I glanced at the pile of books on Kaz’s nightstand. He hadn’t exactly given up on his studies; there were several tomes in foreign languages among the foot-high stack of books and reports. With whatever the Polish Government in Exile had him doing, and his workout routine, I doubted he’d been having any fun.
“Why don’t we both get cleaned up and go out? We can catch up over dinner.”
“We can go down to the dining room or have room service bring something up if you’re too tired.”
“No, I want to stretch my legs and take a look around.”
“Very well. You’ll see London has changed since you were last here. There hasn’t been a Luftwaffe raid in months.”
I washed up, got into my Class A uniform, and showed off my first lieutenant’s bars to Kaz. He pretended to be impressed, but he was a baron, so I shouldn’t have expected much. As usual, he managed to outdo me in his hand-tailored dress uniform, making me look like a rumpled bumpkin. I rubbed my shoes on the back of my pants leg, hoping for the ghost of a shine.
We left the Dorchester amid greetings and tips of the hat. The main door was held open. Kaz was popular with the staff, not because of his status as a permanent guest, but due to his reason for staying there. Everyone knew the story of his family, and took pride in his dedication to the memory of their home away from home. It made everyone feel special to be associated with that. It was part of Kaz’s charm, and the shared suffering of the war that he embodied. It was as if, having failed to protect Poland, this little bit of England had decided to protect Kaz as best it could.
We walked through Berkeley Square, and I felt the return of the easy familiarity Kaz and I had shared, here and in Algiers. The square was swarming with GIs, sailors, and the occasional English soldier. Most were Yanks, laughing loudly, whistling at the few young women out on their own, living life, killing time. Generally, when we passed a group of them, they ignored us, but every now and then one guy would salute, and we’d have to respond.
“If it wasn’t for the extra pay and better food, I’d hate being an officer,” I said.
“You wouldn’t be a very good enlisted man either, Billy. Tell me, how is Diana? Have you seen her lately?”
I told him about our little boat ride to the Isle of Capri. It had been two days ago, but already it felt like forever.
“Is her mission on?” Kaz asked in a whisper.
“Yeah. I think it’s the Vatican,” I said, lowering my voice as well. I don’t know whom I expected to overhear us, but I couldn’t help it. I told Kaz about my brilliant guesswork, and Diana’s reaction.
“Sometimes, I think for a smart detective, you are quite stupid.”
“Geez, Kaz,” I said, steamed at the remark. But then I thought about it, and found it hard to debate the point. “I do always seem to put my foot in it with Diana. We’re OK, though. I think.”
“Good. Women seem difficult to understand for Americans. Or perhaps you understand American women better than others?” Even in the dark of the blackout, I could see Kaz smiling.
“Yeah, I got them nailed, no problem. Hey, watch out.” We’d turned onto Regent Street, where the sidewalk was blocked by a neat stack of bricks. The pile was shoulder-high, and stretched along the road, broken every ten feet or so by a narrow passage to the vacant lot beyond. The smell of smoke and dust lay thick upon them. Beyond the bricks was a gaping hole where a building had once stood.
“The remains of homes and shops,” Kaz said. “Everything but the bricks bombed and burned away. All this once held life.” He trailed his fingers along the bricks, and I found I had to touch them as well. They were rough to the touch, and the smell of years of London’s coal smoke, the grit of collapsed buildings, and the soot from raging fires lingered on my hand. The odor of the Blitz. We passed another long row of empty spaces and more of the tidy piles of bricks salvaged from the rubble. Some of the lots had been cleared and planted with gardens. It was a warm December, at least by Boston standards, and I wondered if they had any winter crops still in the ground. I remembered my mother saying she liked to keep parsnips in the garden past the first frost since it made them sweeter, and suddenly I could see her hands cradling the good china, placing a steaming bowl of mashed parsnips on the table at Thanksgiving.
“Billy, we are here,” Kaz said, standing by the restaurant door. I had walked several paces on.
“Sorry,” I said. “Daydreaming.” I followed Kaz into Bertorelli’s, where of course the headwaiter knew him. I tried to shake off the visions of home but they stayed with me, an insistent ache I couldn’t dismiss. I had been away almost two years now, and I’d begun to wonder how long it would be before I returned.
I followed Kaz to the table. It was in a back corner, chairs arranged so they both faced the room. The place held about a dozen tables, with a small bar up front. It was almost full. Uniforms of blue, brown, and khaki draped most of the customers, male and female. The few folks in civilian clothes looked dowdy compared to everyone else. Clothes were rationed, as well as food, and the fashionable thing to do was to wear the oldest suit you had, to show you were doing your bit. Except for more wear and tear, that hadn’t changed since I’d last been in London.
“Backs to the wall?” I asked. “Are you expecting trouble, Kaz?”
“You’ve taught me to be observant, Billy. Remember when you told me I should start noticing more than women and artwork when I enter a room?”
“Yes, I do. Seems like a long time ago.”
“Yes. In many ways, it was. I’ve learned that it is wise to be in a position to observe things, and one cannot do that facing a wall.”
“True,” I said, wondering if there was anything else to it. Kaz’s eyes swept the room, checking each table. I did the same, and found nothing but the usual assortment of brass, dames, and civilians. “Are you looking for someone?”
“No. Just looking at faces, checking the exits,” he said with a sly grin. There was a new strength in Kaz’s face, a hard determination where before there had been wryness disguising a great hurt. But there was something else, something he was holding back.
Our waiter appeared, who seemed to be an old friend of his. Kaz chose the fillets of beef for us both, and selected a red wine that sounded expensive.
“To obtain a really good meal in London is still possible, but one must be ingenious,” he said in a low voice after the waiter left. “The government has prohibited charging any more than five shillings for a meal, to contain the black market. It makes it difficult to get some things, like a decent cut of beef, but if one orders a good bottle with it, the beef miraculously improves.”
“Everyone’s got an angle,” I said. “And I’m glad you worked this one out. The last thing I had to eat was a cheese sandwich that had been made in Gibraltar.”
Kaz laughed and crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. I heard a faint, soft clunk and looked for the source. There was a lump in one of the lower front pockets of Kaz’s uniform jacket, and when he moved it had hit the side of the chair.
“Are you carrying, Kaz?”
“Just a precaution.”
“A precaution? In London? What kind of peashooter do you have there anyway?”
“A Colt. 32-caliber automatic. I understand it is a model favored by American gangsters for its ease of concealment. I read that Al Capone always carries one in his jacket pocket.”
“Kaz,” I said, leaning over the table. “What is going on? Don’t give me that gangster riff, and tell me what the hell you need a piece for to go out to a London restaurant.” The waiter brought the wine, and Kaz went through his tasting ritual, acting like nothing was wrong.
“Welcome back to England, Billy,” Kaz said, raising his glass in a toast.
“Cheers,” I said, watching his eyes. We drank, and I set my glass down. “Spill.”
“It is difficult to explain,” he began. “You have heard of the Polish officers found in the Katyn Forest, yes?”
“Yeah, that was back in the spring, right?”
“April. The Germans broadcast the news that the bodies of ten thousand Polish officers had been found in mass graves deep inside the Katyn Forest, in Russia. Outside of Smolensk, to be precise. They had just taken that area, and the local peasants told them where to look.”
“I remember. It was in the newspapers. The Russians said it was Nazi propaganda, that the Germans had
