Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  ‘So we’re going to be sisters,’ Marietta said, smiling at Andrea. ‘I could never have hoped for such good fortune.’

  Andrea burst into tears.

  ‘Why . . . what have I said?’ Marietta said in alarm.

  ‘Louis told me that I might lose you as a friend. He said that you put duty first and love far down on the list of your priorities. He said,’ she smiled, ‘that he didn’t know which you were the most zealous about, your Catholic faith or the family tradition, but that you kept both well-concealed from everyone behind your liberal front.’

  ‘He said that about me? How stiff-necked and old-fashioned I sound. Perhaps it’s true, too. Andrea, I’m very happy for you both, truly. It’s just that . . .’

  Andrea sat up and gazed searchingly at her friend. ‘You’re not being honest with me, Marietta.’

  ‘I was only thinking that if Louis can, surely I . . .’ she broke off. ‘Tonight we’ll throw a party for all our student friends, if that’s agreeable.’

  ‘It certainly is agreeable,’ Andrea teased. ‘But Marietta, how did you know? Did Louis call you?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know about this ring? My mother wore it, and my grandmother. The bride of every von Burgheim heir has worn it for six centuries. One of these days I’ll tell you its history, or maybe Louis should.’

  She found herself flushing under Andrea’s relentless scrutiny. ‘It’s going to be a bit more complicated than Louis said, isn’t it, Marie?’

  ‘Yes. It would be wrong to lie to you. Very complicated, but no more difficult than playing Telemann solo in public,’ she said flatly. ‘You’ll manage. We’ll all help you. And you’ll always have Louis beside you.’

  She went into her room and shut the door. She took off her coat methodically and hung it in the wardrobe. Then she sat on her lonely bed and shuddered. If Louis could throw duty to the wind, why shouldn’t she? Bill was the only man she would ever love. Yet for her, there was no choice. Love was a joy, a gift, a luxury. It was not something solid on which you could base your life . . . her life was based on duty. She had been brought up to shoulder her responsibilities, she couldn’t take the selfish way out. Mother had done that, leaving a trail of heartbreak. Louis was wrong, but she loved them both, and if that was what they wanted, she would back them all the way. And, of course, Louis was a man, he could combine duty with love, a choice not open to her.

  *

  ‘Well, Count von Burgheim, here I am. What is it that you want to discuss in particular?’

  The Count’s visitor was General Hans Dietz, Deputy-Head of the Central Bureau of the German Intelligence, Abwehr. He had travelled all night to meet the Count in Vienna after an urgent message from a mutual friend.

  The Count had not met the General before, but he knew that Dietz was reputed to be a man of considerable intellect, imperturbable in danger, and a brilliant military strategist. With his parade ground bearing and crew-cut grey hair, he looked every inch a soldier, too. He was sitting across the table, his chin resting on a clenched fist, elbow on the table and he was watching the Count with a bemused, puzzled expression.

  The Count had never felt so scared in his life. He had chosen to approach Dietz first because he was known as a free-thinker, a rebel and he was closely associated with men the Count needed. But could he trust him? And if he could, would Dietz keep his mouth shut?

  The Count cleared his throat and gazed at the table. This was his moment of truth, he would not get another chance. This was his self-appointed role and it was too late to turn back now. He said: ‘I was with Schuschnigg at Berghof. I endured fifteen hours of non-stop rhetoric from our strutting Führer. To my mind the man should be committed to art insane asylum, he is not fit to be a head of state. He will lead us into terrible disaster.’

  He looked up slowly and gazed searchingly at his companion. Dietz had flushed red, but he could read nothing from the man’s eyes.

  ‘And so . . .?’ Dietz said gently.

  ‘I believe we share the same views.’

  ‘Half of Germany’s intellectuals share this view.’

  ‘True, but unfortunately, Dietz, most Germans can do little about it. We, however, can.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To bring together men who hate the Nazis as much as we do, and who have sufficient power to overthrow them.’

  The Count turned away to disguise his fear. The die was cast. He had chosen a dark and dangerous path that would lead him perhaps to death and only God knew when he would ever see the end of it. He only knew that he would never stop until either the Nazis or he were destroyed.

