by W. Len
Her question provided insight to the seed of my dream.
Last week, we found a radio operator in Munich who habitually pairs his initials with his girlfriend’s to create his encoding key. It’s just like how in Dresden, there’s a Luftwaffe officer who ends all his messages to Berlin asking his friend to check on his newborn’s health. By exploiting these endearments, we’ve figured out their keys. People say the U-boats like to attack at night, so our sailors can watch their brethren ships light up the black waters, burning pyres to illuminate their doom ahead. We deny each other’s humanity in this bitter exchange. Everything we do is contemptible—that’s the damnation of war.
Sunday, 26 May 1940
Like many, I’m at the pub after church.
Last week, the King declared a National Prayer Day. Today, everyone rallied to the occasion. In recent weeks, every German decode trumpets triumph. In Europe, the Panzers have crushed our tanks, and the Luftwaffe fighters screech over the continent with impunity. More than three hundred thousand Allied troops are encircled in a ring of death. The battle’s coming to our shores, and Churchill has declared a fight to the death. The Constitution was recently suspended, and now, the truths run as wild as the rumors. Conscientious objectors have a final chance to enlist or be shot. Rations will be halved, then halved again. The vile Nazis are herding women into breeding programs to breed monsters. Some say they even have unmanned rockets that sound as if they’ve lifted off the pages of a Jules Verne nightmare. Much is not published in the newspapers, people whisper. No one knows what to believe. So we pray.
At St Mary’s, a long line waited to enter. At one point, Vicar Haggerty walked out offering prayers in a hoarse whisper, quoting the Book of Romans. “For in this hope we were saved. Hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” Vicar, from Latin vicarius—the man stood in place of our Lord and assured us that good trumps all. Amen, everyone answered.
When I saw Gordie, I waved. After some hesitation, he approached. I’d thought a lot since our dispute. I’d accused him—of what? Why had I assumed something sinister? He's my best friend.
Before he said anything, I was contrite; I apologized unreservedly. He puffed his cheeks sternly, then punched my arm not so gently. “These are trying times. It’s bad. Really bad.” I suppose he’d suffered not having someone to talk to. “The Navy is commandeering dinghies and motorboats to help the evacuation.” He was gloomy, yet I could see he felt relieved at our reconciliation.
Before we entered, I saw Alan hovering near the gate. He twisted his head as if debating whether to wait. Then he left.
After church, Gordie and I retreated to the Dunscombe Arms. In between pints, he rubbed his face. “I’ve seen it all now. I’ve seen too much, really. Some German units are using death tallies to generate the daily Enigma keys. It seems the Reich’s soldiers are expected to serve from beyond the grave,” he said tiredly.
I grew worried when I realized Gordie was reading classified documents in public. He chuckled at my concern. “You missed me didn’t you, old boy? Don’t worry. I never get in trouble. I’m a survivor. It’s my talent. Or perhaps, my curse.”
It’s true. At Malborough, he was the master of japes yet always evaded punishment. I tried not to stare as he picked up the reports and continued reading: his peevish sigh, the cluck of a tongue—for a moment the war didn’t exist. Then, a motley crew trooped into the bar. When they started a bawdy song about Hitler’s mother, Gordie scrolled his papers and banged the table. “Time to be a patriot, Robin!” We joined the sing-a-long.
Some find salvation in God, in work, in words. If none of that works, I suppose there’s always another pint. We British are good at swallowing our bitters, we are.
Thursday, 30 May 1940
From trepidation to tragedy. My first inkling of trouble arose when I saw the car on the street. I was coming back home from work and there it was, hulking like some black, metal-carapaced insect. Only top officials have personal cars now petrol is becoming scarce.
When I went in, the Colonel was in the parlor, sitting in my favorite armchair. “Get me a drink,” he commanded when he saw me, so I got him Mrs. Crumley’s cooking sherry, which was all we had. As I poured, he told me about the H.M.S. Jersey, Ruth’s fiancé’s ship. It had been protecting the evacuation when a U-boat accosted it. The first torpedo smashed its prow. The destroyer could have limped away, but it held the line to protect the convoy. Ten minutes later, a second salvo struck, and the destroyer changed course to ram a nearby German picket ship. That’s how they sank, everyone onboard a dead hero.
