Dog Robber: Jim Colling Adventure Series Book I

by Robert McCurdy

  Chapter Thirteen

  OCtober-December, 1946

  The address in Zurich that Zinsmann had provided turned out to be tucked away in a narrow side street. A sign hanging over the street displayed a picture of a pair of eyeglasses and proclaimed that the optician Klopfer practiced his profession inside. It was barely eight o’clock in the morning, and Colling hoped that he would find the place open as he tried the door. He was pleased to find it unlocked.

  The interior of the establishment was not well lit, and the dark wood of its furnishings did little to alleviate the gloom. A rotund little man greeted Colling from behind a counter that filled the width of the shop. As Colling came closer, the proprietor saw that he was wearing an American uniform and repeated his greeting in English. Colling decided that speaking German would be more appropriate. He watched the little man’s eyes widen as he explained that a friend in the Kameradschaft had suggested that he locate “Rudolf,” who might be able to assist him. The man’s mouth dropped open when Colling turned the lapel of his Ike jacket to show the button with the black swastika in the center of a red circle.

  “But you are American, yes?” asked the man.

  “Nein, ich bin Volksdeutsche. I am born in the U.S.A., but my family answered the call and returned to the Fatherland in ’39. I have served in the Wehrmacht. This Ami uniform I have stolen only by the greatest of fortune. The Amis are after me, and I am seeking help with papers so that I may return to America. There is a greater chance that I might disappear there. If I am found out and arrested by the Amis, I will be shot as a traitor.”

  The little man extended his hand to Colling and said, “I am Klopfer. I may be able to help.”

  “I require four American passports, two for a man, that is me, only two different names. The two others for women, one young, the other older, perhaps 35 or 40 years of age. These last two will have no photos.”

  Klopfer raised his eyebrows, “You have fräuleine with you?”

  “Und kinder. Two little girls. I will need the certificates to accompany the passport of the younger woman.”

  “That may be difficult. I am not sure what appearance such certificates might have.”

  “You will have to discover this, and soon.”

  The optician looked doubtful, but slowly nodded his head.

  “I do not have their pictures, they will have to be added later. I have only one of myself. I wish the other to be with spectacles. As an optician, I would wager that you might provide me with a pair with…how is it said?..non-refractive lenses and take my photo wearing them. The one with the glasses must go on the passport in the name of Krazinsky. I have also prepared the names and other information to be used,” replied Colling, pushing across the counter the photograph he had had taken of himself three days earlier in Grabensheim by a photographer friend of Zinsmann’s, and the written instructions for the other passports.

  “Of course, Kamerad. I have a pair of spectacles that will suit the bill,” said Klopfer, reaching under the counter and producing a leather case from which he extracted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He handed them to Colling. “Put them on.”

  The glasses felt odd, but the lenses were as he had requested and did not impair his vision. Klopfer invited him into the rear of the shop, and after hastily stretching a sheet across some shelves, asked him to pose in front of it. Colling removed his uniform jacket before Klopfer snapped several pictures with a small camera, then said, “I will develop the film and have the passports by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Klopfer paused as he rewound the camera, “May I know your real name?”

  “It is best that you do not,” said Colling, adding what he hoped was the right tone of menace in his voice, “For reasons of security. You must also consider the names I have given you as confidential, and that you will destroy any extra photographs. I trust you will be as discreet as you have been about others of the Kameradschaft. We would not wish to lose your services.”

  “Yes, yes. I understand completely. Everything will be with the utmost secrecy,” said Klopfer, his hands fluttering nervously. “You may come back and pick up everything tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No. I would prefer that you deliver them in a public place. I will be waiting for you at the Café Aubergen tomorrow at three. I will be seated by the window. Cross the square to the Café and come inside. I will pass you as you are entering, and as I do, you will slip me a folded newspaper containing the passports.”

  “Very well. But I am not used to such intrigue.”

  “I have not been caught by the Amis for the reason that I am always cautious. I wish to keep it so. And I will keep these spectacles you have been so kind as to provide.”

  “There is also the matter of payment,” said Klopfer cautiously.

  “Just so,” replied Colling. “How much?”

  “Eight hundred American dollars or the equivalent in francs,..Swiss francs…that is, or sterling.”

  Colling pulled an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to Klopfer. “You will find three hundred there. Once I have examined the passports, I will drop the balance through the mail slot in your door before I leave Switzerland.”

  Klopfer tore open the envelope and thumbed through the bills inside. He smiled and said, “You will be pleased, I am sure, sir. The blank passports were stolen from the American embassy in Rome only a few weeks ago. Very nice indeed. Completely authentic.”

  “I will depend on it,” replied Colling, slipping the case with his new glasses into his inside pocket.

  Colling arrived at the Café Aubergen at noon the following day. It was drizzling and chilly, and the few people who were on the streets were, for the most part, walking purposefully to wherever they were going in order to get out of the weather. Colling asked for a seat near the café’s window. He had brought a supply of magazines and newspapers that he half-pretended to read as he watched the square outside. He ordered a lunch of lamb stew and potatoes, and ate slowly so as to kill as much time as possible, and afterwards leisurely sipped at a cup of coffee. The café was not busy, and his occupying a table for an extended period of time seemed to go unnoticed, despite the fact that he was alone and in American uniform. Colling could see nothing that would suggest that the café or the square in front of it was under surveillance. There were no loitering pedestrians or parked automobiles with their front seats occupied. No one entering or leaving the café seemed to pay any attention to him.

  At precisely three, Klopfer came walking across the square directly towards the Café Aubergen. As Klopfer entered, Colling rose from his table, moving so as to intercept Klopfer’s path between the café’s tables. Surprisingly, the exchange took place almost as if it had not happened. Colling headed back to his hotel without looking back.

  The passports were well done. All the entry and exit stamps were as Colling had requested. The children’s certificates seemed to be plausible, even if they turned out to be not strictly accurate representations of what the State Department was using these days. He checked out of his hotel, but instead of heading directly to the train station, he digressed so that he could drop an envelope into the optical shop’s mail slot. By the following morning, he was in Karlsruhe, and that afternoon, the train deposited him at the Grabensheim Bahnhof, where he caught a ride in a Quartermaster deuce-and-a-half to Camp 146.

  Instead of approaching Prinzman for permission for a furlough, he took the opportunity to speak directly with Captain Lewisohn the following day when he delivered one of Sergeant Kneckerson’s cooks to have a serious burn to his hand treated. As usual, the doctor looked harried. A young Army surgeon had recently been assigned to the Regimental Aid Station which helped to relieve some of the pressure that Lewisohn had been under as the sole physician for the regiment, but the inexperienced first lieutenant continued to want to confer with him on nearly every case.