  It seemed that a century passed before Dietz answered him.

  ‘I’m with you,’ he said.

  Much later, after Dietz had left, the Count poured himself a brandy and went through the recent negotiations he had held with those in high places. So far he had recruited thirteen brave and powerful men, mostly army generals. Between them they had the means to combat the SS divisions. Soon they would be able to start planning where and when and how best to convince the German people of their worth. The Count felt that he was getting somewhere.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tt was a rainy Sunday afternoon, late in September and unusually cold. The wind was buffeting the trees in the park and it was overcast and almost dark, but in Marietta’s apartment it was warm and well lit. The two girls were sprawled on the hearthrug, engrossed in their books, when the doorbell rang.

  It was Pastor Eric Perwe, and he looked worn and wretched. He was even thinner than before; his cheeks were hollowed, his eyes haggard, and his forehead was deeply lined.

  ‘It’s getting rough,’ he said, when the girls had helped him off with his overcoat and scarf and poured him a brandy. ‘I’ve lost two safe houses. I’m desperate. I hate to ask you, but I need your help. Please . . . I have a young woman . . . It wouldn’t be for long. You could pass her off as a student friend. Right now I have twelve young people on my hands and no place for any of them. My own house is overfull and no longer safe.’

  It was accepted nowadays that they were always bargaining and bartering, he had helped them many times with exit permits and contacts for the orphans, and now they must help him. She had never seen him look so depressed. While he talked, she was considering the possibilities . . . Louis had a spare bed for a male. She and Andrea had a spare room . . . two could share it.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this is an emergency. She’s sitting outside on the park bench.’

  ‘She must be frozen.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. Can you help?’

  ‘Yes,’ the girls said without hesitation.

  ‘Then I suggest you both go out into the park and pretend that you know her. Bring her back for supper and persuade her to stay the night, simply because it’s late. That should satisfy your housekeeper. I’ll find another place by tomorrow morning. I promise.’

  The Pastor drained his glass. He looked ashamed. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you,’ he said. ‘I am running out of friends.’

  *

  One look at the frail young woman shivering on the bench was enough to know that she was Jewish, a fugitive, frightened and very sick. How could they pass her off as a student?

  Her name was Stella, and she had been studying to be a doctor until she was deprived of the right to study. Now she was on her way to Brazil, via the Pastor’s chain, where she had been accepted as a farm worker.

  The girls did their best to make Stella feel comfortable and safe.

  It was after ten that evening when the doorbell rang again.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Andrea said, turning pale. ‘Stella, go to your room.’

  Marietta stood frozen by the living-room fire as Andrea went to the front door. Then she heard Ingrid’s voice in the passage, and relief surged through her.

  As usual, Ingrid looked as if she had just stepped out of a fashion show in her turquoise slacks and cashmere sweater, topped by a mink jacket. She swept in, dropping the jacket on th
e back of a chair, and glanced round critically. ‘What an atmosphere! Brr! So gloomy! So stuffy!’ Ingrid pouted. ‘I can see I’m not welcome.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Marietta snapped. ‘Of course you’re welcome, we weren’t expecting you, that’s all. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’

  ‘Yes, I’d have put some champagne on ice,’ Andrea said flatly. Marietta shot her friend a scathing look.

  ‘I haven’t yet congratulated you on your engagement, Andrea,’ Ingrid purred. ‘Isn’t that ring a little large for you?’ She smirked at her nails. ‘Well, I’m teasing. It’s just terrific . . . we’ll be one happy family.’

  Only, as usual, I’ll be the poor one and you’ll both be stinking rich, Ingrid thought, struggling to control her spite. Hugo was teaching her the art of manipulation and she knew she must appear warm and affectionate. Not a very good start.

  ‘I came to ask you a favour.’ She settled into the armchair nearest the fire.

  ‘Ask away,’ Marietta said.

  ‘I’ve made up my mind to enrol at the University. I’ve discovered what I want to do. I’m going to be a writer.’ Ingrid flashed a nervous smile at them both.

  ‘Why not compose a symphony in your spare time?’ Andrea snarled.

