by Debbie Rix
‘Of course I will,’ he murmured into her hair.
‘I mustn’t get pregnant.’
‘I know,’ he said, lying next to her on the bed and kissing her. She felt his hands slipping beneath her bra, felt his breath hot on her neck. She clutched at his hand, moving it away. ‘I mean it, Ben…’
He stopped suddenly, and leant on his elbow. ‘All right – but we are engaged… would it be so terrible?’
‘Yes,’ she said emphatically, struggling to sit up, ‘it would. It would be the end of everything.’ She began to pull her shirt back on over her shoulders.
‘Ginny, what are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Ben, but this isn’t working.’ She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and began to zip up her skirt. ‘I did love you once – at least I thought I did. You’re handsome, you’re clever and extremely charming – why wouldn’t I fall in love with you? But the problem is, I keep having to convince myself that you’re the right one. And I shouldn’t have to do that, should I? Now… being here with you again, I’ve realised something very important. I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to live in America with your parents. And I definitely don’t want a baby – not yet anyway. I have a job, an important one. I’m here in Paris for a purpose, not to have a love affair.’ She stood up and undid the clasp on her necklace, slipping off the ring. She held it for a moment before handing it to him.
‘Don’t do that,’ he begged. ‘Please Ginny – I want you to keep it. You’ll change your mind. It’s this war – when it’s over, we’ll be fine again. Don’t you see?’
Imogen tied her scarf around her neck, pulled on her jacket, and stepped into her boots.
‘You’re right – it is partly the war. But the real problem was thinking I’d fallen in love with you in the first place. The war made me do that; I was swept away by the romance of it all. You were charming and thoughtful, and the idea that we might never see each other again made me act recklessly. Getting engaged was madness, and I’m really sorry about that.’
As she stood by the door of his tiny scarlet bedroom, she looked back at him lying on the bed, with his dark hair flopping over his blue eyes, his chest smooth and firm.
‘My mother said something to me when I last saw her. She told me that when you marry someone you have to love all of them – their faults as well as their gifts. The truth is, I don’t even know what your faults and gifts are… you’re a complete mystery to me. I understand that whatever you’re doing for the war is a secret – and I respect that, I really do. I’m sure your work is vital to national security, but the secrecy that surrounds you means I never really feel I know you. And you don’t really know me, either – otherwise you’d never have suggested we should live with your parents, or that I’d abandon my degree, or be happy to have your baby, instead of doing my duty, here in Paris. To you I’m just a romantic ideal – a pretty British girl from a nice enough family who you think will slot into your life; whereas the truth is I’m an independent woman with aspirations and ambitions of my own. And I’m sorry to say I just don’t love you enough to give everything up for you. So… goodbye Ben. I’m sure you’ll find the right girl. And take care of yourself in your secret world.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Färsehof Farm
Christmas 1944
Magda woke to hear the sound of dogs barking in the yard. She looked out of her window, and in the darkness could make out a group of soldiers accompanied by a pair of aggressive-looking Alsatian dogs. The men were banging on the door of the farmhouse and shouting. She heard her father’s voice as he stumbled, sleepily, downstairs.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming…’
Magda followed him downstairs.
The soldiers rushed into the house as soon Pieter opened the door. Ordering him to sit at the kitchen table, they opened cupboards, pulling out china, plates and cups; they emptied drawers – tipping their contents violently onto the floor. Käthe, hearing the commotion, rushed downstairs. She too was pushed down onto a chair in the corner of the room and ordered to keep quiet. The family watched in horror as the soldiers trampled over vases and ornaments, crushing them carelessly beneath their boots. They shook the Christmas tree in the corner of the kitchen until the ornaments lay smashed in a myriad of brightly coloured pieces of glass on the tiled floor.
‘Please… just tell us what are you looking for?’ Käthe begged. ‘If we have it we’ll show you.’
