The Cipher, page 5
Soon, the young man returned. “Well,” he said. “You’re cleared so far.” He smiled.
“What—” she began.
“We don’t ask questions here,” the man said. He observed her carefully, then led her down the hall into a spartan room, where from behind a desk rose a slender, elegant woman, who shook Olivia’s hand. “Miss Adams will look after you from now on,” the man said, depositing her file on the woman’s desk before leaving.
“Please,” Miss Adams said, motioning Olivia into a chair, then she sat and openly scrutinized Olivia, who remained quiet.
Olivia did her own scrutinizing: the woman’s features were familiar, though Olivia couldn’t exactly place her. For a moment, she ran through her mind’s catalogue of faces to no avail. Some people were able to camouflage themselves in plain view. Olivia, however, could not forget a face if she’d seen it, no matter how fleetingly.
For the next half hour, Olivia answered a variety of simple questions, such as, Could she drive a car? Could she keep secrets? Had she ever been outside Britain? Was she a good walker? Following this, Miss Adams moved on to more personal questions to do with her family background. She knew about her brother’s secret socialist club in the coffee shop, her father’s deportation to Italy, her other brother’s activities with the partisans. She knew where Olivia lived, where she worked, what time she boarded the train home. Did she have contact with Aldo? What was the nature of her relationship to Philip? What had she told her grandparents about the interview? Olivia answered all the questions, disconcerted by how much this woman knew. She imagined herself being followed, photographed, written about. She glanced at the file on Miss Adams’s desk, a file the woman had not once opened.
Presently, Miss Adams stood up. “Come with me,” she said and led Olivia to another office, where she handed Olivia a stack of reports. “Read these then destroy them.”
Olivia did as she was told, then was able to recall the information in them verbatim. Could she follow directives? Memorize instructions? They were testing her, as well as their security. Olivia easily passed all these tests. Was she was willing to go overseas? If so, she would have to join the FANYs — an all-female volunteer group, active in both nursing and intelligence since the early 1900s. This “cover” would allow her to move around freely, though Olivia still had no idea what she would be doing, and where she would be going.
“I’ve joined the FANYs, but that’s all I can tell you,” Barbara said, when they met up the following Saturday. “You’ll hear soon enough.” She smiled, and patted Olivia’s hand. “I think you’ll enjoy the adventure.”
Olivia sighed. Over the past few months, Barbara had blossomed into a glamorous young woman, with wavy blonde hair she pulled off her face in a roll. Olivia envied her fashion sense, admiring her emerald-green suit, whose skirt slightly flared a few inches past her knees, and the fitted jacket with its long row of buttons down the front. She would have loved new clothes, but she was saving every penny she earned for a ticket to Italy.
They walked along a busy sidewalk, stopping for a moment at the bakery section of a large department store, where men and women queued up to buy bread. Olivia breathed in the aroma of fresh baking, thinking of the coffee shop, her mother rolling dough making the prized cornetti they sold with coffee. “I’ll get some bread for home,” she said, and they stopped and stood in line, while on the street, double-decker buses, cars, and military lorries drove past them.
“I’ll be leaving soon,” Barbara said. “So, you might not be able to contact me. But don’t worry. When I can, I’ll contact you.”
“Where are you going?” Olivia said. She couldn’t imagine not having Barbara to confide in, to help her navigate whatever was ahead.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” Barbara said.
They continued along the sidewalk surrounded by large signs — To Victory R.a.f., Guinness Is Good For You, Bovril Schweppes Tonic Water, Buy Savings Stamps — and soon had to step into the street to avoid a crew of workmen who had dug a trench and were laying cables.
“Overseas?”
Barbara nodded, and Olivia didn’t ask anymore, though she supposed Barbara, who spoke perfect French, would be sent to France, into danger.
At the train station, Olivia memorized every nuance of Barbara’s voice, her face, her gestures, the fear. “Promise you’ll be careful,” she said. They held each other tight, then Olivia boarded the train, and watched Barbara recede into the crowd. She tried to still the pounding of her heart, tried to bury the memory of other farewells at train stations, now layered one over the other in a compression of loss.
Security Talk
This is the most important part of your training. You will, therefore, in your own interest, be subject to strict security rules.
General Security Precautions.
You will not be allowed to leave these grounds during the course unless accompanied or specially instructed to do so.
You must never disclose at any time to anyone that you have been at the school or at Beaulieu.
You must never recognize anyone whom you have met here if you happen to see them later on elsewhere, except on official business.
Local Security Rules.
You will hand to me all identity documents now in your possession for inspection.
You will hand to me any firearms, other weapons, cameras or notebooks in your possession for retention during the course.
You will hand to me any money in excess of 5 pounds and any valuables for safekeeping until your departure.
Mail.
Outgoing:
all letters will be handed to me in a stamped, unsealed envelope for censoring. You must not make any reference in your letters to the fact that they are censored.
