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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kaz was back at the hotel, sitting in the dark, in front of the windows that faced Hyde Park, the drapes wide open. The reflected glow of the fires from the East End gave the bare trees a desperate, terrified look, as if their branches were arms raised in horror, ready to scream and bolt from the cold, hard earth.
“You shouldn’t sit in front of the glass,” I said, settling for an air-raid warden’s warning since I didn’t know what else to say.
“The bombing is over. Only the fires remain.” Kaz drained his glass, then poured himself more vodka. His uniform jacket was thrown over the back of the chair, his tie was loose, and his revolver sat on the table next to him. I joined him, resigned to more hard liquor, hoping it would either dull me into uncaring sleep or sharpen my mind, granting some insight into what was going on around me. I knew it was a foolish wish, and that nothing would come of it but a headache and regret. Still, I drank.
“Interesting night,” I said.
“I lost control,” Kaz said. “Once I recognized the opera, I knew he had invited me as a deliberate provocation. A Life for the Czar was the first Russian opera, but the Communists changed the title, I assume, so as not to give the czar top billing.”
“Harding wants you to lie low for a while. Maybe leave London for a few days.”
“That’s all? I am surprised I haven’t lost my commission.”
“Maybe that’s why he wants you to scram, before it comes to that.”
“You know, Billy, it is a horrible thing to have your country occupied by the Nazis, with the only liberation it can look forward to coming from the Soviet Union. Poles are fighting and dying, but for what? The Americans and English turn a blind eye to the murders of thousands of Polish officers by the Russians, and meanwhile Stalin lays claim to a postwar border that annexes a third of Poland. Tell me, Billy, what have they died for-all the Poles in the RAF, the Royal Navy, and the infantry in Italy? To trade a Fascist master for a dictatorship of the proletariat? Tell me.”
“Could you stand by and do nothing? Not fight one dictator because of another?”
“No. I don’t think so,” Kaz said. He began to pour another glass, but set down the bottle. “Better to hope that something honorable will come out of this war than to sit on the sidelines.”