White Rose, die Weisse Rose, Nazi Resistance, Hitler
The White Rose: Sophie Scholl 1921-1943
by Erika Mumford


I
Father, hold my hand.
It is the deep, green and dark forest
where the wild animals spring past
Snow White. Pinecones dot the moss,
and mushrooms, small one-legged people,
stand straight and silent in their scarlet hoods.

Ahead of us a meadow opens
immense, enameled
with violet, blue, yellow and rose.
I fill my arms with flowers for Mama

and suddenly it is much later,
Inge, Werner, Hans and I
are walking with Father. A cold wind
flattens the grass. I shiver.
Why is Father sad?

"There was once a splendid castle
filled with treasures: carpets
from Isfahan, ruby and cobalt goblets,
rock crystal windows, floors of ebony,
and fountains everywhere. You would have thought
the people who lived there
the luckiest in the world.

"But in the cellar of that castle
a frightful slaughter went on day and night
until blood bubbled up from the ground
and dyed the fountain red."
"But Papa," says Hans, "are you sure,
are you sure the Führer knows
about the camps?"

III
"Drink your cocoa, Sophie,
you've hardly touched your breakfast."

"Too much to do--the rally this afternoon--
is my blouse ready?"

"And your piano lesson?"
Piano lesson!

"But Mama, the Führer himself is speaking--
you know our troop has to be there.

"Don't you want to come?"
She slams the iron down.

"Here--take it--go!"
And then her arms are around me.

"The Pied Piper--remember?"
"Oh Mama--that dumb story--"