Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  *

  It was midnight.

  Tense, but with a touch of bravado, she hurried down the spiral staircase to the servants’ quarters and opened the door to the bedrooms. Seconds later she was descending the main staircase, in full view of groups of guests chattering noisily in the foyer. It was like a journey into the past, for so little had changed except the Nazi uniforms, which were everywhere. As if in a dream, she mingled with the guests, took a glass of champagne and moved slowly towards the study.

  ‘This is not allowed,’ a voice bellowed in her ear. A heavy hand was gripping her shoulder. She cringed. Trembling, she peered over her shoulder at an SS officer towering over her.

  ‘Beautiful women cannot remain alone,’ he said. ‘A house rule. So . . . would you care to dance with me?’ He introduced himself and offered his arm.

  ‘Perhaps later,’ she said, forcing a smile to hide her terror. ‘I’m looking for my husband.’

  One eyebrow shot up. ‘Lucky man,’ he whispered.

  His clumsy flirting had ruined her calm. Now she was stiff with terror. She was hardly able to force one foot in front of the other as she moved towards the study door.

  She had arrived . . . a miracle . . . but what now? There were far too many people around. What an absurd plan she had hatched. How could she unlock the door and walk inside in front of all these guests? What if Hugo should come in from the garden? She glanced around nervously, but couldn’t see him. The sudden loud noise of the dinner gong made her jump, spilling her champagne. Everyone looked towards Max, who was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling nervously.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he called. ‘The buffet supper awaits you in the garden. Oysters, caviar . . .’ she heard as she slipped inside and locked the door behind her. ‘Bless you, Max,’ she murmured.

  She was ice-cool and efficient as she began to search the files. It didn’t take long to discover a letter, signed by Hitler, congratulating Hugo on his efficient destruction of Lidhaky village. She began to shake with fury. So the death of Andrea’s little baby was Hugo’s evil work.

  She tried to move faster, but there was so much more incriminating evidence, including a letter from Heydrich congratulating Hugo for his successful elimination of the Jews and intellectuals from Prague, a letter from Hugo, explaining how the Mayor of Prague had died after three weeks of torture . . . more and still more evidence, enough to send Hugo to the gallows when the war ended. Soon this evidence would go to the proper authorities and Hugo would be tried as a looter, a thief and a murderer. She would see him hanged.

  She was startled by the door handle rattling. Her heart pounded. Max, perhaps?

  Was Hugo still in the garden? It would be suicide to walk into him. Looking out of the open window, she saw Freda scowling. Following her gaze towards the shrubs, she saw Hugo with a woman. He was pulling her off-balance against his chest and laughing down at her. In his other hand he held a glass of champagne and he was giving her sips of it. He looked happy, and carefree and very drunk. The sight of Hugo propelled her back in time to that terrible day when she was pushed into the lorry for transport to the camp. All her old fears began to surge through her body, engulfing her with blind panic. She could hear the dogs barking, the screams, the whistles, the terrible shouting . . . and smell the unwashed human flesh and the stench of fear. She had to move away from the window, but she seemed to be rooted there. ‘God, help me,’ she muttered, her eyes riveted on Hugo.

  Almost as if he felt her presence, her stepbrother looked straight up at her. For a moment that seemed forever they gazed into each other’s eyes. Then she found the strength to step back from the window. What had she done? She’d gone mad. She fumbled with the latch and fled past Max in blind panic.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Hugo froze. In a split-second that seemed to last forever, he stared straight into Marietta’s eyes. His glass shattered on the ground.

  ‘Oh God!’ It truly was Marietta. But she was dead! The ghastly apparition moved, but still her eyes bored into his . . . they spelled revenge. He had ordered her death, and now she had come back from some infernal depths to haunt him, wearing the same dress that she had worn for her eighteenth birthday ball. Was she a portent of doom?

  ‘No . . .,’ he muttered. ‘Impossible . . . Insane!’

  Hugo raced across the lawn, through the hall, to his office, thrusting guests and waiters out of his path with angry mutters.

