The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  Andreyev nodded.

  Kovalenko continued. “I first encountered Dmitri Tarnov in 1940, while I was serving out my sentence in Siberia, thanks to the treachery and deceit of the NKVD. It was in late April, a miserable, rainy night, and I was swabbing the floor in the kitchen of the guard’s mess hall . . .” He paused as Andreyev raised his eyebrow. “Yes, swabbing the floor. As hard as it may be for you to believe, Captain, that’s what those of us who were caught up in Stalin’s great purge were reduced to . . . until they needed us again in ’41.” He took a long drag on the cigarette. “As I said, I was swabbing the floor, and I overheard a conversation between three NKVD officers sitting around a table in the mess hall with a bottle of vodka. One of them was quite drunk and was bragging about an assignment he’d just carried out in the Katyn Forest.”

  Andreyev pulled his chair closer. “Tarnov?”

  “Da, Tarnov. He’d just returned. And he was bragging about it, bragging how he’d carried out the execution of four thousand Polish officers—‘Polish dogs,’ he called them—and bulldozed their bodies into a ditch.”

  Andreyev whistled softly and adjusted his eye patch. “So it’s true . . . about Katyn? It was the NKVD?”

  “Of course it was. And that son of a bitch Tarnov was directly involved. More than twenty thousand Polish officers and members of the intelligentsia were all intentionally murdered, at three different locations. One of those locations was in the Katyn Forest. I heard him boast about it with my own ears.”

  “Does Tarnov know that you overheard?” Andreyev asked.

  Kovalenko shook his head and pulled out another cigarette, which Andreyev lit for him. “No, he never knew I was there.” The general stood and walked over to the window, looking out over the ruins of Berlin. “I’ve been loyal to Russia, Captain Andreyev. Even after being fingered by the NKVD in the purge of ’37, even when we invaded Poland in ’39. As you know, I’m half Polish, yet I remained loyal and did my duty. But what happened at Katyn . . .” Kovalenko was silent for a long time, smoking his cigarette, staring out at what little remained of Berlin.

  Andreyev cleared his throat. “Is there anything you can do about it . . . about Tarnov and Katyn?”

  Kovalenko turned around and smiled at his young protégé. “Perhaps. For years, especially after ’43 when the Katyn massacre became public and Stalin blamed the Germans, I tried to find out as much as I could about Tarnov. He’s related to Beria, you know.”

  “Beria, the Commissar of the NKVD?”

  “A second cousin, I believe. And Tarnov obviously believed that if he carried out the massacre at Katyn, Commissar Beria would be grateful, and Tarnov would move right up the ranks of the NKVD. But it never happened. Beria ignored him, and Tarnov languished in low-level assignments.”

  “Well, that would explain Tarnov’s reputation.”

  “For being a brutal, vindictive son of a bitch? Indeed it would. All of my contacts informed me that Tarnov was bitter, very bitter, and wanted revenge.”

  “Revenge against Beria? That would be a dangerous game. What did he do?”

  “Nothing. At least nothing I knew about . . . until now.” Kovalenko sat down at the desk again and crushed out the cigarette. “You will recall, Captain Andreyev, that when Tarnov showed up in Warsaw last January, he insisted on safe passage to Krakow.”

  “He’d been given the authority, directly from Beria,” Andreyev said, “to take control of Frank’s headquarters in Wawel Castle.”

  Kovalenko waved his hand dismissively. “Nichivó, never mind about his authority. That’s typical NKVD bullshit. The important thing is that Tarnov spent an entire week personally searching every room in the castle.”

  Andreyev leaned forward, furling his brow. “What was he looking for?”

  “Damned if I know. But it must have been extremely important to him. He also interrogated and beat the hell out of the few grunts Frank left behind. It seemed a little extreme at the time, even for an NKVD fanatic like Tarnov.”

  “Some obsession with Hans Frank, it seems.”

  Kovalenko continued. “Tarnov served in Poland from 1939 until the Germans drove us out in ’41.”

  “Did he ever meet Frank?” Andreyev asked.

  Kovalenko managed a wry smile. “A good question, Captain. A question I’ve been thinking about for some time. And now you’re going to dig into it and find out.”

  Andreyev cocked his head, a concerned look in his eye.

