by Debbie Rix
Magda looked at her mother. ‘I thought you’d understand…’
‘I do,’ Käthe said. ‘But we will get in trouble if you don’t go. Remember – you can sing the songs and wave the flags, but you don’t have to…’ she hunted for the right word, ‘you don’t have to believe it…’
Magda looked into her mother’s blue eyes. ‘So I have to pretend. I have to lie?’
‘If you like,’ said Käthe. ‘I know it’s hard, Magda. But we are living in dangerous times. Come downstairs. Help me finish the wreath. That’s still the same… it’s not changed, has it? They can’t take that away from us. Then maybe we can cook together – make some cinnamon biscuits; you’d like that?’
‘No, Mutti,’ said Magda. ‘I don’t feel like it – I’m sorry.’
The ‘fire’ celebration took place the following Saturday. It had snowed hard the previous night, and the whole village was swathed in a blanket of white snow.
The wintry weather had forced a relaxation of the uniform rules and the young people had been allowed to wear their own winter coats, boots and hats. The girls looked pretty with their ears and hands muffled in fur, wearing fur-lined embroidered boots and coats. Even the boys looked less militaristic, wearing rabbit-lined hunting hats and brightly coloured scarves. As Magda looked around at her contemporaries, it struck her that even Otto – wearing a red woollen scarf knitted by his mother – looked more like a normal boy, and less like the threatening bully her mother had described haranguing Dr Kalman and his family. That this boy could behave so cruelly seemed at odds with the image he presented of a rosy-cheeked young man in a woollen scarf and fur hat.
The boys of the Hitler Youth had spent the afternoon gathering firewood from the woods around the village. They piled it up in the centre of the square, while the Young Maidens set up tables covered with black and red table cloths decorated with swastikas. As they laid out their homemade cakes and biscuits, it struck Magda that it looked more like a National Socialist rally than a celebration of Christmas. The only traditional ‘Christmas’ decoration was a large fir tree that had been chopped down a few days earlier in the forest, and put up at one end of the square. In spite of the sparkling swastikas hanging from snowy branches, Magda had to admit that it looked beautiful. As dusk fell, the villagers gathered together and members of the Hitler Youth passed around collecting tins in aid of the ‘Winter Relief’ fund – a National Socialist initiative designed to raise money for the deserving Aryan poor.
Before the boys and girls were due to sing their Nationalistic songs, Erika and Otto, as team leaders, were handed tapers and invited to light the candles on the Christmas tree.
‘Here you are,’ said Erika to Magda, handing her one of the tapers. ‘Light the candles with me.’
It was an act of friendship, Magda realised, and while she hated everything about the evening, she couldn’t suppress a little sense of delight at having been chosen for this duty. There was something eternally joyous about the sight of a candle flickering in the darkness, she felt. Magda and Erika worked their way around the base of the tree, while Otto stood on a ladder and lit the candles at the top. As he climbed back down, he bumped into Magda.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, blushing. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ His politeness unsettled her. He was such a contradiction. She found it hard to reconcile his apparent gentleness with the unpleasantness he had shown her friend Lotte.
After the celebrations, the girls cleared the tables and the boys smothered the embers of the fire.
‘May I see you home?’ Otto asked Magda when everything was tidied away.
‘You don’t have to,’ she said. He would only try to kiss her, and that was something she dreaded.
‘I’d like to take you…’ he persisted.
‘I’ll come too,’ said Erika, enthusiastically. ‘I live next door.’
For once Magda found herself relieved at Erika’s intervention. Otto, clearly irritated, reluctantly agreed, and the three young people set off through the forest on the edge of the village. The tall fir trees cast eerie shadows in the moonlight, and Magda was relieved when they emerged into the open fields that led to the farm.
As always, when in the company of other members of the youth movement, Magda felt tongue-tied. As Erika prattled on about how beautiful the ceremony had been, how proud she was of the Führer, of the Young Maidens, of the cakes they had made, Magda simply smiled and said nothing.
