The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  ALSO BY DOUGLAS W. JACOBSON

  Night of Flames

  Published by McBooks Press, Inc. 2011

  Copyright © 2011 Douglas W. Jacobson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Dust jacket, cover illustration and interior design by Panda Musgrove.

  Cover collage made of two photos by Jack Delano, courtesy of American Memory and The Library of Congress: 1. Headlines posted in street-corner window of newspaper office Brockton, Mass., 1940. 2. In the roundhouse at a Chicago and Northwestern Railroad yard, Chicago, Ill., 1942.

  The hardcover edition of this title was cataloged as:

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jacobson, Douglas W., 1945-

  The Katyn Order : a novel / Douglas W. Jacobson.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59013-572-3 (hardcover)

  1. Warsaw (Poland)--History--Uprising, 1944--Fiction. 2. Katyn Massacre, Katyn’,

  Russia, 1940--Fiction. 3. Poland--History--Occupation, 1939-1945--Fiction. 4. World

  War, 1939-1945--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3610.A35675K38 2011

  813’.6--dc22

  2010051537

  The e-book versions of this title have the following ISBNs: Kindle 978-1-59013-597-6, ePub 978-1-59013-598-3, and PDF 978-1-59013-599-0

  Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Janie

  Acknowledgments

  I have heard it said that the most difficult book for an author to write is the second one. I have, indeed, found that to be true. The story that finally came to fruition as The Katyn Order took many twists and turns along the way, as well as several false starts. As with my first book, this effort could not have succeeded were it not for the help of many people.

  At the top of that list is my editor, Jackie Swift, of McBooks Press. Were it not for her seemingly inexhaustible patience, sound advice, and flat-out awesome skill as an editor, this book never would have happened. Jackie knew what story I wanted to tell and was determined not to let me off the hook until I told it.

  Many thanks to Swalomir Debski, who again served as a valuable reference, particularly on the background of Katyn and Soviet-Polish relations during this time period.

  My friends and fellow authors at Redbird Writers Studio in Milwaukee continued to provide their usual candor and constructive critique, which was extremely helpful in developing the relationship between Adam and Natalia.

  My friend Krystyna Rytel, of Elm Grove, lived through the occupation of Poland and the Warsaw Rising as a child. In sharing her experiences, Krystyna helped provide an emotional understanding of those unimaginable times.

  I also want to thank the real Tim Meinerz for his generous donation to the Multiple Sclerosis Society Scholarship Fund. It was a privilege to name a character in this story after him.

  And, as always, I am eternally grateful for the patience and encouragement of my wife, Janie; Kevin and Mary; Kerri and Filip; and our seven grandchildren who, once again, put up with my absence while I burrowed away for countless hours.

  Courage is the first of human qualities . . . because it is the quality that guarantees all others.

  —Winston Churchill

  Prologue

  KATYN FOREST

  NEAR SMOLENSK, RUSSIA

  APRIL, 1940

  THE POLISH OFFICERS knew they were in trouble when the train stopped.

  At first they were quiet. After a time some began to pray, some cursed. But most stood in silence in the dark interior of the boxcar, waiting. They were officers, their pride untarnished in defeat. And they waited.

  From outside, heavy boots marched on the gravel rail siding, dogs barked and soldiers shouted orders in Russian.

  The doors of the boxcar were pulled back, grinding and scraping on rusty tracks. The officers filed across the rail yard as instructions in Polish blared over loudspeakers.

  Autobuses arrived, their windows blackened, their rear doors open wide like the jaws of serpents. Inside the buses were cages: one Polish officer per cage, thirty officers per bus. The doors slammed shut.

  Darkness.

  A rutted road led deeper into the forest, out of earshot, away from prying eyes . . . away from everything.

  The officers’ hands were bound. Names were recorded in books that would never see the light of day.

  A narrow path disappeared into the trees, still deeper in the forest.

  It was a crisp, clear April morning. Tree sparrows flitted about, crocuses were budding, the forest awakening. The ferns were wet with morning dew, the air heavy with the dank odor of moss—and the stench of death.

  A Russian major stood near an open pit, a gaping hole, an obscene scar on the pristine landscape.

  The major barked a command, and Russian soldiers shoved a Polish officer to the edge of the pit. The Pole stared into the carnage, then looked at the major. Their eyes met for an instant. The major turned away.

  A Russian soldier put a pistol to the back of the Polish officer’s head. It was easier if he didn’t have to look them in the eye.

  A gunshot echoed through the silent forest.

  The sparrows flew away.

  The major made a check in his log. There would be more than twenty thousand checks before it was finished.

  According to the Order.

  One

  5 AUGUST 1944

  THE ASSASSIN STOOD IN THE SHADOWS of an alcove and watched the activity on the other side of the street. The lamps along Stawki Street, just west of Warsaw’s City Center, had been shot out during the first days of the Rising, but the night sky was illuminated with brilliant, yellowish-white flashes. German artillery units were pounding the Wola District two kilometers to the west, and an acrid, smoky haze hung in the air. The ground trembled beneath his feet with each jarring concussion.

  But he waited.

  And watched.

