How I Became a Spy by Deborah Hopkinson

Author:Deborah Hopkinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2019-02-11T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Good cryptographists are rare indeed.

—Edgar Allan Poe, “A Few Words on Secret Writing,” 1841

When Eleanor finished, no one said anything for a long while. At last I cleared my throat. “Hearing it out loud like that makes her seem so real.” As real as the young woman I’d found lying alone in the cold.

“She took such a risk,” said Eleanor. “From one day to the next, she couldn’t know who might be watching her; she couldn’t tell a friend from an informer.”

“I think it’s brave to live undercover in that way, always in fear,” David agreed. “I keep thinking of my parents back in Germany.” He explained to Eleanor, “They sent me here for safety. But they couldn’t escape, not in time. Horrible things were happening in Germany. One night in November of 1938, thousands of Jewish businesses were burned and destroyed. That was Kristallnacht—the Night of Broken Glass. Many Jewish people were arrested or sent away. Others were killed.”

“You must have been frightened,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, I wasn’t even eight. Our train was full of children, some only two or three years old.”

“Did you understand why you were coming to England?” Eleanor asked.

“Not really. I knew my parents were worried. Also, I’d already been forced to leave school because they’d made a rule that Jewish children weren’t allowed. Papa said he and Mama would join me later. But they couldn’t, especially after war was declared that September.” David raised his thin shoulders in a slight shrug. “We don’t know what’s happening at home now. I don’t get letters anymore.”

We were all quiet for a long moment. I closed my eyes and felt a sharp pang of longing. I missed Mum. But at least I could see her again.

After a bit, David looked up. “Listen, maybe we should do more of that analysis now. Any ideas, Eleanor?”

“Well, what I just read reminds me of a diary,” she began. “Violette wanted to keep an account for herself.”

“And that might mean she didn’t need to use a very complex cipher,” I said. “So she could write fast. And because she didn’t think anyone else would ever read it.”

David’s eyes brightened. “Hey, nice deduction, Bertie. Worthy of Sherlock. Maybe pinning down the time frame might help us. Eleanor, can you recall exactly when Violette stopped being your tutor?”

“It was right in the middle of May.” Eleanor turned back a few pages. “Oh, and she writes that her training took eight weeks.”

“I have an idea. I’ll be right back.” David jumped up and disappeared down the stairs.

While he was gone, Eleanor buried her head in the notebook. My mind raced with questions. It seemed as if Eleanor’s father might have helped Violette become an agent—or at least take the first step. So why hadn’t Violette contacted him when she returned to London? Did she really not trust him?

David reappeared, holding a 1943 calendar. “Your friend Miss Mitford was saving this old one to wrap parcels in.” He flipped through the months. “Violette said the moon was full for her parachute drop.

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