Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  July ended with a magnificent party at Plechy Palace. This time Bill was sure he would see Marie, but once again she was absent.

  ‘Where is Marie?’ he complained to Ingrid and saw her face become taut and her eyes narrow.

  ‘I told you, she’s in love. She disappears for half the night quite often. I don’t know why the Count allows it,’ Ingrid replied, and turned away.

  That night Bill lay sleepless, fretting at the mess of his life. What was Marie doing? As for Ingrid, had he been thoughtless and irresponsible, or was he the fool? Despite her beauty, Bill knew he could never love Ingrid. Like her city, Vienna, she was sophisticated, gifted, beautiful, but built to endure: beneath the joy she was solid granite. He’d have to return to Berlin and acknowledge his failure to win back Marie. He knew he had lost something infinitely precious. Furthermore, it was his own fault.

  At two in the morning, Bill received a call from Andy Johnson, an old friend, who worked at the American Embassy in Berlin. ‘Bill, last week we issued permits for sixty-five Austrian Jewish children to enter the United States. Some of them are orphans, but most of them were left behind when their parents were arrested and taken away just after Anschluss,’ Andy said.

  ‘Certain Nazi authorities received a massive bribe from unknown sources to look the other way. The children’s train leaves Austria at 5 a.m. this morning. Sorry to give you such short notice, but everything’s so damned clandestine, it’s hard to know exactly what’s going on and when. They’ll be accompanied by Red Cross officials and some members of the Austrian underground, who were responsible for finding and rescuing these kids. Most of them were in hiding. God knows how many more there are left alone.

  ‘We’d like a story. Would you be prepared to do us a favour? It must only break after the kids reach neutral territory, for obvious reasons. No word about bribery, of course. The point is, we have to find foster homes in the States, and we need an emotional piece, something to pluck the heart strings. Can you cover this?’

  ‘Sure. It’ll be good to write about something positive for once.’

  ‘And can you guarantee your report will be syndicated throughout the States?’

  ‘It so happens that I have a few favours owed to me.’

  ‘Thanks. This is where you must be at 4 a.m.’

  *

  The children were scared, miserable, bewildered and unwilling to leave the country without their parents who, in most cases, had simply disappeared without warning.

  Looking at the sad eyes and pale faces of the shocked, stumbling little mites, Bill was acutely reminded of his own childhood when he had lost his parents. He shared their grief and shock, but realised his experience was soft in comparison.

  Bill found the Red Cross official in charge, an older man who was blinking hard to keep his composure. ‘I’ll tell you all I can,’ he said, ‘which won’t be much. We were contacted three days ago and told that by some miracle sixty-five children had permits to leave Austria, plus temporary Swiss visas. The Red Cross in Geneva will look after them until they leave for America. Transport was needed, plus international supervision, so we came along to help.’

  ‘Only sixty-five?’

  The official nodded. ‘I know . . . I know. They tell me that it’s not so easy to find them. We just pray to God that the Resistance unearth them before the Nazis do.’

  ‘I’ll do my best with my story,’ Bill said gruffly, trying to control his emotions. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  ‘Sorry! I can’t tell you that. You can say the Red Cross, but confidentially, this has been organised by students claiming to be members of an Austrian Resistance movement. Some of them are very high-placed and a lot of money has changed hands. They must remain anonymous. Photograph the children, please, but not the organisers. If you get an accidental shot, destroy it. Someone’s life could be at stake.’

  Suddenly, without any doubt, Bill knew exactly why Marie had been missing for so many days and nights. He swore long and silently.

  He found her, as he’d known he would. She was sitting in a carriage with a group of toddlers. Eight pairs of frightened eyes stared up at him. Some of them were crying, but Marie was reading them a story, trying to make herself heard over their dismal sobs. They were huddled closely against her, as if touching her made them safer.

  Marie looked exhausted. There were shadows under her eyes, her face was grimy and she was scruffily dressed, grubby, nervous, pale-faced and thinner than ever. Her hair hung limp and unwashed and her fingernails were chewed. She was still the most desirable woman he had ever seen. What was this vital ingredient which made him love her so much? Her goodness, Bill decided. Goodness shone out of her, transcending everything else.

