by Jules Wake
She tucked her hat more firmly onto her head, tugged at the jacket of her uniform and hurried towards the far corner of the square, following the directions she’d been given to Whitehall. It felt strange to her to be in an Auxiliary Territorial Services uniform, officially signed up to fight against her homeland. When she’d first come to England in 1938 she’d been able to get a job through family friends of friends and had worked in a shoe factory in Kensal Green but as soon as war was declared, no one wanted to employ a German, even though Germany had turned its back on her and her kind. Not long after that she’d joined the Pioneer Corps and then transferred to the ATS, and while she knew she ought to be grateful for the work, endless filing was not to her taste. Which, she thought, straightening her shoulders and crossing the road, narrowly avoiding being flattened by a No. 15 bus, was why she was here. A little shiver of anticipation ran through her and she crossed her fingers even though she didn’t believe in such things. Neither crossing fingers nor praying had helped thus far in her life but even so, she was hopeful.
Major Wardlow had intimated that her native language could be employed in far more useful ways which she would find more satisfactory, when he’d talked with her just over three weeks ago in the barracks in Hull. He was an earnest and forthright young man, and she had no reason to disbelieve him or think that he was making impossible statements.
Three weeks ago, that was all it was. She’d been nearing the end of her shift when she’d been asked to leave her filing to take Major Wardlow to the Officers’ Mess on the other side of the barracks. The place was an absolute rabbit warren and at any time, the ATS could be asked to stop what they were doing and help a guest find their way.
‘You seem keen to abandon your work,’ he’d observed as she’d led him through the long corridor.
She looked at him guardedly. It didn’t do to sound ungrateful.
‘Boring? What is it you do? Filing?’
She nodded before cautiously venturing, ‘I’m not sure how it helps with the war.’
He replied in German, ‘How long have you been here?’
Surprised, she answered in German, ‘Since December 1938.’
‘And what did you do back home?’ He sounded interested, which was more than most people did when they heard her accent. Even when she explained she was Jewish and had fled from Germany, she was still eyed with suspicion. It was the first time anyone had asked her about her working life before she’d come here.
‘I worked in a factory that designed and built aircraft.’
His eyebrows rose and he suddenly looked almost excited. ‘And what did you do there?’
‘All sorts. Originally I was responsible for making sure the blueprints for the designs were looked after. After that I was responsible for ordering parts and stock-taking, making sure that we had sufficient supplies. Then I moved into the Funkmeẞgerät section.’
He frowned.
‘The radio measuring devices – they used radio waves to detect and track.’
Major Wardlow stopped dead, a look of absolute wonderment on his face. ‘Range and Detection Finding systems.’
Wanting to quell his sudden enthusiasm, she added, ‘I don’t understand how they work but I know how they are made.’
‘I think you’re wasted here. I’d like to recommend you to another department where I can guarantee the work would be a thousand times more interesting. And you’ll be making a real contribution to the war. Do you think you might like that?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Anything had to be more interesting than the monotony of filing, which left her too much time to think. After all, what more was there to lose? She’d left behind everything she’d ever cared about and lost all the people she loved.
So here she was, standing outside the War Office, ready to report for interview as per the instructions which had been handed to her by her commanding officer several days ago.
Judith was intrigued. If, as Major Wardlow had implied, this work could make a difference, it was her duty to do so. She wanted to bring this awful war to an end, although when that happened she had no idea what would happen to her. The Germany she’d once known had changed too much, had inflicted such terrible damage on her family and friends. Could it ever be home again?
Judith pinched her mouth together and marched up the steps. Thinking about everything she’d lost wasn’t going to help now. She was on her own. Life was hard for everyone. She gave her name at the front desk and was ushered up a flight of stairs to a small office where one other woman and a man sat. None of them spoke to each other and she kept quiet from habit. Eventually a young Naval officer came into the office.
‘Do I have a Judith Stern, a Susan Adelsdörfer and Georg Bayerthal?’
It was as if there was a rush of air in the room as the three of them looked at each other, a sudden release of tension, as they glanced shyly at each other, realising that they were all compatriots. Were they also Jewish, she wondered? Like her, no doubt they’d learned to keep their mouths shut in the company of strangers. Having a German accent could single you out for trouble.
‘If you’d like to come with me,’ he said, opening the door and inviting them to follow him.
Now the three of them exchanged tentative nods, recognising kindred spirits. The woman addressed a few commonplace comments to the man but Judith, more reserved, kept her counsel. As always when she met fellow Germans, she wondered how they’d all made their way to England and whether their journeys had been as terrifying as hers, hidden in the boot of a car with her eyes tightly shut and her heart hammering so hard in her throat, she thought it might choke her, as she crossed the border to Austria with all that she was allowed to take. A trusted friend of her father had had a contact in the British Embassy in Austria who had provided her with the necessary papers to leave. She was one of the lucky ones and owed everything to Mozart. A mutual passion for the composer had been at the heart of the friendship between her father, his friend and his diplomat friend.
