• SCWES Book Award for Fiction, Winner

It is June 1940 and fifteen-year-old Olivia Baldini's idyllic English life is shattered as Britain declares war on Italy. With hyperthymesia, Olivia possesses an extraordinary ability to recall information with vivid detail, a gift that makes her invaluable to Churchill's secret sabotage army, the Special Operations Executive (SOE). Trained in nursing, coding, and espionage, Olivia is dispatched behind enemy lines in Italy, aiding partisans and resistance fighters. Nino Fabris, dreaming of world travel with the merchant marines, is thrust into the war when his ship is conscripted. Captured in North Africa and sent to a POW camp in Kenya, Nino seizes a chance for freedom by joining the SOE. In the chaos of war, Olivia and Nino's paths intertwine. The Cipher is a gripping tale of love, resilience, and the power of the truth—and who you trust with it.

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A few weeks after Mick’s departure, on June 10, 1940, Italy entered the war and invaded southern France.

That night, a fierce knocking at the door of the house awakened Olivia. Her bedside clock read a quarter to three a.m. She scrambled up, wrapped a dressing gown over her pajamas, and followed her father and mother down the stairs.

“Open up!” the voices shouted.

Papa unlocked the door. Two officers stood on the sill. “Carlo Baldini?” one said, flashing his Special Branch identification.

“What’s wrong?” Papa said, alarmed. “What’s happened? Is it my son?”

The officer shook his head impatiently. “You’re under arrest,” he said. “Get dressed quickly and pack one bag.”

Olivia’s mother put her arm around Olivia’s waist and pulled her close.

Papa frowned, bewildered. “But on what charge?” he said.

“Orders. We’re rounding up all Italian-born citizens,” the officer said, looking past Papa. “Where are your sons?” He strode across the room and yanked two photographs in their frames from the wall: one of Vittorio Emmanuele III, the King of Italy, and the other of Il Duce, Benito Mussolini. “Fascists!” he hissed. One of the frames slipped from his hand, and glass shattered across the floor.

“But we are British citizens,” Papa said. Olivia and her mother now stood behind him, holding their dressing gowns tight across their bodies. “I’ve been here more than twenty years.” He ran a hand through his hair. “My family,” and here he waved his arm to include the two women, “are all British born. We are not fascists. I am a simple café owner.”

The officer consulted his notebook. “Where are your sons?” he asked again, shifting from foot to foot.

Papa shook his head. “One is in the British Navy and the other is in Italy visiting his grandparents.”

The officer sneered at the word “Italy” as if the word substantiated Papa’s arrest. He scribbled something in the notebook, then waved his hand in front of Papa’s face. “Hurry now. Get dressed and pack a few things. We have no time to lose.”

“Where are you taking my husband? What has he done?” Mamma asked, stepping forward.

The two officers ignored her.

“But when is Papa coming back?” Olivia said, her voice tremulous.

The officers stared her up and down, shook their heads, but said nothing. While Papa and Mamma went upstairs to do the men’s bidding, Olivia cowered by the stairs, wondering why they were detaining her father, who was the gentlest of men. Coming back, coming back. The words began repeating in her head, a mantra, a premonition.

The whole exchange lasted less than twenty minutes. Mamma packed toiletries, a change of clothes and underwear. Papa dressed, and then gathered his heavy winter coat and folded it over his arm. Olivia’s arms encircled his neck, unwilling to let go. He kissed her, then embraced Mamma. “Can you tell me where I’m going?” he said, but the two officers ushered him out without another word.

When the door clicked shut, Mamma collapsed in a kitchen chair, sobbing, while Olivia rubbed her shoulder. “It’s those fascists!” Mamma said. “Their arms can reach even here!” She wiped her tears angrily, got up, and retrieved the Mussolini photograph. She spit on it, before ripping it to shreds. She had never wanted it on the wall, but Papa had insisted they keep it there, lest someone betray their anti-fascist sentiments to the Italian Consulate. He feared Aldo’s fate back in Italy. Mamma switched on the radio and turned the dial, trying in vain to find some explanation. “Clean up that shattered glass,” she said.

Olivia got out the broom and dustpan. She began with the largest shards and made piles of glass according to size. Shattered, she thought, hearing the word rebound in her head. Her own tears began, though she’d been trying to hold them back. “What are we to do now?”

Mamma stopped twisting the radio dials and drew herself up. She took the broom out of Olivia’s hand and swept all the glass into one large pile, which she pushed into the dustpan. “We will open the café as usual,” she said. “We will hold our heads high.” She pulled Olivia into an embrace, patting her back.

“Let’s get some rest now,” she said, and the two of them went upstairs.

At the door of her bedroom, Mamma turned and kissed Olivia, murmuring, “Tomorrow, I’ll make inquiries. This is all a mistake. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”