The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  Kovalenko sat across from Whitehall on one of the two leather settees in front of his desk while Captain Andreyev produced a bottle of vodka and three glasses from a cabinet. “So, Adam Nowak is off to Poland?”

  “That he is,” Whitehall replied. “A bit skeptical perhaps. I can never tell if he trusts me or not.”

  The general roared with laughter and slapped Whitehall’s knee. “You’re SOE, Stanley. No one should trust you!” He raised his glass and added, “No one except me, of course.” He downed the vodka in one gulp and turned to Andreyev. “Tell Stanley what we know about Dmitri Tarnov.”

  Andreyev finished his drink and set the glass on the table. “We’ve confirmed that Tarnov left Berlin by train several days ago. No one at the NKVD is saying anything. They clam up whenever Tarnov’s name is mentioned. But we’re certain he went to Krakow.”

  “He’s gone rogue,” Kovalenko said. “He’s out there on his own on this, probably with a group of thugs he’s got something on and knows he can trust. But he’s not working within official NKVD channels.”

  “He can get away with that?” Whitehall asked.

  Andreyev nodded. “Regardless of how Beria treated him, Tarnov is still a relative. And that gives him status. He’s used it ruthlessly over the years through intimidation, blackmail, performing favors, just enough so he’s got his back covered.”

  Kovalenko stood up and reached over his desk. He picked up the report he’d been studying and held it out to Whitehall. “This is the preliminary agenda for the conference. Buried on about page two hundred is some obscure reference to the Polish borders remaining as they were set at Yalta. That’s it.”

  Whitehall leafed through the report and dropped it on the table, shaking his head. “Stalin’s got what he wants. The question of Polish elections is dead, unless Nowak gets his hands on that document—assuming of course there actually is a document that implicates the NKVD in Katyn.”

  Kovalenko shook a cigarette out of the pack of Lucky Strikes that had been lying on the desk. He lit the cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in the air. “There’s a document, Stanley, and it has everything to do with Katyn. Tarnov gave it to Frank, and now he wants it back.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Whitehall asked, watching the general closely.

  Kovalenko’s eyes narrowed. “I know Tarnov. I know his type and how they operate. There is a document, and I’m certain it’s a copy of Stalin’s Katyn Order.”

  “Even if Nowak finds it, will it make any difference?” Andreyev asked.

  Whitehall continued to watch Kovalenko for a moment, but the general’s expression was unreadable. Then he turned to Andreyev. “It depends on what the document actually says. If there is proof the NKVD committed the murders at Katyn and it’s made public, it could be just the ammunition Truman and Churchill both need to stand up to Stalin and press the case for Poland.”

  Andreyev shook his head. “If that happens, Tarnov is finished.”

  Whitehall turned to Kovalenko who stood looking out the window, rolling the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “How much help will your letter of authorization be if Nowak gets stopped in Poland?”

  Kovalenko took a long drag on the cigarette. “If he gets stopped by the Red Army or the Polish police he’ll be fine. If it’s Tarnov, or anyone under his control, he’ll be in trouble. That’s why I made a copy for him to give to his contact—what’s her name?”

  “Natalia,” Whitehall replied, “and I suspect she’s more than just a contact.”

  Kovalenko shrugged. “Well, if anything happens, and she gets word back to me, I can protest loudly enough to get him out of there. No one—not the NKVD or even Tarnov—can afford a public controversy with this conference coming up.”

  “What about that message she sent?” Andreyev asked Whitehall. “The bit about, we are not pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard. Do you know what that means?”

  Whitehall shook his head. “It’s a phrase Banach used in some paper he wrote back in the ’30s. A phrase Hans Frank also used in one of his writings. That’s what convinced Adam that Banach and Frank knew each other before the war. Damned if I know what it means, though.”

  Forty-Eight

  18 JUNE

  ADAM STACKED THE LAST of the split logs onto the wagon, brushed the dust and woodchips off his shirt, and looked at the tall, husky man holding the double-ended axe. “Is that it?” he asked.

