“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?”
“You sound like you’ve spoken those lines before,” I said. It was all I could say. I was almost ready to confess.
“Every actor has his choice. To speak the lines or have no lines to speak. Do you see how easy life is in the Soviet Union? A multitude of choices is dizzying to the average Russian. It is why I must shepherd my flock, like a priest, to keep them holy.”
“A priest also forgives and shows mercy.”
“Another time, perhaps, there will be mercy. For now, the Soviet Union must be merciless to our enemies, wherever we find them. Does that shock you, Billy? Do you show mercy to criminals in your city?”
“Back home, we enforce the law. The same law for all.”
“Ah, yes. The same law for all. With liberty and justice for all, is that not what you Americans pledge? Yet you keep your Negroes in ghettos, and hang them when they step out of line, do you not?”
“No, I don’t. It happens, but it’s against the law.”
“So the police in your southern states, they apprehend the murderers of Negroes, and bring them to justice?”
“Listen, I don’t make excuses for what’s wrong in my country. Maybe you should do the same.”
“Forgive me, Billy, I did not mean to offend. We are taught that your country is wild territory, with gangsters, capitalists, and racists oppressing the workers and peasants.”
“We don’t have peasants. We have poor folks. And we have our share of the rest, too. But right now I’m more concerned about who oppressed Gennady Egorov and why. What do you really think?”
“Between us? I would not repeat this in front of anyone else, but he was an arrogant idiot, and angered everyone he worked with. Half a dozen people would have gladly killed him, and more were glad to hear of his death. We must demand a public investigation, but no one but his father will care, and he is in Moscow.”
“Of those half a dozen, how many would have thought of pinning it on the Poles?”
“All, I’d say. The crisis over the rightful Polish government and the Katyn affair has preoccupied us. It would be an obvious ruse.”
“OK, since we’re talking off the record, how about telling me about that shipment?”
“What shipment? More food?”
“No, not food. The big shipment, coming any day now, the really valuable one,” I said, as if I knew more.
“Sorry, my friend, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What about Vatutin? Would he know anything about it?”
“Rak? Oh no, he’s a good one for taking orders, but that’s all. If I don’t know about it, I can assure you he doesn’t. Now excuse me, I need to meet him at the rugby club. Those lads can almost outdrink a Russian.” I watched Sidorov talk with the tableful of Russian and English officers before he left. He had a casual way about him that put westerners at ease. His style was suave, which made him likable, all laughs and handshakes. But his countrymen eyed him as he left, and they seemed to breathe a perceptible sigh of relief as the door closed on his back.
A few minutes later I was outside, too, buttoning the collar of my trench coat against the cold night air and the breeze off the channel. I would have seen Kaz if he’d come back to the inn, so I knew he was still out there. I thought he’d either walk along the water or head up above the cliffs to the castle. There weren’t many places open in Dover. Most of the population-many women and most children-had been evacuated during the worst of the Blitz, so there was a shortage of functioning pubs and no other entertainment. I walked along the deserted promenade, watching for Kaz and wondering if any Luftwaffe aircrew were lurking nearby. If so, they probably were thanking their lucky stars they’d landed in England and not at the Russian front.
I came to the end of the promenade and walked along a street where the houses nestled in under the white cliffs. There were no lights and little moonlight, and I turned around, deciding Kaz could pass me on the other side of the street and I wouldn’t be able to see him. I found a footpath leading up to the castle, and pretty soon I wasn’t feeling the cold at all. I trudged up, wishing I’d worn boots instead of my dress browns. Or maybe it was the three ales I’d had. Either way, by the time I got to the top, I was winded, cursing Kaz, certain he was climbing the steps at the inn to his warm bed right now.
I stopped to catch my breath and turned around, facing the channel. A wooden bench was thoughtfully set by the path to afford a view out over the water. I took advantage of it. Even in the pitch black, the view was beautiful. Starlight reflected off low waves and sparkled on the breakers. I could make out one or two vehicles, light leaking from their blackout slits, making their way down the coast road. I heard footsteps ahead of me, and I turned from the view to follow, hoping it might be Kaz. I walked carefully by the cliff edge, toward a gate guarded by a couple of sentries silhouetted against the night sky. Beyond them, I could see the snout of an antiaircraft gun pointed toward France. I heard a noise close by, but it was too dark to make out anything except a low, dark shape on the side of the path.
“Who goes there?” It was one of the sentries, advancing with his bayoneted rifle.
“Help,” a voice croaked weakly from my right before I could answer. It was Kaz. I moved closer, putting my hand on his shoulder. He was kneeling over a body. It was facedown on the ground, lying in that graceless pose that only death can arrange.
“What’s this then?” the sentry demanded, shining his flashlight on us. I squinted against the sudden light, but not before I noticed four things, none of them good. The body wore the pale blue greatcoat of a Soviet Air Force officer. As I leaned closer, I saw it was Rak Vatutin. The back of his head was a dark red mess, and Kaz’s hand rested on a lichen-encrusted rock that had its share of the same. What’s this then, indeed?