THE CYPHER BUREAU

Chapter 1

BROMBERG, 1913

Halten Sie! Halten Sie!

The voice sharp, high pitched. The words German, but no longer strange. Marian stood motionless. Calculations cartwheeled through his brain. Actions; consequences.

What would happen now? He turned his head slowly. She was striding towards him, her long arms swinging by the contours of her slim body as if she was marching. Her face, usually so serene, was ugly, contorted with anger. The blonde braids twisted around her head like a fallen halo. Her role – angel of justice.

‘What are you doing?’ Her stern gaze focused on Marian, her eyes a brilliant blue but cold – ice cold.

Slowly, he lifted his boot from the splintered remains. Both lenses were cracked; the arms lay spread-eagled on the ground like a squashed daddy-long- legs. Irrefutable evidence of his guilt. Marian turned his large brown eyes towards his teacher. He was about to speak. He knew that the words, once freed from his body, would be German. It just seemed to work like that. He did not know why.

At school, he could be German. He spoke like the German children of the teachers, officials and workers, who flooded into Bromberg, as they insisted upon calling the city of his birth, with their families, ready to instill their vision of civilization on the less fortunate.

Yes, here, in this place, he could be German, but at home, within the walls of his family’s apartment, he knew he was Polish. His family was Polish. Whether at home or school, Marian knew with fierce certainty that the heart that beat within his chest was Polish.

He opened his mouth, but then closed his lips. Stefan was talking already.

‘He has broken my spectacles. He’ll have to get me another pair.’ The boy’s voice was triumphant. He had been wronged and he would have justice.

Marian looked on silently. He knew instinctively that it was better to wait. When the heat had gone from the teacher’s anger, then would be the time. He would speak then. He was a patient boy.

The teacher looked again at the shattered glasses on the ground. She appeared more perplexed than angry now. Her gaze turned to Marian, questioningly, then returned to Stefan who, big for his age, was known to be a bit of a bully.

‘Marian, tell me what happened. I want the truth now.’ Her voice was softer now, coaxing.

‘Stefan pushed me, I pushed him back. Then he swung his arm, as if he was going to punch me.’ Marian accompanied his words with actions and as he stretched his arm back to demonstrate Stefan’s movements, his fist clenched tight. ‘So, I leapt towards him, grabbed his glasses, threw them to the ground and stamped on them as hard as I could.’ There was pride and defiance in his voice. He was not sorry.

The teacher looked troubled. Stefan was still pointing at Marian. ‘He broke my spectacles. My parents will be very angry. He must buy me a new pair.’ His voice had taken on a more anxious tone. Spectacles were not cheap. ‘He broke them. He meant to. He’s admitted it.’

The teacher looked uncertain. Marian never caused trouble. He was quiet, timid even and studious. Only that morning he had excelled in the math’s test. Even at his young age it was clear, circumstances permitting, that university beckoned.

‘Is this true, Stefan? Did you push him first?’

Silence. Stefan did not answer. His eyes sidled away as she looked at him. She turned to Marian again. His gaze was direct. Open. His little face indignant. It was clear he had spoken the truth.

‘I will discuss this matter with both your parents. Now get back to the classroom.’

Matylda carefully laid out the cutlery on the long family dining table. She glanced at Marian playing happily with his wooden trains. He was completely engrossed in his game. Oblivious to the melee of family life surrounding him and the ominous world outside.

A world which seemed to press more insistently each day against the protective walls of their apartment.

Fondly she remembered the day when she and Jozef had moved into their home. She had been so proud. The well-appointed apartment in a salubrious area. A dream for any young couple. She had felt assured, that day, that their lives would follow a predictable, respectable and secure path.

It was becoming increasing evident, however, that their wealth would not protect them. She shook herself. She mustn’t think about it. She was determined to preserve their home life for as long as possible. She would do everything within her power to protect her family.

She looked sadly at the distinctive uniform of Marian’s school. She had objected when Jozef had instructed the boy should be sent to a German-speaking school. It had seemed so inherently wrong somehow. Like giving in.

She would have preferred that Marian learned his lessons in Polish, at home – in secret – as did most of their friends’ children. ‘We must preserve our identity. Our heritage. We cannot forget we are Polish,’ she had argued.

Jozef had insisted. ‘We are Poles first, but for the moment we are subjects of the German Empire. The boy must make his own choices when he is old enough. In the meantime, we must do all that we can to enable him to survive as best he can in this uncertain world.’

Listening to Marian when he spoke German, fluently now, Matylda had to admit Jozef had been right. Marian did not speak German with the accent she and Jozef possessed; the marker that they were considered inferior.

Marian would be well equipped to thrive in the German Empire if that was how things turned out. She shuddered.

‘Come on Marian, put your toys away now.’

