The Edelweiss Sisters: An epic, heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel

by Kate Hewitt

  His face set, her father followed the officers up the stairs. Johanna and Birgit hurried after him; Hedwig let out a cry of surprise as the SS officers came into the kitchen, followed by a crash and clatter.

  Johanna stopped in the doorway of the kitchen to see a tray of her mother’s cherished Hutschenreuther porcelain in broken pieces on the floor—cups, saucers, teapot. The officer eyed an aghast Hedwig with a curled lip.

  “How clumsy of me,” he drawled.

  Rage filled Johanna, like a red mist sluicing over her. There had been no need for the man to break the clock, the china. He just did it because he could. He enjoyed it. They all did.

  Her father came into the kitchen, pressing his lips together at the sight of the broken tea things. “We are a simple, God-fearing family,” he stated quietly, and the other officer gave him a silent, scornful look.

  Johanna remained in the kitchen, huddled with her family, as the men worked systematically through the house, heedless of their furniture or possessions. The glass-fronted cupboard in the sitting room was tipped on its side, its front smashed, its contents of curios and porcelain figurines crushed beneath their boots. Books were flung onto the floor, their spines cracked as pages fluttered to the ground like white flags of surrender. No one made so much as a murmur of protest; they knew there was no point.

  “They are only things,” Manfred said softly, his arm around his wife. “Just things.”

  “But…” Johanna could not keep the word from slipping from her lips, and her father gave her a quelling look. She did not want to say anything that could reveal Franz, and yet it could surely be only moments until they found him.

  A whimper escaped her, like the mewl of a hungry infant.

  “Have faith, Johanna,” her father said quietly. “Have faith.”

  Faith? In what? The SS officers suddenly becoming blind, or Franz turning invisible, like a miracle out of the Bible? Johanna had always taken those at face value, but she couldn’t believe in one here, now, actually making a difference. They would find Franz. They would have to. Her fingernails bit deep crescents into her palms as she closed her eyes and helpless, offered a silent prayer.

  Please, please don’t let them find him. Somehow… please.

  After what felt like an age the men returned downstairs. The first officer, the one who had broken the clock, stared coldly at her father.

  “You will come with us to answer some questions.”

  Hedwig opened her mouth, but Manfred silenced her with a look. “Of course.”

  They watched in appalled silence as Manfred, with quiet dignity, went to retrieve his coat. Her father, her poor, frail father, looking so slight in his shabby black overcoat, to go to the Gestapo headquarters on Holfgasse? To be interrogated?

  And yet did this mean that by some holy miracle they hadn’t found Franz? Johanna glanced at Birgit and her mother, but they were staring at the scene unfolding in front of them; the officers waited with an impatience that felt dangerous, her father putting his old black felt bowler on his head.

  He turned to them all. “God go with you,” he said, and then he was heading downstairs with the Gestapo. Johanna heard the shop door open and close. In the ensuing silence the three of them simply stood there as an emptiness blew through the room. Then Hedwig let out a sob, and Johanna turned towards the hall.

  “Franz,” she said, and ran upstairs. With her heart thudding, she ducked into the last narrow room along the corridor and unbolted and wrenched open the little door to the eaves, crouching down to peer into the shadowy space.

  “Franz!”

  He wasn’t there.

  “Franz!”

  She stood up, her breath coming in panicked gasps, as she looked wildly around the room for him. Had he somehow managed to leave the house without any of them knowing? Impossible, surely, and yet she pictured him tiptoeing down the stairs, ducking in and out of rooms to avoid the Gestapo, and then running out into the street. The thought of his freedom terrified her almost as much as that of his arrest. What if he never dared to come back?

  Swallowing hard, she turned around and went through the rooms again, looking behind trunks and under the one narrow bed, as if he would still be hiding in such an improbable space.

  Where was he?

  Then she saw that the window looking out over the peaked roof was open a fraction of an inch. She ran to it and yanked it up, poking her head and then letting out a soft cry as she saw Franz perched precariously on the roof, clinging to the side of the house by his fingertips as the March wind buffeted him. He looked both resolute and half frozen.

