Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  And he was equally to blame. Why had he been so careless? How had he been taken in by the little actress playing the martyr, a victim of Hitler’s death camps? Poor little Ingrid. Ingrid the patriot. Jesus, when he got home, he would choke the life out of her.

  He wondered dully why she did it. For gain? Or was she a fanatical Nazi?

  ‘Now listen to me, Roth,’ Schofield said. ‘I know this is a shock, but you have got to play along and this is what you’re going to do . . .’

  *

  It was 9 p.m. Bill was late. He’d had two drinks at the pub on the corner before plucking up courage to go to Ingrid’s cottage. He rang the bell and heard light footsteps in the passage. The front door was flung open and she pulled him inside.

  ‘Bill, darling.’ She threw herself into his arms and smothered him with kisses. She stepped back. ‘You’re so late. I thought you weren’t coming. You always ’phone. Bill, what’s wrong? Something’s wrong!’

  Bill smiled wearily. Not a very good start, if she can already see that something’s wrong, he thought. ‘I’m damn tired, Ingrid, and I missed you like hell.’ That was the first lie. It didn’t hurt all that much.

  ‘Why are you late?’ she asked.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Ingrid. I’m cold and hungry.’ That was the second lie. He didn’t care if he never ate again.

  She smiled. ‘I’ll feed you and warm you in bed.’

  ‘Promise?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve been keeping something special for you, I’ve got a bottle of champagne. You’ll never guess where I got it.’

  She gabbled on and on about her friends in the establishment set, and so-and-so’s rich cousin who had received a case of champagne from a rich friend. Bill wasn’t listening. He was thinking what hell it was going to be, to have to live with Ingrid now that he hated her. But she’s been forced to live with me. Does she hate me? She had prostituted herself on orders from her controller. He felt sick with embarrassment when he thought back to their London reunion. What a sucker he’d been. How she must have laughed at him.

  Then there was the day she had come to him and admitted that she loved him, and begged him to give her a chance. He’d been surprised at the time. It was unlike her to beg, but his male ego had encouraged him to believe that she spoke the truth. He looked up, realising that she was watching him curiously. ‘I wish this training were over. It’s exhausting,’ he said. Then he swore. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget that I did.’

  ‘Bill. Don’t think I didn’t guess. I’m worried sick. Just tell me that you’re not going to be involved in any sort of fighting.’

  ‘You know I can’t talk about my work, Ingrid.’

  ‘Of course. But I’m so worried for you.’

  ‘Listen, Ingrid. I’ll be gone for about six months, maybe seven. If it were anyone but you, I wouldn’t say a word, but you deserve my trust. You’ve fought the Nazis right from the very beginning.’ Jesus! he thought, watching her. She can still flush. ‘I’m going into occupied territory and you know why. The invasion is only months away. The Resistance must be trained. All sorts of preparations are needed. I’ll be all right and I won’t be far away. In fact, if I look hard enough I’ll see the cliffs of Dover. If it gets rough I could even swim home. People do quite often. I shouldn’t tell you this, but if you need help, you must go to my office. Here’s the telephone number of someone who can help you, if you have a problem.’ He gave her Schofield’s number, as they had arranged.

  When Bill went to bed later, he muttered that he was tired, but instantly her nubile, clinging, treacherous body was writhing against his. It was as every bit as bad as Bill had imagined it would be.

  God, she was a whore! A Nazi whore! He gritted his teeth and said: ‘I’m tired. I have a headache.’

  To Bill’s horror, he discovered he was impotent. And the more he worried about it, the worse it got. But if he did not succeed, she would suspect. She would realise that something was wrong. She was not a fool. He mustn’t give her the slightest reason to distrust him. This was his atonement and that, together with his determination that she would pay for her crimes, gave him the necessary willpower.

  Eventually he was able to turn his back and feign sleep. Ingrid waited for a while before creeping out of bed and going to the study, to rifle his briefcase.

  ‘Go on, photograph every goddamned page, you Nazi whore.’ He whispered into his pillow. ‘Don’t leave anything out. Every single document has been selected especially for you, Ingrid. You must think it’s your lucky night.’

