by Debbie Rix
‘But you’ve done a course?’
‘Yes. My mother insisted I did one when I left school, before I started university. But I’m not very good.’
The senior Wren smiled a little, and Imogen inwardly cursed her mother, hoping desperately that she would not be sent to the typing pool.
‘And what are you studying at university?’
‘Architecture.’
The Wren looked up at Imogen, briefly, before returning to her notes.
‘Right, that’s all. Wait outside for your medical – and send the next person in please?’
Accepted for training, Imogen was delighted to discover she had been assigned to the plotting room.
‘I’m so relieved,’ she told Joy. ‘You know how I hate typing. I’d have loathed that. It was plotting or signals for me, and I’m quite happy with plotting.’
‘Well I’m very pleased too,’ said Joy. ‘I’m a jolly good typist and fully intend to become the best “writer” they’ve ever had.’
Imogen, back from her night shift, let herself into the hall, and went through to the kitchen where Edith was already up, riddling the stove.
‘Morning Miss… you just back?’
‘Yes, Edith. You’re up early.’ She sank down onto a kitchen chair and removed her shoes. ‘Thank goodness, another shift over and done with. I’m on evenings tonight. So I’ll be leaving again around four.’
‘You poor thing,’ said Edith. ‘You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go upstairs and get into bed, and I’ll bring you some cocoa.’
‘Oh Edith – you are an angel,’ said Imogen.
She left her shoes in the hall, hanging her coat over the bottom of the banisters, and walked upstairs in her stockinged feet. She removed her uniform, laid it on a chair, and climbed into bed. Either Edith or her mother had left a stone hot water bottle in the bed for her, and although the heat had begun to dissipate, her bed was nevertheless warm and cosy. She was vaguely aware of someone putting a cup down on her bedside table, as she drifted off to sleep.
Standing in the hall later that afternoon, Imogen called out to her mother. ‘I’m off now Ma… back just after midnight. Tell Daddy not to put the chain on, won’t you?’
‘All right, Ginny. Oh… and darling,’ her mother called out from the drawing room, ‘don’t forget we’ve got a few people for supper tomorrow – you are off duty aren’t you?’
‘I’m not sure. I think I’m on days tomorrow so I should be free in the evening. ’
‘I do hope so,’ said her mother, ‘I think Freddie is coming.’
Imogen was grateful it was a busy evening in the plotting room. Convoys of ships were being moved up through the North Sea towards Rothsay and Scapa Flow and she hardly had time to have a cup of tea, let alone think about Freddie. The thought of him treating her with polite disdain in front of her parents was unbearable.
The following evening, she arrived back from work just after eight o’clock to find the guests had already arrived. With no time to change, and feeling sick with nerves, she checked her reflection in the mirror above the hall table, fished her hairbrush out of her gas mask case, brushed her hair and came into the drawing room with as much aplomb as possible.
Marjorie McMasters and her husband Jock were there, but there was no sign of Freddie – or Philip, or Jonno for that matter. Secretly, Imogen was relieved.
‘Good evening all,’ she said.
‘Good evening Imogen,’ said Marjorie. ‘You do look smart in your uniform.’
‘Oh,’ said Imogen, ‘thank you. It could be a lot worse, but it’s a bit scratchy. I read somewhere that Diana Churchill’s uniform was specially made for her out of doeskin, lucky thing. Still, I can’t complain. Mummy had mine altered at her dressmakers, so it does at least fit properly.’
‘Dubonnet, darling?’ asked Joe, standing beside the drinks tray.
‘Yes Daddy, thanks. How are the boys?’ Imogen asked Marjorie.
‘Oh all alive, thank goodness,’ said Moira. Jock raised his eyes heavenward.
‘Well that’s a blessing,’ said Rose. ‘It must be such a worry. I’m so lucky that Imogen is still here with us.’
‘Although how long that will last, I don’t know,’ said Imogen, provocatively.
‘Why?’ asked Rose. ‘Are they moving you?’
