by Debbie Rix
She wiped her eyes and began to pace the kitchen.
‘No! I don’t think so.’
‘That article,’ Pieter said, ‘which Karl sent to us from the British newspapers – about the Jews being gassed – what happened to that?’
‘We burned it,’ said Käthe. Pieter looked at her suspiciously. ‘Really, we did. I promise, Pieter,’ she insisted.
‘And what of the White Rose leaflets, Magda?’ asked Karl. ‘Do you still have any of those?’
‘Yes… a few,’ she admitted guiltily. ‘They’re upstairs.’
‘Go… bring everything down now and burn them. I will go up and dismantle the attic.’
‘But why?’ begged Käthe. ‘We were going to have a lovely Christmas together.’
‘Not this year, Mutti,’ said Karl. ‘I’ll be out of here in half an hour.’
‘But where will you go?’ asked Magda.
‘I’ll find somewhere. There’s a network in Augsburg. There are people I can go to. Don’t worry about me. Just forget everything I’ve told you. And look after yourselves.’
Chapter Thirty
Paris
Christmas 1944
As Christmas approached, the Wrens at Chateau D’Hennement did their best to create a sense of festive cheer. Joy, along with some of the other writers and telegraph operators, gathered up branches of holly from the grounds. They persuaded one of the servicemen to cut down a fir tree and erect it in the vast entrance hall. They had no decorations or spare candles, but made white stars out of pieces of paper and hung them on the tree.
‘Do come and look,’ Joy said, coming into Imogen’s office.
‘I can’t,’ whispered Imogen, her hand over the telephone mouthpiece. ‘I’m waiting to speak to someone in Brussels – the Admiral’s off there after Christmas.’
‘Well come when you can,’ said Joy, ‘it looks so lovely.’
‘It’s really beautiful, darling,’ said Imogen, half an hour later. ‘Well done, but it’s still absolutely freezing in here. Can’t we get any more firewood together?’
‘I think we’ve used all the spare firewood up,’ said Joy. ‘One of the girls is threatening to set fire to the furniture a bit later.’
‘Well we could burn that tree,’ said Imogen.
‘Oh not yet… not till Twelfth Night.’
‘Oh Joy,’ said Imogen, ‘you’re such a romantic.’
The snow lay in deep drifts. One morning as they drove to work at Chateau d’Hennement, the naval bus skidded on a steep road and nearly ended up in the river. When they finally arrived, having pushed the bus back onto the road, Imogen found a telegram waiting for her on her desk.
ATTN WREN MITCHELL, FIANCÉ DEMANDS URGENT MEETING AT EIFFEL TOWER 24 DEC 1600 HOURS BEN
The telegram, which should have been a delightful surprise, was in reality unnerving. Imogen and Benjamin had not seen each other since before she’d left for Portsmouth. So much had happened in that time, and yet he had written to her as if nothing had changed. Perhaps, for him, nothing had. But for Imogen, the ambivalence she felt about Benjamin grew stronger by the day. Re-reading the telegram she tried to analyse it.
At the start of their relationship he had represented some sort of security, but since her time in Portsmouth and France she had learned to be so self-reliant, she no longer felt she needed to be protected by a man. Ben was charming and handsome, certainly – but was that enough to maintain a relationship? And then there was the crux of the problem: his work – whatever it was – created an impenetrable wall around him that made her wonder if she really knew him at all. He was, in every sense of the word, an enigma. Now, this cheery telegram ‘demanding her presence’ gave her no happiness; it simply made her feel resentful that he should expect her to drop everything and rush to meet him in Paris.
As she waited in the hall for the transport to Paris, Joy ran down the stairs.
‘Ginny – you’re not leaving without saying goodbye.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to miss the bus.’
‘Let me look at you,’ said Joy, standing back to admire her friend. ‘Trousers – today? To meet your fiancé?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing,’ said Imogen, looking down at her naval bell-bottom trousers and fur boots. ‘It’s cold. I just don’t want to freeze to death.’
