‘Heydrich here. How are you, von Hesse?’
As soon as he heard Heydrich’s voice sounding clear, calm and friendly, Hugo knew good news was coming his way.
‘I was working on transportation plans.’
‘Certain plans have been pushed forward. October the first is the date scheduled. You must finish your research before then. Oh, and by the way, you’ve been appointed to the rank of colonel. My congratulations, von Hesse.’
Hugo gasped and he heard Heydrich chuckle. Shortly afterwards, Hugo replaced the receiver feeling elated. He went back to his desk. He had not been there long before he heard soft footsteps outside. He tiptoed swiftly across the room and swung the door open.
Freda, his new Bavarian housekeeper, nearly fell on her face with shock. She was carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits.
‘Heavens, you scared me, Major,’ she said shakily. ‘I woke up and realised that you were still working. You said you mustn’t be disturbed, but you’ve had no supper. I thought you might like something to eat so I came down. I hope you don’t mind my gown. I didn’t want to waste time dressing.’ She smiled coquettishly.
She was lying. Her nightdress was uncreased and she had brushed her hair and applied some pink lipstick. When she leaned forward to put the tray on the table her negligée fell open, revealing her breasts. Rather a gauche attempt at seduction. Well, he’d prefer not to have a genius poking around his home. He reached forward and pinched one fat pink nipple.
‘I have to leave for Berlin at seven. My driver and three men will be here for breakfast. Will you be able to cope?’
‘With anything you want, Herr Major,’ she said, her eyes gleaming with laughter.
‘Are you sure?’ He caught hold of her so swiftly that her feet lifted from the floor. While he held her with one arm he swept his hand under her loose gown and cupped one pendulous breast. It felt good . . . heavy and maternal.
She had found her feet, so he slipped the other hand under her buttocks. He was surprised how firm they were. She would be good in bed. He knew from her small, moist lips, her heavy-lidded eyes and her trim, muscled body which was soft only in her breasts. Her hair was blonde, her eyes were blue, and she was twenty-two years old. He laughed and slapped her backside. ‘It’s Colonel now. Let’s celebrate. Play your cards right and you’ll be set up for life.’
‘It will be a pleasure to serve you, mein Colonel,’ she said. She had obviously made up her mind about him some days before. ‘You go up, I’ll bring coffee.’
‘Bring champagne. And hurry, I hate lonely beds.’
*
Two men were meeting in a rented hotel room in central Berlin, one of them a well-known economist and mayor of a thriving German city. A middle-aged man with iron-grey hair and a military moustache, there was nothing outstanding about his appearance, but he was known for his liberal views, his indomitable will and his stern opposition to the Nazis.
The other was Count von Burgheim, who was pacing the shabby room. ‘There are so many of us who hate the Nazis, my friend. There is no shortage of recruits. I’ve been talking to left-wing politicians, trade union leaders, journalists and church leaders; they’re only too keen to join us, but I’m convinced that a civilian uprising could only fail. Civilians could not last against the tanks and flamethrowers of the armed forces. Hitler has a genius for self-protection. By training his own SS army, he can defeat an uprising. Unless . . .’
‘. . . we had the entire German army with us,’ the Mayor said. ‘Exactly. Between us we have the contacts and the power to bring the top generals together and sound them out. There must be many who think as we do.’
‘And many who would betray us,’ the Mayor went on. ‘So we must be careful. We must try to find out which generals would be with us, without revealing our plans.’
‘I’ll start with close friends,’ the Count said.
For two hours they pored over lists of names and connections, speaking in low tones, falling silent at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Finally satisfied they’d done as much as they could, the two men shook hands and left separately.
From then on, the nights took their toll of the Count’s stamina. For the first time in his life he was deadly afraid. Not for his own safety, but for his children’s. The Nazis were never content with merely executing traitors. They destroyed the entire family. Nevertheless, in solitude, he pondered about the near-impossible task of staging a putsch to overthrow the Nazis.
Chapter Twenty
The summer of ’38 was an uneasy time for the von Burgheims. Too many Austrian aristocrats were being stripped of their wealth and possessions. Count Frederick expected to be arrested at any time, but inexplicably he remained at liberty.
