Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  Paddy would come after her. What was she to do? There must be a way out. She hadn’t survived so far just to calmly wait for one side or other to find her and kill her. Think, Ingrid, think! She smiled softly as she thought of the one person who could possibly help her and how to ensnare him. She closed her eyes firmly as she pulled the knife out of Fernando’s rapidly cooling body. It came free reluctantly and she washed it carefully. She would not contaminate her body with Fernando’s foul blood. She went back to the bedroom and sat beside the telephone. She drew the sharp blade over her wrist and saw her blood spurting crimson on to the pillowcase.

  Shuddering, she forced herself to repeat the action. Then, lifting the receiver she dialled the number of Stephen Schofield and after only two rings heard his voice say: ‘Schofield.’

  ‘Stephen, dearest Stephen, you must help Bill,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve wanted to tell you everything for so long.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t have much time, but I want you to know that I was never free to love you. If things had been different I would have accepted your proposal. Please believe me. I ’phoned to say goodbye. I’ve decided to end my torment.’

  ‘Where are you, Ingrid?’ He sounded frantic. ‘Give me your address.’

  ‘At Bill’s rooms, but Stephen, it’s too late, believe me. I can never forgive myself for what I’ve done to Marietta.’

  ‘Ingrid, what have you done?’

  ‘Stephen, listen to me, I was forced to be a spy. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’ve been blackmailed by the Nazis for six years . . . terrible years. They let me out of the camp to spy for them, but they kept Marietta as a hostage for my good behaviour. Now I’ve betrayed her.’

  ‘Wait! Hold tight. Is that where you are . . . at Bill’s place? Stay there.’

  ‘Stephen. Listen to me. They suspect Bill Roth is going to infiltrate a camp near Prague. Something to do with destroying a rocket station. I killed Fernando . . . I had to . . . and burned the evidence. I feel so dizzy, sort of floating. Stephen, I loved you, but I had to obey them . . . for her sake.’

  She dropped the receiver with a smile. Now all she had to do was wait.

  *

  Stephen Schofield stood over the slim figure of the unconscious girl, her lovely face almost as pale as the sheets of the hospital bed. He scowled. Would he ever be able to sort out his mixed feelings of compassion and anger? How much of her story was lies, how much the truth? He guessed that he might never know, but he knew that he desperately wanted to believe in her.

  Soon after he had met Ingrid, he had fallen deeply in love with her. He remembered her working in the canteen, singing to the troops and then going out into the fires of London without a thought of her own safety, and working all night in the midst of a blitz. That took guts.

  Had the Nazis really set her up by holding her cousin hostage? Had Bill never told Ingrid that Marietta had died . . . or was she still alive?

  He thought back to the pain and jealousy which he’d fought to overcome when she’d turned him down and started seeing Roth. Now he understood how the poor girl had been forced into prostitution. Roth had never given a damn about her. He’d simply taken all she had to offer, and given very little in return. For Bill there was only Marietta.

  Schofield looked up as his assistant entered the room.

  ‘Sir. Fernando’s body was pulled out of the ruins of a blitzed house at 3 a.m. this morning by an ARP warden. The corpse was mangled to shreds and was taken to the nearest mortuary. Fortunately, his identity card was intact and we have sent a man round to his address to notify his landlady, and to tell his employer at the newsagents. Anything else?’

  ‘No. That’s good. Just make sure there’s no trace left of any intruders in Major Roth’s rooms. You cleared out the ashes in the grate, of course?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve attended to that, Sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ Schofield glanced at his watch. It was only 4 a.m. now. Lucky for them that the Nazis had bombed that area. He glanced towards the bed as he heard a soft sigh.

  Ingrid stirred and her eyelids flickered. Would he ever trust her? Probably not, he decided, but what the hell. He smiled to himself. Here lay a woman of great resilience, masterly will-power and famous beauty, to say nothing of her royal roots. She would make a fitting mate when the war was won. He was pushing fifty. High time he produced some heirs. Besides, she had proved invaluable in the end. Why waste her talents now? He had much more information he wanted sent to General von Hesse and she was clever enough to hoodwink Paddy.