The soldiers ignored her, moving their search upstairs, emptying wardrobes, tipping out drawers, flinging beds over on their sides. Linen, books and clothes lay in untidy piles. Karl’s framed diplomas were thrown on the floor, the glass smashed. The soldiers found their way to the attic – already expertly emptied by Karl. They found no trace of his presence – just a couple of boxes containing things that Pieter intended to mend one day, a broken chair, and an upturned crate where Karl’s transmitter had once stood.
The family had been instructed to wait in the kitchen while the search was completed.
‘Magda Maier – you are under arrest,’ the first soldier yelled, coming back into the kitchen.
‘No,’ cried Käthe, leaping to her feet. ‘She is expecting a child. You can’t take her. She’s done nothing wrong.’
‘We have evidence that she has colluded with the enemy. Come with us,’ he ordered. Terrified, Magda began to put on her boots with trembling fingers. As one of the soldiers gripped her by the arm, his other hand on the latch of the door, the Alsatians outside struck up their loud barking once again. Magda heard a man’s voice shouting, a dog whimpering. The kitchen door flew open, throwing the soldier against the wall and in strode Otto in his SS uniform. The soldiers saluted instantly.
‘Heil Hitler,’ they said in unison.
‘Heil Hitler,’ Otto responded brusquely. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘We are taking this woman in for questioning. We have reason to believe she is working with the enemy.’
Magda, wearing only her nightdress, her pregnancy evident to everyone, winced as the soldier once again grabbed her by the arm. Otto gripped the man’s wrist and removed his hand firmly.
‘Wait outside,’ he said to the soldiers.
‘But we have orders from—’ one of them objected.
‘I don’t care who your orders are from,’ Otto interrupted. ‘Get outside now!’
When they had gone, he held out a chair for Magda.
‘Sit down – please.’
She sat, her heart racing.
He looked around at the chaos in the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently to Käthe. ‘They have made a terrible mess.’
She began to cry. ‘My Christmas tree! All my decorations…’
‘Oh Käthe, for heaven’s sake,’ said Pieter. ‘Sit down, woman.’
‘Why did you not tell me?’ Otto asked Magda softly.
‘About the baby, you mean?’
He nodded. ‘My mother told me last night. I didn’t know what to say. She asked if it was mine. Is it?’
‘Oh Otto, of course,’ Magda said. ‘Who else’s could it be?’
His face softened a little. ‘I told her. Magda’s my girl. But you should have told me yourself.’
‘You were away fighting. I didn’t want to bother you.’
‘But it’s our baby, Magda.’
He knelt then at her feet and took her hand in his. ‘Magda, you know I’ve always loved you – since I was twelve and you were ten. All that time, I’ve loved you and only you.’
She blushed, in spite of herself, more in disgust than pleasure.
‘Marry me – please?’ he pleaded. ‘Marry me now, today, while I’m home.’
‘But the soldiers… they want to question me.’
‘Oh that,’ he said with irritation, standing up. ‘Just some trumped-up charge. I’ll get rid of them. It was your brother’s letter. My mother told me about it. I said, “If Magda had anything to hide, why would she take
it to church? She’s not stupid.” But my mother reported it anyway. I told her – it’s pointless. It’s Karl who is the traitor, not Magda. I came down here to make sure nothing would happen to you.’
‘But… it’s true about my brother – he is fighting against the Germans.’
‘I know,’ Otto said. ‘And your honesty does you credit. But he’s your brother, and you love him, so you kept his letter – I understand that. But he will be punished, Magda, make no mistake.’
Käthe began to whimper on the other side of the kitchen. Otto looked at her impatiently, as if she was interrupting his train of thought. She stopped abruptly.
‘So,’ Otto said, turning back to Magda. ‘What do you say? Will you marry me? I spoke to my commanding officer and asked for his permission.’
‘You’ve asked him already… before you asked me?’ She couldn’t help being argumentative.
Her father looked at her and shook his head – as if in shame, for what she was being forced to do. Her mother, in spite of her weeping, forced a smile.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s the rule – permission must be sought.’
