The Secret Letter

by Debbie Rix

  ‘The people… where are they?’ begged Imogen.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Freddie. ‘I can’t hear anything. Perhaps they were away. God I hope so.’

  It was unexpectedly still and silent, the peace only disturbed by the occasional sound of a piece of falling masonry crashing into the void. People in the neighbouring houses gradually emerged and stood next to the young couple, gazing in consternation at the space where a family had once lived.

  ‘We can’t see anyone moving around,’ said Imogen to a tall well-built man standing next to her. ‘We thought maybe they were away?’

  ‘No, they were in. We had supper with them just an hour ago. I’m going to look,’ he said, striding over the rubble.

  ‘Shouldn’t you wait?’ asked Freddie, ‘for the wardens, or the fire brigade? You might get hurt – falling masonry and all that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the man, ‘but I’m going in anyway.’

  When Freddie rang on the doorbell of Imogen’s house an hour later, her father opened the door within seconds.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said, ushering them into the hall. ‘We heard the bombs. They sounded close. We’ve been so worried.’

  ‘Oh Daddy,’ said Imogen taking off her coat, ‘it was awful.’

  ‘Were you hit?’ her father asked, brushing dust and rubble off her coat.

  ‘No… but we’d stopped moments before at the very place it happened. Fortunately, we’d just got back in the car and as the bomb fell Freddie put his foot down. He saved my life…’ She looked over at Freddie, his uniform covered in dust, his face and hair blackened from digging in the rubble looking for survivors. ‘He was so brave,’ Imogen went on.

  ‘Thank you Freddie,’ said Joe, wrapping his daughter in his arms.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Freddie quietly. ‘I’m just so sorry…’

  ‘We went back to help, Daddy,’ continued Imogen. ‘This house – a house just like ours, had completely disappeared into a huge hole in the ground. We tried to help – moving bits of wood and bricks and things, looking for people.’

  Imogen began to cry.

  ‘Was that wise?’ Joe asked Freddie.

  ‘What else could we do?’ Imogen said, pulling away from her father. ‘Just abandon them? We had to see if anyone was still alive.’

  ‘And were they?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The fire brigade arrived and took over, but I think all of them – the whole family – are dead.’

  Rose came into the hall from the drawing room, and pulled her daughter towards her. Although nearly a foot taller than her mother, Imogen nevertheless crumpled into her arms.

  ‘Thank you for bringing her back, Freddie. Can I get you a drink?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Thank you, but I’d better be getting off. I think Ginny needs her bed. It’s been quite an evening.’

  Imogen turned to look at him, her hair and face still plastered in dust.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ll try,’ he said, opening the door.

  ‘I’ll write,’ she called out as he walked down the path towards his car.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, raising his hand and waving goodbye. ‘I’d like that.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Färsehof Farm

  June 1942

  Magda woke to the familiar sound of cattle clattering on the cobbles in the yard beneath her bedroom window, bellowing insistently – as they always did when their udders were full. She peered at the little clock on her bedside table. It was a quarter to seven. Normally her father woke her at half past six to help with the milking – banging on her bedroom door as he went downstairs. But the evening before, he had promised she could have a lie-in, as a treat for her birthday.

  She lay back and pulled the feather-filled quilt over her head, trying to slip back into sleep but her mind was already alert – racing ahead to the coming day at school. She eventually gave up, rolled out of bed, poured water from the jug into the bowl on her wash table and splashed her face. She brushed her short blonde hair, clipping it back on one side, then put on her League of Girls uniform of dark blue full skirt, short-sleeved white shirt and tie, and went down to the kitchen.

  Cooling on a rack was the cake her mother had promised to make for her birthday. She leant down and inhaled the scent of cooked cherries, her mouth salivating, and tasted a few of the crumbs that had fallen onto the dresser. It was delicious. As she listened to the comforting sounds of her parents ushering the cows into the milking parlour, she laid the table for breakfast. She was just loading wood onto the stove, when she heard a knock on the door. Opening it she found the young post boy, Andreas, holding a sheaf of envelopes.

