House of Secrets: A Bletchley Park Novella by W. Len

Author:W. Len [Len, W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-08-05T22:00:00+00:00

Friday, 26 April 1940

This morning, Ruth and I broke fast together. She had my copy of Howard’s End propped against a bowl. Mrs. Crumley had frowned at it—she has fixed ideas about how the gentry should behave—until Ruth asked after her aged sister, which made our dour hostess simper. Ruth can be winsome when she wants to be. Initially, I’d protested her habit of entering my room without leave and borrowing my books. Now, we often discuss our readings. “Penny for your thoughts, Robin,” She winked at Mrs. Crumley’s back. “I’ll give you a penny, not charge one.”

A tea pip floated in my cup. What happened last night? Nothing and everything, the Scylla and Charybdis that crushes lives. Would she understand? “Ruth, have you read Oscar Wilde?”

“A man with deplorable morals.” She made a face. “Papa detests him.”

The pip sank to its watery grave. No help there.

That afternoon, I read the messages we’d decoded and indexed the text against public communiqués. Part of my job is to create a library of references: where did this message originate from, when that particular military unit was last mentioned, how often is a particular word used? The movement of the German army is built on a pile of messages. My job is to create meaning out of the fragments we intercept, to seek patterns, and today, I found something.

While reading a pile of messages, it struck me how the Germans ended every message with ‘Heil Hitler’ or ‘HH.’ A telling repetition—surely someone else had noticed? I had to tell someone. I saw Alan in his office, an intense expression on his face, as if he grappled with something abstract. After a moment of indecision, I went to John Hughes instead. At first, he was irate at my disturbing his afternoon nap. Before I could finish though, he was quivering like a tuning fork.

Throughout the day, the cryptanalysts engaged in feverish discussion, while I became a forgotten contributor. It suited me well, the anonymity.

Sitzfleisch—there’s no precise translation but it means the ability to sit and work quietly. For hours, I edited a simplified dictionary for the Wrens. The next time I stood up, I felt dizzy. I had missed dinner, and alien faces from the night shift surrounded me. Where am I, I wondered. Who are they? Who am I? I’d been tasked with finding meaning, but I felt broken inside, devoid of purpose.

Kierkegaard says there are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what is not true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true. The Enigma machine cannot match the complexity of a person’s feelings, wound up, and locked.

In the back page of my journal, the cigarette has bloomed. The burnt end has smudged the paper, tracing charcoal-brown petals. Nothing can recreate its beauty, not in a million years. Quite impossible.

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