‘It was so wonderful when the villagers joined in with the singing – don’t you think so Magda?’ said Erika.
‘Yes,’ said Magda, without enthusiasm.
‘I don’t think Magda enjoys these evenings very much,’ said Otto perceptively.
‘I did enjoy it,’ Magda protested, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘I love Christmas… I mean Julfest, and I thought the tree looked very beautiful.’
‘And what of the songs?’ asked Otto. ‘You didn’t sing very loudly. Anyone would think you disapproved.’
‘What a ridiculous thing to say,’ she said, glaring at him before striding ahead of the others, making deep ruts in the snow with her boots.
‘My house is just over there,’ she called back to Otto and Erika. ‘I can on go by myself. Why don’t you take Erika home, Otto?’
‘Don’t I get a hot drink,’ he asked, clearly disappointed, ‘before I set off for home?’
‘I’ll give you one,’ said Erika, excitedly.
Magda quickened her pace. Arriving at the farm gate, she turned to wave at them both.
‘See you soon,’ she called out, running up the farm track and hiding behind the dairy, from where she had a good view of the road. Erica, she noticed, had taken Otto’s arm and was gazing up at him, as if in rapture.
‘Poor Erika,’ muttered Magda, before running to the farmhouse and into the sanctuary of home.
Chapter Seven
Keswick
December 1939
The girls from Imogen’s school shared a building with the local co-educational Keswick Grammar school. It was an unsatisfactory arrangement, and required intricate planning and timetabling on the part of the staff. The girls and boys were segregated in their classes, but as the bell sounded to mark the end of each forty-minute session, the corridors were filled with boys and girls marching past one another in single file to their next lesson, and no amount of sharp-eyed teachers could prevent them fraternising. Notes were passed surreptitiously between the sexes at these ‘crossings’; dates were made and relationships inevitably formed. As a pretty, vivacious girl, Imogen had her fair share of male attention, and was frequently passed little notes by admiring boys, their hands slipping into hers as they passed in the corridors. Occasionally she would follow up on these invitations and agree to meet a boy in a café in town. She might even allow one of them to accompany her to the weekly Saturday morning film showings at the Alhambra cinema, although she resisted their invitations to sit in the back row and ‘neck’.
Rather to her disappointment, the tall fair-haired boy who had followed her and Helen up Latrigg had not, as yet, featured among her clutch of admirers. She observed him, from time to time, around the school. Sometimes their eyes met and he would smile at her, but she felt it was a cynical smile, as if he was laughing at her. Consequently, she took to walking in the opposite direction if she saw him coming towards her.
As the end of term drew near Imogen and Joy were excited at the prospect of going home for Christmas.
‘Let’s meet in town after school, ‘Imogen suggested, ‘‘I want to get a little present for the Latimers.’
‘Well I’m not buying anything for my horrid landlady,’ said Joy bitterly. ‘She does nothing but complain and I’m sure she’s only doing it for the government money. She hardly spends anything on food – I’m permanently starving.’
‘Oh poor Joy,’ said Imogen. ‘I do wish you were with me at the Latimers’ instead of Helen. She’s nice enough, but she’s never going to be a really good friend.’
&n
bsp; ‘Perhaps she’d swap?’ suggested Joy, optimistically.
‘I hardly think so,’ said Imogen. ‘Everyone knows how awful your landlady is.’
‘Well it’s just not fair,’ complained Joy. ‘You’re my best friend, not hers.’
‘I know,’ said Imogen, sympathetically. ‘Maybe we can change things around next year.’
‘Oh I do hope so,’ said Joy, earnestly.
‘Now, I must find something pretty for Mrs L. She’s a bit sad because she’s not sure her boys can get home this Christmas.’
‘What are you going to buy her?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Imogen. They stopped outside a little gift shop that sold mementos of the Lakes. ‘What about in here?’ suggested Joy.
