Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  ‘Marie, there’s something else that has to be done and I can’t entrust this job to Jan – I’m going to have to ask you. I have here a list of the main scientists we want to swing over to our side. It’s possible that some of them might not be in the mine. As you know, they all get alternate weekends off. If any of these eleven men and their families are outside the mine, they must be prevented from fleeing, in the face of the American advance. Held by force, if necessary, until the Americans arrive. There will be agents with the troops, able to talk these guys round to our side. Ultimately they will be given the choice, but their alternative might be a prison camp. Here’s the list. Can you do this?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘The Communists are the best fighters, but I’ll have to choose from the others. Fortunately, I know which are which.’

  She broke off and watched Bill curiously. ‘You’re far away, what are you thinking?’ she asked.

  He was thinking about Ingrid. She, too, had a part to play. ‘Too much to think about,’ Bill said and lapsed into silence. Now was not the time to tell Marie about Ingrid, but one day he would do just that. Right now it was up to Ingrid and Schofield to convince the Germans to keep the bulk of their troops on their eastern borders. They must believe that the Americans had no plans to cross the Bavarian border into Czechoslovakia. American troops must be able to move fast. So much depended upon speed. There was a limit to the time he could hold up the mine against a planned attack.

  That night, Marietta lay propped on one elbow, studying Bill’s face in the moonlight. She wanted to memorise him exactly, so that she could always remember how he had looked. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he said, but his pale face belied his words. They clung to each other, and Marie tried not to cry. Time was running out for both of them.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  It was early morning in the forest, dew-soaked leaves glittered in the sunlight and there were patches of bluebells under the trees. Marietta was unpacking last night’s drop of explosives in the forest hut with the door open, when two shadows blocked the light. Moments later Jan walked in, but she caught a glimpse of a grey uniform outside.

  A soldier! Her stomach knotted, but she could see from Jan’s manner that there was nothing to worry about. Jan pushed the man away from the doorway. ‘Wait,’ he said, and his voice was soft. ‘It’s better if you wait over there.’ Something about his tone puzzled her. He was friendly . . . almost gentle . . .

  ‘There’s someone here . . .’ Jan put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her round to face him. ‘Marietta, listen, prepare yourself for a shock. He’s not as you remember him . . . What can you expect? He’s had a rough time . . . He escaped from a Siberian prisoner-of-war camp. Naturally, he’s suffered . . .’

  ‘My God, Jan . . . What are you saying . . .? Are you telling me . . .?’ She pushed him away, ran outside and stopped short, rooted to the ground. The soldier sitting on an old stone bench under the oak tree was white-haired. A tough man, old before his time, and he was crouched forward over his knees as if in great agony, his head in his hands. She searched for something she could recognise, noting the grizzled neck, the strong bony frame, hands that were sinewy, calloused and scarred. Could he be Louis? Could she dare to hope? She crept forward. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

  He turned sideways and peered up from under his tousled hair, a familiar gesture that propelled her into the past. Memories too painful to bear flooded in. She burst into tears and rushed towards him, arms outstretched, flung herself at him and then held back. ‘Dearest Louis.’ She put one hand gently on each cheek and turned his head towards her. His blurred image wavered in and out of focus through her tears. ‘Oh Louis,’ she murmured again. ‘My prayers are answered. You’re alive, you came home. Thank you, Louis. And thank God.’ She caught hold of his hand and pressed it against her lips. ‘You’re crying,’ she said. ‘Why are you crying . . .?’

  ‘Jan didn’t tell me . . . He brought me here without warning me. I thought you had died, too. They told me that you had died of tuberculosis in Lichtenstein camp. And now . . . Oh, Marietta, my God, what did they do to you?’

  He caught hold of her arm and ran one finger over the burnt tissue, examined her face, ran his forefinger over her cheeks and round her eyes. Then he hugged her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe. She clutched him, feeling the strangely hard, muscled back and the sinewy arms and the massive strength of him. He was like an iron board, his arms like steel girders. ‘It was terrible not knowing . . . yes, that was the worst, hoping and often losing hope, and forcing myself to have faith . . .’

