After that the conversation turned to news from home. Clark Gable had done a smashing job as Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind. The German, French, and British ambassadors had all shown up at the theatre for the Washington premiere. It made for added excitement during the burning of Atlanta. Noel rather enjoyed it.
The New York World’s Fair was still packing in the crowds in spite of the cold weather. The German, British, and French exhibitions attracted all sorts of sinister characters who all ate at the same hot-dog stand. Noel himself had enjoyed a beer from Munich under the watchful eye of two Gestapo men. They had even been bold enough to strike up a conversation with him about his escape from Poland. He had told them their pilots were very good shots. Noel was quite certain he had been followed everywhere he went, as if he knew anything of vital importance that the Nazis did not already know. He had not minded, he said. He found the whole thing amusing.
In conclusion, most people in America, including the resident Germans, French, and British, treated the war as if it were nothing more than a staring match across a concrete fence, with a few muttered threats thrown in for interest.
Noel made a prediction. “How much longer can it last? A German captain ordered to shoot himself for the sake of tacking on a dignified ending? War without nobility soon becomes tiresome. We shall hope that by spring some disenchanted German will shoot Hitler, and everything will get back to normal.”
“You are looking at me strangely,” Richard Lewinski said as he tapped the top of his soft-boiled egg with a spoon.
Andre glared at him across the breakfast table. “You are tapping Morse code on your egg, Richard. You said, Donnez-moi du sel.”
“That is correct. So? Pass the salt.”
Andre did so with some irritation, then returned his attention to the newspaper.
The tapping continued, this time against the egg cup: Thank you and good morning.
Andre lowered the paper and narrowed his eyes as Richard continued.
Why are you cross?
“I will tell you why, Richard. Because it has been a long and difficult week. My superiors at Vignolle think you are a lunatic up to no good. Therefore they think I am a lunatic for continuing my support of you. You tell me virtually nothing about what you are doing in my basement all day. Therefore I have nothing to tell them.”
Lewinski smiled and raised his spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Tell them . . . I am building an organ. I intend to put a Nazi monkey on a chain and become an organ grinder in Geneva.”
“You are mad.”
“Yes—” Lewinski nodded— “but there is method in it.” He leaned his elbow against the table and gazed intently at Andre. “Tell them . . .” He smiled. “Tell them this is all a child’s game.”
“Deciphering enemy codes is no game for children, Richard.”
“But it is.” He blotted his mouth and smoothed his napkin out on the table. “Remember when we were children? Remember the code?”
“No.”
“Yes, Andre! You must. We made up a list. Every letter in the alphabet was substituted for another letter.” He began to write on the napkin:
H=T, E=Q, L=Y, and P=N. HELP=TQYN
“Yes. A child’s game. I will give you that. We have an entire team working to decipher the German substitution codes.”
“Too simple. E is the most common letter. One progresses from there. We learned that from Sherlock Holmes. Remember, Andre? The Adventure of the Dancing Men.”
Andre had lost his appetite. There was nothing in this that he did not know. “Richard, the problem is that we are deciphering German codes too late. It takes months. They change their ciphers every day.”
“Exactly. Enter Enigma. The original commercially marketed machine has three wheels, each of which contains connections for twenty-six letters of the alphabet.”
Andre nodded, hoping there was some point to Lewinski’s lecture. “This we know was sold on the open market as a business encoding device just after the last war.”
“The machine is no secret. When the operator types the letter A, the setting of the first wheel might change it to the letter R. The second changes the R to a Y, and the third changes the Y to an H. Which is the first letter of the word HELP.”
“Richard, Intelligence is aware of the problem. What is the solution?”
“Someone who knows how to set the wheels could read the message running the H back through the machine to the letter A, to decipher it.”
Andre stared glumly at the word HELP on the napkin. “Changing one of the wheels changes the outcome by possible millions of combinations. And the Nazis alter the setting each day.”
Lewinski added cheerfully, “It is much worse than that, Andre. Since the Nazis have added two additional interchangeable wheels to their Enigma machines, there are now billions of possible combinations.”
Andre nodded. That meant the code was virtually impossible to break by any human.
“You see why the Nazis are not afraid to send thousands of these machines up to the front lines of battle?” Lewinski continued. “Why, they are on every ship and every command car. They are supremely confident that all your work is too little, too late. And it is. Your cipher experts are ants in combat with a bull elephant.”
Andre’s brow furrowed as the implications became clear. Accurately coding and decoding messages depended on three things: using the right three wheels, putting them in the Enigma machine in the correct order, and setting all three wheels to the correct starting position.
“Is this what I am to report to Bertrand at Vignolle? That Lewinski says it is hopeless?”
“Indeed not, Andre. What is needed is another machine that can duplicate and electronically interpret the impulses of the Enigma transmissions.”
“And where is this miracle?”
“In your basement.” Lewinski picked at the shell of his egg as though they had merely been chatting about the weather.
“Richard . . . is it possible?”
“A child’s game. Multiplied a million times. But still, a child’s game.”
“When will it be ready?”
“When it is finished.” Lewinski salted his breakfast, and the conversation ended.
