It's February 22, sixty-nine years after Christoph Probst, Hans Scholl, and Sophie Scholl were convicted of treason in Germany's Volksgericht and promptly beheaded. While much about that day has been fairy-taled beyond recognition, one element of the legend has basis in fact.
Namely, as Hans Scholl was being led to his death, he shouted Long live freedom!
Now, he did not shout it loudly enough for the whole prison to hear. And he did not shout it after sharing a cigarette with Christl and Sophie. And he did not shout it after shedding a tear for an unnamed 'girlfriend' of any sort.
But his final words - appropriately enough - reminded the executioner, prison chaplain, and witnesses to his death that the friends of the White Rose were giving their lives for the notion that "freedom of the individual" was worth fighting for. Three leaflets had specifically mentioned their obsession with this personal freedom that had been taken from them by Hitler and his regime.
Showing posts with label traute lafrenz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label traute lafrenz. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
White Rose Holy Wars
Come November, the faithful gather in Provo or Salt Lake City. They have studiously prepared for this moment. Much learning and nightly vigils undergird the assembly. This battle consumes the waking (and often dream-filled) nights of many passionate Latter-Day Saints.
I am, of course, speaking about the annual BYU-Utes football game, a holy war to end all holy wars.
Despite its comical nickname, religion hardly plays a role in the festivities. Rather, students paint themselves red or blue, and wrap one another's campuses in graffiti'd taunts. Sure, there's plenty of teasing about who is more Mormon than the other. The coaches and players milk the holy-rolling imagery for all it's worth. And usually the game lives up to its hype, with last-minute finishes and gloating good enough to last a year. A good time is had by all.
Less funny, with no hint of a good time, are the holy wars that have afflicted White Rose "scholarship" in recent years. What used to be simple and annoying misuse of their story has turned into full-fledged abuse. Previously, we dealt with laymen who distorted the heroism of students and
I am, of course, speaking about the annual BYU-Utes football game, a holy war to end all holy wars.
Despite its comical nickname, religion hardly plays a role in the festivities. Rather, students paint themselves red or blue, and wrap one another's campuses in graffiti'd taunts. Sure, there's plenty of teasing about who is more Mormon than the other. The coaches and players milk the holy-rolling imagery for all it's worth. And usually the game lives up to its hype, with last-minute finishes and gloating good enough to last a year. A good time is had by all.
Less funny, with no hint of a good time, are the holy wars that have afflicted White Rose "scholarship" in recent years. What used to be simple and annoying misuse of their story has turned into full-fledged abuse. Previously, we dealt with laymen who distorted the heroism of students and
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.
Excerpt from ROSES AT NOON, nonfiction novel about the White Rose (by Ruth Hanna Sachs)
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.
We rode the streetcar out to Dr. Muth’s. If Hans had not told me volumes about this Catholic scholar before, if I had not met him myself a few months ago, I would have packed my bags and headed home. Home to Ulm, where that heated office burns me with its boring nothingness, and we all agree on politics. But in the time it took Dr. Muth to put on tea, I did not know myself.
Hans had warned me about the professor’s penchant for penetrating masks. I thought I wore mine well. You know what I mean. That Sophie mask that tells the world I am in control, that I know what I want, when and where. But with a few words, Dr. Muth rips it off, ruthlessly, like you rip a bandage off a child.
We were talking about this and that. Knowing that Dr. Muth concurs with our conclusions about, about Hitler, I courageously talked about our need to do something. You know I have felt this way a long time now. We jabber and prattle about how awful that man is. Daddy even got arrested for calling him the divine scourge on Germany.
But none of us does anything about it. We talk, and the more the cheap wine flows, the grander our schemes. So I casually mentioned that opinion, feeling a little bolstered by Hans’ presence. And Dr. Muth fixed those blue eyes, blue eyes of lightning, not of sky, directly on me. ‘And, Fräulein Scholl, what basis do you find in the Bible for what you propose?’
Traute rescued me by steering the discussion to the magazine Dr. Muth publishes, or used to publish till the Nazis shut him down. But I know he has not forgotten the question. I will have to find an answer for him.
Hans, my dear dense brother, soon caught on to Traute’s defense. ‘Sophie, let’s celebrate your birthday at my place tonight. Should we invite all our friends, or would that be too much for you?’
And with that deft maneuver, we were out his garden gate, back on the street.
Funny, but I had nearly forgotten the cake Mama had baked, and the bottle of wine Daddy had donated. I would have preferred waiting till tomorrow, when Fritz is here. But I could not spend one more minute in that house, with that question hanging over me.
I persuaded Hans to keep the party small. He knows these people, and I feel like I should too, the way he talks about them when he comes home. But all at once, I stood overwhelmed.
Overwhelmed by the swastikas on every house. Munich… The very best of our country has been violated, raped by men in brown. Venetian beauty defiled by shrines to criminals. The artists I cherish, the Noldes and Geyers who paint with color so vibrant, they make the world sing, they are burned and banned. In their place, hideous murals sully grand edifices.
Hans and Traute have learned to cope with the devastation. When we passed Hitler’s House of Modern Art, Hans whispered in my ear, ‘Soph, you like the wienie palace?’ I had heard that joke before, but seeing it firsthand, I erupted into giggles. First time I felt good all day. This Parthenon with columns that, yes!, were a tribute to proud Bavarian sausages. At best.
They left me alone in his room for an hour or two. The Blue Horses that survived Hans’ own arrest a few years ago comforted me strangely. I resisted the urge to hang the picture straighter. I must have slept, lulled to sleep by the aroma of a lone jasmine in an airless room. For it was nearly dark when Hans and Traute returned, bearing food.
‘We invited Christl and Alex,’ Hans said, waiting for my reaction. I could not think of two people I wanted to meet more.
