A White Rose for Sophie

She died 8 years before I was born.
Had she lived, she’d be 88 years old now.

Our lives were separated by time, space and events, yet I don’t think I’ve ever felt more of a connection to anyone.
Would we have been friends, I wonder.
More than friends?
What integrity she had.
What courage.
Could I have matched her courage?
I don’t know.


I can’t think of her without tears coming to my eyes. Not the kind of tears you shed for a young girl’s life brutally cut short.
But the kind of tears you might shed when you listen to King speak about his dream, or when you hear beautiful music beautifully played; when an underdog wins the title; when a firefighter makes a daring rescue; when somebody stands up unafraid and tells the truth; whenever somebody, somewhere stands up for what’s right and strikes a blow against what’s wrong in this world
It’s pride.
Not in what people are.
But in what they sometimes rise to be.
And it’s humility, too. I ask myself, what have I done, what will I do, that would put me in the same league as this young woman.
Our battle is the same battle.

Sophie Scholl joined her brother and a few friends, calling themselves “The White Rose,” to produce and distribute a series of anti-Hitler leaflets right under the nose of the SS in Munich.
She was only 22 years old in 1943 when she was executed for high treason only a few hours after a quick trial.
No appeals in a Nazi court.
No habeus corpus.

Witness say she went valiantly to the guillotine with these last words:

"How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause. Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?"

I wonder, sometimes what she was feeling when this photo was taken.
Sometimes, I think I feel it, too.

sj



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