  ‘You have a lot of letters today,’ he said, almost accusingly. Andreas was in the same class as Magda at school and was one of Otto’s little gang of followers; they were constantly whispering conspiratorially in corners. He had a reputation for being a sneak and a busybody and for that reason alone Magda had little time for him. She had also begun to suspect him of being one of the child ‘informers’ – reporting evidence of unpatriotic behaviour. Magda hated the fact that he delivered their post, as he seemed far too interested in the contents of the family’s mail.

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ Magda replied unapologetically, and closed the door.

  She watched from the kitchen window as he crossed the farmyard, surrounded by cows ambling shambolically out of the milking parlour heading for their field. A large heifer butted against him with her flank and he stumbled, stepping in a huge cow pat. Magda laughed out loud as he leant down to untie his boot and hopped awkwardly, cursing the cow, towards the grass verge on the edge of the track to wipe his soiled boot.

  Satisfied that he had finally left the farm, Magda flicked through the envelopes. There was a card from her mother’s sister in Leipzig, another from a godmother in the village. But one envelope stood out. She knew immediately from the neat, orderly handwriting who had sent it

  ‘Mutti, Mutti,’ she called out to her mother who, having finished the milking, was heading towards the kitchen garden with a bowl of scraps for the chickens.

  ‘Come quick! There’s a letter from Karl.’

  Her mother threw the bowl of scraps onto the ground and ran into the house.

  The envelope lay in glorious isolation on the kitchen table.

  ‘Open it,’ her mother said, anxiously. ‘Quick.’

  Inside the envelope was a postcard. The picture was of a charming collection of red brick Georgian townhouses, their small gardens filled with a riot of spring colour – tulips, daffodils and apple blossom. Printed on the back were the words: ‘Hampstead in the Spring’ and a simple handwritten message: Happy Birthday little monkey.

  Magda turned the card over. She peered inside the envelope.

  ‘Is that it? Is that all he can say after this time – happy birthday?’ She threw the card, disconsolately, down on the kitchen table.

  Her father came into the kitchen and stood with his back to his wife and daughter, washing his hands at the sink.

  ‘Good morning Magda – happy birthday,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I hope you enjoyed your lie-in?’

  As he turned around, drying his hands, he looked from his wife to his daughter.

  ‘Magda… Käthe – what’s the matter? What’s happened?’

  Magda handed him the card.

  He read it, turning it over more than once, studying the words, and examining the photograph.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Karl never does anything without a reason,’ Käthe said. ‘He’s trying to tell us something. What’s the picture of again?’

  Pieter read out the caption. ‘Hampstead in the Spring.’

  ‘Well, it’s not a prison is it?’ said Käthe. ‘It looks beautiful.’

  ‘So maybe he’s not in jail after all?’ Magda suggested, hopefully.

  ‘And maybe he’s living here… in this place?’
Her mother peered intently at the picture.

  ‘Maybe he can’t say any more,’ said Magda. ‘He’s trying to protect us.’

  ‘The postmark is not from Britain,’ said Pieter, examining the envelope. ‘It’s a German stamp, posted in Berlin. How did he manage that?’

  Her father began to sift through the other letters on the table. There was a second thick brown envelope, also postmarked Berlin, addressed simply to ‘The Maiers’.

  ‘This envelope is also addressed in Karl’s handwriting,’ Pieter said. He took a knife from the table and sliced through the thick paper, sealed with layers of tape.

  Inside was a plain paper package, also taped. As he carefully slit open the package, a clipping from a newspaper fell onto the table.

  ‘It’s a British newspaper, said Pieter. ‘The Daily Telegraph. I presume he wrapped it in paper to prevent anyone being able to read it through the envelope.’ He handed it to Magda. ‘Can you read this?’