14
Affairs of the Heart
Cold weather hit Northern France with a fierceness that sent all brave soldiers on both sides of the Maginot Line burrowing into their bunkers. Apart from the daily ritual of artillery rounds, the war was very slow indeed.
There were no wounded soldiers in the Casualty Clearing Station at the Ecole de Cavalerie. There were, however, about a hundred patients with either bronchitis or pneumonia. The entire wing reeked of linseed and antiphlogistine poultices and camphor steam inhalations that clung to the clothes and skin of the nurses.
Including Sister Abigail Mitchell.
As was his custom, Paul strolled through the stables after dinner, not so much to check the horses as because he found comfort in the warm, earthy scents of horseflesh and the quiet of the place during the study hour.
This evening he was troubled by what had passed between him and Andre in Paris. Paul felt he was right about Andre’s treatment of Elaine Snow. Andre had let their grandfather keep him from marrying the woman he loved—the mother of his child. And now it was too late—Elaine was dead. Andre had, indeed, sold a piece of his soul, Paul had told his brother. But perhaps he had spoken too frankly. It was a fault of his—speaking too frankly. The same fault had put him into disfavor with General Gamelin when he had argued on behalf of de Gaulle’s military strategy.
So here he was—acting headmaster of a cavalry school and likely to stay until the war was over one way or the other. He stroked the soft nose of a broodmare and felt sorry for himself.
Suddenly the aroma of camphor assaulted his nose. He turned too late to escape the smiling greeting of Sister Mitchell. She was quite pretty, even though she was an Amazon personality type, Paul thought.
“Bonjour, Captain Chardon!”
>
This meant “good day,” and it was evening. Her French, as always, was very bad. Paul decided to speak English, a language he managed masterfully.
“Good evening, Sister.”
“You speak English very well.”
“My mother was English,” he explained.
An expression of surprise crossed her face and then unusual warmth, as if he was forgiven for whatever it was he had done. “I thought there was something different about you.” She pulled her coat tighter around herself and leaned against the stall door.
“Different?”
“Polite. Like an Englishman. A gentleman. Not like the rest of the . . .” She faltered. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. . . .”
“What did you mean?”
“The very thing I came to discuss with you. It seems that one of your officers has been seeing one of my younger nurses.”
“Yes?” Paul cast through his mind for the right match. Probably Jules Sully, the chemistry instructor, and that cute little thing from Jersey. The Channel Island women were beauties and spoke decent French as well.
“It is that chemistry teacher and Miss Bremmer from Jersey.”
He nodded. “A very pretty couple.”
“No! I forbid it! He actually wishes to marry her, and it simply cannot . . . we must put a stop to it.”
Paul had heard quite enough. “Mam’zelle, I am only half English. I do not admit it often, and in matters of the heart I am entirely French, I assure you. As was my mother, who, even though she was raised in England, was French to the core. A woman of great passion and understanding in such matters as affairs of the heart. Therefore, do not assume, though you yourself have no understanding of love, that I will allow you to direct heaven in the matter of a man and a woman who wish to be married. I am not so cold as that.”
Her jaw dropped. She blinked at him in amazement. “But you cannot mean it.”
“Mam’zelle . . . Sister . . . whatever. You may direct your CCS. You may scrub your little life away and tend to your camphor poultices, but there is more to life than that. I will grant my permission when the request is made. I would suggest you do the same, lest you reap the disdain of every citizen in Lys and every feeling heart at the Ecole de Cavalerie.”
“Well!”
“Very well, indeed.” He bowed slightly. “It is no wonder you require so much coal to warm yourself. Now if you will excuse me. The smell of camphor has opened my head in ways I had not imagined. I bid you good evening, Mam’zelle Sister Abigail Mitchell.”
When his brother, Paul, arrived in Paris to spend the Christmas holiday, Andre was even more on edge than usual.
The hair of Richard Lewinski gleamed like molten copper beneath the lamp that hung from the ceiling of his basement workshop. Laboring over a mass of wires and gears, he barely looked up as Andre and Paul descended the steep steps.
“Bonjour, Richard,” Andre called. “Paul is back in Paris, my friend.”
“Merry Christmas, Richard,” Paul said cheerfully.
Lewinski replied with a grunt as he continued his work. Sometime later, Andre suspected, his absentminded guest would ask where Paul had been and for how long. Of course, Andre had to admit the possibility that Richard Lewinski had not even noticed Paul’s absence.
“He is no trouble, really,” remarked Andre with a shrug. “Although he is more vacant than in the old days, I think. Not one word of conversation. We played a game of chess two nights ago, and he was winning, too. Suddenly he got up and ran down to the cellar. Odd. I rarely see him eat, but Cook takes him his food, and when she returns later it is gone.” He laughed.
“What is he up to, anyway?” inquired Paul.
Andre avoided the question. “The mad scientist. You know Richard has never been happy unless he is tinkering with something.”
“Something from a Jules Verne novel, I expect. A time machine. Perhaps he will vanish and return with Napoleon at his side.”