You will use the postal box address already given to you or the special arrangements for writing overseas.
Your letters will be posted in London.
Incoming:
All letters sent to you will be censored by the Administrative Officer.
Telegrams: Telegrams, which may only be sent in cases of emergency, will be handed to me for censorship and dispatch.
Telephone: you will not use the telephone here or in the locality. (This rule is only relaxed in special cases where H.Q. desires to communicate urgently with a student.)
In the first week of January, Olivia kissed Grandma and Grandpa goodbye and boarded a train for Oxfordshire, for two weeks’ training. As the train pulled out, she panicked suddenly, flooded by all the emotions of her other goodbyes, other train stations. What would happen if Kent were bombed, and Grandma and Grandpa killed? She couldn’t bear the thought of them gone. She’d be left alone. Stop it! she told herself. She was a woman now. She could take care of herself.
In Oxfordshire, along with two hundred other girls, Olivia began her FANY training in nursing — which she knew well — as well as a series of trials meant to test attitudes, constitutions, and resourcefulness. Their rooms were bugged, Olivia was sure of it, so she said little. Being naturally shy, this was not difficult. Other girls complained about the menial tasks — like dusting or cleaning floors. They’d be told they were going for a half-hour march, then found themselves marching for twenty miles. Everyone was exhausted, and their superiors watched for reactions. Olivia neither grumbled nor objected.
In the final test Olivia had to create a cover story, then sit in a dark room for two or three hours to await interrogation. Olivia imagined herself as a new character, furnishing her imaginary apartment, working at her imaginary job, interacting with her imaginary family. She replayed the scenario in the dark until it became like one of her memories. She passed easily, without breaking her cover story, and soon, she and twelve other girls returned to Baker Street, a nondescript building with many corridors and doors without names on them.
Here Miss Adams continued to test her, focusing on her memory. She gave Olivia reports and books to read — which Olivia could do quickly — then quizzed her on them. In her brain, Olivia could see the pages as if they were frames in a familiar film.
Now, finally, the girls returned to the office of the tall young man Olivia had met weeks before. “You will be working for an organization called Special Operations Executive,” he said. “An organization formed two years ago by Winston Churchill.” He paused and scanned their faces. “SOE,” he said, “is an operation of espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance in occupied Europe. A secret war behind enemy lines, to support resistance armies and to use guerrilla tactics to sabotage German positions. You might have to destroy roads or bridges or railways; you might have to carry messages or weapons or explosives. You will be trained to carry out these operations, but remember, as an SOE agent, you must fit seamlessly into society, and act clandestinely, with bare-bones support staff.” He paused again. The girls were so silent Olivia could hear her own heart beating. “None of you,” he said, tracing an arc to encompass them all, “would be recognized by us, if you’re captured.” He let that statement sink in for a moment before proceeding. “If you’re caught by the Gestapo, there’s a good chance you will be tortured and shot,” he said.
The girls shifted a little, and some murmured among themselves. Although none were given concrete information regarding their missions, the danger involved was clearly stated. There would be real consequences of serving as illegal combatants. Instead of fear, Olivia felt only excitement. She’d be going to Italy, where she’d be able to search for her family, and she would make a difference.
“Bravery, courage, and sacrifice is what you must possess,” the man said, “and an unflinching desire to aid the war effort at any cost.”
Yes, Olivia thought, looking around at the other girls, they were all brave and eager, willing to walk into danger, though their motivations might be all different. They came from the country and the city, teenage girls barely out of school, girls who were bilingual, nursing girls, girls who had a particular talent that had caught the eye of officers on Baker Street, patriotic girls, shy, introverted girls, self-sufficient girls who were used to being alone, brave girls who did not ask questions or share secrets. Soon they’d become couriers, spies, saboteurs, radio operators in the field. They all had to be self-reliant, confident, yet inconspicuous. They would take on secret identities, go on secret missions and be entrusted with their nation’s greatest secrets.
Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.
One thinks himself the master of others,
and still remains a greater slave than they.
— Jean-Jacques Rousseau
4
Kenya, 1942
The mountain receded as the prisoners filed down to where a convoy awaited to take them on the first leg of their journey to a prisoner camp in Kenya. Nino was packed tight into one of the lorries, along with forty other men, their bodies damp with sweat, dirt and fear. He wanted to object, to tell his captors that he was not even a soldier, that he didn’t believe in Mussolini’s war, but no one was listening. He stood for hours, jostled against men, his throat dry, dust caked on his face and arms. A couple of the men began humming “Faccetta Nera,” Mussolini’s marching song, but others shushed them, fearing repercussions. Nino ignored them all, and travelled to a place inside himself where Bianca shimmered like a miraculous apparition. He envisioned her body, her hands, her lips, a desperate longing rising in him. “The image of her when she starts to smile dissolves within the mind and melts away, a miracle too rich and strange to hold.” La Vita Nuova. She was his Beatrice, his perfect half.
