The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  “Take the stairs to the first floor and it will be on your right.”

  Adam crossed the library’s ground floor gallery, heading for the stairs. His uncle had been instrumental in creating this place but, ironically, it had not been completed until after the German invasion. The gallery was a vast, circular room at least fifty meters in diameter with a marble floor and a high, domed ceiling depicting the heliocentric model of the universe conceived by the sixteenth-century Polish astronomer, Nicolaus Copernicus. In the center of the room stood a life-sized, bronze bust of Copernicus perched on a marble pillar. Around the perimeter of the gallery ranged shelves of periodicals and newspapers, mahogany tables and leather-backed chairs. To his left and right, marble archways led to other areas of the ground floor. And on the far side of the gallery, directly across from the main entrance, a wide marble stairway arched gracefully upward to the first floor.

  Adam climbed the stairway, turned right and entered the Reading Room—a large, brightly lit area with windows along one side. About a dozen people were scattered about, sitting quietly at sturdy oak tables, studying books and documents. At the far end of the room a woman in a somber gray dress and a middle-aged man wearing a neatly pressed white shirt and tie sat a few meters apart behind a counter, sorting books and making notations on small cards. Adam set his briefcase on an empty table, took his time opening it and rummaged around until the woman picked up a pile of books and disappeared into the stacks behind the counter.

  As Adam approached, the slender man glanced up and peered over the top of his glasses. The man’s face was familiar: thin, white hair, his skin soft and pale, the look of someone who spent most of his time indoors. His name tag read J. Jastremski.

  “I’m looking for some records of iron ore production in Silesia,” Adam said.

  Jerzy Jastremski was silent for a moment, appearing thoughtful, rotating a pencil between his thumb and forefinger as though he was envisioning the exact book and its precise location. Then he nodded and said, “Yes, I think I know where that might be. What period are you interested in?”

  “The 1930s,” Adam replied.

  Jastremski got to his feet and wandered off into the stacks. He returned several minutes later carrying a thick leather volume under his arm. He set the book on the counter and turned to the table of contents.

  Adam glanced around. The woman librarian hadn’t returned, and everyone else in the room seemed engrossed in their reading.

  After a moment Jastremski flipped through the book and said with a note of triumph, “Ah, here it is. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for on pages 1142 through 1156.”

  Adam turned the book toward himself and glanced at the pages of dense data. “That looks like what I need.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Jastremski asked.

  “There is one other thing,” Adam said, casually. “I’m new in town and I’m thinking of attending mass this Sunday at the Church of Archangel Michael and Saint Stanislaus. Do you know the time?”

  Jastremski stared at him for a moment, a flicker of recognition suddenly appearing in his eyes. His face flushed, and there was a slight tremor in his hands as he withdrew a thin notebook and fountain pen from his suit coat pocket. “There is more than one mass,” he said. “I’ll write down the times for you.” He scribbled a note and handed it to Adam with a barely perceptible motion of his head toward a door at the far end of the counter.

  Adam glanced at the note.

  Lower Level, Room L-3, thirty minutes.

  Adam spent the next half hour staring at charts and tables of iron ore production, occasionally scribbling meaningless notes on a pad of paper. He glanced at his watch and looked up at the counter. Jastremski was gone, and the woman librarian was stamping cards and slipping them back into books. He waited a few moments until she picked up the books and left the counter. Then he snapped the briefcase shut, stood up and walked casually to the front of the room. He set the thick book on the counter and proceeded through the door at the far end. He descended the stairs to the Lower Level, found Room L3 and stepped inside.

  Jastremski sat at a table and motioned for Adam to close the door.

  Adam took a seat across the table from Jastremski. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  Jastremski nodded, his pale complexion now ashen, as though he’d seen a ghost. “The Germans deported you . . . after they arrested . . .” His voice trailed off, and he lowered his eyes.

  “It is important that I find my uncle,” Adam said, deciding it would be easiest to come right to the point. “I understand you know where he is.”

