Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  ‘They’re going to kill us all,’ a voice screamed. One woman made a sudden dash towards the trees, again the rattle of a machine gun and she fell groaning.

  Why? Andrea screamed silently, the question hammering at her head, even while her heart beat against her chest. Her hands were sweating and her breath was coming in swift, shallow gasps. Oh God, what will happen to us? I must be calm. I must protect my child, she thought, my baby must live.

  The soldiers began to question the boys. Those who had turned fifteen were put with the men, the remainder were pushed across the square to the women’s side.

  Andrea grasped her neighbour’s hand. Her back was aching, her stomach felt heavy and her throat was raw from thirst. I’m going to die, she thought sadly, and all I can think about are my aching back and my thirst.

  The soldiers herded the women to the schoolhouse. As if in a nightmare, Andrea moved with the terrified women. As soon as they were locked in they heard the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns and shrill screams from the square. The sound went on and on, and the grieving women abandoned hope for they knew their men were being murdered.

  In the schoolhouse the soldiers forced the women to hand over their watches, earrings, wedding rings, wallets and anything else they had of any value. When they left, the women listened to the destruction of their village, and smelled the smoke.

  *

  At dawn the women and children were marched to the station. No one resisted, they had lost their husbands and their children, their homes, there was nothing else for them to live for. But Andrea had her child in her belly . . .

  As the women were pushed into cattle trucks, Andrea and three other pregnant women were marched to a waiting lorry. Why had they been singled out? Andrea leaned back and tried to cushion the shocks as they bumped over the rough road.

  *

  ‘Marietta has hardly begun to recover from her terrible experiences, Pastor,’ the Count said.

  It was midnight and the two men were trudging through the streets of Vienna towards Plechy Palace. It was a cold November night and both men were wearing heavy overcoats, fur-lined boots and hats. The Pastor’s skin was glowing and his eyes sparkling, he revelled in the cold, but the Count looked pale and old.

  ‘Forgive me for dragging you out at such an terrible hour, and on such a cold night,’ the Count said. ‘The palace staff work until eleven and this is the only safe time.’

  ‘My friend, I work all hours,’ the Pastor said. ‘Besides, I’m longing to see the Countess. When you told me she was alive . . . well . . . words fail me. I can’t tell you what it meant to me.’

  ‘I want you to convince Marietta to join the Red Cross in Geneva. Tell her how much good she could do by publicising her terrible experiences. How could she survive in the Resistance in her condition?’

  Ten minutes later the two men were with Marietta in an attic of Plechy Palace. The Pastor tried to hide his shock when he looked at Marietta. She was unrecognisable. The girl he remembered was gone. In her place was a hard-faced, determined woman, emaciated, old before her time, with short stubbly hair and bleak, determined eyes. There was very little point in trying to persuade this woman to do anything she didn’t want to do, the Pastor thought, watching her carefully. She had been shaped and tempered on an anvil of pain and suffering. She seemed to be indestructible.

  As if reading his thoughts, she said: ‘It’s no good listening to Father. I know my own destiny. Nothing will stop me. I have too many good friends to avenge. Can you help me to join the local Resistance?’

  The Pastor frowned. ‘You’ll have to be patient,’ he said. ‘You need to be fit, but if you’re still as determined in a month’s time, then I think you should return to Czechoslovakia and work with Jan. In the meantime, please, stay here and build up your strength. You will need all the stamina you can muster.’

  He turned to the Count. ‘These are dangerous times. Some matters are more important than individual lives. Marietta knows this. She has suffered bitterly. She would be the first one to understand what happens to ordinary people when morality and goodness are forgotten. I believe that God saved her for a special mission.’

  The Count gazed helplessly at Marietta for several moments then, with a gesture of defeat, he left the room.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Jan stood behind the nurse, sensing her inner panic and her self-loathing. Her voice trembled when she spoke to her patient. ‘We need to contact your family, Lara,’ she whispered to the Volksdeutsche woman dying on the bed.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Lara,’ she persisted. ‘Where is your mother?’