  Why the hell had he been traipsing around those futile society functions when the woman he loved was risking her life, night after night, and giving all she had to give? ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he muttered, watching her. ‘What sort of an idiot am I?’

  He said: ‘May I take a photograph, please? Turn your back away from the camera. I don’t want to show your face.’

  She looked up, relief shining in her eyes. ‘Oh Bill, it’s you. Thank God! I knew someone was watching us. I thought it was the Gestapo . . . but it’s you.’

  Bill couldn’t speak for the lump in his throat. He reached forward, took her hand and squeezed it. For a long time they gazed into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Marie, there’s so much I have to say, but now is not the time. Forgive me, Marie. I love you.’ He touched her lips with his fingers.

  The small child tucked closely into her arms looked up at him curiously. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘My name’s Bill. What’s yours?’

  ‘Hilde. Hilde Stein.’

  ‘Hello, Hilde,’ Bill said.

  ‘Do you like my new coat?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’ he said, hoarse from emotion.

  ‘Auntie Marie bought it for me.’ She shot Marie a glance of pure devotion and pressed closer against her.

  ‘We’re going to America,’ Hilde said.

  ‘Yes, I know. That’s where I come from. You’ll be happy there.’

  Sleepily, the child snuggled into Marie’s lap.

  ‘How did you get involved with this?’ Bill asked quietly. ‘I mean . . . that’s why I’m here . . . for a story. The Embassy called. How did it begin?’

  ‘It all began with Hilde here. She came first.’ She gave the child a quick hug. ‘I was at the station early one morning . . . just before dawn. Hilde’s mother thrust a note into my pocket . . . But that’s a bigger story, for now just write about the children and their longing to be safe and free and their hopes that their parents will one day come and find them.

  ‘Tell them how we desperately need entry visas and immigration papers. It’s difficult to get these things. That’s why we need publicity. We’ve had a lot of help from the Church of Sweden, but I don’t think that you should write about that.’

  ‘Marie,’ he muttered. ‘You’re someone very special to me. I want you to know that if you ever need me . . . for anything . . . I’ll be ready. I’ll wait for you forever, if I have to . . .’

  ‘Not now, Bill, don’t sound so serious, please. You’re frightening the children.’

  He stood up as the train began to jolt and whistles blew. ‘When will you get back?’ he whispered.

  She shrugged. ‘As soon as possible. I’m going through to Switzerland. I don’t trust the border guards. We have the necessary permits, but there’s a suitcase full of dollars up above me in case of problems.’

  The train began to move. Bill stood poised in the doorway. ‘Take care of yourself,’ he said hoarsely.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bill stood on the platform feeling dazed. He had found Marie. There was hope for them. He knew now that he loved this woman with all his heart. He could never love anyone else. He was awed by her heroism. He watched the train until it moved out of sight, longing to be with her. Obsessed with images of her a
nd the children, he blundered into someone, knocking them flying.

  ‘You look as if some coffee would do you good, Bill,’ a voice boomed in his ear. ‘Come with me. I’m Eric Perwe.’

  Goddamit, it was that tall Swede Marie had been seeing. What the hell was he doing here? His temper surged, but behind his male ego was a journalist and Bill sensed a story. He’d play along, he decided.

  The Swede lived in a small cottage next to a church . . . Church of Sweden, Bill read. As they walked up the path between the flowers, a woman in a white apron came running out.

  ‘Pastor, come inside. The Brownshirts have been hanging around. They’ve gone now, but they’ll be back. Scum . . . Scum . . .,’ she muttered. She rubbed her hands on her apron and closed the door behind them.

  Pastor?

  Eric was gazing into the mirror adjusting his clerical collar. He smoothed down his hair and turned with an apologetic smile. ‘It just doesn’t help to walk around in a uniform nowadays, particularly this uniform. I’m a marked man as it is.’

