Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

The woman caught up to him and grabbed his arm, jerking him to a halt. “I’ll be fine,” she said with determination. “You don’t have to go out of your way. Really, I’m fine.” In the light from the bonfires, Adam could see the welt on her left cheekbone was turning black-and-blue.

Suddenly the ground shook, and a fireball belched into the air from a shattering blast somewhere in the City Center. The commando groups began to disperse, carrying their cups of soup into what was left of the narrow alleyways leading away from the square. Adam motioned toward the north end of the square. “We should get off the streets.”

Five minutes later they arrived at St. Jacek’s Church, a stout, gray fortress that stood alongside a copper-domed bell tower at the head of Dluga Street. Adam stopped, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Falcon or any of his friends hadn’t followed them. What he didn’t need right now was any more attention.

He pulled open one of the thick, ornately carved wooden doors, and they stepped into a tiny vestibule with a stone floor and thick stone walls. It was cold and damp, with a musty odor that suggested the candles on the wall sconces hadn’t been lit for many weeks. They passed through another set of double doors into a three-story-high sanctuary, illuminated only by the dancing light of nearby fires that flickered through the arched windows like demon’s tongues. Moving slowly in the semi-darkness, Adam led the way down the marble steps to an aisle along one side of the sanctuary and motioned for the woman to slide into the last pew. The solid oak back and square posts were worn smooth over the centuries. He sat down beside her with his back to the wall, being careful not to get too close.

They sat in silence. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Adam noticed clusters of people scattered around the sanctuary, many of them asleep in the pews, others huddled close together holding children on their laps. A group of AK commandos sat on the steps that led to the altar, passing around a cigarette and talking quietly.

After a few minutes the woman leaned over and whispered, “You didn’t have to get involved, but thank you anyway. I’m fine now.”

Adam nodded.

“I don’t even know you, but it seems like I’m always thanking you for something,” she said.

“It isn’t necessary. It was nothing.”

“Well, like I said, I’ll be fine. You probably have to be somewhere.”

That’s right, Adam thought. That’s exactly what he should do: get up and leave. She probably would be fine. These things happened all the time, especially now, in this city under siege with no one knowing if they’d live through another day. A guy got drunk, a little disorderly, and his girlfriend got angry. No need for him to get involved. And he couldn’t get involved.

But he didn’t leave.

Time passed and the church was quiet, except for the creaking of wooden pews and a few anxious whispers that rippled through the sanctuary whenever an artillery blast rattled the windows and the brass chandelier suspended from the arched ceiling. Adam was exhausted. The nights were always the worst. Though the enemy tanks and infantry battalions usually retreated behind their lines after dark, sporadic artillery shelling continued. There was the ever-present threat that the next shell might be the one.

The woman cleared her throat and turned toward him. “So, why do they call you Wolf?” she whispered. “Is it because you’re a loner?”

Adam hesitated then slid closer, keeping his voice down. “Wolves aren’t normally loners,” he said. “They usually live in packs.”

“Ah, but sometimes a wolf is driven from the pack. Then he’s a loner.”

Adam clenched his jaw as a shiver ran down his back. Driven from the pack. She didn’t know how close she was.

“You know, the rumors are that you’re an American.”

“I know. You said that earlier.”

“So, are you… an American?”

“I’ve already answered that.”

“No, you didn’t. You merely asked me if you sounded like an American, and I said you didn’t, which you don’t because you have no accent.”

He looked away. “This is giving me a headache.”

“Hey, I’m the one with a headache. So, what’s the answer?”

“You’re very persistent, you know.”

“Yes, that’s another of my bad qualities.”

“And annoying.”

“Yet another.”

Adam hesitated again, longer this time. There were other AK operatives who knew he was an American, though none of them knew any more than just that, not his real name, where he came from, nothing. So, it would be no real breach of security to tell her and, at any rate, there was little chance any of them were going to survive long enough for it to make a difference. He tensed at the crack of a mortar blast, followed by the muted sounds of men shouting outside the church. When it calmed down again, he said quietly, “Yes, I’m an American.”

“But your Polish is excellent. You have no accent at all. How long have you been here?”

“I was born here, in Krakow, as you guessed. My father and I immigrated to America when I was eleven years old.”

“And you came back? What on earth for?”

Adam contemplated her question. Emotions he’d not allowed himself to feel for many years flared up suddenly. And you came back? What on earth for? He knew why he had come back, but it made no difference now. A young man whose father had just died, returning to the country of his birth, searching for his roots, for the family he’d always longed for. But it made no difference; it had all been abruptly and brutally torn away.

Adam shook his head, driving the emotions back into the far corners of his mind. Then he leaned close to her and whispered, “If I tell you any more, I’ll have to kill you.”

The woman laughed then stopped abruptly and clamped a hand over her mouth, looking quickly around the sanctuary. No one seemed to notice. “My goodness, I’ve forgotten who you are,” she whispered. “You probably mean it.”

Adam woke abruptly at the sound of an infant crying and people shuffling down the aisle. He was confused for a moment and struggled to get his bearings. Then he realized where he was. He turned his head slowly, working out the kink in his neck, and looked around. The sanctuary was brighter now, and he could make out the large wooden cross and two statues prominently displayed on the white stone wall at the front of the sanctuary. Under the arched windows on either side of the altar were two elaborately framed paintings. He was too far away and the light still too dim to make out the subject of the artwork, though it wasn’t hard to guess.

Several other people were stretching and moving around. Adam glanced down at the woman curled up next to him on the pew, then raised his left hand and checked his watch. It was five thirty in the morning. My God, we’ve been sitting here all night. When did I fall asleep?

He blinked and came fully awake at the sound of artillery fire in the distance, voices outside and the rumble of an engine starting up. As he shifted his weight, the pew creaked, and the woman lifted her head, looking at him with a puzzled expression. Then she sat up abruptly and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Five thirty,” Adam said.

She stretched and ran her hands through her short brown hair. “Were you sleeping as well?”

Adam nodded, suddenly irritated with himself. In four years he had never just fallen asleep unless he knew exactly where he was and that it was safe. What the hell was he thinking? Besides, he had orders to meet with Colonel Stag at 0600. He slid out of the pew, removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he put them back on and said, “I have to go.”