  ‘Sorry if I’ve trodden on your artistic toes,’ Ingrid said contritely. ‘The point is, I’ve almost certainly got a place to read literature, even though term has started.’

  Marietta frowned. ‘Please don’t snipe at each other.’ She was relieved that Ingrid was moving towards the idea of a career. ‘I think that’s a splendid idea. You shouldn’t fritter your life away in Viennese salons.’

  ‘But where can I live? I have to throw myself on your mercy and beg a roof over my head until I can find rooms of my own.’

  Marietta forced herself to appear relaxed. ‘Ingrid, I’m afraid a fellow student is staying in our spare room tonight. She’s leaving in the morning. In fact, we had thought of dispensing with our housekeeper and that would make two more rooms available, but it’s Andrea’s apartment as much as mine. Please excuse us while we discuss this.’ She drew Andrea into the bedroom. ‘We can’t say no. She’s family. We have to help her. All my life I’ve felt so guilty about Ingrid. Now that she’s chosen a career, it’s up to us to back her all the way. I know it’s going to be awful, but what else can we do?’

  ‘I’m worried,’ Andrea said slowly. ‘I know she’s family, but I don’t trust Ingrid. Anyway, I’ll leave it up to you. Whatever you decide is all right with me. I’m going to bed. I’ll work better there.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Marietta said. ‘She’s prone to sudden urges. She’ll soon get fed up with studying.’

  ‘You can move in tomorrow,’ Marietta told Ingrid. ‘You can have my bed tonight, if you like. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’ To her surprise, Ingrid insisted on taking the sofa.

  *

  After a few weeks, Marietta realised how she had underestimated her cousin. Ingrid worked hard and never missed lectures. For the first time she was becoming interested in other people’s problems. She spent hours talking to the girls about the plight of the Jews, consequently, Marietta was not surprised when Ingrid decided to join Edelweiss. From then on, she worked all hours. It didn’t matter how menial the task was, Ingrid was prepared to help out. She collected cheques from sympathisers, stamped and addressed envelopes, carried heavy parcels to the post office, learned to operate the printing machine, attended their meetings and read all the right books.

  When the students held their next editorial meeting, to plan their forthcoming newspaper, Ingrid was there.

  ‘Let me help,’ she said to the editor. ‘After all I intend to be a writer.’

  ‘Pass on whatever you write, we’ll use it if we can,’ he said.

  ‘Well, here’s the first. That surprises you, doesn’t it?’ She took an envelope out of her bag and tossed it onto the table. ‘If you don’t want it, throw it away,’ she said mutedly.

  ‘He doesn’t need your permission to do that,’ Andrea said, looking amused.

  Ingrid had several good ideas, but she wasn’t sure who to interview to get the facts she needed.

  ‘I just need help to find some contacts. For instance, who gave you this information?’ She did not look up as she flipped through past issues.

  ‘Don’t be dumb. How can we tell you that? Write what you feel, Ingrid. You’ll gradually make the contacts.’

  From then on Ingrid brought articles regularly and the editor used most of them. Everyone was amazed at her dedication and talent, only Andrea remained tight-lipped when Ingrid was around.

  ‘I wish you’d get to like Ingrid,’ Louis grumbled to Andrea.

  It’s my damned gypsy blood, Andrea thought. She makes the hair stand up on my scalp. I can almost feel the malevolence surging out of her. But I can’t say that to Louis and Marietta.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said aloud.

  *

  ‘Andrea suspects me,’ Ingrid said to Hugo. She was calling him from a public telephone near the park. ‘She’s always watching me. I don’t trust her. I’d rather leave their flat.’

  ‘You can’t. If she makes trouble, I’ll deal with her. Now I want you to spread your net as wide as possible. You say they took the last Jewess to the paper wholesaler. Are you sure of this?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m sure,’ Ingrid snapped. Her guilt was making her bad tempered.

  ‘I’d need to identify more of these subversives. Why don’t you volunteer to help move the fugitives.’

  ‘I have. They refused,’ Ingrid said flatly.

  ‘Keep trying. I have another batch of reports for their newspaper, and some statistics for Roth. When can you get here . . .?’