‘I suppose you’re right. And what about your ring? You’re not even wearing it.’
‘What about it?’ asked Imogen irritably.
‘Well you ought to have it on, at least!’
Imogen reluctantly took the ring off its chain and slipped it onto her finger. It felt even looser than before.
‘I must have lost weight,’ she said, taking it off again. ‘It’ll fall off if I wear it.’ She hung it back on the chain around her neck.
‘Well, I hope his feelings aren’t too hurt,’ said Joy.
‘Well if they are, he clearly doesn’t have enough to think about.’
As Imogen approached the Eiffel Tower she could see the French tricolour flying from the top – returned to its rightful place after the retreat of the occupying German forces. As an aspiring architect, and daughter of an engineer, Imogen was fascinated by the tower. It was said that Hitler had wanted to destroy Paris as the Allies approached – to leave nothing but a pile of rubble. But Dietrich von Choltitz – the German general who surrendered the city to the Free French – had disobeyed those orders. Now as Imogen stood in deep snow in the shadow of the tower, she felt grateful for the General’s act of disobedience. Sometimes, she thought, a love of place is greater even than a love of country. Stamping her feet to keep warm and blowing into her frozen hands, she checked her watch; it was already after four o’clock and there was still no sign of Ben. Irritated that he had chosen such a windswept place for their reunion, she saw him walking towards her. He seemed taller than she had remembered. His greatcoat collar was turned up – just as it had been that first night they’d met.
‘Imogen – darling,’ he said, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s been so long – let me look at you.’
He held her by the shoulders and studied her. She felt foolish, suddenly, and self-conscious.
‘Ben,’ she began. ‘It’s lovely to see you, but could we go somewhere warm? I’m absolutely frozen.’
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I was going to see if we could go up…’ He glanced towards the top of the Eiffel Tower.
‘What – in this weather?’ she asked.
‘Well… not if you’re cold.’
‘Well, it’s freezing down here. I imagine it will be arctic up there. There’s a bar I know,’ she said. ‘In the Sixth – Les Deux Magots; do you know it?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I know it well.’
They walked along the edge of the Seine, the icy wind blasting across the river, creating white horses on the surface of the water. They passed the Quai d’Orsay station before cutting through to Rue de l’Université and on to Rue Jacob.
‘You seem to know your way around,’ he said, impressed. ‘I was hoping to introduce you to Paris myself.’
‘Well, in the end, I discovered it for myself.’
Les Deux Magots was busy. The waiters were, as usual, surly and supercilious, but Ben persuaded them to find him a quiet corner table. Once they were settled he ordered champagne.
‘Certainly, Monsieur,’ said the waiter, bowing obsequiously.
‘What are we celebrating?’ Imogen asked.
‘Isn’t it obvious? Us, my darling.’
After the waiter poured the champagne, he arranged the bottle in an ice bucket, wrapping a white napkin around its neck like a mother tucking up her child in bed.
‘Voilà Monsieur,’ he said to Ben, bowing low once again.
‘Bottoms up!’’ Ben said, raising his glass to Imogen. ‘Isn’t that what you say in “jolly old England?”’
‘No, not really,’ She felt irritable. Perhaps it was the cold, or t
he obsequious waiter, or simply that she felt slightly patronised by Benjamin. He looked a little disconcerted.
‘Well… you look wonderful. A bit thinner maybe?’ He reached across the table and took her hand in his.
‘Yes, well… there’s not a huge amount to eat – a chocolate ration, and sometimes the villagers take pity on us and invite us to dinner.’
‘Your ring,’ he said. ‘You’re not wearing it.’
‘Oh that.’ She removed her hand from his grasp, and loosened her silk scarf, fishing out the chain from around her neck. The diamond ring glittered in the lights. ‘It’s too big for me, and I was scared of losing it.’
He smiled, obviously relieved. ‘Well, we must get it altered. Maybe while I’m here in Paris.’
‘Maybe,’ said Imogen. ‘But I’m very busy, you know. The Admiral’s travelling right after New Year, and I’ve got a lot of organising to do.’
