The codebreakers secret, p.12
The Codebreaker's Secret, page 12
“Just Russi, okay? Cut the Mr.”
“Don’t forget to breathe. Big, slow, deep breaths. Our neighbor’s husband was in the war and he used to have...episodes. I remember his wife would talk him down and count out inhalations and exhalations. Want me to do that?”
She could still hear Auntie H’s smooth voice: Long breath in...one two three four five, long breath out, one two three four five. All is well.
“I want you to leave me alone,” he said breathlessly.
He looked like a frightened rabbit, so vulnerable, so afraid. It pained her heart. Whatever he’d been through had nearly broken him.
“Listen to me. You can get through this.” Lu grabbed his hand. He didn’t resist. She started counting. “You are safe, Russi.”
Soon, the boat was cresting the waves and crashing into the trough, spray dousing them. Lala herded everyone else into the cabin. Both Joni and Fuchs had turned green. Lu moved Russi toward the back, where it was more stable, and Captain Max handed them rain jackets.
“Seasick?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Lu said.
This was all her fault. “I’m sorry for getting you into this. I just had the sense that you yearned to be in the water, and I thought it would be a good idea to push you a little. I had no idea how serious your situation was.”
He shrugged. “I used to be fearless. I flew to the ends of the earth doing all kinds of crazy shit and never once worried about whether I lived or died. And now here I am, wuss of all wusses,” he said.
Keep him talking.
“You were brave back then and you’re even braver now. Sometimes the smallest fears are the most terrifying. They might even seem irrational, but that doesn’t make them not real.”
“Here you go again with the Freud talk,” he said.
“Call it what you want, it’s the truth. You can’t just will your troubles away.”
“What does the doctor recommend?”
“Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened back then?” Lu had to raise her voice to be heard above the motor and the angry seas. Behind them, the rain line was moving faster than they were. She could taste the metal on her tongue as it closed in.
“Nope.”
“Have you ever written about it?”
“Nope.”
“That would be my prescription. Talk. If you can’t talk, write.”
As the words left her mouth, a wave broadsided the boat, knocking it precariously horizontal. Someone inside the cabin screamed.
“This is fucked up,” he growled.
“If you want to talk, I’m here. I know you hardly know me, but maybe that’s a good thing. I’m a champion listener.”
Lala opened the cabin door and insisted they come inside, but Russi wouldn’t budge. “I’m not going in there. If this boat goes down, I don’t want to be trapped like some caged rat.”
“We not goin’ down, bruddah. This is manini—just a small kine storm,” Lala said in thick pidgin.
Lu backed him up. “These guys are out here every day, Russi. If they aren’t worried, there’s no need for us to be.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going in,” Russi said, more forcefully this time.
Lala looked back and forth between them.
“We’re okay out here. I grew up in Kona—I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Shoots.”
They lurched and plunged and crashed their way back to shore. Russi held fast to the rail and kept his eye on the mountain, just as she told him. Every so often she reminded him to breathe, and spoke words of encouragement. Lu was thankful for the foul-weather gear, because they were drenched with rain and salt water. A part of her felt guilty, because she loved this weather. Loved being back on the water.
When they finally pulled into Kawaihae, the harbor itself was whipped in whitecaps. Two ‘iwa birds—harbinger of storms—hovered overhead, low enough so you could see their forked tail feathers. When they docked, the rest of the group filed out of the cabin, Joni first.
“I’m never setting foot on a fucking boat again. Never,” Joni announced, bleary-eyed and marching toward land without a glance at anyone.
So much for happiness and beauty. Lu and Russi disembarked last. She was proud of him for holding it together. Despite everything, there was an undercurrent of strength running through him.
By the car, he pulled Lu aside. “I’ll tell you what,” he said quietly. “That’s the first time I’ve had salt water on my skin since 1945. Thank you.”
15
THE SURF
O‘ahu, 1943
On the codebreaking front, over a month in, and Isabel had little to show for being in Hawai‘i. Working with the crew in the Dungeon was not much different than working by herself. She was coming to badly miss the girls back at Main Navy. There, at least, she was part of a team. Even though much of the time she had been in her own head, people had been rooting for her. Nora, Ellen Mary, even Anna. Not so here.
Her nerves had subsided slightly, but only because she had discovered that by going outside every hour or so, it was like letting the lid off a steaming kettle.
Jones, at his desk by the door, had asked, “Is everything okay, Miss Cooper?”
“Just female issues,” she answered, effectively preventing any further questioning. In her experience, it was the quickest way to get a man off your back.
JN-25 was a beast of a code, and she plugged away at nonurgent messages as best she could. Which was not saying much. There were still so few code groups recovered that it felt like sifting sand through a colander—most of it got through except for a few particles in between the holes.
Denny and the boys rarely gave her anything of importance. There had been mention of her having to prove herself, and yet how could she prove herself with weeks’ old messages about a small fishing vessel near the Kuriles or a missing minesweeper in the Solomons? Hadn’t she proved herself with Magenta? It made no sense.
