Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  Andrea giggled. ‘Oh, come on Louis. This is too much . . .’

  ‘No, bear with me. Hear the story as I used to hear it, when I was a child, ad nauseum. Both princesses grew up and married. One chose Prince Gustav Lobkowitz, whose estates and castle were in Bohemia, now a part of Czechoslovakia. That’s where we’re going now, by the way. Her sister married a Russian prince.

  ‘Well,’ Louis said, ‘here comes the sad part. The Russian princess had a lovely daughter who became Ingrid’s mother, but both she and her husband were shot by the Bolsheviks. That’s becoming a habit with the Habsburgs, by the way. Ingrid was rescued by the family housekeeper who pretended the toddler was her granddaughter. She put Ingrid in a local orphanage and it took Father years to find her and get her out of Russia.’

  ‘That’s a sad story,’ Andrea said.

  ‘Sadder than you may think. I’ll never forget the first time I saw Ingrid . . .’

  He broke off, the scene as vivid in his mind’s eye as if it were yesterday . . .

  *

  The von Burgheims had been waiting at the station in Vienna in a straight, self-conscious row, out of step with modern times. Louis knew this, and so did the passing travellers, for while the platforms were crowded, there was a conspicuous pool of space around them.

  At last the train clattered into the station. His stepmother turned to their new Czech chauffeur. ‘Go and find the princess, Jan.’ As Jan limped off, the Countess von Burgheim shrugged impatiently. ‘Every lost dog knows where to find a home,’ she said scathingly, loud enough for Jan to hear.

  ‘My dear, he drives perfectly well,’ her husband said, ‘his affliction harms no one, but himself.’

  Louis squirmed with embarrassment for Jan. He disliked his stepmother and he felt Jan’s humiliation.

  Jan limped down the platform, peering into every carriage, then retraced his steps, searching more slowly. Eventually the whole family joined in the search. Louis was the first to recognise Ingrid, perhaps because he had no perception of what a Habsburg princess should look like. She was huddled in the corner of a carriage, wearing a dress three sizes too big for her and a threadbare coat that was too small. Covered in sores, head shaved, eyes scared and lost, she looked like a street urchin.

  He read the label tied around her neck: My name is Ingrid Graetz. I speak Russian. I am unaccompanied and travelling to Plechy Palace, Vienna.

  She had the largest blue eyes Louis had ever seen, like ice crystals. Her face was pale under the grime, except for a bright red spot on each cheek, she looked bruised and wary. He tried to take hold of her hand, but she pulled away and lashed out, kicking his shins hard, her face contorting into an ugly mask as she backed into a corner.

  Despite her kicks, Louis swung her on to his shoulders; she weighed no more than a sack of coal. A moment later he was bitterly sorry for his actions as she had wet her pants. The smell of urine was nauseating.

  ‘She’s peed all over me,’ Louis said in disgust, as he tried to hand her to his stepmother. Unintelligible shrieks almost drowned his words.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ the Countess whispered. She clapped a perfumed handkerchief over her mouth and stepped away.

  Father lifted Ingrid down. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her. ‘My, my, she’s frozen,’ he said. He rubbed her hands in his. ‘This poor child has suffered dreadfully. I blame myself. It took too long to find her. Now her troubles are over, for we shall take care of her.’

  Louis felt shocked by this glimpse of a world beyond his own home and family. His romantic concept of the Bolshevik revolution was shattered by its reality.

  *

  ‘Why are you shivering?’ Andrea demanded.

  Louis brought his thoughts back to the present and smiled sadly. ‘I was just remembering . . .’

  ‘Tell me everything about your family. I feel I hardly know you.’

  ‘We’re part of the Habsburg monarchy, which was dissolved eighteen years ago. Many of us retained our property, but we don’t always fit into today’s national pigeon-holes, although we should. Our roots are German, so we’re German by culture; our home was Vienna, so we’re Austrian by nationality; our property is all over the place and we’ll probably lose most of it before this century is out . . .’

  Once Louis began on the family history there was no stopping him. Andrea soon began to wish she hadn’t asked.