  Lewisohn was standing in the hallway, clutching a clipboard filled with a sheaf of forms, writing hurriedly, when Colling found
him.

  “Sir,” said Colling.

  “Yes, Colling. What is it?”

  “Sir, I was wondering if you would approve a furlough for me.”

  The doctor looked up from his papers, “Colling, you know you’re the best medic I’ve got. I wish I had a dozen more like you. I really can’t spare you right now.”

  “But sir, the two Polish doctors did fine while I was in Switzerland. They can hold down the fort for a few days.”

  “Where do you want to go? Not back to the States, I hope.”

  “No sir. I just want fifteen days to go to Paris. I was there a couple of months ago on TDY, and I met a girl….”

  “I see,” said Lewisohn, smiling. “German girls aren’t good enough for you?”

  “There’s a fraternization rule, sir. GI’s aren’t supposed to have anything to do with the locals.”

  “Right. All the dripping dicks we see must be my imagination.”

  “Well, sir, I didn’t say everybody went by the rule. But this girl is French, and there isn’t any rule about fraternizing with our allies.”

  “I hope you don’t come back with a dose. Our guys coming back from leave in Paris seem to have some strain of the clap that must have been imported from their North African colonies.”

  “No sir. This gal is from a good family. She works for the Army.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Colling had anticipated the question, “Suzette, sir. Suzette Dumarques. She’s very nice.”

  “Okay, Colling. You talked me into it. But if I have to prescribe penicillin for you when you come back, so help me….”

  “Thanks, sir. I’ll be leaving tomorrow or the next day. Can I have Sergeant Prinzman call you to confirm your authorization, Sir?”

  “Sure. Have a good time,” said Lewisohn, his attention returning to his clipboard. Without looking up, he added, “By the way, by the time you get back from your furlough, you’ll most likely find yourself assigned to a medical dispensary under the 511th General Hospital in Munich. The Division is being deactivated. The regimental medical detachment is splitting off into the new unit.”

  “What about A Company at the camp, Sir?”

  “Word is, they go to AMGOT as a security detachment. Anyone with time left in the rest of the 40th is being transferred to a whole bunch of Quartermaster, AMGOT and other service units. Guys with short time are going home for discharge, or if they want to stay in, for reassignment in the States.”

  “What outfit will be at the Grabensheim kaserne, Sir?”

  “No one’s really sure, but it could be one of the new Constabulary outfits. You’ll find out when you get back from Paris. Right now, it looks like you’ll be working for me, since I’ll be CO of the new dispensary, and I sent in a personnel request list with your name on it to Division.”

  As he drove back to the camp, Colling smiled, thinking about no longer having to answer to Major Vincent. By the time he returned, he guessed that the Major could be one of those riffed out of the Army. For once, the phrase, “For the good of the service,” would be especially applicable to an officer’s separation from active duty.

  Colling repeated his story about his reasons for wanting a furlough to go to Paris to First Sergeant Prinzman, who seemed annoyed that Colling had chosen to ask for Captain Lewisohn’s approval before his own, but he told Colling he would have the furlough orders and travel authorizations typed out and sent to Lewisohn for his signature. Prinzman also mentioned that he would have to pay for his train ticket. American military personnel no longer were able to ride the Reichsbahn for free.

  Sergeant Prinzman had already been informed about the deactivation of the 61st Division, and he confirmed for Colling’s benefit that A Company was being placed under Major Brumerson’s command, renamed and numbered as the 1067th Security Detachment. Lieutenant Wallerman would continue as the detachment’s CO, but their authorized strength had been dropped to only seventy-five men. Prinzman would remain in his role as first sergeant. He grinned when he told Colling that Colling would have the “misfortune” to miss the ceremony Colonel Brazenholm had scheduled to take place at the Grabensheim kaserne the following Saturday, at which the 40th Infantry would officially stand down.

  Colling had the approved furlough in his hands two days later. He was already packed. The familiar old suitcase that had served him well in Poland now held Cousin Jerry’s clothes, long since altered to fit Colling by a woman DP who was a seamstress. It also was filled with items that Colling had carefully selected from the contents of Cousin Jerry’s trunk. Colling made one last check to make sure the Luger and extra ammunition, cash and the forged passports he had brought back from Zurich were still snug in their concealed receptacle. Almost as an afterthought, he took four vials of penicillin and a box of the new oral tablets and added them to the secret compartment. A canvas zipper bag was required to accommodate some of Cousin Jerry’s clothing that would not fit in the suitcase, and Colling stuffed the second bag inside the B-4 he would use to store his uniform once he reached Munich. He placed two envelopes in the inner pocket of his Eisenhower jacket.

  In the Munich Bahnhof, Colling found the men’s restroom and changed into Cousin Jerry’s clothes. He had let his hair grow, and he mussed it into a semi-unkempt state, then put on the pair of glasses Klopfer had given him. He looked at himself in the mirror over one of the sinks, and silently hoped that his appearance would match the photo in his new forged passport. He left his own wallet and personal effects in the B-4 bag before checking it at the baggage hold desk. He boarded the train wearing Cousin Jerry’s best suit, his new identity papers and the envelopes transferred to it from his uniform jacket. Wearing the glasses was a distraction at first, but by the time he was seated in his train compartment, he had become passably used to their presence.

  Colling followed the same route as had been used the previous summer, from Munich to Prague, and then on to Warsaw. In April, his American officer’s uniform had assured swift examination of his papers. This time, dressed in Cousin Jerry’s civilian clothes, customs and police officials asked for his identification at every turn. When he produced the American passport in Jerzy Krazinsky’s name, however, the attitude of most of them became deferential. No one questioned its authenticity, and Colling gratefully acknowledged to himself that Herr Klopfer seemed to be a skilled practitioner of his dubious trade.

  Colling did not wish to leave any more of a trail than was absolutely necessary, so he avoided checking into any hotel. He either slept in his seat on the train, or when it was necessary to lay over, stretched out on a bench in the railway station. This added to his unkempt appearance, something that was not altogether unwanted.

  The crossing into Poland was significantly different from his previous experience. There were no Polish militiamen asking for documents. Instead, a trio of Russians went from compartment to compartment, and their review of the passengers’ papers was unhurried and thorough. Two of them were Red Army enlisted men, sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders. The senior officer, whose blue collar tabs and hat band marked him as NKVD, was brusque to the point of rudeness when he asked in accented Polish to see Colling’s identification. Colling answered in the same language, trying to affect a noticeable American accent. When Colling handed his passport to the officer, and the Russian saw the United States eagle on its green cover, he stared intently at Colling and spoke in English, “Mister Krazinsky. You speak Polish well for an American.”