  He tried the door, but it was locked. Fumbling with his key, he flung it open and stepped inside. The room was empty. Icy shivers brought his arms up in goose-bumps.

  ‘What the hell?’ he muttered.

  By now his staff officers had rushed to his aid and were crowding round him.

  ‘I saw someone in here,’ Hugo snarled. ‘Guard the door.’

  Fighting his dread, he forced himself to close the door behind him. Now he was alone with whatever deadly presence was in the room. His sweaty hand slithered on his revolver. Stiff-legged and breathing heavily, Hugo searched the room, tingling with superstitious dread.

  If only he could think straight. If only he weren’t so drunk. Could it be the vodka? He’d been over-indulgent lately. Perhaps one of his guests resembled Marietta. But the door had been locked. Swearing, he strode outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

  *

  He had a raging hangover the following morning, and the telephone rang incessantly, but as soon as he could, he locked himself in his office and searched his room and his safe.

  It did not take Hugo long to discover what was missing. Bile flooded his mouth and fear nibbled at his nerve-endings. He felt as if a strong steel band was being slowly tightened around his chest. Whoever had robbed his safe had enough evidence to destroy him at the war’s end, the letters from Heydrich and the Führer alone would be sufficient evidence to have him hung as a war criminal. But he would be safe in South America. Then he remembered that the title deeds to his ranches had been in the safe. They had been stolen. Even worse, the intruder knew where to find him.

  Who knew his safe combination? Who would want to destroy him? There was only one answer . . . and he had seen her and looked into her eyes . . . but she was dead. Even in broad daylight, he could not shake off a terrible premonition of doom.

  Hugo spent the day on the telephone to the Camp Commandant. What he learned made him feel sick. Only six people had been released from Lichtenberg Concentration Camp over the past five years. One of them had been housed in the same bunkroom as Marietta . . . Greta Brecht, the records stated. Had Marietta managed to exchange places with her?

  Another terrible thought occurred to him . . . if Marietta were alive, could she be working with the Resistance here? Was Marietta the agent Edelweiss? Had he been locked in mortal combat with his step-sister for the past two years? She always won . . . she always had. That treacherous thought unnerved him.

  His anxiety brought painful cramps in his chest, his ulcers played up, and a disgusting, itchy rash spread over his hands that same day, and he began to feel cursed.

  *

  Walther and Emma Bock lived on a small farm, ideally placed a few miles from the mine, near to the small village of Nové Dvory, along the banks of the River Ohre. It was prime property, situated near the main highway, only twenty-five miles from Prague and four miles from the camp. This was Bock’s reward for successfully designing and making the complicated hydraulic system that operated the roof of the rocket ramp. It was Friday, May 4, this was Walther Bock’s exeat weekend and he was at home.

  The Americans had crossed the Czech border some hours ago, according to Marietta’s contacts, but they were still forty miles away. The Germans had surrendered in Holland, Denmark and north Germany. The end was very near.

  Marietta had made up her mind to contact the Bocks just before dawn. She approached the farmhouse apprehensively. The nearer she walked, the more scared she became. Her mouth was dry, her legs leaden as she crept through the herb garden towards the prett
y thatched cottage. The shutters were open, smoke drifted from the chimney and through the window she could see Emma Bock pouring coffee from a blue enamel pot. Marie pushed open the kitchen door and paused in the doorway. She had a revolver in her hand which was pointing at Walther’s fat stomach.

  ‘Good God!’ Emma said, looking more affronted than scared.

  Walther made a lunge towards her, but Marietta held her ground, and as her finger tightened on the trigger, he reluctantly raised his hands.

  ‘Sit down and put your hands on the table,’ she said. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Emma said, angrily.

  ‘I represent the Czech People’s Liberation army,’ Marietta said. ‘You have two hours to vacate these stolen premises. You may only take what you can carry, no vehicles, no livestock, no horses. I cannot guarantee you safe passage through Czechoslovakia to Bavaria.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Emma said. ‘The war’s not over yet. Get out of here.’

  ‘Not crazy, just a day or two premature,’ Marie said softly.