  A few minutes earlier, two canvas-covered trucks had pulled up in front of the deserted three-story warehouse, and several prisoners wearing black-and-white concentration camp uniforms had jumped out and begun unloading wooden crates. Two German SS troopers with automatic rifles watched over them, glancing at the western sky whenever a particularly loud burst of artillery echoed through the streets, shattering the last unbroken windows. The SS troopers appeared nervous, though this neighborhood was still under German control.

  The assassin checked his watch. It was almost time. He brushed the dust and specks of ash off the front of the uniform he’d taken from the dead Waffen-SS trooper the night before. He had made sure it was a clean shot to the head so as not to soil the jacket with blood. He wanted to look his best for SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Karl Brandt.

  At exactly 2200 hours, a flash of headlights swept through the gloom as a long, black auto wheeled around the corner and screeched to a stop behind the trucks. The driver jumped out and opened the rear door of the powerful German-built Horch. The assassin watched as SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Brandt squeezed out of the backseat like an over-ripe melon and tugged on the bottom of his uniform tunic in a futile effort to cover his sagging beltline. The obese officer barked a command to the SS troopers and plodded toward the warehouse.

  The assassin stepped out of the alcove and marched across the boulevard, his right hand resting lightly on the holster strapped to his waist. As he approached the automobile, he shouted loudly enough to be heard o
ver the bursts of shelling, “Guten Abend, Sturmbannführer!” With his right forefinger, he flipped open the strap of the holster.

  SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Brandt stopped and turned toward the street, a bewildered look in his eyes. “Ja, was ist—”

  The assassin drew the Walther P-38 from the holster and in one smooth motion fired a single shot into Brandt’s forehead, then a second into the chest of the driver. He stepped over Brandt’s body and fired two quick shots at the SS troopers, who stood staring at him in frozen astonishment. One of them went down instantly. The other required another round.

  The striped-uniformed prisoners dropped the crates and stood ramrod stiff, arms in the air, their faces white with fear. An instant later, a group of men wearing red-and-white armbands bolted from the shadows of a building across the street. Brandishing an assortment of weapons, they charged past the stunned prisoners and barged into the warehouse.

  From inside, shouts in Polish and German—

  Gunshots—

  Then it was quiet.

  The assassin calmly approached the quivering prisoners and holstered his gun. From his pocket he withdrew a red-and-white armband, emblazoned with the Polish eagle, and slipped it on. “We’re AK,” he said. “Armia Krajowa, the Home Army. Get inside.”

  He followed the prisoners into the building and down to the cellar, glancing around in satisfied amazement. It was better than he had thought. Jammed into the damp, earthen-floored room, stacked floor to ceiling, were hundreds of wooden crates, their contents clearly identified with stencils in typical German thoroughness: Gew-43 rifles, MP-38 submachine guns, 7.92mm anti-tank rifles, Mausers, Lugers and thousands of rounds of ammunition. It was a cache of weapons the AK desperately needed. It would keep them going for another week, perhaps longer.

  Two of the AK commandos dragged Brandt’s body and those of the SS troopers into the building, stripped off the troopers’ uniforms and put them on. They took the automatic rifles and went back outside. The assassin dispatched a runner to the City Center AK commander, who would send in reinforcements and move up the barricades. The AK had gained another kilometer of territory.

  Then he motioned to one of the other commandos, who tossed him a canvas bag. The assassin untied the drawstring, withdrew a handful of red-and-white armbands and held them out to the prisoners. “You’re free men now. You can join us or not. It’s your choice.”

  The prisoners stood immobilized, their dark, sunken eyes wide with astonishment. They were a scrawny lot—dirty and unshaven, lice crawling through their hair—and they were wary, accustomed to expecting the worst at any moment. Finally one of them, a tall emaciated Jew with a yellow star sewn on his uniform, stepped forward and whispered, “Thank you.” He took an armband, slipped it on and saluted with a trembling hand. One-by-one the rest followed.

  When the unloading activity resumed, the assassin sat down on one of the crates, removed his eyeglasses and carefully cleaned them with a handkerchief. He put them back on and lit a cigarette. His name was Adam Nowak, or it had been, back in another life. It was a name he hadn’t used in five years, a name almost forgotten, like the life that had at one time existed for a reason other than murder and mayhem. To his comrades in the AK he was known by a code name, as they all were. His was Wolf. An appropriate name he’d always thought, a night stalker, an assassin.

  Adam glanced at the beamed ceiling as the building shook, sending dust and bits of plaster drifting downward. The shelling was getting closer every night. He brushed the dust off his jacket. The AK had taken the Germans by surprise when they launched the Rising a week ago and had managed to take control of Warsaw’s City Center, Old Town and a few other areas. But the victory was short-lived. Now they would pay the price under a barrage of German artillery.

  Adam stood up, dropped the cigarette butt on the earthen floor and ground it out under his heel. He walked to the back of the cellar where an enormous, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head stood guard over two other SS troopers captured by the AK commandos when they stormed the cellar. The big man’s code name was Hammer. He stood with beefy arms folded, glowering at the SS troopers, who sat on the dirt floor with their hands tied behind them.

