visible long after their deaths, no one rushed out to topple the regime just because they proclaimed that Hitler was a mass murderer. And while a few were sorry that such a pretty young girl had to die, most people expressed the sentiments that someone overheard in class, words that only deepened his anguished sorrow. "They should have strung 'em up in front of the university," two students opined.
So why tell their story, when all they did was for nothing? Why do I fight this battle to get the real story out there, when people seem happier with the feel-good version?
The answer is the same to both questions. They did not die for nothing. Sophie's boyfriend back-tracked on his original plans to raise chickens. Instead, he became one of Germany's most respected, ethical judges. Often Fritz Hartnagel represented the sole voice of justice in a court where too many Nazis were not disbarred. He is gravely ill, and I offer a prayer, a mi sh'berach for his health.
Traute Lafrenz came to the States and has worked hard to make our world safer, healthier, more compassionate. Anneliese Graf took to heart her brother's admonition to keep the torch lit. She has worked tirelessly in the field of education.
These people have in turn inspired others. And all of us recognize our limits, our shortcomings, our very humanness. There is something at once bracing and comforting in knowing that no matter how often we fail, we are capable of such great good.
Even you. Even me.
(c) 2001 Ruth Sachs. All rights reserved.
Except for my third grade teacher. Poor thing, she had to take over our class barely six weeks into the new school year, assuming the wooden desk of one of those venerated educators. And she was no Mrs. T. She did not understand how to challenge us, motivate us to think out loud, like Mrs. T did. She mistook mischief for badness, sass for impudence.
The new person did not take us outside to explore wildflowers, or sit us down in small groups to work on assignments. Instead, she hung bad handwriting samples on the bulletin board to encourage classmates to mock poor cursive. And my Ps and Qs always, but always, took front and center of her disdain.
Whether naturally lazy or just ill-equipped, this woman could not teach. Yet I took two things away from her class that I do indeed remember to this day. First, she demonstrated the power of reading aloud. When she ran out of things to say, she would pick up a book, say Charlotte's Web, perch on a stool, and read to us for the rest of the day. I still enjoy hearing words spoken, words crafted to sit on a white page, but spoken instead. It's magic, that rhythm. No mistake that mysticism often invokes chants uttered, not sung.
And her second gift to me? Something she never intended as such. When she got angry, she would mete out fact-writing as punishment. The greater the offense, the more facts you had to write down. It didn't matter what, as long that Big Chief tablet contained nice neat lists. Of facts.
She didn't realize that whenever I pulled an encyclopedia off the shelf, or went down the hall to the library, I was in heaven. There is so much to know. And the more you learn, the more you know, the bigger you realize this old world is. That hunger is hardly satisfied by feeding on the fruit of knowledge. You go from writing "Texas is the very best state in the United States" (an acceptable third grade fact in Houston), to comprehending how it gained independence, to its flora and fauna, to the surrounding states, to Valley Forge. And before you know it, you wind up studying overseas, still fascinated by the people and cultures and trees and all that make this planet ours.
And before you know it, you wind up searching for the truth about a group of college kids who were beheaded for daring to speak the truth about Hitler.
The usual dust cover summary of the White Rose will tell you that they were a group of friends at the University of Munich, who committed to resist Hitler and began to do so by writing leaflets calling for the overthrow of the regime. That on February 18, 1943, two of them (Hans and Sophie Scholl) threw leaflets over the balcony of the main university building that housed the lecture halls and classrooms for philosophy and the humanities. That the janitor saw them and had them arrested. That they, along with Christoph Probst, were tried and beheaded on February 22, 1943. That fourteen others were tried on April 19, and four more on July 13. In all, six were murdered, and eleven served prison sentences.
The dust jacket version of their story leads the casual reader to believe that these wonderful young students were near saints. One extant edition of letters highlights innocent love affairs, sexless liaisons without even a breath of a kiss. They are ascribed purity of heart, purity of mind, and above all, purity of soul. Their all too real spiritual struggles jump off the page and dominate the telling.
But this pretty terrible third grade teacher inadvertently taught me to chase rabbits. You never know. You can end up in Wonderland with Alice, at tea with Bugs, or pursuing the science of burrowing animals. Chasing rabbits will at least get you off dead center.