  Jastremski didn’t respond.

  Adam forced himself to be patient. “Will you help me?”

  “These are dangerous times,” Jastremski said, folding his hands on the table. His fingers were long and thin. They trembled again as they had out in the Reading Room. “One must be cautious.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? Do you know that the NKVD has been kicking in doors all over the country since the murders near Zyrardow.”

  “What murders?” Adam asked sharply.

  “Three weeks ago two NKVD officers were murdered in some village out by the Bolimowski Forest. Near Zyrardow. One of them was a high-ranking officer. He was making an inspection tour of the rural areas. He was shot through the mouth, I heard. Sounds like an execution, if you ask me.”

  Adam’s spine tingled. Having the NKVD on heightened alert was a problem, but it really had nothing to do with him. Stay focused. Concentrate on the mission. He looked Jastremski in the eyes. “Everything you tell me will be kept—”

  Jastremski smiled thinly and leaned over the table. He had clearly recovered from the shock of seeing Adam again after all this time. “Save the speech. I’ve heard it all before. As I said, these are dangerous times. Don’t make promises you won’t be able to keep if you wind up in the hands of the NKVD.”

  “OK, no speeches, no promises. But the fact remains that it is vitally important to find Ludwik Banach. Will you help me?”

  “As I said, one must be cautious. I’ll tell you what I know, then we’ll see if it helps you.” He paused for a second as though gathering his thoughts, then moved his gaze to the bare walls. “This room was used as a storeroom by Hans Frank’s government. They kept all manner of records and documents here, in file boxes, all neatly organized and labeled: concentration camp details, extermination methods, starvation data.” He looked down at the table, shaking his head slowly. A moment later he continued. “In the fall of 1941, Banach obtained access to this room. I was never certain how, but I suspected that the German library director, Gustav Kruger, gave him a key.”

  Adam flinched. A German gave Uncle Ludwik a key to the room?

  “They weren’t all monsters, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I only met the monsters.”

  There was a look of understanding in Jastremski’s eyes. “Once every few weeks, Banach brought documents to me, and I took them to the church.”

  “And the priest passed them on?” Adam was determined not to mention Natalia.

  “I assume so. I never knew who actually received them. I just took them to the church and gave them to the priest. Everything flowed through him. Then in January of this year, immediately after the Germans fled the city, Banach decided to leave Krakow. He said he couldn’t be here when the Russians came. But he wasn’t well, and I urged him to stay here. We have doctors here. He could get treatment.”

  “Not well? What do you mean?”

  “His time in Sachsenhausen had been hard on him. He had a cough, and his energy was slipping. The Nazis allowed those of us working in the library access to doctors, but Banach refused to go.”

  “Why?” Adam asked, though he’d already guessed the answer.

  “He believed he had tuberculosis, and if he sought medical attention he would be sent to a sanatorium. He was very determined to leave Krakow, almost desperate. He kept saying he could not
allow himself to be caught by the Russians.”

  Adam thought it over as the pieces started falling into place. Banach had the copy of Stalin’s Katyn Order in his possession, but he knew he would be trapped in Krakow after the Russians arrived, especially if he were confined to a sanatorium. He also knew that Hans Frank’s “visitor” would return, searching for the order. “Where did he go?” Adam asked.

  “There is an AK contact among the Górale,” Jastremski said, “in the Tatra Mountains, beyond Nowy Targ.”

  Adam remembered the Górale from a student camping trip he’d taken in 1938. They were highlanders—mountain farmers and herdsmen—tough passionate people, the type of people who would protect their friends at all costs. “How will I find him?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow, take the evening bus to Nowy Targ but don’t get off. A man carrying a wicker basket will get on board.”

  “Can I go tonight? It’s urgent.”

  Jastremski thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll arrange it. Just follow the man with the wicker basket. He’ll introduce himself as ‘Tytus.’ He’ll expect a code name in return.”

