Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  EDELWEISS

  Madge Swindells

  © Madge Swindells 1993

  Madge Swindells has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1993 by Little, Brown and Company.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s note

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Part Two

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Author’s note

  Edelweiss was the name of a Catholic student resistance group founded in Bavaria prior to the war. Broken up many times by Gestapo informers, the students re-formed and similar groups sprang up all over Germany. Organisations like The White Rose, the Werner Steinbrink movement, the Alfred Schmidt-Sas group, Die Meute in Leipzig, the Kittelbach Piraten in the Ruhr, the 07 Group in Munich and the Anti-Nazi Verband in the foothills of the Alps, opposed the Nazis every way they could.

  Three months before Adolf Hitler took power as Chancellor of Germany, on 30 January 1933, over sixty-five per cent of the German population voted against the Nazis. For them, the next twelve years became a time of agony. As freedom of speech and individual rights were swept away, the Nazis introduced a system of control, based on a network of informers, that bound the population in a web of fear. The people became cogs in the mighty German war machine that goose-stepped through Europe from the Atlantic to the Volga.

  ‘My country right or wrong’, was the patriotic spirit of the age, but amongst German youth a new concept was dawning . . . that an individual’s first responsibility was to God and to justice, that no one should obey laws that were immoral, and that a corrupt government must be challenged. These thoughts were like beams of pure white light in the stygian darkness of the Nazi era, but they brought savage reprisals upon those who dared to say: ‘This is wrong.’

  So widespread was the youths’ underground opposition to the Nazis that a concentration camp, called Neuwied, was hastily established for ‘subversive’ students, while a special youth section was created in the RSHA (headquarters of the Gestapo, or secret police) in Prinz Albrechtstrasse, Berlin.

  Many were executed, thousands were imprisoned, but the spirit of Edelweiss could not be destroyed and eventually the Edelweiss flower became the symbol of student resistance throughout Germany.

  This story is about the Edelweiss students and what they did in those twelve terrible years. Although the characters are fictitious, the thoughts and deeds and courage belong to those who died and those few who survived the concentration camps.

  Edelweiss became a cry for freedom.

  Part One

  September 1937 – September 1942

  Chapter One

  It was a glorious autumn morning, the air cool and sparkling, the sky clear blue, and the distant peaks of the Bayerische Alpen shone dazzling white in the sunlight. When the train entered the forest the sunlight shone in scattered beams on russet and brown leaves through drifting mist. Bill Roth, standing quietly by the open window, experienced a sudden sharp pang of nostalgia for boyhood days of hiking through forests and mountains. His dark blue eyes gazed moodily at the scene and at that moment he saw himself as his own prisoner, caught up in a self-imposed, obsessive mission. He longed to get off at the next station and tramp through the forest, but he had set himself a tight schedule. I’ll take a break and come back, he told himself, but he knew that he would not. There was always another pressing story to write, a new lead, some major crisis that he had to cover, and never enough time. Then the train shot out of the forest into blinding light and patches of snow and the mood was lost.

  Bill’s destination was a village outside Hallein, not far from Salzburg. During a chance encounter with a nurse the previous weekend, he had stumbled upon a brilliant lead. The nurse had heard rumours . . . nothing firm, mind you, but the hospital was full of Gestapo officers and there had been an internal inquiry. Even she had been questioned, although she worked in the geriatric ward. A day spent on the telephone had thrown up enough evidence to make the trip seem worthwhile to Bill.

  As the train began to slow, Bill glanced at his watch. It was almost 10 a.m. He put on his tie and jacket and gathered his gear together. Most of his bag was full of equipment: a camera, folding tripod, flashgun, special lenses and a notebook. Other than that he had a change of underwear, a volume of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, to pass a couple of lonely evenings, and his hiking boots. Who knows, he might get some time to himself.

  The station master eyed him curiously as he stepped off the train. Bill was well over six foot and lean, with a loose-limbed, loping walk. His dark hair was short, his clothes were foreign and casual. Noting the watchful eyes and rugged, sun-tanned face, he labelled him American, and probably a journalist. He had a shrewd idea why he had come here.

  Bill was aware of the scrutiny, but pretended not to notice. The inn was only ten minutes down the road, the porter told him, so he set off, enjoying the walk.

  When he reached the place, a pretty, Alpine chalet with dark wooden beams and overhanging windows, he heard the sound of children’s voices. His steps
quickened and he realised for the first time that he had not really believed the rumours. Skirting the building he paused by a low gate, watchful and intent. In the garden five youngsters were squabbling over a swing, one was crippled. Could it be them?

