James Benn: Rag and Bone

“Yes,” I whispered. “How…” I didn’t have to finish, the question was obvious.

“The NKVD officer, the one who had questioned me. He was there, and he had a list of names. There were six of us. You see, he’d had appendicitis. He was in hospital, and hadn’t finished his interrogations. He was angry that we’d been sent to the forest with the others, since he needed to produce confessions. Well, a dead man can’t confess, can he? He had a guard detail, and they beat us, but that was nothing. They put us into a Tshorni Voron and drove us to the NKVD prison in Smolensk.”

“A what?”

“Tshorni Voron, Black Raven in Russian. A special NKVD bus for transporting prisoners. Locked compartments on either side, just big enough for one person to squat. You can’t stand, can’t sit. When you see the Black Raven, you see death itself.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“No, I didn’t,” Tadeusz said mournfully. “They sent four of us to Lubyanka, the main NKVD prison in Moscow. I never saw any of the others again. I never saw the NKVD officer again. Nobody came for me; they just fed me and kept me in a cell. They didn’t even beat me. I think they forgot about me, or lost my file, or perhaps the NKVD man was denounced and he was in the cell next to mine, I have no idea. One day, a guard came and gave me extra food and clean clothes. The next day, they put me in a truck with ten other Poles. I don’t talk to anyone, I don’t trust them. But they put us on a train, a real train, not in a railcar, but in a car with real seats. We got off in Buzul’uk, and there were Poles everywhere. They tell us the Nazis invaded Russia, and now the Russians want us to fight the Germans. But I trust no one. They send us through Persia, to Palestine, and the British give us uniforms, and food, and everyone asks about the camps. But I say nothing. Do you understand?”

“You don’t speak, because if you did, you’d have to tell the story,” I said.

“Yes! Yes, you do understand. I did not speak at all, not one word, not in Buzul’uk, not in Persia, or Palestine, or Egypt. Not on the ship, not in London, until I came here. Not until I met Piotr and got to know him. He is a good man. Then I decided to speak, for Piotr. But it is not easy, you understand. Can I go now?”

“Yes,” Kaz said. “That was very helpful. I will take you back to your room now.”

“Thank you, Piotr.” He held on to Kaz’s arm and didn’t look back.

“A drink, Lieutenant Boyle?” Major Horak asked.

“No, no thanks. Tell Kaz I’ll see him later, OK?”

“Certainly.” Horak made no effort to persuade me to do or say anything. He knew that Tadeusz’s story would either work or it wouldn’t, and if that poor boy couldn’t convince me to take action, nothing would.

I left the room. It wasn’t that I didn’t want another drink. It was that I wanted to drink alone, and wash away the image of that pit, and what men could so willingly do to each other. That, and the thought of what somebody had done to one Russian right here in London.

I felt a little tipsy as I walked down the stairs and out into the street. I wasn’t exactly drunk from all the wine and vodka, but I took care of that as fast as I could when I got to the bar at the Dorchester.

I couldn’t tell if we were walking through heavy fog or light rain, and I didn’t much care. Kaz had shaken me conscious a half hour ago, presenting me with aspirin and hot coffee, the only things I wanted more than to be left alone. I knew we had to talk, and I also knew fresh air would be good for my hangover. I pulled on a wool cap, grabbed my Parsons jacket, and followed Kaz into Hyde Park. It was just after dawn, not that there was a trace of sun.

“Can you walk a little faster, Billy?”

“Sure, no problem,” I said, picking up the pace as we double-timed along Rotten Row, the now seldom-used horse track that ran along the south edge of the park. I felt like my head might burst, but I didn’t want Kaz to think I wasn’t up to it.

“I wanted to tell you I was sorry about yesterday. I had only mentioned to Major Horak that morning that we would be meeting for lunch. He insisted, and you know senior officers like to get their way.” Kaz pumped his arms energetically, like a chicken trying to take flight. He might’ve looked funny, but he wasn’t out of breath.

“But you’d told them about me,” I said, huffing and blowing air. “About… Uncle Ike… and all that.”

“Yes, it was only natural to tell them. We’ve been working together for some time, Billy. Of course I would tell them about my friend. Are you all right?”

“Maybe… Slow down… a bit, OK?” I stopped, leaned over, and rested my hands on my knees, praying I wouldn’t throw up. The moment passed, and we moved on, a quick pace, but nothing torrid. Jesse Owens had nothing to worry about.

“How long has Tadeusz been with you?” I asked, as soon as I could get a full sentence out.

“About six weeks. He had been in and out of hospitals and clinics. At first they believed he was mute, but one of his doctors thought otherwise. We knew he was Polish, and that he had come from Buzul’uk, but that was all. I was asked to speak with him because I can speak Russian, Ukrainian, and a little Romanian.”

“Of course,” I said. Kaz had been a student of languages at Oxford before the war and a translator at Uncle Ike’s first headquarters when I met him. “He responded to you?”

“Not at first. When I spoke Russian he became agitated, and would not look at me. From that point on, I spoke only Polish, telling him about myself, and where I was from, just making conversation, to put him at ease. Once I mentioned Radymno, a small town in the Carpathian Mountains I had visited. He spoke, in a clear voice, telling me he had lived there.”

“And then he told you about Katyn?”

“Not right away. It was clear there was something he was afraid of, and Major Horak thought he might know something. We took him to the hotel to help him feel safe, but he did not react well to Captain Radecki.”

“I imagine few people do.”

“He does his job in the best way he can. And he and Tadeusz seem to get along better now. When Tadeusz first came to us, he was quite agitated, and it was some time before he calmed down and let everything out. He talked as he did with you, in a stream, a torrent of memory. He is quite helpless to stop once he starts. Then hegoes into a depression. He will sleep most of the day today, and not speak to anyone, not even me, tomorrow.”

“It’s amazing he got this far.”

“I don’t know if he can survive,” Kaz said as we walked through Kensington Gardens. Fog shrouded the Round Pond, the damp creeping into my bones. I picked up the pace as best I could, the throb in my head keeping beat with my steps.

“Was he wounded?” I asked, but I didn’t think Kaz was talking about a physical injury.

“He tried to kill himself last week. He kept a knife from his dinner tray and had it to his throat when I came into his room.”

“How did you stop him?”

“I told him someone very important was going to come and listen to what he had to say, and that he had to remain alive to tell what he had seen.”

“You don’t mean-”

“Yes, Billy. He took the knife from his throat in order to tell you his story.”

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like anyone putting off death just to meet me. I was bound to be a letdown. I didn’t like keeping a secret from Kaz, and I didn’t like being suspicious of him. I didn’t like how I knew I wasn’t going to tell a soul at Scotland Yard about Kaz and his pocket automatic, and I didn’t want to be responsible for carrying a Polish cause to Uncle Ike’s doorstep. I sure as hell didn’t like my head pounding and my stomach feeling like a rat had curled up and died in it. I felt cold sweat at the small of my back, my face went prickly, and I went to my knees, bowing to the pond, heaving coffee-flavored bile on the royal grass, as my head spun from the effect of last night’s alcohol and today’s guilt.