The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  Natalia nodded.

  “They’ve called a ceasefire.”

  It took a moment for her to process the thought. “A ceasefire . . . I don’t understand . . . when?”

  “Your General Bor and our high command agreed to a ceasefire beginning at 0700.” He glanced at his watch and nodded. “Ah, right on time.”

  Natalia was stunned. Just like that . . . it’s over? Then she remembered the Ukrainians and shuddered: she might have had her throat slit by those filthy brutes on the very day the nightmare finally ended. “What happens now?”

  The officer shrugged. “As soon as Unteroffizier Brunkhorst has you fixed up, you can use that crutch and walk out of here. But, of course, Brunkhorst and I will leave first.” He pointed to the soiled red-and-white armband on her right sleeve. “After all, it wouldn’t do for me to be seen assisting an enemy combatant, would it?”

  Natalia sat quietly as Brunkhorst finished wrapping her ankle. Then he carefully cleaned the graze and bandaged her forehead. His touch was so gentle that she had to smile, which made the boy blush again. She thought about Rabbit. Perhaps in some other world, he and this young German boy might have become friends. When the medic was finished, he held out the crutch and, with a firm grip on her elbow, helped her to her feet. Natalia sighed with relief and hobbled around a bit to get her balance. “It feels much better. Thank you.”

  The boy smiled briefly, then knelt down to close up his pack.

  “Well, we shall be on our way now,” the officer said. He looked at her for a moment, then saluted smartly. He turned on his heel, and the two Germans marched away.

  Cautiously negotiating the uneven cobblestones on her crutch, it took Natalia several minutes to make it to the end of the walkway. When she reached the street, she stopped, dumbfounded.

  AK commandos milled about openly, laughing and joking, passing around bottles of vodka and hand-rolled cigarettes under the watchful eyes of German soldiers, who stood near their tanks yet kept their distance. Natalia scanned the faces of the Wehrmacht soldiers but didn’t see either the officer or the young medic. She looked down at her wrapped ankle and felt the bandage on her head, reassuring herself that she hadn’t just imagined the whole thing.

  She hobbled around for a while, smiling at some of the commandos she recognized, accepting a swig of vodka from an outstretched hand. An exuberant teenager slapped her so hard on the back she almost fell. A young woman hugged her. Finally she stopped near a couple of commandos she recognized from the escape through the sewers.

  “The AK’s been disbanded, and we’re all civilians now,” one of them said. He was a stocky, bearded man whose name she couldn’t recall. His tattered army uniform was streaked with dirt and blood, his right arm in a sling.

  “Yeah, and I’m Jesus Christ!” his friend retorted. “You just watch. The fuckin’ SS will show up any minute, and we’re all dead meat.”

  “Bullshit! I heard from—”

  He was interrupted by a weary-looking AK officer banging a steel bar against the side of a dented oil drum. The drum held a blazing bonfire.

  “I have an announcement from General Bor,” the AK officer croaked, his voice breaking with emotion. “This announcement is being read by officers in every sector of Warsaw still held by the AK.” The crowd fell silent as he unfolded a single sheet of paper and began to read. “All military operations of the AK in Warsaw shall cease immediately. All AK personnel will be afforded combatant status and will be under the control of the German Wehrmacht as prisoners of war under the terms of the Geneva Convention.”

  The crowd instantly erupted into a cacophony of voices, some cheering and waving red-and-white AK flags, others shouting loudly that they’d been sold out.

  The officer banged the iron rod against the drum again. When the crowd quieted down to a ripple of murmurs, he continued. “As military combatants—and not insurgents—you are ordered to march out of the city beginning at 0700 tomorrow, weapons shouldered, wearing AK armbands and carrying banners. At the city limits you will surrender your weapons to the German Wehrmacht and will be interned as prisoners of war according to the convention.”

  The crowd broke into dozens of animated conversations, though less boisterous this time. Questions and opinions flew back and forth from group to group. Natalia recalled that the mysterious German officer had referred to her as a combatant and not an insurgent. She wondered if that helped explain his actions. Or, was he just someone doing a good deed?

  “Natalia!” a familiar voice shouted.

