The Secret Letter

by Debbie Rix

‘What’s she like?’

  ‘My mother? She’s a doctor. She lives outside the city – a long way away. I don’t see her very much.’

  ‘Does she know about you and the movement?’ asked Magda.

  ‘Yes, she knows. My father too; they both support us. My father’s already in jail for his views.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Magda said. ‘That must be terrible.’

  ‘It’s hard. We all have to be careful. My whole family is being watched. Me too, I suspect. But we take care to keep things small, you know?’

  ‘Why did you let me join? Surely, that was a risk?’

  Saskia lay on the bed, sipping tea and inhaling her cigarette. ‘Max was against it – he thought I was mad letting you in. But there’s something about you. I just know we can trust you.’

  A siren – piercing and insistent – disturbed the peace of the attic room.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Saskia, swinging her legs off the bed, her cigarette hanging from her lips.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Magda.

  ‘It’s a siren, silly,’ said the older girl. ‘Surely you’ve heard one before?’

  ‘No,’ said Magda, innocently.

  ‘Oh, of course; you live in the country. It means bombs are coming. We had the same thing a month or so ago. Come on – we’ll have go down to the basement.’

  Magda and Saskia ran down the five flights of stairs, joining a throng of people from the other flats dressed in every variety of clothing – evening dresses, pyjamas, even a young man in an SS uniform. Magda had a frisson of fear when she saw him. But Saskia slapped him on the back.

  ‘Hi Klaus – you well?’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied, running ahead of them down the stairs.

  Magda marvelled at Saskia’s cool exterior. To be able to be so calm and casual in the presence of a uniformed soldier – the enemy – seemed extraordinary to her. Down in the cellars, the tenants gathered. There was a gaggle of sleepy children clutching teddy bears, being comforted by their mothers, some of whom wore dressing gowns, their hair in curlers. The concierge had a list of everyone who lived in the building and was laboriously ticking off each name as they entered.

  ‘The Beckers from apartment three are missing,’ she said, looking around the room, accusingly.

  ‘Perhaps someone should go back up and knock on their door,’ suggested Klaus.

  ‘No,’ said a woman in curlers. ‘It’s not safe. The bombers must be close now.’

  The building shook; there was a sound of crashing, and then a sort of roaring sound, louder than anything Magda had ever heard before. The inhabitants of the cellar gasped, the mothers gathering up their children, the men wrapping their arms protectively around their families.

  ‘Perhaps we’d better stay down here,’ said Klaus pragmatically. ‘If the Beckers are up there, it’s either too late, or they’ll be down here soon enough.’

  ‘They’ve gone away,’ said another man impatiently. He was wearing a silk dressing gown. ‘I saw them leave earlier from my window.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ said the concierge irritably, from her hiding place beneath a small table.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ said the woman in curlers, clutching her two children to her breast.

  The building shook again. There was another violent explosion, closer this time. The group, most of whom were sitting on the floor, their backs to the wall, their arms wrapped defensively around their knees, instinctively hid their faces. The children began to weep, their mothers comforting them as best they could.

  ‘That was close,’ said the man in the dressing gown. ‘Too bloody close.’

  There was another explosion, followed by another…

  When the All Clear siren finally sounded, the group staggered upstairs. Their building had miraculously survived, but the sky outside was red with flame and vast aching gaps had appeared where apartment buildings had once stood. From the hallway, they stared uncomprehendingly through the shattered glass front door at the sea of broken bricks, glass and furniture strewn across the road. Somewhere beneath the piles of rubble, people moaned and screamed. A child ran, bleeding, down the road, crying for his mother.

  Saskia put her arm around Magda’s shoulders as they surveyed the carnage. ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ she said.

  ‘But we should help,’ said Magda, her eyes filled with terror.

  ‘Others will do that. Come on little one, let’s get you upstairs to bed.’

  Saskia guided her up the five flights of stairs and gently removed her jacket, encouraging her to sit down on the bed.

  ‘You’re shaking,’ she said. ‘Here… take off your skirt.’

  Magda sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off her jumper. Saskia knelt in front of her, and removed her boots and stockings.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured, ‘the bombers have gone now. They won’t come back again tonight.’

  She swung Magda’s legs into the bed and covered her with the quilt. As Magda lay down, still shaking, Saskia sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Magda’s forehead.

  ‘Rest little one, rest now,’ she said and slowly Magda’s eyes closed, her eyelashes fluttering as she fell into a deep but troubled sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Newcastle

  February 1943

  As Imogen walked through the impressive red-brick façade of the student union building, rain poured out of the sky in waves – dense droplets that hammered against the leaded windows, and bounced off the grey paving, splattering her stockings with dirty water and soaking through the thin leather of her dark brown court shoes. She ran the last few yards into the School of Architecture, holding her leather briefcase over her head. An impressive mock gothic building with stone-mullioned double-height windows, its red brickwork covered in ivy, it still gave Imogen a thrill every time she walked through the large wooden doors. As one of just two women out of a year group of sixty, she was proud to be a part of it, and felt, perhaps for the first time in her life, that she had truly found a real purpose.

