by Debbie Rix
‘You’re going to be working for the Allies against our own government?’ Käthe asked, aghast.
‘Yes Mutti. They need fluent German speakers, with intimate knowledge of the local area.’
‘But it’s so dangerous, Karl. You might be captured, or killed.’
‘If I was a soldier fighting here I might also be captured, or killed. We are at war, Mutti. Death is everywhere. But I’d rather die for a cause I believe in, than for a government I despise.’
Much later, as Karl sat on Magda’s bed, she told him about Otto and Michael.
‘I loved Michael,’ she said. ‘He was the sweetest man I’d ever met, apart from you.’
He squeezed her hand.
‘Even though I didn’t want him to leave, I helped him get well enough to travel. I knew he would have to try to escape back to England one day. He’d always told me he would – it was his duty.’
Karl nodded.
‘One day – it was such a beautiful, sunny day – I persuaded him to come outside into the garden; it was the first day he’d ever left the house. I thought we could have lunch outside… and then Otto arrived.’
‘I remember Otto,’ Karl said, ‘a little blond boy – bad-tempered, a bad loser.’
Magda smiled. ‘Yes, that sounds like him. He’s nearly twenty now, and over six feet tall, but he’s still bad-tempered and a bad loser. Ever since you went away he’s… pursued me. He seemed to have this crazy idea that I wanted to be his girlfriend. I never encouraged him, I promise. I hated him, to be honest. But in the end, it was only by pretending to like him that I could save Michael’s life. Otherwise, he would have found him on the farm. I knew what Otto was like – like a dog with a bone – never giving up, always so suspicious. He and I were in the kitchen and we heard a noise from outside. I knew it was Michael trying to get away. But Otto insisted on going out and looking around – to find out what had caused the noise. I brought him back into the house to distract him. I had to give Michael a chance to get away. That’s when it happened.’
‘You’re saying he raped you?’
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Karl said softly. ‘War is vile, men are vile. War is initiated by men, to satisfy the ambition of men. They don’t think about the human beings at the centre of it, of the women and children who suffer. You are as much a victim of war, Magda, as the Jews in the concentration camps.’
‘No!’ said Magda, firmly. ‘I don’t believe that. My friend Lotte – she’s a real victim. She and her family were driven away from our village, sent to Munich and then taken God knows where. But I’m still alive, Karl. And all right, I’m pregnant and I don’t know who the father is. But there’s a chance it’s Michael’s child. And I love Michael. So whilst I wouldn’t have chosen to have a child now, I must try to be happy about it, don’t you think?’
Karl kissed his sister.
‘When did you get to be so wise?’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘But we should both go to sleep now. We all have work to do tomorrow. I have to set up my radio equipment somewhere. It’s not safe down here in the house.’
‘You can use the attic,’ said Magda enthusiastically. ‘We put Michael up there – in our secret attic – do you remember?’
‘Yes of course. Can you help me move my things up there?’
‘Can’t you at least sleep in your own room?’
‘No. It’s not safe. If anyone turned up I’d be too obvious. Everything needs to be out of sight. People must believe I’m still in England. But I’ll sleep in my own bed just for tonight. And I’ll explain everything to Papa and Mutti tomorrow. Will they understand, do you think?’
‘Mutti will complain. She’s afraid of everyone and everything. But Papa will support you. He hates the government as much as we do; he won’t let you down.’
‘I thought as much. Goodnight then, little monkey.’
‘Goodnight big brother. I’m so happy to have you home.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paris
September 1944
As their open-sided transport lorry headed for Paris, the Wrens were greeted by cheerful civilians hailing them as saviours. From time to time road blocks or bomb craters in the road forced the lorry to come to a juddering halt, whereupon they would be surrounded by local people wanting to shake their hands.
When they finally arrived at Chateau La Celle St Cloud – which was to be their home for the foreseeable future – they could hardly believe their luck. Set amongst unkempt classical gardens, the gold-coloured chateau overlooked a lake and reminded Imogen, as they rumbled down the long drive, of a forgotten castle in a fairy tale.
‘My goodness,’ said Joy, standing up in the transport. ‘We seem to have arrived in heaven!’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, Cinderella,’ said Imogen. ‘I suspect we won’t be in some grand bedroom on the first floor, but will be sleeping in a wooden hut somewhere in the grounds.’
‘Thought so,’ said Imogen, as the Wrens were shown to a set of wooden huts that were to be their dormitories.
‘There’s an ablution room at the far end,’ the Quarters PO called out. ‘I’ve managed to get hold of an old copper, so as long as there’s enough firewood around the place, we should be able to heat up some water and you can all get the occasional bath. It’s one of those canvas ones – not the best, but it’s better than nothing.’
Imogen raised her eyes heavenward, as she threw her kit bag onto her bunk.
‘See?’ she said to Joy. ‘I told you.’
The Wrens went to work each day in a naval bus. The new headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force was another chateau in a suburb of Paris called St Germain en Laye. Chateau d’Hennement had been used by the Germans as their own headquarters while they were in Paris, and as soon as they moved in, the Wrens took huge pleasure in clearing all the grand rooms of Nazi memorabilia. A pair of naval ratings made a vast bonfire in the grounds, and the girls dragged Nazi flags and portraits of Hitler out of the building, and threw them onto the fire.
