Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  Bill was now determined to leave, but longed to see Marie one last time. He must say goodbye at least, he persuaded himself. He went to change for the ball, aware that he was being weak. This was not his world. Marie was not for him and he had no right to feel cheated and sore.

  He heard a knock on his bedroom door. Feeling sure that it was Marie, he flung it open, but it was only the chambermaid with hot water. The richest family in Europe, he thought, and nothing spent on the plumbing. He finished dressing and went downstairs.

  Sokol’s ballroom had come to life with a glitter and brilliance that Bill had never seen in his life. Now the extravagance of the ostentatious art form, which had seemed passé in daylight, became flamboyantly alive. The gilded saints and cherubs gleamed from the rosy-hued ceiling; chandeliers sparkled with light and the women’s jewels winked back. The orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz in the minstrels’ gallery and the women’s skirts glittered and swayed to the rhythm of the dance, while the ancestors, in their gilt frames, seemed to be watching the dancers in approval. This was what money was all about, their eyes seemed to say. This was living!

  Feeling out of place, Bill lingered on the fringes of the crowd. Then Marie appeared as the band played ‘Happy Birthday’. She looked pale, but extraordinarily beautiful in an off-the-shoulder white dress that billowed and floated around her. He tried to get close enough to wish her happy birthday, but clearly she was avoiding him. She looked his way only once and he saw the hurt in her eyes.

  He knew he must go. He would leave a letter in Marie’s room, he decided, together with her birthday present.

  But he stayed on, drinking quietly in the corner, refusing Ingrid’s exhortations to dance. He watched the guests milling past and heard snatches of their conversations. The music ebbed and flowed around him. He was filled with a strange sense of unreality. Was he hallucinating? This feeling of being a part of everything, yet not really there, gave him goosepimples. Was he real? Were they real? Or were they fragments of history, drifting in time? He turned to go, but paused in the doorway. Looking back, he had the strange impression that he was walking out of a lavish illusion.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marietta read and reread Bill’s curt goodbye letter dozens of times and spent the last days of her holiday in a daze of misery, punctuated by outbursts of bad temper. It was a relief to return to Munich, but she arrived to find Andrea packing to leave.

  ‘You’re early. I’d no intention of being here by the time you arrived,’ Andrea said.

  Deeply shocked by Andrea’s curt words, Marietta said, ‘What? Why are you going? Andrea, please, we are friends. What is going on?’

  ‘Friends don’t lie to each other,’ Andrea hissed. ‘Now, Countess Marietta, will you please go away.’ She did not look round as she spoke, but continued to cram clothes into her suitcase.

  Marietta sat on the floor by the radiator, hugging her knees and feeling totally depressed.

  Andrea looked at her friend and suddenly wondered which of them felt the worst. ‘You must understand that you’re playing a game,’ Andrea said, regretting her outburst. ‘So is Louis. When the holidays come, you pack up your dedication and your liberal ideas together with your corduroy trousers and your shabby old jackets and it’s back to your castles and liveried servants.

  ‘Your world is not my world,’ Andrea added, speaking more gently. ‘I felt that I’d been used when I found out about your title . . . and everything.’ She paused. ‘How many times have we shared a meal to eke out the pennies, or turned off the heating to cut the bills? We even walked to school, three mornings in a row, because we didn’t have the money for tram fares. You were playing with me. You’ve never been short of anything in your life.’

  ‘My father warned me that it wouldn’t work,’ Marietta replied, shame slightly slurring her words. ‘What was I to do, Andrea? Once, when you were broke, I offered to pay for you, but you were furious. I just wanted to share your world.’

  ‘But I can never share your world,’ Andrea said softly. ‘Louis is out of reach for me. Heavens!’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t even know if I was supposed to curtsey to you and Ingrid.’

  Marietta felt comforted by Andrea’s weak attempt at a joke.

  ‘Everything you’ve said is true, but Andrea why should all this make you leave? Surely we can remain friends?’