For the most part, Denny flat out ignored her. He was too wrapped up in solving Ultra messages—Ultra was the code name for top-secret decrypted messages, either German or Japanese—and meeting with Hudson and the brass. Ziegler spoke to her in small bursts, just like he did everything else. Out of nowhere, he might say, “Try the previous additive book” or “that code group has two meanings.” Every little bit helped.
On Sunday morning, Russi picked her up just after sunrise, with a long wooden plank of a surfboard sticking out of the trunk of his car. Isabel had invited her roommate, but Gloria had plans with Dickie, so it was just the two of them. They rode with the sun in their eyes, talking about everything but the other night. He didn’t mention Alice and she didn’t ask.
“I consider wave riding a form of Mass, but don’t tell my pops that,” Russi informed her as they drove down Kalakaua Avenue.
“Were you raised Catholic?”
“My dad was Catholic, my mom Protestant. So I was raised confused,” he said with a laugh. “But seriously, they loved each other so much none of that mattered. My mother could have been from Timbuktu and he would have moved there to be with her. Warms the heart to see the two of them.”
Isabel wondered how he’d turned out so apparently different. “What about you? Don’t you want that for yourself?”
His thumb started tapping on the steering wheel. “Just haven’t found the right one yet. And anyway, there’s a good chance I’m not coming out of this alive, so why put someone through that, you know?”
She did know. Had lived through it, in fact. On Christmas Eve 1941, a telegram arrived in a letter postmarked December 12. Isabel was home for Christmas, just her and Pa and the dog. Pa was sipping on his fifth Budweiser in his recliner, listening to the radio for any scrap of news, while Isabel mashed potatoes in the kitchen. Neither was in any mood to celebrate, but Isabel was doing her best to put on a good front for her father’s sake.
As soon as the mail came, she hurried out the back door to fetch it before her father did. A part of her had an ominous feeling this was coming, the way animals know a storm. Even though communication had gone down around the country, Walt would have found a way to let them know he was okay. Losing their mother had nearly ruined Pa, and losing Walt would finish off the job. Bile rose in her throat as she tore open the letter.
The US Army deeply regrets to inform you that your son, Walter Cooper, was killed in action. Isabel stopped reading. Fell to her knees on the hard wooden floor, trying to catch a breath. She felt the need to climb out of her own skin, if that were somehow possible. In her fist, the crumpled letter scorched. No matter how much she’d dreaded the possibility of this moment, and tried to fight it off by hoping and praying and carrying on as normal, the truth was: nothing could ever prepare you for the death of a loved one.
“Your folks must worry about you, out here,” she said, shaking off the memory.
“It’s killing them. Especially my dad, knowing Italy is on the other side. This is one fucked-up war, you know that? Families on both sides of the ocean, pitted against each other. Everyone just praying for it to end,” he said.
“I pray all day long.”
“You and me both.”
They rode in silence for a while after that.
They passed the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, pink and pretty, surrounded by manicured grounds, coconut trees and barbed wire. Every time she forgot for a few seconds there was a war going on, something like that woke her back up. From what she’d heard, the navy had taken it over at the start of the war as a place for sailors to rest and recuperate. It was strange to think that amid such beauty, there could be such heartbreak.
Farther on, they drove by the Waikiki Theater, where the marquee read Tyrone Power & Maureen O’Hara, The Black Swan and The March of Time. People milled about on the streets wearing less clothing than was legal in Indiana.
“Consider yourself lucky because I’m taking you to a secret spot. Waikiki is great and all, but there can be a lotta people on the waves,” he said, drawing out the o in lot.
Beyond the hotels and beach clubs they came to a giant park lined with tall long-needled trees. It looked to Isabel as though they were going to drive right up Diamond Head, but he slowed as they went past a long wall-like arched structure. The War Memorial.
“Walt and a few of us came down here one day for a little friendly swim competition with some navy boys, and while we were here we spotted a nice break out front,” he said. “Now the navy uses the natatorium for training, took it over like a lot of places here.”
“Who won?” she asked.
He looked offended. “Who do you think won?”
“Something tells me you flyboys had it in the bag.”
One side of his mouth went up. “Damn straight we did.”
A minute on down the road, they pulled over near a tree with a trunk as wide as a house. Nothing moved. There wasn’t a stitch of wind on the water and the air smelled of salt and sunshine. It felt like a moment in a postcard, surreal as it was beautiful.
“Here we are,” he said, turning to her and suddenly looking serious. “Now, I need to warn you about something before we go out.”
“Sharks?” she asked.
The thought had crossed her mind on more than one occasion.
He laughed. “Not sharks, but you oughta know that surfing can be addicting, and you might fall in love.”
“That’s a bold claim,” she said.
He shrugged. “You’ll see.”
It took the two of them to hoist the board out and walk it down a bushy pathway to the beach. The wood was smooth as a coffee bean. To the right was a small cottage, dwarfed by trees and fronted by a long pier.
“My friend Tony’s mom owns the place. He said he’d leave a board out for me,” Russi said, scanning the area.
