by Debbie Rix
‘Come on,’ she said, walking briskly ahead. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him, kissing her fiercely on the mouth. She turned her face away, wriggling free of him.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, backing away from him.
‘Kissing you, of course. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Because I’m not your girlfriend.’
‘But I want you to be.’ He glared at her.
‘Well…’ she began, casting around for anything she could say to dissuade him, without offending him. ‘I’m too young,’ she said at last.
‘You’re only a year younger than me.’
‘I’ve known you all my life…’
‘What has that to do with it?’
Unable to come up with any suitable argument she finally turned on her heel and marched off, shouting behind her, ‘Oh Otto…do let’s go on. We don’t want to be late.’
Reluctantly he followed her, walking sulkily behind her. Magda was relieved when an elderly woman came towards them carrying a foraging basket. Magda began to run, only pausing briefly when she reached the edge of the wood, where the sun broke through the darkness of the trees. She hurried on, arriving at the outskirts of the village, walking past the Kalman’s old house and into the village square, which was bustling with shoppers. Only then did she stop and wait for Otto. They walked in silence through the square, and down the lane that led to the school.
As she was about to walk through the school gates, he caught her arm once again.
‘No Otto – not here.’
‘I heard,’ he said. He was smiling, but his blue eyes were icily cold. ‘I heard you listening to the foreign station.’
‘It was a mistake,’ Magda said, hurriedly, her heart racing. ‘Papa was looking for the German station.’
‘I could report you to the authorities,’ he said. ‘You know what happens if you listen to foreign news broadcasts.’
‘Otto… please don’t do that. It was not deliberate.’
‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we? I wouldn’t want my girlfriend to get into trouble.’ He snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him. She smelt his breath, felt it hot on her cheek. Then he released her suddenly and walked away – leaving her panting slightly, sweat breaking out on her forehead.
Chapter Nine
Keswick
May 1940
One afternoon Imogen, Helen and the Latimers gathered around the large Bakelite radio in the sitting room of the house in Manor Park listening to the early evening news:
In Parliament today, Winston Churchill made his first address to the House of Commons as Prime Minister. He spoke of the importance of creating a government of national unity, and reminded the House that the country faces an ordeal of a most grievous kind, with many long months of struggle and suffering ahead. He had nothing to offer, he said, ‘but blood, toil, tears and sweat…’
The Latimers sat together on the sofa, and, unusually, Imogen noticed, were holding hands. She wondered, as she observed the concern etched on their faces, whether her own mother and father were also sitting side by side listening to this momentous broadcast.
Mrs Latimer suddenly stood up, clutching a handkerchief to her mouth and ran from the room. Imogen and Helen exchanged glances. Mr Latimer followed his wife to the kitchen.
‘She’s worried about her sons,’ said Helen, knowingly. ‘I heard her on the phone last night, talking to a friend. The boys are both in the army – being pushed back by the Germans.’
‘Oh that’s awful,’ muttered Imogen. ‘Poor thing.’
In the week that followed, Mrs Latimer retreated to her room. She would appear briefly in the morning in her woollen dressing gown, collect a cup of tea from the kitchen before returning to her bedroom, where she would stay for the rest of the day. Imogen and Helen did their best to help Mr Latimer prepare breakfast and tea when they came home from school, but the strain was felt throughout the house. Although she was not a mother, Imogen could well imagine the torment of not knowing what was happening to one’s beloved children, facing peril and danger on a daily basis. She often studied the photograph of the Latimers’ two boys – James and Arthur – wearing corduroys, hiking books and Fair Isle sweaters, standing in the sunshine at the top of Skiddaw. In another time, Imogen often thought, she might have fallen in love with one of them. Now, it occurred to her, she might not even get a chance to meet them – they might be killed in this terrible war, and Mrs Latimer would never leave her bedroom again.
A few days later, when Imogen came home from school, she found Mr Latimer listening, once again, to the radio in the sitting room.
‘Listen,’ he said, holding his finger to his lips. ‘It’s the PM…’
… A tremendous battle is raging in France and Flanders. The Germans, by a remarkable combination of air bombing and heavily armoured tanks, have broken through the French defences…
‘Oh dear,’ said Imogen, with tears in her eyes, ‘your lovely boys…’
‘I know lass… listen to Churchill.’
… side by side, the British and French peoples have advanced to rescue not only Europe but mankind from the foulest and most soul-destroying tyranny which has ever darkened and stained the pages of history. Behind them – behind us – behind the armies and fleets of Britain and France – gather a group of shattered states and bludgeoned races: the Czechs, the Poles, the Norwegians, the Danes, the Dutch, the Belgians – upon all of whom the long night of barbarism will descend, unbroken even by a star of hope, unless we conquer, as conquer we must; as conquer we shall.
Centuries ago words were written to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice. ‘Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar. As the will of God is in Heaven even so let it be.
‘Amen,’ said Mr Latimer as tears poured down his cheeks.
The following week Imogen received a parcel from her mother. It was delivered to the house just as she was preparing to leave for school. She ran upstairs immediately to open it and, along with a letter from her mother, found a new summer dress in pale green Liberty print cotton, and a cream silk blouse. Helen, who had been brushing her teeth in the bathroom, came into the bedroom just as Imogen hung up her new clothes up on the door of the wardrobe.
