Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  As he rocked backwards and forwards to the rhythm of the train, Bill was gripped by panic. He was trapped and there was no way out. The truck was locked and he’d thrown in his lot with these wretched prisoners, one of whom might betray them all for an extra slice of bread. One slip and they would be lost. He tried not to think of what lay ahead, but his fear was like a living entity that he was forced to play host to. It settled into his solar plexus and spread along his nerve fibres until every organ in his body was affected. Looking round at his men, he noticed they all looked like he felt and most of them were praying.

  *

  ‘Darling, listen to me,’ Schofield told Ingrid. ‘I want you to record the call I’m about to make. Note my desperation, and suppressed fury, as well as a certain fawning on my part.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you fawn. I don’t think you’re capable of fawning.’

  ‘I’m good at it. Just listen!’

  Schofield picked up the telephone receiver. Keeping his hand on the rest, he began to speak:

  ‘Schofield here, Sir. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but I’ve just heard from American colleagues, that US forces intend to stop their advance at the Czech border, leaving the Soviets carte blanche in that country . . . That, of course, is not in our best interests . . . or their interests either . . .

  ‘Agreed, Sir. Future relations with the Russians are of primary consideration . . . but we must draw the line somewhere . . . to allow them to get their hands on the V-3 is madness . . .’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Sir, you don’t seem to realise the importance of nuclear research . . .

  ‘You think that the Americans are more advanced than the Germans . . .? We have no proof of that, Sir. With respect, Sir, this is a terrible mistake.

  ‘Yes, I have heard of the Yalta Agreement. I’m not shouting, Sir. Are you telling me that Eisenhower insists that no American lives be lost in Czechoslovakia simply because ultimately the country is to be handed back to the Russians? Yes, I can see his point of view, but surely, in view of this vital research . . .’

  There was another long pause . . . then:

  ‘Sir, I protest. It was impossible to blow up the mine. There’s no access except through Theresienstadt. My men were arrested when they tried to penetrate the camp. Yes, all five perished . . .’

  ‘Very well, I will drop the matter. Yes, at once, Sir. Goodnight.’

  Schofield went to the bar and poured two drinks. ‘After that conversation, Ingrid dear, I became extremely drunk. While under the influence, I confided in you that Churchill and the Americans were fools who had no idea of the importance of nuclear research and that they’ll be sorry. That’s all, but be sure to get it to Paddy soonest.’

  ‘Yes, all right. First thing in the morning.’

  *

  Ingrid was a dedicated worker. She never shirked her task, however scared she felt. Every day, on the way to the factory, she delivered to Paddy the information that she had supposedly photographed, but which, in fact, Schofield had given her. He gave her genuine news and some research that was not of any vital consequence, just to re-establish her worth to the Germans. He had been building her up, waiting for the time when she would repay all this effort. That time was now. What a uniquely resilient woman she was, Schofield thought, watching her narrowly. She had become a passionate, vivacious companion. Nowadays she looked younger, the shadows had disappeared from under her eyes and her breasts were becoming full and voluptuous. She had always been beautiful, but lately she was sensational. He watched her affectionately and noticed when she gave a long, shuddering sigh. ‘Don’t look so tired. When the war’s won, you’ll be free.’ He folded his arms around her dainty figure and felt her trembling. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he said. ‘You’ve survived. We’ll get married when we’ve disposed of Paddy. Soon, my love.’

  ‘Not soon enough,’ she said vehemently. ‘No, never soon enough. I wish it were now, Stephen.’

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Ten seconds! He had exactly ten seconds. Bill waited, tense and anxious for the train to enter the tunnel. Suddenly they were plunged into darkness. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . he counted silently as his fingers fumbled under the seat. He found the small packet of explosives taped there, retrieved it and thrust it into his pocket. As they emerged from the tunnel, he glanced sidelong and noticed that the Russians were gazing ahead impassively. They’d been given their instructions by Louis. They were good men and he was learning to trust them.

  It was April 15, and Bill had been inside Theresienstadt for nine frustrating days. This morning, he and Louis had been chosen for the mine squad, but time was running short and there was so much to do.

