He read them a second time, just to be sure.
“What does it say?” Andreyev asked.
Adam swallowed hard before he answered. “It says he was transferred to the personal custody of Hans Frank, Governor of Poland.”
The next evening, on the terrace of the German industrialist’s mansion in Berlin, Colonel Meinerz leaned forward in the wicker chair across from Adam. “Hans Frank?” It was the first time he had spoken during Adam’s detailed report of the events of the last twenty-four hours. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You’re telling me that one of the persons on that list of yours was released from Sachsenhausen into the personal custody of Hans Frank, the Nazi Governor of Poland, the son of a bitch they call ‘the Jew Butcher of Poland’?”
Adam nodded, still unable to comprehend what it could possibly mean.
Meinerz had come directly back to Berlin upon hearing from Adam. It was late in the evening, and they were alone. “So, after not returning phone calls for a week, Kovalenko suddenly invites you to dinner, then arranges a private tour of Sachsenhausen. Any idea why?”
“No.”
Meinerz stood up and paced around the terrace. “Do you know that Hans Frank is in the custody of the American Army? That he is being held in Nuremberg, charged with war crimes?”
Adam felt as though he were drifting through some macabre dream. “Yes, I know.”
“Jesus Christ, Adam, the Russians will jump all over this. Most of the big Nazi fish got away from them and surrendered to us—Goering, Speer, Jodl, Frank. They’re really pissed off about it and grabbing anyone still out there. You’re damned fortunate those prison guards and your driver were Red Army officers. When the NKVD finds out about this, you can bet your ass we’ll be hearing from them.” Meinerz pulled out a pack of Camels, lit one and blew out a long column of smoke. “Who was this person anyway—the one released into Frank’s custody?”
“His name is Ludwik Banach.”
“Yeah, that’s fine, but who the hell is he? And why was he on that list?”
Adam studied Meinerz. He seemed like a straight-up sort, an honest army officer and JAG lawyer. Adam felt he could trust him, and he owed him something after the deception. But he couldn’t tell him everything. “He’s my uncle.”
“He’s what . . . your uncle?” Meinerz stood with his hands on his hips, glaring down at Adam. “What the fuck is going on here, Adam . . . Mr. Nowak . . . or whoever the hell you really are? Why didn’t you tell me right up front what you were looking for?”
“I couldn’t. I’m under orders from the British SOE.”
“Well that’s just great! You’ve got some secret orders from the British spooks that I don’t know anything about. What else haven’t you told me? Do the Russians know that Banach is your uncle?”
“Yes, it’s possible they do. I know that they’ve investigated my background. I lived with my uncle when I was going to law school in Krakow. It wasn’t a secret.”
“But I’ll bet they didn’t know that your uncle was sent to Sachsenhausen and then released into the custody of Hans Frank.”
Adam shook his head. “I’m sure they didn’t. I didn’t know that until yesterday.”
Meinerz stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “Why would Hans Frank have had any interest in your uncle, a university professor?”
Adam tried to focus, to come up with an answer, but it was hard to concentrate. His emotions were drained from anxiety over what this could mean. Finally, he just said, “I don’t know.” It was true. He had no idea, though he had been thinking about nothing else since reading the extraordinary entry in “volume 293.” He stood up, so that he was face-to-face with Meinerz. “Look, I’m sorry about the deception. I had no idea about this business with Hans Frank. But I need your help. I’ve got to report this to SOE, and I’ve got to do it quietly. It can’t go through channels.”
Meinerz was silent for a long moment, looking Adam in the eye. Finally he nodded. “Yeah, sure, whatever you need.”
Thirty-One
26 MAY
ADAM SAT ON THE FRONT PORCH of the former Nazi’s mansion, reading Stars and Stripes, trying unsuccessfully to relax. The front page article was an optimistic report on the upcoming Potsdam conference, filled with flowery references to “freedom across Europe.” Adam snorted and tossed the paper to the ground. Obviously the reporter had never dealt with the Russians.
