by Debbie Rix
‘You’re shaking, Ginny! What on earth is the matter?’
Imogen blushed. ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled.
‘I suspect you’ve been up to mischief, haven’t you?’ her mother said with mock seriousness. ‘Well don’t worry – you’re not in any trouble. Now… I’m sure that you must be aware that things are not going well with Mr Hitler.’
Imogen sat up, and looked intently into her mother’s amber-coloured eyes.
‘Yes Mummy. Our form teacher was telling us about it this week.’
‘Yes, well…. The thing is – it looks like war is on the cards.’
Imogen’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
‘Is Daddy going to have to join the army again?’
‘No, Imogen; not at all – he’s far too old. He did his bit last time. No, it’s not that. But if things proceed as we all fear they might, the school has been told that Newcastle is likely to be a target – what with the docks and shipbuilding and so on.’
Imogen looked blankly at her mother.
‘Target?’
‘Yes darling… for bombs.’
Imogen reached over and gripped her mother’s cool hand.
‘Now, Imogen, I realise it sounds scary, but really it’s not. We might never be bombed; nevertheless, there’s been a decision taken that children like you, who live in big cities, should be evacuated.’
Imogen stared, uncomprehendingly, at her mother.
‘Do you understand?’
Ginny shook her head.
‘Your school will be moved – to somewhere in the countryside, where you’ll be safe. The headmistress was informed this morning and is making the arrangements now. It looks as though you might be off to the Lake District. Just imagine Ginny, all those lovely lakes, and mountains and fresh air. It will be marvellous.’
‘And leave you and Daddy, and my friends?’
‘Not your friends – they’ll be going too. It will be a real adventure.’
‘But for how long?’
‘Oh… just until things settle down. It might only be a few months.’
‘But I don’t want to leave you and Daddy,’ cried Imogen.
‘I know darling. And we don’t want you to go, but it’s sensible to keep you all safe.’
‘But who will keep you safe?’ Imogen asked, logically.
‘Oh we’ll be all right. We’ve already been through one war and it’s not so bad. But if the school was hit by a bomb, your education would be interrupted, and then you couldn’t do your exams and… well… it would be a disruption.’
Ginny sensed the faltering in her mother’s voice, the tears hovering in her eyes.
‘But how will I bear it?’ she asked her mother, gripping her hand, ‘being so far away from you and Daddy?’
‘Well, you already go away in the summer on your own to visit Granny in Aberdeen, don’t you?’ her mother said briskly, recovering her composure slightly. ‘But instead of staying with her, you’ll be with all your chums. It will be fun, Imogen, you’ll see. And Daddy and I will visit you. We can drive across the Pennines from time to time and I’ll bring you a cake or two.’
Honey crept into the drawing room and snuggled around Imogen’s feet.
‘And what about Honey?’ said Imogen, scratching her beloved dog’s ears. ‘I’ll never see her.’
‘We’ll bring her to see you.’
The tears that had been hovering in her mother’s golden eyes now spilled over, trickling down her powdered cheek. Realising that she should be brave for her mother’s sake, Imogen pulled the dog up onto her lap, and said simply:
‘Yes, of course you will. And, as you say, it might be a lot of fun.’
She leaned over and kissed her mother’s soft cheek, tasting Rose’s salty tears on her lips.
Chapter Two
Färsehof Farm, On the outskirts of a small village a few miles from Augsburg, Germany
September 1939
Magda Maier, her school rucksack digging into her shoulders, hurried up the lane to the farm where she lived. Surrounded by fields as far as the eye could see, the farmyard was enclosed on three sides by buildings – the ancient farmhouse itself, half timbered, its walls painted yellow ochre, was flanked by a pair of wooden barns, pine-clad with tiled roofs. One was filled with farm machinery, supplies of feed and bales of hay, and the other housed the milking parlour and dairy. That afternoon, as Magda ran towards the house, the yard was filled with cows on their way to milking, their hooves clattering on the cobbles, their udders full, their soft noses nuzzling one another.