‘Sure,’ said Ben, sensing her reluctance. ‘No hurry. I’ll be leaving too – on the second or third of January.’
‘Oh I see,’ she said. ‘Not staying long, then?’
‘No. I don’t think so. I’m just here for the holiday, to see you, obviously, and to have a couple of meetings.’
Amidst the noise and bustle of the café, they sat in awkward silence, as the waiter replenished their glasses.
‘Imogen,’ Ben began, when the waiter had finally gone. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, sipping her champagne.
‘Ginny – I know you… there is something bothering you. Tell me.’
‘I tried to call you… after D-Day,’ she began. ‘Joy and I had a few days leave before we came to France, and were going home; but we stopped in London for a night. I thought I might be able to see you.’
‘That would have been nice,’ he said, refilling their glasses.
‘I rang the hotel. They told me you’d left, but there was no forwarding address.’
‘I told you on our last night that I was leaving. I said I’d find you, don’t you remember? And I did, didn’t I?” He squeezed her hand again.
‘They gave me a phone number for your office.’
‘Really.’ His normally effortless smile faltered a little.
‘I rang it. But the man on the other end denied all knowledge of you.’
‘Well it must have been a wrong number,’ he said calmly.
‘I don’t think so. I got the impression he knew you – and it was a Mayfair number, and you did once tell me you worked in Mayfair.’
‘So do lots of people, honey. Ginny, stop worrying about it.’ He downed his glass of champagne and poured himself another.
‘The thing is Ben… it made me realise something. I don’t really know who you are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who do you work for, exactly?’
‘I’ve already told you – I work for the Allies.’
‘Do you?’ She pulled her hand free of his. ‘I’m beginning to wonder who it is exactly that I’m engaged to. All of us work with some sort of secrecy, but with you it’s different. Even your own office denies your existence.’
‘Imogen… Ginny… I do exist. I’m here with you now. And I love you – that’s all you need to know, isn’t it?’ He put his glass down and fixed his gaze on her, as if willing her to believe him.
She looked across the table at his blue eyes and his soft mouth. She wanted to believe him. Feeling a momentary longing for him, she blushed at the memory of his hands stroking her body, of his lips on hers, of him inside her.
‘I don’t know, Ben,’ she said, looking away. ‘It’s all so confusing. We’ve been living separate lives for so long.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s been hard. But there’s no rush. Let’s spend the next few days getting to know each other again. And when the war is over it will all make sense. You must just trust me, Imogen. I know it’s a lot of ask of you, but please believe me – I love you and that’s really all that matters.’
Imogen spent Christmas Day itself with the other Wrens and officers at the chateau. They played hockey in the snow, and afterwards, desperate to keep warm, set fire to a gilded chair in the drawing room fireplace. It was an act of pure vandalism, but as it went up in flames, they all cheered, disgracefully. They drank rum and local wine, and smoked cigarettes; they ate a simple meal and shared their chocolate ration. It was fun and relaxed, and Imogen felt part of an important team, almost as if they were her family. On Boxing Day evening she and Ben had arranged to have dinner at the Brasserie Lipp on Boulevard Saint-Germain. The walls of the restaurant were decorated with colourful ceramic tiles and mirrors, and they ate ham and sauerkraut and drank white wine. After dinner, they stood kissing on the edge of the wide boulevard. Imogen shivered as an icy wind blew around them.
‘Come back to my hotel,’ Ben murmured into her hair. ‘Please.’
‘I can’t,’ she replied, ‘I’ve got to get back tonight. I’m on early duty tomorrow. I’m really sorry.’ There was a part of her, she realised, that was relieved she couldn’t stay.
‘I don’t know why I bothered to come to Paris,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s as if you really don’t want to see me at all. I’m leaving in a few days.’
‘That’s not true at all,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you before you go, honestly. What about New Year’s Eve? Let’s meet then.’
‘Why not before?’