  He looked at her and smiled. ‘I survived. I went to hell, but I’m back.’ He tightened his grip, as if scared to lose her.

  Marietta tried to stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks. She sniffed loudly and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘Steady on,’ he said, rocking her gently backwards and forwards. He stroked her neck, and fondled her hair. ‘I’d never be fooled by this,’ he said, touching her dyed black stubbly locks. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’

  ‘Because of Hugo. I have so much to tell you, but it can wait for a better time.’

  ‘Are we the only ones left? I can’t even say her name. Oh God, it hurts so badly. When I left hospital, I went straight to Lidhazy and then I found . . .’ He gave a long, shuddering sigh. ‘I fought my way back to be with Andrea. The last letter she wrote me was full of happiness because she was pregnant. Oh God, Marietta . . .’

  ‘Andrea wasn’t killed, Louis,’ she murmured, still cradled in his arms. ‘Your baby died, but Andrea was taken to a concentration camp. The last time we had news, she was still alive.’

  She felt Louis shudder. He turned away and covered his face with his hands. All she could see were his shoulders shaking. Eventually, he looked round and smiled wearily. ‘Two in one day. The two women I love the most . . . both alive. So it was worth it . . . all of it was worthwhile. And Father? They said he’d died, too.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘He died in an explosion. There’s so much to tell you, Louis, but not yet. After the war, perhaps. Right now we have work to do. We need you. There’s someone here you must meet. You’ll be so surprised.’

  *

  Andrea struggled to climb out of her bunk, but she felt so weak she could not manage. She had been ill for months. Recurring bouts of bronchitis, enteritis and impetigo had weakened her system until she was hardly able to drag herself around the medical block. There was no joy in her work since the last of the children had been taken away. Physically and mentally she was at a low ebb. Nevertheless, she had forced herself to continue, knowing that the Germans were losing the war and it was only a matter of time before they were freed. Those who became too weak to work were exterminated. That terrible thought had inspired her to use every last ounce of strength she possessed, but now she was finished.

  Blows from the schlag landed on her body. She pulled her hands up to protect her head, but even that was an effort. The wretched, half-witted German supervisor, imprisoned for vagrancy, never showed any compassion. A guard was summoned, an entry was made in the prisoner register, and Andrea was half-dragged to the railway siding and pushed on to a cattle train going east. She remained propped against the wall as waves of nausea swept through her. She hardly knew what was happening, only that this was the end. There were fifteen prisoners in the compartment and all of them were very ill. Andrea slipped down on to the floor, grateful that there was enough room to lie straight. She wanted to die before she reached the gas ovens. That was the final humiliation which she had always longed to avoid.

  Andrea lay in the compartment, day after painful day, and tried to fill her last hours with memories of the happy times, before she and Louis were arrested. Sometimes she would stare at the stars, and her head would be filled with the most beautiful concertos and symphonies. She felt regret that she would never again play the oboe, never see L
ouis, or return to Vienna, which she loved so much.

  To her surprise, days later, she was still living, still in pain, still starving. If only it would end. How many days had she lain in the compartment? She had no idea, only that it had taken a very long time, with frequent stops for air raids and long waits in sidings for troop trains to take priority.

  They were going east, to another camp, the SS sergeant had told them. He seemed to be a compassionate man, for he allowed them to empty their sewage buckets and he ordered the guards to give them fresh water when they needed it. Once a day he made sure they received bread.

  On her fifth night in the train, another woman pulled her to her feet and pointed to the eastern horizon which was brilliant with flares and searchlights and vivid flashes of exploding bombs and shells.

  The front line! This was unbelievable. She was filled with excitement. She could feel herself flushing, her eyes were burning. Were they so close to rescue? If she could only live for just a little longer. Hope made her feel stronger . . . strong enough to stand unaided.

