by Debbie Rix
‘I thought you were giving love up?’ said Joy, peering up at her friend.
‘Well I am, said Imogen, smiling, ‘but not forever!’
‘Well that’s all very well,’ said Helen, standing up. ‘But at the moment, all I can see are dark clouds. I’m sure it’s about to rain. Please can we go down now?’
As the girls began to trudge downhill, the shale paths soon turned to stone, and the steep heather uplands merged into grass as the landscape became gentler. Once again the path took them through sloping green fields and they could hear the distant bleating of sheep. But as the sky darkened dramatically, rain began to lash the hills. Imogen, in the lead, approached a winding stream and as she made her way gingerly across, slipped on a stepping-stone, badly twisting her ankle.
‘Ow!’ she cried out, collapsing onto the opposite bank and unlacing her boot. ‘Look – it’s already swelling up. I don’t think I can walk.’
‘You have to,’ said Helen. ‘We can’t stay here.’ She looked around her at the rain-sodden hills. ‘There’s nowhere to shelter. Get up Ginny, please.’
‘I can’t. You’ll have to go for help,’ whimpered Imogen. ‘I’m sorry but I really can’t walk.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Joy cheerfully. ‘You stay here with her,’ she instructed Helen. ‘And do try not to moan.’ She set off at a run down the hill.
‘Let’s try and make a shelter,’ Imogen said brightly.
‘What with?’ asked Helen gloomily.
‘The hillsides are covered with bracken. I used to make camps with it in the Highlands when I was little. See if you can pick an armful and bring it back and we can make a sort of roof with it.’
Helen wandered off, reluctantly, returning a few minutes later with armfuls of greenery. Imogen in the meantime had hobbled over to a little stone gulley and together they erected a roof of wide bracken leaves, which kept the worst of the rain off.
‘Oh heavens, where is she?’ asked Helen frantically, as the minutes ticked by.
‘She’ll have gone back to the farm,’ said Imogen. ‘It’ll take a while. Just keep calm.’
Helen glared at her. ‘This is all your fault… You keep calm.’
After half an hour, the girls were cold and wet. In spite of the bracken ‘roof’, rain lashed in at right angles, stinging their faces and drenching their clothing. Even Imogen was beginning to worry, when she heard a dog barking in the distance, followed by the sound of a man’s voice and that of a girl.
‘It’s somewhere over here,’ the girl said, ‘I’m sure that’s where I left them.’
‘Joy,’ Imogen shouted, struggling to her feet, ‘we’re over here.’
In the gathering gloom, a man ran towards them.
‘Sergio!’ said Imogen. ‘How wonderful! What are you doing up here?’
‘I’ve come to rescue you.’
‘He works on the farm down in the valley,’ Joy explained. ‘He was herding those sheep we saw earlier – putting them in that pen half-way down. Weren’t we lucky?’
‘Here,’ Sergio said, ‘put your arm around my shoulder.’
Once again, he swept her up in his arms and carried her back down the hill.
The farmer’s wife, Dorothy, ushered the girls into the farmhouse kitchen.
‘You’d better come in here, she said, clearing space around the kitchen table. ‘You’re wet through, all of you – give me your coats, I’ll put them on the range to dry and then I’ll put the kettle on. Sergio, go and get George for me, would you?’
He nodded and went outside.
‘George’s my husband,’ she explained. ‘You girls are from the big school, are you?’
‘Yes we are,’ said Imogen, removing her boot and rubbing her swollen ankle. ‘I’m so sorry to cause you all this trouble.’
‘You’re lucky Sergio was up with the sheep. You could have had a cold wet night up there. Now have a mug of tea and piece of my cake.’
Once they had warmed up and their clothes had dried a little, they thanked the farmer’s wife and Imogen limped outside, where Sergio lifted her into the front seat of George’s old Landrover.
‘Thank you so much Sergio,’ Imogen said. ‘That’s twice you’ve rescued me. I’m in your debt.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said politely.