  For a moment Bill lost his tongue. He felt bewildered and then pleased. A pastor! Not a rival after all. Just another good man risking his life to help the children . . . and helping Marietta, too. Bill felt ashamed of his jealousy.

  ‘I’m not worried for myself,’ the Pastor was saying. ‘I have the Church and Swedish Embassy behind me, but I worry about those people who are seen in my company. Particularly Countess Marietta, who is altogether special.’

  The cottage smelled of comfort: polish, coffee brewing, newly-baked bread, the heady scent of roses in a bowl in the hall. Bill allowed himself to be tempted to breakfast and moments later they were sitting around a large table in the breakfast room, the housekeeper plying them with fish and minced herring, coffee and warm bread.

  ‘How did you know about Marie and the children? I’ve been worrying ever since I saw you. Is our security slipping so much? Tell me.’

  ‘The American Embassy needed a story, so they contacted me. I had no idea Marie was involved until I saw her on the train. I’ll focus only on the children . . . no mention of Nazi corruption or who organised what. Just an emotional piece about orphaned children who need foster homes back in the States.’

  ‘Good! Excellent! Screen your pictures carefully. The Nazis will, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been warned.’

  There was sudden crash from below, the sound of splintering glass, footsteps pounding in the hallway. Eric hustled his housekeeper into the kitchen. ‘Stay there,’ he said, as he bundled her into a cupboard.

  ‘Don’t go out,’ Bill yelled, but Eric was already running to the hall, arms outstretched.

  ‘My friends,’ he began, foolishly, Bill thought.

  Bill reached the doorway in time to see Eric fall from a blow to the back of his head. He was kicked as soon as he collapsed. Time turned to slow motion. Bill lurched at the group of burly, thug-like figures in brown SA uniforms who were kicking Eric. He kneed the nearest man in the testicles and brought his hand down hard on the back of his neck as he tumbled forward. A face leered towards Bill and he drove at it, hating it, sticking his thumbs into the eyeballs, using his strength to pin the man against the wall and feeling pleased at the howl of anguish. Bill fought his way towards the priest. He saw Eric spread-eagled across the threshold.

  All the frustrated anger Bill had bottled up for months came frothing out. He lunged forward, felt the power of rage surging through him, dulling pain. He heard his voice yelling. His vision was failing through a sea of red mist. He didn’t know why. He felt nothing. Just joy at hitting and kicking everyone within reach. It all came to an abrupt end with a searing white flash. Then a sense of floating.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bill regained consciousness at midnight. After a few moments of confusion he realised that he was in hospital. He remembered the attack and felt surprised that he was still alive. The ward was quiet and the night light was on. Bill wondered if his kidneys had been kicked out of place. It sure felt like it. He was desperately thirsty, but when he tried to call out his voice was a faint croak. He heard a noise and a woman bent over him with a glass of water. It was Ingrid. He smiled up at her.

  ‘Only a sip,’ she said as she tilted the glass. Her eyes were haggard and her face was pale. ‘Oh Bill. I’ve been here for hours. I’ve been so worried about you. What happened?’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ Bill whispered.

  ‘Pastor Perwe called uncle.’

  ‘But I thought . . . The last time I saw Eric he was knocked out and covered in blood.’

  ‘Just a bruise and a cut, or so he said. The Brownshirts left him in the garden, but his housekeeper called the doctor. You were both brought here, but he’s gone home now. The Count’s been here and so has the American Ambassador. You should feel very important.’ She smiled tenderly.

  ‘I feel sore.’ Bill struggled to sit up, but the pain in every part of him was too intense. ‘It was very quick. A couple of minutes from beginning to end.’

  ‘How did you get so badly beaten?’ she asked. Her eyes filled with tears, but she dabbed them with a handkerchief and a minute later she was bravely smiling.

  The little woman bears up, Bill thought cynically, and hated himself for it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I was too busy trying to hurt them. I feel as though I was run over by a steam engine, but I don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong.’ He desperately wanted to get up, but knew he couldn’t.