  The terrifying thunder of the front line came closer during the night as the train moved slowly eastwards. At dawn they were shunted into a siding for another long wait. One of the prisoners further up the line spoke to a guard and sent back the wonderful news, shouted from one truck to the next: the death camp was behind the Russians’ lines.

  Hope was better than the finest medicines, it surged through her tired body giving her new life. ‘Perhaps I shall live after all.’

  After a seven-hour wait, the train was shunted on to the tracks. This time they were moving back towards Germany and they were all plunged into a trough of depression. At dawn the train was attacked by Russian planes. They flew so low, she could see the red stars on their wings. The train’s engine was hit and the smoke billowed down over the trucks, choking the prisoners. The sergeant ordered his men to unlock the trucks and get the prisoners out. Those who could walk, assisted their sicker comrades. They stood amongst grass and trees feeling bewildered. The SS guarded them, but even they could see the futility of their guns. None of the prisoners were capable of walking more than a few yards.

  That night the front line seemed to be only a mile away. The ground reverberated with the blast, so that the noise hurt Andrea’s ear drums and battered her meagre body. She thought it was like being beaten by sound. She tried to calm the other prisoners with soothing words. At midnight their guards deserted them. Two of the corporals, who were mechanics, had found an abandoned lorry in a farm, which they had managed to mend. They all piled into it. ‘The Russians will come for you,’ the sergeant explained, as he left the prisoners cowering in the field.

  After that it began to rain and soon they were sodden. Some of the prisoners returned to the carriages for protection, but Andrea sat on a tree stump in the field and drew strength from being free. ‘Survive,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Just survive. Only a few more days. You can make it.’

  At dawn, three Russian tanks came rolling towards them. Some of the prisoners held up white rags which fluttered in the breeze. The first Russian driver climbed out of his tank and stared at them long and hard.

  Andrea glanced around nervously. She had become so used to the sight of the living dead around her. Now, for the first time, she took in the sunken eyes, the skeletal-like figures from which their striped overalls hung as if from sticks, the shaved scalps. Eyes without hope. Dead eyes! Claws for hands, and they were all so full of sores and blemishes.

  The Russians were calling on their radio for ambulances and food. They shared all the food they had and clasped the prisoners’ hands, with tears in their eyes and bellowed at them in Russian. Then they left.

  Andrea had been given a bar of chocolate. She licked it carefully, not wanting to eat something so precious.

  They were free, but destitute, and Andrea was feeling light-headed.

  An hour later a Russian army canteen truck came racing over the fields with a Red army doctor who spoke German. He desperately urged them not to eat too much, they could kill themselves by taking in too much food. They were given soup and bread. A feeling of well-being stole through Andrea even from the sparse meal. She could feel every particle of her body seizing joyfully on the food. The doctor dispensed whatever first aid he could. He told them he would wait with them until the troops could locate a suitable hospital for them. Six hours later the ambulances arrived.

  ‘I’m going to live,’ Andrea muttered to herself as she lay on a stretcher and was bumped and rocked over the rough road. ‘I’m going to survive the war, and I’m going to find Louis.’ She began to cry with relief. She felt embarrassed by this absurd reaction to what should be the happiest day of her life, but the tears kept coming and there seemed to be no end to them. She tried to explain to the Russian doctor who was sitting beside her holding her hand. ‘I never cried. I fought, and grumbled, and screamed sometimes, and endured as best I could, but I never cried. Now that I’m happy, I can’t stop crying.’

  ‘I shall cry for the rest of my life after seeing this,’ the doctor said in fluent German.

  The hospital was at Sepolno. It had been abandoned by the Germans several weeks before, and hastily restocked and staffed by the Russians. There, Andrea ate three times a day and slept on a clean white bed. Each day she looked better. Despite the cold winds, she spent much of her time on the balcony overlooking the town, huddled in blankets, for this made her feel freer. The hospital staff understood.

