Rag and Bone: Billy Boyle 05

by James R Benn

  I found Kaz in his room, sitting by the window, staring at the destroyed building across the street. Newspapers were strewn on the bed and all across the floor. The Times, the Daily Mail, the Daily Express. A bottle of vodka was at his elbow, one quarter empty, and no glass in sight. I didn’t think the war was over, so I knew it wasn’t a celebration.

  “German guilt,” Kaz said, in a harsh, snorting laugh.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at the headlines. The report of the Soviet Special Commission on the Katyn Forest Massacre. The press is swallowing their fabrications whole. Look, the Times itself, it does nothing but quote the Russian report! German guilt, indeed. The Germans are guilty of so much, why not this, too? It is only the facts that stand in the way of that argument, Billy. But those facts are too inconvenient to appear in print.” He took a swig from the bottle and slammed it down on the table.

  I picked up the paper and read. The article was headed “Report of Russian Commission,” with the words “German Guilt” quoted beneath it. Kaz was right—it was nothing but one long recitation of the Russian findings. It stated that the local populace confirmed that the Poles were shot by the Germans in 1941, after they were captured while working as POWs on construction projects. The fact that none of the local populace was available to be interviewed was not mentioned, nor the evidence that none of those Polish officers was alive after 1940. The émigré Poles in London were blamed for sowing discord among the Allies.

  “Émigrés,” Kaz said. “It makes us sound like traitors who left Poland of our own accord. But they refer to the Poles in Russia as the Union of Polish Patriots in the USSR. Why are they, too, not called émigrés in the Times?”

  I didn’t answer, but not because I didn’t know. The fix was in. Poland was taking another knife in the back. I flipped through the pages and found more bad news. The Russians were refusing to discuss the Polish border with their allies, the London Poles included. They planned on taking eastern Poland for themselves, setting the new border at the Curzon Line, which was roughly the same border they’d established with the Nazis when they both invaded Poland.

  “You see that the Polish Government in Exile has asked for talks with the Soviets, with the Americans and British as intermediaries,” Kaz said. “The Soviets rejected the idea. The response from our Western allies is silence. Look through all these newspapers. All you will see is stories of the Russian offensives and General Eisenhower’s arrival in London. It’s all there; any fool can see it. Poland is too unimportant to come between these grand allies.”

  “You’re not unimportant,” I said to Kaz, sitting next to him. I took a swig from the bottle and let it burn down my throat.

  “But I am right,” he said.

  “Maybe we can talk to Ike?”

  “Billy, you are a good friend. But the general takes his orders from politicians. And you know how much he wishes to minimize casualties. Why would he alienate over six million Soviet troops fighting the Nazis right now? Eastern Poland will be taken over by the Soviet Union, and what land we have left will be ruled by Communist puppets. Ironic, isn’t it? The war will end as it started. Poland betrayed and overrun.”

  He took a long swallow, as if the bottle held spring water.

  “I am going out. They say from the cliffs, you can see the flashes of the big railway guns when the Germans fire them across the channel. That would be interesting,” Kaz said, wobbling a bit as he stood.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  “No, I will not be very good company. I need fresh air. Air from occupied France, perhaps, blown across the water. Do you think it smells differently than free air?” He put on his coat, stuffed his revolver in his pocket, and adjusted his cap.

  “Kaz,” I said, not knowing what he intended.

  “Don’t worry, Billy. There will be too few Poles left alive after the Germans and Russians get through with us. I will not add to the carnage.” He smiled, a lopsided, scarred grin that made him look slightly insane and totally in control of himself at the same time. “Did you see the fellow watching the inn? Man with a muffler?”

  “Yeah, I did. Who do you think it is?”

  “I really do not care. But be careful. Good night, Billy.”

  I watched Kaz walk down the street, his greatcoat collar turned up against the cold wind. The workers were gone, the ruined building a gaping, stark reminder of all that might be lost in a moment. I went to my room, and thought about some shut-eye, but the vodka was warm in my gut, reminding me that lunch in Shepherdswell had been quite a while ago. I went down to the bar and ordered the local ale and Woolton pie, which was an invention of rationing, some sort of vegetable mixture topped with mashed potatoes and baked in a piecrust. It was named after the head of the Ministry of Food, which didn’t inspire confidence, but it did taste better than it had a right to. Maybe it was because it was warm, and I was indoors, not in a jeep, or deep underground. Or in a nation occupied by Nazis or Communists.