Alexander Schmorell arrived first, doffing his beret and kissing my hand. Before the second sentence, I found myself calling him Schurik like everyone else, blessing him with the Russian name that connected him to his homeland. And separated him from the insanity of our Volk.
And I don’t have to tell you that for half a second, I could not even remember Fritz’s name. Schurik embodied everything I have wanted Fritz to be. He made me laugh, he made me forget that I was being demure, he made me feel like a lady, every bit as pulled-together as Traute.
When Christl showed up, the other three reacted with an emotion I have never experienced. This tall, lanky farm boy folded himself into the room. It was like their backbone had straightened or their vision re-focused. Christoph Probst, this Christl, brought pictures of his babies, news of his wife, that village decency that knows little of goose-stepping or Sieg Heils.
He also got us going on a game he had conjured up on the way to the party. We tried to stump each other on famous literary quotes. Sounds boring, I know, yet it was anything but. Of course, someone had to quote Novalis, and I think Hans was the culprit. He likes Novalis’ view of going to the edge of the pit before finding the way home. And we debated Goethe, a trivial debate to be sure, but not completely without merit. Can someone who never lived a single day of misery really write? I say no. Goethe lovers find themselves forced to defend the indefensible.
I enjoyed being among friends who read banned literature. There are not many places in Germany these days where one would dare quote from Heine or Stefan George or Spinoza. But in this room, not to quote our greatest poets and thinkers was unthinkable. Traute assured me she would introduce me to the booksellers who stocked these good books.
And I cannot tell you what it did for me to see Hans among these people. You know how he has those mood swings that make him impossible to love. I can never forget how badly he treated Lisa Remppis, my best friend. She tolerated his ups and downs far longer than any woman should, and he still trifled with her feelings for him. I think he only wanted her when she finally had enough. Some stupid nonsense about writing her name out in bread crumbs when he was in jail for, well for.... But by then, she had called it quits.
I don’t have to tell you about Rose Nägele. One of the dearest women our family has known, hard worker too, bright girl. Did Hans’ sexual addiction start with Rose, or was that the first we knew of it? I wish I knew. But he never should have hurt her like he did.
He seems to have learned from those failed courtships. He and Traute cuddled off and on, teased each other like friends do, yet it is clear that he loves her deeply. Things are different with him and Traute. Maybe he has finally found someone who loves him with all those faults he usually hides so well. She knows every wart and kisses them into diamonds.
In the middle of our lighthearted fun and scholarly debates, Hans dropped a bombshell on us. He dramatically pulled a piece of paper from his hip pocket and began to read. Words about a madman who spreads lies till they become truth. Not till they are believed as truth, like we define Goebbels’ pathetic and provocative propaganda. But until they become truth. The more he read, the more you could see the sheer terror on our faces. Terror at the reality of the world portrayed in that poem.
He sat down, quite satisfied with himself. And none of us knew who wrote the text. I thought he had. My brother is articulate and passionate about his writing, and words like that flow from his pen with no effort at all.
But Gottfried Keller had written it, well over a hundred years ago. Schurik immediately devised a plan for forcing every German to read it. ‘We will rent planes and drop millions of these from the skies on every city in Germany.’
And though they joked with him about the extravagance of his idea, threatening to put it all to his rich father’s account, no one contradicted him. I found that extraordinary, but said nothing.
Someone (and it was not Hans) remembered that we were here to celebrate my birthday. A little early, to be sure, but the cake would not keep another eight days.
And dear Schurik, he who has stolen my heart, suggested we head down to the river. We dug through the mounds of junk in Hans’ desk drawers till we found twine ‘to cool the wine the Russian way,’ Schurik said with a mysterious smile. And Traute managed to find five things that held liquid—I dare not call them cups or glasses—and four forks and a spoon for the cake. I think part of the strength of their relationship is that she does not try to organize Hans’ life.
We had the city almost entirely to ourselves. Our Luftwaffe has been so merciless in its bombings of the English that we fear the day retaliation begins. It has not started yet, but everyone lives behind walls of black curtains. The air raid shelters are often better stocked than our own kitchens.
Hans’ apartment in the Mandl Strasse lies next to Munich’s English Gardens. We walked that street, and I fingered the cold cement wall that divides Schwabing from the Gardens. Schwabing, heart of the university district, home to artists and actors alike, draws its life from the Gardens. In this patch of earth, German efficiency is buried among dense shrubs and wonderful forests. I understand why Hans’ letters home spoke most often about his time in these Gardens, walking in the rain, breathing the last remnant of pure air in a place so brownly defiled.
A great harvest moon hung over the river. Christl wished out loud that his family friend, Emil Nolde, could see this yellow orb and paint it. I tried not to express my astonishment that Christl actually knew someone whose work I studied and imitated. I must have been bad at disguising my surprise, because Schurik mentioned that Nolde had painted a portrait of Christl and his sister Angelika. No wonder Hans spent as little time as possible in Ulm. These people fed his soul.
Oh, and the twine! Schurik tied it around the bottle and dragged it in the icy river. The feel of doing something distinctly Russian must have ignited the passions he cannot hide for long. Because we sang his songs of the Volga, melodies swaying in moonlit birch trees and steppes that never end, tunes no Bach-fed brain could ever sing. We sang his songs that speak of death, and hardship, and the pain of living, all tinged with silver and gold and horizons sparkling with dew. All in the darkest, richest, minor keys on earth, a darkness and a richness banned from Aryan ears as too Jewish.
We found a level place next to the river, a river that hardly compares to the great rivers of Ulm—the Iller and the Danube. This Isar flows dirty, more a canal than a river. In fact, in places only the canal that parallels the river is navigable. But if you must have a city, you should have a river, and the Isar is better than nothing at all.
The hilarity of Christl’s game segued into muted discussion no less intense than the debates of Hans’ room. I am the only one of the group not studying medicine. Over cake and wine, after the embarrassment of toasts in my honor, we talked about the internships they had recently completed.
