Kovalenko watched silently as the visitor spread his hands on the table and locked eyes with the tank corps commander. “Not all,” the man said firmly. “There have been airdrops from Britain, and during the first week the AK captured a substantial German weapons cache in a warehouse building—MP-38 submachine guns, anti-tank rifles—”
Roskov interrupted the translation again. Andreyev listened then said, with a hint of annoyance in his voice, “The colonel heard that the AK has assassinated several high-ranking SS officers. The Germans will make them pay for that.”
Kovalenko watched the visitor closely. Something flickered in the thin man’s eyes, but his expression remained inscrutable as he leaned forward, glaring at Roskov. “The Poles are at war, sir. We all are! Against Nazi Germany, our common enemy. Isn’t that correct?”
Captain Andreyev spoke up, obviously trying to lower the tension. “Does the AK have any artillery?”
The visitor continued to stare at the Russian tank corps commander for a moment, then turned to Andreyev. “They have mortars, some American bazookas that were air-dropped—”
“Nothing larger?” Roskov asked, this time in English.
Kovalenko knew it was an old trick of Roskov’s to throw an unsuspecting American off guard, but the visitor seemed unperturbed, as though he knew all along Roskov could speak English.
“A squad of your T-34 tanks would be very useful right now,” the visitor replied.
The group lapsed back into silence. Kovalenko waited a few moments then pulled a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to the visitor. “One of our politicians visited with some of your American generals last week,” he said, in his own fluent English. “He brought these back for me.”
The visitor took a cigarette, and the general lit it for him. He inhaled deeply, apparently enjoying the taste of prime tobacco. Then he folded his hands on the table and addressed Kovalenko. “When can the AK expect the Red Army to cross the Vistula and enter Warsaw, General?”
Roskov leaned across the table and snapped, “The AK has no military standing in this—”
Kovalenko cut him off with a wave of his hand. He slowly lit his own cigarette and looked at the visitor who had never even blinked during Roskov’s final attempt at intimidation. “I am waiting for final orders,” he said. “You may report to General Bor that we will be there soon.”
“How soon?” the visitor asked. “The AK are fighting like hell, but casualties are mounting. They can’t hold out forever.”
Kovalenko studied his cigarette, then abruptly shoved his chair back and stood up. Everyone around the table stood as well. “Tell them to keep on fighting,” he said to the visitor. “We will be there soon.”
Sixteen
31 AUGUST
ON THE LAST DAY OF AUGUST, Colonel Stag transmitted a secret message to the British Special Operations Executive.
31 August 1944
From: AK Headquarters, Warsaw
To: SOE, London
Situation in Warsaw desperate. Forty percent City Center destroyed. Air bombardments and artillery shelling constant.
Hundreds of civilians killed daily. Hospitals destroyed. Thousands homeless. Burns, shrapnel wounds and disease.
Food and water critical. If no relief, all supplies gone in ten days.
Our forces reduced by half. Continuing to fight. Weapons and ammunition critical. Airdrops unsuccessful. Old Town in severe jeopardy. Evacuation imminent.
Russian forces remain idle on east side of Vistula.
When the transmission was finished, Stag wearily climbed the stairs from the cellar of the Polonia Bank building and stood on the cobblestone street to wait for Falcon. He expected the commando to bring him a report from the AK command post at the south end of the City Center. That, of course, depended on whether Falcon could make it through the rubble-filled streets in one of the few AK vehicles still operating.
Stag was beyond fatigue. He was so tired that he twitched all over as though a million ants were crawling under his skin. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the building as the ground shook beneath his feet. The battle had surged into Old Town and degenerated into a savage street-by-street, building-by-building bloodbath that Stag knew was hopeless. German artillery bombardments and Stuka attacks continued around the clock, and the civilians still in the area huddled in their cellars like frightened rodents. Artillery shells exploded just a few streets to the west, and Stag realized that he was risking his life just standing out in the open. But he’d been suffocating in the cellar command post, and a moment in the outside air, though polluted with smoke and dust, was a relief.
Suddenly Stag heard the all-too-familiar, high-pitched scream of a Stuka dive-bomber. It was coming from his left and closing in fast. He dropped the cigarette and started for the doorway when he saw an automobile careening toward him, bouncing along the cobblestones. He waved desperately at it, warning it off, but then a shattering blast knocked him face down onto the marble foyer just inside the doors.
Stag struggled to his feet. His ears rang and his head pounded. Blood dripped from his nose. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath as the whine of the enemy aircraft receded into the distance. He waited for a moment, then stepped slowly through the doorway and peered down the block.
A three-story building had collapsed into the street. Just beyond the rubble-pile, a black, four-door auto lay on its side, the roof caved in, the left front wheel still spinning. Stag put his hand over his mouth to keep from choking on the dust, and stepped closer. Then he stopped and leaned against a broken lamp-post for support. The body of a large man hung out the driver’s door of the wrecked auto. Half of his skull had been ripped away.
Stag didn’t have to go any closer to know that it was Falcon.
