Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  When she saw Plechy Palace she wanted to call out with joy, but she knew she had to be cautious. She stumbled towards the staff entrance in the back courtyard. Their old housekeeper timidly responded to her knock, but there was no sign of recognition in her eyes.

  ‘Is Count Frederick at home?’ Marietta, swaying on her feet, clutched the doorpost.

  The woman hesitated. ‘Why d’you want to see the Count?’

  ‘I used to work for him. I have a message for him. Please!’

  ‘Do you have an appointment? The Count is a very busy man.’

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Give me a pen. You can take a message to the Count.’ When the woman brought pen and paper she wrote: Greta Brecht, Edelweiss, shakily across the page, then in Greek: Help me.

  *

  Count Frederick was conferring with three generals in his office when his housekeeper came in. ‘I must speak to you urgently, sir.’

  The Count excused himself. His housekeeper had never before interrupted his meetings.

  ‘There’s a young woman downstairs. She’s like a skeleton.’ The woman crossed herself. ‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but she insists I give you this.’ She passed him the slip of paper.

  When the Count saw Edelweiss scrawled across the page and the message, he turned white. It must be one of Marietta’s friends, perhaps on the run . . . or even someone who had known his daughter in the camp.

  He hurried through the corridors and then broke into a run, his heart hammering. When he reached the kitchen, he nearly cried out in horror. The woman was a bag of bones. She was slumped in a chair, apparently unaware of his entrance.

  ‘Leave us,’ he said hoarsely to the housekeeper, and slowly approached the gaunt figure.

  He did not recognise her face, but those cornflower blue, Szapary eyes were unmistakeable.

  The Count shouted ‘No . . . My God . . .’ he fell on his knees and peered at her. ‘Oh, my poor Marietta. What have they done to you? My dearest little daughter.’

  He clasped Marietta in his arms, rocked her backwards and forwards, as the tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘I thought . . . I was told . . .’ His voice cracked and he lapsed into silence. ‘But you’re alive,’ he whispered eventually. ‘You survived that hellhole. Thank God!’

  Chapter Fifty

  Professor Ludwig Alesh was the antithesis of all that Hugo expected in a man. With his long limbs, his huge eyes, his white, moist skin, and bulbous forehead, he looked more like a primaeval, subterranean insect than a human being.

  Blinking nervously, his brown eyes enlarged by thick lenses, and twitching with tension though he was, Alesh still defied him, Hugo noticed the subtle sneer of contempt as he argued. ‘You will obey the Reichsführer Himmler,’ he said, trying to control his fury. ‘Your orders are that every prisoner will be executed after six months in the mine.’

  ‘My life would be simpler if our orders were not so contradictory,’ Alesh said softly, making no effort to hide his antagonism. ‘Murdering our workers as soon as they are trained is madness. Don’t you realise that it takes us months to get any degree of efficiency out of these wretches?’

  ‘Security is of overall importance,’ Hugo retorted.

  ‘And morality? What happened to morality?’ the man muttered. ‘How can I meet your ludicrous timetable if I’m forever training workers?’

  ‘The slaves are unskilled labourers, they do not merit training,’ Hugo pointed out.

  ‘You do not build these weapons with muscle alone. I have a first class goldsmith, a dozen excellent draughtsmen, yet you want me to shoot those whose experience is irreplaceable.’

  The two men glared at each other. ‘Show me around the plant, Herr Professor,’ Hugo demanded.

  Alesh was the world’s leading expert on aerodynamics and physics, apart from being the assistant head of the missile team. He was immune to Hugo’s fury, and Hugo knew it.

  Grudgingly escorted by Alesh, Hugo looked around for something he could criticise, but off-hand he could not see anything. The plant was spotless and superbly run. Dozens of technicians were bent over their benches in the main hall. He could have been in any plant, he thought, examining the sheer walls and panelled ceiling for flaws. There was no indication that this circular hall, six stories high, was built in the main crater of an extinct volcano. The ceiling was unique, in which hydraulically operated panels could fold back on to each other at the touch of a button, opening the building to the sky. Around the sides of the central hall were six levels of circular corridors connected by several metal staircases and four lifts. On the outer side of the corridor were offices and accommodation for the German staff. The labourers slept below this floor, where the air conditioning was at its weakest.

