Douglas Jacobson - The Katyn Order

Whitehall continued to watch Kovalenko for a moment, but the general’s expression was unreadable. Then he turned to Andreyev. “It depends on what the document actually says. If there is proof the NKVD committed the murders at Katyn and it’s made public, it could be just the ammunition Truman and Churchill both need to stand up to Stalin and press the case for Poland.”

Andreyev shook his head. “If that happens, Tarnov is finished.”

Whitehall turned to Kovalenko who stood looking out the window, rolling the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “How much help will your letter of authorization be if Nowak gets stopped in Poland?”

Kovalenko took a long drag on the cigarette. “If he gets stopped by the Red Army or the Polish police he’ll be fine. If it’s Tarnov, or anyone under his control, he’ll be in trouble. That’s why I made a copy for him to give to his contact—what’s her name?”

“Natalia,” Whitehall replied, “and I suspect she’s more than just a contact.”

Kovalenko shrugged. “Well, if anything happens, and she gets word back to me, I can protest loudly enough to get him out of there. No one—not the NKVD or even Tarnov—can afford a public controversy with this conference coming up.”

“What about that message she sent?” Andreyev asked Whitehall. “The bit about, we are not pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard. Do you know what that means?”

Whitehall shook his head. “It’s a phrase Banach used in some paper he wrote back in the ’30s. A phrase Hans Frank also used in one of his writings. That’s what convinced Adam that Banach and Frank knew each other before the war. Damned if I know what it means, though.”

ADAM STACKED THE LAST of the split logs onto the wagon, brushed the dust and woodchips off his shirt, and looked at the tall, husky man holding the double-ended axe. “Is that it?” he asked.

The man brushed his blond hair back and replaced his wide-brimmed hat. He smiled broadly and laid the axe on top of the pile of logs in the wagon. “That’s it for now. We should head back; we’re late for supper.”

The man’s name was Piotr and though he spoke Polish, his local Górale dialect was interspersed with enough Slovakian and Hungarian words that Adam had to listen carefully, a task made a bit more challenging with the impaired hearing in his left ear. Since that first suspicious meeting at the chapel, Piotr had slowly warmed up, until now he treated Adam almost as a friend—almost.

They climbed onto the seat of the wagon and waved good-bye to the two other Górale men who’d been helping clear the area of the forest where a stable was to be built. Piotr grabbed the horse’s reins with a thick hand, gave them a gentle flick, and the wagon jerked forward, slopping through puddles as they headed toward the cabin.

As the wagon bumped along the muddy road, Adam took in the spectacular scenery. Nestled between two snow-capped peaks, a crystal clear stream trickled down a mountain slope thick with conifers, oaks and birch trees. But he was in no mood to enjoy it. He was restless and getting impatient.

It had been three days since Adam left Krakow. Tytus had departed the morning after they arrived, returning to wherever he came from, leaving Adam with Piotr and his wife, Krystyna, in their three-room log cabin. Adam had learned from Piotr that Banach was indeed among the Górale, though staying with another family in a village higher up in the mountains. It was safer there, Piotr said, farther from Nowy Targ where random patrols of Russian soldiers often made trouble for the locals.

Adam had hoped that by this time he would have already located his uncle and be on his way back to Krakow. But it had rained hard over the weekend, and the route up the mountain was impassable. Perhaps tomorrow, if the weather remained clear, they could make the trip.

The shadows were long by the time they arrived back at the cabin, a sturdy, simple structure, one of three in a small enclave. It was built of logs with small windows and a high-peaked, wood-shingled roof, in the traditional mountain style of the Górale. The aroma of potato pancakes and sauerkraut filled the cabin, and Adam and Piotr washed up while Krystyna set the table with heavy white plates and clay mugs.

“I was getting concerned; he’s not usually late for his supper,” Krystyna said, gesturing toward her husband. “Was he showing off his wood-splitting skills for you?”

She was younger than Piotr, in her mid-twenties, Adam guessed, quite pretty—and very pregnant. She had thick brown hair put up in a tight bun. Her face was tan, but not weathered, her skin smooth with just a few faint creases at the corners of deep brown, sensuous eyes.

“I probably slowed him down,” Adam replied, “but he swings a pretty mean axe.”

“That he does. Especially during the contest at Festival Days when all the pretty young girls want to see him flex those big muscles.”

Piotr produced a bottle of potato vodka and two glasses, summoning Adam to the table. “Don’t pay her any mind,” the big man said. “She knows I look at none but her.”

Krystyna laughed. “And he knows what I’d do to him if he did.” She bent down and gave her husband a peck on the cheek. “He can swing an axe with the best of them, but I can’t get him to pick up a broom—even with me in my delicate condition.” She added that last with her hands on her hips, nudging Piotr with her backside.

“A man’s got his work and a woman hers,” Piotr mumbled, pouring the drinks.

“This will be your first child?” Adam said, glancing around the small cabin. There was a fireplace on the opposite side of the single ground-floor room and two sleeping areas in a loft overhead.

Krystyna nodded. “We’ve only been married a year. Piotr wanted to wait a while, but the good lord had other ideas. Are you married, Adam?”

“No,” he said abruptly.

“Well, do you have a girl, a sweetheart?”

Adam felt his face flush, thinking of Natalia and the afternoon they spent in her tiny room in Kazimierz. Is that what they were… sweethearts, lovers? His stomach tightened at a sudden foreboding. He’d been bad luck for everyone he ever cared about. Why should this be any different?

“I’m sure you do,” Krystyna persisted. “Is she also an American?”

“Krystyna,” Piotr interjected, “can’t you see you’re embarrassing our guest with all your questions? How about our supper?”

She waved a towel at him. “Oh, hush. It won’t kill you to wait for a few minutes. If you’d been home on time you wouldn’t be so hungry.”

After the simple meal Adam helped clear the dishes despite Krystyna’s protests, and Piotr’s grumbles about setting a bad example. When they were finished they sat around the oak-plank table with mugs of coffee.

“I’d like to see America some day,” Krystyna said. “The Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building. Have you seen the Statue of Liberty?”

Adam smiled. “I sailed right past it the day we came to America. I was eleven years old, and I remember thinking it was very big.”

“Did you have a motorcar in America?” Piotr asked.

“My father did. A green Packard with running boards and big chrome headlights.”

Piotr’s eyes lit up. “Someday I will own a motorcar. A Mercedes-Benz.”

Krystyna grimaced. “A German motorcar? After what those bastards did to us? How can you think such a thing?”

“The war’s over, and they got what they deserved,” Piotr said with a shrug. “It’s a fine auto, excellent engineering.”

“Hmmmpf,” Krystyna snorted and got up from the table. Plucking some knitting from a wicker basket, she sat down in a rocker near the fireplace.