How I Became a Spy

by Deborah Hopkinson

  “Well, what I just read reminds me of a diary,” she began. “Violette wanted to keep an account for herself.”

  “And that might mean she didn’t need to use a very complex cipher,” I said. “So she could write fast. And because she didn’t think anyone else would ever read it.”

  David’s eyes brightened. “Hey, nice deduction, Bertie. Worthy of Sherlock. Maybe pinning down the time frame might help us. Eleanor, can you recall exactly when Violette stopped being your tutor?”

  “It was right in the middle of May.” Eleanor turned back a few pages. “Oh, and she writes that her training took eight weeks.”

  “I have an idea. I’ll be right back.” David jumped up and disappeared down the stairs.

  While he was gone, Eleanor buried her head in the notebook. My mind raced with questions. It seemed as if Eleanor’s father might have helped Violette become an agent—or at least take the first step. So why hadn’t Violette contacted him when she returned to London? Did she really not trust him?

  David reappeared, holding a 1943 calendar. “Your friend Miss Mitford was saving this old one to wrap parcels in.” He flipped through the months. “Violette said the moon was full for her parachute drop. So if she started training in mid-May, that brings us all the way through June to mid-July. Let’s see. It says here the full moon was on July seventeenth.”

  “What can we deduce from that?” Eleanor wondered.

  “Well, it might help us guess what coding method she used,” David explained. “Say that Violette arrived in France in July. Depending on how long it took her to escape back to England, she might have lived there until December. Maybe she wrote diary entries once a week, or monthly.”

  “Oh, I see!” Eleanor turned back to the encrypted section of the notebook. As she turned the pages, her lips moved as if she was counting. She looked up. “David, you might be onto something. The gibberish is divided into six separate sections. See, here she’s drawn a line and begun again on a new page. And a little further on, she does the same.”

  “So we can make a hypothesis that she wrote once a month,” I said. “Now what?”

  We were silent for a while. David spoke first. “Do you keep a diary, Eleanor?”

  She nodded. “I write in it at least once or twice a week.”

  “How do you start each entry?”

  “Oh, I always begin with the date,” she replied. “Do you think Violette’s cipher system is based on dates?”

  “It’s worth a try,” David said.

  I opened the notebook to the beginning of the ciphertext. On a blank sheet, I copied the first few lines and held the paper up so we could all see.

  Eleanor picked up her pencil. “Father told me about substitution ciphers. Maybe she shifted her cipher alphabet so it started with the first letter of the month in which she was writing. So if she wrote this in July, the cipher alphabet would begin with J. Then you use the rest of the alphabet in order until you get to Z, and then you start over with A.”

  “That’s called a Caesar cipher,” David said. “Julius Caesar used shifts when he wrote to his generals.” He shook his head. “I don’t think she would’ve started with J for July, though.”

  “Why not?” Eleanor and I asked together.

  “August comes next—and she couldn’t start that entry’s cipher alphabet with A, because then her words wouldn’t be encrypted,” David told us.

  “Good point. I knew there was a reason I invited you,” I teased. “Do you have another idea?”

  “Well, there are lots of different ways to come up with a shift,” David explained. “You can think of a significant number and then shift the alphabet that number of places. Maybe she used a shift of seven, say, since July is the seventh month. Then the first letter of her cipher alphabet would be H.”

  “Let me try that,” I said, looking at the letters again.

  I shook my head. “Well, if H is A, then W is P. That means this string would begin with PJHUA. Not a real word.”

  “Hmm,” said David. “She could have based it on whatever day of the week she happened to be writing her entry, but then it would be totally random to us. We’d be back where we started: making wild guesses.”

  “Let’s keep thinking about a possible system,” I said. “What if she used the number of letters in the month’s name to determine the shift? For instance, July has four letters, so if we shift four places, it’s B, C, D, then E. So E would be the first letter of her cipher alphabet.”

  “Let me try it this time.” Eleanor translated the first letters of the message. She frowned. “No, that doesn’t work either. I get nothing that reads like real words.”

  “I still think her system might have something to do with dates. Maybe Violette devised a more complex Caesar cipher,” David suggested. “She might have added two things together. For example, the shift could be the number of letters in the month’s name plus the number of the month.”

  “I’m not following.” I grimaced. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for July it would be four since the word July has four letters. Then she’d add seven, since it’s the seventh month. So the shift would be—”

  “Eleven. That would mean that the first letter would be…L. I’ll check it,” I offered. But I came to the same dead end. “LFDQ. Still gibberish! No, it’s not that.”

  David sighed. “Maybe we do need to find an expert.”

  “Wait,” cried Eleanor. “I have one more idea.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The agent must not leave about, and, as far as possible, must not carry, incriminating documents, e.g. names, addresses, notes.

  —SOE Manual

  Eleanor scribbled furiously, biting her lip in fierce concentration.

  “Eleanor, tell us,” I begged.

  “Shhh…wait. Just a second. I think this might—oh, I’ve got it!” Eleanor looked up in triumph. “It is a Caesar cipher. But Violette didn’t use the English word for July. She used the French word, juillet, which is seven letters. And then she added seven to that, since it’s the seventh month.”

