by Debbie Rix
Magda nodded. She felt as if a huge responsibility had been lifted from her shoulders.
‘It is shocking what he says about this country,’ her mother went on, ‘but I’m not surprised. Karl has often spoken of his fear about the way everything is going. Before he left for England, he and your father would sit up long into the night, discussing it. I sometimes wondered if it was just talk – men do like to talk, Magda. Often they’d rather talk than act. But Karl is doing something now he believes in, and I must respect that. He’s such a clever boy, I know he wouldn’t say these things lightly.’
‘Should we show it to Papa?’ Magda asked.
‘No,’ Käthe said. ‘I don’t think so. He would insist on us destroying it.’
‘So you don’t think we should get rid of it?’
‘Of course we should,’ Käthe said, fingering the letter. ‘But we won’t, will we? Neither of us could bear to do that – it might be the last letter we ever receive from him.’
‘Oh Mutti, don’t say that, please.’ She nuzzled into her mother’s neck.
‘I’m frightened, Mutti.’
‘I know, Liebling,’ her mother said, stroking her hair. ‘So am I.’
Chapter Five
Keswick
October 1939
Imogen woke just after dawn. Silently she crept out of bed and padded down the chilly lino-covered corridor to the lavatory. Embarrassed at the noise made by the vast overhead cistern as she pulled the chain, she scurried back to the room she shared with Helen. Her room-mate sighed and rolled over in bed, pulling the paisley eiderdown up over her ears.
The room was cold. The bedroom window between their two beds was milky with condensation. Imogen resisted the urge to get back into bed and bury herself in her own eiderdown. Instead she wiped the window with the back of her hand, creating a small porthole through which she could watch the sun coming up over the hills that rose up behind the house. It must have snowed sometime in the night because the summits of the craggy hills were no longer the iron grey of the previous evening, but were sprinkled with the first light snowfall of the year. They sparkled in the autumn sun, pale pink and enticing, like something out of a fairy tale.
Later that morning as Imogen and Helen helped to lay the table for breakfast in the dining room, Mrs Latimer called instructions through the hatch from the kitchen.
‘Use the second best cloth girls – the pale blue one. It’s in the middle drawer of the dresser. And you’ll find plates and so on in the cupboard there… on the right. Use the ones with the little apples and pears. Napkins as usual in the drawer.’
Once they were all seated, boiled eggs arranged on china plates, toast resting in the celadon honeycomb china toast rack, Imogen asked Mrs Latimer if they might go for a walk in the hills later that morning.
‘We thought we’d go up Skiddaw,’ suggested Imogen, ‘the sun on the snow at the top is so lovely.’
‘Skiddà, you mean,’ murmured Mr Latimer from behind his copy of the Penrith Observer.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Latimer?’ enquired Imogen politely, cracking open the top of her boiled egg.
‘It’s pronounced Skiddà… with the stress on the last ‘a’. If you go around saying SkiddORE…’ he emphasised the last three letters with a ‘received pronunciation’ accent, ‘the local children will never let you forget it.’ He peered across the top of his paper and winked at Imogen, before disappearing once again behind the broadsheet.
‘Well thank you very much indeed, I’m sure,’ said Imogen, winking herself at Helen, across the table. ‘We’ll be sure to say it right.’
After breakfast, Imogen and Helen cleared the table and washed up, while Mrs Latimer made them a packed lunch. Back in the hall, as the girls put on their school coats, berets and scarves, Mrs Latimer laid an Ordnance Survey map out on the hall table.
‘I think Skiddaw is a bit ambitious for your first walk, girls,’ she told them. ‘I’d suggest the little hill of Latrigg to start off. Follow Spooney Green Lane here…’ Her manicured finger ran along the dotted line of the footpath. ‘It will take you up through the forest to the top of the hill. From the summit, you’ll have a lovely view of the town and right across Derwentwater and the hills all around.’
Folding the map carefully, she handed it to Imogen. ‘And you’d better put on your walking boots,’ she said, glancing down at the girls’ shoes. ‘Those will be no good at all.’