Magda bit her lip. ‘Yes,’ she said, glancing nervously over at her parents. ‘I’ll marry you.’
Otto pulled Magda onto her feet. ‘Oh Magda, that’s wonderful. I’ll go tell and the pastor now – let’s see if he can do it today. I have to go back to the front tomorrow.’
‘Today?’ Magda asked.
‘Well – no time like the present.’ Otto grinned.
‘And what about them?’ Magda asked, nodding towards the yard, where the soldiers were waiting.
‘I’ll talk to them. I’ll explain there’s been a mistake. I’m their superior officer and will take responsibility – it will be all right.’
Perhaps because Otto was an SS officer about to go back to war, or perhaps because he was keen to legitimise Magda’s baby, the pastor agreed to a hurried wedding at three o’clock that afternoon. Magda wore a pale yellow cotton dress that belonged to her mother, stretched to bursting over her nine-month bump. She carried a simple piece of mistletoe as a bouquet and, as Otto slipped a ring onto her finger, he whispered, ‘This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.’
Then, as the pastor declared them husband and wife, Otto took her in his arms and kissed her. Together they walked back up the aisle watched only by her parents and Otto’s unsmiling mother, Emilia.
The wedding breakfast – such as it was – had been hastily arranged. Käthe had done her best to tidy the house. She had wrung the neck of a chicken and roasted it in the oven. But her Christmas tree had no decorations and there was no wedding cake or champagne, only a glass or two of schnapps to toast the ‘happy couple’.
That night, as Magda and Otto lay together for the first time in her narrow bed, he stroked her breasts, his hands wandering up her thighs.
‘I want you so much,’ he breathed.
‘Otto, don’t,’ she begged him. ‘I’m too big… it’s uncomfortable… please…’ She thought he would take her, anyway… rape her again. But instead he paused and lay looking at her, stroking her blonde hair away from her face.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I understand. Our baby is a big boy. He will be strong and blond and blue-eyed – like you and me. A perfect Aryan child.’ He kissed her chastely on the forehead and they lay together in the moonlight. Finally, in spite of herself, Magda slept and the following morning, she woke to find he was gone, leaving a note on the bedside table.
Good morning my dear wife.
I must leave. I have to report early for duty. Take care of yourself and of our child. All my love, your husband, Otto
Magda’s waters broke on New Year’s Eve. Three hours of urgent, painful contractions followed, and the baby was born at two minutes after midnight on the 1st January 1945. The moment she saw her daughter, Magda knew the baby was Michael’s.
As she lay back exhausted on the pillows, her little child gazed up at her new mother, her dark blue eyes searching Magda’s soul.
‘Oh Magda,’ said Käthe, sitting down beside her, exhausted by her duties as midwife. ‘She’s so beautiful.’
‘She is, isn’t she?’ said Magda.
‘Can I hold her?’ asked Käthe.
‘Yes of course.’ Magda held the child out to her mother, who wrapped her in a soft white blanket and gazed at her. ‘She’s so pretty,’ she cooed. ‘Look at her hair.’
Suddenly she looked up at Magda, her eyes wide. ‘Oh Magda,’ Käthe said. ‘She has red hair. Do you think she is…?’
Magda nodded.
‘Oh no,’ said Käthe. ‘What will Otto say?’
‘I don’t know, Mutti,’ said Magda. ‘And at the moment I’m too tired to care.’
A few days later, as Käthe pottered in the kitchen, there was a loud knocking on the front door. Waiting outside was Emilia, Otto’s mother.
‘I heard the baby had been born,’ she said accusingly. ‘I am surprised at you Käthe – not coming to tell me yourself. I had to hear gossip about it in the village.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Käthe apologetically. ‘Please come in out of the cold. We’ve been so busy, as I’m sure you realise.’
‘Can I see the child?’ said Emilia, removing her coat and looking around for somewhere to hang it.
‘Oh yes. Of course,’ said Käthe nervously, taking Emilia’s coat and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair. ‘But she’s sleeping now. Maybe you could come back another day?’
