Memoirs From the Grey Tower

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Outside the corridor’s glass windows, the night had already turned deep and dark. The orange glow of gas lamps lit the streets, while the building housing the Cabinet War Rooms remained brightly illuminated. In this suffocating war, people moved hurriedly back and forth, clutching their document cases like cogs in a machine.

C pushed open the office door for me. “I’ll have a car take you home.”

I was about to agree when I suddenly heard someone behind me say, "There’s no need—I’ll take Alan home."

I turned around and saw Andemund. He stood leaning against the corridor wall with his arms crossed, as though he’d been waiting for a long time. His black formal suit contrasted with the faded, yellowed wallpaper, casting an elegant pall over his pale complexion.

"I just got back from the Parliament Hall and happened to pass by," he said with a light smile, looking completely at ease. "Alan, you go ahead—Peter’s waiting for you in the car. I need to have a word with C."

I had no idea what he and C talked about; I only knew their conversation lasted a long time. The Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked at the base of the white building’s steps. It was much later when Andemund finally emerged from the hall, and the guards on both sides saluted him.

After the conversation ended, he seemed utterly exhausted. The Rolls-Royce Ghost glided silently through the quiet streets. It was only after a long drive that he finally spoke to me: "Alan, I’ve told you before, you can’t fully trust C."

“I know,” I said, then asked, “What did you just discuss with him?”

“We simply reached an agreement, Alan.”

“About what?” I asked.

Andemund turned his head to look at me, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. “About you.”

I reached out to hook my finger under his chin. “Baby, give me a kiss.”

Peter made a sharp turn, his face expressionless, and I missed my mark.

Clinging to the back of the front seat, I teased, “Kiss me, and I promise the decryption rate for Number One Office will double.”

Andemund shook his head. “Alan, you look terrible.”

He had Peter pull the car over in front of a bar. It was a bar adorned with old photos of London, and to this day, I still remember the bitter taste of the stout there. I couldn’t recall how many pints of beer I ordered; I just drank them, one after another, until closing time, when the bartender rang the bell at the counter and called out, “Last order.”

Andemund didn’t stop me from drinking, nor did he drink himself.

He simply sat beside me, watching.

When we entered, the bar was empty. He might have abused his authority again, as no new patrons came in after we arrived.

I repeated to Andemund what C had said to me.

When I mentioned how my mother had worked for Berlin in her final days, he stood up and gently wrapped his arms around my waist from behind.

These were stories he likely knew long before I did.

He didn’t speak, nor did he comfort me. He simply held me tightly, for a long time.

Oh, my Andemund.

The next morning, Raphael stormed in with a dark expression. “Alan, what’s that pile of stuff on my desk?”

“Documents on the Enigma decryption machine. It’s the progress Andemund and I are working on.”

“Why is it on my desk?!”

“Because starting today, you’re being transferred to Number One Office to head the decryption machine’s development. Prime Minister Churchill has ordered us to have it completed by the end of June. Andemund doesn’t have the time, so it’s down to you and me.”

“I told you, I’m of Jewish descent.”

I smiled and patted his shoulder. “I’m the head of Number One Office now.”

"Alan, what are you doing?"

"Before you finish building the decryption machine, I promise that Number One Office will match the decryption speed of the machine."

Raphael took a step back. "Alan, you’re insane! That’s impossible!"

Raphael was right—it was impossible. The manual decryption speed at Number One Office was only a few dozen coded messages per day, while the goal for the decryption machine was to crack over three hundred daily. And even that was only a fraction of the thousands of intercepted messages we had in hand.

During the day, I worked on decoding messages, and at night, I went to Office No. 7 to study the decryption machine with Raphael.

Those were pale days, like a living hell.

The clouds of war loomed heavy. No one had anticipated that Germany’s mechanized forces would bypass the Maginot Line through the Ardennes Mountains, catching the Allies completely off guard. The Nazi war machine crushed nearly all of France under its iron boots, and Belgium surrendered ten days later. Our troops retreated toward the British mainland. The newspapers were filled with pages celebrating the "Dunkirk Evacuation," yet few realized that this meant the flames of war were already licking at Britain’s shores.

People anxiously awaited updates. The news I obtained through Enigma included Hitler's victory banquets, parades of celebration by the citizens of the Third Reich, anti-Semitic slogans, and racial propaganda.

My mind had never worked this fast before. The word “sleep” lost all meaning. I learned to drink black coffee like Andemund—cup after cup—unshaven and disheveled.

All I could do was try to uncover Enigma’s weaknesses to shorten the decryption time.

The German military’s encrypted transmissions followed certain patterns. The same information was often sent at roughly the same time—for example, at six o'clock every morning, weather reports were always transmitted. If one of our planes circled over a German base, the messages at that time would inevitably include words like "plane" or "reconnaissance."

