The Secret Letter

by Debbie Rix

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘They’ve been arrested… her and that good-for-nothing.’ She gestured with her thumb, pointing upstairs.

  ‘Max, you mean?’

  ‘Yes… that man she lived with in sin. They should be ashamed – both of them. They got what they deserved.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? They were taken away. It’s a disgrace. Gestapo all over the house… and the rent not paid.’

  Magda backed away tearfully, bumping her bike down the steps. She stood in the street wondering what to do and where to go. Logic told her to go straight home, but she was frightened for her friends. She leapt onto her bike and headed for their basement meeting-place. She approached it cautiously, and stood on the opposite side of the road checking for any signs of the Gestapo. Confident it was safe, she crossed the street, her heart thumping, and peered through the grubby windows. It was dark and empty – the chairs were standing on the tables and the lights behind the bar were switched off. She noticed a little handwritten sign on the door: Closed until further notice. She climbed back onto her bike, and cycled towards the university, praying she would find someone – anyone – that she knew, but the area near the fountain, where Saskia and her friends often met, was deserted. She waited for a while, but eventually, as snow began to fall, wheeled her bike miserably back on to the road, and cycled back to the station, where she caught the first train to Augsburg.

  She arrived at the farm just after lunchtime. Snow was falling thickly as she wheeled her bicycle up the lane towards the house. The herd were in their winter quarters and she could hear them in the barn, lowing gently. The familiar sounds of the farm calmed her a little, and she felt relieved to be safely back home.

  As the farmhouse came into view she saw an unfamiliar black car parked outside, with a swastika flag on its wing. She thought about getting on her bike there and then and cycling away. But she couldn’t leave her parents to deal with the situation. She leaned her bike against the farmhouse, and stood outside listening. She could hear raised voices coming from inside. Her heart racing, she opened the door.

  Two Gestapo officers – their dark uniforms in stark contrast to the cosy red and white gingham of the kitchen – were sitting opposite her parents. Otto was leaning against the kitchen range, as if casually warming his back.

  ‘Magda!’ Käthe leapt to her feet, but one of the officers – a tall thin man with black hair slicked back on his scalp, got up and pushed her back down on her chair.

  Magda took in the scene, her heart thumping in her chest.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to sound innocent. ‘What’s going on?’

  Her father took advantage of the fact that the officers and Otto were all now looking at her, leaving him temporarily out of their eyeline. He looked pointedly at Magda, and drew an imaginary knife across his neck. ‘Whatever you’ve been up to,’ he was trying to say, ‘be careful.’

  ‘You are Magda Maier?’ The tall officer was studying her.

  ‘I am,’ she replied, confidently.

  ‘We have reports that you have been consorting with traitors.’

  Käthe gasped and rushed to her daughter’s side, knocking her chair over onto the floor.

  ‘No!’ she said, grasping Magda to her. ‘She’s just a child, barely sixteen. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘If she has done nothing wrong, she need have nothing to worry about,’ the second officer said, calmly. He was older than the first, with a plump, ruddy face. He looked like a shop-keeper, Magda thought, or a country doctor. But his voice was cold.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said to Käthe, who obeyed meekly.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Magda asked Otto.

  ‘He has spoken up for you,’ the plump-faced officer said. ‘He seems to believe that the reports we’ve had are mistaken.’

  Magda smiled at Otto. But the thought that he might be seeking to protect her, concerned her. He would expect some kind of recompense, of that she was sure. Her mouth was dry and she was desperate for something to drink.

  ‘So what do you have to say?’ the first officer demanded.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, wandering slowly to the sink. She turned on the tap, which rattled and wheezed, and bent down, cupping the water in her hand before drinking half a mouthful and wiping her mouth.

  Keep calm, she said to herself, feeling her heart slowing.

  ‘You have been meeting with known traitors in Munich. Do you deny it?’

  Her mind was whirring. ‘I have visited Munich occasionally, yes,’ she said, glancing over at Otto. ‘I want to go to university there after the war.’