When she went through to the kitchen they slipped out of the door and down the back of the garden, without changing their shoes.
‘We won’t need boots!’ Imogen declared boldly, as they ran towards the back gate. ‘Really, what a fuss – it’s just a little walk.’
Helen, who was not quite so confident of the wisdom of wearing her day shoes, had already begun to regret not taking their landlady’s advice, but decided against complaining. Imogen could be rather intolerant of people who were ‘weak and weedy’. But after half an hour, even Imogen was regretting her hasty decision – as water seeped through a small hole in the sole of her new brown brogues, saturating her sock. Ever the optimist, she tried her best to ignore it as they trudged along the footpath, past green fields, and instead gazed up at the snow-sprinkled summit.
‘Mrs L said it was about three and a half miles if we just go as far as Latrigg,’ said Imogen brightly. ‘We should be able to do that easily… don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ said Helen doubtfully, gazing up at the crest of the hill looming over the pine forests on the lower slopes. ‘Can you really read that map, Ginny?’
‘Of course,’ said Imogen proudly. In truth, she was not quite sure she really understood the map, with its complex pattern of footpaths, intersecting the circular brown lines that indicated the gradients of the hills over which they were walking.
But keen to show leadership, after they left the relatively easy incline of the lane, she steered them onto a path that traversed the side of a hill. A pine forest rose up imperiously on the right, sunlight filtering through its dark canopy in vertical shafts. Deciduous oaks – their leaves a blaze of autumn colour – dropped away to the left. As they emerged from the woods onto the open hillside once again, they were presented with a stunning vista of snow-covered hills. Gradually the path began to zig-zag towards the summit. Although still well below the snow line, the path was icy and slippery and the girls – in their unsuitable shoes – began to slip and slide. Imogen fell more than once, tearing her woollen stockings.
‘Damn,’ she said, ‘they’re my best pair… I’ll have to mend them now.’
‘Oh, Ginny,’ said Helen, ‘perhaps we ought to go down.’
‘Down!’ exclaimed Imogen, ‘don’t be daft… we’re nearly there.’
They scrambled to the top and as they triumphantly reached the summit, stood together, looking down over the little town of Keswick and beyond to Derwentwater and the fells on the other side.
‘Oh!’ said Helen. ‘It’s so beautiful…’
‘Yes it is, isn’t it?’ said Imogen. ‘I knew it would be worth it. Let’s sit down for a while and have our picnic.’
In spite of the overnight sprinkling of snow, the sun was now high in the sky and the snow had all but melted. The girls removed their coats and laid them down on the damp ground, lining side up.
‘It’s so hot we could sunbathe,’ said Imogen, sitting down on her coat. She unwrapped their sandwiches and cake and laid the food out between them.
‘What… take off our clothes?’ asked Helen, horrified.
‘No, silly… not completely. But we could take off our jerseys and undo our blouses. I was reading an article in a copy of Screen Play magazine the other day. There was an article about Greta Garbo sunbathing. She was in the South of France, and was wearing such wonderful little shorts and a sort of top that stopped under here.’ Imogen indicated an area just beneath her bust line.
‘What – so you could see her stomach?’ asked Helen, breathlessly.
‘Ye
s…’ said Imogen, dreamily. ‘I asked Mummy if she could make me something similar.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She would think about it!’
Imogen undid the buttons on her blouse and pulled it up, revealing her stomach.
‘Ginny!’ said Helen. ‘What if someone saw us?’
‘What! Up here? Don’t be stupid.’
Imogen lay down, her white stomach bared to the weak autumnal sun. Helen gingerly undid her own shirt, but modestly tied the two shirt-tails together.
‘Up here,’ Helen said, sitting with her hands wrapped around her knees, ‘where it’s so quiet and peaceful, it seems unimaginable that there’s a war somewhere.’
‘I know,’ said Imogen. ‘I said the same to Mother in a letter the other day.’