The work was straightforward enough. Imogen worked for Admiral Ramsay himself – leader of the expeditionary force – and her duties were similar to the ones she had performed for Admiral Spalding. She organised his diary and liaised with other departments. In the summer months the chateau was a pleasant enough place in which to work. The grand rooms were draughty but they would play the occasional game of bowls or cricket in the grounds, or take picnics outside and sit in the overgrown gardens. Occasionally they got ‘a pass’ and were allowed to go into Paris itself. Gaggles of Wrens would wander the streets, marvelling at the clothes and dousing their wrists with exotic perfumes.
On their first outing, Imogen and Joy visited the department store Galeries Lafayette.
‘Isn’t it heaven?’ said Joy. ‘Just look at these clothes – so beautifully made. I’ve not seen anything like it since before the war.’
‘Yes,’ said Imogen, picking up the label on a chic summer suit, ‘and look at the prices. I’m afraid our Wren’s wages won’t nearly cover it.’
On the ground floor they wandered amongst the scarves and gloves.
‘These are more in our price range,’ said Imogen, trying on a dark red silk scarf and admiring herself in the mirror. The colour brought out her red lips and contrasted well with the navy of her uniform. She handed a dark green scarf to Joy. ‘Try this on,’ she said, ‘it will bring out the hazel in your brown eyes.’
‘But green’s your colour…’ said Joy.
‘Normally, yes – but I fancy a change.’
‘It does look lovely,’ said Joy, fingering the silk scarf. ‘But would we be allowed to wear them?’
‘I think so,’ said Imogen. ‘Even the petty officers in France seem to wear a little flash of colour. It’s as if the rules don’t really apply here.’
‘And maybe a pair of matching gloves?’ suggested Joy, trying on a pair in the softest leather.
; Feeling suitably elegant, the pair crossed the river and wandered the Left Bank.
‘Shall we have coffee?’ asked Imogen noticing a café called Les Deux Magots. ‘This place looks rather inviting.’
Issued with cigarettes as part of their ration, they sat on the pavement, smoking Gauloises and drinking coffee, watching as people wandered by. A girl wearing a belted raincoat and headscarf scurried nervously past. As she bumped into an elderly lady walking her little dog, her scarf slipped, revealing a stubbly shaven head. The elderly woman picked up her dog, and clutching it to her bosom, spat at the girl. Others in the café muttered and shouted abuse.
‘Poor girl,’ said Imogen. ‘Fancy having your head shaved like that. They do it to women who had affairs with Germans under the occupation.’
‘I feel sorry for her,’ said Joy.
‘So do I,’ said Imogen. ‘Who knows what we’d all do if we were desperate enough?’
As autumn turned to winter and the weather grew colder, the Wrens spent their lunch hours gathering firewood to burn in the empty grates of the chateau. Back in the unheated Nissen huts, bathing in the portable baths became less and less attractive.
‘Crikey,’ said Joy one evening, ‘you’ve got to be pretty desperate to get in the bath. It took ages to fill it up and it’s so draughty in there! And not just that – at least four girls came in to use the lavatory while I was sitting in the altogether.’
‘Oh Joy,’ said Imogen. ‘You are funny. Did you leave the water in there? I wouldn’t mind getting in now. It’s over a week since I had a proper wash.’
Throughout those weeks, Imogen immersed herself in work. She felt completely disconnected from her previous life. It was as if she had been caught in a parallel world where her family and friends, apart from Joy, had ceased to exist. Her days seemed filled with a combination of hard work and survival. But one afternoon, after a meeting with the Admiral about his plans for the following day, a letter arrived for her.
‘Letter for you, Wren Mitchell,’ the post boy said, putting the lavender envelope on her desk.
She knew at once who it was from, and slipped it into her pocket to read later that evening.
My darling Imogen,
I was so happy to get your letter. I completely understand that it must be difficult to find the time to write –and even harder to get letters sent back to you, particularly now you are in France. I do hope that all is well and that you are taking care of yourself. I really cannot imagine what your life must be like living over there. It seems such a long way away from everything we know and love. Are the local people kind? Have you managed to go into Paris yet? I worry that the Germans might fight back… there is talk of it. Do your people have plans to get you out if that should happen? I try not to think about it but pray for you every day. I cannot tell you how precious you are to us.
My darling I thought I would bring you news of our friends and family. Your cousin Ella has become engaged – to a charming naval officer – an artist. How they will afford to live I do not know. They are both so gentle and without any apparent ability to earn a living. Daddy’s brother’s children in Canada are all fighting – as you know. Young Bob is tragically in a Japanese war camp. We pray for him nightly too.
And I have news of Marjorie’s boys. Jonno is in Italy – in Sicily I believe. Philip appears to have survived like the cat with nine lives. He’s lost two destroyers but survived both episodes apparently unscathed. And Freddie is working with a new unit – something rather secret, I gather. He’s based in East Anglia with 214 squadron. He wrote to Marjorie and asked after you, which I thought was nice of him. Perhaps he is still interested, after all? I told her that you had gone to France, but really could tell her nothing more. Perhaps you might write to him and tell him your news?