  ‘Tonight? They’re both going to a concert.’

  ‘Usual place then.’ A sharp click terminated the conversation. Ingrid walked slowly through the park. Working for Hugo was like stepping into a bog, you were trapped and sucked down and there was no way out. Meanwhile, Ingrid seemed far away from achieving her ultimate reward.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ingrid arrived in Berlin on the night express. She found a taxi and gave the driver Bill’s address. She looked divine and she knew it, but not even her new blue woollen suit with matching hat and gloves, could make her confident. She leaned back, lost in her thoughts. It was a lovely morning. The sun had just appeared after an early morning shower. Autumn mists hung around trees and hedges and every building shone clean and sparkling from the rain, but Ingrid only saw Bill’s face and the way he had looked at her in hospital. Once again she forced herself to relive her torment. Ingrid longed to make Bill as miserable as she was and Hugo had given her the means. In her handbag she had enough statistics to incriminate Bill as a spy, all she had to do was plant the evidence on him. He would be deported, Hugo had promised her. Nothing more. The prospect of Marietta’s grief had brought Ingrid joy. Would Bill sense her hatred and be warned? She forced herself to smile.

  *

  Bill was up early. He switched on the radio and listened to the news while he made coffee. Hitler had called for a four-power conference to be held at Munich to discuss the Czech crisis. No one wanted war, Bill knew, but surely Britain and France would take a stand against Hitler’s demands if they understood the kind of New Order that Hitler had in mind for Czechoslovakia. He leaned over his typewriter and reread the article he’d been writing at midnight.

  . . . Germany’s age-old dream to own vast colonies in Europe is about to be realised. The Germans call this dream, Lebensraum, which translated means: living space. Czechoslovakia has been targeted as Hitler’s first objective. This will bring thirteen million Czechs and Slovaks into the Reich. They are destined to become slaves under Nazi rule. Czech soil will soon be handed over to German settlers piecemeal. The fat cattle and farming produce will be loaded on to trains and sent to feed the German people.

  Only two things can save Czechoslovakia now. First, the Bohemian fortificat
ions, strongest and most modern in Europe which allied to the Czech fighting troops (known to be the best equipped in Europe), makes Czechoslovakia a tough opponent. Second and more important, the hope that Britain and France will stand by their treaties and protect this country from invasion.

  The door bell rang. Bill glanced at his watch. 7 a.m.! It couldn’t be Taube. He went to the door and cringed at the sight of Ingrid. But what a lovely sight she was . . . all in blue, with her ash blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders; she looked soft and feminine and very alluring, except for her eyes which glittered like ice crystals.

  She stepped forward to kiss his cheek and Bill was enveloped in an aura of costly French perfume, while her hair tickled his cheek.

  ‘Mmm!’ she said. ‘What a gloomy expression.’

  For gloomy read guilty, Bill thought. He stammered a greeting and led her inside.

  ‘God, it’s cold in here. How can you bear it?’

  How slender she was, Bill noted with a pang, as he switched on his only heater; her thinness accentuated her high cheek bones and slanting eyes. Like an overbred filly, she was full of swift, sudden movements. Twisting and turning she paced the room, one jewelled fist pummeling her hand in tiny, suppressed spurts of energy.

  ‘I’ve been hearing about your new career,’ he said, flushing. ‘Marie keeps me up-to-date with the family. She said you’ve got a lot of talent, Ingrid . . . that’s just great. Maybe I can help you to get your work published.’

  Did that sound brotherly? Or patronising? If only he could be spontaneous and warm, but his mind and his mouth and brains had fossilised at the sight of her.

  He made Ingrid coffee and then some toast and more coffee, while she chattered away about her new friends and her hopes and dreams. ‘Bill, I’ve been silly,’ she said eventually. ‘Let’s be friends again. I value your friendship and I want it back.’

  ‘Of course I’m your friend,’ Bill mumbled.

  ‘Then take me out to lunch. I want to spend a lovely day with you. A new beginning. I’m sorry I’m so early, I travelled overnight. Let’s go out,’ she said beguilingly. ‘How about a walk in the park? Please, Bill.’