  Magda, who had become relatively proficient at English at school, began to translate:

  Germans murder 700,000 Jews in Poland… Travelling gas chambers…

  She looked up at her father, bewildered.

  ‘What does it mean? I don’t understand… what are travelling gas chambers?’

  ‘No! I don’t believe it,’ said her mother. ‘That cannot be right. It must be British propaganda – surely, Pieter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Pieter dispassionately. ‘It could be true. Quite honestly, anything could be true these days.’

  Pinned to newspaper front page was a second, smaller clipping, which Magda began to translate.

  ‘“Enemy Aliens enlist”… I don’t understand exactly what that means, but I think it says that some Germans in Britain – “enemy aliens” – people like Karl, I suppose, have joined the British forces.’

  ‘Karl is fighting with the British against the Germans?’ asked Käthe, aghast.

  Her husband shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Is that all you can do?’ she asked, angrily. ‘Shrug?’

  ‘What else can I do?’ said Pieter. ‘He’s made a choice. Maybe he’s right. I hate this government. I hate everything they stand for. I admire him – standing up for his principles. But he took a huge risk sending these clippings to us. The envelope doesn’t appear to have been tampered with, but if someone had opened it, they would know what he was up to. While he was in jail in England, he was safe, and us too; but if anyone found these, he’d be a marked man, and us with him. Burn them – the articles and the card. Put them on the fire.’

  ‘But, Papa,’ pleaded Magda, ‘the card is from Karl! Don’t make us do that.’

  ‘Look – if we’ve worked out he’s working for the British, living in… where was it… Hampstead? Then others will do the same. Do as I say. And burn the envelopes too. Everything must go.’

  ‘We’d better do as he says,’ said Käthe reluctantly, after Pieter had gone back out to the yard. She ran her finger over her son’s handwriting on the card, as if by doing so, she could imbibe some part of him. The thought of burning this last missive from her beloved child seemed like a violation. She opened the range door, and the flames from the fire flared momentarily as she threw on the newspaper cuttings, followed by the card. Shutting the range door, Käthe and Magda looked at one another, both wondering if they should also burn the secret letter, hidden away upstairs. But some unspoken understanding kept them from doing so.

  The following day Magda was due to visit Munich with fellow members of the Hitler Youth. They were to attend a rally on the Königsplatz with other groups from Bavaria. Magda did not relish these ‘outings’, but Fräulein Müller would frown on her if she refused to attend. Besides, she had never visited Munich before, and had begun to imagine a life for herself, once she left school, following in Karl’s footsteps and attending university. Munich had a fine university and she was intrigued to see it.

  Otto insisted on sitting next to her on the train as they travelled from Augsburg to Munich.

  ‘Did you have a nice birthday?’ he asked, settling himself next to her.

  ‘Yes. How did you know it was my birthday?’

  ‘Andreas told me, of course. He said you had all sorts of mail yesterday – including a couple of letters from Berlin. Who do you know in Berlin?’

  Magda blushed involuntarily.

  ‘I have an aunt there,’ she said, as casually as she could. ‘Although I don’t know what it has to do with you?’

  ‘Really?’ said Otto. ‘And one aunt sent two letters? Or maybe it was a card and a package?’

  Magda’s heart began to race.

  ‘It was a present. She sent me a book and she forgot to put the card in with it.’ Magda breathed rapidly, trying to calm herself.

  ‘An expensive mistake,’ Otto said, sarcastically. ‘Having to send two envelopes. It’s funny – I’ve never heard you mention that you have relatives in Berlin. I thought your aunt lived in Leipzig?’

  ‘That’s my mother’s sister,’ Magda said indignantly. ‘My father has a sister too. Anyway – I really don’t think it’s any of your business, do you?’ She regretted this last comment. It would only annoy him.

  ‘It’s my business,’ he replied arrogantly, ‘because I am your boyfriend. We should have no secrets from each other.’ Since the morning he had overheard Pieter listening to the BBC, Otto never missed an opportunity to remind Magda that she was in his debt. Now she played along with his insistence that he was her boyfriend – it was the only way she could pacify him.

