Rag and Bone: Billy Boyle 05

by James R Benn

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IT’S NOT EVERY pair of lieutenants who get their shoes shined regularly at the Dorchester, but I almost wished Kaz hadn’t left our best patent leathers out for a workover. The smell of shoe polish was a reminder of home, so I didn’t mind a go with a good brush. When I was a kid, it was my job to take Dad’s shoes down cellar once a week and give them a spit shine. I’d sit on the wooden steps, with the door open behind me, listening to the sounds of the house. Mom cleaning up in the kitchen, my little brother Danny running around, and Dad fiddling with the radio. It felt like it would always be that way, that I’d never run out of weeks to put a shine to my father’s shoes.

  So I liked shining shoes, but I couldn’t explain all that to Kaz. It would make me sound like I wasn’t a tough guy. I sipped good Irish whiskey instead, hearing the swoop swoosh of the brush in my mind as it went back and forth over countless pairs of shoes, the aroma in the glass a poor substitute for mink oil, leather, black shoe polish, and the traces of my old man’s sweat that I picked up on my fingers as I curled them inside each shoe, forcing out the folds and buffing them with all my might, desperate to do this job right, as if everything depended on a perfect shoe shine. I always complained, but I worked as hard as I could at it. Funny, the things you miss. Right now, I’d have given anything to have that shoe brush in my hand.

  I watched Kaz knotting his tie in the mirror and felt ashamed of my homesickness. His family was dead, and his nation occupied by the Germans, with the Russians up at bat next. There was a lot of politics going on about Polish borders after the war, but reading between the lines I knew that the Soviets were going to bite off a big chunk for themselves and call the shots in what was left. I still had a home to go to. Kaz had nowhere to go, and no one to be with in England after the war. I wondered if he’d want to settle in Boston. Never mind that, I told myself. Make sure he doesn’t hang first.

  “Kaz, you need to see your tailor,” I said, shaking off the melancholy. “You’re busting the seams of that shirt.”

  “Do you think so, Billy? My collar feels tight also.” He put on his dress uniform jacket, the one he’d had tailored. It did look a little tight in the shoulders. There was a barely discernible patch of darker fabric where the red Poland patch had been. Kaz had been glad to be released back into service with SHAEF, and had cut the stitching with no regrets.

  “It’s true,” I said. “Those weights are working. You’ve got some real muscle.”

  Kaz beamed, proud of his new strength. I was glad of it, too. I knew I needed our morning workouts as well, to sweat out the alcohol I’d been dousing myself with. Some of it had been in the line of duty, but the rest was in the line of drowning my sorrows, worrying about Kaz and Diana, and feeling sorry for myself. I had to work at remembering I didn’t have it half as bad as Kaz, or everyone else in this war who might get in the way of a bullet. I started to down the rest of my drink, and then thought about what we might encounter that night at the Soviet Embassy. If it shaped up anything like the Poles and their vodka and the Chapmans and their gin, I needed to save my energy. I set the glass down. Moderation was my middle name.

  Shoes shined, ribbons and brass all in order, we put on trench coats and walked across Hyde Park to Bayswater Road, heading for the embassy. Clouds blew across the evening sky, and patches of stars shone through the breaks, glimmering on the still waters of the Serpentine.

  “It could be bombing weather tonight,” Kaz said, scanning the sky.

  “You don’t think it was an isolated raid?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Have you noticed the newspapers haven’t reported it yet? They don’t want it to appear as if it’s a new phase of the Blitz, but it could be. If there’s another attack, they’ll probably report it as nothing more than a nuisance raid, to keep morale up. The Germans will likely report a thousand planes destroyed the London docks. If you want the truth in this war, the last place to look is in a newspaper.”

  “Where, then?” I asked.

  “To people like Eddie Miller, and those who pay them.”

  “Who did you pay, Kaz, when you were with the Poles?”

  “Ah, a gentleman does not kiss and tell, or reveal his sources. There are Eddie Millers everywhere.”

  “Are there Russian Eddies?”

  “They proved quite difficult. There is a tremendous amount of fear, and of course they only go about in groups. It is hard to speak to a Russian alone.”

  “There was another guy in the room the whole time I was speaking to Sidorov.”