Schurik explained for my benefit his distaste for medicine. His father, a well-known physician in Munich, more or less forced him to study. He wants to be a sculptor, but that matches neither his father’s nor the government’s view of what is good for young men to do. The least detestable alternative was to acquiesce to his father’s desire, since that also meant a near-exemption from active duty in Hitler’s army. But after the war, he wanted to pursue the things he cherished: sculpting, painting, and piano. And he wanted to go home to Russia.
Hans lapsed into his melodramatic style of story-telling to describe his work at Schrobenhausen. He had treated frost-bite victims from the winter’s devastation in Russia. He must have forgotten that my Fritz is headed to the Russian front tomorrow, because he described the fingerless hands in gory detail. But he ended with the observation that if he had ever doubted his love of medicine, the internship had restored the passion. For he saw that healing was something God let him do. He could not undo all the evils our country inflicted, but he could heal, one person at a time. And after the war, he could do even more.
Traute nodded vigorously as he spoke. Her permission to study medicine was likely granted due to her father’s rank in the National Socialist Party, since we women are expected to be reproductive units, with minimal education wasted on us. When it was her turn, she whispered that after the war she wanted to be the best doctor in either Munich or Hamburg (her hometown), if you-know-who did not pass laws that kept her from practicing. Without her saying a word, we knew how absurd, yet how necessary, it was for her to whisper those sentiments at midnight, under a harvest moon, in a deserted city.
Even I noticed that Christl was being quiet. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep, since he does have a newborn at home. But Schurik knew his friend better. ‘Christl, Christl,’ he shook Christl by the knee. ‘What are you thinking? What do you want from life?’
When Christl looked up, the tears were streaming down his cheeks. ‘Listen to us,’ he nearly shouted, caring little whether Nazi mole heard him or not. ‘You all know what Manfred tells us is going on in Poland. They are slaughtering Jews, murdering innocent children. And we sit here and talk of medicine and art. After the war, after the war, we say. Not just you. Me too. I am guilty too.
‘But what am I going to tell my children? That their daddy was too much of a coward to do anything? That their daddy did not love them enough? After the war, after the war. Well, listen to me. After the war, the rest of the nations will have the right to say, You Heines, you Jerries, you damn fools, why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you resist?’
I know I did not breathe for the longest time. The cold night grew colder still. Resist. He had said the word. Resist.
(and this isn't even the good part... there's more!)
(c) Ruth Hanna Sachs
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.
We rode the streetcar out to Dr. Muth’s. If Hans had not told me volumes about this Catholic scholar before, if I had not met him myself a few months ago, I would have packed my bags and headed home. Home to Ulm, where that heated office burns me with its boring nothingness, and we all agree on politics. But in the time it took Dr. Muth to put on tea, I did not know myself.
Hans had warned me about the professor’s penchant for penetrating masks. I thought I wore mine well. You know what I mean. That Sophie mask that tells the world I am in control, that I know what I want, when and where. But with a few words, Dr. Muth rips it off, ruthlessly, like you rip a bandage off a child.
We were talking about this and that. Knowing that Dr. Muth concurs with our conclusions about, about Hitler, I courageously talked about our need to do something. You know I have felt this way a long time now. We jabber and prattle about how awful that man is. Daddy even got arrested for calling him the divine scourge on Germany.
But none of us does anything about it. We talk, and the more the cheap wine flows, the grander our schemes. So I casually mentioned that opinion, feeling a little bolstered by Hans’ presence. And Dr. Muth fixed those blue eyes, blue eyes of lightning, not of sky, directly on me. ‘And, Fräulein Scholl, what basis do you find in the Bible for what you propose?’
Traute rescued me by steering the discussion to the magazine Dr. Muth publishes, or used to publish till the Nazis shut him down. But I know he has not forgotten the question. I will have to find an answer for him.
Hans, my dear dense brother, soon caught on to Traute’s defense. ‘Sophie, let’s celebrate your birthday at my place tonight. Should we invite all our friends, or would that be too much for you?’
And with that deft maneuver, we were out his garden gate, back on the street.
Funny, but I had nearly forgotten the cake Mama had baked, and the bottle of wine Daddy had donated. I would have preferred waiting till tomorrow, when Fritz is here. But I could not spend one more minute in that house, with that question hanging over me.
I persuaded Hans to keep the party small. He knows these people, and I feel like I should too, the way he talks about them when he comes home. But all at once, I stood overwhelmed.
Overwhelmed by the swastikas on every house. Munich… The very best of our country has been violated, raped by men in brown. Venetian beauty defiled by shrines to criminals. The artists I cherish, the Noldes and Geyers who paint with color so vibrant, they make the world sing, they are burned and banned. In their place, hideous murals sully grand edifices.
Hans and Traute have learned to cope with the devastation. When we passed Hitler’s House of Modern Art, Hans whispered in my ear, ‘Soph, you like the wienie palace?’ I had heard that joke before, but seeing it firsthand, I erupted into giggles. First time I felt good all day. This Parthenon with columns that, yes!, were a tribute to proud Bavarian sausages. At best.
They left me alone in his room for an hour or two. The Blue Horses that survived Hans’ own arrest a few years ago comforted me strangely. I resisted the urge to hang the picture straighter. I must have slept, lulled to sleep by the aroma of a lone jasmine in an airless room. For it was nearly dark when Hans and Traute returned, bearing food.
‘We invited Christl and Alex,’ Hans said, waiting for my reaction. I could not think of two people I wanted to meet more.
Alexander Schmorell arrived first, doffing his beret and kissing my hand. Before the second sentence, I found myself calling him Schurik like everyone else, blessing him with the Russian name that connected him to his homeland. And separated him from the insanity of our Volk.
And I don’t have to tell you that for half a second, I could not even remember Fritz’s name. Schurik embodied everything I have wanted Fritz to be. He made me laugh, he made me forget that I was being demure, he made me feel like a lady, every bit as pulled-together as Traute.