Louis was particularly worried. The Edelweiss students were heading for destruction, any fool could see that. Louis had promised Father he would look after Marietta, but she was headstrong and wilful. Nothing he could say would make the two women he loved more than anything else in the world take care of themselves. His rift with Andrea was a constant source of pain and misery.
After weeks of frustration, Louis decided to enlist Marietta’s help and he waylaid her in the campus and hustled her to the dining-room. Louis was struck by the change in Marietta. She was growing up fast. She was wearing a navy cotton skirt, a white blouse, tennis shoes and socks. She wore no make-up or jewellery and her hair was pulled back into plaits which were wound around her head. One plain watch with a black leather strap completed this image of a serious student. She was hungry and Louis couldn’t help being irritated with her single-minded devotion to gobbling cakes.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or are you going to eat forever?’
‘Sorry! I haven’t eaten today. Anyway, you did invite me. Father cornered Andrea on the boat, the day before my birthday and gave her the whole bit about duty and what it means to be a Habsburg. He said that you must marry someone from the same background. Well . . . something like that . . . She didn’t tell me word for word. I wasn’t going to tell you, but now that I see how unhappy you both are . . .’
‘Damn Father!’ Louis exploded. ‘At least her behaviour makes sense. I’m not losing her for the sake of primitive “duty”.’
‘There’s no point in blaming Father. He didn’t invent the system,’ Marietta said.
‘But he’s turned it into a blessed religion.’
‘You’ve never really understood Father,’ she said sadly.
‘All too well. It’s absolutely crystal clear to me now. Thanks! By the way, I don’t hear much about Bill nowadays. Did he get the same speech?’
‘I have no wish to see that arrogant, self-opinionated, distrustful, disloyal, rotten pig—’
‘In other words you’re still pining,’ Louis interrupted mischievously. Looking closely at his sister, Louis decided that she was eaten up with a misery she didn’t recognise. ‘What a mess,’ he sighed.
Louis was furious with his father, yet he had to acknowledge that there had been some truth in his words. His future wife would look forward to life of strict protocol and exhaustive duties. Would Andrea cope? More pertinently, would she want to? Would it be fair to her? Nevertheless, he missed her warmth, her candour, her low, thrilling laugh and her love of music. Torn between two worlds, Louis decided to visit the parish priest in Munich and talk to him about his problem. But when Louis attended a service at the Catholic church nearest to the University the following Sunday, he was disgusted to see that the Christian cross had been replaced with a swastika. On the altar there was a copy of Mein Kampf, and a sword. The altar cloth was a large Nazi flag and a larger-than-life picture of Hitler was placed behind the altar. He turned and walked out, his stomach churning.
The presbytery was occupied by a Nazi official. The priest had been arrested during a nationwide purge against the clergy and the church had been converted into one of Germany’s first Ahnenhalle, or national churches dedicated to Nazism.
For Louis, the next
week was a period of bitter introspection. He had never been interested in politics or in civil disobedience, but this was a question of ethics. Eventually he came to a decision . . . Marie was right, Father was wrong. Ethics had to be guarded, with your life, if necessary. It was time to take a stand. Finally Louis had the commitment and strength to join Edelweiss.
*
The pull towards Marie became too much for Bill to resist. May and June had dragged by endlessly and in July he wrote to his bureau suggesting that he should cover the post-Anschluss Austrian scene. He was pleased, but not particularly surprised, when they agreed. In Vienna, Bill made a point of visiting all the places Marie was likely to go to during the University vacation, but it seemed that a chance meeting was not to be. Finally inspiration struck and he called Louis and invited him for lunch ‘to discuss the local scene’.
‘Viennese society seems determined to hold back the clock,’ Louis told him with a detached smile as they sipped aperitifs. ‘Despite the New Order and the austerity, the Establishment are hanging on to their privileged existence. Look at them . . .’ He waved his hand dismissively at the crowded restaurant. ‘The same parties are still being held, there’s the same flamboyant attendance at the theatre and the opera. People are ignoring the changes, betting they will then go away. It won’t last. How can it?’
