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Authors: Susan Elia MacNeal
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knitter.”
“All right …” Maggie said, not seeing the point but willing to play along.
“Do you know why?”
Maggie’s forehead creased. “Knitting socks for German soldiers?”
“Yes, many German women do that in their spare time. But,” Noreen said, holding the half-done scarf in one hand, “this knitting might save your life. Do you see the pattern?”
Maggie squinted. It was hard to see any sort of a pattern in pearl stitches against flat stockinet in black yarn; it all looked like mistakes. “Not a great knitting job.”
“Look closer,” Noreen said.
Maggie did. “It’s
code
,” she said, realizing.
Ah, brilliant!
“Morse code.”
“In an emergency, if you can’t get to a radio, knit a message into your scarf, then go to Hasenheideplatz, located just outside your contact’s flat. There will be an older woman there, every morning, sitting on a bench and working on her knitting—Berlin’s answer to Madame Defarge. She’ll see the code you’ve knit in and copy it, to get it back to us. Likewise, she may provide information for you. When you’re done, rip the coded stitching out.” Noreen looked hard at Maggie. “You
do
knit, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied. “I do. Not well, and I can’t turn heels, but enough to knit some code, certainly.” It was one of the fewtraditionally feminine crafts that Aunt Edith had taught her. Knitting had a structural logic based on geometry and proportion that had always appealed to her. She accepted the needles and ball of yarn from Noreen, and tucked them into her handbag.
There was a sharp rap at the door. “The car’s here, ladies,” a woman called.
Maggie and Noreen made their way downstairs. A glossy black Riley had pulled up in front of the door and was idling. The driver, a FANY in her brown uniform, exited the car. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said as she walked around to open the trunk.
“Thank you,” Maggie said, handing over her valise. “You
are
coming with me?” she said to Noreen in what she hoped was a strong and confident voice.
“Absolutely,” Noreen answered, opening the car door. “Come on, hop in.”
It was getting dark by the time they reached the Whitley airport in Reading, the night air chill after the warm summer day. The car went through security and then out to the airfield.
They pulled into the parking lot. Maggie and Noreen exited the car and entered the building. “Why don’t you use the loo? It’s a long way to Berlin.” Noreen touched Maggie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry—they won’t leave without you.”
Maggie found the ladies’ W.C. Her face in the mirror was gray.
What am I doing?
she wondered. But it was too late to go back now.
“Almost ready!” Noreen chirped to Maggie when she returned. She pulled papers from her purse. “Now, here are your passport, identity card, proof of Aryan descent, and your ration card. Put them in your wallet. You’ll need to sign them, as Margareta Hoffman,of course. Let’s see, and clothing coupons and some more Reichmarks. Don’t spend them all in one place.”
Maggie accepted the fountain pen, a Lamy, and practiced her new signature in German script a few times before actually signing her name. “Did this actually come from Germany?” she asked as she signed numerous documents and official papers.
“It’s German, but it came from the Lower East Side of New York City.”
Maggie finally finished signing everything. Her stomach was doing flips in nervous anticipation.
“Goodbye, Margareta,” Noreen said, kissing her on both cheeks. “We don’t say ‘good luck’ in this business, so I’ll just say ‘cheers.’ We’ll see you soon.”
Maggie took a shaky breath as her heart thudded in her chest. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, kissing Noreen back. “Piece of cake.” It was now time to board the plane.
This moment was exactly what she’d trained for. Still, now that she was climbing the narrow ladder to the
“All right …” Maggie said, not seeing the point but willing to play along.
“Do you know why?”
Maggie’s forehead creased. “Knitting socks for German soldiers?”
“Yes, many German women do that in their spare time. But,” Noreen said, holding the half-done scarf in one hand, “this knitting might save your life. Do you see the pattern?”
Maggie squinted. It was hard to see any sort of a pattern in pearl stitches against flat stockinet in black yarn; it all looked like mistakes. “Not a great knitting job.”
“Look closer,” Noreen said.
Maggie did. “It’s
code
,” she said, realizing.
Ah, brilliant!
“Morse code.”
“In an emergency, if you can’t get to a radio, knit a message into your scarf, then go to Hasenheideplatz, located just outside your contact’s flat. There will be an older woman there, every morning, sitting on a bench and working on her knitting—Berlin’s answer to Madame Defarge. She’ll see the code you’ve knit in and copy it, to get it back to us. Likewise, she may provide information for you. When you’re done, rip the coded stitching out.” Noreen looked hard at Maggie. “You
do
knit, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied. “I do. Not well, and I can’t turn heels, but enough to knit some code, certainly.” It was one of the fewtraditionally feminine crafts that Aunt Edith had taught her. Knitting had a structural logic based on geometry and proportion that had always appealed to her. She accepted the needles and ball of yarn from Noreen, and tucked them into her handbag.
There was a sharp rap at the door. “The car’s here, ladies,” a woman called.
Maggie and Noreen made their way downstairs. A glossy black Riley had pulled up in front of the door and was idling. The driver, a FANY in her brown uniform, exited the car. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said as she walked around to open the trunk.
“Thank you,” Maggie said, handing over her valise. “You
are
coming with me?” she said to Noreen in what she hoped was a strong and confident voice.
“Absolutely,” Noreen answered, opening the car door. “Come on, hop in.”
It was getting dark by the time they reached the Whitley airport in Reading, the night air chill after the warm summer day. The car went through security and then out to the airfield.
They pulled into the parking lot. Maggie and Noreen exited the car and entered the building. “Why don’t you use the loo? It’s a long way to Berlin.” Noreen touched Maggie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry—they won’t leave without you.”
Maggie found the ladies’ W.C. Her face in the mirror was gray.
What am I doing?
she wondered. But it was too late to go back now.
“Almost ready!” Noreen chirped to Maggie when she returned. She pulled papers from her purse. “Now, here are your passport, identity card, proof of Aryan descent, and your ration card. Put them in your wallet. You’ll need to sign them, as Margareta Hoffman,of course. Let’s see, and clothing coupons and some more Reichmarks. Don’t spend them all in one place.”
Maggie accepted the fountain pen, a Lamy, and practiced her new signature in German script a few times before actually signing her name. “Did this actually come from Germany?” she asked as she signed numerous documents and official papers.
“It’s German, but it came from the Lower East Side of New York City.”
Maggie finally finished signing everything. Her stomach was doing flips in nervous anticipation.
“Goodbye, Margareta,” Noreen said, kissing her on both cheeks. “We don’t say ‘good luck’ in this business, so I’ll just say ‘cheers.’ We’ll see you soon.”
Maggie took a shaky breath as her heart thudded in her chest. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, kissing Noreen back. “Piece of cake.” It was now time to board the plane.
This moment was exactly what she’d trained for. Still, now that she was climbing the narrow ladder to the
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