She watched proudly as her son put the trains immediately into the cigar boxes, he used to store them. ‘Rejewski Cigars’ was neatly printed in bold black ink on the side of the wooden storage boxes. Their name. Her husband’s business.

She smiled at Jozef. He was as handsome as the day she married him. He, oblivious to her presence, was engrossed in completing the newspaper crossword: holding his silver fountain pen in his right hand, poised to write, hesitating and then occasionally tapping his chin with the pen, deep in thought.

Jozef was still dressed in his work clothes. That is to say, his suit trousers and white shirt. The jacket was already hanging in the wardrobe in their bedroom, ready for the next day, and his hat was perched on the stand in the hall, waiting for tomorrow. He had always been particular about how he dressed.

‘I have to set an example to the staff,’ he would say, with a serious expression, if Matylda teased him about his meticulous appearance.

She was glad he looked distinguished. She took particular care to starch his shirt collars and to ensure his shirts gleamed white. Jozef was tall; his hair was slightly greying now, but Matylda thought that enhanced his appearance. He was a little heavier than when they had been courting, but then so was she, she thought, smoothing her long skirt down over her hips. It was tighter than it used to be.

Marian had started playing with the abacus. He glanced at his father, as if for approval. Jozef was too occupied with his crossword to notice and Matylda watched contentedly as his brow furrowed while he seemed to struggle with a clue. Eventually, he tossed the newspaper down on the table in frustration, his vexation all too evident on his face.

Matylda picked up the paper, laughing at her husband’s annoyance. Glancing at the last clue remaining, she read it out.

‘Grandeur 1712, nine letters.’

‘Frederick,’ Marian’s voice replied.

Matylda stared at the paper. She looked in astonishment at Jozef.

‘It seems to fit.’

Jozef rose, pulling the newspaper from her hands. They both looked at their son who, uninterested in their reaction, was occupied with the abacus, rattling beads with furious interest from one configuration to another.

Joseph studied the crossword and then his son. ‘He’s right, you know,’ he said, looking to his wife. ‘He’s right.’ Jozef reached forward, patting Marian affectionately on the back. ‘Well done, son.’ Matylda beamed with pride. He was clever her son. It was something she had always known. Questions; questions from the moment he could talk. And the answer to one question usually provoked another.

Mytylda looked at her reflection as she passed the mirror on the way to the kitchen. A few hairs strayed loose from the bun she used to keep her hairstyle in place. She looked good for her age. They made a handsome couple even now, when they strolled on the banks of the Brda river on a Sunday afternoon. Her apron was as white as her husband’s shirts. She shook her head as she wiped a mote of flour from her right cheek. She must have rubbed her face when she was mixing the Placki Kartoflane she was preparing for their evening meal. Flour on her face, not the apron. Typical.

She returned to the kitchen and finished mixing the grated potato and onion, egg, flour, garlic and pepper. She formed them into pancakes then dropped them onto the hot plate on the range to cook. The delicious smell of garlic and onion permeated through to the lounge.

Marian, like a chicken to corn, soon arrived. ‘What are you cooking, Mama? I’m hungry.’

She winked. ‘Your favorite, can’t you tell?’ Marian grinned widely. ‘How was school today?’ she asked.

Marian appeared not to hear the question, so intent was he on investigating the contents of the bowl she had used to make the pancakes.

‘How was school today?’

‘Mama, I’ve something to tell you.’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘You won’t be cross?’

‘I might well be, but I shall be angry now if you don’t tell me what has happened. You’d better just get it over with.’

‘I got in trouble today. The teacher might want to speak to you and Papa.’

‘I think you’d better tell me, and quickly.’ She was impatient now.

‘I broke a boy’s glasses. The teacher said you would have to buy him a new pair.’

‘What do you mean? Broke a boy’s glasses? It was an accident, I imagine.’

‘No, Mama. I meant to smash them to pieces.’

‘You did it deliberately?’ Her voice was inquiring more than angry. She knew her son. That was not how he behaved. Not how he had been brought up.

Jozef’s ears had pricked up. This, it seemed, was enough to detach him from the newspaper which, so often, seemed to serve as a convenient curtain from domestic life.

‘That doesn’t sound like you, Marian, what happened?’ Jozef’s voice was stern.

The explanation came in a gush as once Marian began his confession, he seemed unable to stop, even to take a breath.

‘Well, Stefan pushed me outside the classroom. Really hard, so I shoved him back. Then he did it again. He used so much force, I nearly fell over. He laughed at me. He said I was teacher’s pet.

‘He made fun of me for getting all the answers right in the maths test. Called me a little swot. He was about to punch me. So, I grabbed his glasses and threw them on the ground. I stamped on them as hard as I could. The teacher was very angry. She made us both stand in the corner. Different corners of the classroom, all afternoon.

