Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  ‘Greta Brecht,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Welcome to Stadelheim,’ Marietta called softly. ‘We pass information to each other . . . we are all afraid, but it helps to talk to each other. Try to be brave,’ she whispered.

  The woman could not stop crying. Marietta listened sympathetically, as she had done so often in the past months, to yet another sad story. Greta had owned a small nightclub in Munich. She had fallen foul of her Nazi boyfriend over the cash takings he had stolen. After an argument, he had denounced her as a prostitute and social deviant. Now he owned the nightclub.

  ‘I’m sorry, but take courage. Prostitution is not a very serious crime.’

  ‘What will happen to me here?’ Greta asked, coughing again.

  ‘Nothing much, unless you break the rules. You don’t get enough to eat, that’s all. You wait here until your trial. After that you move on. The warders are stupid, but they only obey orders. Try to be calm. It helps.’

  Why don’t I take my own advice, she thought bitterly. Lately she had hardly slept. Her stomach felt knotted. She would break out in a cold sweat each time she heard footsteps approaching. Were they coming to get her? Was this the end? Her fear of dying was her main preoccupation. Would they shoot her, or garotte her, or hang her? There was also her longing for Bill, her anxiety for her father, and her loneliness to contend with. A howl, rising from the cells below, brought goosepimples to her skin.

  ‘Shut up, pig,’ she heard the wardress yell.

  As the howls changed to whimpers of pain, Marietta put her hands over her ears. She could bear her own anguish, but not that of others. Here was a place where evil flourished, but she would never become debased. Never, she vowed. ‘Don’t give in to them,’ she whispered to Greta. ‘We are not like them. We know how to love.’ She closed her eyes and thought about Bill and the love they had shared. She did not sleep.

  *

  Princess Ingrid Mignon von Graetz lay between her silk sheets and idly contemplated the painting she had bought. It was called Spanish Dancers, and it depicted a dancing troupe being led away in chains, the blood from their wounds as crimson as the women’s dresses. It had been painted by Ricardo Cortes, a young Spanish refugee painter who was living on his wits in Paris. The main value of Ricordo’s painting, and so many others like it, which she now owned, was that she had become established in the right circles. Nowadays she was known as a generous patron of the arts, a vehement anti-Nazi campaigner and moderately wealthy, and she mixed with a very sophisticated crowd.

  Life had become enchanting. At weekends, she and her new friends would race down to Monaco for gambling at the casino, and spend their days in stately chateaux belonging to one or the other of the right set. Ingrid was also gaining the reputation of being one of the prettiest and best-dressed women in Paris and she was proud of this. War had been declared, but in her circles, no one seemed to care. Only at night her fears surfaced. Would Hugo force her to spy again? Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? What would he make her do?

  Unbelievably, Hugo had not asked her to do anything for him when he arranged her departure from Germany. She simply squandered the large sums deposited in her bank account and had fun. She occasionally believed that Hugo had forgotten about her, but usually she waited for word from him in trepidation and meanwhile threw herself into a whirl of social events, like a moth dashing itself against a lamp.

  She stretched, sat up and studied her bedroom. There was only one word to describe it . . . divine! She had engaged the services of the leading interior decorator in Paris, a quaint homosexual, known as Quince. Everything was pink except the ceiling which was covered with murals of cute little bare-bottomed seraphs flitting among the clouds.

  Beyond the bedroom was her salon where she could comfortably entertain fifty guests or more, which she did, every Thursday evening. At first it had been difficult to achieve the right mix: hot-headed, left-wing politicians, empty pocketed artists, powerful ministers of state, rich industrialists and impoverished, titled exiles, but eventually she had succeeded brilliantly. The women must be saucy, pretty and fun, the men must be interesting at the very least, rich and powerful was an added bonus. Life had become like a firework display – one glorious happening after the next.