When Christl showed up, the other three reacted with an emotion I have never experienced. This tall, lanky farm boy folded himself into the room. It was like their backbone had straightened or their vision re-focused. Christoph Probst, this Christl, brought pictures of his babies, news of his wife, that village decency that knows little of goose-stepping or Sieg Heils.
He also got us going on a game he had conjured up on the way to the party. We tried to stump each other on famous literary quotes. Sounds boring, I know, yet it was anything but. Of course, someone had to quote Novalis, and I think Hans was the culprit. He likes Novalis’ view of going to the edge of the pit before finding the way home. And we debated Goethe, a trivial debate to be sure, but not completely without merit. Can someone who never lived a single day of misery really write? I say no. Goethe lovers find themselves forced to defend the indefensible.
I enjoyed being among friends who read banned literature. There are not many places in Germany these days where one would dare quote from Heine or Stefan George or Spinoza. But in this room, not to quote our greatest poets and thinkers was unthinkable. Traute assured me she would introduce me to the booksellers who stocked these good books.
And I cannot tell you what it did for me to see Hans among these people. You know how he has those mood swings that make him impossible to love. I can never forget how badly he treated Lisa Remppis, my best friend. She tolerated his ups and downs far longer than any woman should, and he still trifled with her feelings for him. I think he only wanted her when she finally had enough. Some stupid nonsense about writing her name out in bread crumbs when he was in jail for, well for.... But by then, she had called it quits.
I don’t have to tell you about Rose Nägele. One of the dearest women our family has known, hard worker too, bright girl. Did Hans’ sexual addiction start with Rose, or was that the first we knew of it? I wish I knew. But he never should have hurt her like he did.
He seems to have learned from those failed courtships. He and Traute cuddled off and on, teased each other like friends do, yet it is clear that he loves her deeply. Things are different with him and Traute. Maybe he has finally found someone who loves him with all those faults he usually hides so well. She knows every wart and kisses them into diamonds.
In the middle of our lighthearted fun and scholarly debates, Hans dropped a bombshell on us. He dramatically pulled a piece of paper from his hip pocket and began to read. Words about a madman who spreads lies till they become truth. Not till they are believed as truth, like we define Goebbels’ pathetic and provocative propaganda. But until they become truth. The more he read, the more you could see the sheer terror on our faces. Terror at the reality of the world portrayed in that poem.
He sat down, quite satisfied with himself. And none of us knew who wrote the text. I thought he had. My brother is articulate and passionate about his writing, and words like that flow from his pen with no effort at all.
But Gottfried Keller had written it, well over a hundred years ago. Schurik immediately devised a plan for forcing every German to read it. ‘We will rent planes and drop millions of these from the skies on every city in Germany.’
And though they joked with him about the extravagance of his idea, threatening to put it all to his rich father’s account, no one contradicted him. I found that extraordinary, but said nothing.
Someone (and it was not Hans) remembered that we were here to celebrate my birthday. A little early, to be sure, but the cake would not keep another eight days.
And dear Schurik, he who has stolen my heart, suggested we head down to the river. We dug through the mounds of junk in Hans’ desk drawers till we found twine ‘to cool the wine the Russian way,’ Schurik said with a mysterious smile. And Traute managed to find five things that held liquid—I dare not call them cups or glasses—and four forks and a spoon for the cake. I think part of the strength of their relationship is that she does not try to organize Hans’ life.
We had the city almost entirely to ourselves. Our Luftwaffe has been so merciless in its bombings of the English that we fear the day retaliation begins. It has not started yet, but everyone lives behind walls of black curtains. The air raid shelters are often better stocked than our own kitchens.
Hans’ apartment in the Mandl Strasse lies next to Munich’s English Gardens. We walked that street, and I fingered the cold cement wall that divides Schwabing from the Gardens. Schwabing, heart of the university district, home to artists and actors alike, draws its life from the Gardens. In this patch of earth, German efficiency is buried among dense shrubs and wonderful forests. I understand why Hans’ letters home spoke most often about his time in these Gardens, walking in the rain, breathing the last remnant of pure air in a place so brownly defiled.
A great harvest moon hung over the river. Christl wished out loud that his family friend, Emil Nolde, could see this yellow orb and paint it. I tried not to express my astonishment that Christl actually knew someone whose work I studied and imitated. I must have been bad at disguising my surprise, because Schurik mentioned that Nolde had painted a portrait of Christl and his sister Angelika. No wonder Hans spent as little time as possible in Ulm. These people fed his soul.
Oh, and the twine! Schurik tied it around the bottle and dragged it in the icy river. The feel of doing something distinctly Russian must have ignited the passions he cannot hide for long. Because we sang his songs of the Volga, melodies swaying in moonlit birch trees and steppes that never end, tunes no Bach-fed brain could ever sing. We sang his songs that speak of death, and hardship, and the pain of living, all tinged with silver and gold and horizons sparkling with dew. All in the darkest, richest, minor keys on earth, a darkness and a richness banned from Aryan ears as too Jewish.
We found a level place next to the river, a river that hardly compares to the great rivers of Ulm—the Iller and the Danube. This Isar flows dirty, more a canal than a river. In fact, in places only the canal that parallels the river is navigable. But if you must have a city, you should have a river, and the Isar is better than nothing at all.
The hilarity of Christl’s game segued into muted discussion no less intense than the debates of Hans’ room. I am the only one of the group not studying medicine. Over cake and wine, after the embarrassment of toasts in my honor, we talked about the internships they had recently completed.
Schurik explained for my benefit his distaste for medicine. His father, a well-known physician in Munich, more or less forced him to study. He wants to be a sculptor, but that matches neither his father’s nor the government’s view of what is good for young men to do. The least detestable alternative was to acquiesce to his father’s desire, since that also meant a near-exemption from active duty in Hitler’s army. But after the war, he wanted to pursue the things he cherished: sculpting, painting, and piano. And he wanted to go home to Russia.
