The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  Adam was three paces ahead of the woman in the railway conductor’s uniform. He detoured around a massive heap of smashed bricks and glanced down into a crater where the remains of the mermaid statue, the symbol of Warsaw, protruded from the smoldering debris. Her sword pointed to the sky as if she were sending an appeal to heaven. He stepped over the keystone block of a smashed archway, cursing under his breath for letting his guard down. What the hell had he been thinking? Falcon was a drunken lout; there was no doubt about that. But the woman was an AK commando, and she was carrying a gun. Adam sensed that she was used to Falcon’s behavior and could’ve handled him by herself under normal circumstances. Except the crazy bastard went nuts when he saw me. And that, Adam knew, was exactly the kind of situation he couldn’t afford to get mixed up in.

  The woman caught up to him and grabbed his arm, jerking him to a halt. “I’ll be fine,” she said with determination. “You don’t have to go out of your way. Really, I’m fine.” In the light from the bonfires, Adam could see the welt on her left cheekbone was turning black-and-blue.

  Suddenly the ground shook, and a fireball belched into the air from a shattering blast somewhere in the City Center. The commando groups began to disperse, carrying their cups of soup into what was left of the narrow alleyways leading away from the square. Adam motioned toward the north end of the square. “We should get off the streets.”

  Five minutes later they arrived at St. Jacek’s Church, a stout, gray fortress that stood alongside a copper-domed bell tower at the head of Dluga Street. Adam stopped, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Falcon or any of his friends hadn’t followed them. What he didn’t need right now was any more attention.

  He pulled open one of the thick, ornately carved wooden doors, and they stepped into a tiny vestibule with a stone floor and thick stone walls. It was cold and damp, with a musty odor that suggested the candles on the wall sconces hadn’t been lit for many weeks. They passed through another set of double doors into a three-story-high sanctuary, illuminated only by the dancing light of nearby fires that flickered through the arched windows like demon’s tongues. Moving slowly in the semi-darkness, Adam led the way down the marble steps to an aisle along one side of the sanctuary and motioned for the woman to slide into the last pew. The solid oak back and square posts were worn smooth over the centuries. He sat down beside her with his back to the wall, being careful not to get too close.

  They sat in silence. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Adam noticed clusters of people scattered around the sanctuary, many of them asleep in the pews, others huddled close together holding children on their laps. A group of AK commandos sat on the steps that led to the altar, passing around a cigarette and talking quietly.

  After a few minutes the woman leaned over and whispered, “You didn’t have to get involved, but thank you anyway. I’m fine now.”

  Adam nodded.

  “I don’t even know you, but it seems like I’m always thanking you for something,” she said.

  “It isn’t necessary. It was nothing.”

  “Well, like I said, I’ll be fine. You probably have to be somewhere.”

  That’s right, Adam thought. That’s exactly what he should do: get up and leave. She probably would be fine. These things happened all the time, especially now, in this city under siege with no one knowing if they’d live through another day. A guy got drunk, a little disorderly, and his girlfriend got angry. No need for him to get involved. And he couldn’t get involved.

  But he didn’t leave.

  Time passed and the church was quiet, except for the creaking of wooden pews and a few anxious whispers that rippled through the sanctuary whenever an artillery blast rattled the windows and the brass chandelier suspended from the arched ceiling. Adam was exhausted. The nights were always the worst. Though the enemy tanks and infantry battalions usually retreated behind their lines after dark, sporadic artillery shelling continued. There was the ever-present threat that the next shell might be the one.

  The woman cleared her throat and turned toward him. “So, why do they call you Wolf?” she whispered. “Is it because you’re a loner?”

  Adam hesitated then slid closer, keeping his voice down. “Wolves aren’t normally loners,” he said. “They usually live in packs.”

  “Ah, but sometimes a wolf is driven from the pack. Then he’s a loner.”

  Adam clenched his jaw as a shiver ran down his back. Driven from the pack. She didn’t know how close she was.

