The Katyn Order (32 page)

The cup and saucer rattled in Adam's hand, and he quickly set it on a table before spilling the coffee. Whitehall was still speaking. “I'm sorry,” Adam said. “What did you say?”

“The message was quite short,” Whitehall repeated. “Rather cryptic. It said, ‘Find Adam Nowak. We are not pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard.'”

Adam stood for a long moment, staring blankly at Whitehall as the message slowly sank in.

Natalia was alive.

He hadn't dared to believe it, even after he'd given her name to Whitehall. It had been ten months since—

“Adam? Did you hear what I said?” Whitehall asked sharply. “Do you know what it means?”

“I'm sorry . . . do I know what . . .?”

“The message, do you know what it means?”

Adam silently repeated the message to himself,
Find Adam Nowak. We are not pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard.
“My God, where did she get . . .? I don't understand.”

“Nor do I,” Whitehall said. “Of course, I remembered the phrase from the research files on Hans Frank. I was hoping you would know why
she
would use it?”

“What else was in the message?”

“A code that she needs help.”

“Help? What's wrong? What kind of help?”

“The code she used suggests that she's found something important and needs someone to rendezvous with her.”

“When do I leave?”

“It'll take a bit of doing,” Whitehall said. “We'll prepare some papers identifying you as an American industrialist doing business with the Russian Army. We'll get you a letter of authorization from General Kovalenko—”

Adam wasn't listening. He was consumed by the memory of Natalia sprinting along Dluga Street that last night in Warsaw while he watched from the window.

“Must be some big deal goin' on,” Whitehall's driver said as they pulled away from the mansion. “A couple of Russians here last night, now you come back this morning.”

Adam met the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. “What Russians?”

The driver laughed. “That's a good one. You keep associating with the likes of Whitehall, and you won't remember your own name.”

Adam actually enjoyed the man's impertinence. With everything on his mind, a few moments of light banter felt good. “You know the old saying, if I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, you'd have to kill me.” The driver glanced at him in the mirror again. “But you don't look like the type.”

The driver brought Adam all the way back to his lodgings in Schoenberg. Meinerz was sitting in a wrought-iron chair on the front porch when Adam stepped out of the backseat of the Mercedes. The American colonel looked up from the file he was studying as Adam walked up the steps. “Well, well, riding around in a chauffeured Mercedes. Pretty classy,” he said with a smirk.

Adam slumped down in the chair next to him. “It's not going to last. I'll be leaving for Krakow soon.”

Meinerz set the file on a round, wood-topped table between the chairs and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Adam and lit both of them. “Has SOE located your uncle?”

“I don't know. They received a message that our contact in Krakow discovered something important.”

Meinerz cocked his head. “Do you have any idea what you're getting into here, Adam? A few days ago you almost got arrested by the NKVD and now you're going off to
Poland?
We can't help you if anything happens over there, you know.”

Adam nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Meinerz leaned forward, looking him in the eye. “There are a lot of desperate people out there trying like hell to cover up all the atrocities they committed. One more life isn't going to matter to any of them. That NKVD prick accused you of harboring a fugitive. That's all the excuse he needs.”

Adam smiled to hide his irritation. Meinerz had no idea what he'd seen and done the last four years, and that was the way it had to stay. “I appreciate your concern, and I'll be careful. But I've got to get to the bottom of this. I sure as hell don't want my uncle's name associated with mass murderers like Hans Frank, regardless of what the damn Russians think. Besides, I may dig up some evidence that will be useful in the war crimes trials.”

Meinerz shook his head. “Listen to me, Adam. We're making up these damn laws as we go because we won the war—along with our Russian
allies.
We can't trust those bastards further than we can throw one of their tanks. None of this ‘war crimes' crap is ever going to stick. The American people don't care. We'll eventually just get tired of the whole tedious process. Then, very quietly, we'll let them all go.”

“So, you think we're all just wasting our time here? We're discovering evidence of mass genocide, for Christ's sake! You think everyone will just forget about it?”

“What I'm saying is, we can do all the investigating we want because we're the victors. But there is no legal precedent to conduct war crimes trials against individuals.”

“What about the Moscow Declaration? The London Charter?”

Meinerz shook his head again. “Written by Churchill with support from Roosevelt and Stalin during war time. It won't stand up under the scrutiny of international law.”

“Then what about the Hague Convention, which protects the rights of civilians in occupied countries?”

“The Hague Convention holds governments responsible for war crimes, not individuals. Look, Adam, I agree with you. All of these Nazi bastards should hang for their crimes—”

“And a lot of Russians.”

“My point, exactly. It's certainly not fair treatment under the law, is it? No one knows better than you the extent of the crimes committed by the Russians against the Poles. But since they're our allies—”

Adam held his hands in the air. “I know, I know!” Meinerz's words cut right through to his heart. Was this all just an exercise, a grandstand show by the victors? Could the Americans and British really put Germans on trial for war crimes and ignore what the Russians did in all those hundreds of Polish villages? Could they ignore what the Russians did at Katyn?

Meinerz stubbed out his cigarette and held out his hand. “Look, I'm cynical by nature. Don't pay any attention to it. We'll do our best to hang these bastards. You just watch your back . . . and stay safe.”

Adam gripped his friend's hand and nodded.

• • •

Adam left the next day and spent most of the trip from Berlin to Krakow sitting alone in the train's first-class dining car, smoking cigarettes and staring out the window. Morning became afternoon, rain turned to sunshine, but he didn't notice. All he could think about was Natalia.

When he'd given her name to Whitehall, it was with only the slightest hope that SOE would find her. He wasn't even sure she'd made it out of Warsaw, much less avoided capture by the NKVD for the last ten months.