Adam’s message had been delivered by special courier to Colonel Whitehall the day before, and he’d received a return message earlier this morning to expect Whitehall’s assistant, Tom Donavan. He’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours trying to sort out the stunning revelation about Banach and Hans Frank, but nothing made sense. Especially troubling was the date of his uncle’s release—July, 1940. Adam had been sent back to Poland by the SOE in the winter of 1940 and spent the next four years on his covert mission of murder, never knowing his uncle had survived Sachsenhausen and was back in Krakow. How many German officers had he assassinated avenging his death? Did it matter? They were all monsters who deserved to die, weren’t they?
Adam sighed, pulled back to the moment as a British army staff car pulled up in front of the house. Donavan exited from the backseat, wearing the same bow tie he’d worn in London and lugging a thick briefcase. They exchanged a brief greeting, and Adam led him to the library.
It was a dark, heavy room of walnut shelving laden with leather-bound books. A large, bronze plaque, emblazoned with the coat-of-arms of the Teutonic Knights, hung above a granite fireplace. They sat facing each other across a mahogany table.
“Your message was a bit of a shock, to say the least,” Donavan said without preamble. “Ludwik Banach released from Sachsenhausen by order of Hans Frank—quite extraordinary. If it gets out, it’ll cause quite a stir within SOE—and with the Polish Government in London, I should think. Whitehall’s keeping a lid on it for now, but it won’t last.”
Adam kept silent, though it was difficult. Cause a stir within SOE? What the hell did these people think it did to him?
“We’ve been doing some homework on Herr Frank since your call,” Donavan said. He opened the briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. “Obviously, you have no idea why Frank would have ordered Banach’s release.”
“I can’t imagine,” Adam said. “Frank didn’t arrive in Krakow as governor until a month or two after my uncle’s arrest and my deportation from Poland.”
Donavan nodded. “Well, let’s review a bit about this chap, shall we? Our people have prepared a summary.” He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and scanned the top page of the stack of documents. “Frank is a lawyer, one of Germany’s most noted jurists, a degree in economics, as well.” He ran his finger down the page. “. . . associated with fascists during his university years . . . joined the German Workers Party in 1919 . . . became connected with National Socialist Party around 1928.”
Donavan continued flipping through the pages. “Hmmm . . . elected to the Reichstag in 1930 . . . became president of the Reichstag after the Nazis came to power in 1933, appointed to the post by the Fuhrer himself.”
Donavan turned over the last page. “He served as the Reich Commissar for Administration of Justice, the Bavarian State Minister of Justice, and he was President of the Academy of German Law from 1933 until 1942. That’s quite—”
Adam held up his hand. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”
Donavan looked back at his notes. “He was the Bavarian—”
“No, the next thing.”
“Ah, he was the President of the Academy of German Law.”
Adam turned the words over in his mind, trying to remember.
“Does that mean something to you?” Donavan asked, peering over the top of his glasses.
“What were the dates?”
Donavan looked back at the notes. “1933 until 1942.”
Adam absently rubbed the thin scar on the left side of his face, though it was numb and he bar
ely felt it. “Banach was very involved in the development of Poland’s judicial system,” he said, thinking back, reconstructing details from past conversations with his uncle. “He’d studied the system in Germany for many years. In one of his classes on constitutional law he talked about a conference he’d attended a few years earlier, in 1935, I believe. The conference was organized by this group, the Academy of German Law.” Adam paused. “Yes, I think that’s right, a conference of the Academy of German Law.”
Donavan frowned. “Are you sure? That was quite some time ago.”
“I was working as his legal assistant when he mentioned it in the class. I helped prepare his lecture notes. I’m sure it was this same organization. You say that Hans Frank was president of the academy?”
“He founded it.”
They were both silent for a long time as other things flitted through Adam’s memory, more bits and pieces, nothing that had ever seemed out of the ordinary—until now. “This academy, what was it all about?”