‘Oh… something new to wear – lucky you,’ she said, sulkily.
‘I know,’ said Imogen. ‘I am lucky. But I’ve grown such a lot and everything I have is too short. Mind you, this dress looks a bit long. Still, I can I take it up, can’t I?’
Helen shrugged and pulled on her school skirt and shirt. Clearly, she would not give Imogen the satisfaction of admiring her new clothes and Imogen could hardly blame her. To get pleasure from something as trivial as a new outfit, when a few hundred miles away young men were dying, seemed quite wrong. And yet, she had to admit that she did feel pleasure.
Walking into town after school with Joy, Imogen mentioned her new clothes.
‘It’s such a lovely frock – although when I’ll wear it, I don’t know. What I really needed was new shoes… I did ask for some money so I could buy a pair, but she doesn’t seem to have taken the hint.’
‘Oh Ginny,’ said Joy suddenly, ‘do stop talking about clothes. I’ve been trying to tell you something for ages.’
Imogen looked at her friend, and was surprised to see tears in her eyes.
‘Oh Joy… what’s the matter?’
‘I simply can’t bear that house I’m in any longer, Ginny. We have to do something about it. Couldn’t we live together?’
‘You know I’d love to. But I’m stuck for the moment with Helen and poor Mrs Latimer – who’s jolly nice, obviously, but the poor thing is so worried about her sons – I don’t want to cause her any bother.’
‘I understand,’ said Joy, blowing her nose. ‘Poo
r Mrs Latimer. I shouldn’t be so selfish.’
‘You’re not being selfish, but I’m just a bit torn at the moment; I’m sure you understand.’
‘Yes, of course I do. I just thought, if we spoke to our parents about it, maybe they could find us somewhere else, together?’
‘I tell you what… if Mrs Latimer’s boys are all right, I promise I’ll have a word with Mummy.’
Back at Manor Park, Imogen let herself into the hall. She could hear someone moving around in the kitchen and Mr Latimer called out.
‘Imogen, is that you?’
‘Yes, Mr Latimer…’
‘Could you come in here please?’
Imogen hung her school coat and satchel over the banisters, and went into the kitchen at the back of the house.
‘Could you give me a bit of help? I really don’t know what to do – I’ve never cooked spam before, but there doesn’t seem to be much else.’ He opened the kitchen cupboard, revealing bare shelves. Imogen looked a little dubiously at the small oblong tin sitting on the Formica worktop.
‘Well, quite honestly,’ she said, ‘neither have I, but I’m sure it can’t be that hard – can it? We could fry it perhaps… in slices? And do some potatoes. How about that?’
Together they cooked tea and afterwards went into the sitting room to listen to the news. Mrs Latimer remained in her bedroom, unable to bear any reminder of what was happening in Northern France.
When the broadcast was finished, Imogen offered to take Mrs Latimer a cup of tea. ‘She’s had nothing to eat this evening,’ she told Mr Latimer, ‘and I ought to go upstairs and reply to my mother’s letter and thank her for the lovely clothes she sent me.’
Sitting at the table in her room overlooking the hills behind the town, she sat staring at a blank piece of writing paper, her pen in her hand, wondering what to write. She would thank her mother for the clothes, obviously, but somehow there was so much to say.
Should she mention Joy’s predicament? In all honesty, what could her mother do about it, back in Newcastle? She thought about mentioning her new friend, Dougie. But it seemed inappropriate somehow when the war was getting so much worse. Besides, her mother might not approve of her getting to know a local boy – she could be funny like that. ‘I’m not prejudiced,’ Rose was fond of saying, ‘but I do discriminate.’ Her mother’s letter had mentioned painting the kitchen, but it seemed such an odd thing to do when your house might be blown up at any time. Suddenly she was overcome with homesickness. She thought of her mother choosing paint colours – of how she would have asked Imogen’s advice had she been at home. ‘You have a good eye,’ she often said to Imogen, ‘what colour do you think it should be?’ Imogen’s eyes filled with tears, her throat constricting as it always did when she about to cry. She swallowed hard and thought about the Latimer boys – and all the others in trouble across the Channel – and began to write.
22nd May 1940
Dear Mum and Dad,
Isn’t the news awful? What is wrong with the British and French armies – why can’t they stop this awful advance?
Today they say the Boche is fourteen miles from the Channel. Does it mean that the Allies are waiting for them with a trap, or that we are being hopelessly beaten? Couldn’t the Fleet, if the Germans take the channel ports and the French citizens have been evacuated, bombard them?
You’d think God would defend the right – but will He? Has He?
I don’t feel exactly optimistic today.
Yes, Mummy the frock and blouse fitted – thank you very much, but I will have to turn up the hem of the frock.
What colour is the kitchen? Not the same? What’s the good of painting it when Hitler is about to walk in on us?
Today is not so warm as the days previous, but even so – it’s fine.
Well, I must finish my homework now, so I’ll say cheerio.