  “That is their system, which makes the killing of Egorov intriguing. Although the NKVD must be above the rules. I’m quite curious to meet this Captain Sidorov.”

  “You feel OK about going?”

  “Yes, I don’t think there will be overt hostility. As long as you don’t fall asleep during the opera.”

  “Elbow me if I snore. Looks like quite a gathering ahead,” I said, pointing to a line of cars parked in front of the embassy. British and American staff cars, black Rolls-Royces, and other private cars disgorged officers and ladies who made their way through a covered walkway into a formal side entrance. No burly guys in ill-fitting suits frisking these guests, just a Red Army officer with a clipboard.

  “Lieutenants Kazimierz and Boyle, welcome, on behalf of the peace-loving people of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I am Captain Rak Vatutin. Please, go in and enjoy some refreshments before the film starts. There will be a reception afterward.”

  “Thanks. How long is the film?” I asked.

  “I have not seen it yet,” Vatutin said. “But the opera is four acts with an epilogue. There is an intermission,” he said with an apologetic smile.

  We entered a large hallway filled with a mix of elegant evening gowns and dress uniforms. There were half a dozen colors, from the steel blue of the Red Air Force to the dark blues of three navies and the brown and khaki of Yanks, Brits, and Russians amidst a smattering of diplomats in tuxedos. I spotted Sidorov and he glided over, glad-handing as he went, the confident, genial host.

  “Captain Kiril Sidorov at your service, Lieutenant Kazimierz. Thank you so much for coming. Lieutenant Boyle, it is good to see you again.”

  “Thanks for the invite, Captain. What’s the occasion?”

  “Simply a cultural event, to show the world that even in the midst of war against the Fascist aggressor, the Soviet Union still attends to the arts. We often screen new films as they make their way here from Moscow.”

  “You’re a busy man,” I said. “Aren’t you in the middle of planning Operation Frantic?”

  “Billy,” Kaz said, “one does not bring up names directly, especially at an event like this.”

  “You Americans are so direct, aren’t you?” Sidorov said. “Lieutenant Kazimierz is correct, and not simply about the social niceties. The walls have ears, as the ancient Greek said. So, I must say, I have no idea what you are talking about. Here, have some vodka.” He signaled to a waiter, who brought a tray of tall, thin glasses over.

  “To victory,” Sidorov said.

  “To victory and freedom,” Kaz said. We drank, and three more glasses appeared.

  “You must eat something,” Sidorov said. “There are only a few minutes before we must be seated.” He led us to a long table, where senior brass were feeding like locusts. “We call this zukuski, little bites. Things to eat while you drink vodka. Enjoy, please, and I will see you inside.” He snapped his fingers, and Vatutin, fresh from clipboard duty, joined us. He guided us through a selection of pickled onions, caviar tarts, salmon pastry, beet salad, and half a dozen things I didn’t recognize.

  “Why do we rate all this attention?” I said as Vatutin went off in a search of a fresh tray of cold vodka. “Why do a couple of lieutenants get the royal treatment, in the midst of this high society?”

  “Perhaps Sidorov took a liking to you,” Kaz said. “I see what you mean about him. He is not as heavy-handed as most Russians, although he says all t
he right words.”

  “Think he believes them?”

  “In their system, belief does not matter as much as obedience. If he has survived this long, and has been posted here, it is because he is trusted and connected.”

  “Family connections?”

  “Not his family. We did manage to pick up a few tidbits of gossip about Kiril Sidorov. His parents died of typhus, and he was raised in a Soviet orphanage. From there he went straight into the Komsomol, the Communist youth organization. As soon as he was old enough, he began service with the NKVD border guards. Shortly before the war, he was transferred to internal security, courtesy of his wife’s father.” Kaz interrupted his story to wolf down another caviar tart.

  “How do you know all this, and why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Not every waiter and maid who works here is Russian,” Kaz whispered. “The walls do have ears. I couldn’t tell you before, but now I work for General Eisenhower, and I owe it to you to tell what I know, little that it is. No more than gossip, really.”

  “Gossip about Sidorov’s wife? He mentioned that she worked in Moscow at the Propaganda Ministry.”

