How I Became a Spy

by Deborah Hopkinson

“She loves you, Eleanor, but she loves food more.” David grinned. “I think it’s a safe deduction that you have something to eat in there.”

  Eleanor pulled out half of a smashed sandwich. “I saved part of my lunch on purpose.” She turned back to us and her expression changed. “Listen, yesterday we made a good start. But time is running out. If Violette set a trap for someone this week—”

  “I know. Then it could be up to us to make sure it works,” I finished.

  “Yes, and that’s why…why I stayed up late.” Eleanor opened her knapsack and brought out some sheets, along with Violette’s notebook, which she’d taken home last night.

  David glanced at the pages. “Hey, you decoded more of her journal, didn’t you?”

  Eleanor grinned. “I only had time to decipher August. If we work on September, October, and November today, that will leave only one more: December.”

  “That last entry might hold the key to everything, but I don’t think we should skip ahead,” I said. “We might miss something else important.”

  “And did the Caesar cipher system work for August?” David wanted to know.

  “Mais oui.” Eleanor chortled. “It certainly did. In French, August is août. That means the shift is twelve—eight for the eighth month, plus four for the number of letters in août.”

  “And so A is—” David put in.

  I’d already been working on it. “M,” I finished for him.

  “September, October, and November are septembre, octobre, and novembre,” Eleanor went on. “So the alphabet shifts eighteen letters for September, nine plus the ninth month; seventeen for October, seven plus ten; and nineteen for November, eight plus eleven.”

  “Whew! I wish we had a way to work on this at the same time,” I said. “It would go a lot more quickly.”

  Eleanor flashed a mischievous grin. “Well, we do, actually. Last night I copied out three sections from the notebook onto separate sheets. I’ll take September.” She slid paper covered with ciphertext toward each of us as solemnly as Mr. Turner passed out his exam questions. “Here’s October for you, David, and November for you, Bertie.”

  “Let’s decode and then read them in order,” I suggested. “Maybe we’ll find some answers to why she came back.” And where she is now, I thought to myself.

  I was just starting to copy out the regular alphabet on one line, with my cipher alphabet below it, when David cleared his throat.

  “Uh, I worked on something too,” he said, reaching into his knapsack and drawing out some pieces of paper. “A cipher wheel. I read about it in a book once. I started it in history class.”

  I laughed. “So that’s why you didn’t know the answer when Mr. Turner called on you. I wondered what you were doing.”

  “But what’s a cipher wheel?” Eleanor asked.

  “I’ll show you how it’s put together,” David said. “A cipher wheel actually consists of two alphabet wheels, an outer one and an inner one. Here we have a wheel with the alphabet in order from A to Z. Like this.”

  He held up a piece of paper with the alphabet written in a circle.

  “Now, that’s as far as I got in class. But the rest is easy. Do you have a pair of scissors, Eleanor?” David asked. And, of course, she did. David cut out another circle, smaller than the first. He added the letters of the alphabet and placed the circle inside the outer wheel, with the two As lined up.

  “It works like this. Say the shift is thirteen spaces. You just twist the inside wheel thirteen places,” he explained. “N becomes the first letter of the cipher alphabet, and you can see the whole rest of the alphabet too.”

  “That’s ingenious!” cried Eleanor. “Now we can twirl the inner wheel to easily see different cipher alphabets. Let me try.” She moved the inside wheel. “So if the shift is seven, H is the beginning of the cipher alphabet and it looks like this.”

  In a few minutes, we’d each made our own cipher wheel. I set mine for a shift of nineteen, for the month of novembre. “Got it. My cipher alphabet begins with T.”

  Little Roo had finished her sandwich and sat at Eleanor’s feet, her stumpy tail vibrating against the floor. “There’s no putting anything past you, is there, girl?” Eleanor reached into her knapsack again. “American Red Cross doughnuts. I brought one for each of us, including you, Roo.”

  LR woofed and snatched it out of her fingers, then retreated to a corner. I took a bite of my doughnut and pulled the November section toward me. We worked in silence. When we were all finished, we passed our transcriptions to Eleanor.

  “I don’t have to be the one to read aloud all the time,” she said.

  “No, it sounds nice when you read,” David said. “When I close my eyes, I can imagine Violette speaking.”

  “All right.” Eleanor cleared her throat. “I’ll begin where we left off, with August.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Normandy countryside is lovely now. The August meadows are bright with wildflowers—pink, gold, and white. Lavender and honeysuckle perfume the soft air. Cows graze peacefully. Oh, how I love my native land. It’s almost possible to forget that France is an occupied country.

  Almost—but not quite.

  There is a garrison of German troops in the village, a short bicycle ride from the farm where I’m staying. Madame and Monsieur P (I won’t use their real names) have been gracious. They’ve told their neighbors I’m the daughter of a distant cousin, who is eager to earn money to go to university after the war. Whether everyone believes this story, I can’t say.

  My days are busy. Maurice has taken me to meet a few members of this network. He is, in reality, an old friend of Monsieur P’s, so it’s natural that he should often visit the farm. That’s when he gives me my assignments.

