Edelweiss

by Madge Swindells

  All at once she heard the sound quite plainly. Troops were marching towards the farm. As she listened they turned in at the gate. The Americans were a hundred miles away. Had their mission failed? Was this the Gestapo? She prayed for Bill’s safety as she checked the windows. Shadowy figures were moving purposely around the house at the front and the back, cutting off any chance of escape.

  The sudden, loud hammering on the door woke the Bocks who sat up in terror. Too late to run. Her heart was beating wildly as she drew back the heavy bolts.

  She gasped. It took a few minutes to grasp the reality of the scene. The man at the door was wearing the uniform of a sergeant in the US forces. Behind him, a group of GIs peered curiously at her.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh, heavens . . .’

  ‘Occupation troops, Ma’am. This chicken farm has been commandeered. You may keep one room for your own use. You have half an hour to vacate the rest of the premises.’

  She began to laugh. She stepped forward and put her hands on the sergeant’s shoulders. Then she kissed him very solemnly on both cheeks. ‘Have it all,’ she said. ‘Every last chicken and egg. I am a Free-Czech agent working for Major Schofield in London. Please take us to your commanding officer. He will be expecting us.’

  *

  Slowly Bill became aware of a call echoing through the blackness. It seemed to come from far away, as if he was at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

  ‘Lay down your arms. You are surrounded. The war is over. I repeat, General Alfred Jodl signed the unconditional surrender this morning at 2.41 a.m., May 7. It’s over. Come out with your hands on your heads.’

  American voices!

  ‘Thank God!’

  ‘Okay friends.’ Surely that was Franz. ‘It’s been over in here for the past two days. This section is in Allied hands. We’re coming out.’

  Bill felt a surge of relief. He tried to sit up, but he could not move. What’s wrong with me? Was I shot? Am I paralysed? he asked himself in panic. He tried again, but excruciating pain made him immobile. He couldn’t move a limb. Every breath was agony. He seemed to be choking. What was wrong with his lungs. He tried to scream, but only a feeble groan emerged from his lips.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Someone had heard him. He groaned again.

  ‘Bill?’

  Surely that was Louis’ voice? ‘Louis,’ he groaned. ‘Help me.’

  ‘We’re looking for Major Roth, British Intelligence,’ someone called out. The voice sounded American, but waves of pain and nausea were making it hard to concentrate. Bill groaned again.

  ‘Help me dig him out from under this rockfall,’ Louis yelled.

  *

  The next thing Bill knew, he was looking up into brilliant sunlight, and swaying around madly. He moved his hand, half afraid that he was paralysed, but it moved, and he thrust it over his eyes.

  ‘This one’s coming round,’ he heard. ‘Here comes the ambulance.’

  He felt himself being jolted to the ground and he realised he’d been on a stretcher. An American medical orderly bent over him with a flask of water. Bill drank and spluttered. The good news was sinking in. They’d made it. He looked up and grinned.

  ‘Bill . . . Bill darling . . .’

  ‘Marie,’ he croaked. ‘I can’t see in the sunlight. Come down here.’

  Suddenly her shadow covered his face. She was kissing his forehead and his nose, and his eyelids.

  ‘Move aside, please. I’m a doctor,’ he heard. As the doctor flung back the blanket, he heard Marie gasp.

  ‘Oh my God . . .’

  ‘Severe bruising, scratches and cuts, he’s concussed, but with luck there’s no major damage. Couple of cracked ribs by the feel of it. He’ll survive. Sorry to break up the reunion, but I’ve got orders to get him back to hospital immediately. We’re pulling out . . . back to Bavaria. The Russians don’t want us in Czechoslovakia.’

  ‘He’s lucky. He was buried alive and we didn’t know where he was.’ Louis’ voice.

  ‘Hi, Louis,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Thanks for getting me out.’

  ‘Louis. Dearest Louis. I’m so happy. Both of you safe . . . Oh, thank God . . . thank God . . .’ Marie was sobbing. Bill wished he were strong enough to get up and hold her.

  Marie leaned over him, her eyes were watery and the tears were splashing on his face.