  “Tell him it’s ‘Wolf,’” Adam said as he got up to leave.

  Jastremski followed him to the door, checked the hallway then pointed in the opposite direction from which Adam had come. “I suggest you leave by the service entrance in the back. Just follow this corridor and make a left. There’s a loading dock, but it’s only used on Friday mornings by the janitorial crew. Next to the loading dock is the service entrance.”

  Forty-Four

  15 JUNE

  IT HAD BEEN YEARS since the last time Adam was in the eastern section of the Kazimierz District, and the now-decaying neighborhood bore little resemblance to the bustling Jewish market area he remembered. Slowly navigating the mostly deserted, filthy streets, Adam eventually found the address Natalia had written in the newspaper. His first instinct was to share the information he’d received from Jastremski with her. But by the time he arrived at the run-down building, doubts had crept back into his mind.

  He stood on the sidewalk, glancing up and down the deserted street, hesitating. He remembered a similar moment back in Warsaw when he had stood outside the breach in the old city wall while Natalia waited for him in the ammunition cellar. He had hesitated then as well, but he’d had to leave when Rabbit suddenly arrived.

  Or, had he?

  On that night, Natalia wanted to be his friend. A simple thing, a friend: someone to talk to, someone to share his fears, his anger, his hopes for a future. But he didn’t have friends; he couldn’t have friends. It wasn’t possible. Friends, relationships of any kind, were a distraction, and distractions led to mistakes.

  Assassins could not make mistakes.

  He should leave. Get lost for a few hours and take the evening bus to Nowy Targ. That was the sensible thing to do. Focus on the mission. Find Banach and the Katyn Order. Natalia had done her part and there was no reason to put her in any more danger. Back in Warsaw, she had wanted a friend. But he knew it was far more than that now. If he couldn’t be her friend then, he certainly couldn’t be her lover now, not ever.

  There were no second chances . . . and there would be no redemption.

  And worst of all, he knew there would be no release from the yearning he felt to touch Natalia, to kiss her, to . . .

  He had to leave.

  Adam started back up the street, walking briskly, his mind made up. It was the right thing to do.

  He approached the end of the block and was about to turn the corner, when he noticed an old man shuffling along the sidewalk on the other side of the street, poking into the gutter with a long stick. Adam slowed his pace. The man looked at him for a moment, then nodded, tipped his grimy, felt cap and shuffled on. Adam stopped and watched as the man proceeded down the street, turned the corner and disappeared . . . alone.

  Adam turned and looked back down the street, toward the building where Natalia waited. What the hell is wrong with me?

  He turned around and walked back to the run-down building, his desire now overpowering. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and found the key behind the radiator. He paused for a moment outside room no. 34 . . . then inserted the key in the lock and pushed open the door.

  Natalia sat on the bed wearing only a partially buttoned cotton shirt over her bra and panties. Her knees were drawn up, her arms clasped around them.

  Adam glanced around the room, avoiding her eyes. The curtains were drawn, but the window was open at the bottom and a soft breeze fluttered in. “Jastremski was very helpful,” he said quickly. “But I’ve got to go. There’s not much time and . . .”

  He stopped and looked at her, suddenly struck with a terrible fear that if he took his eyes off of her for just an instant, she’d be gone, like that last night in Warsaw.

  Natalia cocked her head and smiled. “You look very hot—and tired.” She slid over, making room on the narrow bed, beckoning for him to sit down.

  “You know who I am, Natalia. You know what I’ve done.”

  “Yes, I do. Now come and sit down. I won’t bite.”

  Adam closed the door and locked it. He set his briefcase on the floor, draped his suit coat over the back of the single chair and sat next to her.

  She reached up and stroked the scar on the left side of his face, looking at his damaged ear. “Did that happen at Raczynski Palace?”

  He nodded.

  “You could have been killed. Why did you—” She stopped and bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter.” She looked into his eyes. “I was in love with you, Adam.”

  A knot twisted in his stomach. “And now?” he whispered.