  The tall officer smirked. ‘To university?’ he said, witheringly. ‘And who do you meet there?’

  ‘No one really. Well… other students sometimes. But they are all older than me, so we’re not friends really, but they give me advice and we talk about the courses they are studying.’ She shrugged, as if to say, so what?

  ‘Do you discuss politics?’

  ‘Politics? Sometimes.’ Be careful, she said to herself. Tread very carefully…

  ‘And what exactly do you discuss?’

  ‘What it will be like after the war. We’re all young – we want it to be over – to have some fun.’

  ‘Sit down, please.’ The plump-faced officer stood up now. He pulled out a kitchen chair for Magda.

  She sat down, trying to breathe. The officer let his hand drag across her back as he settled her in her chair. Her parents, facing her, were white-faced, their mouths set in thin lines of anxiety. Otto regarded her with a look of relaxed detachment.

  ‘You are a member of the League of German Girls?’ the plump-faced officer asked at last. Magda nodded.

  ‘We are told that you are rather rebellious.’ He consulted a notebook. ‘At least, that’s what your team leader Fräulein Müller says.’

  Magda tried to look relaxed, and forced her mouth into a smile. ‘I’m…. I’m a bit of free spirit, I suppose. The Fräulein doesn’t like that. My cakes aren’t very good.’

  ‘Do you support the National Socialist cause?’ the tall officer asked.

  ‘Of course!’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

  He looked over at Otto, who nodded discreetly.

  ‘It’s not true about her cakes,’ Käthe said, enthusiastically. ‘She’s being modest… she always takes a cake or biscuits to meetings and village celebrations. She’s such a good girl. Kirche, Küche, Kinder… that’s her. She only went to Munich for the first time with her troop. They went to a rally. She’d never been before. She’s a country girl at heart.’

  The plump-faced officer regarded Käthe with disdain and sat down at the table.

  ‘We have reports,’ he said, turning back to Magda, ‘that you have befriended someone called Saskia Schafer. Is that correct?’

  There was clearly no point in denying it, Magda realised. ‘Saskia… I’ve met her, yes. I didn’t know that was her surname. I’ve only met her once or twice. She is studying philosophy, and I am interested in that subject. We just met one afternoon at the university, by the fountain there. It’s very beautiful – do you know it?’

  ‘There is a café,’ the officer continued, checking his notebook, ‘the Café Leopold in Giselastrasse. Do you know it?’

  Think… think… ‘No,’ she said, firmly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ The officer with the plump face regarded her cooly. His eyes, she realised, were almost black. Her heart was beating loudly, so loudly she imagined they could all hear it. Had she said the wrong thing? She was banking on the fact that she had only been to the café twice, and hopefully no one in the group would reveal it.

  ‘Yes I’m sure. I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘You stayed with Saskia one night,’ the taller officer said, glancing down at his own notes. ‘We have a report from the concierge of her building. She keeps good records, tha
t old woman.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. The enemy bombed the city one evening. I was intending to come home that night – do you remember, Mutti?’ Her mother nodded, supportively.

  ‘I’d never stayed away before, but the bombers came, and we had to go down to the cellar. It was awful. The buildings all around us were hit; there were people killed – little children looking for their mothers in the street.’ She looked around the group, her face a picture of anxiety and sadness, hoping desperately to garner sympathy.

  ‘Oh my poor Liebling,’ Käthe said, as if on cue.

  ‘Do you know what Saskia is really doing in Munich?’ the tall officer asked.

  ‘I don’t understand… she’s a student.’

  ‘Her family are well known for their anti-Nazi views. Did you know that?’

  ‘No!’ said Magda, with conviction.

  ‘Did you know that Saskia Schafer is involved with an organisation called The White Rose?’

  Magda’s mouth felt dry again. ‘No… No I didn’t. I’ve never heard of it… what is The White Rose?’ Her mind was racing… did she still have copies of the leaflets in her room? Maybe a few, although she remembered posting some when she was last in Munich. Her hands felt sweaty and she involuntarily rubbed them against her skirt.

