THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel

by Paul Wonnacott

  “What? And Phipps knew?” Anna couldn't believe it.

  “Yes. Found out the same day.”

  “Oh!… And how long have you known?” There was an accusing edge in Anna's voice.

  “Only two days. But I was ordered not to tell you.”

  “Why the hell not, if I might ask?”

  “They wanted to get Ryk out of Britain before they told you. They didn't want you to contact him. He left on a plane for Canada this morning. When Phipps gets back from London tomorrow, I'm sure he'll tell you first thing.”

  “That bastard!”

  “Do me a favor. When he tells you, be sure to act surprised.” Yvonne paused. “I don't want to end up in Siberia with you.”

  “The Yukon, you mean.”

  “Sorry. Shouldn't joke about such things with someone from Eastern Europe.”

  They sat there without saying anything for a few minutes. Anna was taking stock.

  “You know,” she finally said, “I wonder if I've done everything I can to find out about Kaz—to find out if anybody really knows if he's dead or alive.”

  “I'm not sure how you'd do that. We can't exactly send a message to the Kremlin, asking them if they murdered Kaz.”

  “I meant”—there was a touch of exasperation in Anna's voice—“I haven't turned over all the stones here in Britain.”

  “But you were with me when we got Pickersgill to check—and recheck—the Eighth Army's list of Poles who got out with Anders.”

  “But that's not the only way people got out.... Me, for example.”

  “So what we need to do is check, not just with the British Army, but with someone who might keep track of all the Poles who got out—and maybe even Poles who escaped captivity but are still in Poland. Sounds like the government in exile.”

  “Exactly. But Phipps will go round the bend if I call the Polish government. We'll have to do it through channels.”

  “Let's do it right away. With Phipps still in London, we can go to Pickersgill. He's more likely to be cooperative.”

  Pickersgill was. As soon as the two women had explained what they wanted, he picked up the phone and had his secretary put through a call to Col. Mikolaj at the Polish government offices in London.

  “Hello, Col. Mikolaj, this is Commander Hew Pickersgill, with British Intelligence. I'd like to get some information. Would you like me to leave my number, so you can check and call me back?”

  “Depends on what the information is. Try me.” Pickersgill was the only one to hear the reply; the two women had to guess what was going on from just one side of the conversation.

  “Could you see if you have any information on a Kazimierz Jankowski? At the beginning of the war, I believe he was a Lieutenant”—he glanced over to Anna, who nodded. “In the seventh cavalry”—Anna nodded again.

  “Might I ask the reason for this request?”

  “Very simple. His wife works with me, and she's trying to find out what happened to him. Do you think you could track down information on him?”

  “Yes, it might be possible.” Mikolaj paused for dramatic effect. “In fact, he works with us. On the second floor of this building. Shall I try to get hold of him, and call you right back?”

  “That would be splendid.” Pickersgill gave him the number and hung up.

  He wondered if he should tell Anna. But why spoil the surprise? He said simply, “Col. Mikolaj thinks that he might be able to find some record. If he does, he'll call back.”

  Pickersgill didn't want to miss the moment; he decided to keep the two women in his office for half an hour or more, if necessary. “Perhaps I might be more helpful to Mikolaj if we had details—when you last had contact with your husband, and what you've done to try to locate him. Of course, I recall the contacts with the Eighth Army.”

  There was little additional information that Anna could add; she talked about his interests, what sort of people he might contact if he escaped.

  Mikolaj sent down a message for Kaz to come up to see him. Right away. The answer came back, he can't. He's in a meeting with Sikorsky; John Winant, the U.S. Ambassador to the United Kingdom; and Averell Harriman, Roosevelt's special envoy to Moscow. Too bad, replied Mikolaj; I need him right now. And I mean, at once.

  “This had better be important,” said Kaz, arriving out of breath. Apparently he had come up the stairs two at a time.

  “It is. Someone wants to talk to you.” Mikolaj picked up the phone and asked his secretary to return Pickersgill's call.

  “On the phone? You interrupted me for that? Who the hell is it? Winston Churchill?”