As the girls wandered around the small gift shop, Imogen became aware of someone watching her. As she turned to look, she noticed the tall, fair-haired boy smiling at her through the shop’s Georgian windows. Blushing, she turned away, grabbing Joy’s arm.
‘He’s outside,’ she whispered.
‘Who is?’ Joy whispered back.
‘That tall fair boy I told you about. The one who followed me and Helen up the mountain – the boy who’s always laughing at me – you must remember.’
‘Oh him! The one you don’t like, you mean,’ said Joy.
‘Exactly. I think he’s rather supercilious,’ Imogen said grandly, before taking Joy’s arm and marching to the opposite side of the shop where she picked up a snow globe and shook it, so the white specks fell onto the little Lakeland village below.
Suddenly, the boy materialised next to them.
‘Hello again,’ he said, a smile playing mischievously on his lips.
‘Oh hello,’ she said dismissively.
‘You been sunbathing recently?’
‘What on earth is he talking about?’ asked Joy, staring at her friend.
‘Oh it’s nothing important,’ said Imogen, blushing. ‘He’s just being silly. Come on Joy… let’s go.’
Imogen walked determinedly out of the shop, pulling her friend behind her. As they turned towards Main Street she noticed the boy was keeping pace, a few steps behind them.
‘Will you stop following us? If you don’t, I’ll tell someone.’
The boy smiled. ‘Just walking through town – same as you. It’s a free country.’
‘Well, do you have to do it so… close?’
The boy hung back and let a little distance develop between them, but with his long stride, he soon caught them up. Once they’d arrived on Main Street, bustling with shoppers, the impressive clock tower of the town hall ahead of them, the hills rising up in the distance, the boy patted Imogen’s shoulder.
‘Fancy a milkshake? There’s a milk bar round the corner – opened a couple of years back.’
Imogen knew she should say no. It would serve him right if she marched off in the opposite direction with Joy, but she had never had a milkshake before – milk bars having not yet travelled as far as Newcastle.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘as long as you’re buying?’
‘I am, but I’m not paying for your friend,’ he said, pointing at Joy.
‘Charming,’ said Joy. ‘Well I ought to go anyway – I’ve got maths homework to do. Yuck! See you tomorrow Ginny…’
The milk bar on the high street was filled with girls and boys from the surrounding schools. The tall fair-haired boy found a space for them by the window.
‘What can I get you?’ asked the waitress, licking her pencil.
Imogen studied the menu, uncertain what to order.
‘Chocolate milkshake, please,’ said the boy, leaping to her rescue.
‘Same,’ said Imogen. ‘So… what do they call you?’
‘Me? Dougie. Douglas really.’
‘Are you Scottish? I am… well my parents are anyway.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. My father was born in Edinburgh. He’s a teacher.’
‘Oh – at our school?’
He nodded.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Henderson,’ said Dougie.
The milkshakes arrived and Imogen sucked on her straw, savouring the velvety sweetness.
‘Mmmmm,’ she murmured. ‘Lovely. Oh yes, Mr Henderson, of course. He doesn’t teach me, but he always seems nice in the corridor. My grandmother was a Henderson before she married Grandpa. Maybe we’re related?’ She smiled, relaxing a little at this superficial connection between them.
‘Maybe. Quite a popular name in Scotland, though isn’t it?’
The pair sat in awkward silence, trying hard not to slurp their milkshakes.
‘How old are you?’ asked Dougie, finally.
‘Fifteen… nearly sixteen. I’m moving to the sixth form next autumn. You?’
‘Seventeen. I’m a year ahead of you; when I leave I’ll have to join up, I suppose.’
‘Poor you,’ said Imogen. ‘All the young men I know have been called up. It’s awfully worrying. I suppose I’ll have to do something too when I leave school; although maybe it’ll all be over by then… do you think?’
‘I doubt it…’ said Dougie, pushing his blond hair away from his face. His skin was smooth and clear, Imogen noticed, and his eyes were bright blue – the colour of forget-me-knots.
‘What would you do?’ he went on, ‘join the army?’