  “Care for some company, Peaches?” The harsh voice of Archie Chapman jolted me as I raised my glass. He didn’t wait for an invitation, but sat down at my table. I looked back to the bar and saw Topper leaning against it. He touched his fingers to his forehead and gave me a little salute.

  “What brings you to Dover?” I asked, trying to hide my surprise. Archie leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned his overcoat. It was a double-breasted tweed, and there looked to be plenty of room within the folds for a hidden bayonet. Topper brought a large whiskey to the table and set it in front of his father, and then returned to his post at the bar. Archie brought the glass to his mouth, and wrapped his lips around the rim, drinking down half the liquid.

  “You, Peaches. You brought us to Dover. Courtesy of a fellow at your motor pool, who shared your destination with us. You know, sometimes I can’t decide between violence and bribery. Both work so well, but each takes something out of you. Violence, it brings out the ugliness inside a man. And then regret, maybe. But bribery, that’s hard-earned cash, gone! But it leaves everyone happier, don’t you think?”

  “What do you want?” I was in no mood for another philosophical discussion with Archie. He finished the rest of the whiskey and slammed the glass down for Topper to fetch another. He leaned in, his breath hot, woody, and sweet with alcohol, and stared, fixing me like a bird of prey. I couldn’t look away, I couldn’t move. Finally he leaned back, closed his eyes, and gave me an answer of sorts.

  Here we will moor our lonely ship

  And wander ever with woven hands,

  Murmuring softly lip to lip,

  Along the grass, along the sands,

  Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands.

  “You know those unquiet lands, don’t you, Peaches?” Archie said, after a look around the room to see who might have admired his fine voice. “Isn’t it better to murmur softly, lip to lip?”

  “All depends on what you’re murmuring,” I said.

  “Ha! You don’t understand. You probably don’t even recognize your own Irish poet, William Butler Yeats. A fine fellow, for an Irishman.”

  Yeats. It sounded familiar. I was sure that’s who had written the book of poetry we’d seen at the house in Shepherdswell. Kaz had read a few lines, and I struggled to remember, if only to show up this poetic maniac. “Yeats,” I said. “He wrote one of my favorites.”

  Now that my ladder’s gone

  I must lie down where all the ladders start

  In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

  “By God, you do have a brain, Peaches. Who would have thought you cared for anything but chasing killers and thieves? I’m impressed, and glad you know something of your heritage, misguided as it may be. But enough talk of verse, it’s time for straight prose. Did you deliver your lines?”

  “Yes, this afternoon.”

  “To Vatutin, shut up in that great fortress?”

  “Yes. Is that why you followed me?”

  “What we set ou
t to do is important, Peaches. When I shake on something, it gets done. No regrets, no looking back. Now, tell me, did you get a reply?”

  “No. Actually, he looked confused.”

  “Good! Confusion to our enemies! Ha! Now if this works well, I will owe you for your troubles. Wait for the reply to come. Do those Russians ever leave the castle?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, not wanting Archie running after Russians with bayonet drawn. “Maybe with an escort.”

  “We will watch, Peaches. We will wait and watch, only a short distance away, but unseen. Just around the corner like.” With that, Archie winked, rose, and walked out.

  “Thanks, Billy,” Topper said, as he pushed off from the bar. “No hard feelings about following you down?”

  “No, I should’ve thought about it. You wouldn’t have been hard to spot in that line of military traffic.”

  “Don’t count on it. We have a staff car of our own.”

  “Tell me, Topper,” I said. “Do you still want to join up? Like when you first tried and your dad got you out?” His eyes went hard, and his easy manner vanished. “You shut your mouth, Boyle. I don’t take that talk from anyone.”

