Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  Bill tried to summon up his hatred, but it was entirely missing. He felt only sadness as he bent over her and kissed her cheek.

  ‘I warned you not to love me, Ingrid,’ he said. ‘I’m not free. There are too many deaths to be avenged. The war must be won. When it’s over, maybe I’ll become human again. Sit up, Ingrid. Let’s drink to peace. I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t be back until after the war.’

  She cried out involuntarily. Real tears glistened in her eyes.

  Was she two women inside one body? Sometimes it seemed like that. Ingrid the woman, and Ingrid the spy. Did she know which one was real?

  ‘What’s going on? Why were you late?’

  That was the spy talking, he decided. ‘I can’t tell you anything, but I want you to know that it’s very big. It’s probably the most important thing that’s happened since the war began, and I’m in charge of a part of it. I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t see you for some time and I don’t want you to think about me.’

  ‘If only feelings could be controlled so easily.’

  That was the woman talking, Bill thought. Or was it?

  ‘You’ll manage because you have to. Tell you what, Ingrid. When it’s over, I’ll take you on a day trip and show you where I was and what I was doing. We’ll take the overnight ferry. Is that a deal?’

  Now her brow was wrinkled and her eyes gleamed suspiciously. He could almost read her mind. Why was he being so garrulous when he’d never told her anything before? She wasn’t stupid.

  He placed two plates on the table and spooned the clotted sauce over the fish.

  ‘The fish is ruined,’ she said. Her voice broke off with a hiccup.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ he lied. ‘Besides, I had a few drinks with the boys, just to say goodbye. I won’t notice the difference.’ He poured out the wine and chewed the charred remains. ‘Mmm, a little tough, but nothing serious. I’m starving,’ he added manfully.

  Ingrid prodded at hers with her fork and pushed her plate away.

  Bill picked up his glass. ‘Ingrid, I want to propose a toast: “To the invasion”.’

  ‘To the invasion,’ she echoed dully. There was doubt in her eyes . . . and fear. She was trying to pull herself together, but she had drunk too much wine. He sensed that she was near breaking point. He wanted to do something to help her . . . longed to cure her of loving him. He knew he would never marry her. That was out of the question after what she’d done.

  He put one hand over hers and said: ‘Ingrid. Please forget me. Once you asked me to give “us” a chance. D’you remember? Well, I did and it didn’t work. At least, not for me. This is goodbye, Ingrid. In any event, the chances of my surviving are virtually nil. But if I do survive, I won’t marry you. Not ever. Although you’ll always be my friend, if that’s acceptable to you.’

  A terrible expression appeared in her eyes. Bill had seen a rabbit look like that once when it was caught in a snare.

  ‘Don’t you love me at all?’ she whispered, dry-lipped.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t leave me tonight. Please, Bill. It’s your last night. Stay with me. I want you to hold me.’

  He picked her up and carried her to the bed. She was ridiculously light. He laid her on the blankets and undid the buttons of her silk dress and ran his fingers over her breasts. ‘You’re too thin, Ingrid. You must eat properly. You need your strength.’

  She turned her head away. Bill gently pulled her on to his shoulder and she snuggled up hard against him.

  At midnight she woke him with her clumsy efforts to photograph his documents. He feigned sleep and waited for her to return to bed.

  When he woke at dawn she was fast asleep and he managed to creep out without waking her. He wanted to spend his last few hours in his own flat, putting his personal affairs in order.

  A friend from the office was moving into his place and Bill was leaving his cartons to be sent on to the States and letters to be posted.

  *

  At 1 p.m., Bill swung into the airbase and showed his pass. Shortly afterwards he was enjoying a hearty lunch courtesy of the air force. The Czech cousins arrived, the tall, gregarious blond, Anton Klima, and his small, dark, introverted cousin, Miro.

  ‘Hey! D’you Yanks eat like this every day? No wonder you grow so big. There’s enough food here for five men. You’re going to starve over there, Major.’

  Shortly afterwards, Franz Kussi, the ex-physicist, wandered through the canteen looking for them. He was carrying a tray containing a cup of black coffee.