The Colonel downed the glass like medicine. “Do me a favor, Sommers. Tell Mrs. Crumley to help Ruth pack. Her mother will come for her. I was the one who got Tom that commission. My baby must hate me now.”
After I did as he bade, I hid in my room. Even there, Ruth’s distress was audible, floating through the windows. “…I should never have…break things off! I was his Lady Luck, he said. It’s my fault! I’ve had unfaithful thoughts!”
It was too disturbing, so I shut the window. Mrs. Crumley had lost her husband in the first war. She knew how to comfort Ruth. I’ve always thought the Colonel a closet Fascist, yet his concern moved me. Why do we fight if not for the ones we love?
Wednesday, 5 June 1940
London Times this morning: “335,000 men brought from Dunkirk!” Everyone’s calling it a miracle. A storm had grounded the Luftwaffe, yet the Channel had been calm as a thousand ships rescued our soldiers. The delirium of close shaves swept through the Park. I even saw strangers hugging each other. The Colonel came by our hut and pinned Churchill’s speech to the corkboard, before launching into oratory. He ground his cane as he praised the French who’d sacrificed to rear-guard our flight. He waved his cane, smashing the dastardly German pilots, who had strafed our hospital ships.
It reminded me of Deuteronomy 20:4—For the Lord your God is he who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies, to give you victory!
More good news during lunchtime. I called my sister, and she told me my niece had recovered from pneumonia. Hallelujah!
Unfortunately, all is morose at Mrs. Crumley’s. Over the last week, the Colonel and Mrs. Windermere, a sandy-haired woman with a florid face, came by often. Mrs. Crumley told me that when they tried to force Ruth to move, she’d hacked off a braid of hair with a pair of scissors. Vicar Haggerty was summoned to provide counsel and comfort, yet his efforts have been futile.
The only time Ruth leaves her room is when she goes for walks. Mrs. Crumley alerts me whenever Ruth sets off, and I trot along to escort her.
During our walks, Ruth says nothing. Once, I tried to joke, and she slapped me before running home, crying. Then yesterday, we walked past Alan’s place. He was leaning out his window, wearing a half unbuttoned shirt. When Ruth saw him, she clutched my arm. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.” Those were the only words she uttered the whole week.
Mrs. Crumley keeps hinting I should do more. She says Ruth has heart troubles. As if I don’t know her fiancé died!
Friday, 7 June 1940
It’s two a.m. in the morning. I do not know what to do. Ruth is in my bed. I’m in the parlor, hiding. A dim gas lamp illuminates my shaking hands as I pen my regrets. If only Ruth had gone with the Colonel! If only I’d not opened my door just now! If only I’d turned away when she kissed me!
When she knocked, I’d been half asleep. I’d assumed an emergency and jumped out of bed. She stood on the threshold then fell forward on me, her arms wrapping around me. “Robin, why do you love me?” she cried.
In my daze, I pulled her in lest Mrs. Crumley overhear her. I tried to extricate myself, but she clung on. “I broke Tom’s heart so we can have a clean start. You understand, don’t you? I’ve known about your feelings for a while. That night you held my hand… I’ve thought about it a lot. What happened with Tom, it’s not my fault. Or yours. It isn
’t. We have to forgive ourselves.” She tiptoed and asked me to hold her. “You want me, don’t you?” She stood there, delirious, lips parted.
I was so muddled I couldn’t think straight. All I thought of were the stories where a kiss made everything right.
I closed my eyes, then kissed her.
After a moment, which felt too long, she rocked back on her heels. I felt relief. I thought she’d go to her room, and we could clear the misunderstanding over breakfast. Instead, she lifted her nightdress, revealing the pale curves of her breasts, half draped by her long hair. She took my hand and pressed it against her breast expectantly.