  ‘The doctor says you must spend the night here.’

  ‘Fuck the doctor. Why are you here . . .?’

  ‘Where else should I be? I care . . . Bill, must you stay here in Germany? I mean . . . I would love . . .’ She flushed.

  Bill cringed. He had to face up to Ingrid and the awful thing he’d done to her. It might as well be now. Best to get it over with and tell her about Marie. He sank back on to the pillows. ‘Ingrid, we must talk.’ Bill reached out towards her and Ingrid took his hand in both of hers and sat squeezing it, while her eyes oozed love and happy anticipation.

  ‘I’ve been selfish . . .’

  ‘Shh!’ She put her finger over his lips. ‘Why don’t you go to sleep? We can talk about the future in the morning.’ There was a world of caring in her eyes as she gently placed his hand on the blankets.

  ‘I feel so close to you, Ingrid, sort of brotherly. You seem like family to me,’ he began clumsily. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Ingrid, but for me you’re Marie’s sister, and I love you because of this.’

  Bill watched her face change. The sparkle went out of her eyes and the dim night light accentuated her cheekbones and her lovely slanting blue-green eyes. Underneath that pretty exterior was a sad woman.

  ‘Why don’t you give me a chance? Give us a chance? Please, Bill,’ she babbled. ‘I’m ideal for you. Furthermore, I’m free. Marietta will never be free. Not for you.’

  ‘But I love her,’ he said quietly. ‘Forgive me, Ingrid.’ He tried to hold her hand, but she pulled it away.

  ‘All right, Bill,’ she said, tucking her bag under her arm and pulling on her gloves. ‘Enjoy your silly dreams. Do you think that Marietta would give up her estates and castles, to live in America? Or are you planning to live in Czechoslovakia as some sort of a Prince Regent?’

  ‘The question doesn’t arise. At least, not now. We haven’t talked about the future.’ He closed his eyes and for a few moments was only conscious of the pounding in his head.

  Watching him, Ingrid felt anger stirring. What cowards men were. He’d led her to believe that he was going to propose. He’d made a fool of her. Good God, half of Vienna had been congratulating her for weeks. He was a thoughtless bastard . . . a rotten liar . . . a cheat. She had longed to go to America. Watching him, she began to feel bitter and vengeful. Everyone would laugh at her. She was poor little Ingrid again. Marietta would get everything, as usual. But that wasn’t the worst of it by half. She loved this worthless bastard.


  She stood up, shaking with rage and hurt and genuine fear of the future. ‘You’re a fool, Bill. You should have fallen for me. I’m free of all responsibilities.’

  ‘Oh God, Ingrid,’ Bill groaned. ‘I wish I had. Believe me.’

  ‘You pompous, lying fool,’ she said.

  *

  Marie arrived later the following day. When she saw him she flushed and smiled shyly. She came to the side of the bed and held his hand. For a while they sat in silence gazing at each other.

  ‘You look awful,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Awful!’ There was that British boarding school again. Bill reached forward and pulled her down over him, smoothing her hair with his hand.

  ‘But not as bad as I had expected,’ her voice was muffled by the bedclothes. ‘Let me up. Someone might come. When Father told me, I was so frightened for you. I’ve been so wrong,’ she said. ‘Oh Bill, I’ve been such a fool. We don’t have to destroy the present, just because we don’t have a future.’

  She leaned over him and gently kissed him on the lips.

  ‘I’d be beaten up anytime just to hear you say that,’ Bill said happily.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Louis was sitting in the cold and draughty utilitarian hall of the Corn Exchange Buildings in Prague, which was used for workshop concerts to launch unknown musicians. Only the first six rows were filled.

  Andrea was to play the solo in Telemann’s Oboe Concerto. The final movement was a stiff test for the soloist’s virtuosity and Louis admired her courage at choosing the piece. As he sat listening to the orchestra tuning up, his palms grew damp in apprehension. When she emerged from the wings looking drawn and nervous she was wearing a black dress that was absolutely wrong for her.