‘Oh good,’ Magda’s father, Pieter, called out across the noise of the herd, ‘you’re home. Come and help with the milking.’
‘I can’t, Papa…’ she called back, over her shoulder, ‘I’ve got a school project to finish.’
‘Do it later,’ he said firmly. ‘The cows need milking now. Take off your coat, and put on your old boots.’
That evening, with the milking done and the herd back in the fields, Magda warmed her stockinged feet on the old range, her school project laid out but not yet begun, on the pine table. Looking across at her mother, Käthe, she noticed an envelope standing up on the dresser, addressed to her in familiar careful handwriting.
‘It’s a letter from Karl!’ she exclaimed excitedly to her mother, who was skinning a rabbit by the sink. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You had homework to do,’ said her mother calmly as she severed the rabbit’s head with a strong downward stroke of her meat cleaver. Magda shivered. Her mother’s hands were covered in bits of fur and blood, as she peeled the rabbit’s skin off the smooth pink flesh. Its head lay abandoned on the kitchen worktop, its pale grey eyes staring vacantly at Magda.
‘I can’t concentrate on a letter with that thing looking at me,’ Magda said, snatching up the envelope and grasping it to her chest.
‘You won’t be so squeamish when I serve this rabbit up in a nice tasty stew later,’ her mother said, laughing.
As Magda ran up the creaking stairs to her bedroom, she passed her brother’s room. Nine years his junior, she had always admired her older brother – revered him almost. She stopped, as she always did, and gazed around the orderly space. The bed – not slept in for two years – was still covered by the knitted quilt their mother had made for him as a child; the academic diplomas and certificates, framed by her mother, still hanging in pride of place over his desk. Their father had hoped to hand the farm on to his only son, but Karl had no interest in farming, preferring to hide away in his room with his books. Pieter had initially been disappointed, but when Karl’s teachers had explained to his parents how very intelligent their son was, his despair had given way to pride. Magda could still recall the celebratory dinner the family had held when Karl had gained a place at Heidelberg University back in 1934.
‘My boy, a university graduate,’ Pieter had said, raising a glass of schnapps to his son. ‘No one in our family has ever been to university.’
‘Well now one of us will,’ said Karl, gently. ‘I just hope you’ll forgive me for not taking on the farm?’ His voice had faltered slightly. He was anxious, Magda realised, not to upset their father.
‘Well I’ve known for a while now that farming wasn’t your passion, my boy,’ Pieter had said, philosophically. ‘To be honest, I’ll be relieved that you’re away studying.’
‘Why?’ asked Karl.
‘It will get you away from those bully boys in the village – the Hitler Youth.’ He spat the last words out.
‘Oh Pieter,’ said Käthe, impatiently. ‘The boys in the village are all right.’
‘No Käthe, they are not,’ said Pieter. ‘We used to have boy scouts, but they got kicked out and replaced with the Youth. At first I hoped it would be all right – they still went camping and hiking and Karl seemed to enjoy it.’ Pieter looked across at his son, who nodded. ‘But things changed…’
‘Not in front of Magda,’ Käthe whispered, nodding towards her daughter who sta
red intently at her food, hoping no one would notice that she was listening eagerly to the conversation.
‘She’s only little,’ Pieter said, impatiently, ‘she’s not interested in our conversation. Now,’ he went on, warming to his theme, ‘the Youth has become a training ground for the military. Karl has told me about how they force them to adhere to the cause. It’s not right.’
‘He’s right, Mutti,’ Karl had said. ‘The National Socialists are determined to create a generation of young people indoctrinated with their ideology. They fill their young minds with propaganda about racial purity, of the automatic superiority of our race and the inferiority of every other – especially the Jews.’
‘They spend their time marching through the local villages,’ interjected Pieter, ‘declaring Herr Hitler has the answer to Germany’s problems. And mark my words – no country’s problems, economic or otherwise, can be solved by young men marching around the streets, bullying people.’
Karl had smiled.
‘You are very wise, Papa, very wise indeed.’
Three years later, in 1937, when Karl had finished his first degree, he was offered a place to study at Oxford University in England.