• • •
The ammunition cellar was empty now. The final crates of weapons had been hauled out since Natalia had last been there the previous night. Strangely, the kerosene lantern was still lit. With her boot, Natalia nudged the five-liter metal can next to the post. It was empty, like the rest of the cellar. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she wandered to the far wall, slumped down on the earthen floor and took a bite from a half rotten potato. It was the only thing she’d had to eat all day.
The jarring explosions outside were coming closer. The cellar walls shook, cracks widened and chunks of mortar dropped from the ceiling. The Germans had pounded Old Town with unrelenting ferocity for three straight days, and in the streets above the cellar St. John’s Cathedral and the Royal Castle lay mostly in ruins.
In the escalating chaos Natalia’s commando unit had been decimated, and those that survived were hunkering down wherever they could. Even so, she’d managed to find a way through the rubble to come to the cellar every night, hoping he would be here. But she knew from the battle raging in the streets that time had run out. She was filthy, hungry and exhausted. And all she could think about was Wolf.
It was crazy. What did they have? A few hours of conversation, a few brief hours when they each let down their guard? She hadn’t been surprised when he didn’t show up that first night, but she’d come back every night since, hoping he would return. She was disappointed, perhaps even saddened, but not surprised. Anything could have happened. He could have been sent on another mission, he could be injured, he could be . . .
She shook her head. It could also be that he just decided not to come. She knew what he was.
No, that wasn’t right.
She knew what he’d become. What the war and the killing had turned him into. She didn’t have any idea what this man called Wolf had been like before, except an enthusiastic American boy who loved baseball.
The potato slipped from Natalia’s hand as her eyes closed, and her head drooped to her chest. She had almost drifted off when she felt someone shake her knee. She looked up, her eyes bleary. She couldn’t focus in the dim light.
He knelt in front of her, leaned close and whispered, “Natal
ia.”
Wolf? “My God!” She grasped his hand. “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been—”
“We’re evacuating Old Town.”
She stood up abruptly. “Evacuating? When?”
“Tonight. I just got the word from Colonel Stag. General Bor has ordered the AK to evacuate Old Town. It’s the only way to save the civilian population.”
“What? That’s crazy! These Nazi bastards have been murdering civilians for five weeks. Why would they stop now?”
“Bor has made an arrangement with the German Commanders. If the AK evacuates Old Town, they’ll let the civilian population leave peacefully. We can’t hang on any longer; it’s the only way. The entire district will be pulverized to dust in the next few days.”
Natalia wiped the grime from her forehead. “So, what happens to us, the AK? They’re just going to let us walk out?”
Wolf shook his head. “The deal is, we lay down our guns and surrender. Then the Germans will treat us as prisoners of war instead of insurgents.”
“Like hell they will!” Natalia hissed.
“Colonel Stag is giving every AK operative in Old Town a choice. Assemble in the square at noon tomorrow and lay down our arms—”
“Or?”
“Or escape, at midnight tonight, and regroup in the south end of the City Center.”
She glanced at her watch. It was a little after ten. “Escape how?”
Wolf was silent. But she already knew the answer.
They sat on the dirt floor, a few meters apart, facing each other but not talking. The shelling was almost constant, the damp ground trembling beneath them, the air musty and thick with plaster dust. Adam scratched at the dirt with a stick, twisting it into the ground, still seething at the blatant lie he’d been told by the Russian general, Kovalenko. He’d known it the instant the general said, “We’ll be there soon.” He could see it in the man’s dark eyes. It was nothing but a fucking, bald-faced lie.
“The Russians aren’t coming, are they?”
Adam flinched. “What did you say?”
“The Russians aren’t coming.”
Adam cleared his throat. What the hell?
“I could have saved you the trip,” she said sarcastically. “They’re devious, murdering barbarians, and they will never—not in a million years—lift a finger to help Poland.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s where you went. They sent you across the river to talk to the Russians.”
“Jesus Christ, Natalia, how did you—?”
She smiled at him. “I guessed. But it makes sense. Sooner or later Bor and Stag had to find out for sure. The Russians would never talk directly with the Poles, so they sent you. You’re an American. You’ve been gone for three days, and now we’re evacuating.”
Adam stared at her, unable to respond.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
He kept silent.
“And I’m willing to bet that whatever lying, son of a bitch Russian you talked to assured you they were coming in to help. That we should keep on fighting and they’d be here soon. I’m right about that too, aren’t I?”
Adam glared at her, slowly shaking his head. “I said once before, you ask too many questions.”
“And you’re an expert at silence. But it doesn’t make any difference now, does it? We’ll all probably die before we get out of here.”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t . . . or won’t?”
He didn’t respond. What is it about her? No one had ever been able to get under his skin like this.
They were silent for several moments. Finally she looked directly into his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to get you, to tell you about the evac—”
“No, I don’t mean right now,” she interrupted. “I already know that. I’ve been coming here every night hoping to see you, hoping we might . . . and when you finally show up . . . it’s to deliver a news bulletin.”