  ‘Wait, Emma. Keep quiet. Why are you here?’ Walther’s tough brown eyes were alight with curiosity. When he frowned, his black brows met on his forehead. He was a giant of a man, well over six foot, with a huge pot belly. Emma was a stout woman, with greying blonde hair, a large red face and watery grey eyes.

  ‘You expected to be evicted one day soon. Am I right?’ Marietta looked directly into the woman’s eyes.

  Emma nodded tearfully. ‘We’ve worked so hard to build up the farm . . .’

  ‘But it was stolen from Czechs,’ Marietta said. ‘All Volksdeutsche will be expelled . . . at best you will be destitute . . . but you might be killed by the mobs. After that there will be the Russians. You know as well as I do that feelings will be running high. What have you saved? Can you get your savings out of the country?’ While she argued, she was hating herself. Why was she helping such scum?

  ‘We can’t,’ Walter said flatly. ‘No one can. We’ll be finished. The job will come to an end. Five years of hard work for nothing.’

  ‘I can offer you an American contract. Safe passage for both of you within the next few days. A good salary, a pension, housing and transport supplied, and you’ll be working with Professor Alesh. But first you must help me.’

  ‘Put your gun away,’ Walther said. ‘I can’t discuss this looking into its barrel. I don’t trust women with guns. Sit down and twist your finger round a coffee cup. It’ll be safer for all of us.’ He grinned facetiously. ‘We’re interested in saving our skins. To say nothing of my career. Who wouldn’t be? Now talk.’

  *

  Hugo and his closest aides, together with the scientists, technicians and SS guards inside Richard’s Mine, were standing on a specially-constructed platform near the firing station. The time was 9.30 a.m., on Saturday morning, May 5. Five days ago Hitler had committed suicide and Admiral Doenitz appointed his successor. The Third Reich was dying. Most of Eastern Europe was under the domination of the Kremlin. Much of Germany would be, too. Unless . . .

  If they could fire one missile carrying an atomic warhead at London, or Paris . . . it would be enough to show the West the awful destructive power at their command. Then they could demand favourable peace terms. With the V-3, they could force the Soviets to remain east of the Czech borders.

  Count Bernadotte, vice-president of the Swedish Red Cross and a nephew of the King of Sweden, had been approached by Himmler three times in the past two months to try and bring about a better peace settlement. On each occasion he had told the Nazis that the Allies would not negotiate. They insisted on unconditional surrender. This time, Himmler had informed Count Bernadotte, they had a weapon of awesome power, which they were about to demonstrate to him. In the face of these threats the Count’s aides were meeting with Himmler at midday on the Bavarian border. Firing was scheduled for noon, and split-second timing was essential.

  Hugo’s pent-up anxiety kept his palms sweating and his heart hammering and it was an effort to maintain his composure.

  Before them stood the missile. White and shining like alabaster, its pencil-shaped nose was almost six stories high. Hugo gloated at this magnificent sight. Here stood a fitting monument to Woden, God of nocturnal storms, who once ranged the sky in pursuit of fantastic game. Woden it was who granted heroism and victory and ultimately governed man’s fate. The sign signified the unchaining of the brute forces of the world. It was a fitting name.

  Hugo winced from a painful twinge in his stomach and watched Professor Ludwig turn to the control panel. He bent forward and pressed the buttons which would set in motion the intricate hydraulics system that opened the circular ceiling that covered the central well.

  There was a long wait. The seconds passing as slowly as hours. Then the scientist tried again. Hugo felt himself sweating with fear as the roof panels remained tightly shut. At last, Ludwig hurried over to Hugo and gave the Nazi salute.

  ‘A slight delay, Herr Colonel. If we could reassemble in an hour’s time. A mere technical hitch, I assure you. We have a very good lunch waiting for you and our guests.’

  ‘We can’t delay,’ Hugo hissed at him. ‘Himmler is waiting. The missile must fire on schedule.’

  ‘Regretfully, Herr Colonel, there is no alternative.’

