by W. Len
Secrets. The damned House of Secrets.
But Gordie was here. I looked at him, and nothing else seemed important. He was here for me.
“The question is: why are you here?” he asked. “I need to know everything, Robin.”
I told him. I started with the German spy, how I’d withheld parts of what I found. When I mentioned the night with Ruth, Gordie kept a gentleman’s silence. I wanted to go on, but I couldn’t endanger Alan. Worse, I couldn’t bear Gordie’s disgust.
“You say, he’s read your journal? And I’m in it.” The smell of tobacco drifted into my cell. “No wonder the Colonel doesn’t trust me now. He knows we’re friends.” Gordie shrugged. “No matter. I have my patrons. That stuff with Ruth—he’d be a laughing stock if he called a tribunal on you, and everything came out. He’ll try to keep you here as long as he can. The war grants emergency powers, and he’ll use it.”
“When will the war end?”
“Could be a while, I’m afraid. When will they stop fighting? When we stop fighting. When will we stop fighting? When they stop fighting. London’s a veritable fortress, all ack ack guns and sandbags. Thanks to Turing, we’ve begun breaking cryptograms regularly. There’s still a heap we can’t solve, but we’ve got a chance now. The man has been working like a demented demon recently. Even I’m impressed, and you know I dislike him. I’ve no idea what drives Turing, but he looks like he’s not been sleeping at all.”
Oh, Alan!
As for The Park, he told me Churchill visited the other day and the Colonel fawned over him. He has made himself the pipeline for the decrypts about all Luftwaffe plans. “Old fox is finagling for a knighthood. He can’t risk letting you embarrass him. Hang in there, old chap. Gordie is going to make things right.” He gnawed at his pipe. “The thing I can’t figure out is why he moved you out here… Why Coventry of all godforsaken places? There’s nothing special here.”
It doesn’t matter to me. Alan’s safe. And now Gordie’s here. Everything will be fine.
Before Gordie left, he extracted a book from his leather satchel. “War and Peace. Thickest book I could find. Strange, how it was going for a penny. Thought you’d need to occupy yourself while I work on your case.”
He kneaded the book through the bars, and I clutched it to my bosom.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. For a heartbeat, a look, the way his breath caught…I didn’t know a single moment could fill one with hope. “Gordie, I—”
“I must say, Robin,”—his knuckles whitened as he gripped the bowl of his pipe—“does the word ‘friend’ mean nothing to you?”
Can I confess now? He’s gone. He can’t hear me. In that moment, I realized that before Alan, there was Gordie. And after Alan, there’d be Gordie again, lodged and locked in the box of my heart. Does he know? Does he feel the same way?
Of course he doesn’t.
If only. Those are the most beautiful words—because they are the saddest.
Monday, 14 November 1940
No one brought food this morning. I never thought I’d miss gruel. As the hours went by, my anxiety and hunger grew, so I told myself I was fasting. I prayed until my stomach ached, and then I fasted and prayed more until the ache subsided.
Now, I don’t feel anything except a strange, weightless sensation. Questions buffet me. When will Gordie return? Will I ever leave? I’ve taken to scratching the walls with a stolen spoon over the last week. The permanence of the marks reassure me. I matter still. If nothing else, the stone will remember me.
Mid-afternoon, in the courtyard, I saw guards clambering into the canvas-covered back of a truck. Outside, a solitary barrage balloon struggled against an unruly wind. Then, the truck was gone.
Since then, it has been silent. No echo, no clink, no boot thuds—the quietude rings from cell to cell. Perhaps it is the fasting that makes me feel at peace.
Evening nears. The last light of the day is swelling through the window’s bars, making them appear thin. Outside, the courtyard walls look close, its grounds washed pink by dusk.
Maybe it makes no difference whether I’m in Coventry or Bletchley Park or Balliol. As Voltaire puts it, we can all tend our gardens. Tomorrow, I shall read twenty pages of War and Peace, my daily ration. Tomorrow, I will fill another page of my journal and mark the walls. Tomorrow, some tomorrow, I will be free. I have faith in Gordie.
In the sky, a wedge of planes approaches the city. In the distance, they look like silver crosses, a sign I’ve not been forgotten.
A last glance outside before the last light of day goes. The tree doesn’t move. There is no breeze. The world is still, holding its breath, waiting. Waiting for the end of war. Waiting for the end of hate.
I know he will come for me, no matter how long it takes.
Acknowledgments
The book would not have been possible without the support of many. I am deeply grateful to the following for their help and support: Patrick McGrath, who gave me invaluable advice about writing; Susan Shapiro, who taught me perseverance; the Bletchley Park veterans who shared their stories and inspired mine; the many test readers, who provided feedback; and to those who told me not to give up despite overwhelming odds.
While this book is a work of historical fiction, it is a fact that many of Great Britain’s finest minds came together at Bletchley Park and contributed to the victory over Nazi Germany. Bletchley Park Trust maintains the historical estate now. Please consider donating to support this fine institution.
Above all, I am grateful to my readers. If you enjoyed the book, please take a moment to review the book at Amazon or Goodreads.
Bibliography
The resources listed below were useful to me when I was doing background research on Bletchley Park and the life of Alan Turing. For those interested in a more factual account, I highly recommend these books.
Alan Turing, The Enigma, by Andrew Hodges.
Cryptographic History of Work on the German Naval Enigma, by C.H.O’D. Alexander, C.B.E, i.d.c.
The Hut Six Story, by Gordon Welchman.
Top Secret Ultra, by Peter Calvocoressi
Useful websites
www.bletchleypark.org.uk
www.bletchleyparkresearch.co.uk
About the Author
W. Len received a Masters in Fine Arts from the New School, and did his undergraduate studies at Brown University, where he was a Writing Fellow.
His works have appeared in Financial Times publications, New York Press, The Brooklyn Rail, and international newspapers such as The Straits Times.
Besides writing, at various points of his life, he has worked on Wall Street, taught at Parsons, School of Design, served in the Navy, and sold candy on the streets.
Information about his latest books and projects can be found at www.winstonlen.com.
If you enjoyed this book, please check out Hack:Moscow, his second book.