‘No. That’s not true. Before long, Germany will be at war with the rest of the world. It could take years, but the Nazis will be beaten eventually. When war breaks out I shall join the army. You will come with me, we will fight them together.’
‘I won’t run away,’ she said softly, while every instinct told her that running away might be her salvation.
Aware of her vulnerability and her need for reassurance, Bill gently pressed her against the pillows, his fingers shakingly undoing the buttons of her blouse.
Her longing for him, which she had buried so deeply for so long, was now surging out of her. She pushed herself hard against him and they seemed to lie there for an eternity, lips on lips, bodies hard against each other, her heart thumping against his.
‘I want you . . .’ she gasped. ‘I must be part of you. Oh Bill, love me!’
He leaned over her and kissed her damp hair which was falling over her face and smoothed it back. His lips lingered over her long eyelashes and her beautiful eyelids. Her lips usually so firm and brave were pouting, trembling moist to his touch. With delicacy and reverence he removed her clothes, stroking her silken skin, whispering words of love and passion, until they both lay naked on the vast bed.
He kissed her breasts and her navel, and her soft pubic hair and threaded his fingers through it, feeling, kneading, longing for her. He bent over her swiftly, his tongue licking her dusk rose nipples, his forefinger stroking; she was moaning, pleading, and writhing with pent-up passion. He moved her legs apart and lowered himself gently on to her body, feeling her quivering naked flesh against his, and her breasts, like luscious cushions under him, and her firm belly shuddering. She was open and wanting him, clamouring for more.
‘Are you sure . . .?’ He gasped.
‘Yes, yes . . . oh, yes.’
Tenderness flooded through him as he gently thrust into her. He heard her moan, and felt the exquisite flesh pulsating and writhing around him. ‘Oh Marie, my dearest, dearest love . . .’
*
Why did I come? Ingrid wondered, lying in bed feeling tormented and rejected. The answer to her question was easy: she had sensed something suspicious in Marietta’s sudden urge to take a break in Bohemia, so she had accepted the invitation in order to spy on the girls. Now she was suffering as she heard obvious sounds of love-making coming from Marietta’s room next door. She could hear the bed creaking amidst giggles and sighs.
She wanted to run away, but instead she found herself creeping towards the wall and listening intently. At last their sex was over. Ingrid slumped to the floor, quivering and crying, imagining Marietta, replete and joyous, lying on Bill’s shoulder, just as she had once imagined she would. She heard Bill moving around. Glasses clinked.
‘Okay Marie, what’s this all about . . .?’ The rest of Bill’s question was inaudible. Ingrid pressed her ear against the wall. Then she clearly heard Marietta say: ‘An escape route to Austria . . . over the hills to the border . . . a chain of safe houses and contacts . . .’
Only snatches of their conversation were distinguishable, but what she heard Ingrid wrote down carefully. Shortly afterwards she heard the bed creak and Ingrid crept back to her lonely mattress. She lay awake for hours and heard them make love again just before dawn, then the door creaked and she heard the sound of Bill’s footsteps returning to his own bedroom down the passage.
*
It was eight o’clock when Bill was wakened by Marie creeping into his room. ‘I haven’t had enough sleep,’ he complained.
‘Come on, Bill. Get dressed,’ she said, pulling his blankets off. ‘Andrea and Louis left before dawn for Vimperk. They’re going to see the local priest. He’s a friend of the Pastor’s.’ Marie’s dedication was intimidating, particularly at this time of the morning. Bill left his warm bed with a sigh.
‘I’m going,’ he told her sternly. ‘You’re staying here. I have the safety of my American passport and my job to protect me. You have nothing.’
‘That’s not going to work, Bill.’ She stood there, her hair tousled, a taut, lop-sided smile on her lips, frowning at him.
‘Marie. Give me the addresses. You’re not going and that’s final.’
‘I can go without you, Bill,’ she said softly. ‘I came to do this and you can’t do it for me. These people won’t trust you . . . you’re a stranger to them. Besides, the addresses are in my head and there’s no way you can get them out of me.’ She smiled softly. ‘I’m touched that you want to protect me, Bill, but you don’t own me.’