‘I told the teacher I only broke the spectacles to stop Stefan hitting me. He was attacking me. I had to stop him. If he had left me alone, nothing would have happened.’

‘Oh Marian, you really shouldn’t have broken the spectacles.’ Matylda tried to hide a smile. She looked at Jozef to see whether he shared her view of their son’s behavior.

‘I wouldn’t have done anything if he had left me alone,’ Marian responded indignantly.

‘Jozef, what do you think?’

‘Don’t fuss, Matylda. The boy was quite right. Good for you, Marian. We’ll leave it in the hands of the school for the moment. If anyone approaches me to pay for Stefan’s spectacles, I will have something to say about it, you can be sure of that.’

Marian looked relieved.

‘Well, let’s hope that’s the end of it. If the school were taking it further, I imagine they would have sent a note home with you.’

Matylda looked inquiringly at her son. ‘You don’t have one, do you?’

Marian grinned as he shook his head. Matylda could tell things had gone much better than he had expected so far as the spectacles were concerned. She looked round the drawing room, wiping her lightly floured hands on a small navy-blue-and-white-patterned tea towel. Supper would be ready shortly. She had placed the Placki Kartoflane in the oven to make them extra crisp.

Tonight, she was going to serve them with a mushroom sauce and afterwards, the children would have a sugared ones as a treat.

Marian had returned to the abacus, the soft tap of the instrument the only noise interrupting the idyllic scene of domesticity. That and the occasional crackle from the fire as its flames licked round the logs she had placed there. The shadows dancing around the room in tune to the movement of the firelight seemed so safe, welcoming. On evenings like this, she could almost forget the darkness that gathered outside.

Matylda shivered. How long could she preserve this idyllic life?

It seemed harder each day to dismiss worries about the future. Much as she tried not to think about the war everyone said was coming, it was impossible. She forced herself to concentrate on her daily tasks –that was the only way to keep her sanity. She had to keep everything the same. She had to. It was the only thing she could do to protect her children.

She glanced out of the window of their apartment. The view over the street below was the same as every other evening, except tonight it was raining heavily.

There were few people to be seen. Two businessmen in long dark overcoats walked side by side across the pedestrian area. One man clutched the collar of his coat in an effort to keep the weather at bay. The other carried a tan leather briefcase. Their bodies were bent forward, struggling to hold their black umbrellas as a defensive shield against the wind and rain. On the other side of the street, a woman in a long purple coat sheltered in a doorway. Her shopping bag looked sodden. Matylda thought with sympathy that the woman would be deciding whether it was better to make a run for her home or wait out the deluge.

A car made its way slowly along the road, its windscreen wipers barely able to keep the screen free of water, such was the force of the downpour. A horse and carriage battled against the forces of nature, its unfortunate coachman brutally exposed to the elements. The street-lamps cast dappled yellow light over the puddles forming on the pavement and a small stream flowed along the edge of the road before disappearing into the gutters.

Matylda could see into some of the apartments: other families, like hers, sitting down to their evening meal. Here, in their home, she felt safe. But she knew the moment she stepped outside tomorrow, the knot of fear clenched around her stomach would tighten.

Outside, she could feel the pressure mounting day by day. Like storm clouds: dark, grey and oppressive, growing larger, steadily, moving closer. Slowly but surely covering the sky, swallowing the sun and stealing the light. Each day there were more Germans in the city. Each day the Germans seemed to speak louder, emphasizing their presence. A message of their confidence. Their superiority. Their certainty that their supremacy would soon be recognized on a global scale.

On Grodzka Street, the buildings designed by German architects and constructed by German engineers and workmen, grew taller each day.

The city was theirs now, they proclaimed silently. The city was part of Germany now.

Incorporated into the German Empire in 1871, Bromberg had rapidly become populated almost entirely by Germans. Slowly over the years, the Polish population had slipped away under cover of darkness like phantoms in the night. Matylda clung to her belief that the soul of the city would always be Polish. Bydgoszcz, she called it, as did all Poles who dreamed that the soul of their city would one day be free.

Matylda knew that one day – soon – there would be a tap at their front door, and she would have to answer it. When that day came and she opened the door, it would allow a raging presence into their existence. Something that would change their lives forever. It would be like a vicious river in spate; uncontrollable and uncaring, it would sweep into their apartment and destroy everything they owned. It would not care that she had spent many happy hours embroidering the antimacassars that draped over her and Jozef’s armchairs. Or that she polished the brass fender around the fire every Friday. Or that the starched white apron embroidered with roses in the chest in her bedroom had been Jozef’s wedding gift to her. Or that the fire dogs had been her grandmother’s. Or that the photographs in the silver frames on the mantelpiece were of her and Jozef’s parents.