“I’m sorry, but I just got the word and I thought—”
“What are you doing in Poland, Wolf? In this war, what are you doing here?”
He felt his face flush, but there was nothing he could tell her.
She persisted. “Seriously, I’d like to know. You’re an American. Why would you come back here and get involved in all this?”
Adam abruptly stood up. Goddamn it, get out. Get out while you can. He took a step toward the tunnel, then stopped and stood facing the opposite wall. Fighting back the anger that could so quickly rise to the surface, he silently recited the mantra: Focus on the mission. The past is over. You have no past.
“My, there’s an awful lot going on in that head of yours,” Natalia said.
He turned and looked down at her. “I’ve got to go.”
“No, you don’t have to go, Wolf. You have to run. Run away from whatever it is you’re trying to escape from.”
“What the hell do you know about it?” Adam snapped. “You don’t know a thing about me!”
“Oh yes I do, an awful lot more than you think. I can see it in your eyes. You’re hurting. You lost something that was very important.”
“So, now you’re a psychologist? I met a psychologist once, a long time ago, and broke the little prick’s nose.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.
“No we’re not. I said I’ve got to go.”
Natalia shrugged and motioned toward the tunnel. “OK, go on, run off. But let me tell you something, Mr. Wolf, or whatever the hell your real name is, you’re not the only one who’s lost someone. We all have—some more than others. I lost my parents when the Russians invaded. And I lost my brother, Michal. He was a cavalry officer, captured by the Russians and probably murdered in that forest in 1940—the Katyn Forest—where those Bolshevik bastards slaughtered thousands of our officers, then blamed it on the Germans.” She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, turning her head away. “So go ahead and run off.”
Adam stared at her for a long moment knowing that he should leave right now. There was no point in doing anything else. He stood there for what seemed like a lifetime, then finally sat down next to her. The ground shuddered and the support post in the center of the room creaked. He thought about what she’d just said about her brother, and wondered if there was anything that any of them could do now that could possibly make a difference.
“It’s Adam,” he said quietly. “My name is Adam Nowak. And I know about the Katyn Forest and . . . I’m sorry.”
Seventeen
31 AUGUST
THE MEMORIES DRIFTED BACK. Adam could feel them pushing their way out of the darkness where he’d left them. He had managed to get through years of brutal warfare and to reconcile the killing, the assassinations, because he’d so successfully buried his past. Adam Nowak had ceased to exist, as much in his own consciousness as in the clandestine world of the dark and silent.
But now, as he sat on the cold, dirt floor of an empty ammunition cellar next to this annoying woman, who had somehow managed to bore into his soul, the memories returned . . . and he was powerless to stop them. There was something about Natalia that he couldn’t explain, something that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to explain.
He said quietly, “You asked me why I came back to Poland.”
She nodded.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, a part of him still wondering what he was doing here. They hardly knew each other, and yet . . .
When he spoke again he barely recognized his own voice. It was as if someone else were telling the story. “My father died while I was in the American Army. I never really knew him when I was a boy living in Krakow. He was away, fighting with the Polish Legions in the Great War. My mother died when I was a baby, and I was raised by my uncle and aunt.”
Adam paused, listening to the pulsating throbs of artillery shells. “My father worked hard during our years in America and managed to send me
to college. I knew he wasn’t happy when I dropped out of law school and joined the army, but he never said anything, and when he died . . . I don’t know . . . everything changed for me. I loved America. I loved being an American soldier, but that was 1936 and there was no future in the army. I served out my three-year enlistment, but something was missing.”
Natalia touched his knee. “You came back to the uncle and aunt who’d raised you when you were a little boy?”
Adam nodded and swallowed hard, thinking of his uncle—the larger-than-life presence who had always seemed to be there when he needed him, the steadfast Polish patriot who helped shape the country’s hard-won freedom yet took time to tutor his young nephew in philosophy, history and literature. “His name was Ludwik Banach,” Adam said. “He was a law professor at Jagiellonian University, and when I returned to Krakow he arranged for me to resume my studies in law school. I lived with them for three years. It was the closest thing I ever had to a family.”
Adam stood up and paced slowly around the cellar room. Shadows danced off the rough stone walls. The constant thump of artillery and cracks of rifle fire echoed through the subterranean chamber.
“What happened to them?” Natalia asked.
“My uncle was arrested by the Nazis in November of ’39 and sent to a prison camp in Germany—a place called Sachsenhausen. They sent hundreds of professors and teachers there. My aunt was arrested the next day. I’m sure they’re both dead by now.”
Adam closed his eyes and thumped his fist against the post, rattling the lantern. He recalled every detail of the moment when the German SS officer told him about his uncle’s arrest: the moment he became consumed with rage, consumed with his quest for revenge. He hadn’t talked about this with anyone—not since Whitehall sent him to see that psychologist before recruiting him, a sniveling little weasel who declared that he was too angry to be of any value. It was apparently just what Whitehall needed to hear.
“I wanted to kill someone,” Adam said, “or have them kill me; it didn’t matter.”
The Katyn Order Page 11