  ‘Don’t fight,’ he heard someone say softly, in a low voice. ‘You know it’s Bertl’s turn. Push her gently, don’t frighten her. That’s better.’

  The speaker, who had her back turned to him, was sitting on a low tree stump. She was hugging her knees, and he could see her slim waist, flaring to boyish hips and the graceful long curve of her neck. Her hat, blouse and skirt were of blue linen, and several dark blonde curly locks had escaped from the confines of her hat. He experienced a sudden instinct that when she turned she would look as lovely as he imagined her to be.

  When she did turn, Bill gasped. He had never before seen such a striking woman. Her face was too wide to be classically beautiful, her eyebrows were too thick, slanting up like bat wings, her nose too snub, her mouth too wide, but still she was lovely. Her eyes were deep blue, the most tantalising eyes he had ever seen, so that for a moment he felt overwhelmed by her and stood rudely staring. It made her scowl at him.

  ‘Please forgive me for intruding,’ he blurted out, without noticing that he had spoken in English. ‘I’m Bill Roth, freelance reporter from Berlin . . . The truth is . . . I heard rumours . . . forgive me . . .’ He sounded like a bumbling schoolboy and he cursed himself for being so gauche. He began again in German.

  ‘We can speak in English. It makes no difference, none at all,’ she interrupted. ‘What do you mean, rumours? Where did you hear about us. We have been so awfully careful.’

  Her English was perfect, her pronunciation too perfect. Her skin was smooth and glowing with just a sprinkling of freckles over her nose. Her lips were full and wide and a second ago, one side of her mouth had tilted up, as if in a half-smile. Yes, she was definitely smiling at him now. That was encouraging. He struggled to concentrate.

  ‘Someone who works at the hospital . . . a friend . . . tipped me off.’

  ‘And you came all this way on a rumour? What dedication! But what exactly are you dedicated to, Mr Roth?’

  ‘Exposing the Nazis for what they really are . . . not the false face they show the press.’

  ‘Then we have something in common. I don’t know how much you know, but I am not alone and I have to get permission to talk to you. That might take a while. You probably know that I am stuck here without exit permits, they confiscated them while they make up their minds what to do with us, so we can meet later, if you like.’

  ‘I guess I should book in, anyway,’ Bill said. He reluctantly turned away. After depositing his bag in a clean but primitive bedroom, he wandered around the inn and the village, which consisted of three cobbled streets, but he didn’t see the woman or the children in her charge.

  After lunch he came across her sitting on a chintz sofa outside the children’s bedroom. Mellow light, reflected from the low ceiling, glistened on her lustrous skin and shone in her eyes. A thin gold chain hung around her long neck and she was fingering the pearl that hung from it with sensitive, restless fingers. She was trapped here, yet she remained calm and docile and he wondered just how much strength that took. The door was open and she put her finger to her lips.

  ‘Shh! They’re sleeping,’ she whispered.

  ‘May I?’ She nodded and flushed slightly as he sat beside her. ‘I’m hoping you’ll tell me your name,’ he began.

  ‘To a reporter? That would be foolish of me, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Not even if I promise never to use it in my story?’

  ‘Oh, so you do have a story, do you?’

  ‘Only if you have permission to talk to me. Do you?’

  She hesitated. ‘You may write about the children and their predicament. I’m going to take them for walk when they wake. You can come with us if you like. We’ll leave from the back door in about half an hour. They like going through the orchard because the innkeeper lets them eat his fruit. You may photograph the children. In fact, Mr Roth, my superiors know about you and they seem to think that you are just what we need . . . a world platform to help us bargain with the authorities.’

  Bill went to fetch his camera.

  Half an hour later, while the children were munching apples in the orchard, she turned to him and said, ‘How lovely they look. So normal, so happy. You must describe them just as you see them, Mr Roth. Write about why they had to leave Germany.’

  ‘Bill . . .’

  ‘All right, Bill it is. I’ll try not to be emotional, but it really hurts . . . these children . . . these harmless, helpless little mites . . .’ She broke off and bit her lip, and Bill pondered again on the very Englishness of her words.

