by Debbie Rix
He hobbled over to the other side of the garden and they kissed.
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘And I love you, too,’ he replied.
She began to cry.
‘Magda,’ he said gently, ‘what’s the matter?’
‘You know what’s the matter. I know you’ll be leaving me soon.’
‘Not leaving you. It’s not you I want to leave. But yes… I can walk, just about. I can’t justify staying much longer, can I?’
They stood together in the warm sunshine, their arms wrapped around one another, Magda leaning her head against his chest.
‘Let’s eat out here,’ Magda suggested. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. We could have some bread and cheese and a glass of beer. Would you like that?’
‘I’d love that. Let me come and help you.’
‘No, it’s OK. You enjoy the sun. Keep the chickens company. Sit down – I’ll bring it to you.’
As she reached the garden gate, Michael called out to her.
‘Magda…’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to know how grateful I am… for everything you’ve done for me.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’
She was washing her hands at the sink, a tray laid on the table behind her with bread and cheese and two glasses of beer, when she saw a familiar figure walking into the farmyard. Panicking, she ran across the kitchen intending to lock the door, but he had seen her already through the window.
‘Hi Magda!’ Otto called out.
Reluctantly, she took a deep breath, and opened the door.
‘Otto… What are you doing here?’
‘Well… that’s a nice welcome for your boyfriend.’ He was wearing the dark leather coat of an SS officer. He looked taller somehow, more threatening – filling the doorway, blocking out the light. She stood rooted to the spot, willing him to go away.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ He asked.
‘Oh… yes, of course.’
She stood back as he strode into the kitchen.
‘You’re having lunch?’ he said, noting the tray.
‘Oh… no. I was just laying it out for Mutti and Papa.’
‘Where are they? I’d like to say hello.’
‘They’re out,’ she said.
‘Then why have you laid a tray?’
‘For when they get back… it’s a surprise.’
His constant questioning had always irritated her. He frowned slightly.
‘Well, if they’re not here, maybe I could eat it? I’m starving.’
‘Yes, of course. Sit down.’
‘It’s on a tray. Let’s go into the garden and eat it there.’
‘No!’ she said, abruptly. ‘Let’s eat in here. It looks lovely but it’s really quite cold outside.’
‘All right,’ he said, shrugging. He sat down heavily on a chair and drained one of the glasses of beer. She brought over a fresh bottle and topped it up.
‘When did you get back?’ she asked, as casually as she could.
‘Last night. I’m just home on leave for a few days.’
‘That’s nice,’ she said, feebly. ‘Your mother must be pleased.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. And what about you? What are you doing?’
‘Farm work… I’m helping my father. All the local men have gone off to fight, so he needed me here.’
He began to eat the bread, tearing chunks off with his hands, pushing the cheese into his mouth. She topped up his glass again.
‘Beer?’ he said. ‘What are we celebrating?’
‘Nothing. As I said, it was for my parents.’
‘But they are not here. Why would you pour beer for people who aren’t even here?’
‘Why not?’ she replied as calmly as she could
‘It will go flat,’ he said dismissively, ‘you know that, surely. You’re not that stupid.’
She laughed nervously. ‘Maybe I am…’
‘Aren’t you eating?’ he asked, draining his glass again.
‘I’m not that hungry.’
She kept glancing towards the door, praying that Michael would not come looking for her.
‘You seem nervous,’ Otto said, ‘what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I’m fine.’
She forced herself to eat something, to sip the beer, and smile.
‘Have you missed me?’
It was such an absurd question, she thought. How Otto could continue to believe that she liked him seemed incredible.
‘Yes, of course,’ she lied. ‘What’s it like – being in the SS?’
‘Not so different to the Youth. I’ve been promoted already.’ He banged the insignia on his shoulder. ‘Obersturmführer,’ he said proudly. ‘They’ve made me an officer.’
‘Well done,’ she said.
There was a clattering noise outside.
‘Who’s out there?’ asked Otto, leaping to his feet.
‘No one,’ Magda said, her heart racing. ‘It must be a cat, or one of the chickens knocking something over.’
‘I’ll go and look. I noticed a crashed plane down the road. You can’t be too careful.’
He opened the kitchen door and went out into the yard. Magda followed him, intending to distract him, but he ran straight round the side of the farmhouse and into the vegetable garden.
‘The noise came from here,’ he called to her.
‘Well… there’s no one here now.’ She looked around, wondering where Michael could have gone.
Otto stalked around the garden, peering into every corner.
‘Otto, there’s no one here,’ she insisted desperately. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Michael dragging his bad leg, hobbling across the farmyard towards the barn. It would be just like Otto to insist on searching the whole farm. Desperate to distract him and give Michael a chance to escape onto the road, she walked over to Otto, and leaned towards him, entwining her fingers around his.
‘Come back inside. My parents are out now, but they will be back soon. We have a little time…’
He grinned, revealing his large white teeth, and together they walked slowly across the garden, only stopping for Otto to study study a pile of broken flowerpots. ‘This must be what I heard,’ he said, picking up the terracotta fragments.