  Bill was jolted back to the present as the train slowed. He saw a gaping hole in the cliffside, and suddenly they were passing through a brilliantly lit, whitewashed tunnel. Seconds later the train slowed to a halt. Guards were yelling at them, dogs snarling . . . Bewildered and hostile, they were pushed and beaten into line. They set off at a trot, trying to dodge the blows from the schlags.

  Bill joined the end of a long queue of shuffling prisoners, moving towards a trestle table. Five SS officers were interrogating the prisoners in Russian. Fear surged, and Bill’s mouth dried.

  ‘Play dumb,’ Louis whispered. ‘Stick close to me. I’ll say you’re shell-shocked.’

  Bill moved forward, overcome with dread. It was taking too long, Bill heard the Captain say. A curt command sent two young officers to another trestle table. ‘If any of you speak German, come here,’ they yelled. A reprieve! Bill exhaled his breath as he and Louis moved forward.

  ‘I worked on a co-operative farm,’ he said, trying to conceal his American accent. ‘I’m an electrical engineer.’ He was given a pass to pin on his overalls.

  ‘I taught mathematics,’ he heard Louis say behind him.

  They were given yellow overalls with a large black ‘S’ stencilled on the front. Bill was photographed, fingerprinted and an identity badge was pinned on his overall. He felt optimistic at last. The S-squad, Schwerin had told him, consisted of men suitable for working in the missile station. Fate was on his side. Before 9 a.m., Bill was given the job of assisting Manfred Reiss, the engineer in charge of air-conditioning. Reiss, a dark-haired, massive Bavarian with bright blue eyes, despised Russians. He was a perfectionist, Bill soon found out, which could prove to Bill’s advantage, or so he reckoned. On his first exhausting day, they checked every outlet and duct meticulously. With Reiss he had access to the maze of chambers and tunnels that encircled the station, housing the air pipes, electrical wiring and water conduits.

  At three the following afternoon, Bill peered through the main ventilator shaft into the passage below and saw Franz wheeling a trolley towards the firing well. He dropped his spanner which fell with a clatter, just missing the trolley. Reiss merely swore at him. As Franz passed up the spanner, he whispered. ‘I’m in G dormitory.’

  *

  It was past midnight when Bill climbed out of his bunk. The bars to the air tunnels were locked, but Bill had stolen the key from Reiss. The dormitories were separated from each other by thick concrete walls, but the air shafts were interconnected and sloped from a main artery down to smaller vein-like shafts leading to each cell. It took him ten claustrophobic minutes to reach the next dormitory where he found Franz.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ Bill whispered through the grill. ‘You’ve hung in here longer than anyone. Keep going, man. There’s seventeen of us in here with you, plus the prisoners who are on our side. Can we blow up the plant if we have to?’

  ‘Yes, if necessary,’ he whispered. ‘Of course, we’d all go with it. Otherwise, there’s many ways to delay firing. We can adjust the electronic circuitry, which would hold them up for days, or jam the hydraulic switches to prevent the ceiling from opening, that gives us several hours, we can break the fuel pumps and block the pipes. All easily mended by the Bosch, but causing a delay of hours or
maybe days each. Otherwise we could simply blow up the launch pad, but that, too, could be repaired in a matter of days. We can hold them up for a month or more, bit by bit.’

  ‘What about reprisals?.’

  Franz looked grim. ‘Always bad. Every incident brings too many executions.’

  ‘What if the Soviets get here first. Are we prepared?’

  ‘We have enough explosives stashed away to blow the central well. I’ve drawn you a sketch of where the fuses are . . . in case anything happens to me. It’s been worrying the hell out of me. I don’t know why I’ve lasted so long.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, why have you?’

  ‘Ludwig has very poor vision. The Bosch don’t know that. I’m his eyes. He knows about my Physics training, but he thinks it’s from a local university. He’s hanging on to me. Now listen, the SS have laid enough explosives to blow us all to extinction and they won’t hesitate to do that if they suspect the Allies are drawing near. I know where their explosives are and I’ve dismantled some of them, but I need help.’

  ‘I’ll find someone. Schwerin’s a good bloke. I guess we’ll have to tackle one problem at a time,’ Bill said, pocketing the drawing. ‘How long d’you reckon it will take them to get ready for firing?’

