by Debbie Rix
‘I’m talking particularly to you, Magda Maier. You will be fourteen next week on the day our Führer is signing the treaty. It’s an auspicious day, and I expect great things from you. Don’t disappoint me.’
That evening, Magda had asked her mother if she could spare her this torture.
‘Please Mutti – could you make the cake for me? You know what a terrible cook I am…’
Now, as she stared in the mirror, and considered her long plaits – the hairstyle of choice for all League maidens – Magda took the bathroom scissors and snipped through the two long ropes of blonde hair, just below her chin. The sense of rebellion and liberation this act produced in her was remarkable. She shook her head and ruffled her hair, then picked up the two plaits and took them into her bedroom, stuffing them into the bottom drawer of her chest of drawers.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Mutti was taking an apple cake out of the stove, when Magda came in. As she turned around, holding the cake in her hands, Käthe gasped.
‘My God, Magda! What have you done?’
‘Cut my hair,’ said Magda, sitting down at the table. ‘Is it a problem?’
‘But Liebling, girls don’t have… you looked so nice with…’
Käthe fell silent.
‘Girls don’t have short hair?’ said Magda, defiantly. ‘Well, I do. I like it. Can you neaten it up for me?’
Her mother put the cake onto a rack, and took the scissors from her daughter.
‘Very well. Let’s at least make it look tidy.’
As the smell of apple cake drifted across the kitchen, Käthe snipped nervously at her daughter’s hair.
‘I made your cake for you,’ Käthe said.
‘Thank you Mutti… it smells lovely.’
‘Well I hope they all enjoy it.’
‘I hope it chokes them,’ Magda said gloomily. ‘I can’t see what there is to celebrate.’
‘I just worry,’ Käthe said, as she clipped away at her daughter’s hair, ‘that you are so out of step with everyone. All around us, people are celebrating our victory over the British at Dunkirk and the fall of France. If you don’t seem happy about it people will notice.’
‘How can I celebrate the death of so many soldiers dying on the beaches? Fräulein Müller told us all about it, and she was so delighted – it sickened me.’
‘I blame your brother,’ Käthe said, wiping the snipped ends of her daughter’s hair away from her white neck. ‘If he hadn’t written that letter you would be happy along with the others. He included you in something that was not your business. He’s an adult, and he can make these decisions, but you’re just a child.’
‘I’m not a child,’ Magda said, defiantly, running her fingers through her newly-shortened hair. ‘I’m a young woman and I have eyes and ears and can see what is true and what is not.’
‘Well,’ said Käthe, sweeping up the clippings from the floor, ‘I just hope your short hair doesn’t upset too many people.’
At school that morning, her new hairstyle, predictably, caused a stir.
‘Magda Maier! I hardly recognised you,’ Herr Schmidt, her teacher, scolded. ‘Do you have some sort of infestation that necessitated you to do this?’
‘No!’ Magda said indignantly. ‘I just didn’t want plaits any more.’
‘I see,’ he said sternly. ‘Well sit down. I suppose it will grow.’
But that morning, in the break between lessons, several girls came up to her and admired her short hair.
‘I’d love a hairstyle like that,’ Erika said. ‘But my mother won’t let me. She says that long hair is the mark of a true maiden.’
‘Well I don’t want to be a true maiden,’ Magda said briskly. ‘I just want to be me.’
Returning to school after lunch, Otto bounded up behind her.
‘Magda,’ he called out, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘Well you found me,’ she said.
‘Why did you cut off your beautiful hair?’ He touched her short golden bob. ‘I liked it the way it was.’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ she said, moving her head away from his hand. ‘It annoyed me. Everyone looking the same – it’s odd. I’m not like everyone else. I’m an individual.’
She knew this was a provocative thing to say. Individuality was not encouraged. But she felt unable to quash her sense of defiance. She knew she had affronted her teachers and peers, and it delighted her. It was an outward symbol of rebellion that she could impose on the people around her who, increasingly, she despised.
Otto flushed. With what she couldn’t be sure… anger, perhaps. Certainly anger was an emotion he expressed only too frequently. He had stood up in class the previous day, and criticised the teacher for not saluting the Führer at the start of afternoon school. The other children had sniggered in admiration, but the teacher, Magda thought, had looked genuinely scared, as if this young boy had the power to destroy him.
As junior leader of the Hitler Youth, Otto had become increasingly overbearing. He had recently joined an elite group within the Hitler Youth called HJ-Streifendienst, which would give him automatic entry to SS officer training when he was old enough.
‘Well I hope it grows soon,’ Otto said, ‘you looked prettier with long hair.’
When school finished, the children assembled in the village square to arrange the tables for the feast they had been instructed to bring the following day.
‘All the girls will bring cakes and biscuits,’ Fräulein Müller said. ‘Erika will make a list of what you all intend to bring. The boys, led by Otto, will perform a demonstration of their rifle skills. Otto – you may set up a rifle range in the centre of the square.’
‘Magda,’ said Erika. ‘What cake will you bring?’
‘An apple cake,’ said Magda, remembering the cake her mother had made that morning.
‘That’s very good,’ said Erika, with surprise. ‘I thought you hated cooking.’