  ‘It’s not you I’m running away from,’ Andrea said moodily. ‘It’s Louis. Counts only marry titled women, the rich marry the rich and the Habsburgs marry Habsburgs. Oh God! I’m making such a mess of this. I’ve fallen in love with Louis and I can’t bear to lose him.’ She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Andrea! Oh, dearest Andrea! Don’t cry.’ Marietta knelt beside her and put her arm across her shoulders. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what Louis thinks about tradition and class-consciousness,’ Marietta began, feeling helpless. ‘Of course, Father would expect him to marry a Habsburg, you’re right about that. But Louis’s different—’

  ‘It was Count Frederick who spelled it out to me.’ Andrea interrupted fiercely. Between sobs she explained what the Count had told her, adding: ‘He’s probably a kind man. I could see he didn’t want to hurt me, but he said what he thought was right.’

  The two girls were silent for some moments.

  ‘Please stay, Andrea,’ Marietta said at last. ‘We need each other. Bill’s walked out on me. He was furious when he found out that Hugo von Hesse is my stepbrother.’

  Andrea gasped.

  ‘Yes, it’s true. Bill was so angry. He accused me . . .’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘You can probably imagine what he thought.’

  Andrea looked bewildered. ‘Surely you don’t mean that von Hesse is Louis’ brother?’

  ‘Half-brother.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘We lost contact with Hugo after he was thrown out of the family in disgrace. I was eleven when he . . . he was discovered in Ingrid’s bed. She was only thirteen at the time. You must never, ever mention that. I hadn’t seen him since. I didn’t even know he was a Nazi, never mind in the SS, but Bill was so sure I knew all about Hugo’s position that he didn’t wait for an explanation.’

  The words seemed to be tumbling out of her in relief at being able to talk about it. ‘I knew that we would have to part eventually, Andrea,’ she said sadly, ‘but I kept pretending to myself. I know I can’t abandon my birthright and responsibilities. There’s no future for us . . .’

  Andrea stood up and took a carafe of wine from the shelf. She filled two glasses, handed one to Marietta and lifted the other. ‘To our lost loves,’ she said, the tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘It’s crazy, but I really love that brother of yours. It’s as if we’ve known each other for ever. I thought we had so much in common.’

  She gave a long sigh and squared her shoulders. ‘I am not ashamed of crying,’ she said aggressively, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve lost something very precious. I’m going to stop seeing him. We can never be together and I don’t want to get hurt any more.’

  ‘And I’ve been a fool,’ Marietta said. ‘I shall never speak to that pompous fool, Bill, as long as I live. He’s so naive, so damn American. What gives him the right to judge me?’ She slapped one fist into the other palm and burst into tears again.

  Andrea reached out and hugged Marietta. For a few minutes the two girls clung to each other again. ‘I don’t understand any of you,’ Andrea wailed. ‘You’re all so – so out of this world. I mean . . . take Ingrid, why is she a princess? And why is she so arrogant and conscious of her title? Why is it your castle? Why are you working so hard here, while Ingrid learns to be a society hostess? And why has Louis never mentioned Hugo?’

  ‘Father married twice,’ Marietta began sipping her wine. ‘His first wife was a penniless, widowed noblewoman, Agnes von Hesse, who had a two-year old son . . . Hugo. His father, an army officer, had been killed in a brawl. Agnes had been living in a grace-an
d-favour cottage on one of Father’s estates before he married her. She died when Louis was born. Two years later, Father married my mother, Princess Anna Lobkowitz. He adored her, perhaps too much, I don’t know, we weren’t very close, and then she left . . .’

  Marietta broke off and stared at her glass, twirling the wine round and round.

  ‘As long as I live, I’ll never forget that night,’ Marietta said in a whisper. ‘I always longed for Mama to come and kiss me goodnight, but she never did. Then one night I woke to find her bending over me, just as I had always dreamed.

  ‘“Dear little Marietta,” she said. “I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m leaving . . . for my health. I haven’t been a very good mother.” When she smiled I saw tears glistening in her eyes.