‘No, nothing like that. I don’t think so, anyway. I’ve not really thought about it. The Wrens maybe? I rather like the uniform.’ Imogen was aware, suddenly, of how superficial she sounded.
‘You’d look nice,’ he said, blushing.
Outside, as the pair left the milk bar, rain was beginning to fall.
‘I ought to be getting back,’ Imogen said, pulling up the collar of her school coat. ‘My landlady doesn’t like us to be late.’
‘I’ll walk you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I’ll walk you… you might get lost.’
‘You’re very cheeky,’ she said, laughing. She tucked her dark hair behind her ears, self-consciously. ‘I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way.’
At the garden gate, she found herself wishing he could stay.
‘You could come in if you like.’
‘No,’ said Dougie, looking up at the house. Mrs Latimer was staring down at them from one of the upstairs windows. ‘I don’t think she’d like that,’ he said, nodding discreetly towards the window above. ‘But thank you.’
‘Thank you… for the milkshake.’
‘Can I see you again?’ he asked, as she opened the gate.
‘Why not?’ she said, turning to look at him, trying to imagine what it would be like to kiss him. They stood looking at one another, both aware of Mrs Latimer watching from the bedroom above.
‘Well… goodbye then,’ she said.
When she got to the front door she turned to wave, but found he’d already gone; much to her surprise she realised she was disappointed.
As Christmas loomed, school days were filled with preparations for end of term plays, carol services and school parties. Imogen and Dougie occasionally found time to snatch a cup of tea together after school, or a stolen moment in the corridor. On the last day of term, as Imogen was coming out school with Joy, she found Dougie waiting outside the school gates.
‘I’ll be off,’ said Joy, discreetly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. What time is your father coming to collect us?’
‘Around one o’clock. We’ll pick you up…’
As Joy struggled off carrying her school and kit bags, her lacrosse stick slung over her shoulder, Dougie offered to carry Imogen’s school bag.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking his free arm.
‘So… you’re off tomorrow then?’
‘Yes. My father is collecting us both.’
‘Seems odd – you going back to Newcastle. Odd that they think it’s safe…’
‘Yes I know. But I think the idea was for our schooling not to be disturbed. If we die in the ho
lidays that’s not so important.’ She giggled, making light of it.
‘Don’t say that,’ he said, grabbing her by the arms. ‘Don’t ever say that.’
‘I’m only joking,’ she said, tenderly. ‘I’m sure nothing will happen. My parents have been in Newcastle all this time and have been perfectly safe. It’s rather ridiculous us all being here.’
They carried on in silence.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he asked suddenly as they passed a little tea shop in the centre of town.
‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to pack this evening and wrap a present or two.’
They walked on in companionable silence until they arrived at the Latimers’ house. He put down her bag, and fished around in his school coat pocket. ‘I got you something.’
‘Oh! That’s so sweet.’ She blushed. ‘I didn’t get anything for you – I’m sorry.’
‘No matter… open it, then.’
The parcel had been inexpertly wrapped in gaudy red and green paper. Inside was the snow globe she had seen in the gift shop the day he’d taken her to the milk bar.
‘Oh Dougie – it’s lovely, thank you.’
‘I remembered you shaking it. I thought you’d like it.’
‘I do.’ She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘You’re very sweet. I hope you have a nice Christmas.’
‘And you,’ he said.
‘Well then…’
‘Aye… you’d better go in.’
‘Yes,’ she said, glancing up at the house. Mr Latimer was watching them from the sitting room window.
‘Who was that?’ asked Mr Latimer when she met him the hall.
‘Just a boy I know,’ she replied.
‘Looks keen,’ he said, smiling.
‘Does he? He’s very sweet. He’s a lovely boy, but… well, he’s just a friend.’
‘If you say so,’ Mr Latimer said.
The following day, Imogen had just finished packing when she heard her father’s Wolseley draw up outside the Latimers’ house. She raced down the stairs to meet him.
