by Debbie Rix
‘Yes ma’am,’ they chorused.
‘Right – assignments.’
As Joy and Imogen waited for their names to be called, the front door of the grand country house opened and two familiar figures emerged, deep in conversation. They stood chatting together on the large stuccoed front porch – one smoking a cigarette, the other a cigar.
‘Look,’ whispered Imogen to Joy. ‘It’s Churchill… and Eisenhower!’
‘I say,’ said Joy, ‘how thrilling.’
‘No talking in the ranks,’ said the officer, peering over her clipboard.
‘Right – Wren Carr.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ said Joy.
‘You’re to report to the main house – the admin block is in there. They’ll show you where to go.’
Joy raised her eyebrows at Imogen, gripping her hand, and whispered excitedly. ‘See you later. I’m off to chat with Winnie and Dwight!’
‘Wren Mitchell.’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘You’re to report to Fort Southwick immediately. Admiral Spalding wants to see you.’ She looked at Imogen over her glasses, as if disapproving of this apparently ‘special’ treatment.
‘Fort Southwick, ma’am?’ asked Imogen, a little confused.
‘It’s about ten minutes’ drive away – there’ll be a bus along in a minute. Wait here.’
The fort stood on a windy hillside overlooking the bay of Portsmouth. As Imogen stepped out of the bus she took in the vast seascape. Seagulls screeched overhead and floated on the thermals towards the grey sea merging on the horizon with the grey-blue sky above. Weak summer sunlight glinted on the water, and laid out beneath them was an array of naval ships all painted in a matching shade of battleship-grey. The fort itself was a red brick construction complete with fortifications and battlements. Built in the early part of the nineteenth century, along with four other forts ranged along the coast, it had been designed to protect the city. Now it had been secretly converted into the operational headquarters for the invasion plan.
A Wren officer came over to meet her.
‘Wren Mitchell?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Welcome to the Citadel. I’ll take you to the Admiral now.’
She opened a pair of metal double doors and led the way down a steep spiral staircase.
‘It’s a long way down,’ she said to Imogen, over her shoulder. ‘One hundred feet down to be precise. It’s all going to feel rather strange at first, but you’ll get used to it. And the good news is – it’s completely impenetrable. They could drop a bomb on it, and we’d all survive.’
‘That’s rather comforting,’ Imogen said, trotting behind, as the officer led her along a long, gloomy corridor, lit only by infrequent single lightbulbs.
‘This is one of the two “freeways”,’ the officer said, indicating a corridor that disappeared into the distance. ‘In total, there are thousands of yards of intersecting corridors, but if you get lost, work your way back to one of the freeways – they lead from the front to the back of the building, so you should be able to navigate your way from there.’
Imogen stared down the freeway as it disappeared into the gloom.
‘Over seven hundred people work down here,’ the officer continued, as they passed numerous office doors – all firmly closed. ‘Everyone’s doing something vital and top secret. The idea is that no one knows what anyone else is doing, so no one can give the game away. You won’t be allowed to discuss your work, and no one else will discuss theirs with you – that’s how we manage to keep a lid on things. So,’ she said, stopping outside an innocuous-looking wooden internal door. ‘The Admiral’s in here…’
The Admiral was sitting behind a small oak desk in a cramped windowless room. Box files that Imogen recognised from their offices in St James’s were piled from floor to ceiling. He leapt up, when she came in.
‘Ah! Wren Mitchell, do sit down.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Got here all right, then?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now, I wanted to explain something to you. You’ve been a great aid to me, but I know you’ve missed your plotting.’
‘Oh no sir, not at all,’ Imogen said, embarrassed. ‘I’ve been more than happy to do whatever’s needed.’
‘Good – because what’s needed now is an excellent plotter, but more than that, we need someone with a fine brain, attention to detail, and an ability to work fast under pressure, and keep quiet about it.’ He looked across at her and winked. ‘Think you can manage?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Good, then let’s get over there. The ops room is just next door.’
Imogen’s first impression of the underground operations room was that it was dark and stuffy – not unlike the plotting rooms she had worked in before. But whereas the plot room in Newcastle had been filled with other Wrens, all wearing headphones listening for signals on which to base the movement of shipping, here there was an air of studied concentration on the faces of the dozen or so men who sat, or stood around a large central table. A bank of signal operators sat along one edge of the room.
‘Gentlemen, can I interrupt for a moment? I’d like to introduce Wren Mitchell. She’s been working with me on the plans for the invasion and I have every faith in her.’
The men glanced up momentarily. One or two smiled; most simply nodded before resuming their work.
‘They’re a good bunch really,’ the Admiral whispered, showing Imogen to one corner of the table.
‘This is your perch. You’ll be working for the Senior Staff Officer – Commander Pierce.’
The Commander looked up at Imogen and smiled. ‘Welcome,’ he said, politely standing up. ‘I hope you have a love of hard work.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Imogen, cheerfully.
‘Well, your place is here, behind me,’ the Commander said. ‘I’ll hand you the signals, and then you need to plot everything on a chart. We’re quite cramped down here, as you can see. You’ll have to share some of the table with the Staff Navigating Officer.’