  ‘The main delay now is weight versus range. They have to complete a lighter version of the electronic wiring and it’s taking time. The prisoners are getting clumsy.’

  ‘Tell them to keep on being clumsy,’ Bill said as he left. He intended to see most of his men during the night and find out which of the Russians had some knowledge of explosives.

  *

  It was April 30. The previous day, Bill had loosened the ducts leading to Ludwig’s office so that the air escaped into the tunnel. Ludwig complained, as he’d hoped, and Reiss had given Bill the job of repairing the duct.

  It was mid-morning and Bill had spun out this task as long as he could, waiting for the chance to catch the physicist’s attention. Through the bars covering the ventilating grating, he could see the professor gazing in despair at his plans. He had attended four meetings that morning and there had been several calls from Berlin. Ludwig was being pressurised into pulling forward the firing date. He was sweating with fright and his spectacles kept misting over. Every few moments, he plucked them off, rubbed them frantically with his handkerchief and gazed round like an anxious owl.

  A quick glance assured Bill that the guards were not watching. He unlocked the grid and slid down into Ludwig’s office.

  ‘Get out, you dumb Ruskie,’ the professor said irritably, not really registering the intrusion.

  ‘No, not Russian. American,’ Bill said quietly. ‘I’m an Allied agent, Major Bill Roth. I have to talk to you, Professor. Please sit quietly while I fix the grating. We’ll say the hinge came loose, shall we?’

  Professor Ludwig sat bolt upright, speechless and staring in horror, while his hand hovered over his telephone.

  ‘Don’t, Herr Professor. It would cost you a generous research grant and a safe seat in a top American university. Just listen.’

  ‘Are you mad? You’ll get us both killed.’

  ‘The war’s nearly over. The Nazis have lost, but your brains belong to the world. You must know that.’

  Ludwig looked around fearfully. ‘Be careful,’ he muttered. His eyes glittered through his glasses.

  ‘I have an offer for you from the American government. They promise most favourable terms. How about it? Are you interested?’

  The Professor laughed briefly. ‘It’s too late, my friend. After the V-3 missile is fired, German scientists will become the world’s lepers. We’ll be hated too much to live anywhere in the West. Don’t think I didn’t know about the sabotage. I played along because it suited me. I don’t want this bomb on my conscience . . . it’s an unknown quantity . . . we can only guess at its power . . . as for the rockets they want to fire. They haven’t been tested either. The Nazis are desperate men, they’ll stop at nothing.’ He wiped his perspiring face with a large handkerchief.

  ‘I promise you, the rocket won’t be fired. Not from here,’ Bill said. ‘If the Soviets get here first, my orders are to blow the mine and ourselves with it.’

  Ludwig crumpled. He took off his glasses and began wiping them absent-mindedly. ‘So if I come over to you people, it will be the same pressure all over again. Different victims, that’s all,’ Ludwig said. ‘You know, I never wanted to be a traitor, but I cannot have the deaths of millions of innocent civilians on my conscience. Give me one good reason why I should change sides . . .’

  ‘You’d only be part of the project over there,’ Bill said. ‘There’s a massive research budget, a team of scientists, and only the President of the USA can make the decision to drop the bomb. It wouldn’t be on your shoulders alone. There’s plenty of other uses for atomic power besides blowing ourselves up. You know that.’

  ‘Very well,’ Ludwig said. ‘You can count on my co-operation. I pray the Americans get here before I am forced to blow this place apart and us with it.’

  *

  It was dark by the time Marietta steered her small boat into the shelter of overhanging willows beneath the old east tower of Sokol Castle. Bare-footed, she climbed into the knee-deep muddy water and tied the boat to a branch.

  It was a perfect summer evening. Nothing could go wrong . . . not on a night like this . . . balmy, peaceful, fragrant. Her plan was foolproof, wasn’t it? She had not reckoned on her own physical symptoms. Her heart was beating loud enough to be heard on the bridge. She was dressed in the green and grey-striped Sokol overall which she had stolen from the washing line when delivering milk a week ago. She was wearing an old blonde wig she had pulled into pigtails and tucked under the compulsory servant’s headscarf.