‘Perhaps it will be over soon,’ Helen said, shivering slightly as she ate her slice of cake. ‘I mean, surely the grown-ups will be able to sort it out?’
‘Mmmm,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m not sure. Grown-ups don’t always have all the answers, do they?’
‘Well I hope they do,’ said Helen. ‘My big brother’s away fighting and I do worry about him.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Imogen, sitting up and putting her arm around Helen’s shoulders. ‘I had no idea. My cousins are fighting and I worry about them too, but it’s not the same as a brother. I’m sure he’ll be all right, Helen. Come on – lie down – let’s enjoy the sun while we can.’
After half an hour, as the sun crested and began to slip over the side of hill, the air began to turn chilly.
‘Come on, Ginny,’ Helen begged, buttoning her blouse and hauling on her coat. ‘I’m cold… we ought to get back.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Imogen, reluctantly, tucking her blouse back into her tweed skirt, and pulling her jersey on over her head. Standing up, she shook the damp grass off her coat, and after putting it back on, they began their descent.
Slipping and sliding their way back down the zig-zag path, they became disoriented. The sun was dropping fast behind the hills, which had taken on a dark purplish hue, and light levels were getting low.
‘Oh Ginny,’ bleated Helen, ‘we’re lost.’
Imogen, who was just as nervous as her friend, nevertheless ploughed on, struggling in the half-light with the map.
‘No, no… we’re fine. I’m sure we passed that tree on the way up,’ she said, waving airily at a massive oak, its branches overhanging the path.
‘Did we?’ asked Helen anxiously, ‘I don’t remember.’
Truthfully, Imogen was not sure she remembered either, but she marched boldly on, nevertheless.
‘If we keep going downhill,’ she declared confidently, ‘we’ll get back to town eventually – it makes sense.’
The path took an upward turn.
‘Ginny,’ said Helen, catching her arm, ‘we’re going up again… Ginny!’
Imogen turned irritably towards her friend.
‘You’re lost!’ Helen blurted out, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Admit it!’
‘Well,’ Imogen said, swallowing hard in an attempt to control her own rising sense of panic, ‘you’re lost too! You read the map if you’re so clever.’
She threw the now ragged map onto the stony path and slumped down on the grass verge, removing her brown shoe and examining the sole which had developed a hole the size of a guinea coin. Her stocking was soaking wet and had rucked up under her heel causing a huge blister.
She wanted to cry, but was determined to put on a brave face in front of her friend.
There was a rustling sound in the undergrowth nearby.
‘What was that?’ whispered Helen.
‘I don’t know,’ said Imogen. ‘A rabbit?’
‘It was too loud for a rabbit.’
‘A deer then… there are deer up here on the hills.’
A stifled laugh emanated from a nearby bush and two boys, aged around fifteen, exploded from the woodland, guffawing and clutching their sides.
‘Oh!’ said Imogen, sharply. ‘It’s just two silly boys. Come on Helen… we’re off.’
She shoved her shoe back on, stood up and taking her friend firmly by the arm, marched off up the path.
The boys stood together and laughed openly.
‘You’ll not do any good going that way,’ they called out, ‘unless you want to spend the night on Skiddà.’
The boys turned and ran in the opposite direction, laughing and whooping.
Imogen waited until they were out of sight, before grabbing Helen’s arm once again and chasing after them.
As the sun sank in the west, and the moon rose over Skiddaw, the girls found themselves back on the path that led through the pine forest. In fading light, they ran until they reached the welcome familiarity of Spooney Green Lane. As they arrived, out of breath and panting, on the outskirts of the town, the two boys were waiting for them, leaning on a post and rail fence.
‘You made it then,’ the tall one said, smirking.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Imogen with as much dignity as she could muster.
She was aware that her stockings were torn and the sole of her damaged shoe was flapping wildly as she walked.
‘Not too chilly up there… for sunbathing?’ The boys guffawed.
