Traute Lafrenz showed that resistance to the Nazis was possible
The last member of the White Rose group died on March 6th, aged 103
This article is part of our Summer reads series. Visit the full collection for book lists, guest essays and more seasonal distractions.
The leaflets are called Flugblätter in German: “flying sheets of paper”. And on that February morning in 1943, they did just that. The students had been carrying so many in their suitcase—perhaps 1,800—far too many to deliver safely. And so in high spirits, or maybe foolishness, they had just thrown the rest over the balustrade into the grand atrium of Munich University below. Down fell the leaflets begging their “Fellow Students!” to stand up to the Nazis. Down, like snow, fluttered the leaflets raging against the “godless, shameless” Nazis. Down, down fell the leaflets bearing the cry: “Freedom and honour!”
The Gestapo, when they finally arrested Traute Lafrenz, would ask her about those leaflets. Did she know about them? Yes, she said, now they mentioned it, she did. Her friend Hans had shown her one. And did she understand, the Gestapo asked, that such a leaflet was subversive material? Of course, Traute understood. How could she not? Her friend Hans had already been executed for them, as had his sister Sophie and her friend Christoph. Her friends were being picked off one by one. Clearly she might be next. So did she understand, the Gestapo asked? Did she understand that they were subversive? Yes, she did, she said demurely; but it had seemed harmless, really, such nonsense!
And in a way, it had been harmless at first. Later, decades later, when streets had been renamed after the White Rose group, and films made of them, and statues sculpted of them, people would start to call it an “organisation” and her a “hero”. No, she said. There was no “organisation”. There was just her friend Hans, and his sister Sophie and some other friends. And they had done the leaflets, that was true: six in all, as well as some graffiti (Hans had painted “Down With Hitler!” and “Freedom!” all over Munich). But they hadn’t just done that: there had also been walking and biking and bathing and reading Tolstoy and falling in love. And she didn’t like that word “hero”: she was no hero. Just a witness.
Later, when she was living out her long life in America, Traute would always wonder: why Hans? Why had he started all this? He had been a much better Nazi than she at first. She’d never liked the Nazis: all that “Heil Hitler-ing” and shouting at school had grated on her; when one teacher had cursed her she’d just got on her bike and gone home. But Hans had willingly joined the Hitler Youth; he’d even been a banner-carrier at a Nuremberg rally—the photos show the sort of profile Leni Riefenstahl would have lingered over. But then his unease grew; then he began the leaflets. Then he was sent to the Eastern Front. On the way, the soldiers’ train had gone through Warsaw and they had seen the ghetto. “Misery looks us in the eye,” his friend wrote. “We turn away.” Then they turned back.
For the first run of leaflets, in the summer of 1942, the students had only managed 100 copies. Then they got better, typing them out on an old Remington typewriter then hand-cranking a duplicating machine: in later runs they did 10,000. The tone of the leaflets was uncompromising. They raged at the Germans for being “a shallow, spineless herd of mindless followers”; they raged at the slaughter of Stalingrad and at the “bestial” murder of hundreds of thousands of Jews. And above all they raged at German apathy. No German, the leaflets said, could claim to be free of these “inhumane crimes”. Every German, they said, “is GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY”. And they would not let them forget it: “We are your bad conscience. The White Rose will never leave you in peace!”
Many of her friends had got involved, despite the danger. Hans just had this charisma that attracted people. It was he who had come up with the “White Rose” title too, though from where she had no idea. He’d wanted something that would resonate and the “White Rose” did—though with what she was never quite sure. Medieval ideas of pure, elevated love, perhaps? Or maybe the French revolution—hadn’t the aristocrats put white roses on their banners? That association would later gain other resonances. Because when the authorities caught Hans and tried him and found him guilty, guilty, guilty, they cut off his head with a guillotine.
She hadn’t done much, Traute was always clear on that: she’d just helped get paper and envelopes. Though they had to be careful: just buying paper was dangerous. Later, the Nazis would call their leaflets the “worst incident of highly treasonous propaganda” of the whole war. But Traute would always remember how calm Sophie had been: that January the two of them had just strolled through Ludwigstrasse, delighting in the sun and the warmth, to the stationer’s shop. There had been a horse outside and Sophie had stroked his neck. “Hey, Buddy!” she had said; then she’d walked into the shop with that same happy face. They’d cut her head off with a guillotine, too.
It had all happened so fast. On Thursday, just before Sophie threw those leaflets into the atrium, she had spotted Traute and called out to her. “Hey!” she’d said. Those ski boots Traute wanted to borrow? She should just take them, Sophie said, “in case I’m not home this afternoon.”
Sophie did not come home. The university’s caretaker had seen her throw the leaflets in the atrium; he rushed up the stairs and caught her and Hans. Their trial began on Monday morning and ended at 1pm. At 5pm, Sophie was led to the guillotine; then Hans. Just before the blade hit his neck, he had shouted out: “Long live freedom!” The whole thing was over in under ten minutes.
Traute didn’t escape; she would go to prison for a year, but she never complained: what right did she have to? But the leaflets didn’t die with her friends’ deaths. Somehow, a copy of that one from the atrium found its way out. It was taken to Norway, then to Sweden, then to England, being copied as it went. Then that July, the RAF flew copies of it to Germany and dropped them.
For the second time that year, down fell the Flugblätter; not in their hundreds this time, or in their thousands, but in their millions. Down fell the leaflets begging Germans to “Fight against the party!”; down, like snow, fell the flying pieces of paper raging against Hitler. Down, down fell the cry: “Freedom and honour!”