I discovered one of Enigma's principles: a letter could not be encrypted as itself. In other words, "A" could not be encoded as "A," and "B" could not be encoded as "B." This meant that if I suspected the ciphertext contained the word "plane," I could compare "plane" against the ciphertext from the first line onward, eliminating all identical letters and those near them.

I shared this method with Andemund, and he merely chuckled. Plinton Manor had a liaison from the Air Ministry, and from that point on, daily flight logs from the Air Force were sent to us for decryption.

There were many other similar tools, like punched cards designed to reduce the number of calculations. When stacked together, the letters revealed through the holes formed the key. These things might seem laughable now, but under the pressing circumstances of the time, we had no other choice.

In June, France surrendered.

On the last day of June, the decryption machine was completed. The design was based on Andemund’s plans—remarkably simple, yet capable of significantly accelerating the decoding process.

When Raphael told me the decryption machine was successfully running, I felt as though all the strength had been drained from my body.

He steadied me. “Alan? Alan, what’s wrong?”

Andemund took me away from Plinton Manor to his villa in central London, where I recuperated for a week. Most of the time, I simply slept—I hadn’t had proper rest in what felt like an eternity.

Andemund firmly locked the door and said, “Forget about ‘the cipher,’ Alan. You need to rest.”

I hadn’t been back here in a long time.

The furnishings were nearly unchanged, just as they were when we first fell in love. The sofa draped in dust covers, the famous oil paintings, the study, and the white grand piano in the spacious reception room on the second floor—all of it was just as I remembered.

I walked up to the piano and saw my own reflection on its polished surface.

My face was gaunt and pale, with dark circles under my eyes. My beard looked like it hadn’t been shaved in ages.

I propped myself up against the piano, staring at my reflection for a long time, and muttered in frustration, “I look like a ghost.”

Andemund was right beside me. He nodded in agreement, stripped me naked, and dumped me into the bathtub. After scrubbing me clean, he tossed me onto the big bed, brought over a basin of water, and then approached with a razor and a bar of soap.

I clutched the bedsheet tightly. “Darling, what are you planning to do?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Oh, darling! You can’t do this.”

“Don’t talk.”

After a while, he asked, “Does it hurt?”

I took a sharp breath and reached up to grab the back of his head. “Of course it hurts—I’m bleeding! Darling, have you never shaved someone before?”

He answered candidly, “Never.”

“What—what exactly are you doing?”

“You maniac!”

Andemund didn’t say a word. He lowered his head and licked the nick on my skin left by the razor. I could feel the soft warmth of his tongue against me. It wasn’t so much a kiss as it was an almost provocative teasing. The tingling sensation was unbearable. I lay sprawled on the white bed, while he knelt half on the edge, one knee pressing up as he nudged my legs apart.

Andemund’s body loomed over mine, his weight pressing down, the crisp scent of mint from his shirt engulfing my senses.

It wasn’t until he wiped my face with a towel and started unbuckling my belt that I realized something was off.

But by then, it was too late.

Andemund gave me two choices.

He kissed my forehead. “Alan, do you want me to cuff you and take you, or will you behave and cooperate?”

I spent a week recuperating at Andemund’s villa. My leave had been personally approved by him, though I had no idea who had approved his. Of those seven days, he stayed with me for four, during which we experimented with every imaginable position—on the bed, in the bathtub, on the piano. Andemund even taught me to play “Für Elise.” While I fumbled over the keys, he kissed me from behind, trailing down my spine. His kisses left me trembling so much I couldn’t tell what notes my fingers were pressing.

Once, I saw Andemund playing the piano. His head was slightly bowed, his focus entirely on the music. I didn’t recognize the piece, but the flowing melody, combined with the curve of his long neck, was mesmerizing. I walked up behind him and began kissing his back through the material of his shirt, thinking that if he resisted, I could just say it was payback for last time. To my surprise, Andemund immediately stopped playing, stood up, turned around, and threw me onto the piano. Without hesitation, he spread my legs and pinned me down.

The piano was narrow, forcing me to arch my back and lean all my weight against him. With every movement he made, the keys resounded in a chaotic clamor. I vividly remember the pain and ecstasy of him entering me—so intense it was almost unbearable.

June in London was starting to heat up. Every morning, I would open the window in my pajamas to let in some fresh air and hear the distant honking of car horns. With gasoline now rationed, most of the vehicles on the roads were military trucks or government supply transports.

It was only during these moments that I felt the encroaching reality of the war outside.

Andemund would emerge from the kitchen, shirt draped over his shoulders, hand me a cup of coffee, and wrap an arm around my waist, saying as we watched the cityscape together, “Alan, it’s alright. You’ve still got me.”

I suggested to him, "Darling, sometimes you can be on the bottom. It actually feels pretty good down there."

He thought about it seriously for a moment, then turned and tossed me back onto the bed. "I'll make you even better."