‘Nothing’s been said,’ said Imogen. ‘But people do talk about being posted around the country. Anyway, don’t worry – looks like I’ll be plotting shipping in the North Sea for the foreseeable!’
‘I gather you saw Freddie,’ said Marjorie, pointedly.
Imogen blushed. ‘Oh yes – when he was home for a few days before his posting.’
‘Yes, he mentioned you’d met. He said you were doing very well – he thought your design was splendid.’
‘Did he?’ said Imogen, smiling. ‘That was sweet of him. We didn’t see each other for long. And he couldn’t tell me much about his posting, but it all sounded jolly exciting.’
‘It’s all a bit hush-hush,’ said Marjorie. ‘But I know he…’ she paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘He made of point of saying that if I saw you, to tell you how lovely it had been to see you – and that he was sorry. I’m not sure what for…’ She stared pointedly, at Imogen, willing her to explain.
Imogen swallowed hard. She could feel tears hovering. Rose sat, her drink held aloft, waiting expectantly.
‘It was nothing, really,’ said Imogen. ‘Just that he had to rush off, that’s all,’ she looked around the room. ‘I’ll just go and check on Edith, shall I?’
Later that night, when they’d gone, as she lay in bed, the hot water bottle warming her icy feet, she thought about Freddie and what he had been trying to say. He’d told her that she must forget him. Was he now trying to tell her that he hadn’t really meant it? It was unfair of him, she thought, to be so confusing. She had tried so hard to do as he’d asked. She hadn’t forgotten him, exactly, but she was able to spend whole days without thinking about him, and the longer it went on, the more determined she was to try even harder. She rolled over and made a silent resolution… to expunge him, completely, and live for the day. Because, as Freddie had said, who knew what the future might bring? No one knew what to expect the following week, or the following day, for that matter. Life itself was uncertain and all anyone could do was get on with it.
Chapter Nineteen
Färsehof Farm
July 1943
Magda’s grief at the loss of her friends did not diminish with time. Instead, as spring turned to summer, and the sun ripened the wheat and barley growing in the fields, her sense of injustice at what had happened to them – at the terrible loss of their lives – became almost unbearable.
Alone in her room, she took out Karl’s letter. Written all those years before, explaining the evils of National Socialism and where that could lead, it now seemed so prescient. The thought that the White Rose Movement had been so swiftly snuffed out, that her friends’ lives had been so harshly exterminated, dominated her every waking moment. She felt guilt, of course, at having survived. But the fact she had denied knowing them to the Gestapo – like Judas denying Christ – seemed the worst sin of all. She wavered back and forth, caught between guilt and relief. What would have been the point of admitting everything – just to be executed like the others? Better, surely, to remain alive and do her best to support the Movement and – with luck – live to see the overthrow of the National Socialist government.
Her parents, of course, knew nothing of this. On the surface, she appeared to immerse herself in village life. She rose early and helped her father with the milking; she cycled to school and worked hard at her lessons. She was determined to do well in her Abitur – the qualifying test for university admission. In the evenings she helped her mother in the kitchen. She was relieved when school broke up for the summer, and she could plunge herself into farm work. It was harvest time and the day began at dawn and finished when the sun fell behind the horizon. She helped
scythe the wheat, rolling the crop into stooks, before bringing it into the barn to thresh. Dutifully, she milked the cows and tidied the barns, clearing space for the winter feed. The work was hard, but somehow liberating. When she was physically exhausted she could almost forget about politics, her friends and even the war. It all seemed a long way away. The only involvement she had with other young people was at the weekly Hitler Youth meetings – something she could not avoid.
After her interrogation by the Gestapo, Otto had made it quite clear that he expected something in return for his loyalty.
‘You are very fortunate,’ he had said that day to Magda, after the officers had left.
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘I hope you weren’t lying to them.’
‘No,’ she had said, firmly. ‘But thank you… for speaking up for me. I’m grateful, obviously.’