‘Right,’ said George. ‘You go back to your billet, Sergio, and I’ll take the young ladies home.’
As they set off bumping down the stony drive away from the farmhouse, Imogen looked back and watched as the handsome Italian raised his hand and waved.
‘He’s utterly dreamy,’ cooed Joy. ‘You are lucky, Ginny. I can’t imagine anything lovelier than being carried down a mountain by a man like that.’
‘He’s the enemy!’ Helen declared. ‘How can you possibly say anything so traitorous?’
‘He’s not the enemy,’ Imogen said calmly. ‘He’s just a nice man, caught up in a war he doesn’t believe in.’
Lying in her bed that night, Imogen thought back over her two years in the Lakes. Of the Latimers and their poor dead son. Of Sergio and his kindness and of Dougie, a young man who was fighting a war that hadn’t turned out the way he had expected. In a few days’ time they’d leaving school forever. She would go to university and a new phase in her life would begin. She leant down and pulled her suitcase out from beneath her bed. She flipped it open and removed the photograph of Freddie. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Perhaps he did care for her. Perhaps, one day, she would see him again.
Chapter Fifteen
Färsehof Farm
July 1942
In the weeks following the Hitler Youth rally, Magda often thought about the intriguing brown-haired girl she had met at the university. Re-reading the leaflet she had been given, she began to envisage a role for herself supporting the group with their campaigning. The only flaw in this plan was that she lived deep in the Bavarian countryside, and so rarely got the chance to visit the local city of Augsburg, let alone travel to Munich. Her problem, she realised, was a lack of transport and she began to plan how she might acquire a bicycle, or even a motorbike, to liberate her from the seclusion of the farm.
‘Papa – I was wondering if I could ask you something,’ she began, one evening after she had helped him bring in the herd.
‘You can ask…’ he replied, settling down to milk the first cow.
‘Could I have a bicycle perhaps, or maybe even a motorbike?’
‘No! Definitely not a motorbike,’ replied her father, ‘it’s too dangerous. Maybe a bicycle, but you’ll have to contribute in some way – I’m not just going to buy one for you.’
‘I know Papa. I’ll do extra work I promise. All the morning milking, maybe? Then you won’t have to get up at all.’
‘Well, maybe not all, but if you do half the week for me, that would be helpful.’
A couple of weeks later she was standing in the kitchen looking out of the window, when she saw her father unloading something from his cart.
‘What have you got there?’ she asked, coming into the yard.
‘A surprise,’ he said, whipping off a piece of old canvas to reveal a tatty bicycle, its front wheel slightly bent, but a bicycle nevertheless.
Magda threw herself at her father and hugged him. ‘Oh Papa, thank you so much! I’m so grateful.’
‘I bought it from a farm sale – they’ve gone out of business, poor things. I know it’s a bit shabby, but with two new tyres and a bit of paint and oil, it will be as good as new.’
The bike was repaired and repainted a smart navy blue. Käthe bought a basket to put on the front, and as Magda buckled it onto the handlebars, her mother hovered in the yard next to her, fretting about where she was intending to go for her first cycle ride.
‘Maybe it’s best just to go to the village for your first outing,’ she suggested.
‘I could do that,’ said Magda, ‘but I’d like to go a bit further.’
‘Where?’ her mother asked, alarmed.
‘Augsb
urg maybe,’ Magda ventured. She was lying of course. Her real destination would be Munich, but she realised her mother would worry if she went so far.
‘Augsburg? Why do you want to go there?’
‘It will be fun to cycle round the city and see how the bike handles the roads.’
‘What if you fall off?’ Käthe asked anxiously, ‘or something happens to you?’
‘Why will anything happen to me?’ Magda replied. ‘I’ll be fine… stop worrying.’
Cycling down the farm track later that morning, and onto the main road heading for Augsburg, Magda felt a huge sense of liberation. At the railway station, the guard of the train helped her load the bike into his van. ‘Come and collect it get it when you get to Munich,’ he told her. From Munich station, she cycled straight to the university, determined to find the girl who had given her the White Rose leaflet. Wandering around the university grounds, wheeling her bicycle, she saw the girl leaning casually against a wall, smoking a cigarette. She wore trousers and a loose man’s shirt, and to Magda’s eyes, seemed impossibly glamorous.