“An excellent guess.” Andre clapped his brother on the back as they entered the study. “France could use another Napoleon these days.”
Paul laughed. “Some of our generals are so old that I would swear they knew him personally.”
A porcelain doll dressed in white lace was perched on a bookcase bearing red-leather first editions autographed by the author Jules Verne, and another set signed by Victor Hugo, both of whom had visited the house in former days.
Paul warmed his hands by the fire. “Will you try to see your daughter on this trip to Luxembourg with your pretty American friend?”
“I thought I might take Mother’s doll to give to her. A Christmas gift.”
“Have you thought of bringing her to Paris?”
“I have thought of it.” Paul’s straightforward questioning made Andre uneasy.
“You should keep Lewinski away from the child. He’s apt to frighten her. The way he peers through that gas mask and prowls around at all hours.”
Andre sighed and shook his head. “This is crazy. I doubt that her grandfather will even let me see her. And if he did? How could I manage with the war on?”
“As a gentleman, do you have a choice, Brother? There is really nothing else to be done under the circumstances.”
Andre did not acknowledge the opinion of Paul about his personal affairs. The comment irritated him. What could Paul know about it? Andre fell silent, pretending to busy himself with unopened mail.
At last Paul broke the stillness. “So how is the political side of the war?”
“The British are ecstatic about the destruction of the Graf Spee, the German battleship. Full of self-congratulations, as if the British navy had won the war. Winston Churchill, as First Lord of the Admiralty, is quite the celebrity. We would all be better served if he headed the government of England, I think. Hitler hates him. That’s a good sign.”
“It will not be like the last war,” Paul countered grimly.
Andre nodded in agreement. “I saw Charles de Gaulle last night at a party. Swaggering giant. He is arrogant and outspoken as always, but he’s right. Tanks, he says. Tanks and planes. Mobility. But our generals are from another century, Paul.” He half turned to gaze at his brother, who still wore the uniform of a cavalry officer. “We still have the finest horses in the world.”
Paul bowed slightly. “Horses and French courage will defeat the Boche. My cadets are convinced of it. If only every poilu had the courage of my boys. They are certain the Boche will melt in the face of our bravery.”
“It must have been the opinion of the leaders of our Republic as well. Or why would they have gone to Munich with the English to give Hitler Czechoslovakia and the Skoda Arms Works?” Andre gave a bitter laugh. “I hear the Panzer divisions are now driving Czech-made tanks of French design.”
“But we have our eighty-year-old generals to inspire, do we not? General Petain, the hero of Verdun. He glares down at me from the dining hall of the Ecole de Cavalerie, accusing me of being too modern for a cavalry officer. Petain, good horses, and courage. The Nazis cannot overcome such a combination.”
The brothers fell silent. The fire crackled. Andre looked at the doll on the bookshelf. “The English have evacuated their children from London. I have considered speaking to Juliette’s grandfather about sending her to England. Perhaps it would be best if she came here to Paris.”
“So. She is the reason behind all this talk of war.” Paul laughed. “It is easier for you to consider mass destruction than fatherhood.”
“That’s not it.”
“There are a few months until the offensive will begin. Trust a horse soldier in that. Hitler will wait until the roads dry out. Try to bring her here to be with you until then. She needs someone.”
Andre nodded. “I was thinking that it might be better if she does not become . . . attached.” Running his hand across his face, he muttered, “Should I give her the doll at once? Should I go alone to the house to meet her? Or will it be better to bring a woman with me? Josephine seems fond of children.
”
“How do you know such details about women after so short a time? They are inscrutable to me after months of conversation. You amaze me, Brother.” Paul shook his head in amusement and turned toward the fire.
Just then through the window Andre glimpsed a sleek black limousine as it turned left on Quai d’Anjou, slowed, and pulled to a stop in front of No. 19. “Josephine Marlow is here,” he announced quietly.
“Shall we go?” Paul rocked up on the toes of his boots and added in a tone thick with sarcasm, “Papa?” He tugged at the tunic of his cavalry uniform in a nervous gesture and squinted out the window as Josephine Marlow emerged from the vehicle. “Very nice. I am disappointed in only one thing.”
Andre’s brow furrowed. “Yes? What is that?”
“I should have met her first.”
Old Brezinski perched on the top rail of the stall as the spindly legged colt stooped to probe his mother’s underside in search of supper.
“He is a beauty,” Katrina von Bockman said softly, taking a seat beside the Polish Jew.
“He will be black as a crow’s wing by the time he is a yearling,” Brezinski observed with pleasure. “His father was the same at this age, and look what came of him: Othello, black as night and the most magnificent stallion in Poland.”
“Shot out from under Count Gratz in the battle of Krakow.” Katrina brushed her hair back impatiently. What was the use of talking about what had gone before? It all had vanished now.
“The stallion was bred for battle, Katrina. Perhaps it is not wrong that he should have ended his life in such a way.”
“A waste.”
“So it always seems, except that courage in battle—of men and horses—is the stuff legends are made from.”
“Legends,” she scoffed. “We would be better off to have Othello standing at stud right now, passing on some of his legendary qualities to his offspring.”