The SNO, an unsmiling man, peered suspiciously up at Imogen. ‘I trust you’ll take no more space than is necessary,’ he said.
‘I’ll certainly do my best, sir,’ said Imogen.
‘Well sit down, Wren Mitchell,’ said Commander Pierce. ‘We’d better go through what needs doing.’
‘Good luck,’ said Admiral Spalding, squeezing her shoulder. ‘I know you won’t let us down.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Färsehof Farm
May 1944
Magda woke early as the morning sun streamed through her bedroom window. Feeling queasy she lay quietly, clutching her stomach, hoping it would subside. But experience had taught her that she would only feel better if she was actually sick. She staggered out of bed and threw up into the china basin in her room. She rinsed her mouth with fresh water from the jug and lay back down, covering herself with the feather quilt.
It was six weeks since Michael had left. Six weeks since Otto had taken her against her will, in the kitchen. From the beginning she was determined to put what had happened with Otto out of her mind. What he had done was appalling, and yet it felt inevitable – the culmination of something that had been building up since they were young teenagers. She couldn’t forgive him for what he’d done; in fact, she despised him for it. And there were times – in the middle of the night, or when she was walking the herd into the barn for milking – when she had flashes of disturbing memories – how he had held her by the wrists, how he had forced his way, painfully, inside her. She did her best to smother these memories, preferring to think about Michael, about the happy times they had had together, and more importantly, whether he had got safely back to England.
When Otto had left, on that fateful day, she had had sunk down onto the floor and wept. But minutes later, hearing Helga clip-clopping back into the yard, she had hurriedly dried her eyes, and stood at the kitchen window, watching as Otto s
topped to chat with Pieter. The young man made some sort of joke, jerking back his large blond head as he laughed. He shook her father’s hand – like any polite young man who had been visiting his girlfriend. Her father, cautious and watchful, nodded politely. Her instinct had been to run into the yard and tell her father what Otto had done – to beg him to avenge her. But more important than punishing Otto, was helping Michael, who was out there somewhere on the farm.
So she wiped her eyes and when she was sure Otto had finally left, ran upstairs and collected a few things for Michael. She went first to Karl’s room and took the rucksack he had used for their camping trips and stuffed it with a jumper and some socks from his chest of drawers. Up in the attic she found Michael’s compass and his silk scarf map. She collected his flying boots and put them into the bag too. She considered bringing his flying jacket, but it was too recognisable as RAF. Back down in the kitchen she wrapped some bread and cheese in a napkin. Slinging the pack over her shoulder she walked through the yard. Her father didn’t notice her; he was preoccupied as always, chatting to Helga, settling her, removing her bridle. Searching for Michael, she went into the dairy, and gently called his name.
‘Michael… Michael are you here?’
She heard a shuffling sound from behind a bale of straw and he peered over the top.
‘Magda – thank God. Who was that man? He looked like SS. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said bravely. ‘Just a man I know. He came to visit me. I’m so sorry.’ It was pointless telling Michael what Otto had done. What, after all, could he do about it?
‘I saw him coming up the path and I just knew I had to make a run for it.’
‘Thank God you did. He heard a noise coming from the garden and went out to investigate. I was so worried. I managed to persuade him to come back inside, and then I saw you from the kitchen window running across the yard. I thought you’d left for good.’
She began to sob and Michael came over and put his arms around her, kissing the top of her head.
‘I’d intended to. But I got as far as the lane, and realised I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Why don’t you come back inside? You don’t have to leave now.’
‘Magda,’ he said, ‘you know that would be madness. That man might come back. Besides it’s time… I have to go. We can’t put it off any longer.’
‘I know,’ she said, gently, handing him the rucksack. ‘I’ve brought you some things.’
‘Of course you did – you wonderful girl.’
‘Inside is your compass and your map. Also some food and your boots. You won’t get far in those,’ she indicated her father’s old boots – two sizes too large for the young man. ‘But I worry someone might recognise your own boots as RAF.’
‘Not if I put the trousers outside. At least they fit me. Thank you, Magda.’
He sank down onto the hay and changed his boots.
‘I’ve got some money for you too – it’s everything I’ve got.’ She handed him some folded notes. ‘It’s not much, but it’s enough for a train ticket, at least part of the way. But you must be careful; you have no papers. You can’t afford to be stopped.’
‘I know. Darling Magda… thank you. I will repay you, I promise.’
‘Just come back – that’s all I want.’
He folded her in his arms, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.
‘Magda!’ Her father was outside in the yard, calling her.
‘I must go,’ she said.
‘I should thank him,’ Michael said.
‘No – don’t. He’ll understand. You’re right about Otto; he might come back any time – it’s exactly the kind of thing he does. Then he would find you chatting to my father in the yard. So… just go. I’ll explain everything to my parents. Go out of the back of the dairy – cross the field over there, and then over into the woods on the other side of the road. There’s a stream at the bottom. Follow it – it takes you past the village and on, westwards.’
‘I understand. You’ll thank your parents for me?’
‘Of course.’
He clung to her, kissing her one more time. ‘I love you, Magda.’
‘And I love you… now go.’