‘I hope you are,’ he had said, walking towards the door. ‘Maybe we can go to the next meeting together.’
‘Yes,’ she said, feebly. ‘Yes of course.’
Now, he was always waiting for her when she arrived and frequently wanted to walk her home. Sometimes she would allow it, and endure his kisses and fumbling with her shirt buttons at the farm gate.
‘I have to go,’ she would say, unwrapping herself from his arms, ‘I’ve got to be up at dawn… I must go in now. I must help my father.’
She knew he was frustrated by her reluctance, but it was hard for him to argue with her, when she was so obviously doing her duty by her family. But as she said goodbye, she was aware of the longing in his eyes, and it frightened her. How long she could keep him at bay she didn’t know.
She came downstairs one evening wearing a pale blue dress and the brooch Otto had given her all those months before.
‘You look very pretty,’ said Käthe who was gutting fish at the table. ‘Where are you going?’
‘A dance in the village with Otto.’
‘With Otto… but I thought you didn’t like him?’
‘I don’t. But I need to keep him… on my side.’
‘What does he know about you, Magda? Ever since those officers came here… you’ve behaved strangely. What did you really get up to in Munich?’
‘Nothing Mutti. I just met some people. They were… different.’
‘What do you mean – different?’
‘They didn’t… agree with everything.’
‘You mean they were revolutionaries.’ Her mother put down her knife, and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Did you know they had these dangerous views? I can’t believe you met with these people and knew what they were doing! Are you mad?’
‘Karl is working against the government,’ Magda said, defiantly.
‘Yes, and risking his life in the process, I imagine. You don’t have to copy him, you know.’
‘I couldn’t if I wanted to, could I? He’s in England, whereas I’m stuck here.’
Her mother looked hurt. ‘Is that what you think? That you are stuck here with us? Well, I think you are lucky. Lucky that you escaped from that group just in time. And I’m sorry if you’re bored here with your father and me. We are just trying to keep you safe.’
Magda ran over to her mother and hugged her. ‘Mutti… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be unkind. Of course I’m happy to be with you and Papa – lucky to live on the farm. I just feel guilty about my friends, about Karl, about everything.’
She squeezed her mother tightly.
‘Ouch,’ said her mother, pulling away. ‘Something stuck in my chest.’
‘Oh, it’s this brooch. Otto gave it to me – he insisted I wear it tonight.’
Her mother frowned slightly.
‘What is it?’ Magda said, ‘What’s the matter, Mutti?’
‘Oh… nothing. It must be a coincidence.’ Her mother returned to the kitchen table and picked up the fish, peeling away its backbone.
‘What coincidence?’
‘That brooch – it looks familiar, that’s all.’
‘Does it?”
‘Yes…but it can’t be the same. The one I remember had some matching earrings.’
‘I have the earrings but I don’t wear them; they pinch. ’
The blood drained from her mother’s face.
‘Mutti – where have you seen the brooch before? You have to tell me.’
Her mother bit her lip. ‘Dr Kalman’s wife, Ester.’
Magda sat down suddenly at the table, touching the brooch.
‘Dr Kalman had the brooch and the earrings made for Ester as an anniversary present – to go with her eyes. A jeweller in Augsburg made them for him, that’s why I know… they’re the only ones. Why wouldn’t she have taken them with her when they left?’ She looked down at Magda.
‘Oh my God,’ said Magda, pulling at the brooch, ripping her dress as she tore it off. ‘How could he?’ she said, putting it on the table, as if it were a poisonous insect. ‘He must have stolen it from them before they left the village.’
‘Yes. Oh but Magda don’t say anything to him about it. He already has his suspicions about you and you mustn’t make him angry.’
‘He disgusts me,’ Magda said, leaping to her feet. ‘He’s not a brave soldier. He’s a cheap thief, and I hate him!’
She ran upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
A little later, as she lay on her bed, she heard the clipping sound of Otto’s boots as he marched across the yard. She heard his loud voice down in the farmhouse kitchen; his noisy guffawing, as he made some sort of joke to her mother. She heard her mother laughing nervously, before she called upstairs to Magda.
