Nervous

He sat in my office and twiddled with his hat, not sure what to expect, this tall, lanky young man. His professor required him to meet with a librarian for consultation on a paper they are assigned, and he drew my name from the list. His email had been polite and brief.

I realized how awkward it must be for him, working with an older woman who is a total stranger. I have been fascinated with his other classmates' topics ~ women aviators in world war II, napoleon's military strategies, the influence of English police evolution on American police, how the advent of the nuclear bomb has changed our society ~ I want to hear their presentations, to explore how they see things.

I asked him the topic of his paper. He answers," The White Rose." Didn't ring a bell with me, so I asked him to tell me about it.

His eyes softened, and he spoke with quiet gentleness as he stared at his boots. It was a group of six German students who had bravely spoken against Hitler, clearly stating that what he was proposing was wrong. They passed out a few pamphlets, and paid for their beliefs with their lives. Beheaded. Guillotined. Cut down in the prime of life despite their nationality.

I am fascinated, drawn in to his research, on the hunt. Motivated as much by my curiosity as by the fire I see in his eyes, we explore databases for clues. I go beyond what I have done for others. Something about his connection to this project. What do I read in his attitude? A hunger, an intensity, a yearning to understand what drove those young students, undoubtedly his own age, to do what they did. Did they know they would give their lives for speaking an unpopular truth? Would they still have spoken out? Their cause was right and in the end, truth won out. Could they have made their case differently, with less dire results? He will settle for no less than truth. Hans Scholl, the leader, would be proud.

Do I sense that this young man identifies in some way with them? How will their story shape his life? It is as if he knows something important about this story, something necessary to a part of his own life. He connects with each article and book with an almost visceral satisfaction as we gather information. He will write a dynamic paper. I tell him I would like to read it when he is done. He grins a crooked, shy smile and nods as he shuffles that printouts together and gathers up his stuff.

Perhaps there is hope for this generation after all.