  “Somebody more important,” said Mikolaj with an enigmatic smile. “Much more important.”

  “Hello? Commander Pickersgill? This is Mikolaj returning your call. Major Jankowski is here. Would you please put your party on?” He handed Kaz the phone.

  “This is Jankowski,” said Kaz, somewhat irritably in spite of himself.

  “Kaz? Oh Kaz, darling.”

  Kaz turned his back. He didn't want Mikolaj to see his tears.

  First thing next morning, Phipps was walking down the hall toward his office as he arrived back at work. He met Anna.

  “I've got great news. Ryk was picked up. He's alive and well. He…”

  “That's nice,” Anna interrupted, smiled slightly, stepped around Phipps and went on down the hall.

  Phipps looked after her. I never will understand women.

  He soon had an explanation. When he got to his office, Pickersgill came across the hall to give him the news: Anna's husband was alive. In London. He had arranged two weeks leave, and Pickersgill had given her the two weeks off, too. She would be out of the office, starting at noon.

  “Two weeks? Without checking with me? That's a bit nervy,” thought Phipps, and began to scowl. Then, in spite of himself, he broke into a smile.

  21

  A Regiment of Troops

  One good spy is worth a regiment of troops.

  Sun-tzu, Chinese general and strategist, fourth century B.C.

  Before leaving for her two-week vacation, Anna spent the last morning working on her cover story, the story she would tell Kaz. She would be seeing him regularly—whenever he could get away from the army—and Phipps insisted that she keep her work secret from him. Phipps wanted to know what she would tell him.

  It had to be good. She was unnerved by Phipps' reaction to her note to Ryk, even though she was trying to forget that she had ever written it. Yvonne came to her aid once more.

  Yvonne was in a similar situation. Her new husband, Harry, was a Lieutenant in the Navy, but did manage to get back home from time to time. Luckily, her elderly parents were living in the nearby village of Milton Keynes, about five miles north of Bletchley Park, approximately half way between BP and an RAF communications center. Yvonne had an obvious pretext to live in the village: she was there in case her parents needed help. And—so her story went—she was working at the RAF station.

  The security officer at the station was in on the plot, or at least the part he needed to know. Harry was given his telephone number. If Harry called, the security officer would say she was busy. The officer would then call Phipps, who would have Yvonne get in touch with Harry. Other than saying that she worked at the RAF station, Yvonne was to be vague. Her work was classified, and Harry was not the sort to pry.

  Yvonne suggested that Anna share her flat; lodgings were exceedingly scarce. She could also share the cover story. It would fit nicely with her earlier work for the “Air Force Meteorology Project.” Yvonne would be happy to move out—back to her parents' home—for the next two weeks. In fact, she said with a smile, she would move out whenever Kaz could arrange a leave. When Harry arrived—well, they'd have time to talk about that later.

  Kaz would meet Anna at the one and only village pub for dinner at six o'clock, scarcely time for her to get her things moved into Yvonne's flat and make it look as though she had been living there for some time. She got to the pub and took a place a
t a table in a dark corner, facing the door. It will, she thought, be interesting to watch his expression as he glances around the pub, looking for me.

  Nothing of the sort happened. A jeep drove up. Kaz jumped out and briefly spoke to the driver. Anna felt herself drawn toward the door; by the time Kaz entered, she was in the small lobby to greet him. They threw their arms around each other.

  She heard someone clearing his throat; they were blocking the doorway. She opened her eyes.

  “Oh, hello, Sir Andrew.” She shuffled sideways to let him and his companion pass, but held her lover's arms to prevent him from snapping to attention. “Nice to see you again.”

  “And you, too, Anna.... Even though I'm not wearing my dress uniform.”

  Anna closed her eyes; her lips again met Kaz.

  “Your place, or here?” Kaz asked as they broke for air. Then he realized she might not have much to eat in her flat.

  “Here, if it's OK with you.” She, too, realized there wasn't much to eat at her new home. “There's so much I'm dying to hear—how you got out, what you're doing in Britain. Besides, the evening will have added spice—anticipation.”