Hans lapsed into his melodramatic style of story-telling to describe his work at Schrobenhausen. He had treated frost-bite victims from the winter’s devastation in Russia. He must have forgotten that my Fritz is headed to the Russian front tomorrow, because he described the fingerless hands in gory detail. But he ended with the observation that if he had ever doubted his love of medicine, the internship had restored the passion. For he saw that healing was something God let him do. He could not undo all the evils our country inflicted, but he could heal, one person at a time. And after the war, he could do even more.
Traute nodded vigorously as he spoke. Her permission to study medicine was likely granted due to her father’s rank in the National Socialist Party, since we women are expected to be reproductive units, with minimal education wasted on us. When it was her turn, she whispered that after the war she wanted to be the best doctor in either Munich or Hamburg (her hometown), if you-know-who did not pass laws that kept her from practicing. Without her saying a word, we knew how absurd, yet how necessary, it was for her to whisper those sentiments at midnight, under a harvest moon, in a deserted city.
Even I noticed that Christl was being quiet. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep, since he does have a newborn at home. But Schurik knew his friend better. ‘Christl, Christl,’ he shook Christl by the knee. ‘What are you thinking? What do you want from life?’
When Christl looked up, the tears were streaming down his cheeks. ‘Listen to us,’ he nearly shouted, caring little whether Nazi mole heard him or not. ‘You all know what Manfred tells us is going on in Poland. They are slaughtering Jews, murdering innocent children. And we sit here and talk of medicine and art. After the war, after the war, we say. Not just you. Me too. I am guilty too.
‘But what am I going to tell my children? That their daddy was too much of a coward to do anything? That their daddy did not love them enough? After the war, after the war. Well, listen to me. After the war, the rest of the nations will have the right to say, You Heines, you Jerries, you damn fools, why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you resist?’
I know I did not breathe for the longest time. The cold night grew colder still. Resist. He had said the word. Resist.
(and this isn't even the good part... there's more!)
(c) Ruth Hanna Sachs
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
History: January through December 2003
December 31, 2003
It's hard to remember on days like these that somewhere tulip bulbs lie dormant, expectantly awaiting warm spring mornings. Or that our mulberry tree will ever have leaves. Everything looks like death, yet hopes of new life. Difficult year... Besides our own health issues, our family lost a dear friend in August. Dr. Johann Forster ~ Hansi to me and Denise ~ died tragically on August 4. He was only 46. His encouragement, both emotional and tangible, in the White Rose work had kept us going through some discouraging days.
This was also a time when we learned how closely mental, physical, and intellectual health are related. When one goes, the others are hard put to stay intact. It's nearly impossible to work well when you're not. Small things like data entry into the Access database took far too long. Everything slowed down to molasses.
On the bright side, in October I got to present our White Rose work at the Women in German conference (Carrollton, Kentucky). I could barely participate in many of the "extracurricular" activities and spent more time than I like holed up in my hotel. But it felt good to get a positive response from real, live people.
Lilo Ramdohr continues to encourage us. She embraces our vision. Amazing how the people who have nothing to hide don't mind it when you expose their warts!
Also got a very nice letter from Traute Lafrenz. She answered a bunch of additional questions, including queries I had about Werner Scholl (Hans Scholl respected and admired his younger brother far more than has been told to date), as well as about Katharina Schueddekopf (she did more than she's been credited with).
But we are going to have to evaluate the status of this work. That will come at the first of the New Year.
October 28, 2003
We have had a great deal of illness in our family this year. Common Ground has been all but abandoned. For now. The illness has meant that simple tasks take twice, if not three times as long.
We know that we are among the lucky few in this America ~ a place that can be harsh, if not deathly for someone in bad health. For all of us have health insurance. And we have doctors who can treat the IBS and skin cancers and infections and debilitating inflammations.
We're all getting healthy once again, slowly but surely. We are looking for 2004 to be a time of uncommon goodness. You're forewarned!
May 1, 2003
First Common Ground column posted on Center for White Rose Studies Web site. Truly hoping this can turn into a forum for honest, meaningful discussion. Talking to a Turkish fellow we met at the Dreyfus Conference on using an excerpt from his discussion about historical attempts to establish a secular Muslim state in Turkey. This is the kind of thing that needs ~ desperately needs ~ a wide audience. War solves nothing.
April 25, 2003
Starting on the next White Rose "thing" ~ publication of the indictment, trial transcript and partial interrogation transcripts for the third White Rose trial (Josef Soehngen, Manfred Eickemeyer, Wilhelm Geyer, and Harald Dohrn). Also, the 1937-1938 interrogations and trial for Hans and Werner Scholl, and Ernst Reden.
Have to proceed cautiously with the latter ~ not out of fear of Scholls, though I have no doubt they'd be livid. But because it includes information about Hans Scholl's sexual activities with boys who were minors at the time. Can't publish their names.
And have to make certain that we don't sell to minors. Pretty explicit text.
April 18, 2003
Taxing time of year, even if you don't count the IRS. Oh well. At least filing income tax returns gives me an excuse to clean up paperwork I've put off for months now. Massive filing campaign ~ I can see all of my office floor for the first time in a year!
Thanks to Dr. Ziegler, I now have a copy of Detlef Bald's new White Rose book. It's pretty awful. Bald goes on and on about how wonderful it is that he has Dr. Wittenstein's diary entries and letters to use to expand his White Rose knowledge. Too bad Bald wasn't honest enough to admit that Wittenstein's diary entries etc. are "reconstructed" (yes, I have a copy!) and that they don't mention White Rose work.
Bald's book is one more example of horrible, fake "scholarship" by someone who just wants to cash in on the legend. So frustrating.