  “Wow. Good work!” said David.

  “Violette would be so proud of me for using my French.” Eleanor beamed.

  “So the first entry shifts fourteen spaces,” I said. “And that means the alphabet begins with O.”

  I kept working on Violette’s message with the shift of fourteen letters, matching one letter, then the next. “Whew, this takes a while. But I have the first part. Ready?”

  I held up the ciphertext:

  And then my translation:

  “It’s still hard to read without the spaces between the words,” Eleanor said.

  “Let me write it out properly.” In a minute, I had it:

  “Let’s keep going,” said David. “If we put the notebook in the middle and each work on a different paragraph, we’ll get the first entry decoded more quickly.”

  A little while later, we were done. Eleanor took scissors from her case and cut out our finished paragraphs, then taped them in order onto a larger sheet of paper.

  “You really are always prepared, aren’t you?” I teased. “Go on, read it.”

  Eleanor cleared her throat and began.

  I can’t believe I have been here for nearly two weeks now. The moon was so bright the night I landed.

  There is much to write about. But I must give an account of the night I arrived. I thought the drop would be easy. It wasn’t. Things didn’t go as planned. I guess they never do.

  Clouds played hide-and-seek with the big round moon. At least it was clear enough for the pilots to find the field. I jumped. Yet even as I was drifting through the darkness, clouds billowed up above me in great clumps.

  The ground was soft and damp; to my relief, the landing was easy. I leaped to my feet. I was gathering the fol
ds of the parachute when I felt the first raindrops. There was a sudden, fierce shower. Someone was supposed to meet me. I was supposed to listen for a low whistle. The rain and gusty winds made that impossible.

  Once I realized I was alone, I hid behind a tall, thick hedgerow crammed with bushes and rocks. I was too busy to be afraid. I tied some rocks into the parachute, trudged over to one of the ponds, and dropped it in.

  I rubbed my hands together. “Au revoir, parachute!” For some reason, I giggled. I was nervous. Yet it felt good to be home on French soil again.

  It’s funny—I’d worried I might forget my training. But I could almost hear my instructor’s voice in my ears. “Remember, it’s dangerous for the farmers. After all, we’re dropping British agents, explosives for sabotage, and forbidden radio sets on their land,” he’d explained. “If a suspicious German patrol goes snooping around and finds a half-buried parachute, or one that has floated to the surface of a lake, that could mean arrest.”

  Knowing that I could cause trouble for someone else made me extra careful. Once the shower blew over, the moon peeked out again. I scoured the marshy fields for the two bags that had been dropped with me. I finally found them in a bog. What a close call! All my clothes, plus the sewing patterns and order books I needed for a convincing cover story, had almost ended up at the bottom of a pond.

  I was especially relieved since I knew one bag contained a shipment of guns, each layered with thick grease for protection, along with a waterproof canister containing ammunition. These were for members of the Maquis to arm themselves with when taking on sabotage missions at factories, railroad tracks, bridges, or supply warehouses.

  I dragged the bags across the field and hid them in the thick bushes of the hedgerow. I felt exhausted. By now, I was covered in mud. The rain had stopped, but I still saw no sign of anyone else.

  It was almost dawn when I decided it would be safer to bury the bags and take just one small suitcase with me. I took out what I needed and began to dig. Luckily, I’d been provided with a short-handled spade. I couldn’t have done it using rocks or my bare hands.

  Finally I was ready. I had directions to the farmhouse where I’d be staying. The spade presented a dilemma. At first I didn’t want to throw it in the pond. How would I dig up the bags later? Then I reasoned that once I made contact, I’d meet resistance members who had access to tools. So I tossed the spade in the water and washed off my hands.

  I slipped behind the hedgerow, changed my mud-splattered trousers for a simple brown skirt and jacket, and twirled my hair into a neat bun. All the while, I listened for the sound of vehicles.

  The extra money was also worrisome. I stuffed it into my underwear. It would be found if I was caught and searched. But, well, I would have to be caught first. I didn’t intend for that to happen.

  I glanced down at my feet. I’d almost forgotten. Too much mud! I remembered the warning that any small thing could give me away. I took off my shoes, tiptoed back to the pond, rinsed the outsides off well, and put them back on.

  When it was nearly light, I heard a low whistle. My escort had been delayed, but he hadn’t been detected. I showed him where the bags were buried. He assured me the Maquis would fetch them and deliver the rest of my things to me when it was safe.

  What a long night! But I made it.

  My host family is kind. The husband and wife pretend I am Marie, a hardworking girl. They don’t ask questions. It’s safer that way.

  I love being able to speak French again. And I’m ready to start my new life as a pattern saleswoman. But I can’t forget my true purpose.

  I’m here for the cause of freedom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Never relax your precautions, and never fool yourself by thinking that the enemy are asleep. They may be watching you all the time.

  —SOE Manual

  That evening, I opened the door to Trenchard House. The first thing I heard was a squeal. Then a horrible thud. Next came a sharp yelp, and a man’s low, angry mutter. “Serves you right. You’re a darn nuisance.”