  *

  The needle of the speedometer crept higher, but the black Mercedes held the road magnificently despite patches of black ice. The driver looked like a man in a trance. Head thrown back, he was obsessed with the joy of speed and the thrill of handling this powerful machine. They might have been one – one throbbing, surging, glittering beast, tuned to perfection.

  Like the car, its driver, Major Hugo von Hesse, was handsome and strong, a purely German creation. He was magnificent in his black uniform: his peaked hat piped with white denoting the SS, the aluminium cords showing his officer status. On his tunic he wore the coveted gold sports badge, showing that he was both a shooting and fencing champion.

  He sneered at the passing Czechoslovakian countryside, the tatty jumble of chickens and goats running wild, pigs gleaning acorns, land lying fallow and unused. Well, that would soon change. Hugo had the precise production output of the area in his mind. It could be doubled. As for labour, there were tens of thousands of teenagers lounging in youth clubs and sports grounds. In time they would all work the factories and industries of the Third Reich. This fertile land was crying out for colonialisation. Rounding the next bend Hugo drew up and lit a cigarette. The sight of Sokol Castle brought back the past with a surge of emotion. He was blundering back into the family’s fairy story, created ten centuries before, with its castles and uniformed flunkies and a style of living which he missed bitterly. Hugo’s throat constricted with envy. Life was like fencing, he thought. To win his game he must get the measure of his opponent, and stay within striking distance. His SS rank, his Nazi-backing, his intelligence would combine to destroy the powerful von Burgheims.

  *

  It had been raining, but soon the sun broke through the clouds and the river banks glistened in the bright winter sunlight. Bill and Marietta could smell the fragrant damp earth and wet grass. Marie took off her glove and Bill felt her hand sneak into his. They drove in silence, happy to be together.

  Bill could not help thinking about the past three days as he drove towards the Upper Vltava valley. The time had flown. He and Marie had avoided the crowds and explored the lakes and mountains of Bohemia, skiing, riding, and walking by day and sleeping in the family’s hunting lodge high in the mountains. They had become even closer and he was sorry that the holiday was almost over, for they for they were on their way to Marie’s home for her birthday ball.

  Fifteen miles south of Prague, Marietta indicated that he should turn off to a narrow track which wound steeply downhill. As Bill rounded a sharp bend, he saw a castle of such grace and beauty, yet of such massive dimensions, that he stopped the car and stared silently. ‘Wow! Look at that!’ Bill gazed at the battlements and ramparts and the flag flying high on a steeple. ‘It’s magic,’ he murmured.

  ‘Hurry, there’s another car behind us,’ Marietta said tersely. He glanced at her curiously. Surely this couldn’t be . . .? They crossed an old bridge spanning the river, drove under a granite archway into a cobbled courtyard within the castle walls. As soon as Bill stepped out, a uniformed servant slipped into the driving seat and drove the car away.

  Bill felt bemused. The castle was as big as a village, but it seemed, from Marietta’s breathless explanations, that it was only one of their many homes. As an engineer, he was amazed that those early artisans could reach this degree of symmetry and aesthetic grace, working in such massive dimensions. Altogether, Bill reckoned the soaring turrets and square ramparts covered close on two acres. As an economist, he marvelled at the cost of transporting all that granite, those exquisitely-dressed slabs and the intricate stained glass. In fro
nt of them stood millions of dollars of baroque art, massed together to create the structure which Marietta casually referred to as ‘our Czech home’.

  Marie was eager to show him round. He followed her through courtyards and passages and dusty halls to more courtyards and more passages; past stuffed heads of long-dead animals, glassy-eyed and accusing; stained glass windows set with semi-precious stones; carvings, statues, portraits and still more portraits.

  He began to feel claustrophobic and the smell of damp decay depressed him. Bill had always thought his own background to be stifling, with his family’s stern adherence to social and business obligations. Marie’s was a hundred times worse. He trudged behind her, pondering on the irony of their situation.