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Bill’s first ‘school’ was like nothing Bill could ever have imagined: a place staffed by cranky adventurers who were paid and housed in order to further their craziness. One afternoon, late in March, Bill saw their instructor go down and nearly drown in a midget submarine in the ornamental pond, with golden carp and water reeds. He was dragged up, in the nick of time, fronds of weeds trailing over his shoulder and several litres of murky water pouring from his blue lips. ‘Not quite watertight yet,’ he gasped, when he could speak.

  The unarmed combat instructor, who lived on brown rice and sat cross-legged in the corner of the floor to eat, could be seen most midnights, weather permitting, making weird movements on the lawn. ‘Drawing power from the universe,’ he told them mysteriously. These were two amongst so many strange men. They taught him to shoot, and to fight dirty, and how to live off the land, and a variety of ways to turn ordinary items like cutlery, ballpoint pens and garden spades into lethal weapons.

  Bill was training with four Czechs, all crazed with ambition to get home and kill every German they saw. Anton and Miro Klima were from his Czech office. Then there was Karol Hemzo, once a historian, now a bull of a man with a pointed black beard and shrewd, ice-blue eyes, who collected lovesick females wherever he went, and Franz Kussi, who had gained his doctorate in physics at Oxford before the war started, but had thrown up his career to join the forces. He was very thin and could be mistaken for a weak man, but he was as strong as a coil of steel wire. His dark frizzy hair, smoothed and shiny with cream, cocker spaniel eyes and olive skin made him look romantic, according to the girls working at the school. Perhaps he was in peacetime, Bill thought, but he knew him as a dedicated fighter. They had all been well-picked. Later, Bill knew, there would be many more, but these were the men who would parachute in with him. They had all volunteered to penetrate Theresienstadt concentration camp.

  At the school, Bill found himself the target for hostility from many of the instructors, who seemed to think that all Americans needed pulling down a peg or two. His American accent was going to bring about his undoing within hours of dropping in, they told him contemptuously. It might even kill his comrades.

  Bill tried to keep his sense of humour. He knew that Britain was full of Yankee soldiers, beaming New World charm and optimism, able to jive and hand out coffee and booze, their pockets stuffed full of cash and bars of chocolate and their evenings free, after a hard day of mock battles, gearing up for the invasion. British boys were losing out with local girls and feeling bitter about it.

  After eight weekends at the combat camp came the demolition school, located in a large house near Inverness. Amongst the mature early spring flowers, on stately lawns, Bill exploded mock-ups of railway lines, bridges, interior machinery and stable walls a foot thick.

  Then it was time to move on to the parachute course, which was more complicated than it should have been, mainly because of the abnormal amount of gear he would be carrying.

  Bill was becoming fitter and tougher than he had been in his life and he found he enjoyed the training. Only the waiting was worrying him. Hitler’s so-called first Vergeltungswaffe or reprisal weapon, known as the V-1, was menacing Southern England. This pilotless, jet-propelled aircraft, known to Londoners as the doodle-bug, was capable of 400 mph and carried nearly a ton of high explosive. The bombs flew at low altitudes, powered by petrol and compressed air. So far, a
nti-aircraft guns were proving useless against the V-1. Production of the V-2 had been disrupted by expert RAF bombing, but it was only a matter of months before this improved rocket terrorised London.

  It was the V-3 that kept Bill awake at night. Thank God hardly anyone knew about it. Would they be in time? he wondered. The training was dragging on and the SOE seemed to be in no hurry to start their mission.

  ‘My dear fellow, you’ll be there until the war ends, so what’s your hurry?’ Schofield countered when he complained. ‘The later you go, the more chance of survival you’ll have. We’ll let you know when the time’s ripe.’

  There was nothing to do but wait, and the tension was beginning to affect Bill. Lately, Southern England was chaotic. Britain had become one huge armed camp. All coastal areas were banned to visitors, and US troops were camped on every pavement and corner of spare land. Military exercises were taking place in every second village, fake concentrations of troops and dummy ships were being moved around coastal areas to keep the enemy guessing as to where and when the strike would come. Railway timetables were being reorganised to allow hundreds of thousands of British, American and Commonwealth troops to be moved to invasion assembly points swiftly and efficiently when the time came. Villagers became used to hundreds of parachutists dropping all around them and heavily-laden gliders swooping low overhead, as the troops practised and practised again for the big day.