  “Yes, she does. The talk is that he married well. Her father is an official in the People’s Commissariat for Justice, and that, combined with Sidorov’s intelligence and his all-Soviet upbringing, marked him as a fast-rising Red star.” Kaz stopped to smile at his own joke. “The posting here is undoubtedly a reward, and an indication that he is being groomed for higher service. He has a wife and child in Moscow, so they are fairly certain of his return.”

  “Fairly?”

  “One never knows about a man’s home life, or his inner life, so how could anything be certain?”

  “I’m not certain of much, Kaz, except that you’ll never get me to eat fish eggs.”

  “Here, comrades,” Vatutin said, easing up to us with three glasses. Ice cold vodka. One for the road, as you Americans say, yes?”

  “Yes,” Kaz said, raising his glass. “To Poland. First to fight.”

  “To Poland,” Vatutin said, downing the vodka in one shot, and licking his lips, his drunkenness showing through the veil of diplomacy and courtesy. His eyes lingered on Kaz before his jovial mask returned. “Come, the film is about to start. I will take you to your seats.”

  I followed, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread in my belly as a haze of dullness clouded my mind. Something told me to be careful, but I wasn’t sure why or of what or whom. Vatutin led us into a ballroom with a screen set up at one end. Our seats were up front, not in the first two rows with the bigwigs, but in the third, where Sidorov waited, chatting with Colonel Harding and Major Cosgrove. I would have been more impressed if the film was Casablanca. Some pea-brain diplomat had decided that French officials might not like how Vichy was depicted in it, so it was held back from the movies they sent to North Africa, and I never got to see it. The lights dimmed, and the crowd settled into their seats, the conversations and rustles of finery fading as the whir of the projector and the first seconds of static and flickering images of Russian lettering filled the screen. It went dark, and the opening credits rolled by in the odd undecipherable script, the opening scene showing a medieval village, with an old white-bearded guy center stage. Ivan Susanin, my guess. Everybody sang for a while, and then some soldiers marched in—the home team, from the reception they got. More singing. A girl, she looked to be Ivan’s daughter, was evidently sweet on one of the soldiers. They went up to Ivan, and the guy went through the age-old ritual of asking for her hand. Ivan said no. He wasn’t mad at the guy; he seemed to be explaining something to both of them. More singing and crying, until someone comes in with big news, and everyone celebrates. I think the kids can get married now. Scene fades to black.

  Next, we’re in a castle. The music is different, more harsh and primitive. I glance at Kaz, and there’s a hard look on his face, as if he’s angry at what he’s seeing, so I don’t bother to ask him what’s going on. The guys in the castle are singing and dancing, whooping it up over something. I can tell these are the bad guys, by the sneers on their faces, dark, hooded eyes, and ominous lighting. Then the music kicks off into what sounds like a polka, and I know why Kaz has that look. The bad guys are Poles.

  A messenger enters and sings out some news that gets everyone in an uproar. They pound fists on the table and look like they’re getting ready for trouble. So does Kaz, and I wonder when the intermission is. Not yet. We go to a humble peasant cabin in the woods. Ivan Susanin, the old Russian woodsman, sings some more, and the screen fades to a shot of a young noble boy being presented with a crown. Then I get it. The boy is the new czar, and the Poles don’t like it. Ivan is getting all weepy over the czar taking the throne, so it must be a big deal.

  Ivan’s family gathers around him—his son and daughter, plus the soldier she wants to marry. He gives them his blessing, which is pretty clear from the smiles on their faces. I think it’s got something to do with the czar. Maybe no czar, no wedding? Ivan is crazy for the czar, that much is clear. They all sing more than is necessary, especially the son, until a troop of Poles burst on the scene. Bad guys again, with the sneers and leers. They point at Ivan and his family, and the image cuts away to the young czar, hidden in a monastery. Seems the Poles are on the trail of the czar. Maybe Ivan and company know where he is?

  More singing, and I wonder how much they have to say. I’m following the plot and I don’t understand a single word. Ivan takes his son aside and tells him something, in a singing stage whisper. The son scoots out the door, and I figure he’s going to warn the boy czar. Then Ivan does some business with the Poles. Money changes hands, and as his daughter weeps, he leaves with them. What’s he up to?

  A single Russian word appeared on the screen that had to mean intermission, and I hoped the opera was more than half over. The projector pulled the film through and the screen went white as the lights came on. Coughs and rustling sounds filled the air as people got up. Kaz was rigid, his fists clenched on his knees.

