Between Silk and Cyanide

by Leo Marks

  When I staggered back to the code room expecting to be greeted with titters, the girls ignored me altogether.

  They were far too busy trying to break an indecipherable.

  The pig-sticking doctor must have been better than I thought, because a third of the way through the report I understood what I was writing. It was finished on the 29th and typed on the 30th by the bespectacled lady. Despite my conscientious attempts to cut it (if an author’s ever are), it was thirty-five pages long.

  It contained a list of security precautions which should be introduced immediately and cited twenty examples of traffic which must be considered blown if the enemy cryptographers’ commitments allowed them to attack it. The case for adopting WOKs and LOPs took up most of the space.

  I’d made no attempt to criticise the coders or the Signals Office staff as I’d misassessed their lassitude, and what I’d diagnosed as ‘gippy head’ was really ‘gippy tummy’. I’d also failed to understand the complexity of Cairo’s traffic.

  Keble’s secretary instructed me to submit the report to him the following morning.

  He was alone and offered me a lunchtime drink, which was a bit early for me, so I imagined I was Father.

  The atmosphere changed when he saw the length of the report. Weighing it in his hand, he said he’d hoped to discuss it with me before I left Cairo, but there was little chance he could read ‘a damn encyclopaedia’ before the 3rd. However, he’d do his best.

  I thanked him for his drink and stood up to go, but he called me back. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’ He pointed at my solar topi, which always seemed to magnetise him. ‘What are you hiding in that damn thing? A miniature recording machine?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My head.’

  He seemed about to crown it with the ‘damn encyclopaedia’ but changed his mind at the last moment.

  He was reading the report as I left.

  Late that night I was pacing up and down a deserted lounge in Shepheard’s, wondering whether I’d said too much in my report or not enough, when someone fell into step behind me, and an unmistakable voice asked a question which was seldom addressed to me. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  It was the world-famous American who’d witnessed my striptease.

  Without waiting for an answer, he kept pace with me for the next few miles. He then expressed concern for the carpet and invited me to join him in a drink. Knowing his reputation for meanness, I checked that I had enough cash on me to pay for it and sat down beside him, wishing I could tell him that amongst his many admirers in London was one called Yeo-Thomas.

  A group of American officers waved to him from the doorway and he waved back at them without inviting them to join us. They gave me the kind of look which said, ‘What the hell’s he doing with that little pisspot?’

  It puzzled me too until I remembered he had a reputation for enjoying the company of oddballs.

  By the time we were sharing a bottle of what was possibly wine he was calling me Leo, but I insisted on addressing him by his surname (with a Mr attached), partly because I respected his talent but mainly because his surname was Mother’s pet name for Father. He’d probably charge her if he knew.

  He elicited that I’d flown in from London, and I was certain he realised that I might expose a long list of things to him but not why I’d come to Cairo. He also elicited that my father had a bookshop called Marks & Co. in Charing Cross Road. ‘I’ve heard about it from Charlie,’ he said. ‘He’s the only friend I have who can read.’

  ‘Charlie who?’

  ‘Chaplin.’ He looked at me apologetically as if he’d been caught boasting. It was one of his most famous expressions.

  The fact that we were both Jews was no help in establishing a relationship between us (contrary to a widespread belief amongst those less fortunate), and as communication was his speciality I waited for him to explain what we had to share apart from a table.

  With the timing that his ‘friend Charlie’ had publicly described as ‘the best in the business’ he told me that he’d be interested to hear from an Englishman what English Jews felt about the war and what their main contribution was to the downfall of Hitler. His was making the troops laugh but I was being offered his serious side.

  I told him that English Jews were well represented in the armed forces, though many of us had branched out in certain other directions. He leaned forward expectantly as I produced two examples of our diversification.