  After a while she took a deep breath. ‘Sorry! Let me try again. These orphans would have been put to death by the Nazis because they’re not quite up to Aryan standards. We were able to obtain permission from some of their nearest relatives to remove them from the country. It took time . . . and time almost ran out. One is Austrian by birth, three have living relatives, one has a guardian . . . the whole matter is very complex and we were almost too late, so finally we simply snatched the children from the hospital. The Red Cross are waiting on the Austrian side of the border at Salzburg to take the children to Zurich, but the authorities have cancelled our travel permits. I was forced to leave the train at Salzburg, so I came here to wait.’

  ‘Tell me about the children.’

  In response she beckoned the children to her side. ‘This is Heike, and she’s two years old.’ Then added in a whisper, ‘She’s epileptic.’

  Bill looked at the sweet blonde girl with a freckled face and winning smile and tried to smile, but his lips seemed to have frozen. He had difficulty trying to be relaxed as the children were introduced to him in turn. Dieter, five, was crippled, his right leg twisted and ending in a club foot, forcing him to walk on his toes and setting his spine askew. Chubby, lovable, wistful Hermann was nearly blind and his snub nose almost touched ‘Auntie’ each time he spoke to her. Bertl, six, seemed normal, but she was also epileptic. Inge was clearly retarded, at six she behaved like a toddler and Bill was touched to see how gently ‘Auntie’ looked after her. Bill was well aware that the Nazis could arrive at any moment and take the children back to the hospital and then to the gas chamber. And what would be the fate of this heroic girl?

  ‘They were taken from various orphanages to a hospital for tests and documentation prior to euthanasia,’ she was saying. ‘We kidnapped them. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘And how did you get them out of hospital?’

  ‘I can’t answer that question, except to say that there are many of us. So now we wait here while the Church battles with the State. You have probably guessed that the Archbishop of Munich is behind this. He detests the Nazis’ euthanasia laws, but you must not name him in your story.’

  They walked for a while enjoying the hot afternoon sunshine and the birdsong, while the children were enchanted by the antics of the squirrels, and Bill took photographs of their play.

  There were berries in the brambles which Bill picked for them and the ‘girl in blue’, as he’d decided to call her since she refused to tell him her name, poured lemonade from a flask she’d carried in a knapsack. She was so young, he thought, watching her playing tag with the children, and too vulnerable. She needed looking after herself and he felt irrationally responsible for her.

  ‘Listen,’ he said anxiously, as they turned back towards the Inn. ‘I’m sure I can help you. I can call on the assistance of the American Embassy. I have good contacts. And you must move away from here, they know where you are . . . you’re sitting ducks . . . please,’ he pleaded. ‘Let me help.’

  ‘Just write your story, Bill,’ she said. ‘Make it so poignant that your readers erupt in fury and their governments can’t ignore what is happening. The Third Reich won’t dare to push their fanaticism in the face of world crit
icism.’

  She shyly refused his invitation to dinner. She was tired, she said. She would sleep in the children’s room and she wanted them to go to bed early.

  Bill let her go, full of fears for this extraordinary young woman. The Third Reich would make an implacable enemy, she might survive this time, because the Archbishop was a powerful man, but from now on she would be a marked woman.

  Despite his professional armour of a newspaperman, Bill had fallen under the spell of this enchanting girl. It was not only her beauty that had captivated him, but the humour which shone in her eyes, and the goodness that was all about her. He was awed by her courage.

  *

  Bill couldn’t sleep, what he had learned that afternoon had left him tense and brooding. He tried to write the outline of his story, but he could not get to grips with the concept of killing children . . . it was far beyond his understanding, macabre and utterly unbelievable.

  Perhaps he should start the story by describing the girl who was defying the mighty Third Reich? Could he write that she was as kind and brave as she was lovely? That she joked in the face of mortal danger? No. That would be melodramatic.

  Or should he write about the five little children and how they had trembled so fearfully at the sight of the SS guards they had seen in the distance, guarding the station?

  Or perhaps he should begin with the Archbishop of Munich and his courageous, outspoken denunciation of the programme of euthanasia from the pulpit of his cathedral, week after week? How he had encouraged Catholics to stand up and be counted and do all they could to stop this unholy programme.

  Bill had known about the Nazis’ insane ‘mercy killings’ for some time. The Law on the Protection of Hereditary Health was part of the Nazi concept of breeding a pure ‘master race’ by eliminating those they considered unfit. This operation, known as T4, was confined to the incurably handicapped and mentally deficient and it aimed to cleanse the racial stock. There had been plenty of rumours recently, triggered off by the unexpected deaths of mental patients in hospital, but there was never any proof as the bodies were not made available to relatives for postmortem, because they had been sent for cremation.