Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  Minutes later they were sitting on a rough bench in the millhouse, sipping hot tea and eating bread and cheese.

  Marietta watched the family guardedly. Erica was calm, but exhausted, but Mira was on the point of collapse. The children were complaining of blisters and they were tired and scared.

  ‘We’re going on horseback,’ Zweig told them gently. ‘It doesn’t matter if you can’t ride, because you only have to sit tight. The horses know the way. We shall be moving fast, in single file, at first through the river and later through the bogs, so don’t fall off. The Bosch don’t know the route through the marsh and they wouldn’t attempt to try to get through.’

  Mira began to protest, but Herr Zweig cut her short. ‘With respect, Ma’am, we have no other route open to us, there is no other way.’

  Ten minutes later the party set off. Watching Zweig sitting erect on his lead horse, all his senses alert to the sounds of the forest, picking his route with care, calming the horses with strange crowing sounds, she knew they were in safe hands.

  Just after dawn, the tired party crossed the border at four thousand feet. There was a thick mist, visibility was down to a few yards, and it was close to freezing. Soon afterwards they approached a woodsman’s hut, set in dense bush along the eastern reaches of the Bohmer Wald mountains. Pastor Eric Perwe materialised out of the mist and Marietta slid off her horse and ran to embrace him.

  He gripped her hands. ‘Well done, my dear,’ he said simply.

  ‘Troops are not far behind us. I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘We’re well organised . . . have no fear! The two women will join my convent for a few days, the boys are to leave at once. It’s safer to separate them for their journey to Switzerland.’

  There was a brief, tearful scene between the boys and their mother, but Erica remained calm. ‘Who would believe it . . . a Jewish nun?’ she muttered, a flicker of humour showing in her exhausted face.

  *

  Damn the fog, Bill thought. It was a cold November evening. He stamped his feet and shrugged into his duffle coat in the draughty waiting room at a secret RAF base outside Dover.

  The airstrip came to life as the fog lifted enough to make landing possible. Bill went outside to watch as an aircraft came in low from the Channel.

  The Dakota made a reasonable landing and the steps were lowered. As the door swung open, a slight figure stepped down, looking bewildered and tired. Watching Alesh, Bill felt overwhelmed with relief. He whispered a private ‘thank you’ to the Czech Resistance and Edelweiss, whoever he was, for a job exceptionally well done.

  *

  Hugo was at his desk at Hradcany Castle when the decoded cable was brought in by his adjutant. Professor Alesh and his family had reportedly arrived in London where they had been accepted as Jewish refugees and offered political asylum.

  Hugo’s hands began to shake so badly, he dropped the message on to the floor. The stab of pain in his stomach was like a knife wound. He looked up into the shrewd eyes of his assistant. ‘Shall I call off the search, Sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No . . . The female terrorist who accompanied the Alesh family must be caught. How many men are you deploying?’

  ‘A hundred, Sir.’

  ‘Treble it . . . house to house searches . . . comb the forests and the farms. You have twenty-four hours to find her. See to it.’

  ‘Yes Sir!’ His adjutant saluted smartly and left.

  Still shaking, Hugo poured himself a brandy. He wouldn’t give much for his chances when the Führer discovered that Alesh was in enemy hands.

  At dawn the next morning, Hugo was wakened by a telephone call. His stomach clenched as he reached for the receiver, but it was not Berlin, as he had feared, but the security chief at the mine. There had been an explosion. The air ventilator and the electrical wiring in the rocket firing station were badly damaged. All work would have to halt for at least two weeks.

  Five minutes after receiving the call, Hugo was racing towards Theresienstadt. A massive jolt of acid to his ulcers had left him in agony. This latest disaster would undoubtedly ensure that he would be the scapegoat for the failure of the project, and he knew the sort of fate which probably awaited him.

  As soon as Hugo got to Richard’s Mine he was hurried to the conference room beyond the cobbled parade ground. Several worried technicians were gathered around the long table. Someone had drawn a diagram on the blackboard.