She watched him through a crack in the barn wall as he hobbled across the field, hiding behind the hedge to make sure no one was coming, before crossing the road and running off into the woods.
‘Well thank God for that,’ Käthe said when she came back from the market and heard Michael had left. ‘I thought he’d never go.’
‘He was a good boy,’ said Pieter.
Magda smiled at her father. ‘You liked him?’
‘Of course. He seemed straightforward, honest, kind…’
‘I just hope he makes it…’ Magda said, anxiously staring out of the kitchen window. Her mother glanced at her father.
‘Well…’ she said to Magda, ‘he’s not your problem any more. You did what you could – we all did, but it’s time to put ourselves first and think of the farm.’
Over the following weeks, Magda threw herself into her work – up at dawn with the herd, and falling into bed again, exhausted, soon after dusk. Her mother noticed how tired she seemed, but it was only when she heard Magda vomiting one morning, that she finally confronted her.
‘Liebling,’ Käthe said over breakfast. ‘I heard you being sick again this morning. That’s the second time this week.’
‘Yes,’ said Magda, sipping a cup of black tea. ‘I must have eaten something.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Maybe…’
When Magda came in after the morning milking, her mother was alone in the kitchen, skinning a rabbit.
‘Oh Mutti, could you do that later? It makes me feel so sick.’
‘Well, don’t watch,’ her mother said harshly.
‘Mutti!’ said Magda. ‘Don’t be so mean.’
Her mother rounded on her.
‘Magda Maier… do you have something to tell me – about you and that airman?’
‘No! I don’t know what you mean?’
‘Do you deny you had feelings for him?’
‘No!’ Magda’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t deny it. I loved him.’
‘Loved him! An enemy airman we took in and gave sanctuary to. And now look at you – a fallen woman, living in my house.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Magda impatiently, pulling a chair out from the kitchen table and sitting down.
‘Well,’ her mother said, wiping her bloodstained hands on a cloth. ‘I would have thought it was obvious! Do you deny you are pregnant?’
Magda looked up at her mother in amazement.
‘The thought of you and that man…’ said Kathe, pacing the room, ‘having sex under our roof. He treated you like a cheap tart, and you were only trying to help him. I hate him!’ Käthe picked up her meat cleaver and chopped the head off the rabbit with one violent stroke.
Magda trembled while her mother ranted.
‘You think I’m pregnant?’
‘Yes!’ Käthe said, turning round and jabbing the knife in the direction of her daughter. ‘Why else are you being sick each morning? Are your breasts tender… did you have your period last month?’
Magda began to cry. She sobbed… her head in her hands. ‘Oh no – do you really think so?’
He mother raised her eyes to heaven.
‘I can’t be… surely not.’
‘You silly, silly girl.’ Käthe turned her back and began to wash her hands.
‘Oh, Mutti I can’t be. We were careful.’
Her mother swung round, her face white with fury. ‘So you admit it?’
‘We love each other, Mutti.’
‘Oh do you? He loves so much he leaves you high and dry – pregnant with his child. I don’t call that love. I call that desertion.’
Magda sobbed at the kitchen table while her mother jointed the rabbit.
‘It might not be his,�
� Magda said finally.
‘What are you saying? How many men have you been with? What kind of whore are you?’
‘Mutti, Mutti… please – you don’t understand,’ Magda said between gasps of crying. ‘Something happened, the day Michael left.’
‘What?’ her mother asked.
‘Somebody came here, while you were both out. ‘
‘Who?’
‘Otto.’
‘Otto?’ Her mother put down the knife, and sat down opposite her daughter. ‘What happened, Magda? Did Otto find him? Is that why Michael left?’
‘No… he didn’t find him. But I was with Michael in the garden.’
‘You took him outside… after all we agreed?’
‘I know, I know. It was stupid, but it was a lovely day and he needed some sunshine – he was so pale. We sat outside in the vegetable garden. I went indoors to get some lunch and Otto arrived out of the blue.’
‘Magda! If he’d found him, he would have had us all arrested.’
‘I realise that. But Michael must have seen Otto dressed in his SS uniform.’
‘The SS!’ said Käthe. ‘He’s in the SS now? Oh my God, Magda.’
‘So I kept Otto inside, and Michael got away, thank God. But Otto, you know what he’s like, always suspicious, he thought he’d heard something in the garden and insisted on going outside. Michael had escaped to the barn by then, but I had to distract Otto, to stop him from searching everywhere – to give Michael a chance to get away.’
Magda began to pace the room, weeping piteously.
‘What are you saying? What are you telling me?’ Käthe walked over to her daughter, her arms outstretched. ‘Come, Liebling… come to me. What is it? What happened?’ She pulled her daughter to her and held her head against her breast, stroking her hair. ‘Magda, Magda,’ she murmured. ‘Tell me, Liebling.’
‘Otto – he made me… he forced himself on me, Mutti.’
Magda spent the rest of the afternoon in her room, sobbing helplessly into her pillow – her heart broken by the loss of Michael and the certain knowledge that her mother was right: she was pregnant and alone. She had destroyed her life – her chances of going to university, of breaking free of the farm. It had all been wiped out by the existence of this child growing inside her.