  The door slammed behind me. I bolted down the corridor. At the reception desk, I stopped in my tracks. “Jimmy?” I stared, my mouth open. “Did…did you just kick my dog?”

  “Calm down, Bertie. I barely touched her with my boot. She got out of your flat,” he replied, putting his hands up as if to hold me off. “There’s a reason they killed dogs when the war started, you know. There isn’t enough food for them. You should be home after school to take care of your dog, not out gallivanting with your girlfriend until dark.”

  “I wasn’t!” I cried, bending down to gather the furry bundle in my arms. LR whined and pushed her muzzle into my neck. I could feel her shaking all over and I tightened my grip.

  “Well, she’s been after my biscuits, and I’ve got work to do. So take her away, will you?”

  I opened my mouth to say more, but no words came out.

  “Go on, Bertie. Don’t just stand there.”

  I backed away and I could feel my face turning red. I wasn’t strong enough to stand up for my dog.

  The flat was still and cold. I tiptoed into the kitchen and put LR down gently. I felt hungry and tired. I hung up my old jacket and dropped my knapsack to the floor with a clunk. My bag was heavy. In addition to my helmet, I had my history book. I wasn’t sure I could keep my eyes open long enough to concentrate. I sighed. I wasn’t looking forward to more of Mr. Turner’s questions.

  “I’m sorry, girl. That wouldn’t have happened if we’d been in our old house,” I whispered. “I hate this place, LR. It’s not home. We shouldn’t be living here.”

  But we were.

  Dad had left me a plate of cold macaroni and cheese, and a note in scratchy handwriting. He had a double shift starting early in the morning, so he’d turned in already. There was a P.S.: Bertie, glad to see you remembered your helmet. Dad was trying. We were both trying.

  Most likely, Dad had taken LR out to the courtyard before turning in. He’d probably forgotten to close the flat door firmly when they came back in. It was no surprise that Little Roo had wandered out to the reception desk. The smell of food—even the crackling of a biscuit wrapper—could set her off. She’d recently figured out that the whistle of a teakettle went along with a meal. Or at least a bite of toast for her.

  I grabbed a small saucer and put half of my macaroni and cheese into it. “Here you go, LR. I’m sorry you got so hungry, little one.”

  I picked up my fork and stabbed a piece of macaroni. I pushed it around and around on my plate, trying to make a bit of cold cheese stick to it. A clock on the wall ticked into the silence. In our old kitchen, it had never been quiet enough to hear a clock.

  I could still see it in my mind, like a painting or even a movie with sound and action. In the summer, an old jar filled with daisies sat on the table. Mum would be taking scones out of the oven. I could almost taste them. They dripped with sweet cream butter and homemade red raspberry jam from our grandmother’s bushes in the country.

  “I’d better put some aside for your father or you two will devour them all,” Mum would tell Will and me, laughing.

  * * *

  —

  I had a hard time going to sleep. I kept thinking about something Violette had written in her notebook: The agent is surrounded by enemies, seen and unseen.

  I’d never seriously imagined Jimmy as an enemy before. I mean, I knew Jeffrey didn’t like him. He’d seemed to sense something dark lurking behind Jimmy’s cheery exterior. And if he had kicked her before, that would explain why LR shied away from him.

  But could it be more than that? Both George and Jimmy had been there on Friday night when Violette had disappeared. Could Jimmy somehow be involved in this mystery?

  Jimmy had gotten to Mill Street just before Warden Hawk and I had. But I’d never asked: Had the two constables
come together from Trenchard House? Was it possible that one of them—or both—had already been lurking near Mill Street?

  Violette had told Eleanor she had a boyfriend named Jay. What if Jay wasn’t the name Jay, but simply the letter J, short for James or Jimmy? Jimmy Wilson.

  Sinking down, I pulled the covers over my head and tried to make my mind stop spinning. Jimmy might not be the nice person I’d thought he was. And George might be bitter about what had happened to him. That didn’t make either of them German agents.

  I’d always let my imagination run wild. When I was little, I’d even thought Sherlock Holmes was a real, living person, not just a character in fiction.

  I looked over at the empty bed. I’d always relied on Will to show me the way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The introduction of an agreed name, word or phrase into the text…will give the pre-arranged message. e.g. The name “John” might mean—“I am going into hiding immediately.”

  —SOE Manual

  WEDNESDAY

  I stopped home after school to fetch LR. I didn’t want to take the chance she’d get out again, like last night. David went straight to the command post to meet Eleanor. I wondered what story she would spin to explain his presence to the wardens. I didn’t put it past her to claim I needed help from both of them.

  “Sorry to be late. My dad has a double shift today,” I explained, opening the door of the meeting room. “I didn’t want to leave LR alone for that long.”

  “Oh, you brought her. Hello, Little Roo!” Eleanor exclaimed, leaping out of her chair. LR spun in circles, jumped up to lick Eleanor’s face, and then made a beeline for Eleanor’s knapsack.