  “I was serious. I’m not questioning you. But others will, after the war. Like those who lost their men, all those Shoreditch boys who joined up and bought the farm. And the ones who come back, who know hard steel and killing, they’ll look at you, too, and wonder if you deserve to lord it over them. Archie’s a tough one, he’s seen the elephant, they’ll respect him. But how long does he have? How long before it’s Topper Chapman running things? Hey, it may work out fine, they may think you were smart to stay a civilian. I know I wish I had.”

  Topper was rigid, his face red, lips compressed. I watched his hands, figuring there was a one-in-five chance he’d pull a knife or use his knuckles on me. Instead, he stuffed them into his pockets, and followed his father out the door. I let out a sigh. I didn’t know where it might lead, but I thought this might be where I could drive a wedge between Archie and Topper. Threaten Topper with the loss of respect, and threaten Archie with the loss of his son. I didn’t like it much, but it was all I had.

  I got myself another ale and tried to figure what I had that added up. A drunken friend wandering the streets, feeling betrayed. A crazy criminal waiting for a message from a Russian. Something obviously valuable making its way to the Russian Embassy. A Russian traitor, feeding information to the Chapman gang. Or was “traitor” too strong a word? A crooked Russian like Rak Vatutin, selling, not feeding, information. But what was he after? What could he take back with him to the Soviet Union that would convert to wealth in a Communist system? It still didn’t make sense.

  But I did have something new. Egorov had been in charge of the hijacked shipments, and he’d been a stickler for the rules. That meant either he was the stoolie, or someone else was and it was making him look bad. Based on what Vatutin and Sidorov had said, and how the other Russians had reacted to questions about him, my money was on the latter. Had Egorov gone after the tipster, and found out more than was healthy for him? Maybe Archie and his gang had eliminated him after all and tried to pin it on the Poles.

  I took a drink, hoping the confused swirl of facts in my mind would settle into some sort of pattern. They didn’t, but at least the ale tasted good. I set the glass down, and noticed the wet circles where the glass had sat on the wood tabletop. Some overlapped, some stood alone. That was the problem, figuring out which facts overlapped and which didn’t. Was Sheila Carlson out of the picture? Was her circle gone, disappeared, dead? I set the glass down again. Egorov, dead. Again. Eddie Miller, dead. Two separate circles. Valerian Radecki, his circle overlapped Eddie’s. Tadeusz Tucholski had his own circle, crowded by Sheila, Eddie, Kaz, and Radecki. Sheila Carlson’s circle went down over Eddie’s, Radecki’s, and Kaz’s. The glass went down for Sidorov, taking in Eddie and Egorov. I gave Vatutin a circle, linked to Egorov and Sidorov. It was getting messy, which didn’t surprise me. Then the Chapman outfit got one, taking in Egorov, since he was found on their turf, and Vatutin. But that still didn’t tell the whole story. Vatutin might be just the messenger. It could be any of the Russians, Sidorov or even someone back at the embassy, it was impossible to tell.

  I wiped away the condensation with the palm of my hand, my suspicions damp and clammy on my skin. A group of three Russian airmen and a couple of Royal Navy officers entered, the pale blue Soviet Air Force uniforms contrasting with the deep blue of the British Navy. The Russians looked away when I glanced in their direction, probably uncomfortable after our earlier talks. What was it like, always wondering who was denouncing whom? How different was it in Soviet Russia or Nazi Germany? In both places, you had to appear purer than pure if you didn’t want to end up at the end of a rope or against the wall. What choice did they have but to be suspicious?

  I finished my ale and got up to leave. No sense ruining their party. I pulled on my coat and stepped outside, deciding to look for Kaz. I nearly collided with Sidorov, who was half turned, looking up at the night sky.

  “Look,” he said, pointing to the southwest, and I understood he meant to listen. The distant, insistent drone of engines came from a corner of the sky. He opened the door and spoke in rapid Russian, and soon we were all out in the street, watching and listening. The stars were hidden behind clouds to the east, but to the south and west the sky was clear.