  The man brushed his blond hair back and replaced his wide-brimmed hat. He smiled broadly and laid the axe on top of the pile of logs in the wagon. “That’s it for now. We should head back; we’re late for supper.”

  The man’s name was Piotr and though he spoke Polish, his local Górale dialect was interspersed with enough Slovakian and Hungarian words that Adam had to listen carefully, a task made a bit more challenging with the impaired hearing in his left ear. Since that first suspicious meeting at the chapel, Piotr had slowly warmed up, until now he treated Adam almost as a friend—almost.

  They climbed onto the seat of the wagon and waved good-bye to the two other Górale men who’d been helping clear the area of the forest where a stable was to be built. Piotr grabbed the horse’s reins with a thick hand, gave them a gentle flick, and the wagon jerked forward, slopping through puddles as they headed toward the cabin.

  As the wagon bumped along the muddy road, Adam took in the spectacular scenery. Nestled between two snow-capped peaks, a crystal clear stream trickled down a mountain slope thick with conifers, oaks and birch trees. But he was in no mood to enjoy it. He was restless and getting impatient.

  It had been three days since Adam left Krakow. Tytus had departed the morning after they arrived, returning to wherever he came from, leaving Adam with Piotr and his wife, Krystyna, in their three-room log cabin. Adam had learned from Piotr that Banach was indeed among the Górale, though staying with another family in a village higher up in the mountains. It was safer there, Piotr said, farther from Nowy Targ where random patrols of Russian soldiers often made trouble for the locals.

  Adam had hoped that by this time he would have already located his uncle and be on his way back to Krakow. But it had rained hard over the weekend, and the route up the mountain was impassable. Perhaps tomorrow, if the weather remained clear, they could make the trip.

  The shadows were long by the time they arrived back at the cabin, a sturdy, simple structure, one of three in a small enclave. It was built of logs with small windows and a high-peaked, wood-shingled roof, in the traditional mountain style of the Górale. The aroma of potato pancakes and sauerkraut filled the cabin, and Adam and Piotr washed up while Krystyna set the table with heavy white plates and clay mugs.

  “I was getting concerned; he’s not usually late for his supper,” Krystyna said, gesturing toward her husband. “Was he showing off his wood-splitting skills for you?”

  She was younger than Piotr, in her mid-twenties, Adam guessed, quite pretty—and very pregnant. She had thick brown hair put up in a tight bun. Her face was tan, but not weathered, her skin smooth with just a few faint creases at the corners of deep brown, sensuous eyes.

  “I probably slowed him down,” Adam replied, “but he swings a pretty mean axe.”

  “That he does. Especially during the contest at Festival Days when all the pretty young girls want to see him flex those big muscles.”

  Piotr produced a bottle of potato vodka and two glasses, summoning Adam to the table. “Don’t pay her any mind,” the big man said. “She knows I look at none but her.”

  Krystyna laughed. “And he knows what I’d do to him if he did.” She bent down and gave her husband a peck on the cheek. “He can swing an axe with the best of them, but I can’t get him to pick up a broom—even with me in my delicate condition.” She added that last with her hands on her hips, nudging Piotr with her backside.

  “A man’s got his work and a woman hers,” Piotr mumbled, pouring the drinks.

  “This will be your first child?” Adam said, glanci
ng around the small cabin. There was a fireplace on the opposite side of the single ground-floor room and two sleeping areas in a loft overhead.

  Krystyna nodded. “We’ve only been married a year. Piotr wanted to wait a while, but the good lord had other ideas. Are you married, Adam?”

  “No,” he said abruptly.

  “Well, do you have a girl, a sweetheart?”

  Adam felt his face flush, thinking of Natalia and the afternoon they spent in her tiny room in Kazimierz. Is that what they were . . . sweethearts, lovers? His stomach tightened at a sudden foreboding. He’d been bad luck for everyone he ever cared about. Why should this be any different?

  “I’m sure you do,” Krystyna persisted. “Is she also an American?”

  “Krystyna,” Piotr interjected, “can’t you see you’re embarrassing our guest with all your questions? How about our supper?”