  ‘They are seeking to overthrow the government,’ the tall officer went on. ‘They are a revolutionary group.’

  She feigned shock. ‘No! I cannot believe it. Not Saskia, surely. I don’t know her very well, but she seemed so nice and sweet.’ She glanced at her mother, whose eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘You expect me to believe,’ said the plump-faced officer, standing up and pacing the kitchen, ‘that you met this girl and her revolutionary friends and they never discussed their political views at all?’

  ‘Yes… I mean no… they never discussed their views with me, no. They thought I was a baby, really. They used to laugh at me.’

  The officer came to a halt opposite Magda. He stared at her, his mouth twitching slightly, his black eyes, unblinking, boring into her soul. He turned and motioned to his colleague, who stood up, adjusted his jacket and put on his gloves.

  ‘Well… we will leave now,’ plump-face said. ‘But we will be watching you, Miss Maier. Otto here has told us that you are an enthusiastic member of the League of German Girls. He has spoken up for you. Do not give us cause to come back here. This is a very serious matter, do you understand? Treason is punishable by death.’

  ‘Yes… yes of course.’

  ‘And stay away from Munich.’

  When the officers and Otto had gone Magda sat at the kitchen table, shaking. Her mother made a cup of hot chocolate and put it in front of her.

  ‘You must tell us, Magda, what you have done and who you know. We will understand,’ Käthe said. ‘But you must tell us everything.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Magda said. ‘I don’t know that much really, anyway. And what I do know, I want to keep from you. Better that you know nothing…’

  ‘Promise me that you’ll keep away from them,’ her mother implored her.

  ‘Yes,’ Magda said, knowing it was a lie.

  The following Saturday, she rose early before her parents were awake and cycled once again to Augsburg where she took the train to Munich. It had snowed in the city overnight and the white walls of the university building merged into the hard-packed snow on the ground below. Even the fountain had frozen into a bulbous icy blue sculpture. She waited all morning, stamping her feet to keep warm, blowing into her hands. She was just wondering if she should give up and go home, when a girl named Monika, who had only attended the meetings occasionally, pushed her bike over the snow.

  ‘Monika!’ called Magda.

  The girl wheeled around, her face stricken with terror.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Magda. ‘It’s only me – Magda.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said Monika. ‘It’s not safe. Haven’t you heard what happened? We’re all being watched.’

  Magda felt a momentary sense of panic. ‘I’m sorry. I see now that it was stupid of me to come, but I had to know what’s happened to Saskia and the others.’

  Monika, her eyes glistening with tears, looked around to check if anyone was watching them, and reassured they were alone, led Magda down a narrow alley next to the university building.

  ‘They were executed. Didn’t you know? Saskia, Max, Willie… all of the leaders. Tried and executed by guillotine the same day. No chance of appeal.’

  Magda began to sob. ‘No… no I can’t believe it.’

  ‘The authorities said they were trouble-makers who had defied “the spirit of the German people”. Everyone involved has been rounded up. I don’t know why I’ve not been arrested yet, myself. I’m terrified in case someone talks and my name comes out. I’m going to leave Munich… I’m going back home to Hamburg. I’d rather risk the bombs in the North, than the Gestapo here.’

  ‘I’m sure nobody would give you away,’ said Magda. ‘They are all so brave and loyal…’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Monika, fighting back tears. ‘But who knows what you’d do or say under torture. I don’t want to die, Magda. I know Max said we had to be prepared for anything, but now… now it’s come, I can’t face it. I’m not as brave as they were.’ She wept, falling into Magda’s arms.

  ‘Look,’ Monika said eventually, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m leaving today; you should too. Don’t come back here, Magda. Get away from here… back to the countryside while you still can.’

