Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  No one seemed to know how to stop it until now. Perhaps this group had found a way. If so, Bill feared for the only one of their members he had met.

  He dozed off into a restless sleep and woke much later to the soft clip-clop of hooves on the cobbles outside his window. He looked out but everything was obscured by the thick mountain mist. In the morning he learned that the girl and the children had left. He questioned the innkeeper, who feigned ignorance.

  ‘They’ve left, that’s all I know,’ he said. ‘Their bill was paid in advance, so they were free to leave if they wanted to.’

  Bill tried to convince himself that he wasn’t the least bit depressed. After all, he had his story.

  Chapter Two

  Bill Roth returned to Berlin still in awe of the bravery of the girl in blue. He made inquiries through the Red Cross and learned that the children had arrived safely in Switzerland. Then he filed his story and tried to put it out of his mind. There was so much work to do, so many leads.

  Until now Bill had been living out of suitcases and working from seedy hotel rooms all over Europe, but increasingly in Berlin. This was where the news was. He had been self-supporting for some months and he knew it was high time he found an apartment in Berlin. He was lucky to find something suitable not far from the Kurfürstendamm in Kantstrasse; five rooms plus a kitchen and bathroom, overlooking the park and dam. It was old, but the large rooms appealed to Bill and he happily signed the lease.

  He was far too busy to furnish or refurbish the place, instead he asked his friends to recommend a good interior decorator. Taube Bloomberg was at home when he telephoned, and she agreed to come and see him later that day.

  Before she arrived a telegram came in from Reuters in New York, asking Bill to cover the Spanish Civil War. Their regular man had been shot. They would get a permanent replacement out soon, but they could not promise a date. For Bill, this was a chance in a million.

  When Taube Bloomberg walked in, he was already packed and itching to leave. He tried not to show his impatience as he sat down to talk to her. She was slender, poised and beautiful in a Mediterranean way, with long black hair swept up on her head. She was wearing a superbly tailored grey suit, a white lace blouse, grey suede shoes and carrying a large briefcase. Bill could see from her scrap book that she was right at the top of her profession, although she didn’t look much more than twenty-eight. She was too good and expensive for him, Bill felt. He told her so bluntly, but it seemed Miss Bloomberg wanted the job.

  ‘I’d thought of dividing it like this.’ He took out a rough pencilled sketch. ‘Two offices, for myself and a secretary, plus a bedroom, a lounge and a spare bedroom. Make it cheap and light,’ he said. ‘Oh and try for a telephone. Two lines if you can. If possible have them installed before I return.’

  She stared at him with her mouth open. ‘You must give me some idea of price . . . give me a limit.’

  Bill wrote out a cheque. ‘That’s the limit,’ he said, then hesitated before continuing, ‘Look . . . I hate to ask, but could you do me a favour and put an advertisement in the paper for a secretary, shorthand typing in German and English, long hours, knowledge of French, responsible person, that sort of thing?’

  Taube Bloomberg nodded.

  Bill picked up his gear and left.

  *

  Bill’s footsteps had hardly faded out of earshot, when Taube burst into tears of relief. In the past few months she had walked her feet off trying to get any sort of a job. Her own profession was barred to her, because she was a Jewess. She could take only menial work, but no one wanted to employ an untrained woman even as a maid. Recently, centres had been set up to teach Jewish girls laundry, sewing, and cooking. Taube had been prepared to suffer this ‘re-education programme’, for the sake of her parents, but she wasn’t prepared to stop trying for something better.

  Now Bill Roth had given her a job. Was he Jewish? No, she thought, probably not, but he wasn’t the usual Anglo-Saxon type. His skin was darker, his dark brown hair was cut short and brushed back vigorously, but this had not eradicated the tight waves. He had a brooding, intent look about him: his long bony face might have seemed harsh if it weren’t for the warmth in his blue eyes, and the lurking smile around his sensuous lips. He was good-looking in a way, but shy. She guessed him to be around twenty-four.