  Yes, he would save her, but she would have to accept his terms. A life sentence, he thought with a grim smile, but possibly not quite the sentence she had expected.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Marietta gazed out of the barn window and watched with anxious eyes as the eastern sky turned pale grey over the forest. It was June 7 and the British agent was still missing. She sighed, stretched and went back to the radio. She had spent an anxious night keeping wireless contact between Jan and the men who were combing the forests for the second night running.

  They had learned from the three Free-Czechs who had landed that the missing man was their leader. It would be disastrous if the Bosch were to get hold of him. As far as they knew he was still at large, probably lost and possibly hurt. The entire operation had been a fiasco because of gale force winds and bad visibility. Half an hour later, she received an incoming call from Jan’s group. She took down the message, decoded it, and sighed with relief. They had found him. Thank God!

  Wrenching off her earphones, she stowed her gear under the straw and hurried downstairs. Have a doctor in the dairy cellars, the message had read. Was he badly hurt, she wondered? Would he live? Or would she have a sick man to nurse for weeks, or months, endangering all their lives?

  Dr Klara Mikolash, who acted as the local midwife, was someone she trusted implicitly. She lived in a broken down cottage across the fields and she had a permit allowing her to be out at night. Marietta set off, keeping close to the hedges.

  Klara was used to emergencies. She was dressed within seconds and emerged, clutching her bag, tucking her checked blouse into her corduroy trousers, mousy hair awry, blue eyes glinting determinedly.

  When they reached the dairy, they heard footsteps coming up from the river. Two of Jan’s men were carrying an unconscious man, in the darkness all Marietta could make out was the blur of a pale face with damp dark hair plastered against his skull. They moved swiftly through the dairy and Klara followed them through the trap door. ‘I’ll need hot water, towels, a cup of soup or hot tea, some brandy . . .’ she called over her shoulder.

  Marietta decided to stay on guard in the dairy. She busied herself making soup and sending down the things Klara needed.

  ‘Is he conscious?’ Marietta asked when Klara emerged through the trap door.

  ‘Just coming round. Give him soup in about half an hour. Small amounts, but often. I think he spent the past thirty-six hours hiding out in the river. God was on his side, that’s for sure, but he’s a sick man . . . pneumonia, exposure, shock, multiple bruising. He’ll need a couple of weeks in bed.’

  Jan came up after her. ‘It feels as if I’ve been through every damn thicket in the forest,’ he grumbled. His white hair was full of mud and his scratched cheeks were covered in grey stubble. ‘We found him in the liaison hut. He’d crawled behind the door before he passed out.’

  She glanced at him curiously. There was a strange tone to Jan’s voice . . . sullen and apprehensive. She frowned at him.

  ‘It’s not his fault he was blown off-course. He saved the life of one of his men. He must be a good leader and a very brave man.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Jan sighed. ‘Brave or not, he must hide here for a while. There’s nowhere else to put him. He’ll need plenty of good, nourishing food. Try not to spend all your time down there,’ he said, pressing his lips together.

  ‘Why ever should I want to?’ she asked.

  Jan scowled at her. Inexplicably, he took
her hands in his. ‘Listen to me as a friend. You are my best agent. That’s all you are. Everything else belongs to the past or perhaps the future, but not the present. Don’t allow yourself to become vulnerable. To long to live . . . is to become afraid . . . is to die. Please don’t become vulnerable.’

  She nodded, feeling surprised that Jan understood these things which she had always felt, but never talked about.

  ‘Have I done something foolish? Is that why you are talking to me like this?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said.

  *

  Bill knew he had blacked out, but for how long? He lay in a state of shock, feeling scared and tense. He was utterly weary, his body ached in every muscle and bone. There was an intolerable pain in his chest that went right through his shoulder blades. When he moved it was like a knife thrust.

  Where was he? He moved his arms cautiously. There were no handcuffs. Then he opened his eyes slowly. No guards . . . no prison cell. He was lying in a big underground cellar, down the full length of one side were wine racks. Presumably this had once been the wine cellar of some wealthy farmhouse or even a castle. Bohemia was full of castles.