  We’d created the best black market in the whole of Europe, and those of us who were anxious to avoid military service, which I estimated to be not much more than 99 per cent, were responsible for a major scientific discovery. With the help of two Harley Street doctors we’d found a way to deceive our medical examiners by producing sugar in our urine when ordered to pass water. And when we were told to wait two hours in the presence of an orderly and then pass some more, our urine retained its sugar! This ensured a medical certificate which guaranteed exemption from military service.

  Although incredulity was his speciality, his disbelief was genuine, and he said that a small proportion of draft-dodgers could give the rest a bad name. He was sure the majority of Jews realised that this was their chance to fight the greatest anti-Semite of all time.

  I agreed that Jews certainly recognised a chance when they saw one but pointed out that centuries of persecution had given us an atavistic instinct for self-preservation which was never more in evidence than in the First World War, which was also against an anti-Semite known as ‘Kaiser Bill’.

  ‘But you weren’t even born then. Or is the light bad in here?’

  Sensing I had his interest, I told him about my uncle, a distinguished bookseller, who pretended to be deaf to avoid military service. He managed to fool the doctors but was called before a military tribunal for his final examination. While he was busy saying, ‘Eh?’ to whatever he was asked, someone fired a revolver. But he’d been warned about this and didn’t flinch. As he turned to go, someone dropped a coin. He still didn’t flinch. But when he reached the main hall someone quietly said, ‘Got the time on you, guv?’ and he looked at his watch!

  He then ran for his life, chased by two military policemen, and rushed into a nearby delicatessen. Although the owner didn’t know him, he must have been familiar with his plight because he raised the lid of a herring barrel and Uncle jumped in. He hid there for several hours until it was safe to emerge and managed to avoid conscription, but he stank for the rest of the war and on warm nights still did, according to my aunt.

  There was a long silence while he looked at me with his famous deadpan expression. ‘What was that line your uncle fell for? – “Got the time on you, guv?”’

  I confirmed that he was word-perfect.

  He then treated me to a display of mime thousands of his admirers would buy black-market tickets for. Appearing to stand up without moving from his chair, he recreated the entire proceedings for an invisible audience, giving Uncle and the delicatessen-owner lines they’d have been proud of. He was still in the herring barrel when the door of the lounge opened and his wife walked in.

  He introduced me to her as his friend Mr Marks, and she examined me closely. ‘I’m his wife,’ she said. ‘Mind if I ask you something?’

  I could only nod. She was far more attractive at close quarters than when she appeared in public as her husband’s stooge.

  ‘Are you Groucho in disguise? No one else makes him laugh like this!’

  He held his nose as she pulled him from the herring barrel, and I hoped she didn’t take it personally.

  I then witnessed a transformation which I found hard to believe. He began walking like Uncle as she led him away! But I hadn’t told him that he affected a limp or that he leaned on a stick or that his right shoulder was lower than his left, though I’d seen it all in my mind when I’d described his examination.

  I watched him stop suddenly in the middle of the room, though I couldn’t see why, and heard her ask what he thought he w
as doing.

  ‘Pissing sugar.’

  He waved to me over his shoulder and was still laughing as she took him away to perform elsewhere.

  I knew he’d given me an experience which I could dine out on for the rest of my life if anyone would believe it. And if I had anyone to dine out with …

  Thank you, Jack Benny, for giving me a month’s holiday in the hour that we spent together. I shall be ready for Keble if he sends for me tomorrow.

  Thank you for letting me be Groucho, though I’m a Marks without brothers, and for listening with an inner ear when I spoke about Uncle. It may help me with my briefings.

  And thanks for not being ashamed of being proud of your race. I wish I had the courage to be one of the troops you’re here to entertain, but even you can’t work miracles except on the stage.

  Goodnight, Mr Benny. I hope we’ll meet again, though I doubt if I shall know what to do for an encore.*

  And just for the record, the drinks were on him.

  Note

  * I didn’t see him again until a few years after the war, when he was mesmerising the London Palladium with his solo performance. I wanted to go backstage afterwards to say hello, but my forebodings had been right: I didn’t know what to do for an encore.