  Despite their verbose explanations, their verdict came down to two words – human error. Hugo was a good listener. His eyelids lowered until he seemed to be asleep, but he was listening for a hint of nervousness or subterfuge. There was none.

  Hugo took the Commandant aside and issued his orders. Even if there was no evidence of sabotage, all the unskilled slave labour from that area of the mine were to be interrogated and afterwards shot. Never again must they be sent to the death camps, it was too dangerous. All executions must be on-site.

  Hugo was also worried that Edelweiss was deliberately getting his Freedom Fighters arrested in the hope that some of them would be sent to work in the mine. Well, he would outwit him and he would trap him. Eventually, the terrorist must fall into his hands.

  *

  Marietta parked outside Kladno abattoir and sat gazing at the entrance, unwilling to go inside. Her sixth sense told her that Miroslav Kova, recently recruited as their messenger, was unreliable. He was extravagantly paid to smuggle messages into the mine in carcasses and bring them out hidden in empty crates. She had met Kova once only and, as well as his shifty attitude, he had been unwashed and stank of his bloody trade, his long ginger hair unkempt, his clothes stained. With a shudder of repugnance, she forced herself to go inside.

  Kova came hurrying in from the yard. He was a massive man, his hands and arms were covered in bristly ginger hairs and his pig-like eyes shone greedily at her.

  ‘Do you have anything for me?’ she said, more sharply than she had intended. Something about the veiled violence of the man frightened her. He dealt in death and he had no sensitivity to pain or suffering. She would not like to be his enemy.

  ‘Yes.’ He produced a roll of bloodstained paper.

  Marietta smoothed out the crumpled sheet with shaking hands. It read: I have been chosen. A is joining the farm labour gangs. D. has been executed, H.

  Forcing herself to be civil, Marietta thanked Kova and left the abattoir feeling sick. The death of Dietrich would devastate everyone. He was one of the first three volunteers to go into the mine and he had lasted for eight weeks. Now they would have to send more men in. And for what? Production had been held up for a week or two. Was that worth a life? That night she radioed London, asking for trained saboteurs to be dropped in to take over the mission.

  *

  ‘Well Roth! How’s it going?’

  Schofield looked tired, Bill thought. It was late in January, 1944, and Britain was fast turning into a gigantic off-loading ramp. Shiploads of American troops and equipment were pouring into Britain daily. There was so much to be done and the Major had to run most of the SOE Eastern European departments single-handed. He had his key men, but he carried all the responsibility and it showed.

  The war was being won. It was only a matter of time. Last night, thousands of British and American troops had stormed ashore at Anzio, just thirty miles south of Rome and were thrusting swiftly eastwards to cut the supply lines of the 100,000 German troops at the front. The RAF were blasting Berlin nightly. Over 17,000 tons of bombs had fallen on the German capital during the past two months. Bill knew how desperate the Nazis must be to get their V-3 into operation. He said: ‘I had to let Alesh go, Sir. He’s flying to the States tonight. Back home they’re really squealing. They want him as of yesterday.’

  ‘I have your report here,’ Schofield said. ‘It’ll take me a week to read it.’ He wrapped it with his knuckles. ‘Give me the gist of it – what the hell is going on over there?’

  ‘We don’t know whether or not they’re ahead of us in atomic research
, because that’s not Alesh’s field. The bad news is they’re definitely ahead of us in missile development. According to the brains who’ve been debriefing Alesh, this advance could prove disastrous. The German V-3 is a missile carrying a warhead whose true power and side effects are quite unknown,’ Bill went on. ‘The damn thing is housed in one of the safest locations in the world. It’s totally impervious to conventional bombing. Professor Alesh has confirmed the suspicions of the Resistance, that this is Hitler’s much publicised V-3 weapon.

  ‘Now, Sir, according to Edelweiss’s latest report, two Czech Freedom Fighters have managed to penetrate the research plant by getting themselves arrested and incorporated into the slave labour gangs taken to the mine. The first one trained some of the inmates and they managed to set off an explosion which held up research for two weeks. Unfortunately, he was executed. Another has taken his place. Edelweiss wants us to drop in saboteurs and equipment and take over the entire mission.’