What would happen to her children then? What would become of her family? She shivered again, although the room was warm. She remembered her promise to herself: she would maintain the normality of their family life for as long as possible. She put a smile on her face. ‘Supper is ready. Come and sit down. Now,’ she called cheerfully.

Chapter 2

KONIGLICHES GYMNASIUM OF BYDGOSZCZ (FORMERLY BROMBERG), 1923

Marian looked fondly at the imposing three-story building. Lit by bright sunshine, its square, utilitarian dimensions now seemed welcoming.

So different from his early forbidding memories of the school, when he had first entered through its ostentatious gates as a young child, holding his mother’s hand. Through the tall windows which ran the length of the building, he could observe individual classrooms of students.

Marian smiled as he watched the pupils, neatly ordered in rows, each and every one intent upon their lessons. Not one curious eye met his as he wandered from one classroom to another. Every child, without exception, was either listening attentively to their black-gowned teacher or scratching intently on their chalkboards. Discipline was a strict hallmark of the school. That coupled with its insistence upon excellence had produced an educational establishment with an enviable reputation.

A brightly polished brass plaque on the left pillar of the entrance gate marked the school’s name: Konigliches Gymnasium. It amused Marian to think that when the plaque had been proudly unveiled, the school had opened as an elite establishment in Bromberg, one of the satellite cities of the German Empire.

The school had been part of the program to integrate the fractions of the empire. A facility to provide teaching in German to the indigenous Polish population. A gentle way to Germanize the conquered masses.

He had entered the establishment as Marian Adam Rejewski, a child subject to the rule of the German Empire. He would leave as a Polish citizen, preparing to take his place as an adult in a newly independent Poland. A vibrant new country, fresh with ideas and vision.

He had grown to medium height and his hair had become an unruly brown mass of curls. His round-rimmed spectacles gave him a studious and serious appearance, although this was not always a true reflection of his character. His eyes were as open and sincere as they had been as a child. It seemed remarkable that the plaque on the school gates in no way reflected the transformation of fortunes. It had remained constant, whilst all around the world had changed.

A bell clanged and a medley of pupils in uniform, carrying bags and books, quickly formed around the steps leading up to the main entrance. As a second bell sounded, the pupils began to make their way towards their respective classes. Marian joined a group heading away from the main block of the academy. Their classroom was situated in a secondary building to the side.

Marian was dressed like the other students: grey trousers and a blazer, white shirt and a school tie. It was the last time he would wear the uniform, he thought with excitement, edged with a tiny sliver of sadness. He could sense his classmates were charged with a suppressed energy. Like Marian, there was an edge to their banter, because tomorrow everything would change. They, like their country, were each about to embark on a new adventure. Everything was fresh and new and exciting.

As they entered their classroom, it, like the others in the building, was infused with shafts of light from the tall windows. The visionary architect who had designed the building had clearly equated light with learning. The room contained twenty individual wooden desks in neat rows, each with their own chairs and inkwells. The floorboards were highly polished and there was a faint smell of fresh wax. It looked like the other classrooms in the school, but already Marian was viewing it with nostalgic eyes.

The mathematics professor was already seated at his expansive oak desk at the front of the classroom. His black gown enveloped his small frame and he reminded Marian of an owl studying its prey. He appeared intent on marking a pile of papers, but at the faintest sound his head swiveled to ascertain who dared to interrupt his work. It was the manner in which he had managed the class.

Each pupil had known that the professor possessed an unfailing ability to swoop with deadly precision on anyone who disrupted the classroom or who did not adhere to the strict disciplinary regime in operation. It had been a system which had allowed learning to flower.

At the sound of a further bell, the professor stood and approached the blackboard. The meticulous order and discipline of the class routine was not altered even on this, their final day.

The teacher seemed intent upon instilling in the class every particle of knowledge possible in the time allocated. He spoke as if he did not wish the lesson to end. As if his words would prevent the clang of the final bell. Marian studied the equations on the blackboard, reflecting that it was in that very classroom he had begun to develop his passion for mathematics. More importantly, Marian realized he had been instilled with the wonder of learning. Finally, the professor was interrupted mid-flow by the sound of another distant bell. As if one organism, the young men began a disciplined file out of the classroom.

‘Good luck to you all,’ the professor muttered gruffly, barely looking up from his desk. Marian, usually so shy, held back. He wanted to say something, even if it was only goodbye. He wondered what syllables could possibly convey his gratitude to this modest teacher who had managed, with his soft voice and strict discipline, to open a whole universe in Marian’s mind.

Instinctively, as if recognizing Marian’s need in some way to acknowledge the impact that had been effected upon his life in that very room, the teacher nodded to Marian and gestured to the chair at the end of the desk.

‘Rejewski, I need to speak to you for a few moments... Please sit down.’ His classmates continued filing out of the classroom. One or two of them watched Marian briefly, raising their eyebrows with curiosity,