  A tear formed in the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. “I loved you. I couldn’t explain it; we barely knew each other. But I also hated you for leaving that night. I hated that you were determined to throw away your life—and my life, what we might have had together. And I hated myself for not stopping you. And then, the day before yesterday, when you stepped onto that tram . . .”

  Adam reached over and brushed away the tear, running his finger slowly down her cheek, feeling as though he had drifted through a passageway, leaving a dark place and entering a brighter one. “That night, at the palace in Warsaw, my last thought was that I had been given a gift. In the midst of all that horror, I had been given a gift—and I threw it away.”

  “We have another chance, Adam.”

  He touched her knee, tracing a circle with his finger, looking into her eyes. “I want to believe that.”

  She placed her hand on top of his and caressed his fingers, reached up and loosened his tie, slowly pulling it off his neck.

  With a tremor in his fingers, he undid the rest of the buttons on her thin, cotton shirt and slid it off her shoulders.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back, leading his hand slowly up her thigh. Her face was flushed, her hair wet around the edges, sticking to her forehead. Beads of perspiration trickled down her neck and disappeared between her breasts.

  Adam leaned forward and kissed her neck.

  She snuggled close as his other hand moved around her back, finding the clasp of her bra.

  They lay curled together under the sheet as the late afternoon sun filtered through the grimy windowpane. Natalia rested her head on his chest, listening to the soft beating of his heart, feeling a warmth inside she had only dreamt about. If only they could stay right here, curled up in this shabby little room, just the two of them, and ignore everything that was happening in the world, she would be happy.

  But that wasn’t possible. There were things they had to do. And she had to tell him about the two NKVD agents she had murdered. But not right now. For just a few more moments all she wanted to think about was Adam. She snuggled closer and whispered, “You haven’t told me how you managed to get out of Warsaw.”

  He sighed as he ran his fingers through her hair. “Well, I still had that motorcycle, and the German uniform—”

>   She abruptly sat up. “My God, you mean that Waffen-SS uniform you wore when you shot Heisenberg? You kept it?”

  “Stashed away with the motorcycle. It was almost a month before I could walk—I get these dizzy spells—and I was surprised that the motorcycle and the uniform were still there. But it got me out of the city.”

  She put her hand on his cheek, leaned over and gently kissed his mangled ear. “Dizzy spells?”

  “They come and go, but it’s getting better. I don’t hear so well out of that ear though.”

  She furled her brow, gently rubbing his forehead. “The dizzy spells are probably the after-effect of a concussion from the gunshot.”

  He smiled. “Ah yes, the medical student, whose father was a doctor. So, what about the hearing loss?”

  “Hmm, let’s see, could be a ruptured eardrum, or possibly a dislocation of the tiny bones in the middle ear. A loud, sharp noise or a blow to the head could cause either one.” She slid her forefinger along the thin scar where the bullet had grazed his cheekbone before tearing his ear in half.

  “I’m impressed. Apparently you paid attention in class.”

  “Whichever it is, it appears as though you’re damaged goods. Guess I’ll have to toss you back.”

  He slid his hand around her bare back and pulled her on top of him. “Right now?”

  “Well, maybe not right now.”

  Later, they sat on the bed, and Natalia listened intently as he described his meeting at the library. “At least Jastremski doesn’t know who you are,” Adam said. “He told me he never knew who received the documents he got from Banach. He just gave them to the priest.”

  “When do you have to leave?”

  “This evening, by bus to Nowy Targ.”

  “Is your uncle still there?”

  “I don’t know. Jastremski’s had no contact with him since January. He left him with the Górale at a small chapel somewhere beyond Nowy Targ. I’m to rendezvous with ‘Tytus’ and use my code name, ‘Wolf.’ After that, I’m not sure.”

  Natalia was quiet for a long time, then slowly shook her head. “I can’t go with you, Adam. We can’t risk getting caught together. You’ll be safer on your own.”