  Kovalenko sighed. “Da, I know what you’re thinking. Nichivó. Just be cautious. Go about it quietly, ask some questions. See what falls out.”

  The captain nodded and got to his feet.

  “One other thing,” Kovalenko said.

  “Da?”

  “Contact this American diplomat, Adam Nowak, and ask him to meet me tonight for a drink at the Adlon.”

  “Do you think he’ll come . . . after what’s happened?” Kovalenko nodded. “He’ll come.”

  Thirty-Five

  8 JUNE

  CAPTAIN ANDREYEV PARKED the GAZ-11 in front of the Adlon Hotel and turned to Adam. “My instructions are to wait for you here. I believe you know the way.”

  Adam stepped through the opening in the blackened front façades of the hotel, climbed the stairway and walked down the dim hallway, wondering what he was getting into. It had been almost two weeks since he’d heard from Whitehall about Major Tarnov launching an investigation into his uncle’s dealings with Hans Frank, and now he’d been abruptly summoned to a late-night meeting with General Kovalenko.

  He stepped into the lavish dining room and glanced around. It was eerily quiet. The tables were set with the same white linens and sterling silver as before. But the lights were lower now, there were no vases with roses, and the room was empty except for a table at the far end where General Kovalenko sat smoking a cigarette. As Adam approached the table, Kovalenko snapped his fingers, and a waiter suddenly appeared carrying a silver tray with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. The waiter set the tray on the table and departed.

  The general crushed out his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray and glanced up. “Welcome back, Mr. Nowak. Have a seat.” When Adam sat down, Kovalenko filled both glasses and held his up. “Nazdaróvye!” he said, draining it in one gulp.

  “Cheers,” Adam replied and did the same. It was Russian vodka, distilled from wheat with a sharp bite and a hint of charcoal. But it was ice cold and slid down Adam’s throat easily.

  Kovalenko refilled the glasses, and they drank again.

  The general thumped his empty glass on the table, his dark eyes meeting Adam’s. “So, your trip to Sachsenhausen was a success?”

  Adam was sure that Kovalenko had been completely briefed on everything that had taken place. There would be no point in withholding anything. The only thing he was uncertain of was why Kovalenko had summoned him. “I found the information I was looking for.”

  “So, it was a success. And this information pertained to a relative of yours—your uncle, to be more precise.”

  Adam took a moment to light a cigarette. “Seems like you already know everything, General.”

  “I know your uncle is the university professor who was released into the custody of Hans Frank, the German war criminal.”

  “Then you know more than I do.”

  “I doubt that,” Kovalenko said. “But do you know that Major Tarnov has issued an arrest warrant for him?”

  Adam took a long drag on his cigarette. Meinerz had warned him that a warrant was likely to be issued, but hearing about it from a general of the Red Army was another matter. “My uncle is not a criminal,” Adam said in as even a tone as he could manage.

  “How do you know? It has been many years since you have seen him. Is that not correct?”

  “I know my uncle.”

  Kovalenko persisted. “You have no idea what he has been doing, or what his relationship was with this mad dog, Frank, or why he was brought back to Krakow. Is that not correct?” The general glared at h
im. “But we all know what took place in Poland and Russia. We all know what happened at the hands of Nazi bastards like Hans Frank.”

  Adam clenched his teeth. “Why did you ask to meet me, General?”

  At that moment the waiter returned and set a platter of zakuska in the center of the table. He was a small man with a pasty complexion and black hair, slicked back and greasy. He avoided eye contact as he carefully placed a small plate and fork in front of each man, then backed away.

  General Kovalenko reached over, speared an anchovy, placed it on a cracker and popped it in his mouth. “They’re from the Black Sea,” he said, “very good. Please, help yourself. It’s taken some effort to bring Russian food to this place.”

  Adam detested anchovies and looked over the platter, filled with an assortment of cheese, caviar, marinated mushrooms, pickled herring and smoked salmon. He scooped some caviar onto a thin, rye cracker and took a bite.

  Kovalenko refilled the vodka glasses, and they drank again.

  Kovalenko casually looked over the zakuska platter, apparently not yet ready to explain the reason for the meeting.

  “Why did you arrange for me to visit Sachsenhausen?” Adam asked.

  “Perhaps I was in a generous mood,” the general replied as he speared a pickled herring. “But it seems your discovery has created a fuss with the NKVD—with Major Tarnov, in particular.”