  Ingrid climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom where she ran a bath of deep hot water into which she poured her scented bath oil. She leaned back and enjoyed the fragrant water. She found her thoughts wandering to Fernando, the Spanish dancer, who had recently joined her circle of friends. He excited her tremendously. He was divinely handsome with jet-black straight hair, tanned skin, small turned-up nose and slanting black eyes, which flashed fiercely with passion or temper, depending on his mood. He had a lithe, virile dancer’s body and endless energy. She had vaguely thought of taking him as her lover.

  She ran her hands over her breasts and her thighs and felt ready for love. She knew she looked good. Even her cropped hair was superbly styled. Quite without meaning to, she had started a new look in Paris. Everyone wanted to look as if they’d been shorn and starved recently.

  Ingrid dressed and set out on her pilgrimage of self-gratification. She returned at one to find the maid had set the table for lunch, smoked salmon and caviar, with salad and champagne, Ingrid’s favourite diet.

  She had almost finished lunch when the telephone rang. It would probably be Lisa Fonssagrives, Ingrid thought, as she hurried to pick up the receiver. Lisa, a fashion photographer, wanted to photograph Ingrid in her latest gown of shimmering blue-green voile, for a special supplement to Paris Vogue entitled: ‘What the Rich are Wearing’. She had decided to say yes. She picked up the receiver. ‘Princess Ingrid von Graetz,’ she murmured.

  ‘Congratulations, my dear. You’ve gate-crashed the right set, just as I predicted. I knew I could count on you.’

  Hugo’s oily purring voice gripped Ingrid with ice-cold apprehension. She had to hold on to the desk-top to save herself from falling on to the Afghan rug, her knees turned to rubber. She wanted to throw down the receiver, deny his existence, order him from her life, but she did not have that kind of courage. And always was the persistent belief that only Hugo could restore her rightful possessions.

  ‘Ingrid, are you there? Speak!’ Hugo’s voice demanded.

  ‘I’m here,’ she croaked, clearing her throat. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’

  ‘Good!’ He chuckled. ‘Well, my dear, now that you’ve established yourself so effectively, it is time for you to get to work.’

  She swallowed, desperately trying to pull herself together.

  ‘You are to meet your controller, Ingrid. When we’ve finished this conversation, put down the receiver, walk outside your apartment block and turn left towards the Champs-Elysées. Hesitate at the corner. You will be contacted.’

  A click terminated the conversation. Ingrid was left holding the receiver. She let it fall from her fingers and bounce on to the floor. She felt dazed and apprehensive. To steel herself she thought about her family’s stolen fortune in land and buildings . . . it would all be hers. She only had to obey Hugo for a little while longer. The war would soon be over. She automatically checked her make-up, retouched her lips and, picking up her bag and a silk wrap, let herself out of her apartment.

  When she reached the pavement, she realised how cold it was. A fur stole would have been more sensible than silk, she thought. She walked to the corner of the street and stood around feeling lost. Unexpectedly, Fernando appeared at her side. He took her arm. ‘Let me escort you across the road,’ he said.

  ‘Oh God! No! Not now!’ she whispered to him. ‘I don’t have time to talk to you.’

  He was amazingly persistent. He caught hold of her arm and led her to the kerb. They crossed the street while she made feeble efforts to push him away.

  ‘Not now, I tell you. I must wait at the corner,’ she hissed.

  ‘For me. Do you not understand? You were waiting for me.’

  Ingrid stopped in amazement. Good G
od! What a mad world. Fernando . . .? A Nazi agent . . .? She laughed shakily as she accompanied him to the nearest café and allowed him to guide her to a seat.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised.’ He was laughing at her. He ordered her a glass of Pernod without asking what she wanted.

  ‘Come,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘Be daring! Kiss me!’

  She raised her mouth in a futile, resigned gesture and allowed herself to be briefly fondled as his lips touched hers. Leaving his hand on her shoulder, his fingers began to dig into her flesh. She flinched and tried to pull away.

  ‘What a luscious little thing you are.’ He leaned over her, reeking of garlic, and for the first time she noticed his pitted skin. ‘It’s a pity,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘but I must make the supreme sacrifice. From now on, Ingrid, your sexual favours must be used exclusively for the glory of the Third Reich.’ He laughed cruelly at the expression on her face.