He got dressed in a hurry, feeling scared.
At the station, they took the train to Volary and then hiked uphill through the trees for half an hour. At last they reached the sawmill at Lobkowitz, run by Herr Zweig. He was an old man, but with a young man’s eyes of fierce, penetrating crystal blue, which contrasted strangely with his iron grey hair and lined skin. There were deep bags under his eyes, and the stubble of two days’ beard was a darker grey than his hair. His eyes were hooded, his nose hooked, his hands wrinkled, but he exuded strength and vitality.
He said: ‘Well, well, Countess Marietta von Burgheim in person. I have worked for you and your grandmother for forty-five years, but this is the first time I have set eyes on you. It must be an important occasion.’
‘I can’t think of anything more important than combining our resources to fight the Nazis,’ Marietta said, unaffected by his sarcasm, and ignoring Bill’s horrified expression.
She looked around. This was an isolated place, little known, and often cut off by bad weather for weeks at a time. Herr Zweig used a horse-drawn cart for that very reason.
‘My contact told me you would be sympathetic. I need a safe house for fugitives. This is an ideal place for a halfway house,’ she said earnestly. ‘It’s isolated, and you can’t be easily surprised. The only access road zig-zags up this steep slope in full view of your sawmill.’
Bill was squirming. Zweig could be an informer, or even a Nazi, for all she knew, and here she was blabbing her head off. She had guts all right, but she was a child when it came to guile.
‘How would people get here?’ she was asking.
‘There’s a bus and a train twice a day in week days. After that they walk, as you did, unless I know they’re coming.’
‘You are prepared to offer sanctuary to so-called enemies of the Reich?’
‘That goes without saying, Countess.’
‘You will need horses and mules, extra supplies, but we will pay you . . . somehow.’
‘Why did you come here, why are you dirtying your soft hands with this? Who sent you?’ The penetrating blue eyes scanned her face carefully as he asked.
‘I can’t tell you that,’ she smiled at him, ‘but my hands are already dirty.’
Something in her stance and her voice convinced the old man of her sincerity. He gravely shook her hand.
After coffee and half an hour of small talk, they had a long walk back to the car and Bill ranted most of the way. She was too trusting, naive, gullible and far too talkative, he said, ice-cold with anger.
‘The person who gave me these names is someone whom I trust,’ she said eventually. ‘I know this country, Bill, it is you who is naive.’
They reached Strakonice at one. The proprietor, who was also the waiter, suggested they might prefer to sit outside. Despite the cold, he was so insistent that they agreed. ‘Go back now,’ he said urgently, when they were seated. ‘There are several Nazis in this town and they’re always watching. There was a party of Jews here two days ago. They were sent to the priest in the church up there on the hill. A pretty place as you can see,’ he said pointing up the hill. ‘Father Diederichs gave them shelter in the church. He thought he had the villagers in his pocket, but he forgot the younger generation and their Hitler Youth cult and their weird ideas on how Czechoslovakia should be run. We’ve two garage mechanics, sons of the local garage proprietor, who are practically running the Hitler Youth in this area. Most folks think it was them who inf
ormed on the priest and his refugees.’
‘What happened?’ Marietta whispered.
‘Yesterday the Gestapo came, but there was plenty of warning, because you can see for miles from up there. The fugitives ran off into the forests, but the SS had brought dogs. They were all shot, except one young boy who was alive and taken for questioning. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, if that. This morning they took the priest outside and shot him in front of his church. You wouldn’t want them to notice you two. Don’t worry. I’m always here and I can help you. You can contact me through our mutual friend, but don’t linger now. Finish your coffee and go.’
‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ Bill said, when he was out of earshot. ‘It’s time to go home.’
‘Pilsen,’ Marie said obstinately. ‘That’s our next stop. We’ll take a train.’