  At 3 p.m., after a lengthy lunch which Hugo had been unable to eat, the guests and technicians reassembled in the crater and the ceiling opened smoothly. Seconds later, the rocket fuel was ignited behind transparent barriers. Hugo held his breath and gazed in awe, anticipating the slow rise, followed by a swift soar into the heavens. To his fury, the missile remained grounded. By 5 p.m. Hugo’s face was pinched with anger and fear. Despite Ludwig’s protestations, it was clear that the missile was not going to be launched. ‘Another hour,’ the scientist pleaded.

  ‘Very well.’ Hugo stood, hunched and brooding, staring at the missile as if willing it to move. By 7 p.m. he was still waiting. His own fear of failure was increasing his fury.

  ‘Sir . . . Herr Colonel . . .’ Ludwig said, approaching him cautiously. ‘I think we should call off the demonstration. It appears that the fuel has been tampered with. We have made tests . . .’

  Hugo watched him carefully. Why this smug glint of subtle triumph? Suppressed suspicions surged out of Hugo’s subconscious. Why had Ludwig agreed to launch the rocket with a nuclear warhead? Why had he not bleated about the sinful loss of life, as he usually did? Because he intended to sabotage the launch?

  Hugo felt ice cold fury stiffen his limbs as he walked towards Ludwig and the missile. At that moment, every act of sabotage tumbled through his mind in a kaleidoscope of images, and he blamed the professor for every one of them. Ludwig was a traitor. He’d been bought, just as Alesh had been bought, and probably at the same time, only Ludwig had agreed to remain at the mine.

  He grabbed his gun and took aim at a spot between Ludwig’s frightened eyes. As his finger tightened on the trigger, a massive blow struck his arm. The bullet fired harmlessly into the ceiling as the gun was knocked out of his hand.

  A moment of disbelief stunned Hugo. In that instant of shocked incredulity, he turned to the Russian prisoner who had attacked him and found himself stared at Bill Roth. He gasped. Then he smiled.

  ‘You’re dead, Roth,’ he whispered and grabbed his knife. As Roth lunged towards him, he positioned the blade and saw his guards aim their guns on Roth. At that same instant, the mine was plunged into stygian blackness. Hugo felt Roth’s hands around his throat, choking him, and they both fell to the floor.

  *

  Bill drove his fist forward into the darkness, blessing Schwerin for his efficient timing in short-circuiting the electrical wiring. Now none of the guards could fire for fear of killing each other, but each Russian had marked his man and knew exactly where to go. Hearing the sickening crunch of bone and teeth, Bill lunged in again. All his longing and suppressed aggression blew his mind like dam walls breaking. He was punching, kicking, feeling for Hugo’s e
yes, using his fists and his fingers and his boots to claw the life out of the beast. For a while he went crazy, but Hugo was fighting back with every trick at his command. He was cunning, skilled and deadly. Bill could feel warm blood on his hands, making his fingers slip and slide over flesh. Whose blood? He had no way of knowing. Then he felt the knife in Hugo’s hand. A sudden slash to his neck brought blinding pain. A warm trickle ran over his ear. A split second later he was sprawling over Hugo, smashing his head against the floor. He heard the knife clatter on hard stone nearby, and he kicked it hard away from them.

  As if far away, he heard a crash and saw a sudden flare. The blast came a split-second later, followed by a roar like thunder. The floor trembled with the shockwave. What the hell was that? Had the mine blown? Had they failed . . .? Bill had no time to think. He felt the numbing pain of a blow on his back. And then another. And then he felt nothing.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  It was almost dawn. Marietta fought off her tiredness and sat bolt upright. It was pitch dark, but as she remembered where she was, panic surged. Had she fallen asleep? She fumbled for the matches and candle. In the first flicker of light her anxious eyes took in the Bocks, snoring gently on the sofa. Thank God! The candle had burned out, that was all. Or was it? She heard a distant sound again. Glancing at her watch she saw that it was ten minutes past four. She listened, stiff with fear. Had there ever been a time when she was not gripped by tension, she wondered? Right now she felt as if two giant hands were pressing against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.