April 4, 2003
A week to play catch-up and not much else. Loads of emails to answer. Starting on the next White Rose project already. Very tired. Hard to get motivated.
March 30, 2003
What a great time we had in Springfield! Learned so much from the people at the conference. Fun being a presenter, but just as "fun" hearing what everyone else had to say.
Drove home the long way, down through Kentucky and the Smoky Mountains. It snowed in West Virginia. Eight inches of the white stuff. How wonderful was that.
March 21, 2003
Oh yea, oje, oy. Getting ready for Dreyfus Conference next week. Putting together materials, finalizing speech. Preparing handout. All the while, continuing to do administrative stuff for the Center. Glad I'm not in this alone. I'd go out of my blooming mind if that were the case. And frankly, I think I'd have walked away a long time ago if I didn't have familial support.
March 7, 2003
Yea! Sometimes I can just get on a roll and write like I'm talking to someone face to face. Inspiration seems to come easy during weeks like this! Completed the essay for the Dreyfus Conference!
February 28, 2003
Helping with the distribution of a press release about the two newest White Rose books. I feel like I am always complaining about how hard it is. Don't want to be a whiner, but this phase of our work is very wearing.
And I have to finish the Dreyfus Conference speech. I love the material, it's just hard juggling everything.
February 21, 2003
The big snow! In many ways, it felt like a "reward" for all our hard work of the last couple months, and especially the last few weeks. Everything was quiet, peaceful, and when it stopped, there was laughter on the street as people worked together to move all the white stuff. Funny how difficult situations can bring out the very best in people!
Tomorrow is the 60th anniversary of the execution of Christoph Probst, Hans Scholl, and Sophie Scholl. I hope our White Rose work can successfully raise the awareness of the other executions, so that one day, people will commemorate July 13 (execution of Kurt Huber and Alexander Schmorell), October 12 (Willi Graf), and May 5 (Harald Dohrn, shot by the Gestapo three days before war's end in 1945) as well.
February 14, 2003
Out the door! We shared pizza and laughter, cooked corn bread and stew, did whatever it took to make sure the backbreaking side of production and order fulfillment was not too painful.
Looking forward to taking a short break from White Rose work over the next month or two. The Ludwig Thoma/Muth/Herzl paper needs to be wrapped up and submitted, and we are beginning work on a couple other 'history projects', one Houston-based, the other hopefully right here in Pennsylvania. No official announcements to make at this stage. But if all goes well, we will be able to juggle several projects at once and not get in the rut of a single one (as with White Rose).
February 7, 2003
Such a wonderful feeling. . . The Gestapo Interrogation Transcripts are about ready to ship. We are still such a small operation. Sometimes the non-creative aspects of our work can feel overwhelming, as each of us must wear so many different hats. You know, one of these days we will likely look back on these as the "good old days."
January 23, 2003
Dr. Armin Ziegler reminded me this week that I need to be more careful about generalizing groups of people. Though he does not live in Crailsheim these days, he considers himself a Crailsheimer. He asked me to remember that the seven or eight people in the so-called White Rose Task Force are not necessarily representative of 30,000 residents of that town. He's right... I apologize to him specifically. It does not improve my opinion of the wannabe task force ~ just narrows the focus of my irritation to the people who actually deserve it.
I am still up in the air about continuing White Rose work long-term. It seems fraught with more pitfalls than I can handle alone (even with the support of my amazing family).
When working on any topic that has to do with the Third Reich or history between 1933-1945 ~ even US history during that time period ~ you quickly learn to look askance at people who proclaimed their resistance post-war, where there is no evidence of said resistance documented during the war. Especially with the White Rose, this is a huge issue. The people who have been first in line at the microphone to tell about the White Rose and their involvement in it tend also to be the same people who are most likely to be lying through their teeth.
This causes problems for people like me who just want to know the whole story as it really happened. The handful who have traditionally controlled the telling of the story have also amassed small fortunes for reciting their fairy tales. It's a little scary to face an establishment like that.
January 16, 2003
Well, I thought the people in Crailsheim had finally found the bottom of their barrel. They had not. As of today's date, I am officially dissociating myself from them and repudiating every positive comment I've ever made about their work. (If you missed out on prior events, see my journal beginning November 29, 2002 and going forward to the end of the year.)
I will not even dignify them with additional comments. It's simply disgusting.
I will however note that though the people in Crailsheim have insisted that I am wrong about the Scholl family's continued censorship of the Scholl archives, I have an email received from the Institut fuer Zeitgeschichte in Munich ~ received THIS WEEK! ~ in which the person in charge of Scholl archives notes the following:
Scholl Archives will not be accessible till 2004;
They cannot yet tell if Sophie Scholl's entire diary was included in the sale from the Aicher-Scholl family to the IFZ; and,
They will not know for another year whether the Scholl archives will be open to everyone [or whether Aicher-Scholl demands for censorship of access to the archives will be honored].
In my opinion, this is unforgivable! The government of the United States of America evidently provided most of the funds that enabled Inge Scholl to establish "her" archives (as far as I know, there has never been a full accounting for how the funds were spent). If the IFZ does not quickly resolve the issue of access and equally quickly verify that 100% of the Scholl documents were turned over to the IFZ, I am of a mind to ask the Attorney General of the US to file a lawsuit against the Scholl Archives either to recoup the substantial money that flowed to Inge Scholl under the Marshall Plan and related organizations, or to bring the archives to the US where they were bought and paid for.
I am so fed up, I can hardly stand it! I am tempted to walk away right this minute.
January 10, 2003
The Gestapo Archives book is nearing completion and should ship by the end of this month or the first of February. Production considerations have included (but are hardly limited to) whether we should try to emulate the exact layout of the Gestapo files, or whether we should present the work in usual translation format. We finally opted for the latter and resumed production. (I know, it sounds trivial, but it was a decision that affected how we go forward with future translations of Gestapo archives (among others).
