Rag and Bone (22 page)

“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.

Then comes the epilogue. We’re in Moscow, Red Square by the look of the buildings. The boy czar made it there safely, and everyone sings his praises. Ivan’s son and daughter and her husband look despondent. Maybe he found Ivan and the dead Poles? They have a conversation with some Russian troops, who lead them into the square. It looks like the people know what
Ivan did, and the film closes with songs of triumph, the masses heralding their new boss and the hero of the hour.

The applause was loud and instantaneous. Harding and I clapped twice, out of diplomatic courtesy only, but I had to admit, it was a rousing ending. Good propaganda for the international opera crowd. The wily Russian defeating the invader, sacrificing himself for the greater good.

“Please give my apologies to your Polish friend, Lieutenant Boyle,” Sidorov said as we passed him at the end of the row. “I meant no insult by inviting him here. I thought sharing a common love of the opera would be a way to bridge the gap between us.”

“Do you know all the likes and dislikes of officers serving with the Polish government in London?” I asked. “Don’t any others like the opera?”

“You are not a naive man, Lieutenant. Surely you can understand why I would extend the hand of friendship to Lieutenant Kazimierz. He is your friend, and you are General Eisenhower’s nephew. And it is my business to know the likes and dislikes of important and influential people in London, even those of mere lieutenants. For instance,” Sidorov said, leaning in to whisper in my ear, “I know you care very much for a certain young British woman, who at this moment may be at great risk behind enemy lines.” Sidorov stood back and smiled, enjoying the look of astonishment on my face. Then he allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of guests leaving the ballroom, in search of cold vodka and lukewarm little bites.

“What did Sidorov say to you?” Harding asked as we walked out into the cold night air.

“He basically told me they have a spy in MI5,” I said. “He knows about Diana.”

“What about her?”

“That she and I are an item, and that she is at risk behind the lines.”

“You and she aren’t a secret, Boyle.”

“But that she’s a spy? He has to have inside information. But why tell me? It didn’t sound like a threat in any way, it was said casually.”

“It could be anything,” Harding said. “They could have a sympathizer in MI5, or one of their own agents came into contact with her. Whichever, you stay out of it, and get down to Dover tomorrow. I’ll inform Major Cosgrove first thing in the morning. We’ll put Diana’s file on a need-to-know basis. Meanwhile, you tell Lieutenant Kazimierz to take a week’s leave. Tell him to lie low, go to the country, whatever. Got that?”

Before I could answer, the wail of sirens rose from all around us, and searchlights to the east, past Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, switched on and stabbed at the darkness. The steady beat of antiaircraft fire filled the air along with tracers and explosive
crumps
as shells exploded in the sky.

“There, over the docks,” Harding said, pointing. With the parks in front of us, we had a clear view toward the east, and we could see lines of explosions as bombs hit all around the river. This raid was better organized than the one the other night. Instead of scattered bombs, the Luftwaffe bombers were in tight formation, and their bomb loads fell as one, sending thundering explosions through the factories, warehouses, docks, and homes of the East End.

We walked through Hyde Park, watching the destruction at a distance, feeling oddly safe and suicidal at the same time. One bomber went down in flames, lighting up a distant section of the city as it slammed into buildings on its final fiery assault. In the glare of the searchlights I spotted two parachutes, and wondered if the aircrew would survive the drop into a city, or be consumed by flames reaching into the sky. Within minutes the bombs stopped, but the desperate firing kept up, until it too faded away, leaving only the sounds of sirens and secondary explosions to echo across the wounded city. Flames glowed in the distance, muted by the smoke churned up and sent to drift on the wind, as if protecting our eyes from the brilliant immolation of flesh, steel, and stone.