  The statement seemed to Colling to call for an answer, and he replied in English, “Yes, Comrade. I am Polish-American. From Milwaukee. That is in Wisconsin. There are many people of Polish descent there. Many immigrants.”

  The NKVD man was carefully turning the pages of the passport. “You have other identification perhaps?”

  “Yes, of course, Comrade,” answered Colling, taking out his wallet and showing the Russian first his Communist Party card, then pulling other cards from the recesses of the wallet and handing them ov
er.

  The NKVD officer looked up from the Party card and commented, “So you are one of our American Comrades. Welcome to Poland. Where are you going, and what is your business?”

  “I am on my way to Warsaw. I go to seek out the headquarters of the Party. I have come to express the solidarity of the American Party with that of Poland’s. It is clear that there is a struggle between reactionary forces and the triumph of Socialism in Poland. I have come to lend some small help to that struggle,” replied Colling, trying to appear suitably naïve and use the correct cliches.

  “You do not mind if we search your luggage?”

  “Not at all,” said Colling, reaching to the overhead rack and pulling down his suitcase and the canvas bag and placing them on the seat.

  With a wave of his hand and some words in Russian, the NKVD officer directed his two companions to conduct a search. They pawed through the clothes until they found the documents that were underneath them. They seemed pleased to have uncovered something, and one of them handed the stack of paper to the officer, a triumphant look.

  “Mister Krazinsky, I am Major Bresnikov,” said the Russian as he leafed through the documents.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Comrade Major,” said Colling.

  Bresnikov gave special attention to some of the items he was examining, appearing to read them carefully, and Colling wondered how much a command of written English the officer really possessed.

  At last the Russian gave an order to the two soldiers, and they began replacing the documents and clothing in the bags. He handed Colling his papers and said, “Again I welcome you to Poland, Comrade Krazinsky. Have a safe journey. One of my men will stay with you until Piotrkow. I will arrange for another man to take over there to see that you are escorted to Warsaw.”

  All Colling could think of to say was, “Thank you, Comrade Major. I am honored.”

  A few minutes later, a Polish customs official passed through, asked for Colling’s passport, and used a rubber stamp to mark his entry into Poland.

  The Russian soldier that Bresnikov had assigned to Colling could not speak English, and seemed to know only a few words in Polish. After rudimentary attempts at conversation, Colling gave up and took out a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls that he had found among Cousin Jerry’s things, and read while his escort sat stoically, his PPSh sub-machine gun in his lap, staring fixedly out the window.

  His guard was changed in Piotrkow, where another Red Army soldier took over from the first. Apparently Bresnikov had telephoned or wired ahead with the news of Jerzy Krazinsky’s arrival in Poland. The second soldier was even less talkative than the first, and Colling nodded off after only a few pages of Hemingway. He was awakened by the Russian soldier shaking him by the shoulder, and realized they were pulling into the makeshift Warsaw terminal.

  They had not experienced the delays in travelling by train across Poland that they had in the spring, and Colling concluded that the Russians, or someone, must have repaired or replaced enough railway track so that they were not repeatedly forced to wait on sidings for other trains to pass. Even at that, the better part of a day had passed between Colling’s entry into Poland and his arrival in Warsaw.

  Colling’s escort insisted on carrying his suitcase, leaving Colling with only the small canvas bag in his hand as they stepped down onto the platform. They were approached almost immediately by an NKVD officer, followed by a pair of Red Army enlisted men. The officer ordered one of his men to take Colling’s suitcase from his escort on the train, who re-boarded, apparently to return to Piotrkow.

  “I am Captain Ensilnos, at your service, Comrade,” said the NKVD man in English.

  “My pleasure, Comrade Captain,” replied Colling.

  “I come to take you to Party headquarters.”

  “I very much appreciate that, Comrade Captain.”

  “Come, follow me, Comrade Krazinsky,” said the officer, motioning for Colling to follow him.

  Captain Ensilnos had been provided by his superiors with a jeep that he drove wildly through Warsaw’s crowded streets, using the horn to clear a path through the traffic. Sitting beside the Russian in the jeep’s front seat, Colling held onto the windshield with his right hand while bracing himself with his left hand against the dashboard. The pair of Red Army enlisted men somehow managed to remain in their seats in the rear without being thrown out as the officer negotiated corners on what Colling would have sworn were two wheels.

  They slid to a stop in front of a large building that Colling surmised had originally been the residence of a wealthy family. Colling was reminded of the headquarters of the Polish Red Cross from his previous visit. A large red banner embellished with the hammer and sickle hung across the front of the building. On a pole over the door flew the Polish national flag, from which the Polish eagle had been removed, leaving only two plain fields of red and white. There was no sign or other indication that the building was Communist Party headquarters.

  Ensilnos led Colling up the steps, leaving the two soldiers to watch the luggage. Inside, the place was bustling with activity as people walked back and forth through the circular entrance hall. A young woman sat behind a desk, and Ensilnos strode over and told her that there was an American Comrade with an important message for Comrade Vojanski. She picked up the telephone and spoke to someone, and a few moments later a man emerged and asked Colling to accompany him. The Russian captain seated himself on the receptionist’s desk and said he would wait until Colling returned, a wink at Colling conveying his apparent intention to use the time to flirt with the pretty receptionist.

  Comrade Vojanski was a tall thin man whose pale sunken face suggested to Colling that he was suffering from some chronic illness. As soon as the door to Vojanski’s office closed behind the man who had ushered Colling in, Vojanski extended his hand and said, “Welcome, Comrade. I am Melan Vojanski, Chief Deputy to the Party Secretary, and in charge of this office. I have been informed that you come to demonstrate your solidarity with your Polish Comrades.”

  “Yes, Comrade Vojanski, I do. I am Jerzy…Jerry…Krazinsky, from Milwaukee, U.S.A. I have been sent by my Comrades from the United States…the Milwaukee Workers’ Committee to be precise, to show our tangible support for your struggle.” Colling took the envelopes he had been carrying in his inside coat pocket and handed them to Vojanski. Vojanski tore open the first envelope, which was addressed to the First Secretary, Communist Party of Poland, and extracted the letter which was inside. He handed it back to Colling, saying, “I regret that I do not read English, Comrade. You will have to translate.”

  “Yes, of course, Comrade Chief Deputy. The letter is addressed to the First Secretary and says, ‘In solidarity with the brave people of Poland, the Communist Party of the U.S.A., Milwaukee Workers’ Committee; the Comrades of America express their support for the gallant struggle of the Polish people to overcome the reactionary forces of the former fascist rulers of Poland and to elect a socialist government and establish the People’s Republic of Poland. To support that objective, the sum of three thousand dollars is given. Long live Comrade Stalin and the Socialist Republics!’ signed, Walter Bellows, Chief Secretary, Milwaukee Chapter, Communist Party of the U.S.A.”