I do not know which was worse: my dread, veined with curiosity? The bewilderment when she nuzzled me? The way I’d fumbled through my unwanted duties? I’d shivered when she half-murmured, “This can’t be your first, is it?” There were moments when I closed my eyes telling myself this couldn’t be real; I imagined myself somewhere else, anywhere else. Then, she moaned a final time and untangled herself. I felt the blanket slide away, as she wound its warmth around herself like a cocoon, leaving my toes frigid. Nothing I’ve read compares to such indignity, nothing can make this worse, I thought—until I heard her sobbing. I reached out and patted her shoulder until she fell silent. When she called out Tom’s name in her sleep, I wasn’t sure who was more pitiful. Oh God, what have we done?
The parlor’s silence seems to mock me now. I’ve prayed, again and again. Belle is mystified by my intrusion onto his nocturnal turf. I’m insomniac from trepidation. What if Mrs. Crumley finds her in my room in the morning? No, no, I’d better go up and carry her back. I can’t even begin to think what will happen next.
Saturday, 8 June 1940
Salvation—that’s what the morning brought. I woke up to a car’s throaty rumbling. From my room’s window, I saw Ruth with her parents, a slim valise in her hand. She looked up at me and smiled wanly. She mimed writing. The Colonel looked up then, so I leapt back from the window.
I spent the rest of the day floating around. There’s no one I can confide in. The war has entered a brief lull as the generals mull over their maps and move their pawns. I almost volunteered for the Home Guard, until I realized that holding a gun and rolling in mud would serve nothing. Anyway, men in the Park are forbidden from fighting in the frontlines. The work we do here is considered too important to risk anyone’s capture. The other day, my colleagues inveigled me to the village hop in Bletchley. In the barn, I saw feet shuffle, dancers doing the Charleston. The press of hands on waists, the flush of cheeks, fake smiles—everyone was determined to defy the threat of the Germans. Dance! Dance, or die of despair, was the mood.
Back home, I saw Mrs. Crumley moping in the kitchen. She’s listless because Ruth is gone, leaving her with nobody to mother. My best companion is Belle these days. He asks for nothing, only that I save a morsel of fish or bacon. When I read, he rolls over on my lap for me to prop my book on the nubbin of his missing leg. The Stoics would have approved of this creature.
I’ve heard of men—“a friend of a friend of a friend” usually—who duck behind matrimony. It goes against conscience, for everyone would be trapped in a lie then—yet there is some honor in that. I can marry Ruth. By God’s grace, we’d be happy. Or would I? Come to think of it, God never had a wife, did He? Oh, the little crumbs of black humor.
Monday, 17 June 1940
This morning, I’d woken up to a cock’s crow. No, that’s a lie. In truth, I hadn’t slept since last night, so how could I have woken up?
Yesterday, I intended to go to St Mary’s for the evening service, except the Duty Officer brought me some urgent work. Some higher-up wanted a second opinion on a piece of translation. By the time I got to the church, Vicar Haggerty was wheeling his bicycle pass the fruit-laden branches of the aged apple tree. “Dinner calls,” he touched his cap in apology, “but I’ve left the church open if you want to pray.”
I thanked him, then went in. How was I to know that my desire for absolution would lead to dissolution instead?
Inside, I saw a shadowy figure in the far corner, standing on top of a pew near the altar, hands spread square in the air, measuring the dimensions of the stained glass windows. The roof repairman, I thought, and ducked into a pew at the back. I wanted to pray, but where should I begin? Dear God, forgive me, was all I could think of to say, before I floundered. Surely He didn’t need sordid details? The pew before me felt smooth against my forearms, the wood worn by countless supplicants before. He’d heard them all, so I settled for a plain confession sandwiched inside the Lord’s Prayer.
When I opened my eyes, someone sat before me. It was Alan. “That’s the speediest prayer I’ve ever heard. Does praying work?”
“Why are you here if it doesn’t?” I countered, annoyed.
He rubbed his chin with a rueful finger. “Of all the ciphers, the Naval Enigma is the most complex. No one believes it can be cracked, yet everyone expects me to. I’m stumped. I thought a change of environment would help.”
“I saw you at the church last week. Have you become a believer?”
“A moment’s weakness, that. I felt obliged by the occasion.”
“You deny that the evacuation at Dunkirk was a miracle?” I asked.
