Crypto

Crypto Part 2

Chicago, 1939

            Paul Wiezerski walked quickly across the campus of the University of Chicago, his broad shoulders hunched, his laborer’s hands buried in the pockets of his second-hand trousers. He could see the cuffs of his pants starting to fray. He wondered if his mother could do anything about it. She’d already patched his other pair of pants, and sewn a tear in the lining of his suit coat. He wished she could do something about his shoes while she was at it--they were too small, and caked in layers of cheap shine to hide their age and scuff marks.

          He threaded through a group of undergrads gathered near the steps of the library; his peers, supposedly, but to Paul they were a strange species of bright young things, soft and careless and at ease. Or perhaps he was the strange one: a scholarship boy from the tenements, selected by the city fathers as a shabby token of their Christian virtues.

As he passed he heard their laughter. He glanced back, hands clenched into fists, to see if they were laughing at his attire—or his odor. He worked nights at a slaughterhouse, the same one his father and brothers worked, the same one where he’d been working since he was twelve. The stink of the killing floor was a potent mix of blood, shit, entrails, and the fear of terrified animals.

Paul was fastidious with his toilet in the mornings. He doused himself with cold water from a basin and scoured himself with a rough cloth and lye soap. Wiping that smell away was like peeling off a layer of dank skin. But he worried the odor trailed him like a shadow.

The bells from the campus tower sounded the hour. Paul forgot about the laughing undergrads and hurried into the library. He was supposed to meet his tutor at 3:00 p.m. outside the main stacks.

The University had a foreign language requirement for graduation, but Paul’s fluency in Polish didn’t count. He had signed up for French, drawn by the bright flame of high culture. Now he was being burned. He understood the structure of the language, but he was at first puzzled, and then irritated, by all the vowels and consonants that appeared in written French but were blithely disregarded when spoken.

Pronunciation was bringing down his grade (my bette noir, he thought with grim humor). The French language should dance on the tongue; Paul’s professor said he spoke as if he had a boot in his mouth.

As he rushed into the library he saw a figure standing near a column. A young woman, slim and pretty with auburn hair. She caught his glance and smiled, her green eyes lively and warm.

He approached her, hoping that he had been successful with his morning’s washing up.

“You must be Paul,” she said. “I’m Helen. Helen Strand.”

She extended a hand and Paul shook it gently. Her skin was smooth. He felt a pleasant warmth at the contact, then quickly withdrew his own hand, embarrassed by the hard calluses that rimmed his palm.

“Strand,” he said. “One of my professors has the same name.”

Helen nodded. “My father.”

Paul’s eyes widened. “Professor Strand is your father?”

“He is.”

Paul stared at Helen, searching for some resemblance. Professor Strand was tall and cold, with a hawk-like face and a hawk-like manner—aloof and solitary, and ready to drop from above on weaker creatures and rend them with merciless claws. If the daughter was anything like the father, Paul’s tutoring sessions were apt to be painful.

“I see he’s had his usual effect on you,” said Helen. “Let me guess--calculus?”

“And algebraic number theory,” said Paul. “I’m a math major.”