  “There!” someone shouted, his hand pointing to a barely visible twinkling, as the German bombers passed in front of stars, their engines growing louder and louder. The Russians were jabbering excitedly to each other as the antiaircraft batteries around the castle started up, first the 40mm Bofors guns streaming tracers skyward, followed by intense beams of searchlights stabbing at the sky, trying to get a fix on the direction of the bomber stream. Then the big guns, 3.75-inch antiaircraft cannon, began blasting the sky, sending up shells rigged to explode at various altitudes.

  The searchlights caught first one, then two, planes, providing a target for the gunners. The aircraft were passing Dover at an angle, and I could see the tracers and explosions arc toward the northeast, following the German bombers as they headed toward the Thames and the London docks to the north. The firing continued for another minute, and then the guns went silent and the searchlights switched off, leaving us in stunned silence and darkness.

  Sidorov grabbed my shoulder and pointed, saying something rapidly in Russian. It was an orange flame, flying through the night sky, going down, down to the ground, shot out of the sky by the Dover air defenses. Another smaller flame lost altitude but held its course, descending and growing larger as it disappeared over the northern horizon to the cheers of the crowd.

  “That’s two less for London to worry about, lads,” one of the Royal Navy officers said.

  “Aye,” said a constable who’d joined the crowd. “But it’ll be another long night for us and the Home Guard. The crew could’ve bailed out before she went over. They could be anywhere from the cliffs or as far up as Shepherdswell if they waited another minute.”

  “In Russia,” one of the Soviets said, “you would not have to search. You would find only their corpses.”

  “Well, sir, this is England, so we must search,” the constable said, before addressing two men in civilian clothes. “Bert, Tom, get your gear, we’ll form up at town hall in thirty minutes. Good night, gentlemen,” he said to us.

  “Good night, Constable, and good luck with your search,” Sidorov said, his politeness belying his earlier cold-blooded comments. “Come, Billy, let us toast the downing of the bombers and the search for prisoners,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder like a brother in arms.

  “OK,” I said, figuring on one last drink, then I’d look for Kaz. Maybe I could get something out of Sidorov, if only I knew what questions to ask.

  We sat in the corner, where Sidorov could keep an eye on his fellow Russians, watching for any lessening of Bolshevik fervor. He’d ordered ale with me at the bar, and as
he tasted it, he grinned.

  “Good English ale,” he said. “Better than our Zhiguli.”

  “Is that a type of ale?”

  “No, it is the only brand of beer we have. Soviet efficiency.”

  “I didn’t know Russians were big beer drinkers,” I said.

  “We have a passion for vodka, it is true. Beer is what you drink when you’ve had too much vodka the night before. Or when you want to keep a clear head. But still, you drink.” I thought how much that applied to me, since I’d started spending so much time with Poles and Russians.

  “Is it true, what he said about searching for downed fliers in Russia?” I pointed to the men at the other table.

  “After what the Germans did when they invaded, it is doubtful that any aircrew who survived parachuting would also survive an encounter with our people. Yes, it is likely that only their corpses would be found. Stripped naked, every item of clothing gone. Even if a peasant were willing to let a German live, he wouldn’t let him be taken away wearing warm boots and a leather flying jacket.”

  “That constable must have sounded quaint to you.”

  “The English and the Americans, I believe, have many beers and ales. We have one. It makes the choice easy. Drink or do not drink. Just as we do not have the luxury of deciding how to deal with our enemies any more than with our thirst. Kill or be killed. Those are our choices.”

  “There’s a difference between killing in combat and killing a prisoner for his boots.”

  “Ah, yes. A fine distinction. One made in a warm room, drinking excellent ale, with no security police listening. Except for myself, of course,” Sidorov said with a disarming grin, leaning in closer, his voice low, his eyes burning into mine. “But in the Soviet Union, mercy given to the Fascist invader may be interpreted as disloyalty. So the living prisoner with his hands up, begging for his life, may be your death sentence. He could be a dagger aimed straight at your heart. What would you do, Billy? Take a chance and let him live, this man who dropped bombs on your village, who machine-gunned refugees on a crowded road? Have a man like me come and question you, to ask why you did not save the state the trouble of housing and feeding this criminal? To ask, are you perhaps sympathetic to the Fascists? Is that why did you not take his boots, his leather belt, his gloves, his coat? Why did you not at least beat him, comrade?”