But there were no boards around, and aside from a couple young kids on the pier fishing, not a soul in sight.
“Maybe it’s too early?” she said.
“Coulda been a late one for him. He plays Hawaiian music around town, and is even more in demand since this war started, if you could believe it. Hang tight, I’ll have a look around.”
Isabel dipped her feet in the water, expecting an early-morning chill. But the water was pleasant as it swirled around her ankles. Russi came back a few minutes later, empty-handed.
“Looks like we might have to go tandem. You game?”
“The both of us on that one board?”
He held up his hands. “I won’t bite.”
She’d seen photos of men riding waves, women on their shoulders, or holding them up like dolls in fantastic positions.
“No, thank you. I doubt you could lift me, anyway.”
“I don’t need to lift you. We both just stand up on the board. You’re thinking of the surfing competitions—the newspapers love those. Way above my pay grade,” he said. “And for the record, I could lift you with my left pinky.”
“I weigh more than you think.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Out beyond the reef, neat lines of white water lined up one after another.
“You don’t think the waves are too big?” she asked.
“Nah. The waves on this side only get big in the summertime. Think about Walt. Would he have gone out?”
That did it. Somewhat self-consciously, she slid out of her dress and stood pale as an ivory statue under the warm Hawaiian sun. Russi bent down to grab something out of his backpack and came back up holding his camera. When he caught sight of her, his eyes moved down her body, causing a rush of heat across her skin. She could have sworn he whistled.
“Damn, that suit sure suits you. We need to get a shot of you standing with the board, ocean in the back, just like Walt. The light is perfect now,” he said.
The blue-and-white floral one-piece crossed in the back and came down low in the front, but not too low. Despite feeling seminude, she liked how it fit, and how it accentuated her long legs. He set her up in front of the ocean, arranged her with the board, which probably weighed fifty pounds or more, and moved back to get the picture. For some reason, she found it hard to look at him.
“You’re gonna have to try a little harder than that, Miss Cooper. Gimme some teeth,” he said, kneeling in the sand.
She gave him her best smile, just so they could get on with it.
He whistled. Camera clicked. “Whoa. Okay. Beautiful.”
“Can we go out now?” she said, mainly because she felt so exposed, as though he could see right through her.
“A minute ago, you were hemming and hawing. What gives?”
“Says the man who refuses to have his picture taken.”
“From purely a photographer’s standpoint, you’ve got this quality about you. The blue eyes...” he said, shaking his head and standing up. “Hard to explain.”
After tucking their belongings under a hedge near a coconut tree, Russi took off his shirt and gave her a brief demonstration of where to lie on the board, how to paddle, what to do when the white water hit them, how to catch a wave. His shorts came up midwaist and fit tight against his hard stomach. He swung the board around as if it weighed nothing, and set it on the water.
“Go on. You’re in front,” he said.
That meant he would be behind her—almost on top of her. For some reason the paddling part of tandem surfing had not occurred to her. “I’m happy to go in the back.”
“That’s not how it works. The person in control is in the back.”
There was nothing to do but climb on. A second later, his hands were on her waist, sliding her forward just a hair. Strong and sure. And then he hopped on, sliding his way up so his chest was up against her rear. Her legs parted slightly to make room. Suddenly, they were gliding ahead and the inside of his arms rubbed against her thighs.
“Just paddle and I’ll keep time with you,” he said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, his chin hovering over her low back, her rear literally a pillow for him.
Isabel did as instructed, trying to block out the unfavorable positioning. Pay attention to the water, she ordered herself. Indeed, the water was a dazzling blue, and made a soft splash each time her hands disappeared into it. They sailed along, Russi keeping good time and providing most of the muscle. In no time, they had passed through a coral-lined channel and reached a deeper blue. They paddled out beyond the surf, which had now vanished, and waited. The quiet was something Isabel could get used to. Surfing, she thought, could be the perfect companion for codebreaking.
Russi held a finger to his lips and said, “You hear that?”
She listened. Soon, a distant low rumble filled the air.
“Pursuits coming in from patrol on the east side,” he said.
A moment later, the calm was shattered by a line of warplanes rounding Diamond Head, flying low over the water. When they approached, nearly overhead, Russi stood up on the board and started waving madly. One of the planes dipped a wing. Then the board wobbled and he dove off into the water, nearly knocking her off in the process.
The planes passed by directly overhead, so close she could feel the vibration in her teeth. She swallowed hard. Something about seeing those planes and their painted-on stars, all in formation, caused a welling-up of emotion.
“Those are the new guys. Sunday morning patrols always go to them,” he said.
“Seems more like a reward than a punishment, being up there on a day like this,” she said, coming back to the moment.
“Good point,” he said, swimming up to the board and draping his arms over it. “You know what really gets me? The fact that, on that Sunday morning, we were still on Number 1 Alert. Only the navy had a few planes on patrol that day, out looking for subs. We had zilch. In my book there shoulda been a sky full of planes out on patrol. We shoulda been at Number 3 Alert.”