‘Hello,’ Magda said, shyly, to the girl.
‘Hello,’ the girl replied, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. ‘Have we met?’
‘Yes, a few weeks ago. I was in my Girls’ League uniform. You gave me a leaflet.’
A look of recognition passed over the girl’s face as she exhaled cigarette smoke. ‘Oh yes, of course. The little League girl with the interesting brother.’
Magda smiled. ‘That’s right.’
‘You look different.’
‘I’m in my own clothes,’ said Magda, blushing.
‘Well it’s a definite improvement,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Saskia by the way.’
‘And I’m Magda.’
‘And what are you doing here, little Magda?’
‘I want to help.’
‘Do you?’ the girl said, dropping her cigarette butt beneath her shoe. ‘Mmmm,’ she said, observing Magda. ‘Maybe you can. Do you want a coffee? I’m just off to meet some people. Come with me.’
‘Thank you,’ said Magda, delightedly. ‘I’d like that.’
The coffee house was in a dark basement on a small side street close to the university. Saskia darted down the metal exterior staircase, followed closely by Magda. It took a few moments for Magda’s eyes to adjust to the low light levels.
‘What is this place?’ she asked Saskia.
‘Just a private room in a bar. But they’re… sympathetic.’
‘To what?’ asked Magda, innocently.
‘To the movement,’ the girl whispered in Magda’s ear. ‘I thought you said you read the leaflet?’
‘Yes… yes I did.’
‘So you know what we’re about.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Magda, uncertainly.
‘Do you really want to be part of it?’ the girl asked. ‘Because once you’re in… you can’t get out.’
‘I understand.’ Magda said, her heart beating loudly in her chest.
‘Come on then. I’ll introduce you to the others.’
A small group of young men and women sat in a dark corner, huddled around a table covered with spent coffee cups and saucers overflowing with cigarette butts.
‘Hi there,’ said Saskia. ‘This is Magda – she’s keen to help.’
A thin young man with dark hair and even darker eyes inhaled deeply on his cigarette and looked suspiciously at Magda. He stood up and, yanking Saskia’s arm, dragged her across the bar to the other side of the room. He looked angry, Magda thought. Saskia waved her arms around and Magda heard her say,
‘Yes, she’s young. But she’s sincere.’
A few minutes later, the pair returned.
‘You need to understand something,’ the young man said. ‘This is not a game. It’s dangerous. We all know the risks. We’re prepared to die for what we believe in – do you understand?’
Magda had a momentary frisson of fear. She thought longingly of the farmhouse kitchen; of Mutti baking apple cake, of the cows in the yard. She could leave now and forget all this. But something made her push those thoughts away.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I cannot stand back any more and do nothing. I can’t live a lie.’
The young man smiled and touched her shoulder. ‘You’re very young,’ he said, gently. ‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen, nearly seventeen,’ Magda said. It was a lie, for she wouldn’t be seventeen for another nine months, but she felt the need to impress him.
‘We are all older than you – Saskia’s twenty-two, I’m twenty-four. I worry you don’t really understand what you’re getting into.’
‘My brother is in England,’ Magda said, firmly. ‘He’s fighting on the side of the British. I love him and if he cannot support this government then neither can I. And yes I’m young, but I can’t watch the people I love – like my friend Lotte who is Jewish – being hurt any longer.’
The group welcomed her; she became their little mascot. They shared their plans, their dreams, their hopes of a better future. Max, the young man with dark eyes, was one of the ringleaders. He was filled with zeal and passion, Magda thought. She admired him, perhaps even fell a little in love with him. But most importantly, she felt she was doing something at last; something that might help Lotte and millions of others like her. Over that summer and into the autumn of 1942 four leaflets were produced under the heading: ‘Leaflets of the White Rose’. Six of the group were responsible for writing, the others concentrated on distribution. The leaflets were not left arbitrarily in the streets, but instead posted to academics and intellectuals they hoped would be sympathetic to their ideas.