*
Walking around Pilsen’s town square, Bill was amazed at the outdated equipment being used by the German army. It was lucky for Hitler that he’d managed to annex the Sudetenland without a shot being fired, he reckoned, since his troops were so badly-equipped. The men had the strangest selection of fighting machines Bill had seen. Most of them were on bicycles. Some had carrier pigeons in cages strapped to their backs. Horses and carts were tethered among the tanks and the few pieces of modern artillery.
It was nearly dusk, and they were both tired when they reached the city. They walked into the next bar on their list and ordered some red claret and a pie each. A sign in the window said: Under new management, and the weasel-faced proprietor had the wrong name altogether. They both felt depressed as they sat by the bar counter making small talk.
‘Someone got here before us,’ Bill said, feeling uneasy. ‘How many more on your list?’
‘That’s it. Andrea’s doing the rest. I hope she’s all right. Let’s go home.’
‘I couldn’t be more thankful.’
They reached Boubin Manor at midnight. Andrea and Louis were waiting for them. Ingrid had spent the day with them, but she was in bed, Andrea told them. They sat sprawled on the carpet, in front of the fire in the family room and swopped news. The day had scared all of them more than they cared to admit.
‘Horrible, horrible,’ Marie kept muttering. ‘To think that these things can happen to perfectly innocent people. They were only trying to escape. They hadn’t committed a crime.’
At one, they were still talking when Jan came in with a bundle of logs for the fire.
‘There’ll be a heavy snowfall tonight,’ he said, looking grim. ‘You must stay here and ski. Have fun and make it obvious – remember you’re on holiday. You might have attracted attention at Pilsen. I’m sorry about that contact. The owner was arrested recently, but I didn’t know. All of you did well today.’
Marietta watched him gravely. She wasn’t sure exactly how to react to his changed status. After he’d left, she stood up, white-faced and tense. ‘We’d be well advised to take his advice. Four days of fun is the minimum we can get away with. We’d best get on with it.’
She made it sound like a punishment, Bill thought, watching her gravely. She shot a glance of blank despair at him and went to bed. Bill waited a decent interval and then followed.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Andrea woke the next morning feeling dismal. She didn’t fit in with the family; it was madness to imagine that she ever would. She was at a loss as to how to behave.
Sharp at eight, there was a knock on her door. The maid entered with a tray of milky coffee and freshly baked pastries. ‘Everyone’s waiting for you, Madam,’ she said. ‘The skiing party is due to leave in half an hour.’
‘I’m not skiing today,’ Andrea replied. Nor any other day, she told herself miserably. She allowed the maid’s disapproval to waft over her.
She heard the skiers’ happy voices calling to one another as they assembled outside the door under her window. At last they left and Andrea went to sit by the window. It was a beautiful scene. The lodge was perched on the edge of a mountain slope. Below her was the broad sweep of a snow-covered slope falling to a valley far below with a calm lake nestling in the valley. She decided to dress and enjoy the solitude of the house while everyone was out, but when she reached the morning-room she realised she was not alone after all. The Count was sitting by a blazing fire behind his newspaper. He folded it, stood up and ambled towards her. ‘Come and sit with me,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you skiing with the others?’
She sighed. ‘I can’t ski,’ she said flatly. The Count looked surprised. Then he grinned and suddenly he looked years younger. ‘I taught my first wife to ski. Go to the ski room, Jan will fit you up. I’ll get you started.’
Andrea had never felt more uncomfortable in her life as she hobbled along the path in borrowed ski boots. It was like learning to walk with artificial legs. The Count helped her into the trap and soon two white ponies were racing off uphill, bells jingling, into the misty whiteness. There, Andrea discovered, was a world of incredible grandeur, with wide, sweeping views over the valley and long sloping runs which, the Count explained, were ideal for beginners.
Two hours later Andrea could stop, start, stay upright downhill and plod uphill, and she felt a little less vulnerable. The Count convinced her that she had gained enough skill to ski down the more advanced slope leading to the restaurant. Besides, he pointed out, there was no other way to get there. He was famished. Wasn’t she? They had all arranged to meet there for lunch.
She was far too nervous to be hungry.
