Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  ‘And the Untermensch?’

  ‘The cruelty to Hannelore’s maid’s child, a girl who was intelligent and capable? Yes, that was madness also. There is no Teutonic race. I am related to almost every royal house in Europe.’

  ‘I meant the Jewish people.’

  ‘Ah, the Jews.’ He smiled at her. ‘Sub-races, mental defectives and deviants cannot be allowed to breed, or undermine society. We might not have agreed on everything, my Sophie.’

  Could he really be condoning the murders and destruction of Kristallnacht, the horrors that refugees spoke of? Hannelore’s aunt, whose crime had merely been to love her Jewish husband, had emigrated to America in 1937, rather than face the growing violence.

  They were the same views as held by England’s previous king, opinions held by many people, including the Eugenics movement in England, the United States, even Australia, with its native peoples uncounted in any census, deprived of wages, the right to vote, even the freedom to marry, live, raise their children as they chose. But she could not believe she had even entertained a ‘might have been’ where she and this man could have married.

  ‘Sophie?’

  She did not look at him. Could not look at him. Had to force herself to look at him, as he was her only chance of life now, too crippled to survive, much less to escape.

  She forced herself to smile, to nod. ‘What happens after Hitler is dead? I remember what you said about seeking peace terms. I agree — it will probably unfold like that. I will help if I can. It’s what I was sent to do, after all.’ She glanced up at him. ‘But immediately?’

  ‘There are men who will step into command, high-ranking men.’

  ‘I don’t want their names,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Gut. I was not going to give them. They will take control. I will be part of the takeover in Munich first, where I am well known. Then I will go to Berlin, while you stay safe with Hannelore.’

  ‘You don’t want me to go to Berlin?’

  ‘No. Hitler’s position has eroded enough for us to take control, but not easily and not at once. It would not be safe to make your presence public, especially as you have been officially executed. There are some who might be . . . concerned . . . about what you might say.’

  ‘I will tell the truth,’ she said evenly. ‘But I don’t know the names of any of those who tortured me. The men who arrested me behaved reasonably under the circumstances. Apart, of course, from being complicit in the torture that followed. As for my execution — spies are executed in Britain, too. I won’t ask for an investigation or even help with one. I, too, want peace, not the destruction of either of our countries. There is one condition, though.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I do not want to stay in Germany longer than is necessary to arrange a peace conference. Once that is in place I am no more use in Europe. I want to go home. I want my husband, my children, my real life.’

  He seemed now to have accepted her marriage, her life in Australia. ‘I suspect it will be simple to effect your exchange to England even before peace terms are arranged, or at least passage to Switzerland. From there you can make your way back to Australia.’

  She nodded, though even that movement hurt her back. ‘Good.’ She wondered vaguely if she would ever live without pain again.

  ‘And you? Why risk your life to come to Europe at all? Is Miss Lily still so impossible for you to resist?’

  She did not tell him she had not seen Lily since 1936, or even that she was officially missing. That might still be dangerous information. ‘That was part of it,’ she acknowledged. ‘A telegram arrived that said, Lily needs you. And so I left. Lily is my sister-in-law, as well as my friend. But I have resisted her requests in the past.’

  Or had she? She had refused Nigel’s first proposal. But had she ever refused a request phrased by Lily?

  ‘Miss Lily was the first person to love me,’ she said slowly. ‘To even like me. My father loved his daughter. Miss Thwaites loved me as her pupil — a close relationship, but still one she was eventually content to leave behind to live her own life. I was too intelligent, even if I learned to hide it, and spoiled and self-absorbed, too. Lily accepted me — she had intended to send me to a finishing school and then have a friend oversee my debut, not include me in her network. But she liked me — exactly me. The only changes on which she insisted were the ones that were socially necessary. And yet she did change me. She changed all of us.’

  She thought of Emily, once so competitive, now a friend; of Mouse, given the confidence to marry and have a child in her tragically brief life; of herself. Would she have had the courage to take on the Higgs empire, and the charm needed to persuade men to cooperate in her running it, without Lily?