  “Have they gone?” he asked, and she nodded, extending a hand to help him inside. As soon as he had clambered through the window, he fell onto his knees, and she realized how cramped he must have become, huddled out there in such a precarious position.

  “Who was it?” he asked as he rose unsteadily to his feet, his face gray in the pale afternoon light. “I knew they were searching.”

  “The Gestapo. I think they’d heard about Papa’s meetings. They didn’t mention anything else.” He nodded, and a sickening memory rushed through her. In her panic about Franz, she’d almost forgotten about her father. “Franz, they’ve taken him! They’ve taken Papa.” Her voice was lost on a sob and she pressed her fist to her mouth. “They took him in to be questioned.”

  “What?” Franz’s eyes widened to dark pools, his face going even grayer. “Oh, poor Manfred.” His voice was a groan as he shook his head, and then he turned from her. “I have to leave.”

  “Leave?” Johanna exclaimed. “You can’t! We need you. I need you—”

  “Johanna, he’ll tell them I’m here.”

  She drew back, taking refuge in anger rather than fear. “He won’t! He never would do such a thing!”

  Franz turned around to take her by the shoulders, his tone gentling. “Johanna, they’ll make him say.”

  Realization slammed into her and she doubled over, Franz’s arms still around her as she choked on her sobs. Her father, her papa. “They can’t…” she managed, even though she knew the words were useless. “Why would they? They don’t even know anything.”

  “You know that doesn’t matter.” Franz’s arms tightened around her. “This is my fault.”

  “No—”

  “I never should have stayed after the Anschluss, and especially not after Kristallnacht. I knew this was coming. I put you all in danger.”

  She straightened, wiping her cheeks as Franz dropped his arms from around her. “Don’t say that. We wanted you here. You belong here—”

  “If I turn myself in—”

  “Franz, no.” With strength she hadn’t realized she possessed, Johanna grabbed him by the shoulders, anchoring him in place. “If you turn yourself in, you’ll make his sacrifice worthless. You know they’ll… interrogate him anyway.” She could barely make herself say the words. Her stomach churned and she had to take several breaths to steady herself. “They will imprison him or… or worse.” A howl rose within her and she bit her lips to keep from allowing it to escape. “Turning yourself in won’t change that. But you’re right. You can’t stay here, for your sake, not ours. We need to find you somewhere safe.”

  A bleakness stole over his features and clouded his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders so she was forced to drop her hands. “Where?”

  “Somewhere—”

  “There’s nowhere.”

  “There has to be. Birgit can ask Ingrid, or I’ll speak to Father Josef—”

  “Father Josef has been sending people to us. And all the communists care about is their pamphlets, their propaganda. They’re more concerned about the rights of workers than those of Jews.”

  “We’re on the same side—” Johanna protested, although she knew there was some truth in his words. People hated Hitler for all sorts of reasons.

  “For now, perhaps. And in any case they’re rounding up communists just as they’re rounding up Jews. Why should this Ingrid help me?”r />
  “Still,” Johanna insisted, her voice growing stronger, “we have to try. It’s not going to end like this, Franz, I promise you.”

  For a second his expression softened and he reached for her hand, lacing her fingers through his. “I love you,” he said simply, and a terror seized her, because the words sounded so final, like a farewell. “I’ve always loved you, I think from the first moment I saw you, standing in the kitchen, looking like you owned the world.”

  “I didn’t,” she replied unsteadily, and he squeezed her fingers.

  “You did. You owned my heart, at least, from that moment.”

  She drew a shuddering breath. “Franz, don’t talk as if—as if this is goodbye—”

  “I just want you to know.”

  “I do know. And you know I love you.” Her voice grew stronger with the force of her conviction. “One day when this is over—”

  “It won’t ever be over.”