  “You know, the rumors are that you’re an American.”

  “I know. You said that earlier.”

  “So, are you . . . an American?”

  “I’ve already answered that.”

  “No, you didn’t. You merely asked me if you sounded like an American, and I said you didn’t, which you don’t because you have no accent.”

  He looked away. “This is giving me a headache.”

  “Hey, I’m the one with a headache. So, what’s the answer?”

  “You’re very persistent, you know.”

  “Yes, that’s another of my bad qualities.”

  “And annoying.”

  “Yet another.”

  Adam hesitated again, longer this time. There were other AK operatives who knew he was an American, though none of them knew any more than just that, not his real name, where he came from, nothing. So, it would be no real breach of security to tell her and, at any rate, there was little chance any of them were going to survive long enough for it to make a difference. He tensed at the crack of a mortar blast, followed by the muted sounds of men shouting outside the church. When it calmed down again, he said quietly, “Yes, I’m an American.”

  “But your Polish is excellent. You have no accent at all. How long have you been here?”

  “I was born here, in Krakow, as you guessed. My father and I immigrated to America when I was eleven years old.”

  “And you came back? What on earth for?”

  Adam contemplated her question. Emotions he’d not allowed himself to feel for many years flared up suddenly. And you came back? What on earth for? He knew why he had come back, but it made no difference now. A young man whose father had just died, returning to the country of his birth, searching for his roots, for the family he’d always longed for. But it made no difference; it had all been abruptly and brutally torn away.

  Adam shook his head, driving the emotions back into the far corners of his mind. Then he leaned close to her and whispered, “If I tell you any more, I’ll have to kill you.”

  The woman laughed then stopped abruptly and clamped a hand over her mouth, looking quickly around the sanctuary. No one seemed to notice. “My goodness, I’ve forgotten who you are,” she whispered. “You probably mean it.”

  Adam woke abruptly at the sound of an infant crying and people shuffling down the aisle. He was confused for a moment and struggled to get his bearings. Then he realized where he was. He turned his head slowly, working out the kink in his neck, and looked around. The sanctuary was brighter now, and he could make out the large wooden cross and two statues prominently displayed on the white stone wall at the front of the sanctuary. Under the arched windows on either side of the altar were two elaborately framed paintings. He was too far away and the light still too dim to make out the subject of the artwork, though it wasn’t hard to guess.

  Several other people were stretching and moving around. Adam glanced down at the woman curled up next to him on the pew, then raised his left hand and checked his watch. It was five thirty in the morning. My God, we’ve been sitting here all night. When did I fall asleep?

  He blinked and came fully awake at the sound of artillery fire in the distance, voices outside and the rumble of an engine starting up. As he shifted his weight, the pew creaked, and the woman lifted her head, looking at him with a puzzled expression. Then she sat up abruptly and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty,” Adam said.

  She stretched and ran her h
ands through her short brown hair. “Were you sleeping as well?”

  Adam nodded, suddenly irritated with himself. In four years he had never just fallen asleep unless he knew exactly where he was and that it was safe. What the hell was he thinking? Besides, he had orders to meet with Colonel Stag at 0600. He slid out of the pew, removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he put them back on and said, “I have to go.”

  She raised her eyebrows, but slid out of the pew after him. “Well, alright then, Mr. Wolf. I enjoyed our little chat.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude . . . it’s just that . . .” Adam backed up against the wall as an emaciated, middle-aged man and a hollow-faced, young boy squeezed past them in the narrow aisle. The man hobbled on a homemade crutch. He was missing his right leg. The blood-soaked trouser was pinned at the knee.

  The woman waited until the man and boy moved farther up the aisle, then said, “Yes, I understand. You have to be somewhere. I do as well.”

  “We shouldn’t leave together.”

  “No, of course not, you go first.”

  Adam started for the door but felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned back to the woman.