  ‘No more crying, darling,’ he said. ‘We’ll be back in Baltimore in no time. It’s over. The future is for us.’ He smiled happily as they lifted him into the ambulance.

  ‘Try to make him understand why I have to go back,’ Bill heard Marie whisper, as he lay on the stretcher with the door still open. ‘Tell him about the vows I made to Grandmother on her deathbed, and my promise to Father. I can’t run away, especially since they both died. They trusted me.’ Her voice broke off in a sob. ‘Make him understand what it is to be a Habsburg. Oh, and Louis. Tell Bill I love him.’ The door slammed shut. Bill sat up cautiously, his head throbbing. He’d get after her, somehow, just as soon as he got out of the ambulance.

  *

  A wedding was about to be held at St Margaret’s, Westminster. Lord Stephen Schofield, war hero and close relative of the royal family, was marrying none other than London’s own ‘Plucky Princess’.

  For days past, the newspapers had resurrected stories of Princess Ingrid’s endurance and dogged bravery as she toiled eight hours a day in the aircraft factory and went on to cook at the troops’ canteens after hours. She had become a very special heroine.

  The war was all but over. It was May 7, 1945 and early that morning, at 2.41 a.m., in a small red schoolhouse in Rheims, German troops had surrendered unconditionally to General Eisenhower, the Allied Supreme Commander.

  The war was not officially ended yet, but Londoners, drab and tired after years of spartan discipline and self-sacrifice, needed to celebrate. What better reason could they find than this fairy tale romance.

  Just after dawn on May 7, crowds began forming in Parliament Square. At 11 a.m. they were rewarded by the sight of Ingrid, in a beautiful lace gown, diamonds glinting on her fingers, her eyes sparkled with fun as she stepped from a Rolls Royce, a gift from her husband-to-be, the newspapers stated.

  Ingrid could hardly believe this was real as she walked slowly up the aisle on the arm of Gwen’s brother. She looked down at the beautiful lace gown, traditionally worn by Schofield brides, and sighed contentedly. On her finger was a pure yellow diamond set amongst emeralds and her veil was laced with pearls. She smiled softly as she remembered the night long ago with Hugo at Sokol Castle, when they had studied the old Princess’s list of eligible men. How she had longed to marry one of them, and now she was doing just that.

  What a long way it was to the altar and as she walked towards her future husband, she thought of Bill, the only man she had ever truly loved. She had a moment of butterflies in her stomach as her eyes met Stephen’s. She had never known for sure if he believed her story. Now it didn’t matter, he was marrying her.

  An hour later Ingrid emerged and waved to the cheering crowd as she walked with Stephen through an archway of naval swords. Most of the Foreign Office and SOE had turned out to throw confetti. Half of London seemed to be there, too. Ingrid smiled and blew kisses and threw flowers from her bouquet into the crowd.

  ‘Good old Ingrid,’ one of the factory girls yelled. ‘Remember us.’

  ‘Good luck, Ingrid. We’ll never forget you.’

  Gwen, her bridesmaid, helped her into the car. Then she was smiling and waving and clutching Stephen’s hand.

  ‘I’m going to make you very happy, my darling,’ Stephen murmured in her ear.

  *

  Still in her splendid white lace wedding gown, Ingrid was cutting a four-tier wedding cake, at the Dorchester, together with Stephen, whose arms were around hers. The happy couple smiled into the camera. Ingrid had never looked more radiant and she knew it. The band struck up the Blue Danube waltz. Ingrid took the floor to the applause of their one
thousand guests. She drifted around in a happy daze, enjoying the acclaim and the knowledge that apart from the loss of Bill, everything had turned out absolutely splendidly.

  ‘I can’t wait to soak in the sun,’ Stephen whispered in her ear. ‘I’m going mouldy after five years of this damned awful weather.’

  The prospect of leaving Britain for a while was the plum in the pudding, unaware of how many strings her husband had had to pull to get permission to travel abroad. It was all marvellous, she thought, as she wandered from group to group, accepting the kisses, the admiration, the good wishes and compliments.