  There was a glass of milk beside his bed, but when he tried to reach it, the pain in his chest brought on a fit of coughing. For a few seconds he couldn’t breathe. He thought he would choke to death, then he managed to gasp some air.

  A woman raced down the steps and helped him to a sitting position. He looked up and saw Marie standing next to him. The shock of this hallucination brought on another fit of coughing.

  ‘Bill,’ he heard. ‘Oh my God. Darling . . . Darling . . . It’s you. Oh, Bill. You’ve come back to me, at last.’ Hands grasped his shoulders. Lips were pressed on to his. Tears spattered his face. He opened his eyes and gazed into the deep azure pools he remembered so well.

  What a fool he was. Marie was dead. He lay back, sipped at the glass of milk the woman was holding to his lips and kept his eyes tightly closed. The resemblance had been uncanny, despite the short black hair and rough clothes. But what about her voice?

  ‘I know I’m hallucinating,’ he muttered, ‘but Jesus, I wish it would never stop.’

  ‘Oh Bill, dearest Bill . . .’ She laughed, that low, thrilling laugh he knew so well and then, suddenly, she was crying, gasping for breath, her body shaking and trembling. ‘I’m so happy,’ she sobbed. ‘So very happy . . . Oh God! I never guessed . . . never dreamed . . .’ She flung herself on to the bed and snuggled on to his shoulder.

  She felt real enough. So was the pain in his chest, so he couldn’t be dead. Was he hallucinating? He was afraid to look away in case she disappeared. ‘You see, Bill darling,’ she was explaining, ‘I escaped from the camp. My poor, dear friend, Greta, had tuberculosis and she was dying . . .’ Her story tumbled out, but Bill was still snared with a sense of unreality. ‘I’m alive and I’m real, I promise you,’ she said eventually.

  Bill reached forward and ran his fingers through her hair, feeling short soft ends, watching her wonderingly.

  He reached out to take her hand, but caught sight of the scars on her arm. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered, pulling her closer. ‘Is this what they did to you?’ He ran his fingers over the bumps and ridges of scarred tissue. Then he pulled her arm closer and peered at the tattoo, but his vision was clouded by black dots and she was shimmering in and out of focus. ‘Oh Marie. Oh, my poor little Marie,’ he muttered. ‘I love you. I never stopped loving you.’ He pulled her on to his shoulder and wrapped his arms around her.

  As he listened to her story, he fell into that strange state of being half-awake and half-asleep, filled with bliss at the nearness of his girl, who had been miraculously restored to him. At last he fell into a deep sleep.

  Then next time he surfaced, Marie was gone.

  After a while a deep anxiety sunk into him. It all seemed so impossible and even a little unreal. Was it merely the fever, plus wishful thinking that had brought about this hallucination? A torment of grief swept through him, but he struggled to pull himself together. Marie had been dead for a long time. Now was not the time to break down. He had work to do. He had to get better fast.

  He pulled himself upright with an effort and tried to get out of bed, but his limbs seemed to have turned to lead. He groaned. Someone moved nearby, a short, swarthy man with curly white hair, who had been sitting at the table writing, but Bill hadn’t noticed him. ‘Who are you?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Jan . . . Czech Resistance. We’ve communicated often enough, Major.’

  Bill nodded and looked more closely into Jan’s face. ‘You were also Marie’s chauffeur once. I remember you,’ he said. As Jan passed him some water, Bill gripped his arm. He hardly dared to ask. ‘Was that the Countess . . .?’

  ‘The Countess died in Lichtenberg concentration camp,’ Jan began, and Bill was plunged into despair. ‘There are many things it would be wiser to forget,’ he went on. ‘You saw Lara, a peasant woman who runs the dairy above. Her code name is Edelweiss. To remember anything else would put her in mortal danger.’

  It was Marie and Marie was Edelweiss! Bill was too shocked to reply. He lay back, his eyes closed, contemplating the enormity of this information. He’d been in communication with Marie over the past nine months. He swore as he thought of the time wasted and the impossible risks he’d forced her to take. If only he’d known.