  She turned around and saw Zeeka pushing through the crowd with Hammer and Rabbit right behind her. Natalia hobbled toward her comrade-in-arms, whom she hadn’t seen in over a month. “My God, you’re still alive!”

  “I’ve been in the Mokotow District,” Zeeka said breathlessly. “Colonel Stag sent me down there with Ula and Iza on a demolition mission. We were almost finished when we got surrounded . . .” Zeeka’s voice tailed off, but the look in her eyes told Natalia what had happened to the others. “I heard about Berta,” Zeeka added quickly.

  Natalia nodded. The remorse was still there, though it now seemed as if it had happened a long time ago.

  “These two have been looking all over for you,” Zeeka said. “By some miracle, I ran into them just a few minutes ago.”

  Natalia dropped her crutch and reached out to Rabbit. The boy wrapped his arms around her while Hammer hung back, nodding and running a thick hand over his bald head. But she noticed that the big man’s eyes were moist.

  Hammer picked the crutch off the ground and looked it over before handing it back to Natalia. “Nice crutch,” he grunted. “Did you steal it from the Germans?”

  Natalia felt her face flush and absently touched the bandage on her forehead, thinking that someday she might tell the story . . . but not now. “I didn’t steal it, but the medic who taped my ankle probably did.”

  Zeeka drew the four of them together, maneuvering away from the crowd. “I have something important to tell you,” she said lowering her voice. “Colonel Stag took me aside a few hours ago. He told me about the ceasefire and the terms of surrender.”

  Natalia listened silently to her former Minerki unit leader, sensing that something important was coming next.

  “I was desperately hoping that I could find all of you,” Zeeka said. “Colonel Stag has ordered me to gather a small group who are willing to try to escape.”

  Natalia glanced at Hammer and Rabbit. Neither of them said a word, but they edged in closer.

  Zeeka continued. “We’re not the only ones. Stag said there will be other groups, but we’re not to know who, and we are not to act together. Our instructions are to dispose of our weapons, armbands, badges—anything that would connect us with the AK—then blend in with the civilians as they’re evacuated from the city.”

  Natalia instantly understood. “The AK is being disbanded,” she said.

  Zeeka nodded. “Officially, that’s true. General Bor has saved our lives by negotiating combatant status for the AK. As insurgents we would be immediately executed. But the AK as an official fighting force is being disbanded. Those who surrender to the Wehrmacht can expect to be detained in POW camps until the war is over.”

  “And then wind up in the hands of the Russians,” Hammer growled. “So, fuck ‘em, why surrender? We may as well continue to fight and die right here.”

  Zeeka shook her head. “It’s the only way to save the civilian population. If the AK refuses to disband and surrender, the Germans will burn the city to the ground and everyone in it—women, children, old people, everyone. There is no other choice. The AK has to surrender and march out of the city.”

  “But not all of us,” Natalia said.

  Zeeka looked each one of them in the eye. “No, not all of us. My orders from Colonel Stag are to select a small group I can trust and who are willing to take the risk. If we’re successful in escaping, our orders are to lay low for several months, blend in with the local population and then
make contact with designated AK cells and carry on the fight.” She paused. “You have to understand that if we’re caught by either the Germans or the Russians, we’ll be executed on the spot.”

  Natalia glanced again at Rabbit and Hammer. They all looked at Zeeka and nodded.

  Twenty-Two

  17 JANUARY 1945

  GENERAL ANDREI KOVALENKO ordered his driver to halt at the midway point of the pontoon bridge over the frozen Vistula River. In the freezing cold he stepped out of the GAZ-11, braced against the wind and stared at the snowbound ruins of Warsaw. By now he was beyond the frustration that had gripped him for more than four months while his army was ordered to sit by idly. He was beyond trying to rationalize any tactical reason for the Red Army’s inaction when his vastly superior forces could have swept in at any time and crushed the Nazi bastards.

  From his command post on the east bank of the Vistula last August, he had watched the destruction of the City Center and Old Town. He knew about the escape through the sewers of several thousand AK commandos. The poor bastards had continued their futile struggle through September, before the inevitable capitulation. And then the forced expulsion of the remaining citizens of Warsaw: more than four hundred thousand souls, who plodded out of their city under gunpoint to transit camps many kilometers away.