  From here she witnessed the great Russian army moving westwards and there was always more and still more of it . . . the tank divisions, the columns of guns and trucks, motor cyclists, technical units. There were masses of men, hundreds of thousands of them. There were the columns of marching soldiers: dirty, tired, clad in ragged uniforms, moving over the dusty roads and fields of Poland. They marched slowly in close rank with long even steps. So they came on and on, from the Ukraine, the Ural mountains and the Caucasus, the Baltic countries, Siberia and Mongolia. And there were the columns of women and girls, too, in military grey green uniforms, with high boots and tight blouses and long hair greased with goose fat. At times Andrea would see convoys of administrative staff, in their new German cars, recently taken from the towns they had passed. Behind were more tanks and more marching columns without a beginning, without an end. Andrea wondered how the Germans would enjoy the Russian hordes they had brought on themselves.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  It was April 5. Bill had spent a hard day training the men in a forest clearing, but he was restless. It was two days past the date that Schofield had set to go in, but still he hesitated. He was hoping that luck might show them a better way to penetrate the mine. He walked outside and gazed at the stars. It was 10 p.m. and his hunger was ruining his concentration. He leaned against a tree, listening. He was sure he’d heard footsteps.

  It was Louis and he was carrying a sack full of loaves. Louis was fortunate in having a real identity. He could move around as he pleased. He even used his status as a war hero to befriend the local SS, so he was able to bring back useful information.

  ‘Listen to this,’ he said to Bill, as his men fell upon the bread. ‘Here’s the chance we’ve been waiting for, and this time, Bill, you’ll have to take me along. Five hundred Russian prisoners-of-war are arriving at Theresienstadt sometime tomorrow on Hugo’s orders. The mine labour is to be changed. You know what that means,’ he said grimly. ‘They intend to use Russians only in Richard’s Mine, to put an end to the sabotage. The camp guards are in an uproar because they don’t have the bunks or the food for so many new arrivals. It will be chaotic . . . ideal for us.’

  Now Bill knew what he’d been waiting for. He could take more men with him. Louis was right, he would need his Russian. This stroke of luck would enable him to take Schwerin and Maeier, since they both spoke Russian. The camp guards wouldn’t be looking for escaped Jews amongst a bunch of Soviet soldiers. Bill decided to seize the opportunity. He gripped Louis’ should
er. ‘Thanks. Let’s get moving.’

  *

  Ten miles east of Prague, the cattle trucks drew to a halt at a level crossing. There was no moon, which was lucky, as seventeen men, led by Jan, slipped silently out of the forest and levered open the side of the trucks. The noise seemed intense, but the guards were three hundred yards away, engaged in a noisy argument with the signalman who was insisting that the train should not be there at all. The guards were at ease. All the trucks were locked, besides, who would want to rescue the prisoners?

  The stench and the heat hit Bill as he climbed inside. He wanted to puke. The Russians were crouched on the floor in rows, packed together so closely there was no room to move. Bill could see their despair and exhaustion. As they looked up, their faces brightened. There was a surge of hope.

  Jan spoke rapidly in Russian and the men sat upon their haunches looking respectful.

  Bill drew Louis aside. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Jan is a commissar in the Communist Party,’ Louis muttered. ‘He’s asking for volunteers to fight with the Czech Resistance inside the mine and for seventeen of them to change places with us. Naturally they are all volunteering.’

  The men were stripping off eagerly. Bill exchanged clothes with one of them who was about his size and took his papers. He was all too aware of the stench of sweat and filth as he put on the Russian uniform. He watched the lucky seventeen running down the grassy bank into the trees to freedom, hard behind Jan.

  When Bill crouched on the floor, he began to itch. He could feel the lice on his skin. The train moved forward again and Bill strained to read his identity documents, but could not. Later, when dawn came, he studied them carefully. His name, he discovered with Louis’ help, was Yakov Lukich. He was a corporal and a skilled electrician. Prior to the war he’d been attached to a collective farm.