I learned for starters that the literature about them is all wrong. Yes, there are bits and pieces of it that ring true, but not nearly enough. These wonderful young students were that same mix of good and bad that you and I are. When they fell in love, it was with hormones raging, riddled with angst and guilt and desire. Pure passion.
They fought our battles too. Christoph's demon was his clinical depression, knowing that his father had died of the same disease, by his own hand. He found solace in a solid woman, whom he finally married after the birth of their second child. His family hobnobbed with the premiere banned artists. Emil Nolde painted a portrait of Christoph and his sister.
Willi Graf decided very young to distance himself from Hitler's hordes. He marked through names of friends who joined Hitler Youth, leaving his address book a stark reminder of how few were courageous. When Willi was 15, he and 11 friends marched alone in a throng of several hundred thousand Hitler Youth boys, their lack of proper attire and proper flag a thumb in the eye of the city fathers. Assigned to a medical unit on the Russian front, he witnessed unbelievable bestiality by his "comrades". His nightmares ended only with his execution.
These kids coped with drug addiction, sexual addiction, and stupid jealousies. They wrote love letters, sketched scenes from their hometowns, and went skiing over New Year's. Sophie loved the Variety Club, Hubert started a string quartet, Alex sculpted a bust of Beethoven. Several excelled at fencing, one was allegedly a petty thief, a couple played piano, and they all devoured every banned book they could find.
They had their mentors too. Carl Muth, friend of Hans Jonas, instructed them how to find answers to theological questions on their own. Wilhelm Geyer (whom Julius Streicher named the most dangerous artist in Germany) taught Sophie how to paint and Alex how to make stencils. Eugen Grimminger funded their efforts with roughly the equivalent of $50,000 in real money. And a regular army guy, Commander Buehl, managed to outwit the Gestapo and protected several who were in his Student Company.
Some had Jewish family members. Christoph's beloved stepmother Lisl was Jewish, as was Eugen Grimminger's wife Jenny. Most had neighbors they had seen destroyed, financially or physically. They differed from their classmates by perceiving the Nazi noose as an outrage that needed righting, as illegal acts against human beings. And the ones who saw Warsaw? Well, no words can describe the fury that possessed them from that day on.
They didn't come close to overthrowing Hitler. They painted anti-Nazi slogans up and down the main streets of Munich, "seventy times," the Gestapo screamed. Though the tar-based paint kept their graffiti visible long after their deaths, no one rushed out to topple the regime just because they proclaimed that Hitler was a mass murderer. And while a few were sorry that such a pretty young girl had to die, most people expressed the sentiments that someone overheard in class, words that only deepened his anguished sorrow. "They should have strung 'em up in front of the university," two students opined.
So why tell their story, when all they did was for nothing? Why do I fight this battle to get the real story out there, when people seem happier with the feel-good version?
The answer is the same to both questions. They did not die for nothing. Sophie's boyfriend back-tracked on his original plans to raise chickens. Instead, he became one of Germany's most respected, ethical judges. Often Fritz Hartnagel represented the sole voice of justice in a court where too many Nazis were not disbarred. He is gravely ill, and I offer a prayer, a mi sh'berach for his health.
Traute Lafrenz came to the States and has worked hard to make our world safer, healthier, more compassionate. Anneliese Graf took to heart her brother's admonition to keep the torch lit. She has worked tirelessly in the field of education.
These people have in turn inspired others. And all of us recognize our limits, our shortcomings, our very humanness. There is something at once bracing and comforting in knowing that no matter how often we fail, we are capable of such great good.
Even you. Even me.
(c) 2001 Ruth Sachs. All rights reserved.
Friday, June 19, 2009
History: April through June 2001
June 28, 2001
Great fun when all the hard work on White Rose detail begins to pay off. Involved this week in an ongoing discussion with Armin Ziegler, who has devoted quite a bit of time and energy to researching Eugen and Jenny Grimminger. We have been comparing notes on a vague date -- when Hans and Schurik went to Chemnitz to meet Falk Harnack.
Since the date is never specifically stated, we both have made assumptions that led to our separate conclusions. Interesting now to take those assumptions and the facts that support them, to see if we can arrive at a date that really makes sense. So far, no luck. But puzzles like this are worth the effort.