‘The Admiral’s off to Brussels on the 2nd and there’s just too much to do…’
‘Fine,’ he said coldly, ‘if that’s the way it has to be.’
‘Oh Ben,’ she said impatiently. ‘Don’t be so childish. I have responsibilities – I can’t just do what I want. I’m in the services, you must understand that.’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘You’re lucky,’ she went on. ‘Your work, whatever it is – this dark secret you’re involved with – leaves you a free spirit. But I work for someone, I have a senior officer, lots of senior officers in fact, and I have to get back there now.’
On New Year’s Eve, as Imogen got ready to go into Paris, Joy lay on her bed watching enviously.
‘Where’s he taking you tonight?’ Joy asked.
‘A restaurant called Le Procope, apparently. I’ve not been before, but he said it was good – “swanky” was the word he used.’
‘You are lucky,’ said Joy, sadly.
‘What are you all doing, anyway?’ asked Imogen, applying lipstick and tying her silk scarf around her neck. ‘I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun back here.’
‘Oh I think a few games are being planned,’ Joy said. ‘Then we’re going into the village. Some of the locals have invited us for supper – isn’t that nice of them?’
‘That does sound lovely,’ said Imogen. ‘I rather wish I was coming with you.’
‘Oh don’t be daft,’ said Joy. ‘You’re off to meet your handsome fiancé and to eat dinner in a lovely restaurant. You’ll have a wonderful time.’
‘Maybe,’ said Imogen, pulling on her coat.
Le Procope was indeed a swanky restaurant and Imogen slightly regretted not taking more care with her appearance.
‘It’s the oldest restaurant in Paris, or so I’m told,’ said Ben, as he ordered a selection of wines to drink with their meal.
‘Well it’s certainly very beautiful,’ Imogen agreed, admiring the saffron-coloured walls and chandeliers.
‘My mother can’t wait to meet you,’ he said, as the waiter poured white wine into crystal glasses.
‘Oh,’ said Imogen, uncertainly. ‘That’s nice.’
‘She’s suggested we live with them, initially. They have a big house outside Washington. You’ll be really comfortable there. They’re going to love you.’
‘Outside Washington,’ said Imogen. ‘I thought you mentioned once that we might live in New York.’
‘Yes – well maybe one day. But my work will take me away from home a good deal. I’d like to think of you
being taken care of by my parents.’
‘I don’t need taking care of,’ said Imogen. ‘And why will your work take you away? I thought after the war you were going back to the law?’
‘Yes, well… that was the original plan but things have changed. I can’t talk about it, and you don’t really need to know, but you’ll love Washington.’
‘What do you mean – I don’t need to know?’ She felt patronised and irritated.
‘I just mean that things are uncertain right now – that’s all.’
‘The thing is, Ben,’ said Imogen, putting down her glass. ‘I have plans of my own… I want to be an architect. I need to finish my degree.’
‘Really?’ he said, beckoning the waiter to order more wine. ‘I didn’t realise it was so important to you. I suppose you could try to get into a university in Washington.’
‘Of course it’s important,’ she bridled. ‘I loved my course in Newcastle. I’m not giving it up.’
‘Sure,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But you might change your mind. We might decide to start a family instead.’
Imogen felt a chill running through her as she sipped her wine and tried to imagine this future existence in a house outside Washington with Benjamin’s mysterious parents.
At the end of the meal, two large plates of îsles flottantes were laid with a flourish on the table.
‘In celebration of our first dinner together,’ Ben said, pouring each of them a glass of syrupy Monbazillac.
‘Oh,’ said Imogen, ‘I remember. How delicious – thank you.’ The pudding was too sweet and Imogen, a little drunk, felt slightly nauseous as she spooned it into her mouth.
After dinner they wandered through the quiet streets of Saint Germain, finally ending up at his hotel. Imogen reluctantly allowed herself to be persuaded to go upstairs with him.
‘You will use something, won’t you?’ she said, as she lay woozily on his bed. He had begun to slowly remove her jacket, her tie and shirt.