  Stephen was looking for her. ‘Time to change, darling. We have a boat to catch.’ He caught hold of her and pulled her against him with unaccustomed recklessness and for a brief, thrilling moment she was reminded of Bill. Quickly she closed her eyes and her heart. Thoughts of Bill were not allowed. Not ever, but in her heart of hearts she knew she would never love any other man.

  ‘The most beautiful bride in the world, my darling. I’m longing for tonight,’ he murmured against her ear, and she sighed softly.

  She turned away and gazed at herself in the mirror. She saw a young, vivacious, beautiful girl, with tears running down her cheeks. How absurd! She quickly wiped them away. She took a glass of champagne and lifted it in a toast towards her reflection. ‘To you, Ingrid,’ she whispered. ‘Well done! You won through after all.’

  *

  Andrea was sitting at her battered desk in a prefabricated hut, in the displaced persons’ camp. She looked tired and thin and very pale, but her dark eyes glowed with caring. She was dressed in an overall with a red cross on the pocket, underneath she wore a shapeless, woollen skirt and blouse donated second-hand from Britain. Her hair was growing fast, but she kept the dark curls in a tight bun. She looked hauntingly lovely, but that was of no interest to Andrea. She hadn’t bothered to look in a mirror for a long time.

  In the camp she was respected for her compassion, her determination and her quiet acceptance of their hardships. She had started to work for the Red Cross only days after arriving at the camp. She found that work maintained her sanity.

  It was 7 a.m. on the morning of May 7. Andrea shook hands with an elderly Polish farmer and promised to set in motion the complicated routine search for his missing son, through the archives of the liberated concentration camps.

  When she had finished her dictation, she opened the door and motioned to her next applicant. As usual, almost a hundred sad people were sitting on the benches outside. Goodness knows what time they arrived, but when she began work at seven, there was always a long queue waiting.

  It was the turn of an emaciated, white-haired woman. She had to be assisted by a Red Cross nurse. Andrea began her usual questions.

  By noon, Andrea had dealt with twenty cases, all of which seemed hopeless, but sometimes miracles happened and Andrea never stopped hoping. Daily, heart-broken survivors filed through the office and she tried to find their missing relatives or help them to establish their identities.

  When she showed the next applicant out, she saw a man sitting at the end of the bench. She froze. A terrible surge of hope washed through her and she nearly passed out with the force of it. ‘Can it be . . .?’ She whispered to herself. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried to stop shaking. The man was walking towards her. A stranger, yet his eyes were Louis’ eyes. She framed his name in a whisper.

  ‘Louis? Could it be you? Am I going crazy?’

  ‘I’m looking for my wife,’ Louis said gently. ‘My beloved, brave wife, who has endured so much, but is still so beautiful and so full of compassion for others. I’ve come to take her home. It’s her turn to be cared for.’ His hand reached out to touch her hair.

  ‘Louis . . . Oh, Louis.’ Moments later they were clasped in each other’s arms. For them the war was over at last.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Hugo stood in his office at Sokol Castle gazing at the smouldering ashes of files and papers. He had been up all night and he was exhausted. His face was unshaven, his tie loosened and his black ceremonial uniform, which he had decided to wear to take leave of Sokol Castle, was creased and covered in dust. He turned to the window. A mere seven miles away he could see the smoke and flashes of exploding shells from the front line. The Russians would be here in a matter of hours. It was time to go, but first he had something important to do.

  It was May 13 and the war had been officially over for five days, but in a last ditch stand, German troops had succeeded in holding up the Soviet advance, while German and Volksdeutsche families were being evacuated.

  The war was lost and so was his dream of power and greatness and a vast European Empire. But he was not wiped out, as so many were. He had six magnificent ranches in the Argentine, where Freda was getting their home organised.

  But would he be safe there? He knew the answer to his question. There was nowhere in the world far enough away from Marietta. She would find him because she wanted her revenge. Why else had she taken those incriminating letters from his safe? She knew where to find him, she had the deeds to his land. Hugo stood staring out of the window, unable to rid his mind of his nagging anxieties.