  She forced herself to stand still and take several deep breaths, before climbing the grassy bank to the ivy-shrouded river entrance of the tower. Once inside, she stood listening, cloaked in blackness so dense it seemed to press in on her. All at once she was back in the punishment cell. ‘No . . .’ She gave a low, strangled cry and hung on to her self-control until she was able to continue.

  At last she reached the ground level of the castle courtyard. The moonlit cobbles seemed as bright as day and the sound of music came in snatches. Nearer, she heard the call of a night jay and an owl, but no sound of guards. She guessed they were organising cars and parking, for tonight Hugo was having a celebration. Days ago, Max had told her there would be a large party at Sokol and extra staff would be hired. She intended to pass as one of the servants. Smoothing her overall she stepped quietly into the courtyard.

  The night was shattered by a piercing siren echoing from all sides. Too late, she realised that the tower exit was wired for intruders. Her body reacted in panic as she fled headlong to the kitchen. There was a large pile of vegetables beside the kitchen sink. Using every ounce of will-power she possessed, she forced herself to pick up a knife and start peeling. The guards burst into the kitchen, guns pointing at the servants.

  ‘Line up . . . over here . . . quickly . . . move,’ came the commands. She was pushed into line. All the temporaries were wearing badges, she noticed. She was trembling and dizzy.

  ‘Where’s your badge?’ one of them snapped at her.

  She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

  ‘She’s not a temporary. She works here,’ a deep voice boomed from the doorway. ‘Please don’t interfere. We’re working to a tight schedule.’

  Ignoring the corporal’s anger, Max beckoned to her. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Bring that tray of glasses to my office.’

  She took the tray and followed Max to his office. The glasses clinked violently as her hands shook. Surely they would notice? As the door slammed shut, Max took the tray.

  ‘You’re mad to come here, Countess . . .’

  She gasped and flushed.

  ‘I was a fool not to recognise you in the first place, but you were so thin. Now you’re recovering from your terrible experiences.
Did you know that it’s rumoured the Countess has returned to fight the Nazis and that she’s operating under the code name of Edelweiss. You’re becoming a living legend. Be careful!’

  Marietta leaned against the door and gave a deep sigh that was half a sob. ‘Thank you, Max. You saved my life,’ she murmured.

  ‘You should have trusted me. What if I hadn’t been there? Why are you here?’

  ‘The war is almost over, Max. These murderers will be brought to justice. I need solid evidence of Hugo’s crimes. I want to go through his personal files. Has he changed the combination of the safe in Grandmother’s study?’

  ‘No. Why should he? D’you remember the number?’

  ‘Yes. Grandmother made me memorise it years ago.’

  ‘Believe me, Countess, you won’t get into the general’s office as a servant, but you might succeed as a guest . . .’

  ‘Why is he holding this party?’

  ‘There’re several top Nazis here from Berlin and they’re going to meet local Nazi bigwigs tonight. I don’t know why they bother to keep up pretences at this stage of the game. When Hugo has a party he keeps his office locked, but I have a duplicate key. This is what you must do . . .’

  *

  The dust rose in a cloud as Marietta crept across the floor of the castle attic. Rubbing a circle in the grime to see through a window, she saw the guests flocking in. Hugo’s mistress, Freda, dressed in a magnificent black silk gown, was greeting them at the top of the steps. The perfect hostess.

  Swallowing her hatred, she moved away from the window and began to rifle through the tin trunks for something to wear. All the old garments had been lovingly packed in tissue paper by Max, but what an awful smell of moth balls. That could be her undoing, she thought anxiously. Eventually she found her own discarded clothes. She gasped. ‘Oh my,’ she whispered and uttered a small half-sob at the sight of so many forgotten dresses, all with their special memories. With a grunt of satisfaction, she uncovered the frilled white dress that she had bought in Paris for her eighteenth birthday ball. Lovingly, she smoothed the folds. The delicate fabric didn’t smell so badly. She shook it and hung it over a rafter. She gazed at it for a long time and eventually plucked up courage to put it on. It was a little loose, but passable. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was past eleven. She began to hunt for shoes and discovered some white summer sandals that fitted.