  A prototype of the V-3 rocket standing on a platform in the centre of the hall reassured Hugo that progress was taking place. Hitler’s secret weapon was a guided missile, designed to carry a nuclear warhead. One such weapon would destroy a city. Ten would destroy all resistance. Let the Allies crow about their petty gains in the Middle East and the Pacific. Here was the real guardian of the Third Reich, a tribute to German inventiveness and efficiency. Hugo inspected the prototype with pride.

  Preceded by Alesh, Hugo passed through a series of security doors until he reached the underground railway line. He did not miss the expression of relief that flitted over the scientist’s face as the train drew away from the platform. Ten minutes later Hugo was in Theresienstadt concentration camp.

  While waiting for his driver, Hugo observed how overcrowded Theresienstadt was: Jews, Catholics, Czechs, Slavs, Poles and Russians of both sexes, were standing in well-guarded queues, waiting for classification and despatch. Teutonic thoroughness would soon have this lot on their way to their work places in the Reich.

  Hugo dismissed his driver, and, taking the wheel, sped along the highway towards Prague. Chestnut trees were turning to glorious shades of red and gold on either side of the road. Beyond them, fertile farms flashed by. He raced past the little village of Nove Dvory, on the banks of the River Ohre, having to brake violently as a file of schoolchildren crossed the road. The sight of their blond hair gleaming in the sunlight gave him a sense of intense satisfaction. All the farms in this neighbourhood had been resettled with good Germanic stock.

  On impulse he parked by the roadside and gazed back at the distinctive shape of the mountain known as Richard’s Mine, where the V-3 project was hidden. Legend had it that in those volcanic hills Rip and Czech, two nomadic shepherds, had made their home, the first men to settle in Czechoslovakia. Throughout the centuries, local inhabitants had mined the rich vein of tin concealed there, and consequently the interior of the mountain was a warren of tunnels and chambers.

  Adapting the defunct tin mine for its present military purpose had been Hugo’s idea. The site was ideal, being impregnable to bomb attack, and of containable access. Entry was from either a small airfield, situated on top of the mountain, or by underground train from Theresienstadt.

  This was the advantage of the site. Any enemy agents watching the movement of supplies and guards, would imagine that all this traffic was merely connected to the concentration camp.

  Hugo resumed his journey suffused with the heady glow of personal success. Since he had taken over economic development and internal security of Czechoslovakia, brutality and cruelty had become a way of life. The Czechs had learned a bitter lesson, they could collaborate and live, or resist and die. Production figures were up in all industries. Ruthlessness had won through.

  Hugo, however, was still a worried man. Germany could not hope to fight the entire world and win. They were now facing the full brunt of America’s technological might. Even the Russians were beginning to churn out tanks and guns in the Siberian wastes. It was October, 1942, and the latest news showed the signs of the turning of the war tide. US troops had routed the Japanese in the Battle of Midway, the German advance in the desert had been halted at El Alamein. Axis shipping was being sunk, and
consequently the Afrika Korps was desperately short of supplies, particularly petrol. Even the heart of the Fatherland was affected, only last night had seen a 1,000-bomber raid on Cologne where 600 acres of the city had been devastated.

  Hugo was a realist. This was the first glimmer of the retribution coming their way. It would take a miracle to win the war now. But they had that miracle – the V-3. It was his own special responsibility.

  Pushing aside thoughts of his special project, Hugo turned his attention to more personal matters. That morning he had received interesting news: his stepfather had been regularly meeting certain generals he suspected of being engaged in a conspiracy against the Führer. Father was without doubt a traitor, but if he were to be executed for treason, the State would claim his estate. And Hugo had been assiduously protecting his stepfather for years, for this very reason. Marietta had died in the camp. Louis would never get out of Russia alive. Ingrid would be killed when her usefulness ended. Only Andrea remained a problem. Hugo had only just learned that she was about to become the mother of Louis’s bastard, and he didn’t want any claims on the estate plaguing his rightful inheritance.