June 21, 2001
First day of summer. Such a glorious time of year. Energy to create, to think, to be. Sometimes, words are too much.
June 14, 2001
Beginning to think that the most critical issue for White Rose research at this point is to get as much of the primary source documentation available to the public as possible. Inge Jens seems to be working on this with her recent Puls issue. There must be a way to get Scholl archives unblocked so the truth can start to be known. Not merely for me, but for anyone interested in knowing what really happened 58 years ago.
May 31, 2001
It has been interesting, asking young people how they think they would respond to Nazi pressure to join Hitler Youth. Whether they think they would cave and join to be part of the "in" crowd, or whether they would do like the White Rose and take a stand for justice.
I think what impresses me so much is the honesty I encounter. I expected them to say, "Oh no, not me, I would never have been part of something like that." But many, many say, "I probably would have gone along with all my friends and joined Hitler Youth."
This honesty means a lot. It actually provides a springboard for real discussion, perceptive thinking. This is a legacy of the White Rose that has lasting value.
May 18, 2001
Speaking tonight at the Fulbright dinner. It's always intriguing to plan for these events, not knowing what people know, wondering about questions. For those who have never heard the White Rose account, it's generally a moving experience to watch them hear it for the first time. The bigger challenge is speaking to a group that knows the legend and not the real story. We'll see how this goes tonight!
May 10, 2001
Fritz Hartnagel died last week. I cherish every single one of the survivors of the White Rose (including "survivors" like him who were not technically part of the movement). But especially Fritz Hartnagel.
Sophie Scholl appeared to have reconciled herself to marrying a man content to raise chickens. She was not happy that Fritz did not like to read or study, that he seemed to duck issues important to her. Reading the published excerpts of her letters to him, you almost wonder what she saw in him.
Till you meet Fritz Hartnagel and sense his great goodness, eyes that burn, quiet passion for justice simmering beneath the surface. He talked little and never sought the spotlight.
I wish he had talked more, had shared all the Sophie stories he knew, that he lived. The little he did tell me, opened her up as a person like I had never seen her before. I could hear her giggling on his arm, and see his eyes smiling as he watched her dance. He and Elisabeth Hartnagel nee Scholl genuinely loved Sophie -- as a person, not as a historical relic of a distant past. How they knew her, how deep their affection!
And Fritz did not become a farmer, he did not raise chickens. He became a judge, one who tried to uphold the rule of law in Germany, during post-war years when Nazi judges still held sway. He fought for conscientious objectors and against nuclear weapons. He stood up for his friend Walter Jens, and in it all claimed, "I am only doing my job -- nothing special about me."
Rest in peace, Fritz Hartnagel. Your memory truly is for a blessing.
May 3, 2001
There is an issue with the White Rose that I cannot seem to get past. Revisionism. Not the revisionism of Holocaust deniers, for no one telling the White Rose story has so far claimed that the Shoah did not happen.
In some ways, this revisionism is more insidious. Some of the story-tellers have created a legend that simply is not true. They tell their tales as if they were present when they walked along the Isar, when they printed leaflets late at night, when they debated political issues that impacted their actions. And they were not.
Sadly, the revisionism blurs the view of the real story. The whole basis of the White Rose revolved around the need for people of all political and religious persuasions -- socialists, federalists, monarchists, communists, Catholics, Lutherans, Russian Orthodox, anthroposophists, secularists, and atheists -- to do whatever it took to overthrow Hitler and restore justice to German soil. That was not a premise many agreed with in 1943, though it was as valid then as it is now. It's a shame when brick walls are erected to blot the view of the full ~ and richly beautiful ~ tale.
I feel sometimes like I am beating my head against a brick wall. Some of the revisionists have the money, the political clout, to perpetuate their half-truths. The few survivors who have had the guts to stand up to these two have traditionally wound up ignored, unwelcomed.
It is easy to see why. It is far more comfortable to have a larger pool of "good guys", to ignore evidence that indicts people who now say the right thing.