  “And who was that?” asked Kaz as they sat down.

  “Just an old lover.”

  Kaz looked crushed.

  “Sorry, darling. I shouldn't joke. Particularly not now.... It was Admiral Cunningham.” They were holding hands across the table; she squeezed first one, then the other.

  In response, Kaz squeezed her hands back. He was getting over the shock.

  “And what was that bit about his uniform?”

  She improvised quickly. “He visited our base, to see if we could improve our weather forecasting for the Arctic convoys to Russia.” She then recounted the story of the newly-whitewashed wall. For the umpteenth time, Kaz suspected he was not getting the whole truth—maybe not even half. He wondered how three young women working on weather forecasting would meet an admiral—even more, how they could get away with backing him into a whitewashed wall. And how could he know her well enough to remember her name? It was best not to ask; whatever the charade, he would willingly participate. They had better things to talk about.

  They started at the beginning; Anna wanted to know about the battle near Warsaw. Kaz took her up to the time of his first capture by the Russians. She wondered how he had managed to escape from Katyn. Without elaboration, Kaz told her, deleting the deaths of the two prisoners on the hillside. He also deleted the meeting with Stalin in Moscow; Anna was not the only one who had secrets to keep. He talked about their training in Russia and their exodus to Egypt, where they joined the British Eighth Army.

  “The Eighth Army?” Anna was astonished. And more than a bit put out. She had tried to find out if he were with the Poles who got out to North Africa. But the Eighth Army told her—repeatedly—that he was not.

  Kaz explained. He and Jan were using false identities, initially to avoid trouble with the Russians, and later because they were worn down by the tone-deaf administrative officers of the Eighth Army.

  Then he wanted her story. How, he asked, did she get out of Poland? She recounted her adventure. A childhood friend who owned an old triplane. Their deadly game of hide and seek, darting among clouds as the unwelcome rays of daylight brightened the eastern sky, betraying them to the Luftwaffe.

  Kaz suddenly had an uncomfortable premonition, where the conversation was headed. I've got to have time to think. He had already drained his half and half. Would she please excuse him? He needed to find the loo.

  He splashed water on his face and glowered at the mirror. I bet it was that sonofabitch. He stole eight months of my life—what could have been the best eight months. Why couldn't he tell me when we met at Sikorski's reception? The answer was all too obvious.

  Kaz splashed more water on his face and started to swear. Then he got hold of himself. Ryk was a cad. But marriage was built on trust. He had no reason to doubt Anna, and certainly no reason to be angry at her. He wouldn't mention the meeting at Sikorski's reception. With a faint smile, he thought how noble he was.

  He had been away too long. As he walked unsteadily back toward the table, he could see that Anna was worried.

  “Sorry. I suddenly felt lightheaded. Nothing to worry about. Guess I haven't been getting enough sleep. I'm afraid I left you up in the air, trying to get away from Göring's goons.” He suppressed the question he was eager to ask: “who was her childhood friend, the pilot?”

  She described their search for a landing field, how they risked touching down on an unknown island, and how, luckily, they found that the island was Danish. She spoke warmly of the prefect of police. She guessed what the police officer had said in his phone conversation, switching back and forth from mock Scandinavian to a mock German accent.

  “Allo?”

  “Zees isst yur friendlich Geshtapo offitziert.”

  “Yah?”

  “Ich vant zee plane und zee kriminalz zat landet.”

  “Plane? Vhot plane?

  “Floon by zee kriminalz von Polandt.”

  “No kriminalz haf flooohn in.”

  Kaz smirked as Anna stretched out “flooohn.” She got back to the main story.

  “We got out to Sweden on a boat that left within a few hours. I only hope our policeman friend didn't get into trouble. Especially after the Germans occupied Denmark. Too bad we didn't make it all the way to Sweden in the Red Baron.

  “Anyhow, I had no difficulty getting out of Sweden—my English mother and the fact that I'm a civilian.”

  “Working for the Air Force,” Kaz added.

