The Secret Letter

by Debbie Rix

  Magda had tears in her eyes. ‘I won’t forget you, Freddie. You are an honourable man – an inspiration.’

  Freddie shook her hand and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  She shook the hands of the other airmen, who thanked her, and as she began to walk slowly up past the school towards the square, she heard Freddie organising three of his men.

  ‘Take this flag – go through the square and across the fields to find the Allies. Follow the noise. Take one of the German soldiers with you. Tell them I sent you. Tell them that this is a neutral village. I want safe passage for all the villagers; no more destruction. Good luck.’

  ‘Aye aye, Skip,’ Bill said cheerfully.

  Bill, Roger, Tom and one of the German soldiers walked hurriedly, passing Magda, up towards the square, carrying the flag between them. A German jeep careered round the corner from the square and stopped in front of them, barring their way. Magda watched, horrified, as out of the jeep stepped Otto, wearing his long elegant leather coat, the SS skull and crossbones emblazoned on his hat.

  She had hoped she would never have to see him again. She had hoped he would die, somewhere, in a blaze of glory. For him to turn up now seemed the ultimate irony – just as the war was finally ending, he would be back in her life. She hung back, hiding in a doorway, hoping he wouldn’t notice her. He seemed agitated, shouting at the German soldier. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she saw the fury in Otto’s face. At one point he touched his gun in its holster, but stopped when Bill pointed the machine gun at his head. Clearly furious, Otto climbed back into the jeep and drove at high speed down the lane, screeching to a halt outside the mayor’s office. Presuming he was going to speak to the mayor, Magda remained hidden in the doorway, waiting for him to go inside – after which she would make her escape. She heard the jeep door slam shut, and was about to emerge from her hiding place, when she heard the sound of his heavy footsteps walking briskly towards her. She tried to open the door she’d been sheltering against, rattling the handle, but it was locked. There was nowhere to go. Suddenly, he was standing in front of her, red-faced.

  ‘Magda!’ he shouted, his hand fidgeting with his gun holster. ‘I’ve been looking for you. I went to your house. I saw the child. Tell me… is she mine?’

  Her mouth felt so dry, she couldn’t speak.

  ‘My mother wrote to me,’ he went on – his face was so close to hers, she could feel his spit. ‘She told me – she believes the child is not mine. Is she right? Tell me!’

  ‘Yes, she’s right,’ Magda said, weakly. A vision of her beloved child floated into her mind.

  ‘It’s not just your brother who is a traitor,’ Otto said, unbuttoning the gun holster. ‘It’s you. I’ve loved you all my life and you reward me like this. You disgust me. ’ He removed the gun.

  ‘No… No Otto,’ she implored him. ‘I beg you… don’t do that.’

  There was a crackling sound in the air, and Otto crumpled at her feet, his big blond head crashing to the ground, blood seeping out over the pavement, spilling over her boots. Tom ran down the hill towards her, a pistol in his right hand.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently. ‘I…. had to do something.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ she asked Tom. She was pressed against the door, trying to remove her foot trapped beneath Otto’s body.

  Tom leant down and felt for a pulse in Otto’s neck.

  ‘Yes… he’s dead.’

  Freddie ran over to join them.

  ‘Tom, what on earth are you doing? We’re trying to stop the killing.’

  ‘He was going to shoot Magda,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sorry, Freddie.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Magda, stumbling out onto the lane, and away from Otto’s body. ‘This man was my husband – he had just discovered he was not Michaela’s father. He was going to kill me. Thank you Tom, you saved my life.’

  A few days later, true to his word, Freddie and his men stood respectfully in the village churchyard, the coffins of the German tank crew and the four British airmen lined up in front of them.

  ‘These men,’ Freddie began, ‘gave their lives for a cause they believed in. They were young men with their whole future ahead of them. They had that snatched away because of the insanity of war. Pray for them and for the people they have left behind. And pray too that this insanity is never repeated.’

  Part IV

  Homecoming

  After the war

  Armed or unarmed, men and women, you have fought, striven and endured to your utmost. No one knows that better than I do; as your King I thank with a full heart those who bore arms so valiantly on land and sea, or in the air; and all civilians who, shouldering their many burdens, have carried them unflinchingly without complaint.

  King George VI speaking to the nation on 8th May 1945

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Newcastle

  September 1946

  Imogen pushed through the swing doors of the drawing studio on the first day of term. After several years away, it felt familiar and yet unfamiliar – the pegs hanging by the door, the rows of drawing boards and high stools, the way cool grey light streamed through the double-height windows.

  A cheer went up as she entered, and the men in the room stood up and applauded. Imogen blushed, smiled and bowed slightly, uncertain what had prompted such an outburst. Giles came bounding over to her.

  ‘Darling girl,’ he said, taking her coat from her and hanging it on one of the pegs. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down – you’ve just won me a bet! Welcome back.’

  He took her arm and squired her across the drawing studio to her old place in the corner. Marion was already there, cigarette between her teeth. She grinned up at Imogen.

  ‘What on earth’s he talking about?’ said Imogen, sitting down and removing the cover on her drawing board. ‘And how lovely to see you,’ she added. ‘Forgive me – I was so embarrassed by that reception, I quite forgot my manners.’