Donavan flipped through the file and pulled out another sheet. “The Academy of German Law . . . Frank organized it in the early thirties, I believe. Yes, here it is. That’s right, shortly after the National Socialists came to power. It included some of the most prominent legal scholars in Germany.” He scanned the document, speaking faster, as if he were warming up to the subject. “Their objective was to structure a legal framework that would preserve Germany’s independent judiciary within a totalitarian regime. The academy members consulted with other European legal scholars to safeguard these concepts within the National Socialist Government.”
Consulted with other legal scholars?
Donavan looked up from the paper. “What is it? . . . Mr. Nowak?”
“I think my uncle and Hans Frank knew each other,” Adam said. He could barely get the words out.
“Well, it’s possible they might have met, at this conference perhaps, but—”
“No, it’s more than that. This whole thing you just said, the part about an ‘independent judiciary within a totalitarian government.’ That was one of Banach’s major fields of expertise—the same kind of thing this academy was attempting to do. My uncle exchanged correspondence for years with some institution in Germany. I was his assistant, working in his office. I never paid much attention at the time, but I remember packets arriving with German postmarks.” He stared up at the ceiling. After a moment he looked back at the lanky Englishman. “My God, I think they really did know each other.”
Donavan got to his feet and shoved the files back in his briefcase. “We’d better arrange a secure telephone line to London.”
They telephoned Whitehall. Then, later in the day, Adam called him a second time, after spending several more hours with Donavan, digging through the stack of research files on Hans Frank. “We found something else,” Adam said.
“What is it?” Whitehall asked brusquely.
“A copy of a paper Hans Frank wrote in 1936 describing the circumvention of trial procedures in the Russian Bolshevik government, how the Russian courts were nothing more than pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard of the NKVD.”
“Well, that’s damned poetic. But I don’t understand. What does it mean?”
“My uncle wrote a paper on the same subject a year earlier,” Adam replied. “The year he attended the conference in Germany.”
Whitehall grunted. “I still don’t—”
“He showed it to me,” Adam said quickly, recalling now with complete clarity a meeting one afternoon in his uncle’s office. “He kept the paper alongside a thick leather-bound book in his personal library—The Proceedings of the Academy of German Law. He wanted me to read the paper and give him my opinion. He didn’t do that very often.”
“Well, perhaps Frank was interested in the same subject, but—”
Adam interrupted. “It’s the phrase—pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard—it all came back to me when I read Frank’s paper. Banach used the exact same phrase in his paper . . . a paper that was never published.”
Whitehall was silent for a long moment. “Well, that might explain something,” he said finally.
“What do you mean?”
“The Russians are causing some trouble. Our delegation in Berlin was contacted by Major Tarnov of the NKVD, damned nasty chap, I must say. They’ve slammed the door on any further visits to Sachsenhausen. And now Tarnov is demanding that all records relating to Hans Frank be off-limits until they complete their investigation.”
“Investigation of what?”
“The connection between Ludwik Banach and Hans Frank—and Banach’s activities after he returned to Krakow.”
Adam almost dropped the phone. “Oh Christ! They think Banach collaborated with the Nazis.” He slumped back in the leather desk chair and stared at the ornately carved wooden beams in the ceiling of the former Nazi’s study. “This whole thing is insane,” he snapped. “My uncle has been back in Krakow since 1940, and I never knew. I was gone, doing what you trained me to do. Doing things that—”
“He’ll start looking for him,” Whitehall said.
“What?”
“This NKVD agent, Tarnov. He’ll start looking for Banach.”
Adam suddenly felt dizzy. “We’ve got to find him first.”
“Do you have a contact?” Whitehall asked. “Someone in the AK who was in Krakow, someone who might know where to start?”
“I don’t know . . . they’re all gone . . . they’re . . .” Adam closed his eyes to let the dizziness subside. Slowly an image formed in his mind, an image of Natalia sprinting toward a sewer in Warsaw, wearing her blue railway conductor’s uniform. That was her code name, Conductor. She had mentioned it that last night in Warsaw, in the ammunition cellar. “Not very original as code names go,” she had said. Snatches of the conversation gradually came back to him. Just before the artillery shell hit and they bolted out of the cellar, Natalia had said, “I heard from a priest . . .”