Over coffee, Bill turned the conversation to Louis’ family and, of course, Marietta.
Louis said: ‘Bill, my friend, it’s none of my business, but I’d like to put you right about Marietta. There’s nothing false about her. None of us knew that Hugo had joined the Nazis until Marietta was arrested and interrogated. Since then Hugo has used his power to force Father to welcome him back to the family.’
‘I wish I could wipe the slate clean.’ Bill sighed and signalled for brandies.
Bill was overjoyed when Louis invited him to join the family at the opera and dinner afterwards. They were to meet for drinks at Plechy at six. Bill arrived first and hung around in a state of nervous excitement, keeping one eye on the door. He longed to see her, sure he could make everything come right again.
Then Ingrid hurried in wearing a black velvet trouser suit with a Mandarin collar. It glittered with sequins and made her look older, sophisticated and very lovely. She rapidly made it clear that Bill was to be her escort and that Marie was not coming.
His disappointment was almost impossible to hide. ‘What happened to Marie?’ he muttered to Louis when he had the chance to speak privately.
‘Sorry, Bill. I did try, I promise.’ He shrugged.
Later that night, when Bill was leaving, he saw Marie hurry out of a car and enter the palace by the servants’ entrance. Was that to avoid him, he wondered? Looking hard at the driver, he recognised the tall Scandinavian he’d seen at Ingrid’s birthday party.
From then on the invitations came regularly and Bill reciprocated by inviting the family to whatever fascinating entertainment he could devise for them. He always hoped that Marie would change her mind and join them, but she never did. Wasn’t she jealous? Didn’t she care that he was seeing Ingrid? Or did she know that he was only seeing Ingrid by default?
Why was he doing this, he asked himself after each occasion? It was unfair to Ingrid and surely to God he could take the brush-off from an obstinate foreign countess. Marie, it seemed, only had eyes for her Scandinavian. Was she having an affair? This question kept him awake and in torment most nights.
*
Berlin was not a good place to be that summer, and Bill’s absence made it worse. Taube missed the security of having him around.
He had called her from Vienna and given her the morning off, but she felt guilty about leaving the office. As she hurried along the pavement she kept her eyes straight ahead. Like a horse with blinkers on, she never looked to either side. She did not want to see the many signs in offices, restaurants, theatres, and even benches in the park and public toilets saying: Jews forbidden. Her stomach was knotted with painful lumps, as it always was lately, for she lived in a permanent state of terror and tension. Consequently, her legs were stiff, her eyes burning, her neck aching, but worst of all were the cramps in her stomach.
Nowadays, she had to wear a yellow Star of David on her arm. The penalty of breaking this new law was immediate removal to a concentration camp. She could not take this chance, for she could be asked for her papers at any time. But wearing the yellow armband invited every lout to abuse her.
At last she’d reached her destination, the Chilean Embassy. She hurried into the gates with a sigh of relief, but then her fears returned. What would they say? Had her application been successful? Seconds later she was standing at the end of a long queue of anxious people, all Jews, most of them elderly. They looked resigned and hopeless, as if they knew there was no escape. It was past ten before she reached the desk, where a Chilean woman with large hazel eyes and a kind expression said: ‘Your name and reference number, please.’
‘Taube Bloomberg.’ She passed the number through the slot and sat there quietly, unashamedly praying, embarrassed by her youth.
*
The woman was gone for a long time. Taube tried to relax.
‘It will be all right,’ she whispered to herself. ‘They will take us. It has to be . . . they’re desperate for settlers.’
This was their last chance. Taube had plagued every foreign embassy for the past eighteen months and drawn a blank everywhere. No one wanted old, unskilled penniless Jews, as both of her parents were classed.
The woman returned with her file and an anxious expression on her face. She avoided looking at her, which, Taube had learned from experience, heralded bad news. Her heart sank.
‘Miss Bloomberg, your application is successful,’ the woman said brightly.
‘And my parents . . .?’ Taube’s voice faltered.