  Then, for another three months, Kovalenko had watched the Nazis systematically destroy every remaining structure in Warsaw. While other Red Army units to the north and south overwhelmed the German Wehrmacht, pushing them westward across the plains of Poland, he continued to follow his orders, standing by while German tanks and flamethrowers laid waste to the city.

  Kovalenko shivered in the cold, but he stood on the windswept bridge for another moment, gazing at the frozen rubble beyond the river. Then he got back in the car and ordered the driver to proceed into what was left of Warsaw.

  By noon, a temporary command post was set up in the barely recognizable central square in Old Town. Nothing remained standing. The Royal Castle, home of Poland’s royalty for three hundred years had been leveled, together with St. John’s Cathedral, which had stood on the same site since the fourteenth century. The merchant houses and guild halls, the shops, cafés, art galleries and museums were reduced to piles of rubbish. The windblown, snow-covered streets were deserted and, save for a few stray dogs struggling through the snowdrifts, not a single sign of life remained.

  Russian tanks, fitted with plows, had pushed back enough of the rubble to erect a headquarters tent. Diesel-powered generators and heaters were set up and a communications center established to serve notice that the Red Army was now in control of what little was left of Warsaw.

  When General Kovalenko’s car pulled up in front of the headquarters tent, two Red Army soldiers scrambled to attention and one opened the rear door. Kovalenko stepped out, glanced around quickly, then entered the tent. He handed his greatcoat to a soldier at the door and surveyed the cadre of officers scurrying around with messages and instructions for the regiments that were about to enter the wasteland of Warsaw.

  Captain Andreyev sat at a table in the center of the tent studying a report. He stood up and saluted smartly. “Dóbraye útra, General,” Andreyev said loudly enough to stop all activity inside the tent. “Welcome to Warsaw.”

  Kovalenko grunted and waved his hand, signaling everyone to carry on, then stepped over and tossed his hat on the table. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

  Andreyev produced a lighter and lit the general’s cigarette. “You have a visitor,” he said.

  Kovalenko blew out a cloud of smoke and sat down at the head of the table. “A visitor? Here?”

  Andreyev nodded. “An NKVD officer. Major Tarnov.”

  “Tarnov? What the hell is he doing here?”

  “He arrived first thing this morning in his own automobile, as soon as we crossed the river. Do you know him?”

  Kovalenko thought back to a dreary, rainy night in Siberia in 1940. But Andreyev didn’t need to know about that. At least, not yet. “I know the name, that’s all. What does he want to do, hunt down rats in the sewers? There’s nothing left.”

  Andreyev shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. Just insisted on talking with you as soon as you arrived.”

  Kovalenko stood up. “Go get him. Let’s find out what service we can provide for the secret police.”

  Andreyev left the tent and returned a few minutes later accompanied by a short, stocky NKVD officer. Andreyev stood back as the officer stepped up to the table, saluted the general and said, “Major Dmitri Tarnov, NKVD 105th Frontier Guards Division.”

  Kovalenko nodded without speaking.

  Tarnov continued. “I have orders to detain and interview any terrorist insurgents of the AK held in your custody.”

  Kovalenko studied the thick-necked NKVD officer, who obviously didn’t recognize him from the incident in Siberia. Then he smiled, sat down and took a long drag on his cigarette. He didn’t offer Tarnov a seat. “Well, Major Tarnov, did you look around when you arrived in Warsaw this morning? If you did, then you must have noticed that there is nothing left—no buildings, no churches, no houses. There’s no fucking people left, Major, let alone terrorist insurgents.”

  Tarnov appeared unfazed. “We understand that several thousand AK terrorists escaped from the German Wehrmacht at the time the city was evacuated. I have orders to—”

  Kovalenko cut him off with a wave of his hand and addressed Captain Andreyev. “Captain, please explain to our guest what we know about the fate of the AK in Warsaw.”

  Andreyev stepped up to the table. “Of course, you realize, Major Tarnov, that the Red Army was not present in Warsaw at the time of the evacuation. However, we understand that more than ten thousand members of the AK surrendered to the Wehrmacht and were subsequently sent to POW camps in Germany.”

