The White Rose
The White Rose - Germany, Sophie Scholl.
Sophie Scholl was a core member of the White Rose, an underground resistance movement which put out pamphlets entreating the German people to rise up against Hitler. Nearly all of them were eventually captured and killed. On the day of Sophie's execution, Germany takes the immense risk of going to meet her in person.
Genre: Drama/Tragedy.
1943. PG-13 in content; probably R in spirit.
Here guys, have some Germany =/= the Nazi Party fic. It's pretty short. Also, if you friended me after seeing Stick Theater a couple days ago, I HOPE YOU LIKE MOOD WHIPLASH.
---
He didn't know why he was here.
Sunshine poured in through the high windows cut into the concrete walls. Grey floors. Bootfalls. The rang and bang of barred doors as they rattled open and closed, open and closed.
There was no reason for him to be here. Everything was out of his hands. Germany held his hat in both hands and stood rigid, eyes forward, eyes blank. He stood on the median line, where sunlight fell across the hall. His left side glowed warmer than his right.
It was too warm. He concentrated on that. The heat, all down one side. It was uncomfortable. His neck--too warm. And the glare fell in his eye.
He didn't move.
He had attended her trial. Their trial.
He shouldn't be here. It was dangerous for him to be here.
Sophie, her brother, Probst--
Aiding the enemy. High treason. Defaming the Fuhrer.
A quiet courtroom. Heads bowed. No eyes met.
He shouldn't be here.
It had stank like sweat, Germany remembered. Too many bodies, too tight a space. A warm day. Rank sweat. The man who had been seated behind him had a throat condition, and he had cleared it into the back of Germany's hair every thirty seconds. The muscles in Germany's neck had clenched every time. After a few minutes, he had started counting the intervals.
The defense had asked no questions. They were always guilty. The Fuhrer required that they be guilty. Sophie and the others--had not cried when the verdict was read. Not even Probst, who would leave behind three infant children. Sophie had gone pale; Hans had gone red. That was all.
The sun descended. Germany felt the median of light creep leftwards across the bridge of his nose.
He had arranged this detour with care: half an hour extra had been allotted to his previous meeting, his next one pushed back, and he should still be able to make it there early. But it was possible there had been some delay within the prison: Germany could not afford to be missed.
Maybe she had panicked. Tried to recant. Thrown down more evidence as a barrier between herself and the guillotine. Her testimony would be sufficient to delay them. She would have expected more time before her execution. The shock--the news, that she would die today--perhaps her sterling silence had been broken. For a reprieve--it was possible that she had talked.
No. Not Sophie.
The bars, the walls, the table of the guillotine--the warden had wanted Germany to see it--everything was painted white, white, white. The sunlight raised a glow upon it all like Italy gave to angel's wings.
The door opened, around the corner. Rang--bang. Germany's heart constricted. He swallowed, careful. Eyes forward: he had to remember to keep his eyes forward, even when no one could see him.
The matron came around the corner, leading Sophie Scholl. Germany stepped forward.
"Stop." His best flat voice of command. The one that made Italy's knees lock up.
The two women stopped. The matron blinked at his command bars. Sophie smoothed down her skirt and met his eyes, calm.
Germany's throat felt dry again. He got out, "I read your pamphlets."
An uncertain flicker went through Sophie's expression. She glanced at the matron, then back at him. Germany's palms were slick and cold. She canted her head at him. She was wan, lank, quiet, so very young--only twenty-two. She was a child. She had tried.
Germany thought he might love her forever, just for having tried.
"I want you to know," he said again, quieter. "I read your pamphlets."
Her eyes widened, and she drew in a breath. "You are--"
"I can't do anything to help you," he interrupted her. He didn't look at the matron. He outranked anyone she was ever likely to meet. He didn't think she would report him. He felt her stare beating against the side of his face all the same.
Sophie jerked forward, grabbed his wrist, and breathed, "We just wanted to help you."
The matron grabbed Sophie by the shoulder and dragged her back, pulled her away from him, further down the hall, into that wide swatch of sunlight. Germany heaved dark, quiet breaths.
Sophie craned a look over her shoulder. "You read them--you promise that you read them--"
He couldn't work the wet back into his throat fast enough: he said nothing. He just stared at her. They turned another corner, and Sophie disappeared.
Rang--bang.
Germany had taken a few steps after her without knowing himself, and now that too-warm sunlight prickled him all over.
His first thought, after the grey-orange ache faded from behind his sinuses: he had a meeting in half an hour.
He took a step back, collected himself, took deep breaths. Forced the blank back into his eyes. It was getting harder every day. Planted his hat back on his head, tidied up a few displaced strands of hair.
He left the prison, the echoes of his own bootfalls ringing in his ears.
He could not even afford to stay until the blade fell.
+++
--Sophie Scholl and the White Rose. Hans and Sophie Scholl (brother and sister) are two of the most beloved figures in Germany.