  Lily had taught her love, the many, many kinds of love. And Hannelore? Who was Hannelore now? But Dolphie was waiting for her answer. ‘So, yes, I went to England because Lily asked me to. But also I knew she would not have called if there hadn’t been something only I could do. Like you, I love my country.’

  ‘And so we finally are working for the same cause.’ For a moment she thought he might say something else. But then he said, ‘I need sleep, Sophie, if I am to look like a loyal, hardworking Gestapo agent tomorrow. Good night.’

  Chapter 29

  In the past months you have learned charm, seduction and how to keep an excellent table and cellar. I hope you have also learned friendship, the most powerful and underrated force in the whole world.

  Miss Lily, 1914

  SOPHIE

  It was the strangest journey Sophie had ever had, and in a way the most peaceful, despite physical pain that still edged on agony, and despite desperate worry: from personal concerns — Daniel’s reaction to her damaged breasts — to his entire wellbeing, and that of Rose and Danny, and Nigel — as well as for every country caught up in this war.

  For the first time in her life she was entirely helpless. Even when she was not in the trunk she could not walk unaided. Though she could speak German fluently she could never be taken for a native speaker, nor could her wounds be taken for anything but what they were — an SS attempt to extract information, thus marking her as someone who had information that might be extracted, and a botched execution.

  She had managed with reduced doses of morphine in the past few days, so she was conscious as the car lurched up the still bumpy road to the Lodge — or perhaps in the hardships of war it had become neglected again.

  The car stopped. She heard the driver’s voice and then a woman’s, a stranger’s, the tone welcoming, but also officious. This, then, was one of those who ensured that Hannelore was not able to engage in any activities that might hurt the Reich. Even now, Sophie realised, she was not safe. Those who watched Hannelore would surely be suspicious of her, too. Was Hannelore even expecting her? Surely Dolphie would have mentioned that he had phoned her, or even written to her, but any hint might be seen or overheard.

  Hannelore’s voice, laughing. Sophie suddenly found that she was crying, from happiness, not pain. Hannelore safe and happy enough to laugh.

  The trunk lurched as hands untied it. Sophie bit her lips to ensure she made no sound. Jolting and then an agonising thud. She heard a door shut.

  Silence.

  She waited, curled in the trunk. Somehow, she had assumed that as soon as she arrived she would be helped out, tended, treated as a guest. But Dolphie had never promised that. Instead he had shaved her head and talked of her masquerading as a servant from a concentration camp. But she could not work. She could not even walk.

  The door opened. Footsteps, the clank perhaps of a stove door, one of the ornate tiled room heaters she had seen in Germany before, perhaps, being set and lit. More footsteps. The door opened and shut once more.

  She waited.

  This had been the longest time she had ever stayed in the trunk, and the roughest journey. Suddenly, unexpectedly, claustrophobia washed through her. The trunk’s air holes must somehow have been blocked. She could not breathe!
The sides were shrinking, slowly squashing her.

  She wanted to scream, no matter what the consequences, simply to breathe fresh air again, to let her limbs stretch, to move, to feel that she existed outside this tiny space.

  Footsteps again. The door. The trunk unlatched.

  She could not see. The light burned her eyes. But she knew Hannelore’s hands, even as they gently helped her move, felt her tears as she embraced her. ‘Sophie. My Sophie. You are here.’

  The room was Hannelore’s bedroom, a larger room than the semi-cupboard Hannelore had inhabited here after the Great War, when firewood was scarce. Firewood was scarce again, but not, it seemed, on the estate of Kolonel Graf von Hoffenhausen. The room breathed warmth from the enamel stove. Water warmed on the stove. A curtained bed where Sophie could lie, carefully not screaming as her limbs uncramped, as Hannelore took the dressings off her wounds, exclaimed, put on fresh lotion and bandages.

