Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  Perhaps because Bill felt so relieved to be let off the hook, he threw himself into enjoying the day. They walked for hours, lunched at the park, danced until teatime and walked again in the gathering mists, by now it was dusk and Ingrid showed no sign of leaving, so Bill took her to dinner.

  Halfway through the meal, Ingrid put a large white envelope on the table between them.

  She turned as white as the tablecloth and lowered her eyes as she said, ‘That contains some very important information.’

  Bill shuddered. ‘What is it, Ingrid?’ he asked awkwardly.

  She tried to smile, but failed. ‘I hate the Nazis,’ she whispered, ‘and my hatred is killing me.’ She took the papers from the envelope. ‘The German rearmament programme . . . it’s for you.’

  Bill smiled indulgently. She was unlikely to have obtained any classified information that he, with his excellent contacts, had not yet uncovered, but she was insistent so he scanned the pages.

  Moments later Bill scooped the pages back into the envelope. Then he gazed around the restaurant carefully. No one was watching them, so he slipped out one sheet and read it slowly. It gave precise details of the battle cruisers under construction in top secret German shipyards; next there were drawings of the prototype of a fleet of submarines being made covertly for the Nazis in Finland, Holland and Spain; plans of fighter aircraft being made in Russia, which he had known about, and precise numbers of Nazi troops being trained inside Russia by German Chiefs of Staff. He’d known about that, too, but the statistics turned mere rumours into a red hot certainty.

  Ingrid leaned back and sipped her wine. Hugo had told her that Bill would be hooked by his bait and he was. She stifled a smile of triumph.

  ‘Jesus, Ingrid! This is classified material. This could get you into prison.’

  ‘It fell into my lap. Can you use it?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘Use it?’ He laughed softly.

  ‘I had to pay for this material,’ she began, suddenly overcome with nervousness.

  ‘Fair enough! I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, as if in huge relief. ‘I thought you’d want it. I didn’t know how to tell you how broke I am. How much is all this worth to you?’ She gestured towards the papers.

  ‘I normally pay a flat rate for information, as suggested by my bureau,’ he said, feeling awkward that she was short of money. ‘But obviously, I won’t let you be out of pocket. First, tell me where you got hold of all this.’ He tapped the envelope.

  ‘. . . a close friend of Uncle’s . . .’ she recited the fictional details Hugo had versed her in and gave an inward sigh of relief when Bill took out his cheque book.

  ‘I don’t want the cash for myself, Bill,’ she flushed and looked ashamed. ‘The truth is, I keep borrowing from Marietta and I’m never able to repay her.’

  ‘I bet Marie doesn’t give it a thought.’

  ‘But I do, Bill. That’s the whole point of the matter. I care, so if you could just make out the cheque to her . . .’

  ‘What a funny goose you are,’ Bill said. He made one cheque out to Marietta and another for Ingrid. ‘That’s your commission,’ he said. Ingrid seemed more relaxed as they sipped their brandy and listened to an entertainer singing the blues.

  What a strange girl Ingrid was, Bill thought. He didn’t really know her or understand her. Would he ever? He took her to the station in time to catch the last train back to Munich. Then he went home to work through the night.

  *

  ‘You’re not achieving enough, Ingrid.’

  Hugo paced up and down his study after Ingrid had been shown in. Eventually he turned abruptly and leaned over her. ‘Try harder,’ he said.

  Looking into Hugo’s implacable, brooding eyes, Ingrid shuddered. ‘I brought you Bill’s cheque,’ she argued. ‘I told you about the Jews Marietta and Andrea are sheltering . . .’

  ‘But you can do more . . . much more. Listen to me. I want you to understand the Nazi dream, so that you’ll feel as inspired as I do.’

  Hugo stood gazing out of the window, shoulders straight, head high. Ingrid couldn’t help thinking what a magnificent looking man he was, but lately she did not find him attractive, she was too afraid of him.

  ‘If the world imagines that the Führer will be content when he has united the Germans, they couldn’t be more wrong,’ he said softly, in his deep, vibrant voice.