  They had so much in common, both of them were struggling against their predestined family roles. And what the hell was Marie babbling on about? He just must see inside the summer pavilion.

  ‘Princess Grimalda, my great aunt. She was fourth in line to the Hungarian throne,’ Marie said, stopping in front of an ornately framed portrait and sounding like a museum guide.

  Bill gazed into two ferocious eyes set into rolls of fat on a porcine neck choked with jewels. ‘Grimalda! That figures! The family resemblance is uncanny.’

  She giggled.

  ‘Marie, give it a break, they’re dust now. I have a longing to breathe fresh air. I’m suffocating. Oh heck! Don’t be mad at me.’

  ‘I’ll show you to your room,’ she said tritely. ‘I presume history wasn’t your favourite subject.’

  ‘You’re damned right.’ Then realised that to her history was part of her life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hugo looked around at the leather armchairs, the shelves of rare books, the Count’s desk littered with papers, the air redolent of expensive tobacco. Nothing has changed, he thought. It’s all exactly the same as the last time I stood here. But on that occasion I was shaking. I was being flung out of the family by that sanctimonious old pig I’d always thought of as my father. Well, he mused with deep satisfaction, the tables were now turned. He was no longer the immature boy who had been so easily dismissed at their last meeting. This time, the Count would be shaking.

  Despite his bravado, Hugo had a sudden vivid image of himself as a boy. What a pathetic figure he must have looked; he flushed with shame and, reaching forward, grabbed a cigar just as the Count walked into the room.

  ‘Ah! Hugo. Help yourself, my boy. Help yourself.’

  Hugo flushed and gritted his teeth.

  ‘But not a boy now, rather a man. Welcome home, Hugo. I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten your family. Thank you for your influence in freeing Marietta and her friends. Of course, they’re only children playing at politics, but it could have been misinterpreted.’

  The Count turned and patted Hugo on the shoulder . . . a gesture which Hugo had once prized.

  ‘So what would you like to drink, Hugo?’

  ‘Brandy,’ he said.

  I prefer him as I remember him, Hugo thought: arrogant, harsh and very straight. The old boy’s behaviour is as false as hell. He’s scared, Hugo realised with a jolt. He watched the Count pour two glasses of vintage brandy, hatred suddenly coursing through his veins, as he recalled the way he’d been abandoned to poverty in Munich.

  He sniffed his cigar and struggled to regain his poise by concentrating on the Count’s appearance. He looked older, Hugo thought. His eyes were ringed with dark shadows. His skin was pale, his eyebrows thick, black and bushy. His features were all larger than life, but seemed to blend together. The overall effect was of a studious giant. Yet he was neither as large, nor as intimidating as Hugo remembered him.

  From the Count’s patronising, but friendly manner, Hugo guessed that he intended to follow the ritual of the return of the prodigal son.

  ‘I’ve been following your career, Hugo. My congratulations. I’ll be honest and admit that I would have preferred you to choose another route to high places, but . . .’

  ‘But without capital,’ Hugo grimly interrupted, ‘or any influence behind me, there was no other route I could take. When you threw me out, Father, another family took me in, which was just as well, since I nearly starved to death.’

  ‘Well . . .’ The Count seemed at a loss for words.

  A lowly pittance was all he’d received from his stepfather. The first instalment had been flung across this very desk at him, with the words, ‘One hundred marks a month is all you’ll get out of me, and only until you finish your education. If you ever try to come within a mile of Ingrid, I’ll have you horsewhipped and the money will stop. Is that clear?’

  Without wanting to, Hugo now relived that embarrassing scene. The Count had used every cliché of a betrayed Victorian patriarch, his voice trembling with emotion.

  ‘You have despoiled my niece,’ he’d stormed. ‘You are a blackguard and a monster. You will leave my house today and you will never darken this family’s doors again.’

  ‘Nothing happened between us. I swear it, Father,’ Hugo had whined. ‘Ingrid called me in the night because she’d had one of her nightmares.’ Even as he had spoken he heard how unconvincing his denials were, and at the memory he felt himself flushing again.