  ‘The PM’s office has taken a personal interest in this mission, Roth, and we’re waiting on their decision. They’re liaising with the White House.’ Schofield frowned and fumbled with a file on his desk.

  ‘I have here the dozens of applications you’ve made to be transferred to active duty. Still feel that way inclined, Roth?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Bill said.

  ‘Your wishes may yet be granted. Meantime, you’re going to Scotland to be trained. One of those secret establishments for people who are to be dropped into enemy territory. In your case we’ll have to make it from Friday afternoon until Monday morning, since I can’t spare you during the week. Make up some story for Ingrid to explain your absence.’

  Ingrid? Bill mused. How the hell did Schofield know about her? Or did he keep tabs on all his staff?

  He walked out feeling more cheerful than he had for months. Things were moving at last. As he drove home he desperately tried to think of a convincing story to satisfy Ingrid, but his mind kept dwelling on the mystery of how Schofield knew about their relationship.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Ingrid waited in a queue at the library while Annie gossiped with an elderly customer. Every few seconds she rapped her fingers on the counter to show her impatience, but Annie took no notice. Having dealt with the pensioner, she was now quizzing the woman ahead about her children. They had been evacuated to Wales, Ingrid heard, but Mum had brought them home when she found they were being neglected. The children coughed and sniffed and hung around their mother’s skirt. It was damp and nearly freezing, the yellow fog was curling in from cracks around the window. Ingrid felt heavy with depression.

  It was her turn at last. She handed in her book, frowning with annoyance.

  ‘Ah,’ Annie said. ‘One of my favourite authors. So you’re a fan of Wodehouse, too?’

  ‘No . . . yes.’ Ingrid scowled at her.

  Annie was not going to be put off like that. She grimaced, showing teeth as false as her smile. ‘Not every foreigner can understand British humour,’ she needled.

  ‘Perhaps it’s too slapstick for foreigners,’ Ingrid retorted.

  ‘Slapstick indeed!’ Annie snapped. ‘You might have missed the subtlety of it.’ She thumbed through the book. ‘What part did you like best?’

  Ingrid gaped at her. ‘Why . . . I didn’t read much of it . . .’

  ‘My word! Perhaps Yeats is more to your taste. Which is your favourite poem?’

  ‘Yeats?’ What was the woman talking about?

  ‘You never read these books you take out, do you?’ Annie’s expression was malevolent.

  Worried by the direction the conversation was taking, Ingrid took her tickets in silence and hurried to the back of the library. She grabbed a book, pushed her envelope into the shelves and returned to the counter. She couldn’t avoid the expression of amazement in Annie’s eyes as she stamped Zola’s Rome.

  *

  It was a week before Annie plucked up courage to take her suspicions about ‘Princess Pluck’ to the local police station. This was not the first time she had reported alleged enemy agents, so when Sergeant Hodgekiss saw her coming, he heaved a sigh and nudged his assistant, Constable Penny. ‘’Ere! You take over, mate. I’m going to have a cuppa.’

  ‘She’s been in the newspapers,’ Annie explained excitedly. ‘She’s supposed to be a Habsburg princess. I have my suspicions.’

  The Constable let her run on. He had never heard of the Habsburgs, but Annie was a well-read woman.

  ‘I’ll swear she never reads the books she takes out,’ Annie went on. ‘Besides, she behaves strangely. Everyone else browses around, but she rushes to a particular shelf, grabs any book and rushes out again. There’s this man . . . he’s either waiting around, or else he comes in shortly afterwards. A Spaniard! Dead eyes and big hands.’

  ‘Go on,’ Constable Penny said patiently.

  ‘Well, last Friday . . .’ Annie’s eyes were glinting as she reached the best bit. ‘I saw him take an envelope out of the shelves she’d been looking at and put it in his pocket. Now, I ask you, what would a hoity-toity Habsburg Princess want with Wodehouse?’