  I’ve learned some surprising things during Maurice’s visits. Although Maurice looks like an old peasant, he was an artist in Paris before the war began. It’s a good reminder: I’m not the only one with a cover story.

  Sometimes I travel by bicycle, other times by bus or train. I don’t carry weapons, but messages: mostly information about factories or railroads that are targets for sabotage. Our network isn’t large, but our members are brave.

  I’ve taken part in a few operations myself. Last week I served as a lookout when we placed dynamite to damage a railroad bridge. The next day I rode by and saw train cars with artillery pieces stopped on the tracks. I smiled to myself. The Germans won’t be able to deliver weapons to their defense bunkers on the coast until the bridge is repaired.

  After that success, we radioed London to let them know about the stalled munitions, and to give the Allied air forces a chance to target the train. I hope none of the guns it carries will ever point toward the sea.

  I feel that at last I’m doing something that matters: giving Allied troops a better chance of victory when the fateful day of the invasion arrives.

  Philippe, who operates our wireless radio, lives in a small town about three miles away. His cover is working at a repair shop that fixes farm machinery, equipment, and household items like sewing machines. It’s very convenient: The shop is a good place to exchange messages and coordinate arrangements.

  Philippe has a gentle smile and a calm way about him. His French is excellent, but sometimes when we talk, I suspect he’s not a native speaker. I’ve wondered if, like me, he came here from London.

  We don’t say any of this aloud, of course. We keep our meetings brief. Each week I code my report and bring it to him to send to London on his wireless set. I’m very careful and always remember to add my code name, BOOK, and to follow instructions for the extra security check, a string of letters to show I authorized the message. I haven’t forgotten our code master’s warning.

  Eleanor stopped and placed the last page down. “That’s August.”

  “So far, it seems to be going well for Violette,”
David noted. “But in the October entry I decoded, things start to become…more difficult.”

  I nodded, thinking of Violette’s November entry. “Keep going, Eleanor.”

  She nodded and took a breath.

  Things have been going well—up to now. But at the beginning of September, a new officer took charge of the garrison of German soldiers in the village. Maurice says the other man was lazy and liked to sit around and eat. His replacement seems eager to make his mark and crack down on any resistance activities.

  Yesterday two German soldiers stopped me as I walked through town after visiting Philippe. They examined my papers and asked me questions. Everything was in order, but I felt nervous. This hasn’t happened before.

  Luckily, I wasn’t carrying much money, as I often do. Perhaps I’ve gotten a little careless and should bring only the amount of money that matches my orders for sewing patterns. This might mean making more than one trip a week to see Philippe, though. That would add danger too.

  I wondered if the soldiers followed me from the repair shop itself. I don’t think so. But it’s a reminder to be on guard at all times. Tonight I took this notebook out from under a floorboard in my little room. By the light of my candle, I read over all my notes on surveillance, just to refresh my memory.

  It’s been several weeks since I’ve written. It’s October now, and so much has changed. Fear has begun to seep into my life like a thick London fog.

  Maurice has shared some disturbing news about another resistance group in this region. SOE networks have code names too, by the way. Our network is SYCAMORE. The other network’s code name is PINE. Maurice and the PINE leader sometimes meet secretly to share information.

  Maurice learned that the PINE radio operator was captured by the Germans three weeks ago. Yet after that, the SOE office in London still sent two more agents by parachute to a field used by the PINE network. Both times, Germans were waiting on the ground to arrest the agent.

  My heart raced when I heard this. Why had it happened? Our procedure is always the same: We are supposed to send an all-clear message the very day of a drop, to let the SOE in London know it’s safe to proceed. But if the PINE radio operator had been captured three weeks ago, no all-clear messages could have been sent since then!

  “London should have figured out that the PINE network has been exposed,” I said. “No agent should be dropped without that go-ahead signal.”

  Maurice gave a small shrug. “Perhaps an all-clear message was sent, and therefore London didn’t realize the radio operator had been captured.”

  I let his words sink in. “You’re saying that the Nazis seized the operator’s radio and are pretending to be him. They’re sending messages saying it’s safe to drop more agents. But, Maurice, if the special security check is missing, then the SOE in London should be suspicious that something is wrong. The people there should figure out that the radio has been captured and the Nazis are impersonating the operator. They should know!”

  Maurice’s eyes were troubled. “Yes, London should be able to figure out that the Nazis are either forcing him to send messages or, most likely, simply operating it themselves and conveying false information.”

  “The lack of the special security check should be a warning flag,” I said again, shaking my head in disbelief. We’d been instructed what to do if we were ever captured and the Nazis forced us to transmit a radio message. The enemy might dictate the message and we’d be forced to send it. But we should leave off the special security check at the end.

  “Mais oui, but sometimes radio operators get sloppy,” Maurice said. “Even Philippe has forgotten his security check once or twice. It’s easy to do when you’re rushed.”

  “What happened when Philippe left it off?”

  Maurice shook his head. “Ah, well, that’s what worries me. When that happened, London simply sent back a message reminding him to be more careful.”