These last two weeks have also been marked by a very deep and hurtful White Rose experience that I cannot talk about yet. Maybe one day.
Funny, about the same time I was going through the unspeakable event, I ran across an article about the estate of "Winnie the Pooh" and how upsetting it has been for everyone ever associated with it. From the author to the author's son and even to those who first published and marketed the lovable bear, it has meant one personal nightmare after another.
My White Rose experiences have left me seriously doubtful as to whether I'll continue this work once this first volume of Gestapo archives is out the door. It seems to be a world where those who propagate lies are rewarded, and those who tell the truth are heroes left unsung.
January 3, 2003
Mom's home again, after spending several weeks with my little brother in England. Good to have her back in non-long-distance range.
A couple of friends forwarded me a vile article written by a fellow named William Grim. His virulent anti-German propaganda is mind-boggling. It makes absolutely no sense at all. If you happen to receive any of his works, please let me know. I am calling on the leaders of the American and Jewish communities to repudiate his racism. His other extreme positions, such as revoking female suffrage and expansion of American imperialism, should make him a pariah to anyone who values their brain.
It's hard to remember on days like these that somewhere tulip bulbs lie dormant, expectantly awaiting warm spring mornings. Or that our mulberry tree will ever have leaves. Everything looks like death, yet hopes of new life. Difficult year... Besides our own health issues, our family lost a dear friend in August. Dr. Johann Forster ~ Hansi to me and Denise ~ died tragically on August 4. He was only 46. His encouragement, both emotional and tangible, in the White Rose work had kept us going through some discouraging days.
This was also a time when we learned how closely mental, physical, and intellectual health are related. When one goes, the others are hard put to stay intact. It's nearly impossible to work well when you're not. Small things like data entry into the Access database took far too long. Everything slowed down to molasses.
On the bright side, in October I got to present our White Rose work at the Women in German conference (Carrollton, Kentucky). I could barely participate in many of the "extracurricular" activities and spent more time than I like holed up in my hotel. But it felt good to get a positive response from real, live people.
Lilo Ramdohr continues to encourage us. She embraces our vision. Amazing how the people who have nothing to hide don't mind it when you expose their warts!
Also got a very nice letter from Traute Lafrenz. She answered a bunch of additional questions, including queries I had about Werner Scholl (Hans Scholl respected and admired his younger brother far more than has been told to date), as well as about Katharina Schueddekopf (she did more than she's been credited with).
But we are going to have to evaluate the status of this work. That will come at the first of the New Year.
October 28, 2003
We have had a great deal of illness in our family this year. Common Ground has been all but abandoned. For now. The illness has meant that simple tasks take twice, if not three times as long.
We know that we are among the lucky few in this America ~ a place that can be harsh, if not deathly for someone in bad health. For all of us have health insurance. And we have doctors who can treat the IBS and skin cancers and infections and debilitating inflammations.
We're all getting healthy once again, slowly but surely. We are looking for 2004 to be a time of uncommon goodness. You're forewarned!
May 1, 2003
First Common Ground column posted on Center for White Rose Studies Web site. Truly hoping this can turn into a forum for honest, meaningful discussion. Talking to a Turkish fellow we met at the Dreyfus Conference on using an excerpt from his discussion about historical attempts to establish a secular Muslim state in Turkey. This is the kind of thing that needs ~ desperately needs ~ a wide audience. War solves nothing.
April 25, 2003
Starting on the next White Rose "thing" ~ publication of the indictment, trial transcript and partial interrogation transcripts for the third White Rose trial (Josef Soehngen, Manfred Eickemeyer, Wilhelm Geyer, and Harald Dohrn). Also, the 1937-1938 interrogations and trial for Hans and Werner Scholl, and Ernst Reden.
Have to proceed cautiously with the latter ~ not out of fear of Scholls, though I have no doubt they'd be livid. But because it includes information about Hans Scholl's sexual activities with boys who were minors at the time. Can't publish their names.
And have to make certain that we don't sell to minors. Pretty explicit text.
April 18, 2003
Taxing time of year, even if you don't count the IRS. Oh well. At least filing income tax returns gives me an excuse to clean up paperwork I've put off for months now. Massive filing campaign ~ I can see all of my office floor for the first time in a year!
Thanks to Dr. Ziegler, I now have a copy of Detlef Bald's new White Rose book. It's pretty awful. Bald goes on and on about how wonderful it is that he has Dr. Wittenstein's diary entries and letters to use to expand his White Rose knowledge. Too bad Bald wasn't honest enough to admit that Wittenstein's diary entries etc. are "reconstructed" (yes, I have a copy!) and that they don't mention White Rose work.
Bald's book is one more example of horrible, fake "scholarship" by someone who just wants to cash in on the legend. So frustrating.
April 4, 2003
A week to play catch-up and not much else. Loads of emails to answer. Starting on the next White Rose project already. Very tired. Hard to get motivated.
March 30, 2003
What a great time we had in Springfield! Learned so much from the people at the conference. Fun being a presenter, but just as "fun" hearing what everyone else had to say.
Drove home the long way, down through Kentucky and the Smoky Mountains. It snowed in West Virginia. Eight inches of the white stuff. How wonderful was that.
March 21, 2003
Oh yea, oje, oy. Getting ready for Dreyfus Conference next week. Putting together materials, finalizing speech. Preparing handout. All the while, continuing to do administrative stuff for the Center. Glad I'm not in this alone. I'd go out of my blooming mind if that were the case. And frankly, I think I'd have walked away a long time ago if I didn't have familial support.
March 7, 2003
Yea! Sometimes I can just get on a roll and write like I'm talking to someone face to face. Inspiration seems to come easy during weeks like this! Completed the essay for the Dreyfus Conference!
February 28, 2003
Helping with the distribution of a press release about the two newest White Rose books. I feel like I am always complaining about how hard it is. Don't want to be a whiner, but this phase of our work is very wearing.