  “This is an insult.” Each word loud, spit out between clenched teeth. “An insult!” Kaz stood, kicking his chair back into a couple of admirals who were making their way back to the booze.

  “Lieutenant Kazimierz,” Harding said. “At ease. We are guests here.”

  “You invited me here to see this?” Kaz said to Sidorov, pointing at the screen and ignoring Harding as he pushed by me to get closer to our host. “I did not recognize the name of this cleansed Soviet version, but this is A Life for the Czar, a fervent anti-Polish piece of propaganda.”

  “Lieutenant, this is the first authentic Russian opera. I thought someone with your refined tastes would find it interesting,” Sidorov said, his hands outstretched at his sides, palms up, as if bewildered at Kaz’s reaction, as a crowd gathered to listen. “Yes, the czarist elements have been revised somewhat, but it is still the same opera. Just a harmless entertainment.”

  “Interesting? Harmless? Only a Russian butcher would describe killing Poles as entertainment!” Kaz’s face was red, and he pushed by Harding, advancing on Sidorov, who stood motionless, waiting.

  “Hold, Lieutenant!” Cosgrove boomed out, his loud mouth used to good purpose for once. “Do not embarrass yourself or your uniform.”

  Kaz stood, trembling with rage, unwilling to push Cosgrove out of his way. “You’ll pay for this, Sidorov. I’ll see to that, God help me.” He turned and stormed by me. As I started to follow, I felt Harding’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Stay here, Boyle. We don’t want to antagonize the Russians any further. One walkout is enough. Sit.”

  “But, sir,” I said, as I felt his hand push me back into my seat.

  “Sit,” he repeated. “No more food or drink. When the damn film is over, we clap and leave. I don’t know what is going on here, but we’re not going to give them grounds for an incident.”

  “What was that all about?” I was surprised to hear Inspector Scutt from behind us. He was dressed in a well-worn
tuxedo with a winged-collar shirt that probably was the height of fashion around the turn of the century.

  “Nothing but a bit of a huff between the eastern Europeans,” Cosgrove said. “Temperamental, that lot. This all happened in the early 1600s, and it’s still fresh in their memories.”

  “Lieutenant Kazimierz took exception to the story line,” Harding said, glaring at Sidorov, who was deep in conversation with other guests. “

  I’m surprised he was invited at all,” Scutt said, “with the Russians and Poles at each other’s throats about their border claims and the Katyn Forest affair.”

  “It was a personal invitation from Kiril Sidorov,” I said. “You were invited as well, Inspector?”

  “I didn’t crash the party, if that’s what you mean. Yes, I was, and since my wife enjoys the opera, I was glad to attend. Can’t say I minded the food either. I haven’t seen some of those things since before the war. Enjoy the rest of the film. Strange, very strange,” he muttered to himself as he turned away, drawn to the call of the zukuski.

  It was strange. Sidorov was a smart guy. He had to figure the opera would upset Kaz or any Pole. Did he see Kaz as a fellow intellectual, expecting him to rise above the propaganda and enjoy the music? The lights flickered, and the room soon filled again.

  We start off in the woods, with the soldier—did he and the girl ever get married?—singing to his men. They seem to be following the old man and the Poles. He goes on for a while, and it seems to be a morale boost of some kind. Then the scene switches to Ivan’s son, at the monastery, where he warns the Russians guarding the boy czar. He points into the woods, and I get it. The Poles are coming, the Poles are coming. They take the czar to safety, wherever that is.

  Next we see Ivan, leading the Poles into the forest. Snow is blowing and they tramp farther and farther into the deep woods, where the trees are laden with snow, the branches twisted and hanging low to the ground. The Poles start to look frightened, and there is a lot of singing between them, but Ivan keeps pointing ahead, and suddenly it seems like I can understand. Just over that next hill, he’s saying, we’re almost there. Night falls, and the Poles hunker down, casting suspicious glances at the old man, who stands apart. Ivan sings a long aria, and he’s got to be saying his good-byes, to his children, his czar, his life. He’s led the Poles here, into the deep, dark forest, and they will never find their way out. Dawn comes, and as the Poles awake, a blizzard sets in along with the realization that they’ve been had. They break out the knives and kill Ivan Susanin.