  ‘Yes, it’s time to get to work. Our mutual friend wants to know the precise political leanings of the men in the government who visit your salon. It’s a simple beginner’s task for you, Ingrid,’ he said. ‘By the way, my dear, our friend said you must stop spending quite so much money, but as long as he has information about . . .’

  An hour later Ingrid stumbled back to her apartment in a daze. Her head was full of jumbling questions. Too many questions! Which politicians could be persuaded to work for the Nazis when Germany conquered France? Who would cause the most trouble? Who slept with whom? Who had influence, who did not? Hugo was demanding his price and Ingrid knew it was time to pay.

  By the time Ingrid reached her apartment, she was filled with nausea. She staggered to the bathroom. Flinging her bag on the floor, she threw up in the toilet, then fumbled on the shelves for two aspirins, which she swallowed with a glass of water. Her mind was racing around, looking for an escape. How could she get this information without having to sleep with these ugly, flabby men? She glanced in the mirror and flinched as her haggard eyes stared back. She must look beautiful. Feverishly she began to brush rouge on to her cheeks. She would wear her new blue voile tonight, she decided. It made her look young and appealing. She had just four hours to pull herself together.

  Chapter Forty-One

  In the Berlin office, the Count stood staring out at the square below, deep in thought, trying to think of any detail that he might have overlooked. It was January, 1940, and Western Europe was sweating out the phony war. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Hitler sent his goose-stepping troops out to impose their New Order on the west, but no one knew just where and when the attack would come. The generals felt that in the long-term Germany must be defeated, and so the Conspiracy had sprung into action again.

  Since Marietta had been arrested the Count had aged twenty years. His hair had turned white and his flesh shrunk until the loose skin hung in folds. His eyes were bleak and his lips permanently folded into a thin line of despair. The smart ceremonial Nazi uniform he was wearing stressed his ravaged features. Since joining the Nazi Party, the Count had moved his headquarters to his apartment in Berlin where it was easier to meet members of the Conspiracy. At the same time he was able to ingratiate himself with Hitler’s close associates.

  Hearing his manservant’s footsteps, the Count turned from the window, expecting to see one of the conspirators, but found himself staring into the startling blue eyes of Bill Roth.

  ‘I’ve tried everything and failed,’ Bill said. ‘The Embassy tried. I went right to the top . . .’ he broke off as the implications of the Count’s uniform sunk in . . . the stiff black tunic, the steel swastika at the neck fastening, the epaulettes denoting the honorary rank of lieutenant-general. His misery turned to shock and then contempt.

  ‘You bastard,’ Bill whispered. ‘You put her where she is. Yes, you! You trained her . . . you gave her that awful dedication to duty that ruined our lives . . . you taught her to fear no one and to speak her mind. Now you’ve joined the Nazi Party to save your own precious skin.’

  Bill sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands. ‘How much did it take to make you a traitor?’ he muttered.

  ‘Marietta’s life,’ the Count said simply.

  Bill looked incredulous. ‘They’re going to free her?’

  ‘I said her life, not her freedom. They’re not going to shoot her, or hang her or garotte her. That was the deal.’

  As he watched Bill’s expression changed from anger to shame and humility, the Count was filled with compassion for this young American who would give his life for Marietta, just as he would. With his rough, uncombed hair, his hunched shoulders and deeply-lined face, he looked like a man enduring the very worst that life could throw at him. He poured Bill a brandy and handed it to him. ‘A life sentence lasts only as long as the Nazis last.’

  Bill gulped the brandy. ‘Life?’ he muttered. ‘I was hoping she’d be freed.’

  ‘That was naive of you,’ the Count said. ‘My daughter is the victim of a trumped-up charge of espionage. She is accused of handing over secrets of German rearmament . . . maybe to you. Who knows? Ingrid was also accused, but fortunately for her she had already been deported.’

  Bill looked shattered. ‘You mean . . . Why yes . . . Ingrid brought me some statistics once. I thought at the time she should never have had them. She told the source . . .’ He broke off and stared at the floor for a while. ‘Strange!’