  She kissed Magda fleetingly on the cheek before pushing her bike out of the alley. Magda followed a few moments behind. The hard-packed snow made wheeling her bike difficult, but she persevered, dragging it tearfully across the white lawns and out onto the road. She thought of her friends, Saskia and Max, and how beautiful they had been; how brave to the very end. As she cycled fast down Ludwigstrasse, tears pouring down her face, she found herself once again next to the Feldherrnhalle. The remnants of the slogan remained. The poor Russian slaves had been unable to wash it away. Down With Hitler, it said. ‘Down with Hitler’ Magda muttered under her breath, as she cycled towards the station. ‘Down with bloody Hitler.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gosforth

  July 1943

  The sun was just coming up, casting long crisp shadows over the neat gardens of Gosforth, as Imogen walked back home after her night shift. The sky was a cloudless blue and the intensity of the dawn chorus almost came as a shock, after a night on duty in the plot room with its hushed tones and orchestrated order and politeness. As her fellow Wrens and officers calmly moved shipping around the map, out in the North Sea sailors and merchant seamen battled the elements, risking their lives against German U-boats and sniping aircraft.

  Imogen had managed to complete her first year at university, but at the age of nineteen it became compulsory to join one of the forces. She had done her initial six weeks’ Wren training and was now working as a plotter at Askham House – a mere fifteen minutes’ walk from her home. Working eight-hour shifts, the plotters received signals through their headphones giving them the location of every merchant and naval ship in the North Sea. They transferred that information onto a huge horizontal grid map called a Cassini grid, using numbered cubes to mark the position of each ship or submarine. It was interesting work – not as fulfilling as architecture of course – but Imogen was happy to ‘do her bit’ and grateful that she had, at least, been appointed to a section where she felt she had a chance to use her talents.

  Joy had also decided to join the Wrens and on the day of their preliminary interviews, they sat nervously together in the waiting room. Joy, who had been working for the Leader of Newcastle City Council as a secretary, was regaling Imogen and the other candidates with the story of how she broke the news that she was leaving.

  ‘He was absolutely livid,’ she told Imogen. ‘Went quite purple in the face. “It’s a reserved occupation”,’ he blustered. “You can’t leave me…”

/>   ‘“Well sir”, I said. “It’s not that I want to leave, but I do think it’s awfully important that we all do our bit, don’t you?” He shut up after that.’

  ‘Well I’m so glad you’re here,’ said Imogen. ‘It would all have been rather intimidating without you.’

  ‘You’re going to miss university though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Dreadfully,’ said Imogen. ‘I’d just begun to feel I was getting somewhere. But, well – like you – I must do something for the war.’

  ‘Have you heard from Freddie since that day – when he popped into the studio?’ asked Joy.

  ‘No,’ said Imogen quietly. ‘He made it quite clear when we last met that he wouldn’t be in touch. So joining up is part of a new start. The chance to have new experiences. And… well, if we’re meant to be together, maybe we will – when it’s all over.’

  ‘Well I can’t wait,’ said Joy, cheerfully. ‘All the nice girls like a sailor!’ She laughed gaily.

  ‘Joy, really, it’s not about men!’ said Imogen, glancing nervously around at the other candidates in the waiting room.

  ‘I don’t see why not, Ginny. We’re bound to meet some gorgeous officers and be swept off our feet. Think of that.’

  ‘Oh Joy, you really are ridiculous. We’ll have our jobs to do. We’ll probably never even meet an officer.’

  ‘Well it’s all right for you, Ginny. You’ve always had your fair share of gorgeous men, but I’ve not had your luck. And I’m rather keen to meet a lovely man in uniform.’

  As Imogen sat opposite the interviewing officer, she fiddled nervously with the cuff of her sleeve.

  ‘Languages?’ the officer asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Imogen.

  ‘Languages – do you speak any?’

  ‘Yes, sorry… French and German – just higher certificate, but I’m not bad.’

  ‘Shorthand and typing?’

  ‘Yes, a little,’ Imogen said, somewhat reluctantly, ‘but I’ve never used it.’