  Upstairs, in the drawing studio, with its vast windows overlooking the quad, she removed her wet coat, shaking off the raindrops, before hanging it on the pegs by the door, aware of the other students’ eyes on her neat figure. With her dark hair and green eyes, Imogen found herself the subject of constant attention from men trying to persuade her to go on a date – a situation that both pleased and irritated her.

  ‘Morning Ginny,’ Giles, a fellow student, called out. ‘How’s my best girl? Changed your mind about marrying me?’

  ‘I’m fine, Giles, thank you,’ she said, walking across the studio to her drawing board. ‘And no… I’m still not available.’

  Already at work was Marion, the other female in the group. Taller than Imogen by several inches, the ‘boys’, as she and Marion called them, felt slightly intimidated by her. She had a wicked sense of humour, which Imogen loved, smoked incessantly, and had a habit of wearing corduroy trousers.

  ‘Giles is being his usual patronising self, I see,’ said Marion, winking at Imogen. ‘Still, you can’t blame him for trying.’

  Imogen smiled and took the cover off her drawing board, studying her work from the previous day. She was flattered, of course, by the boys’ attention, but was determined not to be side-tracked. She had worked hard to get to university and although she would only have the chance to complete the first year of her degree course before she was required to join up, she wasn’t going to waste her time going on pointless dates with men in whom she had no interest. Her lectures covered subjects as varied as the history of architecture, which she loved… to engineering which she found interesting, if challenging… to complex mathematics which she struggled with. But determined to succeed, she worked hard, taking her maths homework back to her father in the evenings for extra tuition. Beyond the academic work, she was also required to study life-drawing and painting, which she shone at, developing a real eye for the human form.

  Imo
gen and Marion worked hard all morning and at lunchtime Marion suggested they go to the canteen.

  ‘The boys are off to the Shit and Twigs,’ Marion said. ‘We might get a chance to have a peaceful lunch for once.’

  ‘The Crow’s Nest’ pub at the end of the road, affectionately known as the Shit and Twigs, was the students’ regular haunt and the two girls often joined the boys there in the evenings. But at lunchtime they both preferred to remain sober, so they could work hard in the afternoon.

  The rain had let up by the time they pushed out of the big double doors into the quad, and the sun was making an appearance, pushing through the granite grey clouds overhead.

  The canteen was busy and they queued in a long line, inspecting the various options, finally choosing cock-a-leekie soup and bread. They found a table in the corner of the canteen.

  ‘What are your plans?’ Imogen asked Marion as they spooned soup into their mouths.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Next year – when we’re nineteen… when we have to join up.’

  ‘Oh that. Apart from the unlikely prospect of Hitler suing for peace, you mean?’ Marion laughed, put her spoon down, and lit a cigarette. ‘I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘The Land Army, maybe? I rather fancy those corduroy breeches they wear.’

  ‘Working the land?’ Imogen was horrified. ‘That would be awful.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Marion. ‘My father’s a farmer. Well, a landowner really, but I’m familiar with tractors and engines and all that. Or the ATS – drive a big truck around the place. What about you?’

  ‘The Wrens, I think,’ said Imogen. ‘The hats are nice.’ She giggled. ‘Seriously – I’d quite like to push those little ships around. I’ve a cousin in the Wrens who’s a plotter, and she was telling me all about it. Or a radio operator – that might be fun. I can’t bear to think about it really. I’m loving it here so much, the thought of having to give it up for a while is rather painful.’

  ‘Now stop this,’ said Giles, interrupting, and putting his lunch tray noisily down on the table. ‘Budge up Marion, there’s a good girl.’ He sat down on the bench next to Marion, smelling strongly of beer, belching loudly and began to shovel shepherd’s pie into his mouth. They were soon joined by a gaggle of young men, anxious to chat and show off.

  Back in the drawing studio, the afternoon sun poured through the double-height windows, filling the space with light. Imogen had begun work on a preliminary design for a public building inspired by classic 1930s architecture. It was a project that she would have to complete over the next few months, involving detailed working drawings, culminating in a hand-painted finished image of the final scheme. Concentrating hard, she looked up, briefly, across the sea of student heads and saw a flash of dark grey uniform. Ex-students often called into the studio so this was not unusual, but the owner of this uniform was Freddie McMasters. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the bombing in Jesmond – before he went to Canada. Over the past year she’d done her best to forget him, but now, seeing him again, she felt her heart beginning to race.

  He was standing on the other side of the room, laughing with their tutor. Frustratingly, Imogen was unable to make out what they were saying. Desperate for Freddie to notice her, and too shy to simply walk across the crowded studio and speak to him, she stood up suddenly, knocking her pot of pencils off her desk with a loud clatter.

  Everyone, including Freddie, looked around, startled by the noise. She blushed as she bent down to pick up the pens, and then, deeply embarrassed at her own clumsiness, waved at him. He said something to the tutor, who patted him on the back.

  ‘See you later,’ Freddie called back to his tutor, as he walked towards her, across the studio.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said, kissing Imogen fleetingly on the check. ‘I had no idea you’d already started here. Somehow in my mind, you’re still at school.’

  ‘Oh no, I left last year. This is my second term here.’