‘I do,’ said Magda, defiantly. ‘My mother made it.’
Erika regarded her with disdain. ‘You should learn,’ she said. ‘It’s your duty… as a German woman.’
Magda wanted to scream at her: ‘my duty is to fight people like you.’ But she remained uncharacteristically silent.
Before the meeting broke up, Otto took it upon himself to speak to the group.
‘Tomorrow,’ he began, ‘we will spend the day celebrating the signing of the greatest treaty in our history – the capitulation of the French!’
The young people cheered, stamping their feet. Otto held up his hand. ‘We will now pray,’ he said.
‘Führer, my Führer, given me by God.
Protect and preserve my life for long.
You saved Germany in its time of need.
I thank you for my daily bread.
Be with me for a long time,
Do not leave me, Führer, my Führer,
My faith, my light. Hail to my Führer!’
The other children repeated the last phrase ‘Hail to my Führer,’ but Magda, appalled at the deification of Adolf Hitler, remained sullenly silent.
When she got home she threw her school bag angrily into the corner of the kitchen.
‘Magda,’ said her mother, ‘what on earth’s the matter?’
‘They are saying prayers for him now… as if he is God himself!’
‘Who? Who is God?’
‘Hitler of course. Otto and his little friends – they pray to him. It’s terrible.’
Magda stomped upstairs and Käthe heard her bedroom door slamming shut. Following her, she knocked quietly on her door.
‘Magda… mein schatz.’
‘Leave me alone,’ Magda said, her voice thick with tears.
‘I have something important to tell you.’
There was silence.
‘Magda, I had a letter from Karl today.’
Magda threw open her door.
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘You didn’t me a chance.’
‘I know!’ Her mother dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her apron. ‘Is that the same as prison?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Magda. ‘I suppose so. He says his professor at the university has been kind… that he spoke up for him with the authorities.’ She looked up, hopefully, at her mother. ‘He says that this man is trying to help him – that he might be able to work on his farm.’
‘It’s almost funny,’ said Käthe, ‘all these years he’s hated farming – and now he’ll be forced to do it.’
‘It’s better than fighting,’ said Magda, handing her mother the letter.
‘I suppose so,’ her mother said, sniffing.
‘And now you can tell everyone that he is “doing his bit”,’ said Magda. ‘He’s in jail, after all.’
Käthe began to cry. ‘Yes. Yes that’s right… Of course. And the best thing of all – is that we will know that he’s safe.’
When Pieter came in from milking the herd that evening, he read his son’s letter with tears in his eyes.
‘Thank God he’s not here,’ he said, laying the letter aside.
‘Perhaps now,’ said Käthe, ‘the war will be over quite soon – the French have surrendered already, haven’t they?’
‘Hmmm,’ said Pieter. ‘They have. But the British are another matter. I can’t see them giving up that easily.’
‘But if we have already taken Paris?’ Käthe began.
‘I don’t know. They say it’s a matter of months, but I don’t believe it.’
That night, lying in bed, as Magda grimly anticipated the ‘celebrations’ planned for the weekend, she re-read Karl’s first letter. That slim, flimsy sheet of paper was, in some ways, the only truthful thing in her world – a world that was dominated by lies and deceit and cruelty. Her life on the farm was protected from much of this, of course. The family’s life together in the countryside seemed a haven of sanctuary compared with the horrors of war. The daily rituals of farm life gave an outward semblance of calm and security – the cows gathering twice daily to be milked, clattering contentedly across the yard, the sight of her father leading the horses out to the fields to plough, or sow, or harvest. Her mother in the kitchen, churning butter and making cheese to sell at the market; the rows of bottled fruit and salted vegetables lining the larder, the rabbit stews and freshly roasted chicken her mother produced for supper. Magda slept in a clean bed, she drank warm milk and had enough to eat. But, at night, as she read Karl’s letter over and over again, she saw that this cosy country life was an illusion. Behind this veil of security, a whole generation had been taught that Adolf Hitler was a god – that his every proclamation was an inalienable fact, whereas the truth was that thousands of men were dying fighting a war. German citizens were being denied their liberty and their lives because they were Jewish, or because their Catholic faith set them at odds with what the Nazis wanted everyone to believe. Karl, through his letter, had shown her the truth. And now it was time for her, Magda Maier, to make a stand. That was what Karl was doing, after all…
Chapter Eleven
Keswick
June 1940
Dear Mum and Dad,
I heard from one of the teachers, Mrs Burnett, who’s just come back from Newcastle, that German planes had been flying over the city at night, but did no damage. She’d looked out of the window and saw them caught in the search lights! Mrs Burnett said that on the third alarm she tried to get her husband Roger up and out of bed – to go to the shelter – and all the response she could get was ‘Let ’em come! I’m going to stay here and be bombed!’ Wasn’t that funny? But I do wonder why they didn’t manage to bring a few down? It doesn’t say much for our anti-aircraft batteries. Still the wet weather has set in – it’s been pouring all day. I think it’s just as well, as rain may hinder the Nazis.
I think signing the ‘peace’ in the same place as in 1918 is beastly – the poor French people. What on earth will happen? Do write and say what you think as children’s opinions of the situation are probably incorrect.