  ‘“You’re the best. The best mother in the whole world and the most beautiful.” I remember saying that. I tried to hug her, but she pushed my hands away. “Mind my hair, darling,” she said. “I’m not happy here. I’m going to live in Switzerland. Be a good girl and do your duty. After all, you are your father’s daughter. Don’t be like me. Be strong. One day soon you’ll be able to take my place. Forgive me.”

  ‘Then she was gone, leaving a wisp of lovely perfume all around and a chiffon scarf lying on the floor beside my bed. I still have that scarf. For years I longed for her to visit me, but she never came and then, when I was about thirteen, she was killed in a car crash.’

  Marietta felt obsessed with memories. Once upon a time, she had lived in a world that had seemed so safe . . . so beautiful . . . then Ingrid had come into their home, bringing with her a glimpse of another, cruel world. Did that orphaned waif still exist beneath Ingrid’s sophisticated façade? And Hugo hadn’t always been evil. Had he?

  *

  Bill sat at his desk, trying to write an article, but the muse wasn’t on his side lately. He felt restless, miserable and lonely.

  He had returned to Berlin determined to forget the false and treacherous woman who had deceived him so blatantly, but so far he had failed to do so. She still monopolised his thoughts and ruined his concentration. Had he misjudged Marie? He remembered little things she had said and done that seemed to prove that she was innocent. No, not misjudged . . . that was too weak a word. He had been rude and self-righteous . . . unforgivably so. But why hadn’t she mentioned von Hesse after her interrogation? Once again his thoughts spun in a tormented circle.

  Two days before, he had telephoned Marie in Munich, but Andrea had relayed the message that Marie would not speak to him, and he was too proud to try again.

  ‘Forget her,’ Bill told himself, and tried to get on with his work.

  It seemed to Bill that the whole world was closing its eyes to the truth. Adolf Hitler, Chancellor of Germany, was a man of extreme cunning, ruthless ambition, and a shrewd judge of human nature. He had conned the world into believing that he only wanted to unite the Volksdeutsche, those oppressed German-speaking people exiled outside Germany’s borders. In Austria, Nazi agents were whipping up riots and street battles between German-speaking and Slav Austrians.

  Bill had spent several days there, reporting the riots and describing the fears of Austrians as their country was plunged deeper into political and economic chaos.

  He picked at his typewriter keys, groping for words and phrases to describe how Hitler was conning the world.

  Anschluss, or the union of Germany and Austria, is a word which either strikes terror or hope into every Austrian. To the Austrian Nazis, Anschluss means the first step in their dream of uniting the German people to become the strongest force in Europe. To the millions of non-Germans who have made Austria their home, Anschluss means the end of freedom. Harnessed to the Nazi machine, they will become second-class citizens in their own country . . . to the Jews . . .

  He stopped, realising that he was losing his objective focus.

  What would Anschluss mean to people like Marie, he wondered? He rubbed the back of his neck which was stiff with tension. ‘Oh Marie,’ he murmured. ‘I miss you.’

  His misery was disturbed by the European editor calling from Paris. He told Bill to get his ass back to Vienna to cover Anschluss at first hand.

  ‘By the way, Roth, do try to get off your bloody soap box,’ his dry, English voice went on, ‘our readers want news not lectures.’

  Bill replaced the receiver feeling angry. No one wanted to hear the truth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At dawn on March 14, 1938, German troops, together with the Austrian legion, began to pour across the border from Germany. Behind them came the ranks of uniformed men who would control Austria: the Gestapo, the SS troops, SD agents, and the Brownshirts.

  Sitting at a top floor window in Cöbenzl Castle, Major Hugo von Hesse watched the SS troops goosestep past. On either side of the road, joyous Nazis lined the route to give the troops a tumultuous welcome.

  As he watched the columns of infantry and tanks pass beneath him, Hugo tried to think of anything which might have been left undone. There were shadows under his eyes, and he looked haggard. Working day and night for the past two months, Hugo had been brilliantly successful in setting up the Nazis’ undercover control of Austria and organising the riots that had brought the government to its knees. As in the Fatherland, a network had been established by which the Gestapo could supervise every sphere of life. All Jews, Jewish sympathisers, Communists, and everyone who might be expected to oppose National Socialism, had been carefully documented. Within hours, six thousand of them would be taken to specially constructed concentration camps.