  Adam was short and slender, though deceptively strong. With his thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses, many would expect that he was a banker or an accountant—or a student in law school which, in fact, he had been in his previous life. Standing next to Hammer, he seemed to take up hardly any space at all.

  “What do we do with these two?” Hammer asked.

  Adam looked down at the German soldiers. They looked young, he thought, just boys. Then he drew the Walther P-38 and shot both of them in the head.

  Two

  6 AUGUST

  THE TRAIN SLOWED around the last bend, rocking from side-to-side, steel wheels scraping against steel rails as it neared Warsaw’s West station. Standing in the passageway between the fifth and sixth cars, Natalia Kowalska held onto a handrail with her right hand and glanced at her watch to check the time. They were three hours late. It was just past five o’clock in the afternoon, but it seemed like the middle of night. She’d seen the fires as the train approached the western suburbs, sliding deeper into the cloud of hazy smoke with every kilometer.

  Natalia bent down to see out the window as they crept slowly into the station, passing a line of grim-faced German SS troopers, who stood on the platform clutching submachine guns. When the train finally shuddered to a halt with a blast of venting steam, Natalia jumped to the platform, blinking her eyes against the sting of smoke and ashes. As she pulled out the step to assist the departing passengers, she heard a clatter of hobnail boots pounding down the wooden platform. A guttural voice barked in German, “Raus! Raus! Everyone out!”

  As the SS officer approached her, Natalia adjusted her blue railway conductor’s cap and shouted to be heard over the noise, “This train is continuing on to—”

  The officer jabbed his nightstick into her ribs. “Everyone off! Schnell! Mach schnell!” Then he marched on ahead, banging against every window, waving his hand, “Raus! Raus!”

  Instantly it was chaos: bewildered people stumbling off the train and scurrying along the platform, dragging luggage and children behind them; SS troopers shouting; dogs barking; the air thick with smoke and haze. Natalia backed up against the brick wall of the station and watched for a moment, keeping her eye on the SS officer, who was trotting farther up the train, banging on windows, jerking people out of the cars and onto the platform. She removed her conductor’s cap, stuffed it into the black bag clipped to her belt and stepped into the flow of departing passengers.

  Outside, the chaos turned to mass pandemonium. Thousands of panicked and disorientated people clogged the streets, pushing and shoving in all directions. Fires raged while German army trucks plowed through the crowds, running over anyone who couldn’t get out of the way. Soldiers leaned over the sides of the trucks, shooting indiscriminately at terrified civilians.

  Pulled along with the frenzied crowd like a cork on the ocean, Natalia desperately tried to get her bearings. She was only vaguely familiar with this part of Warsaw, but the rendezvous with her contact was to be at a church in the Wola District, which she knew to be north of this station. The dense smoke and ash made it difficult to see the sun, but Natalia realized the crowd was moving south to escape from the fires. She had to get back across the tracks and head north.

  After a few minutes, which seemed like an hour, the stampeding throng crossed a bridge over the railway, and Natalia spotted a breach in the chain-link fence running along the tracks. She shoved and elbowed through the crowd, glancing around to see if any soldiers were nearby, then scrambled down the embankment, dropped to her knees and crawled through the fence.

  In the smoke-filled confusion of wailing people, machine-gun bursts and thumping artillery fire, Natalia sprinted across the tracks, then turned and trotted parallel to the fence line until she found another breach—this one caused by the charred remain
s of a bus that had plowed through the fence—and emerged on the north side.

  Keeping to the side streets where there were fewer fires, Natalia made her way north, darting across intersections and ducking between burned-out buildings whenever she heard growling truck engines and clanking tank treads. She rounded a corner and was about to cross over the tram tracks that ran down the center of Avenue Kasprzaka when a crowd of shrieking women and children, running in the opposite direction, knocked her back against a building. As the frantic crowd rushed past, Natalia regained her balance and glanced in the direction they had come from. She froze and stood motionless as her mind tried to comprehend the gruesome scene before her.

  Fifty meters away, in the middle of the street, a bulldozer was at work, scooping hundreds of human corpses onto a pile. A gang of SS troopers tossed scraps of wood and paper onto the pile, while another trooper wielding a flamethrower set it ablaze. Beyond the pile, a bus had overturned, and a third gang of SS troopers methodically machine-gunned the passengers crawling out through the windows.

  Natalia crept back into the shadows between two buildings and leaned against a brick wall for support, swallowing hard as trucks rumbled past delivering more bodies to the blazing pile. She felt lightheaded and her stomach was churning, so she stayed a few minutes longer until the noxious stench of burning flesh finally forced her to move. Her legs tingled as she crept unsteadily between the buildings, found an alleyway and made a wide circle around the blazing corpses.

  An hour later Natalia slipped through the side door of the Church of the Sacred Mother in the center of the Wola District, and was once again assaulted by the scent of death. This time it wasn’t an actual smell—though the air was heavy with a pungent sulfurous haze—but more of an aura, an ominous feeling that something dreadful had just happened. She hesitated just inside the door and glanced down the shadowy hallway that led to the sanctuary as the last hazy glimmer of twilight filtered through the transom windows above the door. She took a step into the hallway and—