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 the 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.”