  “Natalia,” she whispered. “My name is Natalia. Maybe someday you’ll tell me yours.”

  Eleven

  22 AUGUST

  THE SUN WAS COMING UP as Natalia cautiously made her way from St. Jacek’s Church to the women commandos’ quarters on Trebacka Street. The streets of Old Town and the AK-controlled section of the City Center were feverish with activity as commandos lugging PIATs and mortars trotted through the rubble, heading for the barricades to relieve their weary comrades who had stood guard during the night. Gunfire cracked from rooftops, and artillery shells streaked overhead, exploding an instant later in the random destruction of houses and shops. Civilians burrowed deeper into their cellars as survival in Warsaw became a game of chance, with longer odds every day.

  Near Trebacka Street, Natalia felt twinges of bitterness and anger as she passed the shattered remnants of the monument of Adam Mickiewicz, Poland’s greatest poet. He was her father’s favorite, and she would never forget the winter evenings in front of the fire when her father would read Mickiewicz’s poems aloud, especially “Konrad Wallenrod,” with its thinly veiled depiction of the hatred between Russians and Poles. The monument had been destroyed by the Germans two years ago in their never-ending quest to stamp out Polish culture. Natalia’s stomach tightened. Between the Russians and Germans, it was hard to decide who she hated more.

  She quickened her pace as she turned onto Trebacka and glanced up at the second story window on the corner of the block-long building that housed their apartment. A young girl, perhaps five or six years old, sat in front of the window, combing her doll’s hair. Natalia had seen her before, sitting in that same spot with her doll. As she’d done on the other occasions, the girl waved. Natalia waved back, wondering what would become of her.

  The apartment building was a magnificent structure with meticulously carved stone pillars framing the entryways of the now vacant ground floor merchant shops. The first-floor windows were set deep in elaborate stone alcoves, and above the windows, wrought-iron railings projected gracefully from second-floor balconies. With the city falling down around her, Natalia thought it was a miracle the building was still intact.

  She felt a bit guilty for not returning last night. But Ula and Zeeka were watching over Berta, and for the first time in three weeks she had actually slept soundly for several hours without nightmares. Who would’ve guessed that on a night when everything was falling apart—her best friend wounded, Falcon in a brutal drunken haze—that she’d actually be able to fall asleep . . . in a church?

  She touched the side of her face. It was still tender, but her headache was gone, and she managed a smile when she remembered how she’d laughed when Wolf said he’d have to kill her if he told her any more. It was the first time in months she’d laughed at anything—and he was probably serious. And yet, he had acted as nervous as a schoolboy, tripping over his words as he was about to leave that morning. He was indeed a special case, she thought, reclusive and clearly dangerous. But there was something else, something under that hard exterior that intrigued her. In those few hours she thought there had been a connection between them . . . perhaps just a bit.

  She entered the building through the arched doorway next to the vacant tailor shop and climbed the wooden stairs to the first floor. As soon as she stepped through the door of the apartment Natalia knew something had happened. The cots had been removed from the parlor and the bare, wooden-floored room echoed with emptiness. She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out her pistol and stepped slowly across the parlor, peeking into the kitchen. Glasses and plates filled the sink, and crumbs littered the table. She backed away and moved over to the stairway leading to the second-floor bedroom. At the base of the staircase she leaned against the wall, and pointed the pistol up the stairs. “Ula? Zeeka?”

  Zeeka shouted back, “Up here, come quickly!”

  Natalia took the stairs two at a time and rushed into the bedroom. Zeeka and Ula knelt on the floor next to Berta, who lay on a stretcher. “Good God, what’s—”

  Zeeka stood up and wiped a film of perspiration from her forehead with her shirtsleeve. She was normally calm and unflappable, a longtime AK operative who had conducted sabotage against the enemy all over Poland. But this morning there was a decided edge in her voice: “Berta’s fine. But the Germans have breached the barricade on the north side of Pilsudski Square. We’ve got to get out of here and make our way to Old Town.”