  FIFTY

  Homecoming

  Brigadier Keble couldn’t find time to discuss my report with me and was unavailable when I called in to say goodbye to him (perhaps he didn’t like breaking down in front of strangers). But as I left, the girls were tackling a batch of indecipherables and presented me with some unsnappable braces, so my visit to Cairo wasn’t a complete waste of time.

  On the night of 3 September I returned to London and went straight to the HQ Signals Office to find out what had happened to Mallaby.

  By 29 August the silks still hadn’t reached him, and he sent his first message in his old poem confirming that he was safely installed in the Quirinale and was ready to start operating his old set, which the Italians had returned to him. Massingham replied giving him his new poem, and he began using it at once.

  On 1 September Corbett reported that Mallaby was having no problems with his set or his skeds and hadn’t sent a single indecipherable. He was allowed to come on the air whenever he wished and was about to start using LMT, a form of double-transposition which he’d learned in Cairo, although every effort was being made to supply him with LOPs.

  Six messages had been exchanged between Marshal Badoglio and Massingham, but they were repeated to London in main-line cipher and it was impossible to get the feel of Mallaby’s coding.

  On 3 September the Italians confirmed that they were ready to sign an unconditional surrender, and Massingham informed General Eisenhower that the negotiations were concluded.

  The Germans seemed unaware of what was happening, but Mallaby’s code was already overloaded, and there was still time for the Germans to break it. If they did, according to Nick they’d occupy Rome and shoot the negotiators.

  Hoping that I hadn’t used up a lifetime’s luck and that there’d be a little left over for Mallaby’s poem, I returned to Park West wearing my solar topi.

  On the morning of the 4th I learned from Heffer that while I’d been ‘on holiday’ an ‘almighty row’ had broken out between SOE and Duke Street. Before he could explain why, CD’s secretary telephoned. I was to report to him at once and take my Cairo report with me.

  Heffer assured me that the row would still be on by the time I got back.

  It was the first time that I had been summoned to the sanctum sanctorum (Latin was compulsory at St Paul’s), and the experience became even more harrowing when I saw that Gubbins was present.

  He introduced me to CD, who looked at me with a twinkle. ‘We know each other pretty well,’ he said.

  I’d hoped he’d forgotten me.

  We’d met when he’d called in on one of his midnight prowls and caught me breaking a message in secret French code which I’d pretended was a Buckmaster indecipherable.

  My other encounters with Sir Charles Hambro had been entirely domestic. We still lived opposite each other in Park West; he still left the curtains undrawn while he took his bath; and he still occasionally watched me as I took my early-morning swings across the rings above the swimming pool fully clothed and ready for Baker Street. ‘I’ve received a message from Brigadier Keble …’ he announced. He picked up a main-line telegram from the desk while I tried to stop my stomach from rumbling.

  ‘He accepts almost everything your report recommended,’ he said. ‘But that’s not all. He wants me to send “a cryptographer of Marks’s calibre to Cairo as quickly as possible”. Congratulations on an excellent job.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Gubbins – words I didn’t think he knew.

  They had a ringside view of my epiglottis. Wary of praise unless I bestowed it on myself, I was bewildered by Keble’s change of heart and by the fact that SOE’s powerhouses had taken the time to congratulate me personally instead of doing it through my guv’nor.

  With an uneasy feeling that all was not quite what it seemed, I took my report from my briefcase. ‘I believe you want a copy of this, sir?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Sir Charles, glancing at the general.

  Not sure which powerhouse I should hand it to, I placed it between them.

  Their enthusiasm waned a little when they saw its size. ‘We shan’t read it now,’ CD said, ‘but we’d like you to sum it up for us.’

  ‘You will also tell us what you didn’t put in,’ barked Gubbins.

