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Item Barcode | Collection | Call Number | Status | Item Holds |
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Summary
Summary
A stunning collaboration between award-winning and bestselling authors Ruta Sepetys and Steve Sheinkin, this middle grade historical adventure follows two siblings at Bletchley Park, the home of WWII codebreakers, as they try to unravel a mystery surrounding their mother's disappearance.
Remember, you are bound by the Official Secrets Act...
Summer, 1940. Nineteen-year-old Jakob Novis and his quirky younger sister Lizzie share a love of riddles and puzzles. And now they're living inside of one. The quarrelsome siblings find themselves amidst one of the greatest secrets of World War II--Britain's eccentric codebreaking factory at Bletchley Park. As Jakob joins Bletchley's top minds to crack the Nazi's Enigma cipher, fourteen-year-old Lizzie embarks on a mission to solve the mysterious disappearance of their mother.
The Battle of Britain rages and Hitler's invasion creeps closer. And at the same time, baffling messages and codes arrive on their doorstep while a menacing inspector lurks outside the gates of the Bletchley mansion. Are the messages truly for them, or are they a trap? Could the riddles of Enigma and their mother's disappearance be somehow connected? Jakob and Lizzie must find a way to work together as they race to decipher clues which unravel a shocking puzzle that presents the ultimate challenge: How long must a secret be kept?
Author Notes
Ruta Sepetys is the award-winning, bestselling author of Between Shades of Gray, Out of the Easy and Salt to the Sea, for which she won the 2017 Carnegie Medal. From the Hardcover edition.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
School Library Journal Review
Gr 6--10--This dual-narrative novel follows siblings Jakob and Lizzie Novis through WWII-era London just prior to the Blitz. Jakob is 19, working as a codebreaker at Bletchley Park, trying to unlock the secrets of the German Enigma machine. His younger sister Lizzie wants to remain in England but is caught in a furious battle with her American grandmother over an attempt to bring her to the U.S. Lizzie is vehement about staying because she wants to locate their mother, an embassy worker who went missing in Poland when the Nazis invaded. And while Jakob doesn't believe their mother is alive, when he and Lizzie start receiving coded messages in the mail, the siblings unite to uncover the truth. This book is an impressive joint effort between Sepetys and Sheinkin. Not only do they present a history of cryptography within details of life at Bletchley Park, they also highlight the Enigma-cracking contributions of well-known figures (e.g., Alan Turing) along with the lesser-known Polish team of Marian Rejewski, Henryk Zygalski, and Jerzy Ró ycki. Sepetys and Sheinkin have created two protagonists who balance and complement each other in the dual-narrative format: Lizzie is assertive, quick-thinking, and persistent, while Jakob is reserved, thoughtful, and protective. The dangers of life in wartime England are ever present, but this book introduces enough levity to keep the tone light and engaging. VERDICT With broad appeal to both WWII and mystery enthusiasts, this highly recommended title is a first purchase for all libraries serving tweens and teens.--Michael Van Wambeke
Publisher's Weekly Review
This dynamic collaboration from Sepetys (I Must Betray You) and Sheinkin (Impossible Escape), set in May 1940, is marked by swift, snappy, and suspenseful storytelling narrated by Polish Jewish siblings Jakob and Lizzie. Nineteen-year-old Jakob has been recruited from Cambridge University by Britain's Government Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park to help decipher messages encrypted using the German Enigma machine. When his self-described straightforward-speaking 14-year-old sister Lizzie eludes their American grandmother's (first, but not last) attempt to bring her to Cleveland, she, too, ends up at Bletchley Park, assigned to carry packages between departments. Now, Lizzie endeavors to disprove the apparent death of their mother, who worked at the American Embassy in London and disappeared in Poland during the 1939 German attack. Short chapters make for fast-paced narration through simultaneously developing mysteries and relationships. Especially well depicted--and explained--is the excitement, as well as the daily drudgery, of codebreaking, culminating in a seamlessly entertaining and edifying read. Most characters, all portrayed as white, are fictional, but historical figures such as U.S. Ambassador Joseph Kennedy and mathematician Alan Turing play minor roles. Includes b&w archival photos and an endnote. Ages 10--up. (Oct.)
