Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

Kovalenko cut him off with a wave of his hand and addressed Captain Andreyev. “Captain, please explain to our guest what we know about the fate of the AK in Warsaw.”

Andreyev stepped up to the table. “Of course, you realize, Major Tarnov, that the Red Army was not present in Warsaw at the time of the evacuation. However, we understand that more than ten thousand members of the AK surrendered to the Wehrmacht and were subsequently sent to POW camps in Germany.”

Tarnov nodded impatiently. “Da, we have the same intelligence, Captain. But we also know that there were several thousand more AK insurgents who slipped through, blended in with the civilians and escaped. What can you tell me about—?”

Kovalenko cut him off again. “We don’t know anything about them, Major Tarnov. They could be anywhere. Now, unless there’s anything else, we are quite busy this morning.”

Tarnov withdrew an envelope from a leather folder and laid it on the table. “As a matter of fact, General Kovalenko, there is something else. I have further orders. And these orders come directly from Commissar Beria.”

Kovalenko leaned back in his chair. “That’s very interesting, Major. What orders do you have from the Commissar of the NKVD that brings you here to Warsaw—other than hunting for the remnants of a defeated nation’s Home Army?”

“These orders do not concern Warsaw or the AK, General Kovalenko. These orders require that you provide me with safe passage to Krakow immediately.”

Kovalenko ignored the envelope. “You want safe passage to Krakow? What the hell for?”

“I am not at liberty to answer that, General. I am on official NKVD business, and it is imperative that I get to Krakow and the former German headquarters at Wawel Castle immediately.”

Kovalenko took another drag on his cigarette. What’s so important at Wawel Castle?

Tarnov persisted. “You are moving on to Krakow, are you not, General? Our information is that—”

Kovalenko abruptly ground out the cigarette in an ashtray. Then he shoved his chair back and stood up, towering over the NKVD officer. “ Da, Major Tarnov. We are heading on to Krakow. The Germans are retreating, and we will be moving into Krakow within the next few days.”

“My orders require me to get to Krakow immediately, General. I must request that—”

“Goddamn it, Major, are you deaf? I don’t give a shit what orders you have. The Germans are retreating from Krakow now, as we speak. Red Army units will be moving in within the next few days. That’s when you’ll get to Krakow.”

Tarnov nodded. “Very well, General, I will pass that along to Commissar Beria.” He gestured toward the envelope. “If you’d care to inspect the orders?”

“I don’t have time to inspect your orders, Major. Show them to Captain Andreyev on your way out.”

Three days later, the Red Army entered Krakow. For the second time in the war, the city had escaped major damage. The Germans had fled, and Krakow had been taken without a shot being fired.

General Andrei Kovalenko sat in the backseat of the GAZ-11 with Captain Andreyev as they drove along the narrow, cobblestone streets of the ancient city, the Mecca of Poland for a thousand years. They drove through the Rynek Glowny, Krakow’s central market square dominated by the Baroque, fifteenth-century Mariacki Church and the colossal Renaissance façades of the Cloth Hall. They passed the City Hall Tower, proceeded south along Avenue Grodzka and up the hill to Wawel Castle.

In the auto right behind them was Major Dmitri Tarnov of the NKVD.

STARTLED BY THE SOUND of an approaching truck, Adam scrambled off the dirt road and crawled into the high grass. He lay flat, holding his breath. It was well past midnight, a dark night, and the Red Army soldiers in the truck were probably drunk. But that only made them more unpredictable and dangerous.

As the vehicle passed by, a bottle tossed casually from the back landed less than a meter away and broke, splashing the left side of his face and his left eye with vodka. Adam exhaled slowly but didn’t move for several minutes, cursing himself for his lack of vigilance. Here on the Baltic coast, with the sea less than fifty meters away, the noise of the wind and surf made it difficult to hear anything. And he was tired, dog tired, but that was no excuse. The area was crawling with Red Army troops and NKVD agents, hunting down the AK. There was little margin for error.

He waited another minute then stood up slowly and glanced around in the darkness. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the liquid from the left side of his face. He could barely feel the cloth against his skin due to the numbness, a result of the bullet wound that had mangled his left ear and come within a centimeter of ending his life at Raczynski Palace the previous September. He’d also lost most of the hearing in that ear, which was probably why he hadn’t heard the truck until it was almost too late. Another reason to remain vigilant, he thought, cursing again.

He stepped back on the road and continued on, looking back over his shoulder every few paces. He knew from the map he’d studied that the road ran along the crest of a high bluff, which descended down sandy cliffs to the sea. There was no moon, and he found his way along the road by staying near the edge where the high grass rubbed against his leg. He kept his eye on the white foam of breaking waves on the beach below, which formed a half moon shape as it curved around a bay.

Adam trudged on, alternately glancing over his shoulder and down to the beach, until he was at the midpoint of the bay. He paused and listened to the crashing surf for a moment, then stepped off the road and walked carefully through the high grass to the edge of the bluff.

Am I early? He glanced at his watch but couldn’t make out the numbers in the darkness. It had been close to midnight when he’d snuck around the outskirts of the seaside town of Ustka, staying clear of the marauding Red Army soldiers. He had followed the back routes and footpaths until he reached the coast road, and he guessed at least an hour had passed before he was surprised by the truck. That had been at least a quarter of an hour ago. The rendezvous was set for 0200. Not much longer.

Time passed. Adam knelt in the grass, staring into the blackness of the sea. Several times he thought he’d spotted a light and stood up, then nothing. The wind was stronger here, and the noise of the pounding surf enveloped him completely. With his spine tingling, he looked back toward the road every few minutes, making sure no one was sneaking up behind him.

He’d been on the move for seven days ever since receiving the message from London at an AK safe house in the Tuchola Forest. Seven days of plodding along muddy, rural roads on foot; in the back of ox carts; in ancient trucks owned by sympathetic peasants, who shared what little food they had. Seven days of avoiding the Red Army and, above all, the NKVD. But Adam was used to that part, he’d been a hunted man for years—first the Germans, now the Russians.

A flash, out at sea, slightly to his right.

He peered into the blackness. Nothing.

He waited.

Another flash, then a second. He was certain of it.

He glanced back toward the road, then slid down the sandy cliff on his butt, tumbling over at the bottom. He got to his knees and shook the sand from his woolen cap. He removed his glasses and wiped off the sand with his handkerchief, being careful with the cracked left lens. He put them back on and scanned the shoreline until he spotted several wooden pilings silhouetted against the foaming surf. That was the spot. He took one last glance at the top of the bluff then sprinted across the beach to the pilings.