And I have to finish the Dreyfus Conference speech. I love the material, it's just hard juggling everything.
February 21, 2003
The big snow! In many ways, it felt like a "reward" for all our hard work of the last couple months, and especially the last few weeks. Everything was quiet, peaceful, and when it stopped, there was laughter on the street as people worked together to move all the white stuff. Funny how difficult situations can bring out the very best in people!
Tomorrow is the 60th anniversary of the execution of Christoph Probst, Hans Scholl, and Sophie Scholl. I hope our White Rose work can successfully raise the awareness of the other executions, so that one day, people will commemorate July 13 (execution of Kurt Huber and Alexander Schmorell), October 12 (Willi Graf), and May 5 (Harald Dohrn, shot by the Gestapo three days before war's end in 1945) as well.
February 14, 2003
Out the door! We shared pizza and laughter, cooked corn bread and stew, did whatever it took to make sure the backbreaking side of production and order fulfillment was not too painful.
Looking forward to taking a short break from White Rose work over the next month or two. The Ludwig Thoma/Muth/Herzl paper needs to be wrapped up and submitted, and we are beginning work on a couple other 'history projects', one Houston-based, the other hopefully right here in Pennsylvania. No official announcements to make at this stage. But if all goes well, we will be able to juggle several projects at once and not get in the rut of a single one (as with White Rose).
February 7, 2003
Such a wonderful feeling. . . The Gestapo Interrogation Transcripts are about ready to ship. We are still such a small operation. Sometimes the non-creative aspects of our work can feel overwhelming, as each of us must wear so many different hats. You know, one of these days we will likely look back on these as the "good old days."
January 23, 2003
Dr. Armin Ziegler reminded me this week that I need to be more careful about generalizing groups of people. Though he does not live in Crailsheim these days, he considers himself a Crailsheimer. He asked me to remember that the seven or eight people in the so-called White Rose Task Force are not necessarily representative of 30,000 residents of that town. He's right... I apologize to him specifically. It does not improve my opinion of the wannabe task force ~ just narrows the focus of my irritation to the people who actually deserve it.
I am still up in the air about continuing White Rose work long-term. It seems fraught with more pitfalls than I can handle alone (even with the support of my amazing family).
When working on any topic that has to do with the Third Reich or history between 1933-1945 ~ even US history during that time period ~ you quickly learn to look askance at people who proclaimed their resistance post-war, where there is no evidence of said resistance documented during the war. Especially with the White Rose, this is a huge issue. The people who have been first in line at the microphone to tell about the White Rose and their involvement in it tend also to be the same people who are most likely to be lying through their teeth.
This causes problems for people like me who just want to know the whole story as it really happened. The handful who have traditionally controlled the telling of the story have also amassed small fortunes for reciting their fairy tales. It's a little scary to face an establishment like that.
January 16, 2003
Well, I thought the people in Crailsheim had finally found the bottom of their barrel. They had not. As of today's date, I am officially dissociating myself from them and repudiating every positive comment I've ever made about their work. (If you missed out on prior events, see my journal beginning November 29, 2002 and going forward to the end of the year.)
I will not even dignify them with additional comments. It's simply disgusting.
I will however note that though the people in Crailsheim have insisted that I am wrong about the Scholl family's continued censorship of the Scholl archives, I have an email received from the Institut fuer Zeitgeschichte in Munich ~ received THIS WEEK! ~ in which the person in charge of Scholl archives notes the following:
Scholl Archives will not be accessible till 2004;
They cannot yet tell if Sophie Scholl's entire diary was included in the sale from the Aicher-Scholl family to the IFZ; and,
They will not know for another year whether the Scholl archives will be open to everyone [or whether Aicher-Scholl demands for censorship of access to the archives will be honored].
In my opinion, this is unforgivable! The government of the United States of America evidently provided most of the funds that enabled Inge Scholl to establish "her" archives (as far as I know, there has never been a full accounting for how the funds were spent). If the IFZ does not quickly resolve the issue of access and equally quickly verify that 100% of the Scholl documents were turned over to the IFZ, I am of a mind to ask the Attorney General of the US to file a lawsuit against the Scholl Archives either to recoup the substantial money that flowed to Inge Scholl under the Marshall Plan and related organizations, or to bring the archives to the US where they were bought and paid for.
I am so fed up, I can hardly stand it! I am tempted to walk away right this minute.
January 10, 2003
The Gestapo Archives book is nearing completion and should ship by the end of this month or the first of February. Production considerations have included (but are hardly limited to) whether we should try to emulate the exact layout of the Gestapo files, or whether we should present the work in usual translation format. We finally opted for the latter and resumed production. (I know, it sounds trivial, but it was a decision that affected how we go forward with future translations of Gestapo archives (among others).
These last two weeks have also been marked by a very deep and hurtful White Rose experience that I cannot talk about yet. Maybe one day.
Funny, about the same time I was going through the unspeakable event, I ran across an article about the estate of "Winnie the Pooh" and how upsetting it has been for everyone ever associated with it. From the author to the author's son and even to those who first published and marketed the lovable bear, it has meant one personal nightmare after another.
My White Rose experiences have left me seriously doubtful as to whether I'll continue this work once this first volume of Gestapo archives is out the door. It seems to be a world where those who propagate lies are rewarded, and those who tell the truth are heroes left unsung.
January 3, 2003
Mom's home again, after spending several weeks with my little brother in England. Good to have her back in non-long-distance range.
A couple of friends forwarded me a vile article written by a fellow named William Grim. His virulent anti-German propaganda is mind-boggling. It makes absolutely no sense at all. If you happen to receive any of his works, please let me know. I am calling on the leaders of the American and Jewish communities to repudiate his racism. His other extreme positions, such as revoking female suffrage and expansion of American imperialism, should make him a pariah to anyone who values their brain.
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