  Vojanski smiled, and tore open the second, thicker envelope. He thumbed through the sheaf of American dollars, then said, “The Party thanks you, Comrade Krazinsky, and your Comrades in Milwaukee.”

  “You are welcome, Comrade Chief Deputy. I will convey your thanks when I return to America.”

  “And when will that be, Comrade Krazinsky?” asked Vojanski.

  “I have some personal business first, Comrade, then I will return.”

  “And what might your personal business be?”

  “I wish to find some relatives of my mother from whom we have not heard since before the war began, Comrade.”

  “Are they here in Warsaw?”

  “No, Comrade Chief Deputy. They were heard from last in the south, in a village east of Krakow. I will h
ave to travel there in search of them.”

  “You will need the assistance of the Party to travel, Comrade. There are restrictions in place that limit unauthorized movement about the country.”

  “Is it possible that that might be arranged, Comrade Chief Deputy?”

  “Of course. It will also give you the opportunity to see something of Poland. I will provide a travel authorization by rail to Krakow, then the Party can furnish motor transport. It will make it much easier to move about between those small towns.” Vojanski used the telephone on his desk to speak to someone, then invited Colling to take a seat while they waited. He asked Colling about the situation in the United States, and Colling told him that the Party was under attack on all sides from J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI. Things were sure to become worse now that the Republicans had won so many Congressional seats in the recent elections. Colling explained that he had had to slip out of the country by taking a bus to New Orleans, then finding a tramp steamer that would take him to Europe. He spun a tale of having had to work his way across, washing dishes in the ship’s galley, until they arrived in Bordeaux. He described how he had made his way across France and Germany to Munich, where he took a train for Warsaw.

  Colling was finishing his story when the man who had brought him to Vojanski’s office walked in and placed some papers in front of the Chief Deputy. Vojanski quickly read the documents, then signed them with a flourish. He handed them to Colling, who saw that they were, in effect, a safe conduct and travel authorization good anywhere in Poland. Colling folded them and put them in his inside jacket pocket. He thanked Vojanski profusely before saying goodbye.

  Captain Ensilnos was still seated on the desk where Colling had left him, leaning across it and speaking to the young receptionist, who seemed to be giving the NKVD man her rapt attention. He looked up at Colling’s approach and abruptly terminated his conversation with the girl, saying, “At your service, Comrade.” Colling nodded and asked if a taxi could be found for him.

  “It is my duty to see that you reach your hotel safely, Comrade. Do you have arrangements somewhere?” said Ensilnos.

  “No, Comrade Captain. I have to find a place.”

  “Not to worry, Comrade. All Americans stay at the Polonia.”

  “Is it expensive, Comrade Captain? I’m on a budget…limited funds, you know,” said Colling, not sure that the Russian understood him.

  The NKVD officer seemed surprised. “I thought all Americans had plenty of money,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, I’m not one of them, Comrade Captain.”

  “Not to worry, Comrade. I will ask the Polonia to give you a special price. Come this way.”

  The ride to the Polonia was as frightening as the earlier one to Party headquarters. Ensilnos skidded the jeep to a stop in front of the hotel, and as he switched off the engine, he smiled over at Colling and asked, “I hear that every American soldier has a jeep. Is that true?”

  “I do not believe so, Comrade. I have not been in the American army, but I do not believe so.” said Colling as he climbed out, giving thanks to God he was still alive.

  Ensilnos ordered the soldiers to bring the luggage, then led Colling to the Polonia’s registration desk. The clerk was not someone Colling recognized from his earlier stay, and for that he was thankful. The man was clearly intimidated by the NKVD officer, and nervously turned the hotel register for Colling to sign. Ensilnos simply stated that Comrade Krazinsky was to have a “special price,” and the clerk readily agreed.

  The NKVD Captain bid Colling farewell as a bellman took the luggage from the soldiers and led him to his room. The accommodations were even shabbier than Colling remembered. He partially unpacked, hanging his suits and jackets in the armoire, but leaving everything else in his suitcase and the canvas bag. He checked the chandelier and found a microphone, as he had expected. Taking the risk that his things would not be searched if he did not leave the hotel itself, Colling went to the lobby to exchange dollars for zlotys and have dinner. The cashier gave him colorful new banknotes which were different from the Russian occupation notes he was used to. Colling wanted to ask if the older currency was still accepted, but caught himself at the last moment, when he realized that that might betray that this was not his first visit to post-war Poland.

  Night had fallen by the time he finished eating. Everything was as he had left it when he returned, and he guessed that there had been no search. He made a noisy show of brushing his teeth and preparing for bed. Once he had turned off the lights, he dressed silently and quietly slipped into the hallway and down the stairs to the cellar. He easily found his way to the street exit. There were no pedestrians on this side of the hotel, and a careful scan of the street did not suggest that there was any surveillance. He walked hurriedly and turned the corner into the closest side street. He stopped and waited to see if he were being followed, and when nothing happened, he went to find a way to return to the neighborhood near Potok where he would find Oblieska’s bicycle shop.

  The horse-drawn cart that served as a taxi left him at the same street corner where he and Elizabeth had been dropped off months before. It seemed to Colling as if it had been an eternity. He stopped a passerby and asked for the bicycle shop and was given directions.

  Nothing appeared to have changed. The shop’s windows were as dingy as they had been, and someone was working in the dimly-lit interior. Colling pushed open the door and saw Oblieska bent over a workbench, scraping away with a file on something. The Pole started when Colling said, “Oblieska?”

  He did not seem to recognize Colling, and Colling used the phrases that he had heard Elizabeth use, “I know someone who knew Sosabowski.”

  Without hesitation, Oblieska asked, “Who would that be?”

  “Colonel Davisson.”

  The Pole’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, looking intently at Colling, who moved forward out of the shadows.

  “I have seen you before,” said Oblieska.

  “True. I was with a young woman then.”

  “Yes, now I remember. You did not wear spectacles then. It appears you have not yet been caught.”

  “Not yet. I need to see Tomek.”

  Oblieska did not make him wait in the shop this time, but led Colling straight to the tavern where they had met with Tomek earlier in the year. The tavern was busier than it had been. The establishment’s patrons were all male, dressed in workmen’s clothing, smoking and conversing quietly with one another over what Colling took to be beer or ale. Some glanced up as Colling and Oblieska entered, but none evidenced any particular interest in the two newcomers.

  Oblieska whispered something to the bar-keep, who left his post for a few moments while he and Colling stood waiting at the bar. When he returned, he nodded at Oblieska, and the Pole asked Colling to follow him to the screened-off area at the rear of the tavern. Tomek was seated at his table as before, and he smiled when he recognized Colling.