  “It will. Madness cannot last forever.” She clasped his hand with both of her own. “Franz, promise me you won’t do something stupid. You won’t turn yourself in, thinking yourself noble or something ridiculous like that.” Improbably, a smile twitched his mouth. “Promise me,” Johanna insisted.

  “Very well,” he said, rolling his eyes, that lovely little smile still quirking his mouth. “I promise I will not be stupid.”

  “Good.” She put her arms around him, savoring the solidness of him, the fact that at least in this moment, he was here and she was touching him and they were both safe. “Then we’ll find Ingrid, or Father Josef, and one of them will tell us what to do.”

  “It won’t be that easy,” Franz warned her as his arms came around her.

  “It will,” Johanna said, and her voice came out sure. She felt, quite suddenly, strong, determined. This was something to fight for. To live for. “It has to be.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Birgit

  As the door of the shop closed behind the men and Manfred, Hedwig fell to her knees, a sound emerging from deep inside her, like the moan of a wounded animal.

  “Mama.” Birgit hurried to her, dropping to her knees to put her arms around her. Her mother’s head was lowered as she rocked back and forth, and tears stung Birgit’s eyes. She’d never seen her mother look so lost, so broken. “He’ll be back,” she said. “They just want to ask him questions.”

  Except she knew it didn’t work like that. She’d heard enough horror stories of people who had been taken in for questioning, only to return a shadow of themselves, a shell, with bandaged fingers or broken hands, bruises and cuts and burns all over their bodies. Her stomach cramped and she struggled to breathe. That couldn’t happen to her father, her dear papa.

  “Mama, it’s going to be all right,” she said, but she heard how weak her voice sounded and she knew her mother didn’t believe her. She didn’t believe herself.

  Somehow she managed to help her mother up and then to the table, where she sank into a chair, her head in her arms. Birgit went to make coffee, fumbling with the pot because she never made the coffee, but she didn’t know what else to do.

  The water had only just begun to boil when Johanna rushed into the room. “You need to find Ingrid,” she told Birgit, her voice strident, even angry. Her gaze moved to their mother, still sitting slumped at the table, and then flitted away again.

  “I don’t know how to find her.” Since she’d started receiving and distributing the pamphlets again, she had never actually seen Ingrid, although she’d had messages from her, with the pamphlets. She’d supposed it was better for them never to meet. Safer.

  “What about the coffeehouse?” Johanna demanded. “You said you could reach her there. We need her help. Hers or Father Josef’s, and I’ll speak to him today.”

  “Father Josef will not be able to help,” Hedwig interjected dully. “Your father was the only one he knew who resisted. The men he sent here were parishioners who had got into trouble. They had nowhere else to go.”

  Birgit and Johanna exchanged an uncertain look before Johanna stated, “Then it will have to be Ingrid. Franz has to be moved as soon as possible. They’ll come back, once—” She stopped abruptly, glancing again at Birgit.

  “Once what?” Their mother demanded, lifting her tear-stained face to look at them both.

  Johanna’s expression softened, her lips trembling before she pressed them together. “Once Papa tells them,” she said quietly, and her mother glared at her.

  “He will not do that,” she stated with dignity.

  “Mama, he might have no choice—”

  “Johanna.” Birgit gave her sister a quelling look. The last thing their mother needed was to hear how her husband was going to be interrogated. Thinking about it herself made her stomach heave and she pressed one hand to her middle, determined to be strong, for all their sakes. For her father’s, and for her own.

  “You think I don’t know?” Hedwig demanded as she let out a hollow, humorless laugh. “They will beat him. Torture him. I know that.”

  “Mama…” Johanna looked at her helplessly while Birgit turned back to the coffee pot, to hide the tears that threatened.

  “He still won’t tell,” Hedwig continued. “Your father is strong. Far stronger than I am. I’ve always understood that.”

  Birgit glanced at Johanna and knew she must look as dubious as her sister did. Her father wasn’t strong; he suffered from severe headaches, as well as other aches and pains from his war injuries, and sometimes he went to bed right after supper, or fell asleep in his chair by the fire. He was funny and intelligent and gentle and wry, but strong?