  Sophie glanced at her, in between shutting her eyes in pain. The gold of Hannelore’s hair had darkened. She wore it long, tied by a silk scarf at her back. Sophie supposed she no longer had access to a hairdresser, nor a lady’s maid. The blue eyes had faded. Her skin looked weathered, with lines of tiredness and pain. She wore a dress which had once been good, but the green wool had not only turned drab but felted with poor washing, something a lady’s maid would not have permitted. No jewellery.

  Her hands were the greatest shock — rough, ingrained with soil, the nails trimmed as short as possible, unevenly. Her poise was unshakable, her beauty inevitable, given her bone structure, her bearing, her smile. But she did not look like a prinzessin, merely another war-weary woman.

  A knock. Hannelore pulled the bed curtains shut, then opened the door. Her voice was kind. ‘Danke schön, Fräulein Kunster. No, thank you, I need nothing more tonight.’

  Hannelore carried a tray in her battered hands to the uncurtained side of the bed furthest from the door and put it on the side table. ‘Can you sit and eat if I help prop you up on pillows?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’ It hurt to move. She longed to move. Knew that only moving could ease the day’s cramping. Hannelore placed the tray across her legs. ‘Potato soup with sausage. The bread is rye, but we have butter, even some cheese. The farm supplies us. The potatoes we grow here.’

  Sophie managed a minute spoonful of soup.

  ‘Fräulein Kunster is the housekeeper here. Dolphie put her here to spy on me, but now there is no need and even danger if she sees you here. Dolphie will take her with him tomorrow morning.’ She met Sophie’s eyes. ‘Yes, he has told me what he plans. He brought me the best news I have ever heard, and you as well.’

  ‘Won’t they be suspicious if there is no one here to watch you?’

  ‘There is no “they”. Fräulein Kunster is loyal to Dolphie, not to the Nazi Party. Now he wants her away. He must stay away from here too, in case the plot is discovered before they can strike.’

  ‘When —?’ Sophie began.

  Hannelore shook her head. ‘I don’t know what, or when. It is best we know nothing.’

  Sophie was becoming tired of knowing nothing. This was war, but knowing nothing was the worst of business practices. ‘Who else is here?’

  Hannelore laughed without humour. ‘No one. Just Grünberg and Simons in the kitchen — they come from the labour camp at Dachau. Grünberg cooks quite well. Simons cleans. She looks as if it is beneath her to clean but she obeys, because it is comfortable here and if she does not work well she’ll be replaced. The gardens are tended by old Franz from the farm, and I garden as well. Franz also chops wood and brings whatever groceries or other things we need from Munich. I have been most carefully isolated.’

  ‘Would Grünberg or Simons betray us?’

  ‘Probably, if it profited them. But they do what they are ordered to, and do not pry. The kitchen area doors are locked each night so they can’t escape, which means we do not have to worry about them then. I expect they could escape,’ Hannelore added. ‘The windows are not barred. But there is nowhere here to escape to or I would have gone myself, and if Grünberg or Simons were caught they’d lose a comfortable home here.’

  ‘You don’t mind having prisoners work for you?’

  ‘Do not worry. Neither are criminals! Simply Jewish. They are quite pleasant.’

  ‘I meant,’ said Sophie carefully, ‘you don’t feel it is wrong that they should be prisoners?’

  Hannelore shrugged. ‘Of course it is wrong. But I am a prisoner and so now are you. They must work, so why not here? I work hard, too.’

  ‘Did you go to Dachau to hire them?’

  Hannelore looked at her curiously. ‘Why would I go there? They were assigned by the camp commandant or his officers, like the workers in my factories.’

  Sophie was silent. How much did Hannelore know of Dachau? There had been horrifying reports from before the war, despite the positive descriptions by journalists who had been invited to review the camp. James had told her that during those visits guards played the part of inmates. Sophie suspected conditions at Dachau and the other camps were far worse now so much of Europe was close to starvation. There had also been stories from refugees of mass cremations at other camps.