  ‘The genius of the Führer has won a giant victory for the Fatherland without a shot being fired. Britain and France are going to hand over the Sudetenland areas of Czechoslovakia to us on a plate. The rest of Czechoslovakia will be unprotected. In a few months time, we’ll walk in unopposed. Next Poland, then the Ukraine . . . Yugoslavia . . . Russia . . . . That’s when you get your family’s estates restored to you, Ingrid. Isn’t that a dream worth fighting for?’

  He’s mad, thought Ingrid, but I need to believe him.

  *

  The thirteen men sitting around the table in the Count’s Berlin apartment, were also aware of Hitler’s dream for a European Empire. The ravings of a maniac, they privately considered, a maniac whom they intended to execute to protect the Fatherland. Between them they controlled most of the German Army, the Wehrmach. They had enough power to arrest the top echelon of the Nazi party and hold Berlin against SS army attacks for days if necessary. They had been meeting for weeks and now their plans were finalised.

  They would strike when Hitler issued the order to invade Czechoslovakia. The army generals would arrest the dictator and bring him to trial. He would be charged with recklessly pushing Germany into armed conflict.

  Time was running short, they knew. The world was teetering on the edge of war. Britain had mobilised her fleet, and France had called up her reserves to man her border defences. Surely, France and Britain would back their treaties and stand firm against the Nazi threat. A meeting would be held at Munich on September 30, to hammer out an agreement in the face of Hitler’s demands.

  The Count stood up and said: ‘Gentlemen, I pray to God that the British and French will hold firm against Hitler and that we shall succeed in bringing this evil man to justice.’

  Shortly afterwards a long-distance call came through from their contact in the German Embassy in London. The Count looked stricken as he listened.

  Minutes later he looked on the point of collapse as he turned to the members of the Conspiracy. ‘Gentlemen . . . bad news . . . the West intends giving Hitler what he wants without a fight . . . in fact, more than he asked for . . . so now . . . how can we arrest him on the charge of endangering the Fatherland? The people will turn against us. Our plans have become farcical.’

  The Count was filled with despair as he watched the meeting disband. Would no one take a stand against evil? Would the Nazis be allowed to impose their terrifying New Order all over Europe?

  In the black days that followed Allied appeasement, it seemed to the Count that the only sane British politician was Winston Churchill. In his speech to the House of Commons, he said: ‘We have sustained total and unmitigated defeat. We are in the midst of a disaster of the first magnitude. The road down the Danube . . . the road to the Black Sea has been opened. All the countries of Middle Europe and the Danube Valley, one after another, will be drawn into the vast system of Nazi politics radiating from Berlin. And do not suppose that this is the end. It is only the beginning.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The nights were becoming longer and colder and the Bloomberg family were plunged into despair. It was a bleak October and their fears made it worse. Money was short, for hardly any customers patronised the music shop and they were living on Taube’s earnings. Then came Bill’s good news. They had been accepted as immigrants to the United States. Their permits would be available by the end of the month. Bill had not told them what strings he had had to pull, nor what it had cost him.

  On October 25 a news broadcast informed all Jews that they must hand in their passports at the local police station within t
wenty-four hours. The Bloombergs did not, hoping against hope that the visas would come early.

  At seven the following evening they heard hammering at the door downstairs.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Father said, looking stricken. He returned looking haggard. ‘They’ve come to fetch our passports.’

  Odette began crying quietly. ‘We’re trapped,’ she whispered, as she unlocked the safe. She clutched her husband and hung on to him. ‘We should have made Taube go without us,’ she muttered, between her sobs.

  The doorbell rang again, but it was Bill’s special ring. They clustered around him, sure that he could solve their misfortune.

  Bill had never felt more inadequate. His contacts and his fortune and all his influence as a journalist were useless to help his friends. The futility of battling against inhuman and faceless red tape made him feel apathetical, but he knew he could not quit now. He was all they had. He made a show of being confident.

  ‘We won’t give up,’ he said. ‘Your visas will be through any day now. I have a friend who’s intimately connected with the Austrian Resistance. They can buy exit permits. I’ll contact them at once.’

  Taube guessed that the friend was Countess Marietta, but she knew better than to comment.