  I frowned. “That’s not very reassuring—or professional.”

  At this, Maurice laughed. “Do you think it’s professional to send young women like yourself into enemy territory with just a few weeks of training? We’re all making this up as we go along—including the folks at the SOE London bureau. We’re all flying by the seat of our pants.” He was quiet for a while. “Of course, there is another possible explanation.”

  We were outside, standing near Madame P’s kitchen garden, which still boasted autumn tomatoes, squash, pumpkins, and a few peppers. Stars sparkled above. All was peaceful and quiet, but Maurice’s words made me shiver.

  I lowered my voice. “You can’t be suggesting what I think you are: that someone in London is choosing to ignore the lack of a security check. That someone there is complicit in what is happening. That we have a traitor.”

  “Je ne sais pas. I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.” Maurice gave a small shrug. In the light of a waning moon, the stubble on his chin looked like silver frost.

  After he’d gone, I took out this notebook and reviewed my training notes. I can’t afford to let down my guard or relax precautions. The enemy is watching at all times.

  And if the Nazis have penetrated one network, ours might be next.

  A few weeks have passed. It’s now November, and something terrible has happened.

  One morning last week, I went to the repair shop to deliver a message to Philippe. We were being cautious, but we needed supplies, and more help. So Maurice told me to give London the all-clear sign for an agent and explosives to be dropped that night. Philippe’s radio message would let London know to proceed.

  The moon was full. The plane would take off from England, just as mine had. After midnight, I was to meet the agent at the field and guide him or her to a designated safe farmhouse.

  But when I bicycled in to let Philippe know, he wasn’t at the repair shop.

  “Is he sick?” I asked Jacques, the owner.

  He shrugged. “Mademoiselle, I haven’t seen him in four days.”

  Jacques is a thin older man with hard eyes that give nothing away. I felt a chill sweep over me. Was he an informer who’d discovered Philippe’s true identity?

  I had no way of knowing if the SOE in London would go ahead. But, recalling my own fear and sense of loneliness the night I’d arrived, I knew what I had to do. I decided to go to the field. If the agent was dropped, I’d remain hidden until I was sure it was safe.

  I was very careful that day. I hid in a secluded hedgerow near the village for most of the afternoon. At dusk, I set out for the drop location, cutting across fields whenever I could. It was cold and my breath was frosty. I found a hiding place for my bicycle and myself in some thick brush. I waited, beating my arms to try to stay warm.

  And then, at midnight, I heard the drone of the airplane. A single parachute swayed into the moonlit sky, followed by several large bags, probably full of explosives.

  The night was still and quiet. I waited. Just as I was about to race across the field, I caught the sound of a rumbling car engine. From my hiding spot, I saw what happened next. The vehicle stopped on the road. Two figures emerged. They strode across the field, pointed guns, and shouted at the agent. A little while later, the car started up again. There were three people in it.

  I waited, shivering, for another hour. Then I bicycled home in the darkness.

  It is a few days later. I went back, once, to the repair shop. I looked through the window. No Philippe. I fear there can be no doubt: He’s in the hands of the Nazis.

  The London office might have made a mistake that compromised our network. But it could be something else. Maurice was afraid to put it into words. But it’s possible that there’s a traitor—a double agent—in the London bureau.

  This possibility fills me with a deep, cold fear. If this situation continues, how many innocent agents might die? And as the invasion approaches, could this leak expose the date and
location to the Nazis?

  I stayed hidden in the farmhouse all week, hoping to hear from Maurice, fearing that if he’d been captured too, I was sure to be next.

  And then tonight, just before dusk, Maurice appeared, looking worn and tired. It was chilly, but we went outside to talk in the orchard. A few bruised apples lay under the trees. I plucked two, only slightly worm-eaten, from a branch. We sat on a boulder to talk.

  Maurice took a bite. He observed wryly, “I feel like this poor fruit: bruised and battered but not yet fallen.”

  “Where have you been?” I whispered. “I’ve been worried….”

  “I’m sorry. It couldn’t be helped, Marie,” he said, using my cover name.

  “Have you found Philippe?” I asked.

  He nodded. “The Nazis have him. By now he’s on his way to one of their prison camps. But for a few days he was held in the German garrison in the village.”

  “Did you find a way to speak with him?”

  He nodded. “We weren’t able to break him out, but I was able to sneak into the garden long enough to have a whispered conversation through his cell window.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “It’s not good news. Philippe speaks German as well as French. But he never let his captors know he could understand them. So he was able to overhear a lot. Philippe says the Nazis are playing a sly game. Our worst fears are true: The Nazis have a high-level contact in our London bureau.”

  “A double agent,” I whispered. “A traitor.”

  “Oui. And now the Germans are sending radio messages, purportedly from me, saying that both Philippe and you have been turned by the enemy.”

  “Turned? You mean they’re saying we are working for the Germans? Why would they say that?”

  “Ah, well. Obviously our traitor wants to cover for himself. He wants to be sure no one in the London office suspects him. My guess is he’s a higher-up. When he says the radio operators aren’t competent enough to include their security checks, people believe him.