  He’d rescued her, there was no doubt about that. There and then, she vowed that his apartment would be the best thing she had ever undertaken.

  *

  Count Frederick von Burgheim, Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs, paced his office in Plechy Palace, Vienna, before turning abruptly to face his daughter, only to step back before her implacable gaze. How stubborn she was; her chin was tilted up, her eyes were wide open, but giving nothing away, while her lips curled on one side into a half-smile as she scanned his face in silence. She would say nothing, he knew that, and wait for him to trap himself. When he did, she would pounce and it would be over. He could not help thinking that if he had not loved her so desperately he might have brought her up with more respect for her elders and betters.

  He tried again. ‘Our family has the misfortune to be always under public scrutiny. As my daughter, your behaviour must be exemplary at all times. A month ago you involved our family in a confrontation with a friendly, neighbouring state. Your behaviour was unacceptable, even for a matter of . . . compassion.’ Still that silent stare with just a touch of scorn in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but your choice of words . . . “friendly neighbouring state”. Well, really. I’ve heard you describing the Nazis quite differently.’

  The Count eyed his daughter warily. He thawed a little as she put her arm around his waist and hugged him.

  ‘Let’s forget the lecture, Father. You would have done the same in my shoes. Why not admit it?’

  ‘No . . . never. I’m too old to be so headstrong, or so foolish. You begged me to give you four years . . .’

  ‘I didn’t beg. I never beg . . .’

  ‘You wanted to drop your title and live like any ordinary student, but I warned you that the spotlight would always be on you. Hitler has vowed to destroy the Habsburgs and he will not hesitate to crush you . . . us . . . if you openly oppose the New Order in Germany. It would be better for you to go to England . . .’

  ‘But, my friends—’

  ‘Don’t interrupt . . . learn to co-exist. Close your eyes to what you don’t like, as I must. That is how the Habsburgs survived, by compromising—’

  ‘. . . by compromising their moral integrity?’ she asked innocently. ‘For us Habsburgs, expediency counts more than morality? Is that what you’re saying?’

  The Count felt his anger rising and struggled to control himself. He took a deep breath. ‘What I’m saying is keep out of trouble. And in particular keep out of the press.’ He flung a newspaper across his desk.

  It was the Chicago Herald.

  Special report from Bill Roth, in Salzburg, she read, and then gasped as she turned the page and saw a large photograph of herself with the children. It had been taken in the orchard. Admittedly she had her back turned to the camera, but her clothes and her watch had revealed her identity to her father, but surely to no one else, she thought with a sigh of relief. One who dares . . . the headline read. Munich’s Catholic Students back the Cardinal’s protest against euthanasia . . .

  She had a sudden vivid recall of that friendly American journalist with his expressive, sensitive face and kind blue eyes. When had he taken that shot? She had thought he’d only photographed the children. ‘At least it doesn’t show my face,’ she said, looking up apprehensively.

  With his head bent forward, his huge brown eyes peering from under his wide, wrinkled brow, his lopsided face topped with thick, tousled black hair, her father looked like a tired old bull awaiting the coup de grâce. She melted instantly. Crouching beside him, she flung her arms around his neck. ‘I’m sorry I worried you, Father, but what els
e could I do? It’s not only me. There’s a few of us, and they were going to gas the children. Can you believe that?’

  ‘I can believe anything, nowadays. I want you out of Germany.’

  She wasn’t listening, he could see that. Her fingers were clutching the newspaper as she reread the report. The Count eyed his daughter apprehensively. His fears were heightened when she blushed and gazed up guiltily. ‘He’s a very good writer,’ she said softly. ‘A highly intelligent man. I liked him.’

  ‘Marietta,’ he said, as sternly as he could. ‘Never forget that your four years of freedom will end all too soon. You will return to take up your responsibilities and to make a fitting marriage to a Habsburg, or possibly into royalty. Sometimes I wish there had been a male to inherit your grandmother’s vast fortune. Then, perhaps . . . Ah well, the Cardinal saved you. Did you know that?’ he said, switching back to his first worry. ‘He’s a brave man. He said you were acting under his instructions. Were you?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  There was a knock and Marietta turned to see her brother standing in the doorway.

