“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 emigre Poles in London were blamed for sowing discord among the Allies.
“Emigres,” 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 emigres 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 out 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?”