  Bill sweated it out, wishing he could do his bit.

  *

  Then, on the morning of May 10, 1944, Bill was summoned to Schofield’s office. ‘Good news, Roth,’ he greeted Bill, ‘You’ve been promoted. Let me be the first one to congratulate you, Major. Secondly, I have the okay for your planned mission into Czechoslovakia. Sorry it took so long. The decision was made right at the top. That’s where we’re going now, Bill, to see the Prime Minister.’

  Half an hour later, they were shown into Number Ten, Downing Street, and asked to wait in a comfortable, homely sitting-room. Sharp at nine Bill Roth and Stephen Schofield were escorted to Churchill’s study. Bill peered through the fog of tobacco smoke, across the dark oak-panelled room with the heavily curtained bay windows, at the man who was sitting behind his desk. Churchill seemed older than he appeared in the newspaper photographs. He had huge bags under his eyes and his chin and his heavy jowls shivered and shook as he spoke. But his blue eyes were alert and penetrating. After listening to him for a few moments, Bill realised that he was in the presence of an incredible mind and a formidable power. ‘I’ve been keeping track of you, Roth,’ he said. ‘I’ve read most of your pre-war articles. As one ex-journalist to another, you did a good job back in ’38. Appeasement was the name of the game then. The more’s the pity. We were voices in the wilderness, Roth.’ Bill started to murmur something, but soon realised that he had been summoned to listen, not to talk.

  ‘It was a considerable feat to get Alesh out. Well done, my boy.’

  ‘Sir, with respect, I merely liaised . . .’

  Churchill ignored him. ‘This mission you’ve volunteered for might call for the greatest sacrifice, Roth. I want to wish you luck and tell you that we’ll all be with you, in our hearts and minds.’

  Bill, swept away by the force of Churchill’s rhetoric, was still trying to work out why he was there.

  ‘There’s a group of scientists known as the Berkeley Group, working at the University of California,’ Churchill told him. ‘They put in a classified report in May 1941, which I have here.’ He tapped a folder with his finger. ‘It states that a nuclear explosive cannot be made available before mid-1945, that a chain reaction in natural uranium is probably eighteen months off, and that it will take another year to produce enough plutonium for a bomb.

  ‘Late in June, 1941, President Roosevelt personally established the Office of Scientific Research and Development, under the direction of a top physicist. Just a few days ago, the decision was made to go ahead and make the A-bomb.

  ‘Now, you’re going into enemy territory, Roth, and for obvious reasons I’m not going to continue this story. Suffice it to say that it’s possible Germany and America are running neck-and-neck in the research and development of this new and terrible weapon. The enemy might even be ahead of us.

  ‘That’s where you come in, Roth. We don’t want their plant destroyed. We need their research, particularly in guided missiles. Furthermore, when that area can be taken, it will be essential that we reach the mine before the Russians do. We don’t want to capture a ruin, Roth. Remember that! We want all their research and know-how, with their scientists alive and kicking. You see what I mean?

  ‘At the same time, it’s essential that their development is delayed by a series of “accidents”. The Czechs must understand that their sabotage must be limited yet effective. The Bosch must never produce that bomb, nor fire that missile of theirs.’

  Churchill paused. He began shuffling the papers on his desk. It seemed that his mind was concentrating on something else. But he added: ‘That’s a very important point. No doubt you’ll appreciate the fine line of decisions that will be required. That’s your job, Roth. A delicate job. A sensitive job.

  ‘We’ll be hard at work on our side of the project, which is making sure British or American troops get there first, not the Russians. You of all people will understand that such a weapon in Russian hands might prove as disastrous as in German hands.’

  He picked up another file and began leafing through it. ‘You get over there, my boy, and stay there. We’ll get to you just as soon as we can.’