  ‘God knows when we’ll get our next meal,’ Bill said. ‘Try to eat something.’

  Franz grimaced. ‘I never eat much before evening and even then it’s an effort. Right now my stomach’s in knots. Nothing could get through.’

  Franz was skinny, almost emaciated, but his strong features and hands gave the impression of a big man. Bill knew from the training sessions that Franz was as strong and wiry as a bear trap. He was a cheerful man, too, always smiling, and he had a quick sense of humour.

  ‘Where’s Karol? He’s late.’ Bill glanced at his watch anxiously.

  ‘Fighting his way out of bed, I guess,’ Franz said.

  Anton laughed. ‘I thought he was boasting, so I checked him out. He shares an apartment with two Australian blondes and he sleeps in a double bed with one on each side . . . fucks them both every night.’

  The airmen on the next table were listening in. ‘You guys have all the luck,’ they said.

  Minutes later Karol arrived, beaming happily. His beard hadn’t been trimmed for weeks. It merged with the black hairs on his chest and the long curls falling to the back of his neck. His blue eyes were sparkling with fun. The airmen badgered him for the telephone number of his blondes which he handed over good-naturedly. ‘Are you strong enough?’ he bellowed. ‘If not, stay away. It’s both or nothing.’

  Bill sat quietly listening to them. He hoped their camaraderie would survive in enemy territory.

  *

  Bill sat in the cabin, deafened by the noise of the engines.

  He felt pangs of fear as the plane took off. Eventually, he pulled himself together. Heaped around the centre of the cabin were the packages of explosives and equipment that was dropping with them. Bill looked down through the hole he had clambered through. With the ladder gone, he could see rooftops rushing by.

  A freckle-faced boy, who looked too young to be in uniform, bent forward and fitted the hole with a trap door.

  ‘Scared?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Bill said.

  ‘Sometimes it pays to be frightened.’

  ‘Depends on the circumstances,’ Bill answered shortly. How could he explain that at long last he was able to take his place in the front line. He longed to stand up and be counted. He wanted to be worthy of Marietta, who had died for daring to fight the Nazis. This was his chance. How could he be afraid? Yet the sad fact was, he was scared half to death. He leaned back and went over all the details in his mind. Was there anything not done that he should have done?

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  It had become dark. Anton and Miro were caught in a strange somnabulistic reverie, while Karol seemed half-asleep, swaying to and fro to the rhythm of the aircraft, eyes closed, lips moving. It took Bill a while to realise that he was praying. Over Germany the flak began, the aircraft pitched and vibrated. The hours passed and eventually Bill fell into a fitful sleep.

  ‘Hey! Wake up,’ the boy was shouting. ‘Five minutes to go.’ Bill’s stomach seemed to lurch up and hit him in the face. The young aircraftsman folded back the trapdoors.

  Bill forced himself to look down at the dark night into which he would be falling. Far below, Bill saw a light flashing on and off. Canisters of supplies were being heaved out of the aircraft by two crew members. Bill shuddered as he watched them fall into the black void.

  The youngster tapped him on the shoulder. ‘This is it, pal. Good luck.’

  Bill clambered to the edge of the hole, tur
ned to watch the freckle-faced kid, saw his lips mouthing ‘go’. With a final lurch of his stomach, Bill forced himself to step forward into nothingness.

  *

  Marietta was huddled in a field, trying to shelter from the wind behind a gnarled old oak tree. It was cold for June, with a strong northerly wind blowing up. Her feet were wet from tramping through dewy grass and she was shivering violently. The half moon was flooding the earth with an eerie light, owls were swooping and calling, and birds, made nervous by human presence, twittered uneasily in the branches above her. Klaus was waiting on the other side of the trees, but she could not see him. Jan and his squad were in the next field.

  Eventually she heard a low drone in the distance. A plane was passing too high and too far north. Perhaps it was the British agents, but if so it was slightly off-course. She felt for her torch and sent three brief stabs into the night sky.

  The plane droned on, then it circled and came in again, lower and closer. Could this be it? Or was it a German reconnaissance plane on the look out for subversive activity? She signalled again, her heart beating wildly. Then she saw white parachutes floating slowly earthwards, rocking wildly in the wind.