‘Yes, I told you. It’s just the cat, or one of the chickens. Come…’ she pulled him towards her.
Inside the kitchen, Otto pressed her against the wall and kissed her violently. Every sinew in her body ached to push him away, to struggle, but she let him kiss her, praying that as he did so, Michael would make his escape, down the track towards the road, over the fields, out of the valley and away. He was wearing her father’s clothes and perhaps could pass as a local. But he had no money, no papers. His compass and silk map were still upstairs in the attic. His chances of survival were slim at best. But at least Otto wouldn’t get him. Not that day. She could save him from that at least; and as Otto’s hands slid beneath her clothes, as he panted at her neck, murmuring her name, as he forced himself inside her, she cried out – not with ecstasy but in pain.
When it was over, she leaned against the wall, shaking.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ he said, buttoning his trousers. ‘Shall I see you again?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I don’t think so… I have things to do.’
He shrugged dismissively. She heard the sound of the horse and cart trotting back into the yard. Her racing heart slowed a little as she heard her father’s voice chatting amiably to his beloved mare.
‘Your father’s back… I’d better go.’ Otto clicked his heels at her, as if saluting a senior officer. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But as she heard him stride away across the yard, she fell onto the floor and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Four
St James’s
April 1944
The pace of work at St James’s had increased over the previous couple
of weeks and Imogen frequently found herself working late into the evening, her back aching from long hours hunched over the typewriter. One evening, as her fingers thundered across the keyboard, she was looking forward to the warm bath she would have back in Belsize Park, when there was a knock at the door. She had been waiting all day for a stack of documents to be sent over from the War Office.
‘About time…’ she muttered. ‘Come in,’ she shouted briskly. To her surprise, Benjamin put his head round the door.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘what on earth are you doing here?’
‘Well that’s a very nice welcome.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said hurriedly. ‘It’s just I was expecting some paperwork, and not you. How did you get in, anyway?’
‘I had a meeting down the hall with one of your team.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You are full of surprises, aren’t you?’
He smiled enigmatically. ‘Well, if you’re too busy to see me…?’
‘No… not at all. I suspect the documents I was waiting for aren’t going to arrive this evening. I was just trying to get ready for a big meeting we have tomorrow morning.’
‘If you’re sure? I was hoping we could have supper together. I have to go away tomorrow for a few days.’
‘That would be lovely. Just give me five minutes to sort myself out here. I’ll meet you downstairs, shall I?’
Outside on Piccadilly, the scent of blossom from the trees in the park floated on a warm breeze. Imogen instantly relaxed and took Ben’s arm.
‘How lovely it is,’ she said. ‘I’ve been shut inside all day; I hadn’t realised what a beautiful evening it was.’
‘A beautiful evening for a beautiful girl,’ he said romantically.
‘You’re very sweet, but rather corny,’ she laughed, as they walked past the entrance to Albemarle Street. ‘Aren’t we going to your hotel for supper?’
‘Not this evening,’ he replied, teasingly. ‘I have a surprise for you.’
The stately lobby of the Grosvenor House Hotel seemed a haven of peace. Arranged around the high-ceilinged space were little groupings of plush furniture where people in evening dress sat drinking cocktails.
‘What on earth are we doing here?’ asked Imogen.
‘This is my surprise…’
She looked at him quizzically.
‘They do special dance nights,’ he went on, ‘dinner and a dance for a good price, trying to encourage business, I guess. I thought you’d enjoy it.’
The floor of the ballroom was filled with couples, some in full evening dress, others in uniform. Imogen looked down at her sensible black shoes and dour Wren’s uniform, and felt a childish disappointment that she was not wearing an elegant silk gown.
‘It’s so glamorous here,’ she said, as the waiter guided them to a corner table. ‘I just wish I was wearing something a bit more suitable.’
‘You look beautiful,’ Ben said as they sat down.
‘Thank you. But a long silk dress, like the one I have at home, in Newcastle – that’s what I should be wearing.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘Next time we go dancing, I’ll buy you a beautiful dress, all right?’
When the band struck up ‘In the Mood’, he stood up, offering Imogen his hand.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’
As he held her on the dance floor he made her feel like she was the best dancer in the room. When they finally left, and stood outside on Park Lane, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
‘I love you Imogen,’ he said. She knew he was waiting for her to say the same. She wanted to – desperately. But something held her back. He was handsome, charming, kind, generous. Why couldn’t she just say it?
‘I love being with you too,’ she said, evasively.
Back in Belsize Park she crept in to her room, trying not to wake Joy.
‘Did you have fun?’ asked Joy, sleepily, from beneath her eiderdown.
‘Yes,’ said Imogen, taking off her uniform. ‘It was great fun – Ben’s such a thoughtful man.’
‘Do you love him?’ asked Joy.
‘I suppose I do,’ said Imogen.
‘You suppose?’
‘I must do, mustn’t I? He’s everything a girl could want. Now go back to sleep.’
But as she brushed her teeth in the bathroom down the hall, as she put on her nightgown and unpinned her hair, she wondered why she couldn’t just abandon herself to loving him. He was everything a girl could want… it was true. And yet… something was missing.