© 2023, The Economist Newspaper Limited. All rights reserved. From The Economist, published under licence. The original content can be found on www.economist.com
This article is part of our Summer reads series. Visit the full collection for book lists, guest essays and more seasonal distractions.
The leaflets are called Flugblätter in German: “flying sheets of paper”. And on that February morning in 1943, they did just that. The students had been carrying so many in their suitcase—perhaps 1,800—far too many to deliver safely. And so in high spirits, or maybe foolishness, they had just thrown the rest over the balustrade into the grand atrium of Munich University below. Down fell the leaflets begging their “Fellow Students!” to stand up to the Nazis. Down, like snow, fluttered the leaflets raging against the “godless, shameless” Nazis. Down, down fell the leaflets bearing the cry: “Freedom and honour!”
The Gestapo, when they finally arrested Traute Lafrenz, would ask her about those leaflets. Did she know about them? Yes, she said, now they mentioned it, she did. Her friend Hans had shown her one. And did she understand, the Gestapo asked, that such a leaflet was subversive material? Of course, Traute understood. How could she not? Her friend Hans had already been executed for them, as had his sister Sophie and her friend Christoph. Her friends were being picked off one by one. Clearly she might be next. So did she understand, the Gestapo asked? Did she understand that they were subversive? Yes, she did, she said demurely; but it had seemed harmless, really, such nonsense!
And in a way, it had been harmless at first. Later, decades later, when streets had been renamed after the White Rose group, and films made of them, and statues sculpted of them, people would start to call it an “organisation” and her a “hero”. No, she said. There was no “organisation”. There was just her friend Hans, and his sister Sophie and some other friends. And they had done the leaflets, that was true: six in all, as well as some graffiti (Hans had painted “Down With Hitler!” and “Freedom!” all over Munich). But they hadn’t just done that: there had also been walking and biking and bathing and reading Tolstoy and falling in love. And she didn’t like that word “hero”: she was no hero. Just a witness.
Later, when she was living out her long life in America, Traute would always wonder: why Hans? Why had he started all this? He had been a much better Nazi than she at first. She’d never liked the Nazis: all that “Heil Hitler-ing” and shouting at school had grated on her; when one teacher had cursed her she’d just got on her bike and gone home. But Hans had willingly joined the Hitler Youth; he’d even been a banner-carrier at a Nuremberg rally—the photos show the sort of profile Leni Riefenstahl would have lingered over. But then his unease grew; then he began the leaflets. Then he was sent to the Eastern Front. On the way, the soldiers’ train had gone through Warsaw and they had seen the ghetto. “Misery looks us in the eye,” his friend wrote. “We turn away.” Then they turned back.
For the first run of leaflets, in the summer of 1942, the students had only managed 100 copies. Then they got better, typing them out on an old Remington typewriter then hand-cranking a duplicating machine: in later runs they did 10,000. The tone of the leaflets was uncompromising. They raged at the Germans for being “a shallow, spineless herd of mindless followers”; they raged at the slaughter of Stalingrad and at the “bestial” murder of hundreds of thousands of Jews. And above all they raged at German apathy. No German, the leaflets said, could claim to be free of these “inhumane crimes”. Every German, they said, “is GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY”. And they would not let them forget it: “We are your bad conscience. The White Rose will never leave you in peace!”
Many of her friends had got involved, despite the danger. Hans just had this charisma that attracted people. It was he who had come up with the “White Rose” title too, though from where she had no idea. He’d wanted something that would resonate and the “White Rose” did—though with what she was never quite sure. Medieval ideas of pure, elevated love, perhaps? Or maybe the French revolution—hadn’t the aristocrats put white roses on their banners? That association would later gain other resonances. Because when the authorities caught Hans and tried him and found him guilty, guilty, guilty, they cut off his head with a guillotine.
She hadn’t done much, Traute was always clear on that: she’d just helped get paper and envelopes. Though they had to be careful: just buying paper was dangerous. Later, the Nazis would call their leaflets the “worst incident of highly treasonous propaganda” of the whole war. But Traute would always remember how calm Sophie had been: that January the two of them had just strolled through Ludwigstrasse, delighting in the sun and the warmth, to the stationer’s shop. There had been a horse outside and Sophie had stroked his neck. “Hey, Buddy!” she had said; then she’d walked into the shop with that same happy face. They’d cut her head off with a guillotine, too.
It had all happened so fast. On Thursday, just before Sophie threw those leaflets into the atrium, she had spotted Traute and called out to her. “Hey!” she’d said. Those ski boots Traute wanted to borrow? She should just take them, Sophie said, “in case I’m not home this afternoon.”
Sophie did not come home. The university’s caretaker had seen her throw the leaflets in the atrium; he rushed up the stairs and caught her and Hans. Their trial began on Monday morning and ended at 1pm. At 5pm, Sophie was led to the guillotine; then Hans. Just before the blade hit his neck, he had shouted out: “Long live freedom!” The whole thing was over in under ten minutes.
Traute didn’t escape; she would go to prison for a year, but she never complained: what right did she have to? But the leaflets didn’t die with her friends’ deaths. Somehow, a copy of that one from the atrium found its way out. It was taken to Norway, then to Sweden, then to England, being copied as it went. Then that July, the RAF flew copies of it to Germany and dropped them.
For the second time that year, down fell the Flugblätter; not in their hundreds this time, or in their thousands, but in their millions. Down fell the leaflets begging Germans to “Fight against the party!”; down, like snow, fell the flying pieces of paper raging against Hitler. Down, down fell the cry: “Freedom and honour!”
© 2023, The Economist Newspaper Limited. All rights reserved. From The Economist, published under licence. The original content can be found on www.economist.com
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