  “Well, if it isn’t the silent young man who let his woman do all the talking.”

  “The woman is not here this time,” said Colling, his face expressionless.

  Tomek chuckled. “Just so. Why have you come?”

  “Why else? I need papers.” Colling pulled the safe conduct Vojanski had given him from his jacket pocket. Handing it to Tomek, he said, “Can you duplicate this? Using some other names, of course.”

  Tomek examined the document carefully, looking at the Polish and Russian printed text, then softly commented, “I have heard of these, but never have I seen one. You must have been very clever to come into possession of it.”

  Colling responded, “Note that it is signed by Chief Deputy Secretary Vojanski and bears the printed signature of the Commander of Soviet Forces in Poland.”

  “Yes. If I have one sample of anything, I can make more, of course. There is a chance, you know, that they change these periodically, and that this version will become obsolete at some time.”

  “I will assume that risk, Friend Tomek. I hav
e written down the names I wish to have used,” said Colling, passing over the list of details. “And I will need several extras in blank, as well. And the original returned to me.”

  “How soon must you have them?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  Tomek let out a long sigh, then said, “For you, I will accomplish this. But it will cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “Say five hundred American dollars.”

  “If you do as good a job as last time, that is a fair price.”

  Tomek chuckled again, “If I do not do a good job, for you it does not matter anyway.”

  Colling counted out five hundred dollars and handed the stack of bills to Tomek, asking, “Where do I take delivery?”

  “As before. Go to the Treskie at 1300 of the clock.”

  Colling shook Tomek’s hand and stood up to leave.

  “One moment,” said Tomek. “I have been asked to deliver this to Jan Woznica, should I see him again.” The forger handed Colling a folded ten-zlotys note of Russian printing.

  Colling looked at the banknote and saw that someone had written “Dwiespestka” in one of the margins. There was an upright oval with what appeared to be a lightning flash through its center drawn after the word.

  Colling asked, “Do you know what this means?”

  “No,” said Tomek, “I do not. It was given to me by an old woman on the street, who asked me to give it to Jan Woznica. You are fortunate I happened to remember the name that was used on your papers before. I almost dismissed it as foolishness until you came here tonight with Oblieska.”

  “Thank you,” replied Colling, once again shaking Tomek’s hand.

  As he and Oblieska walked side-by-side through the narrow dark streets to the bicycle shop, Oblieska said, “Dwiespestka is a town in the south, east of Krakow. I do not know what the drawing might signify.”

  Colling found a horse-drawn taxi willing to take him to the city center. The folded zloty note was in his wallet, and he had to admit that it was an ingenious way to keep and send written communications. Money with names and addresses written on it was a fairly common sight and likely to escape notice among someone’s personal effects. It was also almost certain that any cash that a person was carrying when arrested would be either stolen by the policemen themselves, or confiscated and spent without being examined.

  Colling had just finished dressing the following morning when a bellman brought a note from the registration desk, asking if he intended to catch the morning train for Krakow. Obviously, the NKVD or someone from Party headquarters was keeping the hotel informed about his travel plans. On his way to breakfast, he stopped at the front desk and informed the clerk that he would be taking the afternoon train to Krakow, and would check out later in the day. He professed a desire to see something of Warsaw before he left.

  In keeping with the stated reason for delaying his departure, he left the Polonia and strolled around the adjacent streets, gawking at the war damage and at the shops and street vendors’ merchandise. He avoided any conversations with the people he encountered, limiting himself to simple civilities as he wandered about. He was headed to the Treskie, as if to have lunch, when Tomek approached him from behind and motioned for him to follow him into an alleyway. Colling was handed an envelope that he slipped into his coat pocket, and Tomek walked quickly away. Colling resumed his path to the Treskie, where he ate his lunch. It did not appear to him that he was being watched, but he did concede that the authorities may have become more subtle in their surveillance techniques since his last visit to Warsaw.

  When Colling arrived in the hotel lobby to check out, Captain Ensilnos was waiting for him at the front desk. The NKVD man stood at Colling’s side while he checked out and paid his bill. As they walked away from the registration desk, the Russian said, “See, I told you that you would receive a special price. Less than half what they charge other foreigners.”

  Colling expressed his appreciation for Ensilnos’ assistance as he climbed into the Russian’s jeep, then braced himself for the ride to the train station. He thanked Ensilnos again as he boarded his train. The officer had not left Colling’s side from the moment they met at the Polonia. Colling was looking forward to finally being free of the man as he said his goodbyes, when Ensilnos informed him that another Russian would be escorting him to Krakow. The soldier had blue NKVD trim on his uniform, although Colling guessed that he was an enlisted man, rather than an officer.

  Colling expected that his companion would be as reticent as the other Soviet soldiers he had ridden with, but the young NKVD man spoke fairly decent English. He introduced himself as Pankovski, explained that he was a staff sergeant, and asked Colling question after question about the United States, particularly about Milwaukee, his family and his work with the Communist Party. It did not take Colling long to conclude that Pankovski was not merely curious, but that his task might be to extract information from Jerry Krazinsky. Colling answered truthfully when he could, but invented answers when it was necessary. The NKVD sergeant, if that were truly his rank, was not particularly adept at concealing what he was doing, and Colling played his part by trying to give the impression that he himself was possessed of the hopeless naivete of socialist idealism. Colling asked questions of the young officer when the occasion arose, and feigned enthusiastic envy when Pankovski boasted that he had once been selected to serve in an honor guard for the Great Comrade Stalin, and had stood “no more than three meters from the Great Man himself.”

  Their conversation waned once night had fallen, and Colling slept fitfully as the train rattled on towards Krakow. At some point, he must have dozed off more soundly, because he was awakened by a combination of daylight pouring through the train carriage window and Pankovski’s prodding his shoulder, announcing loudly that they were in Krakow.

  Staff Sergeant Pankovski handed Colling over to a man in civilian clothes who was introduced as his driver, Comrade Jalesow. The NKVD man disappeared into the terminal, and Jalesow asked Colling to follow him. Colling followed, carrying his own luggage, and as they walked beside one another, Jalesow explained that his first name was Georg. He was dressed in rumpled working man’s attire, wearing a short overcoat with a slouch cap pulled down tight on his head. When they emerged from the train station itself, a blast of cold wind hit Colling, and he realized he would have to unpack his overcoat. Jalesow waited impatiently while Colling opened his suitcase and rummaged until he found his coat and put it on. The Pole then led Colling to a battered pickup truck.

  Noting Colling’s apparent surprise that his motor transport was not to be a car, Jalesow said, “The truck is better suited to the roads in the country. Throw your things in the back.” Colling tossed his luggage into the bed of the truck beside four jerry cans that he guessed held gasoline. He recalled that filling stations were not common in the Polish countryside.