I have been thinking you won’t be getting much sleep these nights – I hope Daddy’s indigestion doesn’t get worse.
Tons of love,
Ginny
Imogen was just addressing the envelope when she heard the doorbell’s insistent ringing in the hall. Moments later she heard a wail – an animal-like sound that reminded her of a fox caught in a poacher’s trap.
Abandoning her letter she raced downstairs and found Mrs Latimer crouched down on the hall floor, a telegram lying on the floor beside her, the telegraph boy standing helplessly on the doorstep.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a small voice, ‘I’m so, so sorry…’
‘It’s not your fault – thank you,’ said Imogen nodding goodbye and closing the door.
Mr Latimer, who had been down in the garden, heard the commotion, and came rushing up the path and into the hall. He knelt at his wife’s side.
‘Moira, Moira… what is it?’
Imogen handed him the telegram.
‘Bastards,’ he said, reading the telegram. ‘Bloody, buggering bastards.’
Imogen stood rigid, pinned to the spot. She had never heard anyone swear in such a way. And it seemed quite out of character for mild-mannered, dear Mr Latimer.
‘It’s our Arthur,’ he said, looking up at her, his face wet with tears. ‘They got him at Dunkirk… like rats in a trap, they were.’
He stood up, putting the telegram on the hall table, helped his wife up to her feet and through to the sitting room.
‘I’m so, so sorry Mr Latimer,’ said Imogen.
At school the following day, she and Helen were invited into the headmistress’s study.
‘Ah girls – good. Sit down. Now, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Latimers have had a terrible piece of news.’
Imogen and Helen both looked down at their shoes, tears springing to their eyes.
‘Poor Mrs Latimer,’ she blurted out, ‘she started crying the moment she heard the news and she’s not stopped since.’
‘Well it seems that not only is their eldest boy… I can’t remember his name…’ The headmistress shifted sheets of paper around on her desk, searching for the information.
‘Arthur’ said Imogen.
‘Yes, Arthur… not only has he tragically lost his life, but their youngest son, James, has been injured. It’s not too serious, but he’s coming home to recuperate when he leaves hospital, and understandably they need the room for him.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Imogen, looking at Helen.
‘So we’ll have to find you a new billet. He won’t be back for a couple of weeks, so I’ve asked if you can stay for the time being, but with term ending soon, I wanted you to know that you’ll be in new digs when you come back in September. If we need to move you before then, I’ll find something temporary. Very well – you can go.’
The girls crossed the head’s study and were opening the heavy oak door to leave when she called them back.
‘Oh… and girls… I imagine I don’t really need to say this, but do all you can to help the Latimers at this time – cooking and tidying and so on.’
Ten days later Imogen’s parents arrived to collect her. In spite of the recent spate of bombing in Newcastle, the school was closing for the summer holidays and as many children as possible were being sent back home. Imogen’s mother took charge of clearing and tidying the room she had shared with Helen, anxious not to add to Mrs Latimer’s burdens.
‘I don’t want her to have to do anything after you’ve gone. Imogen – bring me a broom from the scullery, and a cloth and some polish. And strip that bed and put all the linen in the pillow case – there’s a good girl.’
The bed stripped, Imogen was standing on the landing, the bag of linen in her hands, when she spotted an ambulance driving down the road. It stopped outside the house and a couple of orderlie
s opened the back doors and manoeuvred a young man out of the ambulance. Her father pushed past her, carrying her suitcases.
‘Jump to it Ginny, open the front door for me.’
‘All right, Daddy. I think the Latimers’ son has just come home.’
As her father walked down the garden path to his car, Imogen watched the young man being lifted carefully into a wheelchair. He was no more than nineteen – sandy-haired, with pale blue eyes and a full sweet mouth.
‘Hello,’ he called out to Imogen in his soft, gentle Lakeland accent; he reminded her of Dougie.
‘Hello,’ she replied, walking towards him. ‘You must be Jimmy – sorry, it’s James isn’t it?’
‘Jimmy’s fine,’ he smiled. ‘Yeah that’s me; and you’re…?’
‘Imogen. I’ve been billeted here with another girl from school since last September. It’s been very nice; your parents have been very kind. We’re leaving today, though. I was so sorry to hear about…’
‘Arthur. I know. I can’t believe it. Both getting clobbered on the same bloody beach, who’d have thought…’
‘Excuse me, lad,’ said the orderly, ‘but we need to get you inside.’
At that moment, Mr Latimer came to the door of the house. He walked steadily down the garden path and stood opposite his son, gazing down at him – as if he could hardly believe he was there. Then he knelt down and embraced him, sobbing into his son’s shoulder.
Imogen, uncertain what to say or do, retreated back up the garden path.
‘I ought to say goodbye to Mrs Latimer,’ she muttered nervously. She found her mother with Mrs Latimer in the sitting room. They were standing at the window, watching as Mr Latimer wheeled their son up the path.
‘Well, we’ll let you get on,’ Rose was saying. ‘I’m so glad your boy is home. Thank you for all you’ve done for Imogen – we are so grateful. God bless you.’