And then . . . what else? There was something else, something he had been trying to remember for weeks. Adam forced himself to concentrate, trying to recall her exact words. “I heard from a priest, of all things . . . then someone I never met . . .”
It struck him like a thunderbolt.
“. . . someone I never met, called the Provider.”
Adam abruptly stood up, squeezing the telephone receiver, his knuckles turning white. Of course! How could I have missed it? Natalia had never finished the thought, but now it was suddenly clear.
The Conductor . . . The Provider.
She was part of the channel!
“There may be someone,” he said into the telephone. “Someone I knew . . .”
“What’s his name?” Whitehall asked.
“Her name,” Adam said. “Her name is Natalia.”
Thirty-Two
6 JUNE
KRAKOW’S MEDIEVAL STARE MIASTO DISTRICT stretched for almost two kilometers along the Royal Way, from the Gothic tower of St. Florian’s Gate in the north to Wawel Castle, high above the banks of the Vistula River, in the south. And in the center of the district, encircled by the wide pathways and greenery of the Planty park, was the Rynek Glowny, the largest market square in Europe, and since the thirteenth century, the heart and soul of the City of Kings.
Natalia walked briskly across the Rynek Glowny and continued south, along the narrow, cobblestone streets of the Stare Miasto, struggling to suppress her anxiety about being back in the city after months of hiding out in forests and AK safe houses. She knew she should keep moving, blending in with the pedestrian flow so as not to attract attention.
But she paused for a moment at the base of Wawel Castle and glanced up at the towering edifice of the royal palace and the adjoining cathedral where every Polish monarch for a thousand years had been coronated. Flags fluttered from the towers high above the stone fortifications that surrounded the castle. They were Soviet flags now, the hammer-and-sickle having replaced the swastika since she’d last been her
e. The Russians had driven out the Germans, the flags had changed, and the black uniforms of the SS were replaced with the khaki uniforms of the NKVD.
Natalia sighed and turned away from the castle, following the route she had taken dozens of times over the years, through the tree-lined paths of the Planty park then along a labyrinth of narrow, Medieval streets where the rich ensemble of Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque architecture remained unscathed by the war that had ravaged the rest of the country.
The Stare Miasto was crowded at this hour, but subdued. There were few vehicles, and pedestrians avoided conversation with strangers, averting their glances as they’d been conditioned to do through the long, dark period of occupation. The shops had little to sell, the cafés offered only a few meager selections and the hundreds of churches were mostly empty under the atheist influence of the communist occupier.
Natalia continued on, moving briskly, avoiding eye contact. She made her way along the boulevards bordering the Vistula River to the Kazimierz District, once a separate city and for three hundred years the home of Krakow’s Jewish quarter. It was a familiar route, a familiar city, remarkably undamaged yet inexorably altered, its royal soul deadened.
Twenty minutes later, in the heart of Kazimierz, Natalia walked down a long narrow street, lined with stone walls on either side, and entered the courtyard of the Church of Archangel Michael and Saint Stanislaus. A rose garden was in full bloom, and an elderly man hunched over, clipping grass at the base of a towering oak tree. The tree shaded a rectangular pond with a granite statute of the saint at its center.
Natalia wore stout shoes and dark trousers, a white long-sleeved shirt and a gray vest. Along with her felt hat and short brown hair, she could be taken for a man by a casual observer, which was safer than a woman alone. But caution was a habit, and she turned away from the elderly man.
She glanced at her watch. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. And it was the sixth of June, a Wednesday. She paused for a moment, studying the red-brick church building with its twin towers and high-peaked tile roof, then slowly climbed the curved, limestone staircase. With her cap folded under her arm she entered the gloomy sanctuary.
The Katyn Order Page 20