‘Otto’s here.’
Magda remained, face down, on the bed. She called downstairs, her voice muffled by the quilt.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel well.’
She heard Otto’s heavy tread on the stairs; he pushed open her door.
‘Magda, what do you mean… you’re not well?’
‘I feel sick,’ she said, turning her red, tear-stained face to look at him. ‘I’m sorry. But I can’t come.’
‘It’s my last night.’
She looked at him, confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Haven’t you heard? Our brigade – we’ve been called up. We leave tomorrow…’
He held his hand out to her, opening the fingers, revealing the brooch nestling on his palm. ‘You forgot this… put it on.’
‘It was pulling my dress,’ she said, ‘I had it on earlier, but I took it off again.’
‘Wear it,’ he said firmly. ‘Get ready, I’ll wait downstairs.’
Her fingers shaking, she pinned the brooch to her lapel. In her mind’s eye she saw Frau Kalman, her beautiful eyes – the eyes Lotte had inherited – filled with terror as she stood holding her son on the concourse outside Munich station. What had Otto said about them that day? They were nothing… just scum. If it was true that he was leaving tomorrow, she must just get through this evening. Just one more evening, she thought, and with luck, she might never have to see him again.
Part III
Victors and Vanquished
1944 – 1945
Four years ago our nation and empire stood alone against an overwhelming enemy, with our backs to the wall…. Now once more a supreme test has to be faced. This time the challenge is not to fight to survive but to fight to win the final victory for the good cause…
King George VI, radio address, 6 June 1944
Chapter Twenty
Belsize Park, London
January 1944
Snow fell silently, carpeting the roads, pavement and gardens in deep drifts. The normally busy streets of Belsize Park were silent, as people trudged down the roads heading into town. Imogen climbed out of bed, recoiling as her naked feet touched the lino. Regretting that she had not brought a small rug from home to put on the floor, she pulled on her woollen dressing gown and slippers, grabbed her towel and wash bag, and ran down the freezing hall to the communal bathroom. Finding it lo
cked, she leant against the wall, jiggling, her legs crossed. Inside the bathroom, she could hear Joy gargling.
‘Oh do hurry up Joy, for goodness sake,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m desperate out here…’
She heard the sound of the lock being slid back and the door opened. Steam billowed out into the hall.
‘I’ve just had a bath,’ said Joy, wrapped in a small towel. ‘But the water’s still lovely and hot. Jump in. I’ll just finish my teeth and then leave you to it.’
Back in their icy room, they dressed as quickly as possible, in their uniform of black stockings, dark blue skirt with its kick pleats, white shirt, tie and jacket.
‘God it’s cold,’ muttered Imogen, sitting at the cluttered dressing table she shared with Joy. Bowls of face powder, lipsticks, hairbrushes and rollers competed for space. ‘The snow’s coming thick and fast now,’ she said, peering out of the bay window as she powdered her face. ‘Do let’s ask that woman if we can have a little fire in here. We’ve got a perfectly good grate… and I’m not sure I can take another night like that.’
‘She’ll never let us have one,’ said Joy, peering into the dressing table mirror over Imogen’s shoulder as she combed her hair. ‘You know what she’s like. “Fires may be lit only in common parts,”’ she said, imitating the landlady’s sing-song voice.
‘Oh well, we’re just time for breakfast, and at least the dining room will be warm, thank goodness,’ said Imogen.
The two girls had lived in their chilly boarding house in Belsize Park for one week and were still getting used to both the house and its rules, and the geography of the capital city. Situated in the north of London, Belsize Park had at one time been a comfortable middle-class suburb. Since before the war many of the large Victorian houses had been divided into flats, or were now taking in ‘paying guests’. Their boarding house fell into this category and was filled with a motley collection of refugees and military personnel. Not exactly a home from home, but there was a sort of communal spirit.