Dangerous Presses: Volume I
This is a collection of stories about the rebels and revolutionaries who used printing to alter the course of history. It is a chronicle of those who understood that the mark you leave on the world is only as strong as the intent used to strike it.
We begin in Munich, 1943.
The White Rose – Part One.
It’s dark outside.
I can hear the gentle tap of rain on the kitchen windowpane.
It’s too lonely for most people,
without the hum of the day.
Before doors open and engines turn.
Tea. Silence.
Time to think.
Things to order.
Paper.Cutting sticks.
The kettle boils and turns itself off.
Munich, 17 February 1943
It’s cold.
The cellar at 77 Leopoldstraße smells of spirit.
Cigarette smoke curls towards the ceiling and clings to the air.
A pot of grain coffee is passed around the small group of friends.
Alexander jokes about the disgusting taste.
Sophie laughs.
Hans checks his watch and turns the handle.
Swish.
Thump.
There’s paper stacked, waiting.
Printed sheets are drying.
Some of the sheets carry fingerprints.
Evidence of their work.
Schubert’s Trout Quintet is playing on the gramophone.
The trill of the woodwind is quiet enough to stay inside the walls.
Loud enough to soften the clatter of the mimeograph duplicator.
Hans is in charge.
Swish.
Thump.
Sophie sits on the floor with her back to the wall, paper spread around her.
She lifts each one by its corners, so as not to smudge the ink.
Between the stacks, she writes a letter to her friend, Lisa Remppis.
She blows cigarette smoke between her pursed lips.
“In that piece of Schubert’s… one can really feel and smell the breezes and scents of nature… One can’t help rejoicing and laughing, however much one feels like weeping.”
Ordinary words.
Small talk between friends.
Her 22nd birthday is not far away.
Swish.
Thump.
Hans doesn’t look up as he turns the crank at a steady, even pace.
Willi is concentrating on feeding the paper into the machine so it doesn’t jam.
Alexander checks a printed sheet again, squinting under the single architect’s desk lamp.
The cellar is full of smoke. Music. And treason.
About Dangerous presses
I’m writing ‘Dangerous Presses’ because I believe the tools we use define the truth of what we say. If you’re a maker who still believes in the power of the physical mark, you’re in the right place. We aren’t just printing boxes here; we’re continuing a tradition of craft that refuses to be silenced by the ‘good enough’ crowd.