Wonder on occasion if I am crazy to tackle this project, to stand up for the truth of the matter. To nail down evidence that delineates what happened when and who was there. It is not a case of wanting to "bring down" anyone. Only to set the record straight and do what I can to write history in its proper words. Ironically, that is what Hans Scholl swore he would do if he survived the war...
All I can do is keep putting facts into that database, so that in the end, Truth can once again win.
April 26, 2001
Invitation this week to speak at my local Fulbright chapter's banquet, on the subject of the White Rose. Question was, would I mind talking about them instead of addressing the matter of international education. As much as I believe in international education, it's second priority to "my" White Rose kids. Hope they are planning on a three-day weekend.
Finding a couple of voices who are on the same path, looking for ways to bring German and Jewish communities together to talk in peace. Since emotions are hard to argue with, this road is not easy to travel. I am thankful for each person who comes to the table with an open mind. And heart.
April 19, 2001
Eight days and counting till the release of Changing Seasons, my first poetry book! Hope that when it's the 100th book about to be released, I'll be as excited as I am about this second one. It is a gift all its own, to be thrilled by intangibles and made happy by privileges.
Holocaust Remembrance is celebrated today. In the middle of gorgeous Spring, I hope we can all take a moment to remember those who died ~ not in a war, or for principles they held dear, or because they represented the opposition. Remember those who died simply because they were Jewish, at the hands of some who knew how to hate. As we remember, we can pray that it will never ever happen again. That nie wieder ~ never again ~ is in our hands.
April 5, 2001
Hope that by this time next week, I can write in this journal about all the wonderful dialog I've put down on paper, or the translations finished and "in the book." But at least I can look back on the last seven days and know they have been good, they have hardly been wasted. Tax returns and the like keep me out of trouble ... that's the prevailing theory.
And it is finally, gloriously springtime. From last night to this morning, it's like the earth exhaled and trees greened. Forsythia's showing faintly yellow. Before long, there will be such a dazzle of color! Perfect time to be a writer. Cannot imagine being anything else.
Great fun when all the hard work on White Rose detail begins to pay off. Involved this week in an ongoing discussion with Armin Ziegler, who has devoted quite a bit of time and energy to researching Eugen and Jenny Grimminger. We have been comparing notes on a vague date -- when Hans and Schurik went to Chemnitz to meet Falk Harnack.
Since the date is never specifically stated, we both have made assumptions that led to our separate conclusions. Interesting now to take those assumptions and the facts that support them, to see if we can arrive at a date that really makes sense. So far, no luck. But puzzles like this are worth the effort.
June 21, 2001
First day of summer. Such a glorious time of year. Energy to create, to think, to be. Sometimes, words are too much.
June 14, 2001
Beginning to think that the most critical issue for White Rose research at this point is to get as much of the primary source documentation available to the public as possible. Inge Jens seems to be working on this with her recent Puls issue. There must be a way to get Scholl archives unblocked so the truth can start to be known. Not merely for me, but for anyone interested in knowing what really happened 58 years ago.
May 31, 2001
It has been interesting, asking young people how they think they would respond to Nazi pressure to join Hitler Youth. Whether they think they would cave and join to be part of the "in" crowd, or whether they would do like the White Rose and take a stand for justice.
I think what impresses me so much is the honesty I encounter. I expected them to say, "Oh no, not me, I would never have been part of something like that." But many, many say, "I probably would have gone along with all my friends and joined Hitler Youth."
This honesty means a lot. It actually provides a springboard for real discussion, perceptive thinking. This is a legacy of the White Rose that has lasting value.
May 18, 2001
Speaking tonight at the Fulbright dinner. It's always intriguing to plan for these events, not knowing what people know, wondering about questions. For those who have never heard the White Rose account, it's generally a moving experience to watch them hear it for the first time. The bigger challenge is speaking to a group that knows the legend and not the real story. We'll see how this goes tonight!
May 10, 2001
Fritz Hartnagel died last week. I cherish every single one of the survivors of the White Rose (including "survivors" like him who were not technically part of the movement). But especially Fritz Hartnagel.
Sophie Scholl appeared to have reconciled herself to marrying a man content to raise chickens. She was not happy that Fritz did not like to read or study, that he seemed to duck issues important to her. Reading the published excerpts of her letters to him, you almost wonder what she saw in him.