  ‘No apology necessary, darling. They thought you’d never come back – that you’d be married, by now, to some naval officer and pushing out babies. Giles and I disagreed with them – we’ve made a few bob, thanks to you. How are you?’

  ‘Relieved to be back,’ said Imogen. ‘Although there have been times in the last few years when I wasn’t quite so sure I’d ever make it.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing,’ said Marion ‘You’ll have to tell me everything over lunch.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Imogen, as she gazed around the studio. ‘It feels so normal, doesn’t it? As if we’d never been away. Rather peaceful, after all we’ve been through.’

  ‘What? Even with Giles around?’

  ‘Yes… even with Giles.’ Imogen lowered her voice. ‘I was actually rather pleased to see him. I know we always take the mickey out of him, but I’m really awfully fond of him, and I’m so glad he made it through the war. He was in the Paras wasn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Marion. ‘I think he’s got a few tales to tell.’

  ‘And what about you, Marion? Did you join the Land Army in the end?’

  Marion nodded.

  ‘And how was it?’

  ‘Jolly hard work. I now know more about the workings of a tractor than any woman ever should.’

  Imogen laughed.

  ‘I came looking for you one day, actually.’ Marion went on. ‘Your parents said you were abroad.’

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s a long story,’ said Imogen, pinning a fresh piece of drawing paper onto her board.

  Gradually, as the day wore on, she and the other students got back into the rhythm of university life. But here and there around the studio were empty drawing boards that belonged to young men who hadn’t returned to finish their degrees. Young men who had lost their lives fighting Mussolini’s men in the mountains in Italy, or who’d died in a prison of war camp in Japan; young men who’d been slaughtered on the beaches, or on the battlefields. Men who had perished twenty thousand feet in the air in
the cockpit of a Spitfire, or been shot down and had lain in the mud and the dirt, unburied, unblessed. Young men who had died in the middle of the Atlantic, or the North Sea; who had drowned in engine rooms, or burned to death waiting hopefully to be rescued in oily seas. Their drawing boards remained covered, their pegs by the door, unused.

  At the end of the day the students left the studio and went down to the pub at the end of the road. Sitting in a snug corner with Marion and Giles, and nursing a gin and tonic, Imogen saw Freddie. He rushed in, wearing corduroy trousers and an open-necked shirt. He was looking wildly around him, as various young men called his name.

  ‘Freddie, over here, I’ve got you a pint.’

  ‘Freddie, come and join us.’

  He held up his hand. ‘In a moment,’ he called out. ‘I’m meeting someone…’ When he saw her he smiled – such a wide, broad smile. She stood up suddenly, knocking the table.

  ‘Hey,’ said Giles, leaping to his feet and wiping spilled beer off his trousers. ‘Careful, darling.’

  ‘Sorry Giles, so sorry,’ she said as she ran towards Freddie.

  Marion nudged Giles. ‘Well, that’s another bet you’ve just lost, I’m afraid. That girl is definitely taken.’

  Freddie held out his arms to her as she ran to him. In the middle of the pub, amongst the old lags who shrugged their shoulders, and the young students looking on enviously, he kissed her.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ve been waiting all day. I thought something must have happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It took an age to get my discharge papers. I’ve been champing at the bit, flying pointless exercises for months, ferrying various big wigs around. Then when I finally got out, the trains were delayed and – oh, anyway, I’m here now. Let me look at you.’

  He held her by the shoulders and took in her dark hair, her shining green eyes.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he said.

  The boys in the pub began to laugh and then to clap, cheer and stamp their feet. Freddie blushed. One or two of them came over to him and slapped him on the back. ‘Welcome back, old mate.’

  ‘We heard you got a DFC. Well done.’

  One of them handed him a pint. He took a large swig and taking Imogen’s arm, they joined the group. They laughed and chatted and shared stories. They shared their sadness too at those who were missing.

  At the end of the evening, Freddie took her hand. ‘I’ve got my car round the corner. Shall we go home?’

  ‘I’d love that,’ she said. Standing outside the pub, Freddie put his arms around her. ‘Do you remember the last time we stood here in this doorway?’ she asked.

  ‘I do. I’ve thought about it so often. I was such an idiot. To think I nearly lost you.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You were right. I was too young to understand, then. My head was full of romance. I thought falling in love was simple. But you were just being unselfish, and noble and grown up – because that’s the sort of man you are. And it took me a while to understand that.’

  ‘Well, we’re together again now,’ he said, kissing her hand. ‘And I promise, I’m never going to let you go again.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Färsehof Farm

  September 1946

  Michaela ran into the yard, chased by her mother.

  ‘Come back,’ Magda shouted. ‘It’s time for lunch.’

  Michaela giggled, and ran towards the bombed-out barn.

  ‘No, Michaela,’ Magda called after her. ‘Not in there, you’re not allowed.’

  Eighteen months after the bombing, the old barn had still not been rebuilt. Pieter had slowly begun to clear away the damaged timbers and had made tidy piles of reusable roof tiles, but the area was still littered with small piles of rubble and broken pieces of machinery. Now Michaela could walk, Magda was concerned she could easily injure herself on a piece of sharp metal, or bit of rough stone.

