by intense beams of searchlights stabbing at the sky, trying to get a fix on the direction of the bomber stream. Then the big guns, 3.75-inch antiaircraft cannon, began blasting the sky, sending up shells rigged to explode at various altitudes.
The searchlights caught first one, then two, planes, providing a target for the gunners. The aircraft were passing Dover at an angle, and I could see the tracers and explosions arc toward the northeast, following the German bombers as they headed toward the Thames and the London docks to the north. The firing continued for another minute, and then the guns went silent and the searchlights switched off, leaving us in stunned silence and darkness.
Sidorov grabbed my shoulder and pointed, saying something rapidly in Russian. It was an orange flame, flying through the night sky, going down, down to the ground, shot out of the sky by the Dover air defenses. Another smaller flame lost altitude but held its course, descending and growing larger as it disappeared over the northern horizon to the cheers of the crowd.
“That’s two less for London to worry about, lads,” one of the Royal Navy officers said.
“Aye,” said a constable who’d joined the crowd. “But it’ll be another long night for us and the Home Guard. The crew could’ve bailed out before she went over. They could be anywhere from the cliffs or as far up as Shepherdswell if they waited another minute.”
“In Russia,” one of the Soviets said, “you would not have to search. You would find only their corpses.”
“Well, sir, this is England, so we must search,” the constable said, before addressing two men in civilian clothes. “Bert, Tom, get your gear, we’ll form up at town hall in thirty minutes. Good night, gentlemen,” he said to us.
“Good night, Constable, and good luck with your search,” Sidorov said, his politeness belying his earlier cold- blooded comments. “Come, Billy, let us toast the downing of the bombers and the search for prisoners,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder like a brother in arms.
“OK,” I said, figuring on one last drink, then I’d look for Kaz. Maybe I could get something out of Sidorov, if only I knew what questions to ask.
We sat in the corner, where Sidorov could keep an eye on his fellow Russians, watching for any lessening of Bolshevik fervor. He’d ordered ale with me at the bar, and as he tasted it, he grinned.
“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