  Approaching Sokol, he felt saturated with satisfaction: it was all his – or as good as his – this wealth, this land, this marvellous castle, just as he had promised himself all those years ago when he had been flung out. He was singing lieder at the top of his voice as he crossed the bridge over the Vltava and drove into Sokol’s courtyard.

  As soon as he walked inside, he remembered that it was Freda’s birthday. Servants were rushing around with vases of flowers, boxes of provisions, plants, lights, drinks and glasses. Freda, clad in slacks and an off-the-shoulder blouse, was directing operations.

  Watching her, Hugo approved of her change of image. She had lost fifteen pounds, improved her hairstyle and her make-up and now wore sophisticated clothes. Catching sight of him, she ran towards him and he saw her eyes searching for a present. He smiled as her face fell. He kissed her on the cheek and put his arm around her waist. ‘What colour dress are you wearing tonight?’

  ‘Green,’ she said, puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, deliberately brushing a hand against her breast, and hurried to the vaults, where he unlocked the heavy combination safe door he’d installed across the underground passage. Hugo switched on the light. There lay the priceless Lobkowitz collection of jewellery. Part of it had been despatched to a private auction in Switzerland, some to Spain. With the proceeds Hugo was buying land in South America. If Germany were to lose the war, he would exile himself for a few years in comfort, until it was safe to return. He selected an emerald bracelet and put it carelessly in his pocket.

  *

  The champagne was flowing, the ballroom was blazing with lights, and the band was playing a waltz. Freda wandered from group to group in a happy daze, her avaricious fingers continually fondling the bracelet, radiant in a green chiffon dress created by Lartigue.

  The party was a tremendous success. Long after midnight it was still in full swing. By 3 a.m. the guests were only just beginning to leave, with many diehards prepared to greet the dawn still drinking.

  ‘I don’t think anyone will miss us. Why don’t you go on up.’ Hugo whispered to Freda.

  By the time Hugo reached their bedroom, Freda was naked, perfumed and lying between the sheets. Hugo stripped off his clothes and placed them carefully on the dumb valet. He was a fastidious man, he’d been outcast for too long to take the trappings of wealth for granted.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror. Still a magnificent physique, he thought. He threw himself on the bed. ‘I’m exhausted. I haven’t danced so much in years,’ he said, slurring his words. ‘Suck my cock,’ he demanded.

  She shivered slightly, but dutifully bent over him and rounded her mouth so that his penis could slide between her lips without touching her teeth. Soon her jaw began to ache from holding her mouth open so wide for so long. She relaxed slightly.

  ‘Ouch! Hey! Careful there. I’ve told you before, you should have those front teeth removed. You could wear a plate. If you loved me, you would.’

  She tried harder, using her fingers and her mouth to stimulate him, but he had drunk too much and she knew that nothing would work tonight. Eventually his penis shrivelled in her mouth and his breathing became deep and even. She opened her mouth and moved cautiously away.

  He stirred. ‘Don’t stop,’ he murmured.

  Freda sighed. She stroked his belly, moving in slow, sensuous movements and at last she was rewarded by his snores.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Marietta had been home for two weeks. Physically she was improving steadily. Although she was still emaciated, her flesh was slowly fattening, her skin improving, and her eyes were not so haunted. But mentally she seemed worse. Restless and depressed, she was like a wounded bird who would not recover in captivity. The Count, who was a truthful man, had to admit that all the love and all the ideas for amusing her, and books and paraphernalia that he had dragged up to the attic at dead of night, could not heal her. If only she would be content to hide, at least a few months longer, but that was not her way.

  He stood staring at Marietta moodily. Sadness was always with her, like the clinging scent of a wreath after the lilies had shrivelled. It seemed there was no escape from it, not in this attic, for her refuge had become her prison. His daughter was tortured by the lucid emptiness of her days, crucified by images. She screamed in her sleep and woke sweating with fright. All day she paced her narrow rooms. She wanted to leave, but was too frightened to.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked her one morning with his customary frankness. ‘I see my own daughter languishing in my care and all the chicken broths and apple strudels in the world cannot mend her.’