+++
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!
Sophie Scholl was a core member of the White Rose, an underground resistance movement which put out pamphlets entreating the German people to rise up against Hitler. Nearly all of them were eventually captured and killed. On the day of Sophie's execution, Germany takes the immense risk of going to meet her in person.
Genre: Drama/Tragedy.
1943. PG-13 in content; probably R in spirit.
Here guys, have some Germany =/= the Nazi Party fic. It's pretty short. Also, if you friended me after seeing Stick Theater a couple days ago, I HOPE YOU LIKE MOOD WHIPLASH.
---
He didn't know why he was here.
Sunshine poured in through the high windows cut into the concrete walls. Grey floors. Bootfalls. The rang and bang of barred doors as they rattled open and closed, open and closed.
There was no reason for him to be here. Everything was out of his hands. Germany held his hat in both hands and stood rigid, eyes forward, eyes blank. He stood on the median line, where sunlight fell across the hall. His left side glowed warmer than his right.
It was too warm. He concentrated on that. The heat, all down one side. It was uncomfortable. His neck--too warm. And the glare fell in his eye.
He didn't move.
He had attended her trial. Their trial.
He shouldn't be here. It was dangerous for him to be here.
Sophie, her brother, Probst--
Aiding the enemy. High treason. Defaming the Fuhrer.
A quiet courtroom. Heads bowed. No eyes met.
He shouldn't be here.
It had stank like sweat, Germany remembered. Too many bodies, too tight a space. A warm day. Rank sweat. The man who had been seated behind him had a throat condition, and he had cleared it into the back of Germany's hair every thirty seconds. The muscles in Germany's neck had clenched every time. After a few minutes, he had started counting the intervals.
The defense had asked no questions. They were always guilty. The Fuhrer required that they be guilty. Sophie and the others--had not cried when the verdict was read. Not even Probst, who would leave behind three infant children. Sophie had gone pale; Hans had gone red. That was all.
The sun descended. Germany felt the median of light creep leftwards across the bridge of his nose.
He had arranged this detour with care: half an hour extra had been allotted to his previous meeting, his next one pushed back, and he should still be able to make it there early. But it was possible there had been some delay within the prison: Germany could not afford to be missed.
Maybe she had panicked. Tried to recant. Thrown down more evidence as a barrier between herself and the guillotine. Her testimony would be sufficient to delay them. She would have expected more time before her execution. The shock--the news, that she would die today--perhaps her sterling silence had been broken. For a reprieve--it was possible that she had talked.
No. Not Sophie.
The bars, the walls, the table of the guillotine--the warden had wanted Germany to see it--everything was painted white, white, white. The sunlight raised a glow upon it all like Italy gave to angel's wings.
The door opened, around the corner. Rang--bang. Germany's heart constricted. He swallowed, careful. Eyes forward: he had to remember to keep his eyes forward, even when no one could see him.
The matron came around the corner, leading Sophie Scholl. Germany stepped forward.
"Stop." His best flat voice of command. The one that made Italy's knees lock up.
The two women stopped. The matron blinked at his command bars. Sophie smoothed down her skirt and met his eyes, calm.
Germany's throat felt dry again. He got out, "I read your pamphlets."
An uncertain flicker went through Sophie's expression. She glanced at the matron, then back at him. Germany's palms were slick and cold. She canted her head at him. She was wan, lank, quiet, so very young--only twenty-two. She was a child. She had tried.
Germany thought he might love her forever, just for having tried.
"I want you to know," he said again, quieter. "I read your pamphlets."
Her eyes widened, and she drew in a breath. "You are--"
"I can't do anything to help you," he interrupted her. He didn't look at the matron. He outranked anyone she was ever likely to meet. He didn't think she would report him. He felt her stare beating against the side of his face all the same.
Sophie jerked forward, grabbed his wrist, and breathed, "We just wanted to help you."
The matron grabbed Sophie by the shoulder and dragged her back, pulled her away from him, further down the hall, into that wide swatch of sunlight. Germany heaved dark, quiet breaths.
Sophie craned a look over her shoulder. "You read them--you promise that you read them--"
He couldn't work the wet back into his throat fast enough: he said nothing. He just stared at her. They turned another corner, and Sophie disappeared.
Rang--bang.
Germany had taken a few steps after her without knowing himself, and now that too-warm sunlight prickled him all over.
His first thought, after the grey-orange ache faded from behind his sinuses: he had a meeting in half an hour.
He took a step back, collected himself, took deep breaths. Forced the blank back into his eyes. It was getting harder every day. Planted his hat back on his head, tidied up a few displaced strands of hair.
He left the prison, the echoes of his own bootfalls ringing in his ears.
He could not even afford to stay until the blade fell.
+++
--Sophie Scholl and the White Rose. Hans and Sophie Scholl (brother and sister) are two of the most beloved figures in Germany.
+++
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!