‘Please don’t go,’ Magda had begged, when he told the family his news. ‘Why not finish your studies in Munich… or stay in Heidelberg,’ she suggested brightly, ‘then you could still come home at the weekends?’
‘Because I cannot remain in Germany,’ Karl said.
His parents looked at him, perplexed.
‘The universities here…’ Karl went on, ‘have no academic freedom any more. Every teacher, every lecturer must follow the party line – you must see that?’
His parents looked bemused.
‘But a British university will be different, I think. I’ve won a scholarship and it’s a great honour, don’t you understand? I have been working towards this since I was a teenager. Soon I’ll be among “that sweet city with her dreaming spires”’.
He had looked around hopefully at his little family, as they sat in front of the fire in the kitchen, willing them to understand, his face alive with excitement.
‘But I’ll miss you,’ Magda had bleated.
‘I know little monkey,’ he’d said softly, holding out his arms to her. ‘But we can write to each other.’
Mollified slightly, she ran towards him and he hugged her, twirling his fingers around her blonde plaits.
‘Ouch!’ she had complained, pulling away, ‘you’re hurting.’
Now, aged thirteen, Magda walked on, down the corridor, past his room to her own small bedroom. She threw herself on her bed and eagerly tore open the letter. It had been months since Karl had written to her and she was anxious to hear his news. Perhaps, she hoped, he would be coming home to visit.
My darling Magda,
How are you, little monkey? I hope you are working hard at school. I miss you all, but am enjoying my time here in England. I have joined the choir at my college, and have been told I am a good tenor – can you believe that?
Magda could believe it. Her brother had always had a beautiful singing voice. As a boy he had been a soloist in their local Lutheran church. She read on.
Now, there is something I need to explain. It is hard because I know that you will not have been told the truth but it is vital that you understand something. For many years you have been taught falsehoods. I was lucky – I left school just as these lies were becoming widespread. You have been taught in school that ‘our’ people – the Aryan race – are superior to all others. You have been taught that the Jewish people are our enemy, and that anyone who disagrees with the National Socialist principles is dangerous, and unpatriotic. Some German people are unhappy with Hitler and his party, but they are fearful of speaking out. You mentioned in your last letter that you have to go to school wearing your German Girls’ League uniform; that you must stand and salute the Führer every morning, and sing nationalistic songs – something you say you hate. You are right to feel this way. This fanatical devotion to Hitler is wrong; the indoctrination of young people is a disgrace. Now that I am in England I have been able to see more clearly, to reflect on what is happening in our country. Herr Hitler is a warmonger; his occupation of the Rhineland is just the beginning. He wants total European domination. There will be a war, Magda, which Hitler will blame France and England for starting. Do not believe this. Hitler and his government of National Socialism are evil. You know what they have done to our Jewish friends, don’t you? Did you know what happened in November last year on Kristallnacht? They encouraged people to smash up all the Jewish shops, and burn their synagogues. Jewish people were murdered that night in cold blood and many thousands more were sent to concentration camps. Since that time innocent Jewish people have been rounded up and sent away from the villages and towns they know and love. They will be forced to move to the cities, or worse – imprisoned. In Munich they have to live in a ‘Jew Camp’. Can you believe it? Some have managed to pay huge fines and have been allowed to leave the country travelling to America and Britain. But many more are trapped in Germany – unable to pay fines, unable to escape. They have been disenfranchised, Magda… their livelihoods taken away, their lives destroyed. We have their blood on our hands. It is wickedness Magda, and must be stopped. Hitler is determined to take over the neighbouring countries to the East. He tells you all that these people want to be part of Germany and maybe some people do, but you cannot just invade another country and take it for yourself. I suspect you know nothing of this, safely tucked away in our village, but it is happening Magda, believe me.
I have made a decision – to stay on here in Oxford and do what I can to help the resistance in Germany. If I were to come back, I would be called up for military service, and I cannot fight a war I disagree with.