And then she shook away those thoughts because they didn’t do her any good. Hard as it was, all she could do was look forward. There was nothing left for her in the past.
They filed into one large room, which looked as if it had once been a ballroom, except now there was nothing but a row of three desks which had papers and pencils on them.
‘If you’d like to take a seat. You have an hour to translate the papers on the desk in front of you.’
Judith took a seat behind. The three solitary desks were marooned in the huge room. It was like being back at school in her final year and doing her abitur all over again and for a moment her stomach knotted in anxiety. She could barely turn the paper over with her shaking hands.
To her relief, the paper was quite simple and involved translating words and phrases from German into English, although none of them were very commonplace.
‘That was difficult,’ exclaimed the woman called Susan when they came out and went back to the small office again. Judith nodded, although some of the vocabulary they’d been asked to translate had been familiar from her work in the factory. She’d completed the task well within the hour allowed and had been able to spend some time looking at the elaborate plaster cornices of the room and wondering what this elegant building had been before it had been commandeered by the War Office. She’d been able to take refuge in daydreams, imagining elegant ladies, dancing to the strains of Strauss, in silks and taffetas, and picturing how it would have looked before war had cast its blighted shadow across the whole of Europe.
‘I didn’t know some of the words. Do you think they made them up to trick us?’ continued the woman.
Judith didn’t reply. She’d known all but one and even then had been able to hazard a guess, but lifted her shoulders in an almost-shrug which seemed to satisfy her companion.
‘Beautiful plasterwork,’ commented Georg on her right, catching her looking up.
‘Yes,’ said Judith offering him a quick, sad smile.
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��Makes you think of a bygone age,’ he sighed and for a brief moment the two of them looked at each other, united in melancholy thoughts.
‘Of dancing and music,’ said Judith.
Georg smiled. ‘I used to play for the Berlin State Opera, first violinist, until all the Jews in the ensemble were dismissed.’ His eyes took on that resigned, blank look that Judith knew, from experience, hid the depth of pain for all who had been ripped so brutally from their day-to-day lives.
She simply nodded. Normally she didn’t have the energy to bring up her father – there were too many tragic tales from Germany – but for a brief moment, she allowed herself to think of him.
‘I went to the Opera House many times. My father ran a music shop on Gartenstrasse.’
‘Herr Stern?’ He looked animated for a moment. ‘I knew him. All of the orchestra bought strings and reeds and sheet music from him.’ He sobered, the question in his eyes.
Judith shook her head. ‘It’s gone. The Sturmabteilung on the ninth of November.’
Georg knew better than to ask but Judith told him anyway. ‘When he saw what they’d done, he had a heart attack. He never recovered.’ Until then, she’d never believed people died of broken hearts but her gentle father had seen the damage and destruction of his beloved music shop after the paramilitary forces had ransacked the place, trampling on violins, ripping up sheet music and defiling the premises with swastikas and offensive slogans.
‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes clouded and together they sat in silence, both lost in thought.
Not long after that, Susan was called and led away to another door further down the hallway, leaving the atmosphere in the corridor tense and quiet.
She came back, her eyes bright with excitement, clearly itching to say something but prevented by the presence of the tall Naval officer, until he beckoned Georg to follow.
‘You’ll never guess who interviewed me. Charles Richardson. The actor and broadcaster. I saw him in Great Expectations in the West End. He spoke to me in German the whole time.’
Judith didn’t like to reveal her ignorance. She’d never heard of the man.
‘Did they tell you what sort of job it is?’
‘No, but they asked lots of questions. I told him I really like the theatre. So, he knew I knew who he was.’ She talked incessantly until Georg’s return and then it was Judith’s turn. She was relieved to have a bit of peace.
Following the young Naval officer, she found herself seated opposite a man in a smart suit.
She eyed him warily. Why wasn’t he in uniform? It made her uneasy. They weren’t going to send her back to Germany as a spy or something, were they?
‘Thank you for coming, Private Stern. I’m Marcus Goring, although I suspect the garrulous young Susan has told you I’ve also frequented the stage and broadcast on the radio as Charles Richardson.’ His mouth quirked in amusement. ‘I’m now head of the BBC German Unit.’
‘Er, yes,’ she replied and decided that with him she wouldn’t lose by being honest. ‘I’m afraid I’ve not heard of you.’
He smiled. ‘And nor should you have. I think you perhaps have a more serious bent. I believe classical music is more to your taste.’
She nodded and he asked a few questions about her favourite musicians before seamlessly moving on to ask her a variety of questions about the words she’d found difficult, those she’d found easy and where she’d gained her technical vocabulary and how she came to be in England.
At last, he asked, ‘Do you have any questions?’
Relieved that it was all over, instead of asking about the job for which he was recruiting, Judith leaned forward and said, ‘I struggled with one word.’
He gave her a wry smile and looked down at the paper in front of him before saying, ‘It’s a tiny pin in a firing mechanism.’
‘Ah, I did wonder.’
‘So, Judith Stern, one last question. Are you good at keeping secrets? Keeping things quiet.’