Helen blushed the colour of beetroot and grabbed her friend’s arm, whispering. ‘They saw us! Oh Ginny, how could you? They saw…’
‘Well, I don’t care,’ retorted Imogen sharply. ‘It was very nice, actually,’ she said to the taller of the two boys. He had bright blue eyes and floppy blond hair. ‘You should try it sometime. It might make you look a bit less pasty-faced…’
She turned on her now rather squashy heel, and marched off towards Manor Park, followed closely by Helen. When she got to the corner of the road, she turned round and noticed the tall boy watching her, a smile playing on his lips. She could have sworn that he winked at her.
Chapter Six
Färsehof Farm
December 1939
Every year, on the first Saturday in December, Käthe prepared the Advent wreath. Piles of greenery lay on the kitchen table, filling the room with their scent. She had gathered branches of pine, bouquets of mistletoe, and late berries from the hedgerows to weave around a circular base made of straw. Velvet and gingham ribbons, meticulously folded and reused each year, were spilling out of a small circular box. Four new red candles stood waiting to be inserted into the wreath. One candle would then be lit the following day – the first Sunday in December, the second one week later and so on, until Christmas Eve.
Magda, wearing her Young Maidens’ uniform, came into the kitchen from the yard. She had been to a special meeting of the Hitler Youth to discuss a mid-winter festival their leader wanted to hold in the village.
‘Oh I’m glad you’re back,’ said Käthe, weaving mistletoe between the prickly pine leaves, ‘do you want to help me with the wreath?’
Magda had always loved the preparations for Christmas and the making of this wreath was something mother and daughter had done together since Magda was old enough to bend the springy green plants into shape.
‘No,’ said Magda, heading towards the stairs.
‘Magda?’ her mother called after her. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘I’m just tired.’
Magda ran upstairs to her bedroom and slumped down on her bed. Kathe followed her and stood anxiously in the doorway.
‘Magda?’ Liebling… tell me, what is the matter?’
‘I hate it!’ said Magda. ‘I hate the Young Maidens and all those girls. I hate Fräulein Müller. I hate it all, and I don’t want to go any more. Please say I can stay at home, Mutti.’
Käthe came into the room and sat down beside her daughter. She put her arm around her.
‘Oh little one – are they being mean to you?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Magda said, impatiently. ‘They don’t like me particularly. But I don’t care about that – I don’t like them either. I just
don’t want to go any more. They are changing everything – even Christmas.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Käthe.
‘We can’t even call it Christmas, any more. It’s ‘Julfest’ now. Fräulein Müller says that for hundreds of years before Christmas existed we had a mid-winter festival and that’s what we have to celebrate – the Aryan family, gathered round the fire, telling stories of bravery.’
‘Would that be so bad?’ asked Käthe.
‘And we aren’t allowed mention Jesus Christ the Saviour. Now, the only saviour is the Führer – can you believe that?’
Kathe shook her head sadly.
‘And there is no Father Christmas – our presents will be delivered by Odin now – a horrible old man in a white robe.’
‘Well…’ said Käthe, ‘does that really matter?’
‘Yes, it does matter! Don’t you see? Everything’s been changed. We can’t even put stars on our tree because they are a symbol of communism – or worse – the Star of David. We had to make swastikas and paint them with gold paint.’
‘That sounds nice,’ Kathe suggested. ‘Where’s yours?’
‘I threw it in the hedge on the way home.’
‘Oh Magda…’
‘And they won’t even let us sing carols. They’ve changed all the words… turned them into … what is that word? Propaganda… that’s right – propaganda for the party.’
‘I’m sure that can’t be true…’
‘Fräulein Müller says we must have a fire in the village and we all have to go and sing songs.’
‘But that might be nice?’ suggested Käthe, gently. ‘Singing – whether it’s carols or not – it might be fun?’
‘No Mutti! I had to practice them today; they’re awful.’ Magda began to weep. Her mother hugged her tightly.
‘Magda,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like it, but you must go. It won’t look good if you don’t.’ Käthe had heard stories about a family which had discouraged their child from attending Hitler Youth meetings. The father had recently been put in a work camp.