  The pickup looked like a Ford Model A to Colling, but once he was in the cab beside Jalesow, he realized that it must have come from one of Henry Ford’s plants that had been built in Russia in the 1930s. It was a duplicate of the delivery truck he had driven so often for his father, but without the Ford emblem or name anywhere on it. Colling asked if they could find a place where he could eat breakfast, and Jalesow pulled into the yard of a house near the outskirts of the city. There were no signs indicating it was a restaurant, but when they stepped through the door, Colling saw that it was apparently an old wayside inn. Rough wooden tables filled the large, low-ceilinged dining room, which was filled with workmen and farmers. The air was blue with tobacco smoke.

  There was no menu, and Jalesow ordered for Colling and himself, and soon thereafter, the sweating red-faced waitress who had taken their order dropped a tin plate piled with sausage, red cabbage and potatoes in front of them. A quick second trip and she brought two mugs and a metal pitcher of hot tea. The food was delicious, and Colling ate without pause or wasted effort. Jalesow did the same, and when their plates were rem
oved and they were sipping their tea, Jalesow asked where he was to take Colling.

  “I am not certain, Comrade Jalesow,” said Colling. “I have no address, only a description of a small village to the east of Krakow, perhaps one hundred kilometers. I thought perhaps we could drive in that direction, then when it appears we may have come far enough, begin to ask for my relatives.”

  “Comrade Krazinsky, do these persons have a name?” asked Jalesow.

  “Of course, Comrade. Theirs is Krazinsky, as mine is. A cousin of my father. He is called Josef and his wife, Maria. When we last heard, they had three children.”

  “So we are looking for one Josef Krazinsky and his wife, Maria?”

  “Yes, Comrade.”“I have traveled widely in these parts, Comrade, and this name I have not heard.”

  “They may not still be in this vicinity, but perhaps we can find those with whom they have stayed, and obtain a new address from them.”

  Jalesow snorted and said, “You pay the bill, Comrade. I need to piss. I will meet you at the truck.”

  A light snow began to fall as they drove east from Krakow. After about sixty kilometers, Colling suggested that they might begin asking along the way for the Krazinskys, and with every village and town, they would find a tavernkeeper, barber or shopkeeper, and Colling would ask earnestly about his fictitious relatives. Jalesow was obviously bored and impatient with the process, but Colling noticed when they reached a town where a gold and white sign with the word Poczta announced the place boasted a post office, Jalesow said he had to make a telephone call. Colling strolled down the street so that when Jalesow emerged from the post office he could not see him. Colling waited until Jalesow moved off in another direction, obviously searching for him, then he went into the post office. He approached the young girl behind the counter, and asked, “My friend thinks he may have not paid the correct tariff for the telephone call he made a few moments ago. Could you verify, please?”

  The girl turned and pulled a slip of paper from a spike behind her and showed it to Colling, “No, sir. It is correct. Four hundred zlotys to Warsaw.”

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle,” said Colling, smiling and watching the young woman blush at his use of French. He had memorized the telephone number when she showed him the paper, uncertain as to how knowing it might serve him in the future.

  Before reentering the street, Colling glanced out and waited as he saw Jalesow take another side street in his search for him. He then stepped out and sauntered to the truck. Jalesow returned to the square just as Colling reached his side of the pickup.

  Jalesow asked, “Where have you been?”

  Colling pointed vaguely towards the other side of the square, “Down there. No one knows of any Krazinskys here. We should go on.”

  Jalesow scowled at him and said, “You must remain nearby. You are my responsibility. Anything can happen.” Then adding what he must have thought Colling would perceive as the ultimate peril, “There are reactionary forces hereabouts. Remnants of the Home Army.”

  Colling tried to put an alarmed and frightened expression on his face as he hurriedly climbed into his seat in the truck. He glanced over at Jalesow and could see that the Pole was wearing a satisfied smirk on his face.

  Their routine continued over the next couple of days. They would find an inn or a sympathetic Communist Party member’s house to spend their nights and provide their breakfast and supper. The mid-day meal was found in a tavern or café. Jalesow continued to make a telephone call each day, and Colling was certain he was reporting in to his superiors. On one such occasion, when Jalesow returned to the truck after completing his visit to the local post office, Colling told him that he had been informed that there was a couple named Krazinsky in the town of Dwiespestka. Jalesow grumbled that Dwiespestka was another fifty kilometers to the east, but agreed to take Colling there, even though the snow might make some of their journey difficult.

  Dwiespestka was spread along both sides of a winding road that had become the main street of the town. Shops and houses opened almost directly onto the cobblestone pavement. As Jalesow drove slowly to the center of the town, Colling looked for some clue as to what the oval and lightning symbol drawn beside the town’s name might mean. He noticed nothing that answered his question.

  The street widened into a semicircle that appeared to be the town’s center. A weathered blue and gold metal sign with the word Poczta under the familiar horn and lightning symbol was displayed on one of the buildings. Jalesow parked the truck in front of the post office and indicated he had to make his usual telephone call. Colling got out of the cab and walked about, slapping his arms to ward off the cold. They had driven through a series of snow flurries throughout the day, and Colling estimated that a covering of about an inch, perhaps slightly more, had accumulated on the ground.

  Jalesow emerged from the post office in an obvious hurry. He ordered Colling back into the pickup, then made a complete turn and began driving out of Dwiespestka, back in the direction from which they had just come. The Pole seemed to be unusually nervous, and Colling asked, “What might be wrong, Comrade?”

  “We must return to Krakow as soon as possible,” said Jalesow.

  “Is there some emergency, Comrade?”

  “No. You will find out when we have arrived there.”

  They drove in silence, Jalesow was applying the accelerator more than he had thus far, and the truck began to slide from time to time on the loose snow. The Pole recovered expertly each time, however, bringing the vehicle back onto a straight course.

  Jalesow’s edgy behavior was making Colling increasingly nervous himself, and as much as he did not want to believe it, he surmised that his companion’s NKVD superiors must have discovered something that made them suspicious of his identity and the story he had so carefully woven. That brought the realization that if he did not evade Jalesow very soon, he would find himself in a Russian prison.

  Jalesow slowed the truck to negotiate a curve, but used too much brake, and they began to slide sideways. They might have skidded faster and further had the back wheels not encountered some obstacle, perhaps a deep rut or a stone at the side of the road, and as Jalesow down-shifted and used the clutch to bring the vehicle under control, they slowed considerably. At that point, Colling decided that there was no way he would risk trying to talk his way out of the situation he was certain he was in. He opened the pickup’s door and jumped out.