‘Unfortunately we cannot accept responsibility for your parents. They are too old to be useful immigrants. We need young, strong people who can work the fields and turn the land into profitable farms. Your parents don’t seem to be quite what we’re looking for. They would become a – a burden on the State. I’m afraid we’re not a . . .’ The woman’s voice tailed off uncertainly.
‘But I did explain,’ Taube said. ‘I cannot abandon them.’
The woman folded her hands and gazed at them. She seemed to be a kind person. She listened to Taube’s long tale of despair without interrupting her.
‘I’m sorry, but there’s no hope,’ she said at last, months of similar interviews had not totally extinguished her compassion. ‘Unless, of course, you could find sponsorship from a Chilean family.’
Taube shook her head despondently. ‘I would support them,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve told you that.’
‘You would if you could, but there is no guarantee. Perhaps if you were to go first, they could follow when you had accommodation and employment and could prove financial support for them.’
‘They should live so long,’ Taube muttered. She felt feverish and did not know how to handle this latest, possibly final, blow. Last week, they had been told that the authorities were going to force all Jews to hand in their passports in October. That gave her three months to escape, but only with her parents.
‘Eighty per cent of the German Jewish youth have already left Germany,’ the woman was saying. ‘Your parents would understand. They are old. You are young.’
‘I can’t leave them. Don’t you understand that? Mother would never cope without me. Please help me,’ Taube said desperately. ‘Please . . .’ She shouldn’t beg. That was inexcusable, she knew. It put too much burden on a civil servant who had no power, but who was trying to help. ‘Forgive me,’ Taube said quickly. ‘It is not your fault. I had no right . . .’
The woman was looking stricken, flustered by the situation, aware that she might not have the strength to be as selfless if their roles were reversed. ‘Perhaps if they sold their shop. If they had enough capital, they would be acceptable immigrants.’
&nbs
p; Taube almost snorted in despair, she might as well ask for the moon. Yet another new law was forcing Jews to sell their businesses and property to non-Jews for whatever they were offered. Besides, the cost of an exit permit was all you possessed. Thanking the woman gravely, she walked back to work. There were no solutions now beyond Bill’s charity. Her father would have to accept it. No matter how tactfully Bill voiced his concern, it boiled down to charity. He, personally, would have to stand surety for her family and pay their fares, their settling-in expenses, their rent, her mother’s medical bills, the costs were endless. Oh God!
Obsessed with her problems, she stumbled into a group of Brownshirts who were rounding up Jews to clean the pavements. Before she knew what was happening to her, she was forced down on her knees with a pail of water and a brush, to scrub out the gutter. Bitter tears of humiliation scalded her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry! Just work,’ the old woman next to her whispered. ‘Don’t argue. Don’t look up. They beat you if you refuse or if you’re slow. That’s what this is all about, a chance to beat people, so just scrub. They get tired of it after an hour or two and let you go.’
It was the most terrible morning of her life. People stopped to jeer at them. She became wet and muddy and terrified that she would be taken away, never to be heard of again, as so many were.
She got back to the office tired, filthy and close to hysteria. She put a call through to Bill in Vienna. She hadn’t intended telling him everything, but every detail of the day poured out.
‘Bill. You said once you would help us get to the States. Father was too proud to accept your help, but Bill, I accept on behalf of all of us. I’m desperate. Somehow I’ll force Father to leave.’
‘I’ll telephone the Ambassador now, Taube,’ Bill promised.
Chapter Twenty-One
Obsessed by his pursuit of the elusive Marietta, Bill allowed himself to be drawn into the whirlwind that was Ingrid’s world. It seemed there wasn’t a function in Vienna which could take place without the patronage of the beautiful Princess Ingrid. For Ingrid it was obligatory to attend every first night of every fashionable opera, concert or play. He sat through hours of heavy drama in the national repertory company’s Burgtheater. More hours of modern drama at the Hofburg. Ingrid became totally absorbed by every performance, emerging like a sleepwalker and only much later pulling herself together to deliver scathing criticisms or condescending praise. All Ingrid’s energy was thrust into the joy of living. Every night there was a gala occasion and some nights as many as three. Bill wished he had her stamina.
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