‘No,’ said Emilia. ‘I’ve just walked all the way from the village in the snow. The least you can do is let me see my own granddaughter.’
Magda, who had been snoozing upstairs, the baby gurgling in the crook of her arm, woke to see Emilia’s bright blue eyes inspecting the child.
‘Well!’ Emilia said sternly. ‘Her eyes are blue. But the hair! Where did all that red hair come from?’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ said Magda, trying to sit up. ‘We were just saying, weren’t we Mutti, that Papa had red hair as a child.’
Her mother nodded nervously.
‘Hmmm,’ said Emilia disapprovingly. ‘Well she’s very pretty, certainly – although Otto will be disappointed; he had set his heart on a son. What is she to be called?’
Magda, who had not until then actually named her daughter, said, unwaveringly: ‘Michaela.’
‘Michaela!’ Emilia was aghast. ‘Is that not a Jewish name? You can’t call her that.’
‘I like it,’ said Magda defensively, looking at her mother for support. ‘We like it – don’t we, Mutti?’
Her mother smiled weakly. ‘Yes. It’s unusual, I agree. But it suits her.’
‘Well,’ said Emilia, ‘I hope you’ve told Otto. You will have to get the child baptised without him, I suppose. Have you heard from him?’
‘From Otto? No, not since the day after we were married.’
‘If he writes,’ said Emilia, already heading for the door. ‘I’ll tell him about the child – and the name.’
A few weeks later, Magda received a letter from Otto. It was brief and to the point.
Dearest Magda,
Relieved the child is born and you are well. When I get home we will, I hope, make plans to have another… a boy this time.
Your loving husband,
Otto
She was grateful he had made no mention of the name. But his letter disturbed her. The prospect of Otto coming back to her was not something she had ever considered. She had married him simply to avoid a worse fate – namely, arrest and possible execution. The idea that she might actually have to spend the rest of her life tethered to a man she loathed suddenly became tangible… and unbearable.
The person she most longed to spend time with was Michael. But she had no way of knowing if he was even alive… and any attempt to try and find him would only result in further trouble. For now, she resolved to simply get on with her life – caring for Michaela, praying for Michael and Karl’s safe return, and h
oping with all her heart that she could somehow extricate herself from her disastrous marriage to Otto.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chateau d’Hennement
January 1945
The morning after Imogen broke up with Ben, she woke with a sense of overwhelming relief – as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Joy over breakfast. ‘I thought you loved him?’
‘I thought I did too,’ Imogen said, ‘just not enough. He was handsome and educated and spoilt me with lovely meals. But I didn’t really know him. Everything was somehow so… superficial. He asked me to marry him so quickly, and I still don’t know why I said yes. I was hurt, I suppose, about Freddie. I thought this charming man would help me to forget about him. But somewhere, deep inside, I knew it wasn’t right.’
‘But Ben did love you,’ said Joy.
‘Yes, I think he did, in his own way. But the more we talked, the more I realised he wanted to put me in a box – his little wife safely tucked away at home with his parents. I don’t want a life like that. And if he really loved me, he’d have known that. I have ambitions of my own, and they don’t include living with someone else’s parents and having their babies, while they disappear to do a job that I couldn’t even be trusted to know about. I felt belittled. You do understand, don’t you?’
‘And what about Freddie? Have you heard from him?’
‘No,’ said Imogen, flatly. ‘But that’s not the point. Maybe I’ll never see Freddie again; but you can’t marry someone else as a sort of consolation prize. I just have to believe that I will meet someone who I can love completely and who loves me too – for all my faults and foibles.’
The following day, a bag of post was delivered for the Admiral. It had been held up over the Christmas period. Imogen unpacked it, finding long overdue letters, memos and other missives. But right at the bottom, she spotted a familiar envelope. It was a letter from Freddie. Dated October 1944, it had been originally posted three months earlier, and the envelope was covered with scrawled addresses, indicating it had been forwarded several times. She ripped it open.