  The drifted snow cushioned his fall to some degree, but he came down hard on his shoulder and hip, the wind momentarily knocked out of him. He looked up to see Jalesow fighting to bring the swerving truck to a halt, and could hear him shouting something. Colling pushed himself to his feet, then in a stumbling run, took off into the forest. His fall had knocked his glasses off, but he did not stop to look for them. In seconds he was among the trees. As he plunged through the shallow covering of snow, he cursed himself for his impetuosity, thinking that he might have better been served by staying with Jalesow and trying to somehow retrieve his Luger and seize the truck.

  Now he was running through a freezing forest, to where he did not know. If he had not been a suspect before this, he certainly was now. His breath was coming in gasps, and his heart was pounding. He could not hear anyone behind him and considered stopping to rest, but discarded that idea and ran on. He noticed a clearing in the trees ahead, and suddenly found himself in the open. A second later, he saw that he had come back to the road. He had either run in a circle, or the road had curved back on itself, and what was worse, the Ford pickup was headed right for him. Colling hesitated for just a moment too long before turning to run back among the trees. He heard the truck’s door slam and he knew Jalesow was after him, and Jalesow was not exhausted from just having run two hundred meters or more.

  Colling did not look back, but he could tell that the Pole was closing the gap between them. His crashing footsteps grew louder with each of Colling’s strides, and Colling began to hear his pursuer’s labored breathing over
his own. It would only be a matter of seconds until he was overtaken.

  A small clearing had occurred when several trees had fallen, and Colling exerted a burst of energy when he entered the open ground, but then he stumbled, barely recovered his balance, and stumbled again, going down on his knees. He could hear Jalesow stop some distance behind him. He tried to estimate how far behind him the Pole was. He heard slow steady footsteps approaching, and he crawled on all fours, knowing that he was not going to win the race. He closed his eyes, reflexively wishing that when he opened them, this would prove to be a dream, but that did not happen. What he did see when he opened his eyes was a flat stone the size of his hand. He slid his hand over the stone, grasping it firmly, feeling its icy surface fill his palm.

  The snow crunched as Jalesow walked up behind him. Colling spoke in a whisper, choking out the words, “Please, Comrade. What have I done? Please, please, Comrade.” Colling raised his voice, adding a catch to it, “Comrade, please.” He babbled on, begging for his life, as Jalesow, saying nothing, came closer. Colling did not rise from his position, did not turn his head. He lifted it only enough to look to his side, where out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jalesow’s shadow on the snow. Colling knew he was going to have to estimate where Jalesow would be standing. He conjectured that he would have less than a second to get in the first blow. Perhaps he would be successful in knocking the Pole down, gaining some advantage. His heart sank when he saw the shadow of Jalesow’s arm, terminating in the unmistakable blunt outline of an automatic pistol, separate from the solid outline of his shadow on the snow and raise to point at the back of his head.

  Colling knew that he would have to come to his feet and turn in a half-circle in order to strike Jalesow in the head. Nothing else would be acceptable. A miss because the man was too far away would be fatal. A glancing blow, or a poorly aimed swing would have the same result.

  Gauging the possible distance, Colling said a silent prayer as he continued to loudly plead, then he sprang up, his right arm outstretched, spinning completely around so that the stone smashed into Jalesow’s left temple.

  Colling did not hear the soft grunt that erupted from the Pole’s lips as the man was hit because the pistol exploded close beside him. Jalesow had dropped as if pole-axed. Colling shook in the aftermath of an adrenaline rush, then shivered again when realized in an instant that the Pole was left-handed, and during his swing, Colling’s left arm had shoved the gun to one side, resulting in the bullet passing harmlessly an inch or two from Colling’s left side. If Jalesow had been right-handed, Colling might have managed to hit him with the stone, but the gun would not have been swept aside, and he would have been shot. At such close range, he would probably have been mortally wounded.

  Jalesow moaned, and Colling knelt beside him and hit him twice more in the left temple with the stone. Blood splattered from the Pole’s fractured skull, and his eyes clouded, there was a spasm in his legs that lifted his feet off the ground momentarily, then he was still, staring blankly at the gray sky above the trees.

  Colling shuddered as Jalesow died. He did not know whether it was because of the cold, or because of what he had just so methodically done. He rifled through the Pole’s pockets. He found an identity card that showed that the Pole’s occupation was a truck driver. A small leather bound notebook had a number of notations, and Colling saw that they included the names of the towns they had traveled through since leaving Krakow, with dates and times they had been there. Inside the front cover of the notepad was the telephone number Colling had been shown by the post office clerk. Other entries seemed to be expense notations, and Colling cursed the dead man under his breath when he saw that most of them were for lodging and meals for which Colling himself had paid.

  Colling took Jalesow’s wallet and the other papers and effects from his body and stuffed them into his own pockets. He removed the shoulder holster Jalesow had been wearing and took off his own overcoat and jacket to put it on. He picked up the Russian pistol from where it had fallen and, after checking the safety, shoved it into the holster. He then took the dead man by his heels and dragged him until he could roll him under a fallen tree trunk. The body was already growing stiff with the cold, and the light snow had resumed. In an hour or so, all sign of their struggle would be gone.

  The Soviet Ford was beside the road. There were no footprints or tracks to show that anyone else had passed by since the chase through the woods. The keys were in the ignition, and the engine started easily. Jalesow had known how to care for his truck.

  It took a moment for Colling to orient himself, but then he realized all he had to do was follow the fast-disappearing tire tracks of the pickup to return to where they had started. In doing so, he learned that he had not run in a circle, but that the road had in fact curved back on itself. By some miracle, he found his glasses close by the impression in a snowdrift that his fall had made when he jumped from the pickup.

  The buildings of Dwiespestka appeared ahead of him, and Colling decided he should not revisit the town in the truck, as that might attract attention he did not want. He spied what looked like a logging track leading off the road and took it until he was well into the forest. He hid the truck behind some snow-covered underbrush, and continued on foot into Dwiespestka.

  He went first to the post office where he requested a line to Warsaw. In a few minutes, the postal clerk told him that his call had been connected. Trying his best to imitate Jalesow’s coarse accent, Colling said, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece.

  A woman’s voice answered, “Yes, Communications. Name please.”

  “Jalesow here.”

  “Number please.”

  Colling was taken aback. He had the dead man’s notepad in his hand, and he flipped to the inside front cover. Just above the telephone number he was calling was written “587.”

  “Five eight seven,” replied Colling.

  “Why have you called again, Comrade Jalesow?” asked the woman.

  “To report a problem. The American panicked and tried to run.”

  “You have him?”

  “He had an accident. A nine-gram accident.”

  “That is unfortunate. You will return to Krakow?”