Till you meet Fritz Hartnagel and sense his great goodness, eyes that burn, quiet passion for justice simmering beneath the surface. He talked little and never sought the spotlight.
I wish he had talked more, had shared all the Sophie stories he knew, that he lived. The little he did tell me, opened her up as a person like I had never seen her before. I could hear her giggling on his arm, and see his eyes smiling as he watched her dance. He and Elisabeth Hartnagel nee Scholl genuinely loved Sophie -- as a person, not as a historical relic of a distant past. How they knew her, how deep their affection!
And Fritz did not become a farmer, he did not raise chickens. He became a judge, one who tried to uphold the rule of law in Germany, during post-war years when Nazi judges still held sway. He fought for conscientious objectors and against nuclear weapons. He stood up for his friend Walter Jens, and in it all claimed, "I am only doing my job -- nothing special about me."
Rest in peace, Fritz Hartnagel. Your memory truly is for a blessing.
May 3, 2001
There is an issue with the White Rose that I cannot seem to get past. Revisionism. Not the revisionism of Holocaust deniers, for no one telling the White Rose story has so far claimed that the Shoah did not happen.
In some ways, this revisionism is more insidious. Some of the story-tellers have created a legend that simply is not true. They tell their tales as if they were present when they walked along the Isar, when they printed leaflets late at night, when they debated political issues that impacted their actions. And they were not.
Sadly, the revisionism blurs the view of the real story. The whole basis of the White Rose revolved around the need for people of all political and religious persuasions -- socialists, federalists, monarchists, communists, Catholics, Lutherans, Russian Orthodox, anthroposophists, secularists, and atheists -- to do whatever it took to overthrow Hitler and restore justice to German soil. That was not a premise many agreed with in 1943, though it was as valid then as it is now. It's a shame when brick walls are erected to blot the view of the full ~ and richly beautiful ~ tale.
I feel sometimes like I am beating my head against a brick wall. Some of the revisionists have the money, the political clout, to perpetuate their half-truths. The few survivors who have had the guts to stand up to these two have traditionally wound up ignored, unwelcomed.
It is easy to see why. It is far more comfortable to have a larger pool of "good guys", to ignore evidence that indicts people who now say the right thing.
Wonder on occasion if I am crazy to tackle this project, to stand up for the truth of the matter. To nail down evidence that delineates what happened when and who was there. It is not a case of wanting to "bring down" anyone. Only to set the record straight and do what I can to write history in its proper words. Ironically, that is what Hans Scholl swore he would do if he survived the war...
All I can do is keep putting facts into that database, so that in the end, Truth can once again win.
April 26, 2001
Invitation this week to speak at my local Fulbright chapter's banquet, on the subject of the White Rose. Question was, would I mind talking about them instead of addressing the matter of international education. As much as I believe in international education, it's second priority to "my" White Rose kids. Hope they are planning on a three-day weekend.
Finding a couple of voices who are on the same path, looking for ways to bring German and Jewish communities together to talk in peace. Since emotions are hard to argue with, this road is not easy to travel. I am thankful for each person who comes to the table with an open mind. And heart.
April 19, 2001
Eight days and counting till the release of Changing Seasons, my first poetry book! Hope that when it's the 100th book about to be released, I'll be as excited as I am about this second one. It is a gift all its own, to be thrilled by intangibles and made happy by privileges.
Holocaust Remembrance is celebrated today. In the middle of gorgeous Spring, I hope we can all take a moment to remember those who died ~ not in a war, or for principles they held dear, or because they represented the opposition. Remember those who died simply because they were Jewish, at the hands of some who knew how to hate. As we remember, we can pray that it will never ever happen again. That nie wieder ~ never again ~ is in our hands.
April 5, 2001
Hope that by this time next week, I can write in this journal about all the wonderful dialog I've put down on paper, or the translations finished and "in the book." But at least I can look back on the last seven days and know they have been good, they have hardly been wasted. Tax returns and the like keep me out of trouble ... that's the prevailing theory.
And it is finally, gloriously springtime. From last night to this morning, it's like the earth exhaled and trees greened. Forsythia's showing faintly yellow. Before long, there will be such a dazzle of color! Perfect time to be a writer. Cannot imagine being anything else.
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