  “Oh dear, I must have forgotten to tell them about that,” she responded with a twinkle in her eye. “The one I was worried about was Ryk. He might be interned as a Polish Air Force officer, Poland being one of the belligerents and all. But he chiseled and wheedled his way out. I met him again at a party about a year ago.”

  “So did I.”

  “Stanislaw Ryk?”

  “Yes. At a reception. He had just been given the DFC by the King himself.”

  “I know....” There was an extended silence, with just a hint of electricity in the air. “But how did you guess that it was him, when I only said 'Ryk'?”

  “A Polish Air Force officer. Named Ryk. Flew out of Poland in an ancient plane. Grew up in your part of the country. Kind of narrows things down.”

  “My part of the country? How did you know that?”

  “He told me he came from an area just west of Warsaw.”

  Anna knew there was something missing. “And?”

  Kaz paused. “And I told him that was where my wife came from.”

  Again, it was Anna's turn to pause. “You were introduced to him by name?”

  “Yes.”

  Then she asked, very slowly, “He didn't ask if your wife's name was Anna?”

  “No.”

  So much for noble intentions.

  Later, when Ryk finished his year-long tour of duty in Winnipeg and came back to Britain, Anna coldly refused to see him again. Even after Kaz was sent to France. Particularly after Kaz was sent to France. And even though Ryk invited her to accompany him to Buckingham Palace, where he was to receive another decoration. In fact, when he mentioned the Palace, she got in just one quick request before hanging up: send the button back.

  He never did.

  10 April 1943. Prime Minister Sikorski's

  Conference room, London.

  Kaz had been summoned to an emergency meeting with Gen. Sikorski. This time, Jan had been invited, too. Something was up.

  When the small group met, it now consisted of Sikorski, Brig. Piotrowski, Maj. Korbonski, Kaz, and Jan; Maj. Mumblemumble Starzenski was on a trip to North Africa. Sikorski said that the Nazi's “Reichsminister for Public Enlightenment,” Joseph Goebbels, had just made an announcement over Radio Berlin. He read from a sheet of paper:

  A mass grave has been discovered in the Katyn Forest, near Smolensk in the Soviet Union. The victims were officers of the P
olish Army. They were each killed by a single shot to the back of the head. Many had their hands tied behind their backs. It is known that the Soviet Union had a Prisoner-of-War camp near Smolensk, where Polish officers captured in the 1939 campaign were detained. The evidence is clear. The Soviets have shot prisoners. The barbarism of the Bolsheviks is once more on display for the world to see.

  Now Jan knew why he had been invited.

  Sikorski continued. “We're already getting inquiries from the British press. They want to know: Can we confirm or deny the German account?”

  Sikorski looked at Kaz.

  “I recommend we confirm it, sir. We can scarcely deny it. I know it's true. Jan knows it's true. The truth has got to come out sooner or later. Why not now?”

  “Perhaps this is worth thinking about, sir.” Piotrowski was speaking. “There are several complications. First is the evidence. Jankowski and Tomczak escaped from what, to us, is clearly an execution. But how will we deal with skeptics in the press? Doubters will point out that Jankowski and Tomczak never actually saw anybody shot. The domestic Communists and the Russians will create a hullabaloo: the Polish prisoners were simply being moved, and it was the Germans themselves who did the dastardly deed.

  “Even more important: we have to worry about our touchy relations with Moscow. As you know, sir, the Soviets have not only been harassing members of our embassy in Moscow. They have also arrested some of them, in violation of diplomatic norms. If we confirm the German charges now, it will put unbearable strains on our relations.

  “We certainly can't contradict Radio Berlin,” Piotrowski concluded. “But there may be a third option: to say that the evidence needs to be studied.”

  “Tomczak?” Sikorski wanted Jan's opinion. Jan's answer astonished Kaz.

  “Sir, what happened at Katyn was an atrocity; I want to weep every time I think of all those fine young men—our friends—who are now dead. However, Brig. Piotrowski's argument has force. We must think of the living, not the dead. We need to think: what's good for the future of Poland?”