‘This slope’s a bit steep,’ he warned her, ‘and you can’t negotiate the bends as yet, so we shall circle to the front of the restaurant. That’s the beginners’ way. Follow me carefully?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
They set off, with the Count slightly ahead, calling encouraging comments. Surely they were getting near? Andrea raised her head to look, and without meaning to, altered the course of her skis. In a split-second she was zooming down a steep embankment that led to the back of the restaurant.
Faster and faster she raced. She saw an elderly couple walking their dog in front of her. How had they got there?
‘Look out!’ she screamed. ‘I can’t stop.’
They flattened themselves against the wall as she raced by.
The dog leaped at her, caught her pants and hung on. She was sure they would collide with the wall, but miraculously her skis followed the ruts in the snow.
She had only time to scream: ‘Aaaah!’ as she went sailing over a small rise and into the air, still gripping her ski sticks, with the dog hanging on.
She caught a glimpse of startled faces. Some of the skiers dived for cover.
Her legs crumpled in shock as she landed. She skidded across the patio spread-eagled on her stomach in a flurry of snow. She felt her pants ripping as the dog tugged harder.
Louis ran towards her, followed by the girls. He scooped her in his arms and wrapped his jersey round her waist. After that he took off her goggles, and kissed the tip of her nose.
‘Idiot!’ he said.
Andrea tested her limbs. They all seemed to be connected to her, which was a miracle.
At that moment, the Count arrived. ‘You should have stayed with me,’ he said mildly. ‘You might have hurt yourself.’
‘Any bones broken?’ Bill said, trying to keep a straight face.
‘I’ve never seen anything so funny,’ Marietta said, laughing.
‘That’s a very tough dog,’ Louis said. ‘It didn’t let go, but its feet never touched the ground.’
‘Neither did Andrea’s,’ Marie said between gales of laughter.
‘What an entrance!’ Even Ingrid was smiling.
The Count led Andrea back to a table and poured her a glass of brandy.
‘Of course,’ Marie said, making room for Andrea on the bench. ‘You must go straight back out there after lunch. It’s important to do that, or you might lose your nerve. I remember my first horse show. I was so nervous I jumped clean over the
horse and landed on my head on the other side. The audience laughed at me. Grandmother was furious.’
They all had painful memories of their first skiing lessons which they told each other, with hoots of laughter, until Andrea couldn’t help smiling herself.
*
It was 6 p.m. Louis and Andrea were in the sauna. Louis had coaxed Andrea there by promising that she would recover from her many bruises. She was wrapped in a large white towel, her hair was wet with perspiration, her skin was gleaming and her face was swollen and red. To Louis she had never looked more desirable.
Louis wrapped his hand around Andrea’s ankle. He moved his head and pressed his lips around her big toe, sucked it, and wiggled his tongue between her toes. Then he ran his fingers up the inside of her leg to her thighs.
There’s something wrong with me, Andrea thought, feeling uncomfortable. I’m engaged, but I’m a virgin . . . at eighteen . . . that makes me a freak. It’s just something about my make-up. I don’t believe that sex is wrong, but I can’t stand all this propaganda about being told to do it for Hitler . . . to produce another little Nazi. The Führer has made me frigid. Poor Louis. She drew away from him and pushed his hand down.
He smiled lazily. ‘I didn’t bring you here to seduce you.’
She frowned and glanced down at him, peering from under her long lashes.
‘What did you bring me here for?’
‘For you to seduce me.’
She laughed. ‘Well, I’m not going to. I’m stiff and aching all over.’
‘Then I’ll go to sleep.’
He stretched out full-length on the slatted wood. Andrea leaned forward and spooned some water on to the coals. The steam hissed and a strong smell of eucalyptus filled the small room. The resin was oozing from the wood; the steam was fragrant. Andrea smelled fragrant, too. Louis grabbed her foot again and ran his tongue under her sole.
He said: ‘I’m too lazy to do more than seduce your foot.’
She laughed and wiggled her toes. ‘Go ahead! My foot feels passionate.’
‘Dear Fräulein Foot,’ he whispered. ‘What delicate toes, what sensuous bunions . . .’
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