She eyed him gravely before she responded. ‘I was a Jew living in Nazi Germany; we learned to keep our secrets and the secrets of those around us. Our lives depended upon it.’
He nodded and closed the folder in front of him with a sharp snap. ‘Thank you for your time. We will be in touch.’
Judith very nearly skipped down the stairs, which was very unlike her, but it was a long time since she’d felt any sense of achievement or hope. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why the English would want translations of such technical language but if, as Major Wardlow had promised, the work was interesting, then she was ready for it.
Chapter Three
Betty – Latimer, Buckinghamshire
‘Ma, I like being in London.’
Betty also liked being away from Ma’s watchful eye and enjoyed going up to Trafalgar Square to buy cheap forces theatre tickets with her pal, Colette, on their shifts off.
‘We went to the Variety Club last week. Only one shilling and threepence. Saw Arthur Askey one time. And they have some wonderful singers.’ She clasped her hands together. She loved singing, perhaps more than anything else.
‘But them bombing raids. I worry something chronic.’ Her ma shook her head, tugging an apron over her faded, patched cotton dress, and began peeling the potatoes that made up so much of everyone’s diet these days. Betty was heartily sick of carrot, swede and potato mash, which had become the staple food at home. ‘If anything happened to you… Don’t you get scared?’
Betty couldn’t say she was particularly fond of the regular bombing raids but like a lot of her generation she had the view that if your number was up, it was up.
‘None have come close to us at the huts. Mill Hill isn’t central London. That’s where they clock the worst of it.’
‘It’s all very well for you to say that but you know Sheila’s daughter very nearly caught it. Poor girl, her face all ripped to shreds.’
Betty winced. Poor Barbara Clarke might as well wish she were dead. She’d been caught in a daytime raid in the East End on her day off. Seeing what remained of Barbara’s face had been worse than anything Betty could have imagined. The blast had clean blown off her nose and top lip. It had given her nightmares for weeks.
‘How is she?’
‘How d’you think? She won’t ever get married. Her life’s as good as over. You ought to count your blessings you have a man who’s got a good living and he’s not been sent away to war. I wish you’d come home. Bert misses you like the devil, he does.’
Her mother scraped potato peelings into the chickens’ bucket as she spoke, pointing her knife at her daughter to emphasise her words.
Betty wasn’t so sure about that – she rather enjoyed not being at home – but thinking of Barbara made her appreciate how precarious life was. So many men had gone off to fight and not come back and there was no sign of the war finishing any time soon. ‘Bert’s just fine. I’m on duty and my shifts don’t always make it that easy to get home.’
‘Well, mind you don’t give him a chance to go off with someone else. You need to think of the future. He’ll only wait so long. He’s a good-looking lad and that new barmaid in The Red Lion has been giving him eyes.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Betty.
‘Told me hisself. Popped round last week. He’s such a good lad. Always calls in on a Tuesday.’
‘Does he now?’ Betty’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What for?’
‘Just checking up on me and Jane.’
Funny that. The same day that what she could send of her pay packet arrived. And funny that if he were checking up, he hadn’t seen fit to mend the chicken coop where the door had got a hole in it. It would be down to her to get it fixed, as usual, and she was going to have to do it before she caught the train back to Baker Street.
‘You ought to see if you can get a transfer here.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, at the big house. You know the military took it over years ago but there’s a new lot there now with lots o
f young girls working there. See them in the village in their uniforms. Same as yours. Some sort of distribution centre, they say. Lots of lorries thundering up and down Ley Hill Road at all times of the day and night. What his Lordship must think I don’t know. He’s a good man, giving up his home for the war effort.’
‘Distribution centre?’ She definitely wouldn’t want to work here in the village and it sounded very dull. She’d known his Lordship had moved out and that there’d been a lot of building work going on at the site for many months. ‘I wonder if he misses it,’ Betty mused. It was a marvellous house and she was rather fond of the fourth baron. Her aunt, Daisy, had been the housekeeper there for many years and when Betty left school she’d got a job as a parlourmaid there.
‘I daresay he does. Why don’t you pop and see Daisy? She’ll know what’s going on. She might be able to get his Lordship to put a good word in for you. He was always fond of you. Let you play on that typewriter of his.’ He had too. Caught her tapping the keys when she was supposed to be dusting one afternoon and then invited her to teach herself to type using it whenever she finished work. That was until Lady Chesham got wind. She’d not been happy about it at all and Betty had very nearly got her cards. Denied access to the typewriter, she’d continued to practise on an old bit of cardboard that she’d drawn the keys on in the right order.
‘Because I’ve got that chicken coop door to fix and I need to be back on duty this evening. You don’t want the foxes getting in.’ She looked at the watch on her wrist, inherited from her dad who’d died ten years before, having never really recovered from the wounds he received during the Great War.
‘If you got a job here, you wouldn’t have to rush back. And your sister wouldn’t worry about you all the time. Convinced, she is, that you’re going to get blown up.’