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 *Jakob First things first: a riddle. A traveler crosses a border into enemy territory. We're talking ages ago--ancient times, warring kingdoms, that sort of thing. The traveler is stopped by soldiers. It's their job to make sure no one carries any secret messages. They search the man, strip him bare, run fingers through his hair. The man is clean. He pulls on his clothes, goes on his way. But he does have a hidden message. Where? I've given you a clue. No, it's not in his brain. And not in his body, though that can work. It's a classic spy trick. There's this story from the American Revolution where a British spy is caught sneaking through American lines. The Yanks suspect him of carrying secrets. They force him to drink some horrid potion, and next thing you know the poor chap's evacuating from both ends. Sure enough, out pops a silver bullet. This is no ordinary bullet--it's hollow and can be unscrewed. Inside is a tiny folded note. But our traveler carries no such spy gadget. Our man continues his journey. He walks for hours. Finally, deep in the woods, at an agreed-upon spot, he meets a rebel leader, an ally of his own king. The traveler asks for a very sharp knife. He lifts the blade to his head . . . and begins to shave off his hair. The secret message is written on his scalp. I'll never forget telling my sister this one. Lizzie was six or seven, and for weeks she ordered every adult she saw to bend down so she could search their head for hidden writing. She informed Mr. Davies, our neighbor across the hall, that he could never, ever be a spy. "Why not?" he wished to know. She said, "Because you have no hair." Davies was terribly put out. Maybe he dreamed of becoming a spy. Maybe he was one. It's possible--a nice head of hair is not required these days. You see, people have come up with better ways to send secrets than writing them on each other's heads. Of course, the more cunningly the secrets are hidden, the harder people like me will work to find them. 2 *Lizzie Allow me to explain something. I'm lying. And surprisingly, I'm quite good at it. I never imagined that at the age of fourteen I'd excel at deception. But these days, many things surpass even my robust imagination. England on the brink of German invasion, for one thing. The sweaty man in front of me, for another. "Apologies, Mr. Fleetwood. I didn't realize I'd walked us so far today." That was one of the lies, of course. The walk was a death dash. A ploy to ensure he'd be positively exhausted when we boarded the ship and entered our cabin. Fleetwood, my chaperone for the voyage, heaves his bloated and blistered trotters into a pan of water. Remarkably small feet for such a wide frame. He mops a line of sweat from his brow, his face so flush with pink, it resembles a glazed holiday ham. "Oh, goodness. Gran made no mention of your foot ailment," I tell him. "I've no ailment. And you will report no such thing to your grandmother. I simply wasn't prepared for a march around the whole of Liverpool." He loosens his tie, settling in with a drink. "Perhaps you can understand my melancholy," I say, placing my suitcase where he'll be certain to trip over it. "Today is the last I'll see of England before we sail for America." "And whose fault is that?" he bellows, wagging a finger toward the ceiling of our cabin. "Hitler's fault." I nod dutifully. "This war is Hitler's fault. My displacement, Hitler's fault. This gas mask I carry at all times"--I raise my voice for full effect--"Hitler's fault!" That's the reply he wants. Please note that I do not include the words "I think." Because I do not think. I know. Another benefit of the sage age of fourteen: There are many things you just know. Like the terrible truth that many British men who leave for the war will die in the war. Or the fact that Mr. Fleetwood enjoys one too many nips of Old Schenley. When I share things like that, people often say, "My, aren't you precocious, Elizabeth. "But let's be honest, shall we? When adults tell a child or a teenager that they're precocious, what they're really saying is, "Please don't say that aloud." But I say most things aloud. I prefer being straightforward. My older brother, Jakob, used to be straightforward. Before Willa disappeared, that is. Willa is our mother. Killed in a bomb blast, they told us. A falsity I refuse to accept. I no longer refer to her as Mother because she's not currently here to "mother" me. So it's easier, and hurts less, to call her by her first name. Precocious? Probably. Willa is American. From a posh place called Cleveland. Some say that explains why I'm so straightforward, because I'm half American. They say the word "American" as if it's scandalous. I love that. Willa loved it too. Of course, someday I'll make it to America and meet genuinely scandalous girls. I imagine Cleveland to be a pond well stocked. But I've never been to America. As I grew up, Gran always came to London because Willa was constantly working. And now Gran thinks I'm rushing to join her in Cleveland. So does her estate steward, the yeasty-footed Mr. Fleetwood. But I'm not. Of course I'm not. Willa is the only parent Jakob and I have left. I made a pledge to uncover the truth about her disappearance. I told my brother as much in my correspondence. But Jakob hasn't responded to any of the letters that I've sent to the curious address he provided. I've heard nothing from him--for over three months. First Willa disappears and now my brother. I refuse to leave England until I determine their whereabouts. "Mr. Fleetwood, would you like to join me for a stroll on deck before we depart?" "No, no," he replies. "I've just poured a drink." "Yes, probably best to rest your legs. It's a small ship, but so lovely of Gran to book such a large suite, don't you think?" I continue to chatter, as I've learned it tires him. "Will you be able to endure the discomfort? I hesitate to leave you." I place a hand to my chest. "Even for a moment." "I'm fine!" he insists. His footbath is now pinked by the weep of his blisters. Perfect. "All right. I'd like to wave my hankie as we set sail. A transatlantic voyage to escape German invasion. It's all so exciting!" I gush. "I'll return and unpack my suitcase as soon as we depart." "Very good, Elizabeth." I exit the cabin. Turn the corner in the hallway. Pull a deep breath. And then I run. As fast as I possibly can, dodging a luggage steward, vaulting over suitcases, and picking up speed midair. I dash down one staircase, then another, taking the final five steps in a single airborne leap. I land, rump first, on what appears to be a gilded box owned by a pinch-faced peacock of a woman. "My hat!" she exclaims. "I do apologize," I say, removing my backside from the squash of her box. "But I'm in a terrible hurry." And then I'm off again. "Young lady!" bellows the peacock. "Young lady, what on earth are you doing?" Her voice fades as I see my target exit. What am I doing? I'm lying. And escaping. And honestly, I do feel a bit bad about it. It was much too easy. Poor "Feetwood," as my brother calls him. Clearly, he has no experience with teenagers. Clearly, he has no idea what I'm about to accomplish. Clearly, he is a very poor chaperone. Because the steamship will sail for America. But I'll be racing back to London when it does. Excerpted from The Bletchley Riddle by Ruta Sepetys, Steve Sheinkin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.