  Natalia looked around the tiny bedroom. The plaster walls were painted a light yellow, and frilly pink curtains framed the single window, reminding her of curtains she’d had in her own bedroom as a child. She remembered the first time she’d entered this room, almost a month ago. She’d wondered then if the tailor and his wife had shared it with a young daughter.

  “The medic was here just a few minutes ago,” Zeeka said. “Rabbit and Bobcat brought him over. He’d found some morphine, which should keep her quiet while we move her.”

  Natalia glanced at Rabbit, who leaned against the wall. Another boy stood next to him. He was about the same age as Rabbit but taller, with unruly black hair and a pockmarked face. She recognized him as Rabbit’s friend, the one they called Bobcat.

  “Move her where?” Natalia asked.

  “The medic said there’s a vacant schoolhouse on Podwale that’s being used as a hospital,” Zeeka said. Then she cocked her head. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Natalia touched her face. “Ah . . . just a bump. They were a little wild at the pub last night.” She flinched as the building shook from a nearby mortar blast. Podwale wasn’t far—a little more than half the distance she’d just walked from St. Jacek’s Church—but it was daylight now and the snipers were out.

  “Can we get there?” she asked Rabbit.

  The boy nodded. “No problem.”

  • • •

  Slowed down by the stretcher, Natalia knew they’d have to stay off the streets or they’d be easy targets for the snipers and dive-bombing Stukas. The civilians still living in the area had taken to their cellars, many of which were interconnected with passageways hacked through the walls. Rabbit, who instinctively seemed to know how to get around the city with stealth, directed the stretcher-bearing group down three flights of stairs to the earthen-floor cellar of their building. Then, guiding the way with a flashlight, he led the way through a twenty-meter-long, two-meter-high passageway of slimy cobblestone that Bobcat said was an abandoned sewer main. The passageway led them into a foul, dimly lit labyrinth of cellars beneath the residential apartment buildings of the City Center.

  It was slow going. The cellars were crowded with grim-faced, terrified people. The sick and wounded lay on cots, mattresses or the bare dirt floors. Ragged women hunched against rough, stone walls, clutching dirty, silent children on their laps. Others breast-fed wh
impering babies or stirred pots of soup, while elderly men distracted the older children with stories and card games.

  The AK commandos took turns carrying the stretcher as dirt and plaster rained down on their heads following each random burst of artillery. Berta moaned and occasionally thrashed, then drifted into unconsciousness again. With the stench of human sweat, excrement and urine mingled with must and kerosene from the lanterns, Natalia found it difficult to breathe. Her headache returned.

  A half hour later, they climbed a flight of rickety wooden stairs and emerged from the last cellar. Natalia squinted against the sunlight and took a welcome breath of fresh air as she peeked around the corner at the open expanse of the cobblestone square in front of the Royal Castle.

  They huddled for a moment. Rabbit gave each of them precise instructions: “Zeeka, you and Bobcat man the stretcher. Natalia and Ula, one on each side, with a hand on Berta. I’ll lead the way.”

  “We’re gonna have to run like hell across the square,” Bobcat said.

  “Yeah, I know.” Rabbit looked around at the others. “I’ll be the lookout. You all stay right behind me. Keep your heads down and don’t trip.”

  With that, the group sprinted across the Castle Square, past Zygmunt’s Column and turned onto Podwale, with Rabbit watching the sky and glancing at rooftops every step of the way.

  The former schoolhouse was a four-story red-brick building located at Number 46 Podwale, the semi-circular street fronting the old city walls. At one time a neighborhood of wealthy merchants and aristocracy, it was now mostly deserted, a grim collection of broken windows and shattered roofs. The windows of the school building were boarded up, and a large red cross was painted on the door. “I hope they also painted one on the roof,” Natalia mumbled as they trudged up the steps and pushed open the door.