He raised a ragged eyebrow expressively in answer. That gesture made me remember a moment, years ago, when a dorm-mate had touched my brow. He’d been sketching my portrait, his hesitant fingers feeling out the contours of my face. The headmaster had summoned us into his study after that. Twenty lashes from a cane that whistled and whisked droplets of blood into the air.
Suddenly, the urge to confess possessed me. “Alan, I’m not like you. I’m here because it’s safer than the front. I’m a coward.” My fears, damned and undammed. “Don’t you understand?”
“You can try. You struggle.”
After he caned me, the headmaster had gripped my shoulders and told me I had to resist temptation. His thumbs had inscribed sad circles on me, marking me. I’d looked into his doleful eyes and realized there were others who suffered like me. “It doesn’t matter what I do or feel. I can’t escape. Ruth and I….there’s a promise now.”
“You struggle.” Why keep repeating that, I wondered, what good are words?
I fled for the door. Safety was twenty feet away, ten, five—I was a step out the threshold when Alan grabbed my hand, and I realized I didn’t want to let go. The sky outside blushed pink as I pulled him out the church, past the threshold, beyond the creaking door, into the sheltering shade of the apple tree. We stood beside a fruit sagging on a thin bough, hanging as if it’d been there before the Fall, waiting for someone to taste it. An evening bell gonged. I’d always sought escape. This time, my senses fled instead. The bell rang eight times, each stroke dragging forward, each stroke ringing after the last, as if they belonged beside each other. How sweet, the taste of forbidden fruit, how tender!
When I returned, Mrs. Crumley was in the parlor, head drooping off the headrest of the armchair, her face flushed from her nightcap. I paused. Vera Lynn was on the wireless, crooning about a moment I could taste on my lips.
Today, reality reasserted itself. I ate a normal breakfast, powdered eggs and toast, tea with powdered milk. I had a normal day at work. When I came back, I realized I wanted to be a normal person.
They lived happily ever after is a convenient ending, except life doesn’t work like that. Now what?—that’s a more honest ending.
Friday, 21 June 1940
I hear his bicycle bell ringing each night. Eight o’clock, and he meanders down the street. Eight chimes, each ring, a reminder.
Earlier, I lurked near the window. Belle hopped onto the mantel and joined my watch. Why is he named Belle when he’s a tomcat, I wondered as I stroked his head. The litany of denial ran through my head: nothing happened, nothing will happen, nothing will ever happen.
I waited for the bell to ring.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Crumley asked, when Alan cycled by and rang aw
ay. The cat and I peered at our freedom outside, and I told her I didn’t know.
Friday, 28 June 1940
The Colonel sent a runner for me today, a pug-nosed Corporal who escorted me, marching my fear, my guilt, and me to a hearing.
Colonel Windermere was pacing before a large map when I entered his office. Without preamble, he thrust a sheet filled with coordinates and asked me to read aloud. He marked the map with red crosses as I recited. He let slip that the team working on Luftwaffe’s Enigma had made progress—a secret I don’t think I was supposed to know. Everyone seems to trust me. Perhaps they sense I won’t dare to tell anyone anything. “The RAF will be ready, oh we will shoot them down!” He studied the red circles then tapped the map. “Bletchley’s here. If the Germans knew what we were doing, their bombers will bomb us next.” After a moment of contemplation, he turned and studied me.
“Colonel?” I asked as his scrutiny dragged on.
He pulled a blue envelope from his pocket. “Why is Ruth sending you letters?” he demanded.
I stuttered the truth. “She’s a…friend, Colonel. I don’t know why she’s writing.”
He handed the letter to me, then gripped his cane with both hands. “If you’re just friends, I play golf with Himmler.” He sliced the air, his stick making a swishing sound. “I saw the way she looked at you. Tom—rest his soul—is gone. Fair’s fair.” His expression softened, became less intimidating. “You remind me of your uncle. He had an eye for lively women too. I’ve always wondered why he never married. When Ruth’s back, we’ll do dinner. You can tell her mother how you two are ‘good friends.’” He smiled—it felt as if a gargoyle had bestowed its dark favor on me.