  ‘Louis! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was sent for.’

  Louis, tall, lank and intent, watched them impatiently. She knew how he hated family dramas. Lately, he had acquired a world-weary, cynical expression which he used as a shield.

  Marietta loved her half-brother deeply and knew him for what he was, an introverted, caring, over-sensitive boy, caught up in the trauma of being Count Louis von Burgheim and facing a future of State affairs and family responsibility. All Louis cared about was music.

  ‘You are to keep an eye on your sister in Munich,’ the Count said. ‘Spend more time with her. That’s an order. You may leave now. We’ll talk about it over dinner.’

  ‘My own brother must spy on me . . .?’ she called over her shoulder as she left with Louis.

  ‘Relax, Marietta. Let it be,’ Louis said. He caught hold of her hand and pulled her round to face him. ‘Let’s have a look at you. You’re growing up fast. Father’s right, of course. You know that, don’t you?’

  She turned away, feeling angry, but unwilling to fight with someone she loved and saw so seldom. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘Jan’s gone to organise something in the kitchen.’

  Louis watched her uneasily. He felt inadequate to protect her. What could he say to his idealistic sister? ‘We’re Austrian,’ he said finally. ‘The New Order has nothing to do with us.’

  Evidently that was the last thing he should have said. They were locked in mortal combat for the rest of the day. The family feud continued throughout dinner until Marietta went to bed.

  Chapter Three

  Marietta was too angry to sleep. Although she had stood her ground, she was disturbed by her father’s and Louis’ condemnation. Were family responsibilities more viable than her own conscience? Had her fortune lost her the right to guard her own soul? Her grandmother had said on her deathbed, ‘You are only a link in a chain, be a strong link . . .’ Surely she was entitled to more than that?

  How well she remembered that traumatic week when her responsibilities had settled on her shoulders like a hideous black crow. She could still feel the cold chill of death and smell the heavy perfume that permeated her grandmother’s bedroom. How unprepared she had been, returning from England with Ingrid in expectation of a wonderful holiday, but the longed-for holiday had never happened.

  *

  The final exams had ended at last. She and her cousin, Ingrid, were sitting in the common room of their English boarding school comparing answers. It was dusk, the lamplight shone on Ingrid’s hair, and her pale cheeks, making her look ethereal and pure. At nineteen her cousin had grown into a rare beauty, she was petite and slim, with a lithe figure and long ash-blonde hair.

  ‘D’you remember when Father left us here, six years ago?’ Marietta asked, looking out at the old red brick building with the ivy creeping over it. ‘I thought we’d never survive, but we have, and soon we’ll be out in the world. A brilliant new adventure.’ She squeezed Ingrid’s arm affectionately.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Ingrid murmured, pulling away. ‘You have your future mapped. Uncle will expect you to marry into royalty, or something close to it. I have nothing to look forward to. For once in your life, try to understand that the future’s not going to be brilliant for me, although I’m sure it will be divine for you.’

  Marietta looked up sharply and caught Ingrid’s expression, a mask of envy and dislike. She felt shocked and sad.

  ‘I know it’s difficult for you, Ingrid, but you have me right behind you, and Father, too. You have nothing to worry about. Whatever I have, I’ll share with you equally. Let’s think about the holiday. We’ve earned it and we’re going to have a wonderful time.’

  ‘Spare me your charity,’ Ingrid murmured.

  Marietta made up her mind to try and understand Ingrid’s fears and to reassure her, but an hour later news came that her grandmother, Princess Lobkowitz, was dying.

  *

  Two days later she reached Prague after an exhausting journey across Europe. Jan, her grandmother’s driver, was waiting at the station to meet her.

  ‘The Princess is holding on for you,’ he greeted her. ‘She’s tough and determined, but it is only a matter of hours.’