With all our love,
Mummy and Daddy
Imogen smiled as she read her mother’s letter. In her subtle way she was ensuring that Imogen should not close the door on Freddie. But looking again at the last paragraph, she felt confused. Was Freddie just being polite by asking after her, or was he trying to tell her something – and if so what? She was uncertain whether she should write to him, in part because she was fearful of rejection, afraid that she might have misinterpreted the message. Besides, technically she was already engaged to Ben and should an engaged woman write to another man? But the more she thought about it, the more illogical that seemed. How could writing to an old friend be considered disloyal in any way? Freddie deserved her friendship and loyalty too. So one night, when Joy was asleep, snoring gently, Imogen took out a piece of writing paper and her fountain pen.
My dearest Freddie,
It’s been so long since we saw one another. I received a letter from my mother and she told me that you are part of a new squadron. Do write and tell me what you’re doing, if you’re able to. I’m in France, near Paris. Can you believe it? I never thought I would get the chance to travel abroad, let alone have such an exciting time. But the war, I’m slightly ashamed to say, has opened so many doors for me. It’s as if my life before – my aspiration to go to university, to study, to become an architect – is completely in abeyance. I understand now, what you said to me that night when we last met in the pub in Newcastle. You were right, of course. One cannot be entangled emotionally with others during a war. Normal feelings of love and tenderness, even of deep friendship, are impossible when everyday life is so uncertain. Please take care. I know you are a sensible person and won’t take unnecessary risks, but if your flying is as bad as your tennis, I fear for you!
All my love,
Your friend,
Imogen
She fretted about this last line. Whether it rang the right note. Was it too cheeky to refer to his poor tennis style – or even heartless? She hoped he would infer what she had intended – a private joke, an affectionate intimacy.
The letter sat on her bedside cabinet in its envelope for several days, as she debated whether or not to send it. It seemed to muddy the waters, to draw her inexorably back into her old life, and that concerned her. She also became illogically superstitious and fretted that by sending him the letter she might cause some terrible accident to befall him. That people would say ‘he got a letter from a girl he knew and that very day was shot down.’ This thought – that she might disturb the balance of his mind, or upset his concentration – tormented her.
‘Aren’t you going to send that letter?’ Joy asked one day as they were getting dressed.
‘Yes, I will. I just don’t know if I should?’
‘Why on earth not?’ asked Joy, sensibly.
‘It’s hard to explain. I worry that I might upset him, throw him off.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ said Joy. ‘He’d love to hear from you, you know that.’
The following day was November 11th – Armistice Day. The staff at Chateau d’Hennement were buzzing with the news that Winston Churchill was due to arrive in Paris that day to lay a wreath on the tomb of the unknown soldier.
‘We’ve got a pass,’ Joy reminded Imogen. ‘What luck! Shall we go and pay our respects?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Imogen. ‘Maybe we could find a little café somewhere and have something to eat afterwards?’
As she put on her coat and non-regulation dark red gloves, she picked up her letter and debated whether to post it. She put it on the bed, as she tied the dark red silk scarf around her neck. Checking her reflection in her small compact mirror, she picked up the letter and slipped it into her coat pocket. In the entrance hall of the chateau, waiting for the transport, she put it into the post box. As it slipped from her fingers, she felt a sense of panic – as if she had done something irrevocable.
‘Come on slow-coach,’ Joy said, excitedly, tugging at Imogen’s sleeve. ‘We don’t want to miss the prime minister, do we?’
Paris was filled with people desperate to mark this solemn occasion. The girls got caught up in the vast crowds gathering on the Champs Élysées. Anxious n
ot to get separated, they clung to one another as they were swept along with the throng, finally coming to a halt near the front of the vast column of people stretching back as far as the eye could see.
As Winston Churchill stood solemnly next to General de Gaulle in front of the Arc de Triomphe, Joy tugged at her friend’s sleeve.
‘Aren’t we lucky?’ she shouted over the crowd.
‘Yes,’ said Imogen. ‘I think we are… we’re part of history. I just wonder if normal life will ever be able to live up to this?’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Färsehof Farm
December 1944
Karl told his family very little of what he was doing, but it soon became clear that he was part of a wider organisation of German-speaking agents who had been dropped into their home country to work against the authorities. Their orders were to link up with other resistance groups, and send back details of German troop movements and power plants, factories and transport depots – anything that could be targeted by Allied bombing raids.
He had parachuted into Bavaria carrying false papers and a small portable transmitter developed specially for American spies working in Germany. The ‘J/E’, as it was known, used high radio frequencies which were undetectable by German shortwave radio operators. When he wasn’t out in the field, he spent his time sending and receiving signals, or transmitting military intelligence to Allied planes flying over Europe. Up in the attic, he monitored BBC programmes which from time to time contained special coded messages. Operatives were alerted to imminent mission information when they heard the opening bars of Sinding’s ‘Rustles of Spring’. .