  Tarnov nodded impatiently. “Da, we have the same intelligence, Captain. But we also know that there were several thousand more AK insurgents who slipped through, blended in with the civilians and escaped. What can you tell me about—?”

  Kovalenko cut him off again. “We don’t know anything about them, Major Tarnov. They could be anywhere. Now, unless there’s anything else, we are quite busy this morning.”

  Tarnov withdrew an envelope from a leather folder and laid it on the table. “As a matter of fact, General Kovalenko, there is something else. I have further orders. And these orders come directly from Commissar Beria.”

  Kovalenko leaned back in his chair. “That’s very interesting, Major. What orders do you have from the Commissar of the NKVD that brings you here to Warsaw—other than hunting for the remnants of a defeated nation’s Home Army?”

  “These orders do not concern Warsaw or the AK, General Kovalenko. These orders require that you provide me with safe passage to Krakow immediately.”

  Kovalenko ignored the envelope. “You want safe passage to Krakow? What the hell for?”

  “I am not at liberty to answer that, General. I am on official NKVD business, and it is imperative that I get to Krakow and the former German headquarters at Wawel Castle immediately.”

  Kovalenko took another drag on his cigarette. What’s so important at Wawel Castle?

  Tarnov persisted. “You are moving on to Krakow, are you not, General? Our information is that—”

  Kovalenko abruptly ground out the cigarette in an ashtray. Then he shoved his chair back and stood up, towering over the NKVD officer. “Da, Major Tarnov. We are heading on to Krakow. The Germans are retreating, and we will be moving into Krakow within the next few days.”

  “My orders require me to get to Krakow immediately, General. I must request that—”

  “Goddamn it, Major, are you deaf? I don’t give a shit what orders you have. The Germans are retreating from Krakow now, as we speak. Red Army units will be moving in within the next few days. That’s when you’ll get to Krakow.”

  Tarnov nodded. “Very well, General, I will pass that along to Commissar Beria.”
He gestured toward the envelope. “If you’d care to inspect the orders?”

  “I don’t have time to inspect your orders, Major. Show them to Captain Andreyev on your way out.”

  Three days later, the Red Army entered Krakow. For the second time in the war, the city had escaped major damage. The Germans had fled, and Krakow had been taken without a shot being fired.

  General Andrei Kovalenko sat in the backseat of the GAZ-11 with Captain Andreyev as they drove along the narrow, cobblestone streets of the ancient city, the Mecca of Poland for a thousand years. They drove through the Rynek Glowny, Krakow’s central market square dominated by the Baroque, fifteenth-century Mariacki Church and the colossal Renaissance façades of the Cloth Hall. They passed the City Hall Tower, proceeded south along Avenue Grodzka and up the hill to Wawel Castle.

  In the auto right behind them was Major Dmitri Tarnov of the NKVD.

  Twenty-Three

  8 MAY

  STARTLED BY THE SOUND of an approaching truck, Adam scrambled off the dirt road and crawled into the high grass. He lay flat, holding his breath. It was well past midnight, a dark night, and the Red Army soldiers in the truck were probably drunk. But that only made them more unpredictable and dangerous.

  As the vehicle passed by, a bottle tossed casually from the back landed less than a meter away and broke, splashing the left side of his face and his left eye with vodka. Adam exhaled slowly but didn’t move for several minutes, cursing himself for his lack of vigilance. Here on the Baltic coast, with the sea less than fifty meters away, the noise of the wind and surf made it difficult to hear anything. And he was tired, dog tired, but that was no excuse. The area was crawling with Red Army troops and NKVD agents, hunting down the AK. There was little margin for error.

  He waited another minute then stood up slowly and glanced around in the darkness. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the liquid from the left side of his face. He could barely feel the cloth against his skin due to the numbness, a result of the bullet wound that had mangled his left ear and come within a centimeter of ending his life at Raczynski Palace the previous September. He’d also lost most of the hearing in that ear, which was probably why he hadn’t heard the truck until it was almost too late. Another reason to remain vigilant, he thought, cursing again.