James Benn: Rag and Bone

I signed in at a desk manned by a sergeant wearing Poland’s red shoulder patch on his British Army uniform. He made a call, then sent me up to the third floor. At the head of the stairs were a couple of guards, both with Sten guns hung from their shoulders. I gave them my name and they looked me over like bodyguards while I wondered what a couple of bursts from those Sten guns would do to the woodwork.

“Billy, come in,” Kaz said from an open set of double doors. “ On jest z mna,” he said to the guards.

“ Tak, pan,” one of the guards said as he patted me down before letting me proceed.

“Kaz, you’ve been watching too many gangster movies.”

“Standard precautions, Billy. No exceptions.”

He led me into a sitting room with a table for four laid out. It was a pretty fancy room-high ceilings, big fireplace, and a soft, deep carpet. Two guys in British Army dress uniforms. Severe creases in their tailored trousers. Red shoulder patches with Poland emblazoned across them. Big smiles. I looked at Kaz, but he avoided my gaze. Instead, he took my arm and guided me toward the two officers.

“Billy, allow me to introduce Major Stefan Horak. He is my superior. And his aide, Captain Valerian Radecki.”

“Welcome, Lieutenant Boyle,” Horak said, shaking my hand. Radecki made a little bow. “How is your uncle?”

“Fine, sir. How is yours?”

“I pray he is well, but I have no idea,” Horak said, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. He looked at Kaz, then back at me. “Your uncle is somewhat more famous, is he not?” Horak spoke near-perfect English, with only a slight accent, but I could tell he was unsure of the conversation, which suited me fine. I wasn’t sure I liked it either.

“Not really, not outside of Boston, anyway.” Horak and Radecki stared at each other, then at me, then at Kaz, doubt gaining over cordiality.

“Billy,” Kaz said, his voice hissing between clenched teeth. “Major Horak is not inquiring after your uncle Daniel. He means your other uncle.”

“Oh, him! Sure, he’s fine. Well, nice to meet you both,” I said, nodding to the two officers. “We won’t keep you from your lunch. Ready, Kaz?”

“Billy, don’t do this,” Kaz whispered.

“Lieutenant Boyle,” Captain Radecki said, limping between Kaz and me, grasping the edge of a table to steady himself. “Let me apologize. When the baron told us he was lunching with you today, we prevailed upon him to include us. The least we could do was to provide the meal.” He gestured to the table, which was set with polished silver, bone china, and cut crystal. His nails were manicured, his jet black hair slicked back, and he sported a neatly trimmed pencil mustache. He oozed self-confidence in spite of his limp, and I thought it might be bad for Kaz if I didn’t play along. Guys like that liked to get their way. I wasn’t feeling too charitable toward Kaz for setting me up, but I wasn’t quite ready to throw him to the wolves.

“Sure, Captain. I don’t mind.” Major Horak lost his worried look, and we all sat.

“General Eisenhower will be in London soon, we understand?” Horak said nonchalantly as he unfolded his cloth napkin. I did the same and thought it was big enough for a flag of surrender.

“I saw him a couple of days ago, in Naples,” I said, avoiding the question. “Who told you he’d be here?”

“One hears things,” Horak said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand as he made a point of not looking at Kaz. He had a broad, expressive face, unlike Radecki, who would have been a much better poker player. Horak was forty or so, his brown hair falling untidily over his forehead. He played with his knife, turning it over in his hand as he spoke. “London runs on gossip and spies. Not German spies, mind you, but we all spy on each other. The British, French, Poles, Russians, Belgians, everyone except you Americans, I think. You are too direct for spying and gossip, yes?”

“One hears things,” I answered. “And sometimes one does not, even from his friends.” It was my turn not to look at Kaz.

“Everyone is saying General Eisenhower is to command the invasion,” Radecki said, lighting a cigarette as he held his bad leg straight. “We thought it would be your General Marshall.”

“Was that the gossip?” I asked, watching Radecki do a French inhale, his eyelids flickering against the smoke. He ignored me.

“Almost a certainty, we were told,” Horak said. “But then again, some of our sources were English, and they thought it should be Montgomery. But it had to be an American, don’t you think? It has become an American war, with all the troops, ships, planes, and armor coming from America.”

“Polish troops are fighting in Italy,” I said. “Along with the British and French. Even the Italians are fighting with us now. It’s not a purely American war.”

“No matter,” Radecki said. “It will be an American general. No European general could see beyond his own borders, except to covet what lies beyond.” He crushed his cigarette out, and no one else spoke. White-coated waiters entered, filling the silence with the clatter of serving dishes and wine bottles. We ate well. Grilled lamb, dumplings, mushrooms. Washed down with a chilled white wine, something French I couldn’t pronounce. Topped off with an ice-cold glass of Polish vodka. I drank it down, feeling the alcohol warm my gut and stab at my brain. Then I waited. I watched Horak lean back and nod, ever so slightly, to Radecki.

“We thought it important, Lieutenant Boyle-”

“Call me Billy, Captain. Everyone does.” I pushed my empty glass toward the bottle and Horak poured. Half a glass. I guess they needed me half sober.

“Very well-Billy-as I was saying, we thought it important to fully inform you of the situation concerning the Katyn Forest Massacre. The Americans, until now, have been silent on the matter, unlike the British. Or the Russians.”

“What do you mean, until now?”

“It is not yet public knowledge, but an American colonel, attached as a liaison to the Polish Army in the Mediterranean, drafted a report for General George Strong, your chief of U.S. Army Intelligence. He interviewed Poles who had been released by the Russians, reviewed evidence collected by the Red Cross, and submitted his report. It said all the evidence pointed to the Russians as the executioners of nearly twenty thousand Polish officers, at the Katyn Forest and other locations as well.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. I drank some more.

“Lieutenant Colonel Henry Szymanski,” Horak said. “I met him in Egypt. A fine officer. But his career is over.”

“Why?” I asked, conscious of a slur creeping into my voice.

“Several days ago the War Department in Washington officially charged him with an anti-Soviet bias, and informed his superiors of such. They may as well publicly have called him a liar.”

“Poor bastard,” I said.

“It is unfortunate, yes,” Radecki said. “Which is why we wish to provide you with details, so at least some other American officers will be fully informed.”

“And you choose me because my uncle is General Eisenhower, and I’m on his staff?” My tongue felt thick, and I had to focus on getting Uncle Ike’s four-syllable last name out right.

“Because Lieutenant Kazimierz trusts you,” Horak said. “And we would be fools not to take notice of your connection with the esteemed general. And you would be a fool to think your friend brought you here under false pretenses. He speaks well of you, and this luncheon was entirely my idea.”

“OK,” I said. “How about a cup of coffee, and then you fill me in?” We moved to a pair of sofas facing each other by the fireplace. Radecki brought a file and sat across from me, kneading his thigh.