  ‘Dead,’ the girl muttered eventually.

  Jan sighed with relief.

  ‘And your father?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘On the Eastern Front.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What about a sister, or a brother?’

  ‘No one . . . there’s no one.’ She began to moan softly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lara. Don’t excite yourself. I just thought it would be nice for you to see your family.’ The nurse gently helped her to sip some water.

  Poor Lara Zimmerman. She had no chance of survival, Jan knew. That was why he was here. She had been caught in the crossfire between Nazi guards and fugitives from a labour gang. She had been shot in the chest and stomach.

  The nurse looked over her shoulder and said to Jan. ‘Soon . . . I don’t think she’s a fighter.’

  ‘Is there no chance that she might live?’

  The nurse shook her head.

  ‘Then you must ensure that she dies at night, otherwise her death will be wasted.’

  The nurse sighed and stared unseeingly at the young woman. ‘Wait outside,’ she said eventually. Shortly afterwards she called the male orderly to wheel Lara Zimmerman’s corpse to the mortuary. ‘She’s to be cremated tonight,’ she said. ‘Send her ashes to reception. I’ll get them to her relatives myself.’

  Leaving the orderly to perform his task, she hurried to Registry. ‘Give me the file of Lara Zimmerman,’ she said. ‘The doctor wants to go through her papers. She’s to be discharged in the morning.’

  Feigning an air of tired resignation rather than the extreme nervousness she felt, she waited for the girl to retrieve the papers and walked quietly back to her nursing station. She made careful notes of every detail, Lara Zimmerman’s admittance papers, her discharge on medical grounds, her hospital report, her birth certificate, details of the shooting and of her ‘release’. She handed all this to Jan, together with the papers of five young men who had died of their wounds in the past twenty-four hours.

  It was almost time to go home, but she felt tired and strangely drained. After the war, I shall feel better about all this, she thought. I’ll remember how I helped so many patriots to live, and forget how I forced the dying to die.

  *

  It was Monday morning and as usual Max Amman, household manager for Sokol Castle for the past nineteen years, was at the wholesalers haggling over the price of groceries. Armed with permits, ration cards, SS buying orders and pockets full of documents and authorisations, he was able to make large purchases and bargain the wholesalers’ profit away. The merchants guessed that some of the discounts went into his pocket, for he always made a part-payment in cash, but Amman was a powerful man and they did not dare challenge him.

  It was a lovely May day and on the way back, Max decided to park his lorry and walk along the embankment beside the Vltava near the Charles Bridge. Like all Czechs, he had a special love of the river. He was never happier than when walking beside it, watching the river traffic and admiring the Palace up on the hill. Today, he had another reason for his walk. All morning he had gained the impression that he was being watched. He was almost certain that he had been followed by an old van. Now he wanted to be in the open and to see if they would approach him, whoever they were. After some minutes, he became aware of limping footsteps behind him. Max sat on a bench. Sure enough, a man approached and sat beside him.
<
br />   ‘Hello Max. Fancy seeing you.’

  ‘Hardly a surprise, Jan. You’ve been following me for hours. What d’you want?’

  ‘You’re a strange man, Max,’ Jan mused aloud. ‘I can’t work out whose side you’re on.’

  ‘My side. The only side one can be sure of. I used to be on the side of Princess Lobkowitz and her family, but since they’re all gone and there’s a cuckoo in the nest, I’m taking care of Max Amman.’

  ‘D’you know what would happen to you if General von Hesse found out you were robbing him?’

  Max laughed contemptuously. ‘I learnt it all from him.’

  ‘He’s protected. You’re not.’

  ‘If you’re trying to blackmail me, why don’t you come to the point?’ Max said. He scowled at Jan. He had never liked him, not even in the beginning, when Jan had been the von Burgheim’s chauffeur. Later, he’d realised his suspicions had been correct. All that false humbleness was a cover for Jan to infiltrate himself as a trusted servant in the household of the Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs. The truth was, he was a member of the Communist Party.