  From then on, the Bloombergs endured a traumatic time of nerve-jangling suspense. Each day seemed to last forever. The nights were fearful, every creaking floorboard, every footstep in the street a possible harbinger of the Gestapo.

  On November 9, they heard on the radio that a seventeen-year-old German Jewish refugee had shot and mortally wounded Ernst vom Rath, the Third Secretary of the German Embassy in Paris. The youth’s father had been among ten thousand ex-Polish Jews deported to Poland in boxcars shortly beforehand. Taube felt sick. This would provide a catalyst to set in motion more anti-Jewish riots.

  *

  At eight o’clock on the night of the tenth of November, Odette was darning a sock under the table lamp, trying to get the best angle in the dull light. She looked up, blinked and rubbed her eyes. ‘Your father’s working late. Put the kettle on, won’t you, Taube? He should stop now. I can’t see that his stocktaking is all that important anymore.’

  ‘Did you hear thunder?’ Taube stood up restlessly and went to the window. After a few minutes she flung it open.

  ‘Oh, no, dear. You’re letting all the warm air out. How could you?’

  ‘Shh! Listen! And look over there. Flames . . . and I can smell smoke. Can’t you?’

  They strained to hear what sounded like dull thuds, muffled shouts and then a scream, but the sounds were too far away to be identifiable.

  Almost immediately there was the rumble of marching feet. Then a sound that could be glass breaking, followed by a shrill scream, although the sounds came in snatches in the wind.

  Odette stood up and her mending fell forgotten to the floor. ‘Fetch your father,’ she said. She stood there, pressing both hands against her midriff. ‘Hurry, will you? Tell him to lock and bar the shop straightaway.’

  Taube began to run down the circular stairway.

  ‘Oh God . . . oh God . . . Help us.’ Her breath came in shallow gasps and there was a vice-like grip around her chest.

  ‘I must be calm,’ she muttered. ‘For their sakes I mustn’t crack.’

  She stumbled on the last step, ricked her ankle and bruised her elbow as she fell against the banister. ‘That’s what panic does,’ she said aloud, picking herself up and smoothing her hair. Her hands were shaking badly.

  ‘Father, where are you?’ The shop was empty. Then she saw him standing on the pavement with David Herschel from the bookshop next door. Father had opened the shop bars enough to pass through.

  ‘Father, quickly, shut the shop. I’ll help you. Mr Herschel, you must go inside and bar your windows.’

  Mr Herschel usually stayed open until eleven, for he did most of his business in the evenings. ‘. . . thousands on the march . . .’ he was saying.

  ‘Upstairs it sounds much louder, much nearer,’ she said.

  At that moment a van swung round the corner and several men in Hitler Youth uniform spilled out of it.

  Taube screamed. Her father caught hold of her and with the help of Herschel pushed her into the shop, dragging the bars across the doorway.

  The men hardly glanced at them. They had a job to do and they were in a hurry. They pushed long sticks through the bars, shattering the glass which fell in jaggard shards over the inside of the shop and the pavement. One of them was carrying a pot of paint and a thick brush which he used on the wall.

  Father and daughter stood stunned amongst the glass and heard the van drive further down the road. Soon the street was empty, but the thunder of the crowd was coming closer.

  Mr Herschel was keening monotonously. Anton gently shook him, unlocked the gate, and half-carried him to his shop.

  Taube followed, trying to help support the old man. It was then she saw the large red ‘J’ painted on their wall.

  Herschel suddenly recovered his wits. ‘Go back to your own home. I’ll lock the shutters from the inside. Hurry!’

  ‘They’ve marked us for the crowd,’ her father said grimly. ‘They don’t want their nice, gentile-owned shops destroyed. This is a well-organised pogrom. I’m going to try to wash it off. I have some paint-remover . . .’

  ‘Please, Father.’ She tried to quell the hysteria in her voice. ‘Come upstairs. Think of Mother. Please come.’

  She stood arguing, wringing her hands, but suddenly Father made a dive at her and threw her bodily on to the stairs. She heard the door being bolted behind her as she sat rubbing her shins. Her limbs felt leaden as she walked upstairs.