Imogen didn’t see Ben for two weeks. She thought about him from time to time, but was so immersed in her work she didn’t really miss him. There was a palpable air of excitement in the offices at St James’s; a sense that the end was in sight. Finally, in the last week of May, Imogen was summoned to the large meeting room on the first floor overlooking St James’s Square. She and one other note-taker were the only junior staff in the room. Around the long mahogany table sat the most senior military men in the country, the Chief of Staff, the Allied Naval Commander, the First Sea Lord and the Air Chief Marshall. Most excitingly of all, at least as far as Imogen was concerned, was the presence of the Supreme Allied Commander himself, General Dwight D. Eisenhower.
The meeting had been arranged to agree on the final details for the cross-Channel invasion of northern France by the Allies. Codenamed ‘Operation Overlord’, everything was being planned down to the minutest detail. Crucial to its success was an intricate understanding of Germany’s coastal defences along the French coast. Thousands of high-resolution photographs from reconnaissance aircraft of what was known as ‘Hitler’s West Wall’ had been sent back to Whitehall. They revealed a steel barrier made of scaffolding erected one hundred and fifty yards out to sea. Behind this sat a double wire fence and a zig-zag of concrete anti-tank barriers with protruding steel prongs. Behind that, on the beach itself, stood a three-foot-high barbed wire fence and three anti-tank defences: a ditch, a concrete anti-tank wall, and an array of concrete blocks. On the dunes overlooking the beaches were fortified gun emplacements and the beaches had been sown with mines.
In England, teams of American and British engineers had duplicated these defences, in order to find a way to defeat them. The first heavy equipment that would come ashore in Normandy would be the bulldozers.
‘Well, I think that concludes everything,’ General Eisenhower said to the meeting. ‘I’d like to thank you all for your outstanding work so far. I believe we have every chance of succeeding. Our double agents are working tirelessly to persuade the Germans that our real assault will be made on the Pas de Calais. As far as I can see we are poised to take the Germans by surprise when we land in Normandy. My only worry is your unpredictable British weather. Pray for sunshine, gentlemen. God bless you all…’
The offices at St James’s were to be closed within hours – or at least, left with just a skeleton staff. As Imogen hurried back to her office to type up her notes, she took one last look at the map room. This small office was covered from floor to ceiling with postcards, Michelin guides and maps of the French coast. In addition to the professional reconnaissance photographs, an appeal had been made asking members of the public to send in any information they had about the Normandy coast that might help with planning the invasion. Imogen had helped to arrange the display, and had enjoyed studying the postcards and photographs. Having never gone abroad herself, she was fascinated by the pictures of seaside villages along the French coast with romantic sounding names – Le Havre, Cherbourg and St Malo. Taken before the war, they showed holidaymakers enjoying fine weather. There was one particular postcard that she loved – of the harbour town of Le Havre – nestling around the edge of a beach. Adapted, she thought, from an original black and white photograph taken in Edwardian times, it had since been colourised and the sea was a vivid shade of turquoise. On the yellow ochre sandy beach were children in smock dresses playing with their mothers, men dressed in navy blazers and white boat
ers, ladies in bathing dresses tentatively dipping their toes into the water. Imogen often fantasised about what it would be like to dip her own toes into that water – so different from the chilly, grey North Sea she had known as a child. The display was soon to be taken down. It seemed such a waste, Imogen thought, so she slipped the postcard, slightly guiltily, into her pocket and closed the door.
Arriving back at her office she found the Chief Petty Officer waiting for her.
‘As soon as you’ve typed up your notes and distributed them, you need to pack up the office. Get everything into boxes – files, maps – everything. You’ll find boxes down in the basement. It’s all coming with us, and we’re leaving first thing tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow, ma’am?’ Imogen asked.
‘Yes, tomorrow… well don’t just stand there. Get organised. And you’ll need to clear out of your digs tonight as well.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ said Imogen, suddenly panicking at the prospect of how much she had to do.
‘Present yourself here tomorrow morning… at 0700 hours.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ Imogen said. ‘But where are we going – if I might ask?’
‘Portsmouth – where else, you silly girl?’
Imogen spent the rest of the day parcelling up all the files and documents she and the Admiral had gathered over the previous few months. Late in the afternoon, he poked his nose into the office.
‘Ah good,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Yes, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘No… carry on. I’m just sorry I won’t be around to help you. I’ve got rather a lot of meetings to attend today.’
‘Of course sir.’
‘And I also wanted to say thank you, for all you’ve done.’
‘It was my pleasure, sir,’ said Imogen, glowing with pride. ‘A real pleasure.’
‘Good, well carry on – and I’ll see you down in Portsmouth.’
That evening, back in Belsize Park she found a letter waiting for her from her mother. She had a pang of guilt that she hadn’t written home for several weeks. As she ran upstairs to her room, she ripped it open, skimming it for news. Her father was well, but troubled, as usual, by his indigestion. There had been some bombing down by the docks. Her eyes flicked to the final paragraph.