Over the following months Käthe learned to trust that Magda would return safely from her cycling expeditions. Emboldened, Magda finally admitted that she sometimes went as far afield as Munich, although she kept the real purpose of her visits a secret.
‘I don’t know why you need to go to Munich so often,’ Käthe complained one Saturday morning as Magda prepared for another outing. ‘What do you do all day?’
‘I wander around,’ Magda said, evasively. ‘I want to go to university there… after the war. I need to get to know the city. Besides, I like it. It feels free somehow.’
‘But I worry about you,’ said Käthe. ‘You’re still very young.’
‘I’m sixteen, Mutti. In a year or so I will be doing war work.’
‘Oh let the girl alone,’ said Pieter. ‘She’s got a sensible head on her shoulders. She helps on the farm, she does her schoolwork. Let her have some freedom.’
One Saturday evening at the end of October, when the air was caught between the warmth of summer and the chill of autumn, members of the White Rose group filed up the metal staircase from the basement of the bar into the moonlit evening. Magda climbed onto her bike, preparing to cycle back to the station.
‘I need to get back,’ she said to Saskia. ‘It’s late; my parents will be worried. I left without saying goodbye this morning.’
‘It’s nearly nine o’clock,’ said Saskia. ‘Why don’t you stay with me?’
Magda was tempted.
‘I’d better not,’ she said.
‘Your parents know you’re sensible,’ said Saskia. ‘Better to spend the night in a warm flat than risk cycling back in the dark.’
Magda felt a glow of excitement. To spend the night with a friend in the city seemed a dream. She worried that her mother would be sitting at home fretting about her, but her father would reassure her. ‘She’s a sensible girl,’ he’d say, ‘she’ll be fine.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the first train home in the morning and be back in time for breakfast.’
She walked contentedly with Saskia through the streets of Munich, wheeling her bicycle. They stopped outside a five-storey corner building with tall, graceful windows. The middle three floors were decorated with ornate metal balconies overlooking the street.
‘Is this your house?’ asked Magda, gazing up at
the elegant building.
‘Yes… not all of it,’ Saskia said, laughing. ‘My apartment is at the top. It’s not as glamorous as it looks from the outside!’ She led the way up a set of stone steps and unlocked the main door. ‘Leave your bike here,’ she said, indicating an area of the hall littered with a tangle of bicycles. ‘It’ll be all right.’
The concierge, an elderly lady who sat in her little kitchen off the hall with the door left ajar so she could observe the tenants’ comings and goings, grunted as Saskia and Magda walked past.
‘Come up,’ Saskia said to Magda, ‘it’s only five flights.’
The apartment consisted of one large room. There was a little makeshift kitchen in one corner, with a tiny gas ring and a sink, a big tin bath in the opposite corner, a small double bed against one wall, and under the window a shabby armchair and a desk littered with papers.
‘The lavatory’s on the landing out there,’ said Saskia, filling a kettle. ‘Do you want tea?’
‘Yes please,’ said Magda. She felt shy, and curious; Saskia had mentioned ‘we’ quite often.
‘Do you live here on your own?’
‘No,’ said Saskia, lighting a cigarette, ‘I thought you realised. I live with Max… from the group.’
‘Oh,’ said Magda – surprised and a little disappointed. She blushed at the romantic thoughts she had harboured for the older man.
‘But don’t worry,’ said Saskia, ‘he’s not coming home tonight. He and Willi are spending the night at Willi’s place – they’ve got some more leaflets to write. He won’t be home till the morning. You can share the bed with me.’
She toasted a piece of bread on the gas flame, and spread it with damson jam.
‘My mother makes this jam for me,’ she said, handing the toast to Magda. ‘It’s good.’ Magda had never thought of Saskia as having anything as prosaic as a mother.