  Moments later, on the radio, Hugo heard the broadcast of the Austrian chancellor, Doctor Schuschnigg. ‘We have yielded to force,’ he said brokenly, ‘because we are not prepared to shed blood even in this terrible hour. I take leave of the Austrian people with a word of farewell, uttered from the depth of my heart – God protect Austria.’

  It was time to arrest Schuschnigg. He was going to a concentration camp, too. As for Father . . . Hugo thought about his fate for a while, toying with his pen. Once inside the camp, the Count would be beyond Hugo’s reach. He might even survive. Hugo reached for his pen and crossed the Count’s name from the list.

  *

  Marietta woke with a sense of alarm, but she wasn’t sure why. For a few moments she felt confused, until she remembered, she had returned to Vienna to be with Father and she had been here for a week. Just seven days during which the foundations of her life were cracked wide open.

  Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed, Marietta thought, feeling sick with despair. The boulevards were crowded with excited shoppers, most of whom were German. For the first time they could enter Austria without permits to buy up goods they hadn’t seen for years. The theatres were still crowded, but the Jewish actors had been replaced. They had either fled or been arrested. Queues of frightened people stood waiting their turn for exit permits and Nazi troops stood around in groups, guarding the population.

  Dr Kurt Schuschnigg, former Chancellor of Austria, had been arrested and imprisoned. So had many other government officials. Father had expected the same fate. He had been dismissed from his post as Foreign Minister, but he was still at liberty. The change in him was frightening, he seemed to have crumpled from the inside out. He walked around as if in a dream, hardly acknowledging her, but wrapped up in his own gloomy thoughts.

  Rumours were rife: it was said that thousands of unwanted citizens were being removed to concentration camps by special trains before dawn each morning. Marietta was desperate to know the truth.

  She got up and dressed warmly in old slacks and a sweater. Determined but frightened, her hands shook as she went downstairs and borrowed Louis’ car. By 5 a.m. she was outside the station. The platforms were guarded by troops and she was not allowed to enter, so she hung around trying to keep out of sight, shivering in the darkness.

  Ten minutes later she heard the sound of lorries approaching in a convoy. A deeper chill entered her bones as they drew up outside the stat
ion, and dozens of armed troops rushed to them, shouting commands. The backs of the lorries were lowered and the nightmare began.

  The people were bewildered and slow. Some were very old. They stumbled under the soldiers’ batons and sometimes fell. The troops wanted them to hurry. There were terrified shrieks, howls of anguish, the guard dogs were barking, children were crying. The civilians were herded sheeplike on to the platforms. She glimpsed windowless carriages and heard doors scraping across their rollers, bolts being drawn, whistles blowing.

  Another wave of people ventured timidly out of the lorries. They were well-dressed, cultured people, some clutching their children, some their wives, and many showed signs of having been beaten. Suddenly they, too, were running before the guards like pigs to slaughter. You send your runts to market. Hugo’s words echoed dully in her head.

  She put her hands over her ears to drown the terrified cries and the arrogant orders of the soldiers. A train moved forward and gathered speed, then another. The silence that followed was like a blessing.

  Marietta was trembling violently and she felt sick. ‘Oh God! Oh God, how can this happen?’ she muttered.

  Another train was approaching in the distance. She heard its whistle as it entered the tunnel. Then she was aware of more lorries arriving.

  Dead on time. The Nazis’ efficiency was truly terrifying. More people tumbled out, pushed from behind, and dragged from the front. Suddenly a woman broke away and ran to Marietta. She hung on to her, sobbing hysterically. Something was pushed into her pocket. Then she sprawled on the ground from a blow from a soldier’s baton, stumbled to her feet and ran. Marietta saw her agonised face gazing over her shoulder, and her mouth framing a silent plea.