Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

Kovalenko nodded but did not offer his hand. He turned to Adam, his dark, sunken eyes moving up and down, taking in his civilian clothing. There was not the slightest hint of recognition.

Adam stood where he was and kept his hands at his side. “Adam Nowak, Civilian Liaison Officer, also assigned to the Judge Advocate General.”

Kovalenko stared at him for a long moment then said, “You’re an American, Mr. Nowak?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And what is your connection to the Polish Government, which is in exile in London?”

Adam thought that either Kovalenko did not remember him or that he was very accomplished at deception. Based on his previous experience, he decided on the latter. “I was asked by the British to serve as the representative of the Polish Government for the purpose of investigating war crimes.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment as the three men stood on either side of the mammoth desk. Finally General Kovalenko gestured to the settee opposite the one where Major Tarnov sat and then lowered his husky frame into his desk chair. He shook a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit it with a gold-plated lighter. He took a long drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke and asked, “So, what service may we provide, Colonel Meinerz?”

Meinerz leaned forward. “As we indicated in our correspondence through General Parks’ office, the Allied War Crimes Investigation Team requests assistance from our Russian allies to visit the Sachsenhausen concentration camp at Oranienburg.”

Kovalenko’s dark eyes were blank. “Correspondence? We received no correspondence.” He took another drag on the cigarette.

Meinerz pressed on. “The correspondence was sent by courier from General Parks’ command center to your attention here at the Soviet Military Administration last week.”

Kovalenko shrugged. “You have seen the size of this building, Colonel Meinerz. Many hundreds of Russian officers work here. Perhaps it will turn up.”

“Yes, perhaps it will,” Meinerz replied. “However, since we are here now, shall we discuss arrangements for a visit?”

Kovalenko blew out another cloud of smoke, then he turned to Adam. “So, an American diplomat is representing the interests of Poland and investigating war crimes?”

“Several million Polish citizens were sent to concentration camps,” Adam replied.

“German concentration camps,” Kovalenko said. “You are investigating German war crimes.”

Adam thought about the hundreds of thousands of Poles sent to Russian gulags, and the murder of thousands of Polish officers at the hands of the NKVD in the Katyn Forest. But he wouldn’t talk about that… not now. “Yes, General, German war crimes.”

Kovalenko stared at him in silence and took another long drag on the cigarette before crushing it out in a silver ashtray. Then he abruptly stood up. Major Tarnov stood as well.

Adam and Meinerz both got to their feet. Meinerz said, “General, about the visit—”

Kovalenko cut him off. “I am very busy right now. There are many demands on my time. When I receive your correspondence I will look into the matter.”

Behind them the door opened, and a Red Army officer stepped into the office carrying a thick folder. He said something in Russian that included the name “Marshal Zhukov,” the Supreme Commander of Russian forces in Berlin.

General Kovalenko glanced at Meinerz and signified with a quick nod of his head that the meeting was over.

NATALIA PEDALED HER BICYCLE up the long hill that ran alongside the Rawka River, pushing hard to keep up with Rabbit. Following the winding pathways through dense stands of birch and aspen trees, they often raced the three kilometers from the thatched-roof cottage buried deep in the Bolimowski Forest to the village. It was a race she routinely lost to the skinny, but deceptively strong, lad. He seemed to have grown a head taller in the last eight months, and much hungrier.

And today was no different. As they embarked on their weekly ride to the village to replenish their supplies, Rabbit had challenged her to another race, the winner getting the first pick of whatever vegetables might still be available at the village’s market. Natalia knew he would win, of course, and she certainly didn’t care. It was fun, and eight months after the nightmare of Warsaw she was thankful for just being alive, let alone having a bit of fun now and then. Especially since they’d been cooped up in the tiny cottage all winter.

Finding the abandoned cottage had been a godsend after their narrow escape from the collection point outside Warsaw, Natalia thought as she watched Rabbit disappear around the bend. The escape had been a stroke of pure genius, planned by the streetwise youth, who had a knack for getting out of tight spots. Natalia, Zeeka and Hammer, along with Rabbit, had blended in with the civilian exodus and slipped out of Warsaw following the defeat of the Rising. When they met up at the first collection point, Rabbit snooped around—just a curious boy asking questions—and learned that every train included a baggage car at the end, used by the Germans to haul supplies beyond Prushkov. Natalia still wore her Polish railway conductor’s jacket, Rabbit had pointed out, and though it was filthy and tattered, she didn’t look any worse than anyone else. Besides, the train would be packed with fatigued, hot and ornery people, who wouldn’t give a damn about anything except getting to the next stop. If Natalia could exert some authority and lead a small group to the baggage car at the back of the train, it might work.

It had succeeded as planned. The four of them had concealed themselves among crates and large canvas sacks filled with everything from works of art to sterling silver, jewelry and clothing that the Germans had plundered during their systematic destruction of Warsaw.

The following day, wearing new clothing and toting two suitcases filled with winter coats, sweaters and hats they’d pilfered from the baggage car, along with a few thousand zlotys that Rabbit had found in the lining of a black leather briefcase, they departed the train at Zyrardow, forty kilometers west of Prushkov on the edge of the Bolimowski Forest. Two days later, as they trudged through the dense forest, Rabbit had spotted the abandoned cottage.

As Natalia pedaled past a meadow, now alive with red poppies and blossoming apple trees, the bright mid-afternoon sun warming her back, she thought about the long, cold winter they had endured in the tiny cottage. The forest had provided ample firewood, and they had been able to find odd jobs with the farmers in the area in return for a stockpile of potatoes, turnips and a bit of salted pork before the weather turned and the snow set in. Hammer had even bartered a log-splitting job for a Russian Mosin-Nagant rifle and some ammunition. Armed with the rifle, he had managed to provide an occasional treat of fresh venison. He had also obtained a Browning 9mm pistol, which Natalia carried in the pocket of the gray woolen coat she’d stolen from the baggage car. She had never asked Hammer exactly how he’d gotten the Browning.

They had escaped the clutches of the Germans and, so far at least, they had managed to avoid Red Army troops and NKVD agents. But Natalia knew the enemy was out there. Zeeka had made contact with an AK cell in Zyrardow that had a wireless radio. She had brought back reports of the NKVD tracking down AK operatives all over Poland and arresting them—or shooting them on the spot.

Natalia took one last glance at the shimmering meadow and inhaled the sweet scent of the apple blossoms before she pedaled back under the green canopy of budding birches and aspens. They’d survived one war, but they were entering another.