  As always, Jan was struck by the incongruity between Max’s expressive eyes and the wreckage of his face. His skin was pallid and yellow-tinged, caused by some liver ailment he’d picked up in his youth. His eyelids drooped, and with his hanging jowls, he looked like a long-suffering bloodhound, yet his eyes were shrewd, tough and alert.

  ‘I want you to help a young Volksdeutsche Czech woman, Lara Zimmerman. She was accidently wounded by gunfire when the Nazis were rounding up some poor sods. She’s of farming stock, hardworking, shy and she wants to get out of the city. I happen to know you’re looking for someone to run the dairy at Sokol.’

  ‘A woman . . .? Running a dairy? Are you mad?’

  ‘There aren’t many men available, are there? And she’s worth helping. Her father’s fighting on the Eastern Front. He won the Iron Cross. I’m sure that would influence von Hesse.’

  ‘Huh. Hardly a qualification for coping with cows. And she wouldn’t be strong enough, you said she’s been wounded.’

  ‘She was brought up on a dairy farm. Two peasant women would be enough to help her. I’ve never asked you for a favour before, Max. I’m asking now. Give her the job, and all the work and travel permits she will need. Von Hesse will accept your recommendation. If you do this, I will forget about certain entries for cash payments made to you by the wholesalers. Otherwise . . .’

  The two men sat in silence for long seconds. Then Amman said softly. ‘Don’t try this too often, Jan, I’m not so easy to push around as you think. But this time, I’ll go along with your request. But if she tries to involve me in any underground activities, it will be you who will suffer. Understand?’

  ‘I knew I could count on you, Max,’ Jan said. He stood up and put one hand on the older man’s shoulder. ‘You and I have something in common . . . we both hate von Hesse.’

  *

  Father was looking harassed and upset. Marietta was leaving and he was terrified for her. He took out an envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the table. ‘This is for you.’

  Marietta opened the envelope and saw a passport with her mother’s photograph inside. It was made out in the name of Ruzenka Bilä. There was also a birth certificate, travel permits and an Austrian work permit tucked into the passport.

  ‘Absolutely authentic,’ her father said.

  ‘But these are old pictures of mother.’

  ‘Yes, that one came off her passport. I have many more of them from various documents,’ he added simply. ‘Remember that.’

  ‘I don’t look like Mother.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Sometimes you do very strongly . . .’ His voice broke and he almost choked. A moment later she was in his arms. For a long time they held each other. When she stepped back, she examined the papers carefully. ‘Heavens, Father, you’re a magician.’ She smiled at him through her tears.

  ‘Ruzenka Bilä married a Swede and went to live in Stockholm long before the war started,’ the Count said. ‘So you see, there was such a person. Here is her authentic birth certificate. She was five years older than you. The Swedish Embassy supplied the papers. It might come in handy.’ He rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry so much. I have to go, but I’ll be back. When the war’s over, we’ll be together again.’

  The Count tried to smile, but failed. He had a strong premonition that he was never going to see his daughter again.

  *

  Andrea woke to find herself in the maternity ward. A nurse was bending over her. ‘Close your eyes,’ she whispered. ‘Pretend to be unconscious. Don’t speak. I’ll come back later when it’s safe to talk.’

  ‘Water,’ she muttered. She didn’t really understand what had been said to her.

  ‘Be quick.’ Her head was lifted and she sipped a little. ‘Not much or you’ll be sick again.’

  Andrea was afraid to move. Her stomach seemed weighted with lead. She cursed herself for not asking how her baby was, but the nurse had left. She could hear a male voice speaking harshly and she guessed that it was a guard.

  She lay back and tried to sort out her muddled sensations and the horrors of the past few hours . . . was it hours . . . or days? She had been taken from the platform with three other pregnant women and driven to Prague. It had been a relief to find herself in the clean white ward. Unbelievable, too. Was it because of Louis? Common sense told her, no. The doctor had come, white-faced and solemn, to tell her that the baby was to be induced. Then came the nightmare of the birth pains until, mercifully, they had given her gas.