  She smiled, and this made him feel better. Smiles were rare nowadays. Standing by the attic fan light, the sunbeams catching her hair, it seemed as though she was wearing a halo but she was so thin and pale, she looked like a tragic sprite, not an angel.

  ‘Marietta,’ he said. ‘Pastor Perwe can get you to Switzerland. You can join the Red Cross. You have first-hand knowledge of conditions in the camps, and you can alert the world to what’s going on in those hellholes. It is your duty to go. Besides, you could see Bill again.’

  Marietta looked away, hiding her face. Did Father guess how tormented she was, or how much she longed for Bill? Father was playing on her emotions. She scowled at him.

  ‘Lately I’ve been thinking so much about duty and responsibility, and the promises I have made . . . to Grandmother, to my friends, probably most of all to Greta . . . I intend to fight the Nazis. My mind is firm, but my silly body is taking so long to mend.’

  The Count turned to the door, unable to look at his daughter. ‘I will tell the Pastor your wishes,’ he said brokenly.

  *

  At midday on 24 March, 1943, Hugo was called to the telephone. Czech partisans had attempted to raid the granary outside Prague, but they had been surprised by five SS guards. The guards were dead, except for Lieutenant Kosimer, who was seriously wounded and in Prague Military Hospital.

  An hour later the hospital informed him that the Lieutenant had died of his wounds.

  That night, the command came from Berlin headquarters. He must select and destroy an entire village and its male population. The women would go to a concentration camp. His actions would stand as an object lesson to the Czechs not to oppose the Third Reich.

  Fate was playing into Hugo’s hands. It didn’t take him long to choose a village.

  *

  Andrea and three friends were sitting in her front room rehearsing for a show they were organising for the children. It was Peter and the Wolf and it gave every village child a chance to participate. The activity had helped Andrea overcome her depression at Louis being sent to Stalingrad. For her baby’s sake she was trying to stifle her fear and remain optimistic, for she was eight months pregnant and brimful of motherly feelings.

  I
t was 9.30 p.m. on a beautiful summer evening and still light when they stopped. Andrea strolled to the garden gate to wave goodbye to her friends, enjoying the scent of the honeysuckle and new-mown grass, and the sound of birds twittering as they gathered in the branches of oaks and elms. She felt a physical spasm of well-being surge through her body. This was the perfect place to rear their baby until Louis returned. He would come back. She never allowed herself to doubt that one day they would be together again.

  She heard a rumble coming from the direction of the main road. She saw a convoy of military vehicles turn into the lane towards her. A shiver of apprehension touched her heart, then she went inside and muttered a prayer, ‘God, just let them roll on past Lidhaky.’

  The lorries swung into the village and stopped in a row in the square. Peering through the curtains she saw soldiers pouring out, guns cocked as they ran towards the houses. Andrea was paralysed with fright. Moments later rifle butts were hammering on her front door, but before she could move it burst open and soldiers raced down the narrow passage. One of them blocked the doorway and pointed his gun straight at her. Instinctively, she spread her hands over her stomach to protect her unborn child.

  ‘Outside! Line up in the square.’

  Three other soldiers began smashing furniture. She stood in a daze as they trampled over china and pictures and sent the piano crashing to the floor. She stumbled outside and heard her neighbours’ possessions being destroyed. Crockery was flying, sheets and blankets were being hurled from top windows, smoke began to curl out of every home.

  She was herded sheep-like to the square and lined up with the village women, many of whom were in their nightclothes. Everyone was trembling, their faces white and their eyes dull with shock. Mass reprisals had become a way of life and they were all terrified.

  A young boy darted back towards his mother. A soldier lifted his sub-machine gun, bullets razed the cobbles, the boy fell in a pool of blood. His mother cried out, ran forward, hesitated as the machine guns swung towards her, then collapsed.