I will write to our parents later and explain everything to them, but I wanted you to hear this from me. Say nothing to anyone about my reasons. I don’t want you to be drawn into this, or blamed in any way. People will say terrible things about me – let them. Ignore them. Denounce me if you have to. As a girl, you will not be forced to fight and Papa is too old, thank God. I pray that you will be left in peace. If I can find a way to get you out of Germany, believe me, I will.
Look after Mutti and Papa. I love you, little sister and we shall see one another again soon – once this madness is over.
Your loving brother
Karl
PS destroy this letter – please. If it was found, it could be used in evidence against you or the family.
Magda lay on her bed, perplexed and upset by her brother’s letter. She adored Karl, idolised him, and yet surely, what he was saying just couldn’t be true. She recalled the conversations Karl had with their father before he left – about the way young people were being indoctrinated, and she understood that. But to suggest that these views were actually leading to cruelty, to the banishment of people in their village, seemed unimaginable. She folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. ‘Destroy it’, Karl had written. Why should he ask that of her? She re-read the last line. ‘It could be used in evidence.’ What did that mean? Who exactly would use it? How would anyone even know she had the letter? It made no sense. Besides, if she were to destroy it, how would she go about it? She could burn it in the range in the kitchen when Mutti wasn’t looking. But Mutti had eyes everywhere. Or she could tear it into tiny pieces. She held the paper in her hands, steeling herself to begin. But the thought of destroying her beloved brother’s letter seemed unbearable – she hadn’t seen him for two years and had kept all his letters carefully stowed away in her chest of drawers, tied together with a ribbon. Could she not merely slip this amongst them? She looked again at his instructions. If she was not prepared to destroy it, then she must hide it. She peered under the bed, but Mutti would find it when she changed the linen. Her wardrobe was quickly ruled out as her mother was always tidying and sorting out her clothes. Desperately casting around for anywhere secure, her eye fell on
the wooden bookcase and the bible she had been given for her confirmation. Picking it up, she ran her fingers over the smooth leather cover and gilt edging. As she opened it, she noticed a little paper pocket on the inside back cover, where she was supposed to keep copies of her favourite prayers. It was empty, and she slipped the letter into the pocket and smoothed it flat, until just a faint outline of the paper was visible. She returned the bible to the bottom shelf next to her fairy stories. It would be hidden, but in plain sight. Isn’t that what people said?
This task completed, she felt the need to get out of the house, to walk and think – to make sense of what her brother had written. She felt so conflicted and confused. As she passed Karl’s room, she looked again at the brightly coloured bedspread, the diplomas on the walls, the photographs showing him proudly holding his first degree, his dark eyes so full of hope, before closing the door. The boy who had lived in that room was not the young man who had written that letter, so full of incomprehensible lies. Surely, she reasoned, as she walked down the creaking pine stairs, they must be lies. In the kitchen her mother was frying the rabbit pieces, filling the kitchen with the comforting scent of supper. Magda’s school project on ‘the importance of purity’ lay untouched on the kitchen table. As she stepped outside into the yard, she heard her mother call her name.
‘Magda? Where are you going?’
Her father was washing down the dairy after the evening milking. She rushed past him and down the lane towards the road that led to the village. A horse and cart plodded slowly towards her driven by a man and a young girl. As they drew closer she recognised Erika and her father, Gerhard, from the neighbouring farm. Magda and Erika were in the ‘Young Maidens’ together – part of the German Girls’ League. The female equivalent of the Hitler Youth, the Young Maidens were taught the importance of becoming good mothers and housewives. This was bad enough, as far as Magda was concerned, but worse still were the lessons on the sliding scale of ‘racial purity’ the National Socialists thought so important. They were taught that the Nordic peoples, with their taller than average builds, narrow, straight noses and ‘dolichocephalic’ skulls were at the top of the racial ‘league’. Erika, who had recently become a team leader, had been delighted to be singled out at their last meeting to have her head size measured and be declared a ‘class one Aryan’. Everyone in the group, apart from Magda, had cheered wildly. Since then Erica had become increasingly overbearing and bossy.