  She feigned a smile, and bit her lip.

  ‘I got you something,’ he said, reaching into his jacket pocket, ‘for your birthday. That’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it?’

  He handed her a small brown paper parcel.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said feebly, and began to unwrap it, watched intently by Erika sitting on the other side of the carriage.

  Inside the wrapping was a dark red leather jeweller’s box. Opening it, Magda found a silver brooch and matching earrings, set with blue aquamarines surrounded by crystals. They were pretty, Magda thought, but more suited to an older woman, and far too expensive for a boy like Otto to be able to afford.

  ‘To match your beautiful blue eyes,’ Otto said. ‘Here, I’ll pin the brooch your shirt.’

  As he fumbled with the clasp, his fingers touched her breasts. She inwardly recoiled, her heart racing.

  ‘Don’t I deserve a kiss?’ he whispered in her ear.

  Blushing, more with fury than desire, she pecked him briefly on the cheek.

  ‘You can do better than that,’ he said, breathing heavily into her neck.

  ‘Not here,’ she whispered, embarrassed. Looking around the carriage she realised everyone was looking at them, including Erika, who had tears in her eyes.

  ‘I shouldn’t wear it now, anyway,’ she said briskly, unpinning the brooch and putting it back into the box. ‘It’s against regulations, besides, I might lose it.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But wear it later…’

  Magda slipped the leather box into her pocket and inched over towards the window in order to put some physical space between herself and Otto. She was relieved when he began to joke noisily with the other boys and she was left alone to stare gloomily out at the passing countryside.

  At Munich station, they walked in a crocodile up the platform, through the station, and outside where they gathered excitedly, waiting for their team leaders. As they were being assembled, a group of fifty of so people – men, women and children – shuffled onto the concourse. Each one carried a suitcase, as if departing on a long holiday. But they showed no sense of expectation or delight – rather, they looked pale and frightened, and in spite of the warm summer weather wore overcoats and hats. As soldiers surrounded them, barking orders and prodding them with their rifle butts the women began to scream, and the children to cry.

  The Hitler Youth, led by Otto, began to shout.

  ‘Jews, Jews,’ th
ey chanted, hissing and shaking their fists. Magda, appalled and ashamed, kept her eyes trained firmly on the concourse’s cobbled surface.

  ‘Where are they taking them?’ she whispered to Erika.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Erika replied, crisply. ‘And I don’t care. Away from here… I hope. We don’t want them any more.’

  As the travellers were pushed and shoved, cowering, towards the station, Magda noticed a young girl at the back of the group. She wore a shabby grey coat, and as she turned to stare at the Hitler Youth, Magda recognised her pale pinched face.

  ‘Lotte!’ she shouted, pushing Erika and the others aside as she ran towards her friend. Otto tried to restrain her, grabbing hold of her arm, but she broke free of him and sprinted across the concourse.

  The two girls fell into each other’s arms, but a soldier brandishing a gun pulled Magda roughly away and planted himself between them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Magda demanded, angrily. ‘Where are you taking them?’ The soldier ignored her and stared implacably ahead.

  ‘Oh Magda,’ cried Lotte, her hand reaching out to grasp at her friend. ‘We had to leave our flat, and all our things. Magda, I’m scared!’

  ‘Where are your parents?’ asked Magda, desperately.

  Dr Kalman pushed his way through the group to stand at his daughter’s side, but the soldier hit him sharply in the stomach with the butt of his gun.

  ‘Get back to your place,’ he shouted.

  ‘Leave Dr Kalman alone,’ Magda shouted defiantly. ‘He deserves your respect!’

  ‘Go back to your unit – now!’ said the soldier to Magda. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘But there’s been a terrible mistake! This man is a doctor. You must let him and his family go – they’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Dr Kalman reached over and grasped Magda’s hand.