  When she opened the door to the living-room, the horrifying sound hit her like a steam engine. The total impact of shouts and screams, breaking glass, and the rumble of feet and vehicles, sounded like some voracious beast rampaging through the streets. Rushing to the window, Taube saw the crowd surge into their road. Brownshirts . . . Hitler Youth . . . crowds of civilians, some of them women . . . but they were like one unit, moving in unison, tearing down shutters and bars with pickaxes, breaking windows, dragging out the occupants and beating them in the gutters. Three trucks came hurtling down the street, horns blaring, and the victims were thrown on to them.

  Her mother was becoming hysterical. ‘Go and get your father, now.’

  ‘Father’s locked us in.’

  ‘So, why doesn’t he come up. He’s gone mad.’

  Below them, men were running towards their shop door carrying a long pole. There was a dull thud and the sound of wood and iron shattering. Now the footsteps sounded from inside the shop. ‘Father!’ Taube cried.

  The noise downstairs was terrible. Thuds as if someone was being beaten. A groan. Angry shouts.

  The door from the stairs was kicked open. A Brownshirt burst in. His eyes were wild and grinning like a madman, his brown hair flattened on his scalp with sweat, a bestial grimace on his lips. With a shock she recognised their postman.

  ‘Aha, Fräulein Bloomberg, I’ve always wanted you,’ he snarled, his voice hoarse with excitement. ‘Let’s have a look at your tits.’ He lunged at her.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’ She gasped and backed away towards the fire escape. She would have made it, but she stumbled on the fallen needlework and he caught her arm, pulling her back towards him. She could smell brandy and garlic and something rotten on his breath. One hand ripped her blouse open and wrenched up her bra. She screamed as his thick fist fumbled and squeezed her nipples. Then she was fighting like a wild cat, scratching, kicking, biting, trying to escape, but there were more men. Many more and they pinned her back against the table. ‘No . . . no . . . no . . .’ she sobbed.

  She recognised their newsagent’s boy, a pimply, dim-witted youth, his large red penis pulsing in his hand. ‘This is for you,’ he said, laughing crazily.

  With a surge of strength, Taube lunged away from the table and snatched up the poker, smashing it down on the postman’s h
ead.

  He fell to the floor yelling obscenely at her. The other men angrily grabbed her, knocking her heavily over the table. They pulled her skirt up over her head and tied it there, pinning her arms inside her dress. Blinded and helpless, half-suffocated, she felt her pants and stockings being ripped off.

  Her body was bent back, her legs were forced apart and she felt a violent pain in her crotch. Nausea and self-loathing welled through her. She felt abandoned and worthless. She could not see or breathe, she was suffocating and she wished she could pass out, but the pain went on and on. Was it six, or seven? She heard someone making strange, inhuman noises and realised it was herself.

  Eventually they left. There was no sound or movement in the room, just the rumble of shouting and destruction coming from the street. Bruised and bleeding, it took all her strength to roll off the table. She fell on the floor dazed, struggling feebly to loosen her belt through the thick woollen fabric of her skirt. Eventually she clawed her way into the fresh air. Where was Mother? She took a deep breath and, clutching the legs of the table, struggled to her feet, the pain in her back intense. She looked round, but the door to the study was still closed. There was no sound. ‘Mother,’ she cried.

  It was then that she saw the Brownshirt sitting in the armchair by the fire. He had a glass of her father’s brandy in his hand. He lifted it. ‘That was a very good performance,’ he said. ‘You were very good, too. Now you must go down to the truck with your mother. Unless you want an encore, that is.’

  Taube backed away towards the fire escape. She looked back, panic-stricken, and saw him lunge towards her. She jumped. She was falling . . . out of control. Then she clutched the railings and pulled herself on to the steel steps. She ran down and down, her mind filled with the sight of those savage eyes and the big hands reaching towards her.

  Chapter Thirty

  Something woke him. Bill sat up and switched on the light, glad to be freed from his nightmare. Then he shuddered. There was no comfort in waking, the nightmare was invading his days. It was real. The Bloomberg family were destroyed, Anton was dead, Odette ‘resettled’ in some camp in the East, he’d been unable to find out which one, and Taube was missing. He’d searched for her for days.