  The Count shrugged. ‘You weren’t the one they were after. I don’t suppose the information was all that important. I think they wanted to trap the Edelweiss students . . . and they succeeded. Now Bill, you must leave. Don’t come again.’

  ‘I helped trap her,’ Bill said softly. That agonising thought stayed with him long after he had said goodbye.

  *

  It was just before dawn the following morning when the Gestapo came for Bill. After a restless night spent worrying about Marie, Bill had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep and he did not hear them. He woke, blurry-eyed and dazed, to hear his door being broken open and footsteps rushing down the passage to his bedroom.

  He switched on the light and groaned aloud. The Gestapo were wrecking his flat. One of them pointed a pistol at his head. ‘Get dressed at once,’ he said. He remained close to Bill.

  That was unusual, Bill thought, resigned to the worst. They usually dragged off their victims in their nightclothes.

  As he dressed he watched the Gestapo systematically search and destroy the contents of his flat. Bill shrugged and looked the other way. There was nothing he could do about it right now. There would be little worth salvaging when they’d finished, and if there was it would be stolen.

  He was pushed out to the inevitable black car and thrust inside. It had all been so quick. Bill felt scared, despite his firm intention not to be. Andy Johnson would call from the Embassy in the morning, as he always did. That was a small comfort. He would know that Bill had been arrested and there would be an official protest. There wasn’t much they could do to him, Bill reckoned. War had been declared a month ago, but America was neutral and the Bill knew that the Nazis would be happy to keep the status quo. They had enough on their plates.

  Reason began to wane in the face of his fear. How would he cope with the interrogation? Was he about to find out just how much of a man he really was? Just how bad would the beatings be?

  To his surprise, he saw that they were driving towards the station. Bill was thrust out of the car and marched to a platform. The destination board read Düsseldorf, which was near the Dutch border. Was he going to be deported? The idea appalled him. How could he leave Germany when Marie was imprisoned there? He’d never stopped hoping that somehow he’d get her out. ‘You can’t do this,’ he said, but his guards ignored him.

  It was midnight when the train reached Düsseldorf. The station was deserted. Handcuffed to one of the guards, Bill was driven rapidly north. It was 1 a.m. when he was bundled out of the car. Ahead was the German border post. His handcuffs were unlocked. Then
an unexpected kick propelled him past the barriers. Looking round cautiously he saw that he was in a narrow strip of road between two heavily armed border posts of two countries at war with each other. On either side, he was looking into the sights of half a dozen rifles. He reached into his pocket for his white handkerchief and flapped it towards the Dutch. ‘I’m American,’ he yelled. ‘Neutral . . . Deported . . . Call the American Embassy . . . I’m a journalist . . . They took my passport . . .’

  There was no reply. The rifles moved fractionally as he scrambled to his feet. Damn! He’d sprained his ankle in the fall. Cursing heavily, he limped towards the Dutch post.

  *

  At dawn, on the morning of April 30, Marietta woke to the usual heavy footsteps and the squealing of the trolley being propelled down the corridor. Her door was flung open. She held out her bowl. The beady-eyed wardress looked triumphant. ‘Your trial is today,’ she was told abruptly. ‘Be ready after breakfast.’

  Shortly afterwards, the warder returned with the clothes Marietta had been wearing when she was arrested. She stroked the fabric lovingly. When she put on her skirt and blouse she discovered how much weight she had lost.

  She heard more footsteps and her cell door was thrown open. Unbelievably, Toadie was carrying handcuffs. The steel bands were snapped around her wrists. Another guard waited at the door, fingering her baton.

  The sombre procession started along the corridor. ‘Good luck, good luck,’ she heard the calls from the cells as she walked past. She squared her shoulders and held her head high, but, despite her efforts, she was quaking by the time she reached the Tribunal. She recognised the three judges, and there was Hugo, sitting in the well of the court, looking triumphant.

  She faced the bench. ‘You are Countess Marietta von Burgheim? Is that correct?’