  She raced across the field, rolled the first parachute into a ball, saw Klaus reach the second, then came the third. ‘Hurry . . . hurry . . .’ she mumbled, stumbling through brambles and falling over mole hills. Together, Klaus and she half-dragged, half-rolled the drums towards the river. Their boat was under a willow tree. It took all their strength to load it.

  Later Marietta ran back to Jan. ‘We’ve found all the drums. We’ll be getting back.’

  ‘The wind’s ruined everything,’ Jan fumed. ‘God knows where they’ve dropped. Miles off-course. We’ll have to split up and search. Send Klaus back to me. You must keep us in radio contact, so get back as soon as you can. Hide the boat under the bushes along the bank.’

  She ran back to the river listening to the sounds of engines, barking dogs and shouts in the distance. How far . . .? Two miles . . .? Or one . . .? They always came so quickly, and with so many dogs. ‘Oh God . . . Oh God . . . Let the agents escape . . . protect them . . .’

  There was a stitch in her side, she couldn’t gasp enough air, her legs ached . . . She reached the river, passed on the message to Klaus between gasps, scrambled into the boat, and rowed frantically. Soon she was caught in the current and only had to steer. The sound of shouts and baying dogs faded in the distance. Then all she could hear was the gurgling water, and the sound of her own mumbled supplication.

  *

  The next forty-five seconds seemed to last an hour as Bill rocked in the strong wind. He landed in a clearing and was dragged across the ground by his parachute. He began to recite his instructions: ‘Get out of sight . . . keep down . . . roll up the parachute . . . bury it . . . hurry!’

  There were no lights. No parachutes floating above him, no welcoming committee of the Bosch or the Czech Resistance. He was quite alone and that was better than nothing. He struggled out of his cumbersome gear, rolled it into a ball, slid out of his overalls, transferred his knife and gun to his pocket . . . ‘Anything else?’ he asked himself, trying to recall every word he’d been taught at the school. Grabbing his trowel, he buried his gear and covered the disturbed earth with leaves.

  It was dark, but he could see he was in a forest glade. The wind was bending the trees almost double and he guessed he had been blown far off-course. Where the hell was he? Where was everyone else? He sat on a mound and listened for a while, but heard nothing. Eventually, he decided to walk into the wind and hope he’d meet someone soon.

  An hour later he was still walking. He thought perhaps he’d better sit out the rest of the night and have a rethink at dawn. What a fuck up! He felt angry with fate, and with his pilot, and the local Resistance and everyone else he could think of. He’d gone from baking hot to freezing wet and cold, he was shivering violently and his heart was pumping loud enough to be heard half a mile off.

  A drizzling dawn came at last and Bill, depressed and hungry, got out his maps and worked out where he was and where to go. In case of emergency, which this was, he reckoned, he had to make for a forest hut, which was situated fifteen miles south-east of Prague, approximately half a mile from the Vltava river bank, near a tall hill. From the lay of the land, he guessed he was about five miles off-course. Not the end of the world. Now which way would the river lie? He set off and walked for over an hour. After a while he heard the sound of dogs baying and he guessed that the parachutes had been seen.

  Passing beyond the next clump of dense bushes he heard a shout above him. He was appalled to see Franz hanging from his parachute which was caught in the branches of a tall chestnut tree. He was horribly visible as he swung, kicking aimlessly, unable to reach anything.

  ‘Franz! Hang on!’ Bill ran forward, but a hefty blow to his legs sent him sprawling to the ground. He reached for his gun, then stopped. He was surrounded by men, the dirtiest bunch of toughs he’d ever seen, and their guns were pointing at him.

  One of them spoke to him in unintelligible Czech.

  Bill replied in German. He heard Franz call out in Czech.

  ‘Why the hell are you wasting time? Cut him down,’ Bill stormed.

  Lights were flashing nearby. A small dark man ran into view. He had a length of rope which he tossed over the lower branch. Moments later he was scrambling up the trunk.

  ‘My name is Klaus,’ the man who had kicked him said. ‘We found your friend seconds ago. We’ll have him down in a moment.’