Adam had just barely made it out of Warsaw himself after being wounded when the SS assaulted the AK hospital in Raczynski Palace. The bullet that mangled his ear had knocked him unconscious, which turned out to be a stroke of luck since he'd been left for dead by the SS troopers. When he finally came to, he had managed to crawl out of the palace, and into the street where he'd passed out again. An elderly couple found him and took him to their hiding place, a cellar in an adjacent building. They had tried their best to nurse him, but with the lack of medical supplies, infection had set in. He had been so dizzy most of the time he couldn't stand, much less walk. It had taken a month to recover, and by the time he managed to slip out of the city, Natalia, like everyone else, had disappeared in the chaos.

And now he was on his way to meet her.

The only time in five years he had let his guard down had been with Natalia. They'd only spent a few hours together, sitting in a church, then huddling in the ammunition shelter. But there was something about her, something that had penetrated the protective shell he'd so meticulously created, the shell that sealed off his emotions and kept him going. And it frightened him. It had frightened him that last night in Warsaw, when he had run off on the futile mission to Raczynski Palace . . . then watched her from a window like a schoolboy.

Adam forced himself to think about something other than what he would say when he met her. Had she found Banach? Could his uncle still be alive after all this time? Was it possible he might be re-united with the man who meant more to him than life itself?

And the phrase—
pathetic pawns on the perilous chessboard
—the phrase Banach used in his paper, the same phrase Hans Frank used. Where would she have learned it, if not from Banach?

He looked out the window, rubbing the numb left side of his face, and watched the Polish countryside slip past: gray buildings in war-weary, gray towns, dusty roads winding through the wheat fields, wagons pulled by horses and oxen. He imagined it looked the same as it always had, century after century . . . war after war.

Adam reflected on his conversation with Whitehall the other day when they were alone in the drawing room of the mansion before dinner with Kovalenko. One of Whitehall's comments had struck a chord:
Get proof about Katyn, something even the Americans can't ignore.
He thought about the comment, remembering the Poles he knew in Chicago—most of them, like himself, first or second generation immigrants, and all of them patriotic Americans. While they kept alive their Polish heritage, they were as fiercely proud to be an American as he was.

But Whitehall's comment had made him think. If there
were
solid proof of Russia's treachery at Katyn, would the Americans stand up to Stalin and help Poland? Would his adopted country stand beside the country of his birth at the hour of her greatest need?

Adam knew what the answer would be if he asked any of the hundreds of AK commandos he'd fought with over the years, the proud, stubborn Poles who were fighting to the death to win their freedom. The British and the French may have let them down, but Adam knew that every one of them believed America would be there when it counted. He hoped it was true.

He suddenly felt very tired. He let his head fall back on the seat and closed his eyes, wondering what he would say when he met Natalia.

13 J
UNE

T
HE LATE AFTERNOON SUN
was quite warm when Adam exited Krakow's Central Station with his suit coat draped over his arm. For the first time since he'd been deported by the Germans in 1939, he walked the familiar streets leading to the Stare Miasto District, grateful the city that had once been his home had survived the war with little damage.

Sweat trickled down the back of his collar as he crossed the Planty park and stopped outside of St. Florian's Gate to get his bearings. He looked around, observing his surroundings and noticing faces. Then he passed through the gate and the remnants of the ancient fortifications, and entered the old city.

Adam walked a short distance down Florianska Street, weaving through crowds of people. He turned into a narrow cobblestone lane, barely wide enough for a horse and carriage, then circled around and came back to where he'd started to make sure he wasn't being followed. Repeating the process another time, he continued down Florianska to the Rynek Glowny.

Adam paused for a moment at the northern end of the vast market square, taking in the view of the Mariacki Church, the Cloth Hall, the vendors' horses and carriages. He'd spent many Sunday afternoons on this square as a boy, sitting at a café with his aunt and uncle, eating ice cream and feeding the pigeons. And he'd spent many hours here after he returned from America, sitting at those same cafés, sipping coffee or beer while studying law books.

The square was much the same, largely undamaged by the war, but it felt different. It was quieter, more subdued. A few of the vendors were at their stations, but there was little in their carriages for sale. And many of the cafés were closed, their awnings rolled up, chairs stacked upon the tables. Adam took a last look around, then walked across the square, proceeding south along Grodzka to Wawel Castle, heading for the rendezvous point in the Kazimierz District.

An hour later, he entered the courtyard of the Church of Archangel Michael and Saint Stanislaus. There was no one around. Adam checked his watch—five o'clock—he was right on time. He lit a cigarette and wandered over to the pond, pretending to study the statue of Saint Stanislaus in the center. The saint had a stern expression on his stone face, as if he were disappointed by human frailty. A few minutes passed. Then a few more and still no one appeared except an elderly man who looked like a caretaker, carrying a basket filled with grass clippings.

The elderly man walked toward him and seemed to be heading for the gate when he suddenly dropped the basket at Adam's feet. The grass spilled out, covering Adam's shoes.

“Ach, what a fool. I'm sorry, sir.” The man bent over and scooped the clippings off the ground as Adam shook his shoes clear.

Adam instinctively bent down to help, and the man whispered, “Dietla and Starowislna, at six o'clock. Get on the tram for Podgorze.” Then the man picked up the last of the clippings and headed out of the gate.

Despite all of her efforts to keep her emotions under control, Natalia gasped when Adam boarded the tram. She quickly covered it up with a cough when the woman across the aisle glanced at her, but it had been enough, and he turned in her direction. Their eyes met for an instant before the crowd pushed him toward the front of the car.

She could feel the flush in her face and turned to look out the window, not trusting herself if their eyes should happen to meet again.
Is it really him?
Several minutes passed. Finally she couldn't stand it any longer and shifted in her seat, stealing a glance at the front of the car, certain she had made a mistake.