  “He is,” Hedwig insisted, as if Birgit had spoken her thoughts aloud. “But go find this Ingrid if you can.”

  “I’ll go right now,” Birgit said as she headed for the stairs. She felt a new sense of purpose fire through her, driving her forward. “I’ll find Ingrid, Mama, I promise.” She’d left a message for her at the coffeehouse once before; there was no reason why she could not do it again.

  Outside Birgit hurried down the street, her coat drawn tightly around her, her head tucked low so she wouldn’t inadvertently meet anyone’s eye. It took nearly half an hour to reach the coffeehouse, and as she slipped inside, the warmth of the room and the smell of coffee and schnapps giving her a sudden yearning for normalcy, everyone fell silent for a second before the conversation started up again. She glanced at the man behind the bar; he was the same one she’d left the message with before. Back then he’d given her a blank look, but somehow the message had been passed on, and she had to trust the same would happen again.

  “I’m looking for Ingrid,” she said in a low voice as she stood in front of the bar, her palms placed flat on the polished wood. “She knows who I am. I’ve helped… with things.”

  The man continued polishing a glass, his face expressionless as he stayed silent. Of course she knew she couldn’t expect him to say anything revealing, but what if he was an informer? Or someone else here was? She couldn’t let herself think about that. “I need her help now,” she said, her tone turning insistent. “Urgently. Do you know where she is?” Still nothing. “Please,” Birgit begged as quietly as she could. “I’ve been helping for months now—and I alerted everyone to the police when they were about to raid. Don’t you remember?”

  “Be quiet.” The man had finally spoken, his voice an angry hiss although his face remained expressionless. “No one talks like that any more. Are you stupid?”

  Birgit bit her lip, chastened. “I need to find Ingrid,” she whispered after a moment. “There is someone I need to help. I’m hoping she can tell me how.” He stared at her, his expression still giving nothing away. “It’s a matter of life or death!” Birgit cried, and if anything, the man looked even more annoyed.

  “Everything is a matter of life or death these days. Do you think you’re the only one who’s in trouble?” He put down the glass he’d been polishing and then nodded towards the door. “Come back in an hour.”


  “What—”

  “Come back in an hour.”

  Knowing she had no choice, Birgit left the coffee house. She spent the hour wandering the streets of Elisabeth-Vorstadt, her mind in a ferment. Once the insalubrious neighborhood had been bustling with people—workmen and day laborers, shopgirls and seamstresses, as well as raggedy children darting in and out of the streets. Now the streets were practically empty; everyone was hiding indoors or had already gone—emigrated, arrested, or worse.

  Finally an hour had crawled past and Birgit returned to the coffeehouse, relieved beyond measure to see Ingrid seated at a table in the back, smoking a cigarette, a glass of schnapps in front of her.

  Birgit hadn’t seen her in over a year but she looked the same, with her dark hair and red lips, her strong face drawn, improbably, in lines of good humor, although there was a certain cynical cast to her features, a weariness in her eyes.

  “My little Catholic,” she greeted her. “What’s the rush, mausi?”

  Birgit flushed at the mocking diminutive. “My father has been arrested by the Gestapo,” she said in a low voice as she sat opposite Ingrid. “And his apprentice, Franz, you helped him before, a few years ago. You know he’s a Jew. It’s not safe to have him with us any longer. He needs to be moved. Hidden.”

  “Oh?” Ingrid raised her dark, arched eyebrows. “And what does any of that have to do with me?”

  The hint of indifference in her voice shocked Birgit. She’d thought somehow that Ingrid would care. “I… I thought you might know of somewhere,” Birgit stammered after a moment. “Or someone who can help. You must have connections.”

  “Someone who will risk their life for you, you mean?” Ingrid corrected coolly. “Why should I, for the sake of a single man?” She blew out a stream of smoke as she stared at Birgit with hard eyes. “It works both ways, you know, liebste. You can’t just come running to us when it suits.”