  But the information a prinzessin gathered would not be about prison or labour camps, but of troop movements, the progress of new armaments — rumours of extraordinary new weapons floated from both sides like smells above the hen yard. She would report on the Führer’s health, perhaps, or Goering’s campaigns and plans. Labour camps were not of strategic interest. Hannelore had probably never been in even her own factories except to open one, cutting a ribbon and receiving a bouquet, though Dolphie had mentioned she had established a school for workers on the estate, now closed as the war had swallowed all but the most essential labour.

  Like the workers in my factories. Surely Hannelore knew people from the camps worked as slaves, not as employees, and on pain of death, for minimal rations. Or did she?

  Sophie found she could not ask. Perhaps she would not until that magic time ‘when the war is over’. That would be the time for Sophie Higgs, owner of so many factories, to make tactful enquiries and suggestions about the source of Hannelore’s wealth.

  For there was wealth at the Lodge, despite Hannelore’s faded dress, her calloused hands. She had maids, when labour was desperately needed to replace the workers lost to armies, to repair the damage done by bombing. The casual warmth of a fire, the apology for a soup that nonetheless contained a substantial amount of meat, bread that was buttered, and ‘even some’ cheese, a rationed luxury now in France and England unless one had vast wealth and excellent contacts in the black market.

  Sophie nibbled the cheese. It was extremely good, unlike Midge’s attempt at home-made cheese, which looked and tasted like soap. Midge will be sorting the fat lambs now, she thought. What is not being done because I am missing? What crises at Thuringa, at Higgs, in her family? Had Rose persuaded Daniel to let her wear lipstick? She and Danny would be back at school now.

  Sophie realised with sudden desperation that James might have found out about her execution. He might believe her dead. Perhaps he had even told Daniel.

  Please, no, she prayed.

  ‘Sophie?’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘It’s nothing.’ Nothing she could do. And soon, if the conspirators’ plan worked, Hitler would be gone and, at the very least, she would be able to send a cable home and to Lily too. No, to Nigel — or no, Bob.

  Suddenly every bone and sinew was filled with a determination to keep living. Her family did not have her now. But they would have her. She would make up for every moment they had lost.

  I should not have done this, she thought. And then: of course I should be doing this. For soon the fighting would be done, and peace negotiations could begin.

  Chapter 30

  Corned Beef with Cabbage

  Per person:

  1 heaped teaspoon cornflour

  1 slice of Higgs’s Corne
d Beef

  ½ cup milk

  ½ chopped onion

  1 bay leaf

  1 whole clove

  A little grated nutmeg

  Salt to taste

  2 cups finely chopped cabbage

  Corned beef is the perfect war-time meal, so savoury that only a little is needed for each meal. Mix the cornflour with a little of the milk. Reserve. Now simmer with milk, onion, bay leaf and clove till the onion is soft. Add the nutmeg and salt. Do not oversalt as the beef will be too salty. Simmer the cabbage in as little water as possible, with the lid on. It is important that the cabbage be finely chopped, or it may resemble a wet dishrag. Drain thoroughly when soft.

  Place the pile of cabbage on the plate, top with the slice of corned beef, then cover it all with the white sauce. Dust with nutmeg. Serve with potatoes baked in their jackets.

  Delectable Dishes with Corned Beef, a leaflet from Higgs, the Corned Beef Kings, 1943

  FEBRUARY 1943

  ROSE

  She wore a grey suit, one of Mum’s that had hardly needed altering, and a neat grey hat with a tiny feather pinned to one side of her hair, which had been newly cut and permed. Mum would not have allowed the perm, nor the lipstick and powder, but they made her look older. Not all that much older, but every little helped as the old man said when he spat into the sea . . .

  Rose stared at the tiles in the ladies’ lavatory and tried to banish nausea. Yesterday it had seemed clear that the best tactic was to wait till all the board members were seated, and the sales director and transport manager too, then walk calmly into the boardroom and take Mum’s position at the table. Today her preferred tactic was to run out of the building and keep running.