  So what was she doing here? Why had the nurse asked her to be quiet? Where was her baby? And why had they forced her to give birth two weeks early?

  She heard the sound of a child wailing and then another. It seemed that the creche was in a room off the main ward. She longed to see her little Louis, but when she tried to get out of bed she discovered she could hardly move, and was overcome with dizziness. She fell back into a heavy sleep, still drugged by the anaesthetic. The next time she woke it was dark. The night nurse was bending over her. ‘Sip this,’ she said. After Andrea taken some water, she went on. ‘Listen carefully. There are Nazi guards outside. They have orders to take you to prison as soon as you recover sufficiently to walk. We want you to pretend that you are still unconscious. Delay your recovery, please. We would like you to be stronger before you leave hospital.’

  ‘Please can I see my baby?’ Andrea caught hold of her hand and looked up at her imploringly. ‘Please! Help me! You are a woman. You must understand how much I long to hold him in my arms, if only for a moment. Besides,’ she put her hand to her breasts wonderingly, ‘I am so painful and swollen here. Is this milk?’ She touched the damp patches on her nightdress. ‘I must feed him. Isn’t that so? He’s my first, so I don’t really know the procedure.’

  The nurse looked grave. ‘I am going to help you to ease the swelling. Then I’ll bind up your breasts. That will help the pain a little. We have given you something to stop the milk, but it will take a while . . .’

  ‘Stop the milk? Why? You must tell me where my baby is. Give him to me.’ She struggled to sit up, panic almost overcoming her physical weakness. ‘What’s happened? Why won’t you tell me?’ She caught hold of the nurse’s arm and shook her as her voice rose in hysteria. An SS guard appeared at the door. He took a notebook out of his pocket, with it open in his hand he asked, ‘You are Fräulein Andrea Soltys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tomorrow you leave for Ravensbrück camp to join the other women from Lezhaky. You will be put to work there.’

  ‘My baby can go to relatives,’ she whispered.

  ‘On the orders of the Führer,’ he began stiffly, ‘all males living in Lezhaky were put to death as a reprisal for the murder of Lieutenant Hans Kosimer. Your baby fell into this category. He was executed at birth.’

  His words fell like hammer blows on her heart. She scream
ed. She was still screaming when the doctor rushed in and thrust a needle into her arm. She was falling . . . falling . . . down into the bowls of the earth. ‘Executed . . .?’ she muttered, her lips hardly able to frame the words. She hung on to the nurse and begged her. ‘Tell me he’s lying.’

  The nurse’s face showed sadness and anger.

  ‘Bullies, criminals, mad-men,’ she sobbed. ‘Yes, you’re insane. All insane! To kill a little baby. You are not human. To kill an infant fresh out of the womb. Who could do that? Only mad-men . . .’ As Andrea felt waves of unconsciousness surging through her body, she hung onto the nurse’s hand. ‘How could you let them?’ she mumbled. ‘Did he suffer badly?’

  ‘He just fell asleep,’ the nurse said. ‘They gave him an injection. That’s all. He felt nothing.’

  The nurse watched Andrea’s mouth moving. She bent closer. ‘Louis, help me,’ she was murmuring. Then she drifted into sleep. The nurse turned to the doctor and mouthed the words: ‘Don’t tell her the truth,’ with her lips. As long as she lived she would never forget that morning when the SS guard had picked up Andrea’s baby by its heels and dashed its head against the wall.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  For three weeks, Louis had been advancing through a macabre wasteland: towns, cities, trees and farms were all destroyed, the stench of Russian dead was everywhere, but Louis was no longer affected by the scene. There was no place for compassion in his life. His goal was to stay alive, to be warm and to eat his fill. They were nearing Stalingrad and Louis could hear the rumble of thunder coming from the front mobile – line guns. Every few minutes formations of planes flew overhead, to drop their bombs ten miles ahead and return shortly afterwards. Soon he could pick out the different sounds. One of them struck terror into Louis. It was an ugly wail, like some hideous tortured beast screaming from the battlefield.