  “Yes, and I will bring the American, but it may take a few days. It is snowing here and the roads are bad.”

  “Very well. Good luck and safe journey.”

  Colling felt satisfied that he had bought himself a little time, at least. He thought that the mention of a nine-gram accident had been a nice touch, based on his having remembered Karol’s mentioning that the Russians termed a gunshot to the back of the head as “giving nine grams” to the victim, a reference to the weight of the pistol bullet.

  He stepped into the cold street from the post office and asked himself how he would go about finding out the meaning of the oval and lightning drawing. He took the ten-zlotys note from his wallet and looked at it once again, wondering what it meant. He decided his only course was to thoroughly explore Dwiespestka and see what might turn up. As a last resort, he could draw the symbol for someone and ask if they recognized it.

  Colling walked the length of the town’s main street, searching for anything resembling the drawing on the banknote. At the town’s center, a second street intersected the primary thoroughfare, and he took it, glancing from side to side as he walked along. He almost missed the symbol because it was painted on the lower corner of the shop’s window, and frost had obscured most of it. He had in fact passed the place before he realized what his eyes had seen. He retraced his steps and verified that the oval with the lightning bolt through it was indeed there. The sign in the window said Elektryk S. Kwonowski.

  A stout middle-aged woman was behind the counter, and as he closed the door behind him, her greeting was cheerful. “Yes, good sir. What may we do for you today?”

  Colling thought it an odd question, considering that the store’s shelves were bare except for one small stack of light bulbs.

 
“I am not sure,” said Colling. He took out the ten-zlotys note and showed it to the woman. “A friend gave me this. I am seeking someone, and was told you might help.”

  “This is an electrical repair shop, sir. My husband’s, to be exact.”

  Colling decided to try another approach, and said, “I know someone who knew Sosabowski.”

  The woman paused, then said, “Who might that be?”

  “Colonel Davisson.”

  “Just a moment. I must fetch my husband,” said Mrs. Kwonowski, leaving Colling standing in front of the counter.

  Sebastien Kwonowski was wiping his hands on a rag as he emerged from the shop’s back room. He appeared both puzzled and annoyed at Colling’s presence. His wife stood close behind him, eyeing Colling. The electrical shop owner was tall and spare, his face lined and his hair gray. His slight scowl added to an air of cynicism about him that was the opposite of his wife’s sunny disposition.

  “You know Davisson?”

  “Yes,” said Colling.

  “From where do you know him?” asked the electrician.

  Colling was unsure what he should say. There might be an additional recognition phrase, but he had no idea what it was. If this were the wrong place, it wouldn’t make much difference what he said. If it turned out it was the right place, maybe not knowing the counter-sign would put an end to any possible help in finding Elizabeth, but he knew he had to at least try something.

  “I don’t know where I know him from,” said Colling, realizing how silly he must sound. Before Kwonowski could speak, he went on, “I have come looking for a young woman who has been taken by the Soviets. I was told that you might be able to help. If you cannot, I will leave.”

  Kwonowski’s wife stood on tiptoes and whispered something in her husband’s ear.

  “You may have been properly directed, but in truth I know nothing of any woman.”

  “Is there a prison nearby?”

  “Yes. The Russians have a camp outside the town. The Germans used it as a labor camp, and the Soviets have made it into a prison camp. Maria, bring tea for our guest, and we will talk of this,” said Kwonowski, motioning Colling into the back of the store.

  The rear of the shop held a workbench on which parts were scattered. Kwonowski pulled two chairs together around a tiny table. Seeing Colling surveying the room, he said, “We are fortunate in this part of Poland. The government built a hydro dam some years ago, so we have electricity. Many places in the countryside do not have such a luxury. And in truth, I would not be able to have such a business outside a big city if that were not so.”

  Maria brought a tray with two glasses and a pot of tea. She poured each of them a glass, then returned to tend to the store.

  “But at that,” continued Kwonowski, “Business is not so good. If I did not have the repair work at the camp to keep me busy, we would have to live in Krakow.”

  “So you have been to the camp?” asked Colling.

  “Before we speak of this, I wish to know your name.”

  “Of course. I apologize for my rudeness. My name is Jerzy…Jerry…Krazinsky. I am an American. From Milwaukee, U.S.A.”

  “You speak Polish well.”

  “Thank you. I learned from my mother and her family.”

  “Very good. My name is Sebastien Kwonowski. Now you wished to know if I have been to the camp. Certainly. The camp generator is an old one. Of British manufacture, installed when the camp was built for the forestry service by the old government, before the war. Even when the Germans were here, they could not keep it running, and I was asked to do so. If I had not been part of the underground, I would have surely been marked as a collaborator. As it was, I was able to provide much useful information by having access to the camp. That is true today, as well, with the Russians in charge.”

  “Would you be able to find out if a young woman is held there. Blonde, blue-eyed, in her early twenties. Quite pretty.”

  “And her name?”

  Colling thought for a moment. He decided he did not want anyone asking around at the camp for Anna Zariski. That might arouse considerable undesired interest. He answered the electrician by saying, “I do not know what name she was using when she was arrested. I would prefer that her real name not be used.”

  Kwonowski nodded his head and said, “Fair enough. It is better no names be used. If she is there, I can find out. This woman, she is your woman?”

  “Not exactly. A friend only. She is married to another.”

  “That is good. Once a woman has been in the camp, she will not look as you remember her. In truth, she may not be as you remember her. If she is still alive, that is.”

  A cold chill went up Colling’s spine. To divert his imagination, he said, “If she is in the camp, can she be rescued?”

  “I do not think that possible. The Russians are very careful not to lose any of their possessions.”

  “Would there be no way to save her, then?” asked Colling with a sinking heart.

  “Prisoners are there to be interrogated. After that, if they do not die in the process, they are taken east to the slave camps, where they are worked or starved to death. Usually, when they are taken there, they are on death’s door as it is.”

  “Is it possible to know in advance when the prisoners are being transported?”

  “Not prisoners, my friend. This is a small camp. ‘Prisoner’ is more like it. One at a time. The Russian camp guards from the east come in a motorcar and get them.”

  “Not by the truckload, then?”

  “No. As I said, one at a time. Rarely, two. I have a farmer friend whose fields are near the highway, and often when working, he has seen the Russians drive by with prisoners, God preserve their souls,” said Kwonowski, crossing himself.

  “Would it be possible to know when my friend might be moved, if she is still alive?”

  “First we must know if she lives. Then I may have someone who can answer the question of when.”

  Colling paused, then added, “I have a truck outside the town that I wish might remain better concealed.”

  “I think I have the place. I will return with you to your truck and then show you where it might be kept safely, away from prying eyes.”