  She scooped Michaela up and brought her back inside, and squeezed her, wriggling, into the wooden high chair her grandfather had made for her.

  ‘Papa,’ Magda said, bringing a pot of soup over from the range and putting it on the table. ‘We really must clear up the old barn. It’s dangerous out there – especially for Michaela.’

  ‘In time, in time,’ Pieter said, spooning soup into his bowl from the pot on the table. ‘It all takes money,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said, sitting down opposite him. ‘That’s why I went into Augsburg yesterday.’

  Pieter cut a piece of bread from the loaf. ‘Augsburg?’

  ‘Yes. I had a meeting at the bank,’ she continued.

  Pieter looked up, sharply. ‘The bank? Why did you go to the bank?’

  ‘They might lend us some money to build a new barn. They’re trying to encourage agriculture and we need a new dairy, Papa, if we’re ever going to expand the herd.’

  ‘I don’t want to borrow money and we don’t need a bigger herd, or a bigger dairy. Our own dairy works fine. We can rebuild the other barn, eventually. Just be patient,’ said Pieter. ‘We have enough milk for ourselves, and for your mother to make cheese.’

  Magda looked over at her mother, standing at the sink. Käthe shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘But Papa,’ Magda persisted, ‘the country needs milk. If we had a bigger herd and a more efficient dairy, we would have a good surplus and could sell our milk and make more money.’

  He slurped his soup.

  ‘Think about it,’ Magda said. ‘Please.’

  After lunch, she took Michaela upstairs and lay her, resisting, in her little bed. She read her a story and slowly the child’s eyes fluttered until they closed and she slept. Magda sat down at her desk in the window and picked up her pen and a piece of writing paper.

  Liebling,

  Our little one is very determined. Mutti says she is like me in her personality and that may be true, but she looks so like you. I see more of you in her each day. The way she smiles whenever I speak to her – even if I’m telling her off! The way she sleeps, with one arm thrown across the bed…

  She lay her pen down on the table.

  She wanted to speak to Michael so desperately – to tell him about Michaela, and ask his advice about the farm. She’d written to him regularly since the war ended but had never heard back. As she had neither a work nor a home address for him, she had addressed her letters simply to Flight Lieutenant Michael Stewart, RAF, England. Sometimes she worried that the letters were simply not being delivered. Or that he had received them, but had decided to forget her. In her darker moments she worried that he had never made it back home, but instead had been shot or incarcerated somewhere in Germany. As she lay in bed at night listening to Michaela breathe, she wanted so desperately to hold Michael, and for him to take their child in his arms, that she thought she would die of pain. But in the morning, as she put on her boots and went out into the fields to collect the herd, she was once again filled with optimism – that he had survived, that he had got to Switzerland, had been flown home and had spent the rest of the war convalescing in the south of England, dreaming of the girl he loved. He would come back to her one day – of that she was sure.

  She looked down at her half-finished letter. It was already after two o’clock and she ought really to be working outside while the light was good. She could finish the letter that evening and post it in the morning.

  She checked Michaela was asleep and went downstairs to the kitchen. Her father had nodded off in his chair next to the range. Käthe put her finger to her lips.

  ‘I’m going outside, Mutti,’ Magda whispered, as she put on her boots and jacket. The oak beams and timbers from the old barn were too heavy for her to move alone. She would need to get help, she realised, and for that they needed money. But she could make a start on the pile of rubble – sorting out the usable stones and bricks from the damaged ones. As she cleared a small area, she swept the yard clean. She was just leaning her broom against the wall of t
he house, when she noticed a man wearing an overcoat and trilby hat walking up the farm track. She did not recognise him, but wondered, briefly, whether it might be Karl in some sort of disguise? It would be just like him to turn up unannounced. But as the man drew closer, he removed his hat, revealing dark red hair.

  ‘Michael?’ she called out, uncertainly.

  ‘Hello,’ the man replied, in English.

  Could he have changed so much?

  She walked towards him, her heart racing, wiping her hands on her overalls. But as she drew closer, she realised with a sinking feeling that it wasn’t Michael. The young man held his hand out to her.

  ‘You must be Magda.’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I’m so glad I found you. They gave me directions in the village, but they weren’t very clear.’

  ‘Have you come far?’

  ‘All the way from England.’

  She looked at him, bewildered.

  ‘I should introduce myself. My name is David Stewart. I’m Michael’s brother.’

  She saw the likeness then – the same dark red hair, the pale skin – and she knew in that instant that all hope was gone.

  ‘You’d better come inside,’ she said, fighting back the tears.

  Over the rest of the afternoon and long into the evening David told her Michael’s story.

  ‘He made it back to England,’ David said. ‘He managed to cross the border into Switzerland. God knows how. He was so resourceful. He told us he wouldn’t have made it without you… the money you gave him, the clothes, the German phrases you taught him. From Switzerland he was flown to England. I was still at school then, but I was allowed home for a few days to see him. It was wonderful to have him back; my mother was so happy, and as far as she was concerned he had been raised from the dead – like Lazarus, you know?’