  Bill and Stephen stood up and shook hands. Churchill was smiling at them, as his aide was showing them out of the door, but his mind was on the next problem.

  Bill drove back with Stephen feeling dazed. He guessed he’d better do what he had been ordered to do, but it was turning out to be more complicated than he had expected. Bill went on to Miro’s office to tell them the news.

  ‘Send this coded message to Edelweiss,’ he said. ‘Your request has been approved. Restrict all activities for approximately thirty days, and build up supplies. As from now, this operation is under SOE control.’

  He looked up at his two colleagues, who were also his friends. ‘I assume you two are volunteering to come along,’ he said.

  Bill shook hands solemnly with Anton and Miro and they, in turn, clasped him in their arms and hugged him, Czech style. Miro produced a bottle of good brandy and they toasted themselves and the mission until the bottle was empty.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Bill had nothing left to do at the office. He had passed on his work to others, completed his filing, put his affairs in order and cleaned out his desk. Tomorrow, on June 4, 1944, he would be taking off for Czechoslovakia.

  He wanted to get back to his own rooms and get to sleep early, but he knew he must say goodbye to Ingrid and he was dreading the scene she was bound to create. As a delaying tactic, he decided to catch up on some reading. Finally, around ten, when he couldn’t think of another damn reason to stop him from going, Schofield’s secretary came looking for him. Her boss wanted to see him.

  Schofield rubbed his palms together. ‘Aha! Here comes the man with the hot line straight to Hitler. What will you have to drink? Brandy? Scotch?’

  ‘Scotch.’ Bill sank into the chair.

  ‘You look all in, my boy. Well, they say a change is as good as a rest. You won’t have to be in Czechoslovakia for too long. Maybe a year. Not much more. I don’t mind telling you that our Nazi Princess has been extremely successful. U-Boats are being misdirected, dummy airfields are being bombed nightly. Of course, it’s only a matter of time before they latch on to Ingrid passing false information. When they do, I’m afraid it’s curtains for her, unless we bail her out. They’ll think she’s a double agent. But she’s been very useful and done her bit for the Allied war effort.’ Bill leaned back and thought about Ingrid and her plight. It was the first time he had really thought of what would happen to her, since he’d found out that she was a s
py.

  ‘Right now we want you to enhance the myth that the anticipated Allied landing on the European mainland will be at Calais.’

  ‘I’ve already done that. Anyway, I’m leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘Exactly. Be nostalgic. Say goodbye. Be a little indiscreet. Think you can do that?’

  Bill nodded, feeling depressed.

  As Schofield went on planning, talking and giving him advice on running the Czechs, Bill had only half a mind on his instructions. Part of him was thinking about Ingrid.

  Recently her manner had become affectionate to the point of hysteria. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the agony she was enduring. He’d felt pretty awful, too, just having to be with her, but this was the first time he had wondered what it must be like to be Ingrid. He shuddered. Lately, he had lost much of his anger. Ingrid was a victim, he decided. Hugo’s pawn. One day, he thought. I’m going to get close enough to Hugo to settle the score.

  *

  Bill reached Ingrid’s home just after midnight and let himself through the front door quietly in case she had gone to sleep.

  He frowned when he saw her, pursed his lips and for the first time in weeks felt compassion. Ingrid was sprawled across the table, her face in her hands and she was fast asleep. Beside her stood a half-empty bottle of French wine and one used glass. The table was set romantically, but the candles had spluttered to pools of wax.

  Bill walked softly through to the kitchen and saw the food on the stove, the wine sauce which had clotted, the fish which was like shoe leather, the tiny potatoes covered in butter and parsley, the peas with a sprig of mint over the top, wilted and brown. He pursed his lips and whistled softly. He replaced the candles and lit them, took a bottle of French claret from the cupboard and opened it. He could see from Ingrid’s puffy face that she had sobbed herself to sleep. He hoped she hadn’t taken a sleeping pill, since he’d brought home a batch of documents to be copied. Ingrid stirred. She pushed herself off the table and rubbed her red cheek. She gazed suspiciously at Bill as he retrieved the ruined food from the kitchen and carried it to the table. She blinked, bleary-eyed and depressed.