  His story had made the Count even angrier. He had lunged over his desk, his mouth moving, but no words forming, as he grabbed Hugo’s lapels, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. ‘Blackguard,’ he had roared.

  With an effort Hugo blocked out the memory and brought his attention back to the present. He sipped at his brandy, aware that he now held the reins of power. The thought made him smile.

  ‘I was surprised to hear that you wanted to see me,’ the Count began. ‘Very surprised.’ He gave his curious, lop-sided smile which to Hugo’s mind, always made him look like a bloodhound. ‘You mentioned that you want to talk about money. So let us discuss your inheritance,’ he said softly.

  Hugo laughed aloud, and took his time relighting his cigar. ‘Actually, I came to warn you. You know as well as I do, that the Führer has sworn to destroy the Habsburgs, so I’ve decided to put our past differences behind me and do everything I can to protect your holdings,’ he paused. ‘In the meantime, I must warn you that some of your Bavarian estates are about to be to be expropriated. The State requires the land for a new airfield and an aircraft manufacturing base. Of course you will be compensated.’

  ‘At a fraction of the real value, I have no doubt.’ The Count stood up and began pacing in front of his desk.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Hugo went on, enjoying the Count’s fury. ‘Your light aluminium factories and ball-bearing plants outside Munich are also to be bought by the State. We are at the start of a new era, Father. We shall soon see the transition from the old private enterprise system to a Nazi-controlled economic empire. I am in charge of expropriating these strategic industries. Businessmen, such as yourself, are considered unfit to control vital resources. The State’s military machine can never be at the mercy of private enterprise.’

  The Count seemed to physically crumple and Hugo’s lips curled in amusement. He spread some papers on the desk, indicating that his father should examine them.

  ‘I shouldn’t be showing you these, but it will give you a chance to gather your resources. One of my staff from Minister Göring’s Reichswerke Corporation will be contacting you soon. He will want to know which of your holdings are in the hands of foreign shareholders. Naturally he will have more difficulty in expropriating those. You have about three weeks’ grace, Father.’

  Glancing through the papers, it did not take the Count long to discover that the terms were most unfavourable.

  ‘What if I refuse to sell?’

  ‘It is not in your power to refuse,’ Hugo said softly. ‘Any industrialists who prove themselves enemies of the State will be severely penalised. They could lose their freedom, quite apart from the financial penalties.’

  ‘I’m in your debt for the second time this month, Hugo. But tell me, why are you helping me?’
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  ‘We’re family, Father. And let us say I have a promise to fulfil.’ He stood up, saluted and walked slowly towards the door.

  Several years ago he had paused in the same doorway, pocketing the hundred marks. Enraged and humiliated he had vowed: ‘I’ll pay you back, Father. As for my “inheritance” – I will own this castle. I will own everything. I’ll stand in this room and see your family destroyed.’

  ‘The ravings of a rabid dog,’ the Count had said.

  ‘Rabid dogs have a deadly bite,’ Hugo whispered now, but the Count turned away, looking baffled and very disturbed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ingrid was aware that her looks electrified every man at the party and that in her ice-blue pleated voile suit and matching hat she was the most fashionable woman present. After only one term at her Parisian finishing school, she was quite transformed. Her make-up, her hair, her grooming, her deportment and her clothes were perfect. Her French had always been exceptional, but lately she had acquired a Parisian accent. She knew how to conduct herself at any social function, and now she flitted from group to group, enjoying the compliments which she felt she deserved, while her eyes searched the guests anxiously. She knew everyone. They were all close friends or relatives, but there was no one here she could set her cap at. Disappointment flooded through her. Ingrid knew that her face was her fortune and she had spent hours preparing herself, hoping that some of Marietta’s eligible Habsburgs would turn up.

  Disappointment made her feel quite limp and it was an effort to keep her bright smile in place. To the world at large she was Princess Ingrid Mignon von Graetz, but to the family she was just cousin Ingrid, poor little thing, a disinherited princess brought up in the lap of luxury, but with nothing to call her own. Daily, her penniless plight churned her stomach.