  She waved a towel at him. “Oh, hush. It won’t kill you to wait for a few minutes. If you’d been home on time you wouldn’t be so hungry.”

  After the simple meal Adam helped clear the dishes despite Krystyna’s protests, and Piotr’s grumbles about setting a bad example. When they were finished they sat around the oak-plank table with mugs of coffee.

  “I’d like to see America some day,” Krystyna said. “The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building. Have you seen the Statue of Liberty?”

  Adam smiled. “I sailed right past it the day we came to America. I was eleven years old, and I remember thinking it was very big.”

  “Did you have a motorcar in America?” Piotr asked.

  “My father did. A green Packard with running boards and big chrome headlights.”

  Piotr’s eyes lit up. “Someday I will own a motorcar. A Mercedes-Benz.”

  Krystyna grimaced. “A German motorcar? After what those bastards did to us? How can you think such a thing?”

  “The war’s over, and they got what they deserved,” Piotr said with a shrug. “It’s a fine auto, excellent engineering.”

  “Hmmmpf,” Krystyna snorted and got up from the table. Plucking some knitting from a wicker basket, she sat down in a rocker near the fireplace.

  Adam glanced at Piotr, who was smiling at his wife. “Did you serve in the army?”

  “Infantry, Fifteenth Division, Krakow Army Group,” Piotr said proudly, though Adam detected a sadness in the big man’s voice.

  “And you made it all the way back here after the capitulation?”

  “We were surrounded by the Russians near Grodno. We had nothing left at the end, no food, no ammunition.” Piotr folded his arms across his chest. His tone of voice turned cold and hard. “The Russians started rounding us up, herding us into a valley, but they weren’t very good at it. They concentrated mostly on the officers. A lot of us just slipped away into the forests. It took me two months to get back here.”

  Piotr stared into his coffee cup as though remembering the battles, perhaps the friends he had lost.

  “How many AK are in this area?” Adam asked. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Krystyna shift in her chair.

  Piotr hesitated for a moment, glancing at his wife. “There are others,” he said.

  Adam waited for more, but Piotr picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee, looking away. “What about the NKVD?” Adam asked. “Have they been in Nowy Targ?”

  “They have spies everywhere, the wretched bastards,” Krystyna chimed in bitterly. “As bad as the Germans were, the Russians are worse; they’re nothing but murderous barbarians.”

  Adam glanced at her. The fierce glare in her eyes revealed that she, or someone close to her, had suffered at the hands of the Russians. He turned back to Piotr. “Your orders come through Jastremski?”

  Piotr didn’t respond.

  “Jastremski sent me here, Piotr,” Adam said, trying not to sound impatient. Tytus had warned him the Górale were suspicious of outsiders, but he was going to need their help. “I’m AK. I was in Warsaw during the Rising. I know Stag and Bor. You can trust me.”

  Piotr looked at him for what seemed like a long time, his dark eyes searching Adam’s. Finally he said, “Jastremski has been here only once . . . with the Instructor.”

  “The Instructor?”

  “Ludwik Banach’s code name, the man you’re looking for.”

  Adam smiled. “I’m pleased that you’re so thorough. Banach’s code name is the Provider.”

  Krystyna set her knitting back in the basket and stepped over to the table, putting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “We have to be very careful, Adam. The NKVD are ruthless, and very persistent.”

  Piotr leaned forward with his thick hands folded on the table. For an instant Adam imagined what those hands might have done to him if he’d failed to give Banach’s correct code name. “Our leader, Casimir, lives in the village of Prochowa. We’ll go there tomorrow if the paths are dry.”

  “And that’s where Banach is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you had any news about him?”

  “Not since April, when we herded the sheep up to the high pastures. I looked in on him then, at Casimir’s home.”

  “Was he well?”

  Piotr hesitated.

  “He was very pale and thin,” Krystyna said. “He had a bad cough. But he’s being well taken care of: good food, a warm bed, and the village has a doctor. It’s so much warmer now, maybe he’s feeling better.”

  Adam smiled at her, watching as she rubbed her hands along the sides of her swollen belly. He hoped to hell she and Piotr would survive all this. “Yes, maybe he is,” he replied, not allowing himself to think otherwise, not now, when he was so close.