Tons of love,
From Imogen
PS – Mrs L is very worried about her two sons – who are in Northern France. She’s not managing to do much shopping and I’m starving! Please could you send a little extra money so I can buy food?!
PPS if they invade Britain I’m coming home!
In spite of the terrible news from France, Imogen managed to maintain a cheerful exterior. And her meetings with Dougie, which took place almost every day, cheered her more than anything. They went to the cinema, and visited the tea shops. They walked in the hills and around the edge of the lake where they held hands and kissed. At night she thought about him – the softness of his skin against hers, the way his fair hair tickled her forehead when he kissed her. Sometimes, when she unpacked her satchel at the end of the day, she would find little notes from him – notes he must have placed there when they were together.
One afternoon, at the end of May, Dougie walked her home and they stood a few doors down from her house kissing, hoping they couldn’t be seen.
‘Dougie… I must go in. Mr Latimer needs help.’
‘Stay a bit longer,’ he begged, stroking her neck.
‘No!’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.’
As she walked through to the kitchen, she found Mr Latimer sitting at the small kitchen table, listening once again to the news. He held his hand up as she walked in.
‘Listen…’ was all he said. Helen came downstairs and as she opened her mouth to say something, Imogen put her finger to her lips and pointed to the radio.
‘A number of appeals for recruits have been issued today. The Admiralty want men experienced in marine internal combustion engines, or service as enginemen in yachts or motor boats. Others who have had charge of motor boats and have good knowledge of coastal navigation are needed as uncertified second hands. Applications should be made to the nearest registrar, Royal Naval reserve, or to the fishery officer.’
Mr Latimer sat staring into space when the broadcast had finished. Imogen switched on the light and peered into the cupboard for something to eat.
‘What do they mean?’ she asked. ‘Why do they need recruits?’
‘To bring the boys out,’ said Mr Latimer. ‘They’re trapped on the beaches at Dunkirk. Thousands of them, being strafed by the Luftwaffe. Sitting ducks. Hundreds… dying. The navy can’t rescue them all – so they’ve asked for little boats. God, I’d go if I could.’ He put his head in his hands.
‘Oh,’ said Imogen, looking anxiously at Helen. ‘Does Mrs Latimer know?’
‘No… thank God. She won’t listen to the radio. It’s better that way.’
‘What can we do?’ asked Helen, kindly.
‘Nothing, girls… you’re all right.’
‘Well, we can make supper,’ said Imogen brightly. ‘We’ve got to eat.’
‘I’m sorry – I’ve done no shopping, I’ve been that worried.’
‘I’m sure there’s something we can use,’ said Imogen, optimistically.
The girls peered into the deep recesses of the Latimers’ larder.
‘Right,’ said Ginny. ‘There’s jam and flour, and small piece of cheddar, and the end of a loaf. I’m sure we can make something out of that.’
‘I’ve no eggs; we’ve had our ration for the week.’
‘Cheese on toast then?’ said Imogen, ‘and a spoonful of jam for pudding…’
Later that night, as the girls lay in bed, their stomachs rumbling, they listened to Mrs Latimer sobbing – an almost childlike crying, interjected only by the soft, gentle voice of her husband trying to console her.
‘Poor Mrs L,’ said Helen. ‘Do you think the boys will be all right?’
‘I hope so,’ said Imogen. ‘I really do hope so. The thought of anything happening to them is just too awful to contemplate. I just don’t think she’d survive.’
Chapter Ten
Färsehof Farm
June 1940
Magda stood in the bathroom of the farmhouse, a pair of scissors in her hand. The following day would be her fourteenth birthday – the age at which she had to join the young ad
ult section of the League of German Girls. It was a momentous day for other reasons too. The 22nd June was the day the Führer was going to sign an armistice with the French, giving Germany control over Northern and Western France. German troops had already arrived in Paris and German tanks were rolling unopposed down the Champs-Élysées towards the Place de la Concorde.
Magda’s local Hitler Youth group were planning a weekend of activities to celebrate the defeat of the British on the beaches at Dunkirk, the capitulation of France and the signing of the armistice. Thousands of Allied soldiers had been killed on the beaches of Northern France, although thousands more had been spirited away on a fleet of little boats and troop ships back to England. In the higher echelons of the German armed forces, the fact that so many troops had escaped was considered a critical mistake, but in the towns and villages all over Germany the propaganda machine was insisting that it was a great victory, and the beginning of the end. As the League of Girls had gathered the previous week to discuss arrangements for a street party to celebrate the victory, they had been greeted by their leader Fräulein Müller – in an ecstatic mood – quoting one of the Führer’s speeches delivered after the battle.
‘ “Soldiers of the West Front!” ’ Fräulein Müller said, her face shining with pride. ‘ “Dunkirk has fallen… with it has ended the greatest battle in world history. Soldiers! My confidence in you knows no bounds. You have not disappointed me.” ’
Magda’s fellow league members cheered. Some even had tears in their eyes. Magda was bewildered by their euphoric response.
‘We will have the most wonderful party, and I want everyone to bake a cake to demonstrate your culinary skills,’ Fräulein Müller went on, inspecting the line of girls. She stopped in front of Magda.