Suddenly, the lorry stopped and men were hurled against each other like dominoes.
“Out!” a voice shouted as the lorry’s tailgate was lowered. “Fuori!”
Nino jumped out into a vast savanna grassland, where a makeshift camp had been set up. Already other lorries had arrived, and men were settling on the hard ground for the night. Nino found a spot at the edge of the camp and lay down, the cold slipping into his jacket, into the space between sleeve and wrist. Above him, a firmament of stars extended to the horizon. He marvelled at their density, aware he was seeing only a fraction of what was there. Who was he, here, in this desolate place?
In the grey dawn, he was awakened by the British guards, and after a meagre ration of bread and cheese, he joined the others in a long trek headed for Gilgil Camp.
He walked across grasslands, day and night merging, one foot in front of the other, head down, as if he were already dead and didn’t know it. He had never felt so absent from himself, so numb, as if his heart had restricted the flow of blood to his nether regions, trying to conserve the brain and itself. Now and then, he looked up to where an endless line of prisoners sliced the landscape. He imagined thousands of feet plodding in front and behind him, a colony of ants. Finally, after two days, they stopped at a rail station and boarded cattle cars that crossed wide plains for hours in the blistering sun.
Midday on the fifth day, the train stopped and Nino stumbled down with the rest. The horizon was dotted with acacia thorn tees, their smooth pale-yellow limbs and spiky white thorns mirrored in the barbed-wire fences connecting guard towers, beyond which the corrugated-iron roofs of barracks shimmered in the sun. A crude sign proclaimed Gilgil Camp. He plodded forward with a column of dejected men, his feet raising dust, his head drooping in the mid-day sun. Flies buzzed around them all, and from the rail station, the cooing of wood doves mocked their slow reluctant progress.
He thought of his first voyage — was it only three years ago? — when he’d stood on the deck of a ship, clinging to the railings, waving goodbye to Bianca, who stood on shore, a blue scarf billowing behind her. Brimming with excitement, he’d anticipated trips to exotic countries, experiences, freedom. And had not the war intervened, and his ship been requisitioned, he might have lived that dream.
“Long live Italy!” a young man near him shouted, and others responded to the call.
“Look where Italy took you,” Nino said.
The young man turned to him, narrowed his eyes. “We’ll win this war,” he said.
“Sure.” Nino turned away, thinking of folly, the lies they’d all been told that Italy was infallible, victorious, while the truth exposed what they really were: disillusioned soldiers, poorly armed, ragged and demoralized.
After a quick round of the camp — here is the commander barrack, the kitchen, the mess hall, the common area for bathroom and washing facilities — Nino followed the others into the barracks, where they all settled in shocked silence, observed from every angle by British and Kenyan guards who patrolled the internal roads leading to the barracks, as well as the external perimeter from the watchtowers. Nino felt as if he were under a microscope, where the slightest movement, the rubbing of an eye, the clenching of a fist, could appear suspicious. He had always valued his privacy, and now found himself exposed, not only to the guards but to the other prisoners.
Bit by bit, he retreated into a small dark area of his mind, only aware of hunger, thirst, sleep. When he could rouse himself, he searched inside his assigned footlocker for family photographs his aunt had sent him, as if to recall a different life. He gazed at his fourteen-year-old self, trying to remember his innocence, his naïve belief in a brilliant future, the promise of travel to Cairo, Bombay, Cape Town, India, Japan, China, names of cities and countries Aunt Isabella had created, like castles, in his mind. He wondered now if he’d been trying to follow his father’s heroic adventures, to resurrect him. At times, he felt little more than a child unwittingly thrown into battle, now slipping confusedly out of the war into a limbo of uncertainty, amplified by the fact that he had no access to reliable news. The British had installed a loudspeaker in the camp, and aired broadcasts from Radio Nairobi, but no one knew whether they were hearing propaganda or truth. Other times, he would reread Bianca’s letters, as if to ground himself inside her marriage fantasy, to escape this camp, where he felt disoriented, disconnected, starved.
Gradually, the men began to awaken from their torpor. Over the next year, trapped inside this large cage, they had two options: give up and perish, or get up and survive. Several of them took charge and began to identify the various professions in the camp: medics who could help them with their ailments; engineers who could design a church; musicians who could play and sing; teachers who could expand their education; trappers who could catch snakes and mice to supplement their meagre rations, and so on. Nino sighed. His radio telegraph skills were meaningless here. Encouraged, the men began to build a make-believe Italian town inside the camp. The British, happy to see the prisoners occupied, supplied the materials with which to build a church, a library, a stage for theatrical productions, wood for props, fabric for costumes. Some of the men transcribed plays, opera librettos, and scores by heart. They put on productions. They organized soccer teams. They began attending mandatory English classes.