  Marietta sat in the car in a daze of impatience and grief, hardly noticing the kaleidoscope of farms, fertile fields, small stone bridges, forest and lakes, church spires and mediaeval villages which they were driving past. They followed the route of the Vltava River southwards. It was wide and swift-flowing, and there was an occasional glimpse of a passenger steamer.

  Twenty miles south of Prague, Jan braked on a hillside and turned the car down towards the river, and there, almost hidden by the dense forest, rose the turrets and ramparts of Sokol Castle – her home. She sighed as the car crossed the river towards the old gate, topped with crumbling gargoyles.

  ‘Hurry, Jan,’ she whispered. She had to see Grandmother before she died.

  Minutes later they were pulling up in the courtyard by the old stone steps, smoothed and hollowed by centuries of wear.

  When she stepped into the vast castle hall, the chill of death wrapped round her like a cloak. She shuddered as Max, the household manager, gave a low mumble of condolence. He looked anguished. Then her father came hurrying towards her.

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said, hugging her. ‘There isn’t much time. You must go straight to the princess.’

  The sight of her grandmother shocked her, her skin was ashen and her eyes were deeply sunk in their gaunt sockets.

  ‘Grandmother!’ Scalding tears blinded her momentarily.

  The old woman made a heroic effort to reach for Marietta’s hand. ‘It’s up to you, my child,’ she muttered. ‘Think only of the family. Hang on to what is ours. Make it grow. Do your duty.’ Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. ‘I always hoped for a male heir, but your mother let the family down. I know you’ll never do that. Sacrifice yourself. That’s how the Habsburgs became great. Promise me you’ll play your part.’

  ‘I promise, Grandmother. I won’t let you down.’

  The princess fell back exhausted. Marietta leaned over her and listened to her breathing.

  ‘Don’t go. Please, Grandmama . . . I’ve been longing to see you. Talk to me.’

  ‘Always remember, child . . .’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I’m listening . . .’

  ‘You are a link between the past and the future. You must be a strong link. You must safeguard our wealth and our power. You are the trustee for future generations.’

  ‘Yes Grandmother, I promise.’ Marietta felt scared and over-awed by the gravity of her responsibilities.

  ‘Times are changing. Difficult times are coming. Be brave!’

  Her voice grew faint. She was slipping away. ‘Grandmother . . . Can you hear me? I want you to know how much I love you. You were more than a mother to me
and I love you very dearly.’

  ‘Love . . .’ the old woman’s lips twitched. ‘Forget love! Remember only your duty . . .’ She closed her lips firmly, as if she had said all there was to say, and quietly died.

  *

  The next few days passed in a blur of activity. Marietta had to meet managers, lawyers, farm foremen, bankers, investors, security advisors, managers of the breweries and the wineries, accountants, government officials and forestry chiefs. There was so much to do, and all of it seemed to increase her feeling of unreality. How could all this be hers? When Marietta realised the extent of her inheritance she felt inadequate and there was little comfort to be taken from the thought that she was merely the custodian. As the days passed she realised what she must do and squared her shoulders for a confrontation with her father. She had wanted to choose her moment, but he spent so much time locked in his own study sorting out his affairs in the wake of the Princess’s death, that she was forced to confront him just before breakfast, which she knew from bitter experience was not the ideal moment.

  ‘Father, I want you to know that I promised Grandmother I would do my duty and run the estates to the best of my ability.’

  ‘I would expect no less of you.’

  ‘But Father I’m not trained to run anything. I need to study economics, farm management, modern methods of agriculture, forestry, marketing . . . frankly, the list is endless. I need to learn so much. I want four years off to prepare myself. Think of it as a time to equip myself properly for the future,’ she went on desperately as she noticed his frown and his fingers ominously tapping the desk. ‘I have to be free. I want to live my own life.’

  ‘You’re entitled to live your own life,’ he said eventually, ‘since no one else can live it for you, but this is your life.

  ‘Freedom won’t play much of a role in it. You have wealth, power, the entrance to a brilliant future, but little freedom. It is part of the price you have to pay. I shall appoint managers with expertise in all the areas you’ve mentioned . . .’