  ‘Forget this conversation,’ Jan was saying. ‘As soon as I saw you in the forest, I knew there’d be trouble ahead. Whatever your private feelings may be, put them aside until the war’s over.’

  ‘Jan . . . thanks,’ Bill muttered. The tears were rolling down his cheeks, his throat had swollen into a lump, he could hardly breathe, but he knew he was the luckiest man who ever lived. Marie was alive. Somehow he’d get her out of Czechoslovakia, he vowed.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Bill . . . her Bill, was down there, waiting for her and she longed to be with him, but there was so much to do: she had to run the dairy, milk the cows, collect the butter from the farms, deliver food to the Freedom Fighters, cook Bill’s food, which she did with extra care and tenderness. When dusk came, she was still busily finding more work, which wasn’t difficult.

  Miki, who had been looking after Bill all day, came up the cellar steps. He took a deep breath of fresh air.

  ‘It’s stuffy down there, I get claustrophobia. I don’t know how you can bear to live in these gloomy places. I need a break,’ he said. ‘Take over.’

  ‘No . . . Oh no! I can’t . . .’

  ‘You must.’ Miki walked out, leaving her alone with her doubts and fears.

  How could she go down? She gazed in the mirror in despair.

  ‘You are ugly,’ she said aloud. ‘Yes, truly ugly.’ She stepped closer and peered into the mirror. ‘Your face is skinny and lined, your skin rough, your hair just black stubble, your shoulders are too large from lifting heavy milk churns . . . just look at your muscles! Bill remembers a pretty teenager with a milky complexion and long blonde hair, not this old hag. As for your hands . . .’ She spread her fingers and gazed at them in despair: roughened skin, short nails, swollen knuckles – a working woman’s hands.

  She crouched on the bed and allowed herself to wallow in self-disgust. Eventually she pulled herself together. Going back to the mirror, she saw that red eyes and swollen lids were now added to her private catastrophe.

  She would have to face Bill. She took the dish of stew she had prepared and carried it down the steps. Bill was lying in bed looking sick and pale, but very definitely himself. He looked older, his shoulders were broader, his hair longer and thicker, his face more crinkled, but if anything he was even more attractive. He was giving her that funny, half-affectionate, half-amused smile she knew so well.

  ‘I thought you’d never come,’ he said. ‘I’ve been longing to see you. Marie, come over here. I want to touch you . . . hold you . . . prove to myself you’re really here. I could hear you moving around up there. I was tormented.’

  ‘Yo
u must eat and you must stop calling me Marie, my name is Lara,’ she said. ‘It’s rather primitive here, but my cooking has improved. If you remember . . .’ she broke off, almost choking on the words. Remembering was far too painful. ‘You must try to eat, you need your strength,’ she said, putting the tray on to his lap.

  ‘I can’t eat lying down,’ he said, his eyes shining with amusement.

  She picked up the tray and put it on the table. When she bent over him to grasp his shoulders, he pulled her down over him. Suddenly she was sprawling over his stomach, his arms wrapped around her waist.

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘No. Not unless you kiss me.’

  Bill burst into a fit of coughing and for a few terrible seconds could not get his breath. He was choking. She pulled him to a sitting position and bent his head over his knees. Eventually he managed to get hoarse, grating breaths, but his face was beetroot red. ‘What have I got . . .? Pneumonia?’

  ‘That, plus bruises, cracked ribs and a sprained ankle.’

  He caught hold of her hand. ‘Marie, dearest,’ he said huskily. ‘I never stopped loving you, not for one moment. Don’t tell me you’ve changed.’

  ‘Can’t you see that I’ve changed?’ she said sharply. ‘You love someone else . . .’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. It’s you I love.’

  He sighed, a sharp forceful breath that brought on another fit of coughing. ‘Then?’

  ‘Don’t torment me, Bill. The girl you loved is gone. This ugly Lara has replaced her.’

  He looked at her questioningly. Then he smiled, a funny, crooked smile and his eyes filled with tears. ‘Come here, Marie. Sit on the bed. I don’t mind if you turn your back on me, just as long as I can feel you.’ He pulled her closely against him. ‘Don’t interrupt. Promise me?’