  He had planned a fitting revenge himself, he thought with a soft smile. Right now, Sokol castle was as lethal as a grenade. One match was all it would need. The thought of all those priceless treasures and works of art being destroyed, almost made him regretful, but better they were destroyed than left in the hands of his step-sister. Marietta was not going to get her full inheritance back. Not ever.

  Hearing footsteps, Hugo was filled with superstitious dread. Was she already here, dressed in her white gown, as she appeared nightly in his worst nightmares. He called out gruffly: ‘Who’s there?’

  There was a timid knock on his door. Most of the building had been evacuated, but there was supposed to be a skeleton staff on duty. Where the hell was his adjutant? Hugo grabbed his revolver, strode to the door and flung it open.

  Miroslav Kova stood there shivering with fright. God, how he stank! Hugo wrinkled his nose with distaste and aimed his gun at a point between Kova’s eyes.

  ‘I have something you want, General,’ Kova whined.

  Hugo laughed and his finger tightened on the trigger.

  ‘I have Edelweiss.’

  Hugo put down his gun and stared hard at that oafish face. Marietta! His mouth dried with longing. With her dead he would be safe. He would wait out the seven years the lawyers required to officially recognise Louis’ death and then return as the prodigal to claim Marietta’s and Louis’ massive estates.

  He turned his attention to Kova . . . could he be speaking the truth? Why had he come here . . . risking his life? He must want something very badly. Then Hugo remembered that Kova did not know that his daughter had hanged herself in her cell.

  ‘What do you want?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘We had a deal . . . my daughter for Edelweiss. I have the agent locked in my cellar.’

  ‘How can I trust you?’

  ‘You don’t have to trust me, I have to trust you. If I deliver Edelweiss into your hands, you must tell me where my daughter is. Most of the camps are liberated and I must go to her.’ He looked up pleadingly. ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hugo lied, eyeing Kova speculatively. Was it possible the fool thought his daughter would have been allowed to live after he fled with the agent? But he’d noticed that simple people always hoped, even when there was no basis for their optimism. Kova’s hands were shaking and his cheeks were red-veined. Clearly his brains were pickled in alcohol. Yet he had tricked Marietta. How was this possible? Hugo knew that he could not afford to ignore the peasant’s offer. It took him only a second to discover that Kova was unarmed.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ he muttered, pressing his gun against Kova’s back.

  His driver was still on guard beside the car in the abandoned courtyard. He would have to kill the boy, for there must be no witnesses to what he was going to do.
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br />   ‘Guard him well,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  What he had to do would not take long. He had been planning his leave-taking for weeks past. He hurried to the vaults of the castle and set light to the fuse. Within ten minutes Sokol would be ablaze. By the time he returned to the car, smoke was already beginning to escape.

  ‘Take the highway north,’ he muttered, peering over his shoulder.

  ‘Sir, the Americans are within fifteen miles of Prague.’

  ‘They’ve gone . . . pulled out this morning,’ Kova muttered. ‘Edelweiss told me. She came to the abattoir driving the Bocks’ van. She said she was going to Sokol Castle, but she’d run out of petrol.’

  ‘And out of luck,’ Hugo thought, with a silent chuckle.

  *

  The abattoir was silent as a grave. There were no animals in the yard, no men, only the stink of death. Hugo felt wary of Kova now. Prickles of apprehension ran up and down his spine.

  ‘Tie his hands behind his back,’ he ordered the driver.

  Kova was wet with sweat. ‘But General, I told you all I want is my little daughter.’ He muttered on as his wrists were bound. ‘Wait here,’ Hugo told his driver. ‘If you hear a shot come at once, and come armed.’

  Their footsteps echoed on wooden floors as they walked through the old building to the filthy cobbled pen, deep in manure.

  Kova chuckled. ‘I pushed her down into the cellars where I store the carcasses, but this time I bolted the door to the sewers. There’s no other way out.’ He led the way to the killing shed and pointed down through a large grid with an iron ring in the centre.

  ‘Pick up the grid with your foot,’ Hugo ordered, keeping his gun trained on the sweating man. Kova managed to slip the grid aside, but lost his balance and fell.

  He looked up, grimacing with pain. ‘If you untie my hands,’ Herr General.’