  ‘I remember now,’ he said, ‘you wanted to do engineering, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but it turned out universities don’t accept ladies who want to study engineering. You were the one who suggested I did architecture instead, don’t you remember? Anyway – here I am.’

  He walked around her drawing board to study her work.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said, his chin resting in his hand.

  She blushed again. ‘I’ve only just started it… it’ll get better.’ She felt tongue-tied, uncertain what to say. ‘Well…’ she began.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘So you’re home? Are you coming back to university?’

  ‘No, no… sadly that will have to wait till Mr Hitler has given up. No. I’m just back for a couple of days. I’ve finished my training – I got back from Canada yesterday actually. Just wanted to see my folks, and thought while I was in Newcastle I’d pop in – see my old tutor; make sure he doesn’t forget about me. ’ Freddie nodded towards their drawing teacher standing on the other side of the room. ‘I’m off to join my new squadron in the morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all she could say. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, biting his lip, ‘maybe see you later – in the pub?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, too quickly. ‘I’ll be there.’

  He smiled briefly, a distant smile, she thought, and walked back across the studio. He said something else to their tutor, accompanied by an easy laugh, a manly slap on the back, and was gone, the doors of the studio swinging into the room, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he strode off down the corridor.

  ‘Who was that?’ whispered Marion conspiratorially, as Imogen attempted to busy herself, putting her pens neatly back in the pot.

  ‘Just an old friend,’ she said.

  ‘Pretty dishy,’ said Marion. ‘Always did rather fancy a flyer…’

  Imogen glared at her.

  ‘Ooh… sorry,’ said Marion. ‘Is he yours?’

  ‘No, not really. I thought he might have been once. But somehow we just never… never seem to connect at the right time.’

  The Crow’s Nest was busy with locals and students all fighting to get to the bar. Imogen and Marion squeezed in through the doors and Imogen could see Freddie in the centre of a group of young men, hanging on his every word. All first year students, many of whom would be joining up themselves soon, they were eager to talk to an older student, already a glamorous flyer in the RAF. He was a hero to them and the pub was filled with the sound of laughter as they listened to his tales. It felt exclusive somehow – these men sharing stories together. She wanted desperately to be part of it, wanted him to notice her… to call her over and say to everyone, ‘Here’s Imogen – I must get her a drink.’ And they’d all stand back and watch as he put his arm around her, and made her feel special. Truthfully, she wanted everyone else to leave, to just be alone with him, to be able to tell him what she had felt all these years.

  Marion fought her way through to the bar.

  ‘Two gin and tonics please,’ she shouted to the barmaid, who ignored her, choosing instead to serve a handsome young man standing next to her.

  Giles came to the girls’ rescue. ‘Two g & t’s for the lovely ladies when you’ve got a moment, Barbara,’ he shouted to the barmaid, who nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘It’s so annoying,’ said Marion. ‘Why won’t she just accept my order? It’s humiliating having to depend on you, of all people, Giles.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Giles. ‘Next time, I’ll leave you to die of thirst.’

  Clutching their drinks, Marion suggested they find a table, but Imogen was desperate to speak to Freddie.

  ‘You go and sit down with Giles; I’ll be over in a moment,’ she whispered to her friend.

  She fought her way through the throng, ducking under the arm of a tall student who was standing between her and the object of her desire. She materialised in the centre of the group, as if by magic.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Freddie, cheerfully.
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  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind… I just thought we ought to have a chat.’

  The young men looked at one another and gradually slipped away, forming other rings of laughter and banter, leaving Freddie and Imogen alone.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Imogen. ‘I didn’t mean to break things up.’ She felt embarrassed, rather than guilty.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, kindly. ‘Let’s go and sit over there. I haven’t got that long.’

  He found a small table in the corner, near the door.

  ‘So,’ he began, ‘how have you been keeping?’

  It was the sort of question people ask a distant cousin, or a maiden aunt, and Imogen’s heart sank.

  ‘Fine…’

  ‘Your parents… are they well?’

  ‘Yes… yours?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And… Philip and Jonno?’

  ‘Yes, both OK – thanks. Phil’s ship took a bit of a battering but he got out before it sank.’

  ‘How awful. I hadn’t heard. Is he really all right?’

  ‘Yes. You know Phil – nothing gets him down. And what about you? You know, I’d forgotten you were going to study here. I was rather surprised to see you earlier in the drawing studio.’

  ‘Were you?’ she asked. ‘We’d talked about it that night when you took me out – last Easter. The night the bomb fell.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘that awful night; that poor family. How could I forget? What must you think of me?’

  ‘Well it was a long time ago; and such a lot has happened, particularly to you. How was Canada?’ She had been dreading asking him, fearful he might reveal a secret marriage to one of the girls he’d met. Was that why he was being so distant with her?

  ‘Oh great fun. I had a wonderful time. It’s a marvellous country and fantastic to be able to learn to fly out there – there’s so much room.’

  ‘You sent me a letter,’ she began.

  ‘You didn’t reply,’ he said.

  ‘I… I thought you sounded as if you didn’t need me to write back,’ she stumbled.