  I spent fifteen minutes describing Cairo’s cipher situation, but although they listened attentively I sensed that their interest wasn’t really in codes.

  This feeling was confirmed when they questioned me closely about my impressions of the discipline in general and then encouraged me to describe my meetings with Keble without actually inviting me to criticise a senior officer. But a coward of my calibre wasn’t prepared to engage in sabotage – verbal or otherwise – and I praised the efforts of everyone I’d met.

  CD thanked me with a hint of disappointment, while Gubbins glared at me in silence. He asked his next question without any warning. ‘What do you know about the secret French code?’

  Uncle would have feigned deafness at this pistol shot, but I shuddered at its impact and prayed it wasn’t mortal. ‘I’m not allowed to know anything about it, sir.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked you,’ he snapped.

  I was desperate for a cigar or any other prop. Even a herring barrel would have helped.

  ‘Speak up,’ barked Gubbins. ‘What do you know about it?’

  I replied that I couldn’t help noticing that large numbers of messages in secret French code were indecipherable.

  ‘How do you know they’re indecipherable?’ asked CD.

  ‘Duke Street makes the agents re-encode them, sir, which means they have to stay on the air for longer than necessary and could be de-effed.’ Hoping he didn’t think I was swearing, I explained that direction-finding units were a major hazard.

  So was the speed of Gubbins’s reaction. ‘There haven’t been any indecipherables for at least six months. Any idea why not?’

  The little bastard’s timing was on a par with Jack Benny’s, but it gave me nothing to laugh about. ‘I noticed they’d dropped off, sir – but I didn’t realise there hadn’t been any.’

  ‘I repeat. How do you account for it?’

  ‘Perhaps the briefing has improved, sir.’

  ‘Any other possibilities?’

  ‘Perhaps their coders have woken up, sir.’

  ‘They aren’t the only ones,’ he snapped.

  CD examined me as if I were one of Hambro’s more suspect accounts. ‘You’ve no idea what their code is?’ he finally asked.

  ‘It’s obviously some kind of double-transposition, sir – at least I hope it’s double – but beyond that I know nothing. My Free French opposite number refuses to discuss it.’

  CD glanced at Gubbins with an
unspoken question. The general glared at me, then nodded almost imperceptibly, like God on a Sunday.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know this,’ CD said, ‘but a serious dispute has arisen with Duke Street over two of their messages …’ He then explained that if the contretemps weren’t resolved quickly it could get completely out of hand and that I might be called upon to take ‘certain action’. He hoped it wouldn’t prove necessary but if it were he knew I’d do my best. He added that there was no point in discussing the details now.

  I was certain that Gubbins knew I’d been lying about de Gaulle’s secret code through my cigar-stained teeth, and the only action I wanted to take was a quick visit to the gents.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ said CD, ‘and then we can let you go.’ He picked up Keble’s telegram and looked at me with a hint of his old twinkle. ‘I have to send Cairo a cryptographer of your calibre. Is there anyone you can recommend?’

  ‘There’s Ensign Hornung at Station 53b, sir, and General Gubbins. But Ensign Hornung can’t be spared.’ The remark slipped out before I could stop it, and I hurried to the door before I made matters worse.

  Later that day I learned that they couldn’t be.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Stranglehold

  The Signals directorate was used to handling messages on which many lives depended, but SOE’s involvement with the armistice negotiations caused the code department’s nerves to prick and tingle, and its heart to be sick, to an extent that nothing else had.

  By 3 September the end of Monkey was in sight with no signs of a mishap, which added to the tension.

  On 4 September Massingham informed London that the only issue to be resolved with Badoglio was the formal announcement of Italy’s surrender.

  On 5 September the real nightmare began.

  General Eisenhower sent a message to Badoglio which was transmitted in double-transposition. The message informed him that Allied troops were standing by to occupy Salerno and urged him to time his announcement of the surrender with the news of the invasion so that it would have maximum effect on the Italian armed forces.