Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

Her eyes widened. “Coca-Cola. I’ve heard about it. What does it taste like?”

Suddenly there was nothing in the world Adam would rather have. “It’s sweet and bubbly. And cold, it has to be cold. And we’d eat corn-on-the-cob.”

She grimaced and wrinkled her nose. “You ate corn… right off the—?”

“Yes, I mean, no; it’s different, a different kind of corn than you feed to the pigs. This is a special corn, very sweet, and you boil it in water, then pick it up and eat it.” As he was gesturing with his hands, Adam could almost taste the sweet kernels and feel the melted butter running down his chin. He slumped back and closed his eyes. His stomach ached with hunger.

“Do you have churches?”

Adam indulged himself for a few more seconds, thinking about Coca-Cola and corn-on-the-cob, then took a breath and sat forward. “Churches? Hundreds of them. The church we attended, St. John Cantius, looks very much like the Mariacki Church in Krakow, with a big copper-topped tower. It even has an inscription, ‘God save Poland’ right below a huge triangular pediment dedicated to the January Rising.”

“The January Rising? That was over eighty years ago. They know about it in Chicago?”

Adam nodded. “The Polish people do. You can bet on that!”

Natalia picked a stone off the dirt floor and tossed it away. “My grandfather told me about it,” she said bitterly. “He said a squadron of Russian hussars rode into his village one night and set all the houses on fire. He and his younger sister tried to run away, but one of the horsemen chased them and trampled her to death. She was ten years old.” She shook her head, as though purging the thought. “So, living in Chicago was like living in Poland?”

“Oh no, in America there’s more of everything. Big stores filled with clothing, toys, radios, fabrics, pots and pans, books and games.”

“So, everyone is rich.”

“There are rich people—there were a lot more before the Depression—but we weren’t rich. Neither was anyone else in our neighborhood. My father was an engineer. But when he returned from the Great War he couldn’t find work in Poland. That’s why we immigrated to America. He’d been promised a job, and when we got to America he worked hard. He was one of the fortunate ones. He was able to keep working through the hard times, but we certainly weren’t rich.”

The lantern flickered again as a vibration rumbled through the earthen floor. Natalia leaned back on her hands and glanced up at the ceiling. “What do you miss most?”

“Baseball.”

“What? Out of all that, you miss… baseball?”

“Of course! Everyone in America loves baseball. I learned to play during my first summer. I even had my own glove. You know about baseball?”

She shrugged. “Like Babe Ruth?”

Adam got to his knees and brushed the dirt off his hands. “Sure, Babe Ruth, the best ever. He played in New York. But all the big cities in America have a baseball team. It’s called the Major Leagues. They’re professionals, just like you have the Polish Football Union here. We have two teams in Chicago, but my favorite is the Cubs.”

“Did you watch them play?”

Adam nodded. “When I was younger my father would take me sometimes, on the weekends, when he didn’t have to work. Later on, when I had my own money I’d go with my friends.” He saw it all again: the stands packed with happy, cheering people, the peanuts and popcorn, the perfection of the baseball diamond. “I’ll never forget the first time I went to a game. The grass in the outfield was so green it looked like a carpet. And the dirt in the infield was raked so smoothly you couldn’t see even a ripple, and the bases, the shiny white bases—”

Natalia shook her head. “Wait, wait… outfield, infield, bases, I don’t understand.”

“Here, let me show you.” Adam spotted a stick. He picked it up, then got to his knees and brushed off a spot between them on the dirt floor. “Now, the playing field is shaped like a diamond…”

Natalia woke with a start at the sound of voices. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. In the far end of the cellar, two AK operatives hoisted an ammunition crate onto their shoulders and started up the staircase. She glanced at her watch, barely visible in the weak glow of the kerosene lantern. It was five o’clock.

Where’s Wolf?

Natalia got to her feet and raced up the same staircase she had descended the night before. Outside it was still dark, but just down Piekarska Street a fire was glowing under a large kettle, and a group of people huddled around, sipping soup from tin cups.

Wolf turned and waved at her, then walked up, holding two mugs of steaming soup. He handed one to her and took a sip from his own.

Natalia took the mug and sipped the watery concoction as the fog of sleep slowly lifted. It tasted vaguely like turnips and potatoes, with a few bits of onion floating around. She remembered Berta’s grimace as she fed her a similar concoction the night after she’d been wounded. She sighed. “When did you get up?” she asked Wolf.

“About an hour ago,” he said. “You were sleeping very soundly.”

She brushed her hand through her hair and took another sip from the cup. “I think I dreamt about baseball.”

“Christ, I must have bored you to death.”

“Not at all, it helped a lot. Besides, I enjoyed watching you smile about something. You even laughed once or twice.”

He looked at her for a moment as though he were trying to think of something to say, then downed the rest of the soup and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

Natalia nodded. Then, after a moment, she said, “I’ll try to come back here again tonight. Will you?”

“I don’t know… I’ve got to—”

Natalia held up her hand, stopping him. “It’s alright, I understand.” She stepped up to him, cocked her head slightly and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for being my friend.”

AT NINE FORTY-FIVE that night Adam stood just outside the breach in the old city wall and slowly rolled a cigarette. He took his time because it was the last of his tobacco, and he had no idea where or when he’d be able to get more. But that wasn’t the only reason. He was stalling. And he hated it. He hated indecision.

For the last four years, if there was one thing he was, it was decisive. He had to be; his life depended on it. He got an assignment, carried it out, moved on and never looked back. That’s just the way it was—until now.

Adam licked the edge of the paper, stuck the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, inhaling deeply. It had been a brutal day. He’d been in the tower of Holy Cross Church covering a squad of AK commandos who were engaged in a furious firefight with a band of SS and Ukrainians at the barricade on Avenue Krakowskie. When two Panther tanks arrived and bashed through the concrete and sheet steel fortifications, the commandos beat a hasty retreat into the church building.

Adam had held his ground in the tower, firing round after round and dropping more than a dozen Ukrainians. Then one of the tanks stopped, its turret and 88mm cannon slowly arcing upward toward the tower. Adam made it down the stairs just before a deafening blast sheared off the top of the tower, sending down an avalanche of bricks, wooden beams and copper cladding.

Another troop of AK commandos arrived with two PIAT anti-tank guns, and the battle continued around the church until nightfall when the Panther tanks retreated behind the lines. The AK lost sixteen commandos. But the barricade was rebuilt, reinforcements arrived and Adam staggered away wondering how, and why, he’d survived another day in this seemingly endless war.