  Forty-Nine

  19 JUNE

  NATALIA WOKE JUST AFTER DAWN and sat by the window in the shabby room thinking about Adam. It was only Tuesday, but she had a sense of apprehension that she couldn’t shake. She should have gone with him, but the risk was too great. The NKVD was out there, and if they got caught together that would be the end of everything. There would be no hope of recovering the Katyn Order.

  But now, once again, he was gone.

  She suddenly felt as though she were suffocating.

  An hour later, Natalia jumped off the tram and walked briskly down Sienna Street, heading for the Rynek Glowny. Her stomach growled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything since noon the previous day. She found the same bakery where she had bought a poppy seed roll the other day, but the only items on the display shelf today were two loaves of black bread. She purchased two slices and devoured them on the way to the Rynek Glowny.

  She needed to think, to find a quiet place where she would be safe from prying eyes and could consider what to do if Adam didn’t show up by the end of the day. She crossed the square, just coming to life at this early hour, and climbed the stairs of the Mariacki Church.

  The first mass of the morning wouldn’t begin for another half hour, but there were already several dozen people seated in the pews. Natalia stood just inside the door for a moment gazing around at the intricately painted blue-and-white walls of the immense nave, arcing gracefully upward to the vaulted ceiling. She walked slowly down the ancient stone aisle, made the sign of the cross and slid into a pew. She knelt for several minutes, glancing up occasionally at the altar which for centuries had been adorned with the majestic altarpiece created by the Nuremburg craftsman, Veit Stoss, one of the finest examples of Gothic art in Europe.

  Natalia closed her eyes, recalling the magnificent, wooden altar-piece, and its intricately hand-carved central panel, depicting the graceful figure of the Virgin Mary reclining in peaceful sleep in the arms of the Apostles. She felt a warm glow inside, remembering Adam’s embrace as they lay in her bed just a few days ago. Will I ever feel that again? Suddenly trembling, she opened her eyes and looked at the dark, empty space where the altarpiece had once stood in front of the towering stained glass windows. The Nazis had stolen it, and the altar was now bare and cold, like the soul of Krakow.

  She sa
t back in the pew and, instantly, the hair on the back of her neck bristled as she sensed the presence of someone kneeling in the pew directly behind her. Someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago. She sat perfectly still, holding her breath.

  A voice whispered, “Conductor, it’s me.”

  Natalia spun around and stared, dumbstruck, at the familiar face.

  Rabbit!

  Natalia quickly came around the pew and sat next to her teenage friend and comrade-in-arms. “My God, what are you . . . what happened?”

  Rabbit was filthy, his face sagging with exhaustion. He looked at her with bloodshot eyes, then abruptly turned away at the sound of footsteps coming down the aisle.

  Three elderly women passed by and sat in a pew two rows farther up.

  Natalia glanced at her watch. The mass would be starting in fifteen minutes. They either had to leave now, which might seem odd to anyone who noticed, or sit through the mass, which would be unbearable. She nudged Rabbit with her elbow and whispered, “Let’s go.”

  Natalia’s mind was bursting with questions, but they both had the discipline to walk in silence for fear of being overheard by NKVD spies. They crossed the Rynek Glowny, then headed north along Florianska Street, taking some left and right turns into the narrow side streets in case anyone had followed them. Rabbit was emaciated. Natalia knew she had to get him some food and find a place where they could talk.

  They passed through St. Florian’s Gate, continued north for a few blocks and arrived at the Rynek Kleparski marketplace, where they slipped into the flow of early morning shoppers who trudged through the narrow aisles between the stalls. Most of the stalls were empty. Those that had something to sell offered little beyond wilted vegetables and day-old bread. Luxuries such as meat, eggs and fresh fruit were available only on the black market. With Rabbit at her side, Natalia pushed through several groups of people clutching ration coupons and haggling with vendors. She managed to purchase a small loaf of black bread, a few thin slices of cheese and three apples. Rabbit ate two of the apples before they got out of the marketplace.