The White Ribbon

The White Ribbon

By: Emma Jones

August 1929

Marburg, Germany 

Golden rays of sunshine spilled across the field. 

Dragonflies danced overhead, dipping in and out of the wheat stalks. 

Reaching out, I ran my fingers over soft heads of the wheat. 

Thank You, Lord, for beauty.

Today was my thirteenth birthday, and I felt older than ever. Which I guess I was, but I was a teenager, and Vater said a teenager was as good as an adult. I’d be expected to pull my weight around the house, start earning money, and pretty soon I’d be providing for my own family. 

Not that I was old enough for marriage, but Vater said I’d be there soon enough and should prepare. 

I’d agreed with him, but the only girls I liked were Mutter and my little sister. I didn’t need any other girl. 

Not yet, at least. 

But for Mutter and Marta, I’d do anything. 

“Robby! Catch me!” Marta stood a few paces ahead, two braids tied together with a white ribbon. 

Well, almost anything. Did teenagers play tag?

“Please!” She must’ve seen my hesitation. For a seven-year-old, she was pretty smart. 

“Well, I dunno—seems kinda dangerous to me.” The tops of wheat were soft, but the stalks were pokey and scratched like crazy. 

She put on a fake pout. “Just chase me, will you? Please?”

“Even if it’s not safe?”

“It’s safe! And besides, if I get hurt you’ll help me.” Her smile was enough to melt butter.

“Yeah, well. Let’s not let it get to the point of needing help, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on!”

Her pink dress flapped on the breeze. Sometimes I wondered if she was why the word colour had been made up. Her hair was yellow, her cheeks were rosy-red, and her eyes were blue. 

Yeah, she was colourful alright.

“But I promised…”

“You’ll protect me, I know!” She glanced back, eyes twinkling. “I trust you.”

Something in me wanted to protect her way more than she’d ever know. Being an older brother was a task God had entrusted me with and I wasn’t about to fail. 

But a wheat field couldn’t be that dangerous, so…

I grinned. 

“One, two—” 

She sprinted away, playfully screaming, arms waving madly. 

“Three, here I come!” Kicking up dirt, I raced after Marta, relishing the strength, life and sunshine God had gifted me with. 

Chasing her across the field, we ran straight towards the sunset. 

Brilliant reds, blues, purples, pinks and oranges lit the sky, saying goodbye to another day. 

Thank you, Lord, for colour.  

November 1942

Marburg, Germany

“Marta.” My voice was less than a whisper. 

No lampposts shone tonight. 

The houses lining the streets were black. 

The windows were black. 

The sidewalk was black.

Even the moon was hidden behind a thick curtain of clouds. The blackness was unsettling. Was this a type of judgement? Had to be.

Lord, help us. Thank You there’s no moon out tonight. Keep us safe, please. 

Something touched my arm. I flinched. 

Turning, I stared into Marta’s face. 

Wearing a black overcoat, face smudged with soot, she smiled without her teeth. Good. The whites of her teeth would be too bright if she smiled fully.

Handing me the pouch, she leaned back into the wall, melting into the stone. 

That was when I saw it. 

The white ribbon. Why was she wearing her white ribbon? 

Reaching out, I tugged at it, stuffing the ray of light into my pocket. 

She glared at me, but I shrugged, shaking my head. 

It was for her good. Why wear black when a beacon was on your head?

She shouldn’t be here. If I’d been more careful, she never would’ve followed me and discovered my radio. 

But once she’d figured it out, who was I to say no? Besides, I couldn’t risk her getting angry and turning against me. Not that she would. She was my sister.

But in times like this, I couldn’t trust anyone. 

Except the Lord.

Delivering a note only took one person, but she’d followed, just like she’d always done. 

Only this wasn’t a wheat-field. This was gestapo-infested Marburg. 

The thought of what they could do to her brought dinner up my throat. I swallowed it down. 

She touched my arm again, motioning to something. A guard passed down the sidewalk. 

I mouthed the words ‘stay here’. She nodded, and did something with her eyes. It looked like she rolled them. Then she smiled again, only with her mouth. 

I squeezed her hand.

Please, keep her safe, Lord. 

Once the Gestapo passed, I silently counted to five. Pressing myself against the building, I inched towards the back door. 

Cool bricks pricked my fingers, and granules of stone crumbled to the sidewalk. Only the distant sound of marching boots could be heard. 

Even the birds were scared to come out. 

Reaching house three, I turned the handle, glanced both ways, then stepped inside. 

Books. 

The smell of hundreds of books, decades of dust, and tangy mold filled my senses. 

But no light. No colour. 

And no sound. 

Except the ticking of a clock. 

I waited, heart beating so hard it felt my throat would explode. 

Then a gun shot and a scream. 

I froze, specks of light illuminating my vision. 

Marta! 

Dropping the pouch, I raced out the back door. She wasn’t there. Why wasn’t she there? 

Heart in my throat, I clung to the side of the building as I searched the street.

Just off the sidewalk, a guard stood with a gun over a body dressed in a cloak. 

Blood splattered the pavement. 

Red. 

The guard locked eyes with me. Speckles of white dotted my vision and burning blood flowed through my veins. My hands shook.

Before I could charge, he held up his gun, aimed and fired. 

Someone grabbed me from behind, dragging me around the corner. 

But it was too late. 

All the colour had gone. 

I’d failed her. I’d failed Marta. My sister. 

The ache in my leg was nothing compared to the twisting, piercing, crushed feeling in my heart. 

She’d trusted me.

“Help…help her…quick…!”

But whoever had grabbed me did nothing. I tried to get away, but they held me down. 

Lord, help her. Please. 

But I knew…she was gone. 

The Lord had taken her home, to the place where everything was always colourful.

Always golden. 

And that was when my world went completely black. 

August 1952

Marburg, Germany

A little girl, cheeks pink with exertion, two pony tails bobbing, raced through a wheat field. 

Golden.

She danced in a circle, waving Marta’s white ribbon.

My wife, Isabella, strolled with me, hand resting in the crook of my elbow. 

Everything smelled like bright flowers. 

I kissed the top of Isabella’s head, breathing in the moment. 

It was a gift from the Lord. 

Sometimes He gave it, and sometimes He took it away. But God was always good, and I could trust Him. 

So could Marta. She’d been with the Lord nearly ten years now, and it was incredible to think of the vibrancy of the colour she was experiencing. 

One day, I’d be there. And Isabella. And we prayed all our children would believe in Christ too. 

Because He died for sinners like us.

But in the meantime, the Lord had restored colour. He’d forgiven our sins, ended the war, and given us each other.

Sunshine spilled over my wife’s hair and daughter’s floral dress.

And that was when I was struck by what a gift it was. 

Colour.