  A party of troops had been lying low. There were shouts, a whistle blew, blasting Bill’s ears. Fifty yards . . .? Not much more, he reckoned. Further off, Bill heard dogs again and the sound of gutteral commands.

  Jesus! There wasn’t time. ‘I’ll head them off,’ Bill said. ‘Get him out of there fast and go the other way.’

  He began to run forward, breathing heavily, making plenty of noise as he plunged through the undergrowth. Seconds later a doberman burst out of the bushes straight at him. Bill shot the dog and raced on. The troops veered towards him firing as they ran. Now he was running wildly down a slippery slope, sliding, falling . . .

  A jolt of pain seared his ankle. He sprawled headlong down a mossy bank, aware of shots lathering the mud around him. He plunged into the river and found himself swiftly carried downstream by the force of the current. His coat became sodden almost at once, its weight dragging him under. The river was deep and rough. Branches, debris and stones, tumbled around him. It was ice cold, murky and black. Bill struggled towards the surface, but couldn’t make it.

  He knew he must get the coat off, or he’d drown. He was being rolled over the river bed, deep underwater. He guessed that the Germans were gathered along the river bank searching for him. Could they see him? Just how deep was this river? At any moment he expected to feel machine gun bullets ripping through his body. He’d explode if he didn’t get air. His lungs were bursting, his head was pounding.

  He collided painfully with a rock. Bill hung on to it with all his strength. It felt as if the river was grabbing him with icy fingers . . . pulling him down . . . trying to drown him . . . Bill fought back. Feeling his way carefully, he dragged himself up. When he reached the surface, he gulped huge lungfuls of air, oblivious to the danger. With oxygen, his reason returned. Regretfully, he took one last breath and ducked under again. Looking up, he could see the stars, blurred and large in a crescent-shaped piece of sky, surrounded by blackness. Then he realised that he had pulled himself into a crevice in the rock. He surfaced again. Neither bank was visible, only the rock and the sky and the tumbling water.

  Was it fate or luck that had borne him to this place of perfect concealment? Only a boat in mid-stream could see his head and even then it would difficult for he was surrounded with river debris.

  His relief at his temporary safety soon evaporated and he wondered how long it would be before he froze to death. His sodden clothes were protecting him to a cert
ain extent. Had they got Franz to safety? And the others? He hoped so. The trapped water beneath his clothes had warmed a little. He felt sure he could survive for a day. He’d just have to stick it out. He could hear the sound of the search as dogs and men scoured the river bank. It would be suicide to move until nightfall. Bill remained in the river all day listening to Nazi troops passing backwards and forwards. As darkness fell the noises ceased, and an hour later he took off his sodden coat and swam downstream towards the deserted river bank. He knew that he would die of exposure if he stayed in the icy water any longer and hauled himself ashore beneath some overhanging branches. He’d lost all sense of direction, but moved off in the direction in which he guessed the emergency lodge lay, but his sprained ankle and lack of energy hampered his progress. He could hardly breathe. It felt as if someone had stuck a knife between his shoulder blades. Waves of heat alternated with shivery cold. It was hard to keep his balance for the earth was whirling around beneath him. He kept moving, trying to keep sufficiently lucid to get his bearings from the map he’d memorised. Eventually, he saw a dark shape ahead. Could this be the woodsman’s hut? He stumbled inside, unsure if he’d found the right place. He couldn’t see well because black spots were obscuring his vision. Finally he decided to crouch behind the door and hope that the Resistance would find him. By the time the sun rose, Bill was unconsciousness.

  *

  June 7. The reports landing on Hugo’s desk were portents of doom. The Allies had gained beachheads and could not be repelled from Normandy. In Berlin, Field Marshal von Rundstedt, supreme commander of the German Army in the West, had been ignominiously sacked by Hitler, a chilling reminder of what happened to those who failed the Führer. Nearer home were reports of a large-scale drop. Several parachutes had been sighted, but no one knew if they were dropping men or equipment. Despite a thorough search with dogs, none of the men had been caught, although one was presumed to have drowned.