  ‘I like them Jeeves books,’ the Constable said. He laughed and patiently took down the details.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to wait any longer.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘That’s the stuff, Annie. The Fifth Column’s everywhere. I’ll see this gets to the right people.’

  *

  ‘Come in. Sit down, Roth. We’ve received this report, dated February 4, from the police. I want you to read it.’

  The Major slid the official report of Annie’s complaint across the desk. ‘Unfortunately it took three weeks to reach us.’

  Bill picked it up and read it. He wanted to laugh out loud. Ingrid . . . a spy! It was ludicrous. The smile died on his lips, but Ingrid had never read a book in her life. Looking up from the papers, he said: ‘There must be some explanation. Perhaps she gets them for a friend.’

  ‘Perhaps. That’s what you and I must discover. How about telling me how you met her.’

  ‘How did you know about me and Ingrid?’ Bill asked.

  ‘As soon as I read this report I had her background checked. I was extremely worried when I heard about your connection with her.’

  Bill described Ingrid as he saw her – penniless, brave, pitting her wits against the Nazis and winning through. Somehow he couldn’t get it over the right way, and Schofield remained unconvinced.

  ‘So you’re saying her political conscience came to the fore just about the same time as she was told about her inheritance. Furthermore, of all the Edelweiss students who were arrested, she alone was released from the camp and deported.’

  ‘She was Hugo’s step-sister. I believe they were quite close once.’ Bill closed his eyes. He seemed to be condemning Ingrid with every sentence. ‘Let me think,’ he said angrily. His mind turned back . . . back to Berlin, back to Munich. Ingrid had been vivacious and lovely, but uncaring. Then she had changed. When? When dammit? The tattoo mark on her wrist? Didn’t that prove something? The mark of a martyr or the perfect cover?

  Suddenly he couldn’t stop remembering the time Ingrid had brought him those statistics about German rearmament. She had asked for the cheque to be made out to Marie, because she was in debt to her . . . or so she had said. But if she had been working for Hugo . . . Think! He could only remember the Edelweiss students and their terrible sentences. Had Ingrid betrayed Marietta? If he could only concentrate, but that terrible thought had addled his brains. Past images tumbled through his mind and each one of them condemned Ingrid.

  ‘Roth!’ Schofield’s voice broke in on his torment. ‘I know you’re doing two or three jobs at once. So, how d’you fit in the work? At night? At home?’

  ‘Of course. I stay over at her place about three nights a week. I’ve kept my own apartment. Never wanted to burn my bridges,’ Bill mumbled. Why did Ingrid get up in the night and make him cocoa? No, but that’s impossible. Crazy! He suddenly remembered
the night the bomb had shattered the window. It had seemed strange that his briefcase had blown open, scattering his papers. And the safe had been open, too. How many deaths had she caused, this beautiful girl, whom he bedded night after night? Guilt surged like bile in his throat. He had helped her, unwittingly, but nevertheless he had helped her. A wave of nausea struck him and he excused himself and threw up in Schofield’s private toilet.

  ‘Steady on, Bill. Here. Have some brandy. No drink it . . . I insist,’ Schofield said. ‘I might as well tell you that you’re not the only one who fell for Ingrid’s charms.’

  Bill looked at his superior in astonishment. ‘You . . .’

  ‘Yes. I proposed to her just before you and she . . . Don’t look so shocked. She’s a lovely girl . . .’

  Bill put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He was remembering the day she’d come to him and asked him to teach her to be a journalist. She’d wanted a list of his contacts. Jesus! Even then she’d been a spy. Six years ago. It was beginning to fit together. She was Hugo’s agent. Hugo had recruited her, trained her and put her in the camp to give her an alibi and a suitable record for the future.

  Feeling disgusted with himself, Bill got up and paced the office trying to make sense of a kaleidoscope of unbearable memories. He was living with a murderess. She had cold-bloodedly shopped her friends in Germany. Hundreds of innocents. They would never know half of it, Bill thought. Most of all, he grieved for Marietta. Suddenly Bill hated Ingrid with a passion he had never known he possessed.