  “Because he thinks Ludwik Banach is a war criminal?”

  Kovalenko nodded. “Of course. But that’s just NKVD bullshit. There are hundreds of collaborators and saboteurs out there: Poles, Czechs, Romanians, as well as Germans. This is something else.”

  Adam leaned back and rubbed his palms on his trousers. “What do you mean?”

  Kovalenko’s dark eyes narrowed, almost disappearing in the creases of his face. “What was your uncle’s relationship with Hans Frank?” Adam hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  Kovalenko picked up the vodka bottle and filled both glasses. He lifted his and tilted it toward Adam. “Be cautious, Mr. Nowak.”

  Adam sat silently in the rear seat of the GAZ-11 as Captain Andreyev drove back to the Kommandatura. A dozen questions rattled around in his mind, but he doubted Andreyev would be likely to answer any of them. He seemed a decent sort and, unlike Kovalenko, there had been a flicker of recognition in his one good eye when he saw Adam for the first time in Berlin. Adam was certain Andreyev remembered him from the meeting outside Warsaw but, like his boss, he hadn’t acknowledged it. He wondered how Andreyev felt about the lie Kovalenko told him that night, how he felt about watching the Nazis destroy Warsaw and the valiant fighters of the AK.

  It was almost midnight when they arrived at the Kommandatura. The area appeared deserted except for Adam’s borrowed Jeep. He bid Andreyev good night and walked across the gravel parking area.

  As Adam approached the Jeep, the headlights suddenly flashed on, freezing him in place. He shielded his eyes as three figures moved toward him, silhouetted against the glaring light.

  Major Tarnov came into view, followed closely by two NKVD riflemen. “You out late, Mr. Nowak,” Tarnov said, in fractured English.

  “The Kommandatura is in the American sector, Major Tarnov, in case you hadn’t noticed. There is no curfew here.”

  From the corner of his eye Adam noticed Captain Andreyev getting out of the GAZ. “Mr. Nowak was at a meeting with General Kovalenko,” Andreyev called out.

  Tarnov kept his eyes on Adam but shouted at Andreyev in Russian and motioned for him to get back in his car.

  Andreyev walked toward them slowly and responded in English. “I am under instructions from General Kovalenko to see to it that Mr. Nowak returns safely to his billet.”

  “I don’t give fuck what order have, Captain!” Tarnov shouted. “This man harbors fugitive, Ludwik Banach, enemy of Soviet Union.”

  Adam took a step closer to Tarnov, ignoring the riflemen, who abruptly raised their weapons. “Harboring a fugitive? What the hell are you talking about, Major? I haven’t seen Ludwik Banach in six years!”

  “Turn around, Mr. Nowak, hands behind,” Tarnov hissed. He motioned with a flick of his head, and the two riflemen stepped forward.

  Andreyev shouted at Tarnov in Russian.

  Tarnov shouted back but stopped abruptly as two Jeeps roared into view and skidded to a stop. Four American Eighty-Second Airborne troopers armed with submachine guns jumped from the Jeeps and sprinted forward, instantly surrounding Tarnov’s group. The Russian riflemen spun around, shielding Tarnov between them, pointing their weapons at the Airborne troopers.

  “Tell your men to stand down, Major Tarnov.” Colonel Meinerz marched into the circle of light, pointing a finger at the Russian. His bearing was firm and authoritative.

  Tarnov glared at Meinerz but didn’t respond.

  “Tell your men to stand down,” Meinerz repeated sharply.

  “This man harbors fugitive. He is under arrest.”

  “On whose authority?” Meinerz demanded.

  “My authority! Commanding officer, NKVD in Berlin!” Tarnov barked an order in Russian, and one of the rifleman reached for Adam’s arm.

  Instantly the American Airborne troopers closed in.

  “Don’t anyone move!” Meinerz shouted. He stepped closer to Tarnov. “The Kommandatura is within the American sector, Major. If your men lay a hand on Mr. Nowak, I will order these troopers to shoot them.”

  Meinerz and Tarnov glared at each other.

  The NKVD riflemen stood their ground, but their eyes darted around nervously.

  Adam’s heart beat faster. He clenched his fists and shifted his feet slightly, ready to take out the rifleman who’d reached for his arm.

  Finally Tarnov shouted another command, and the riflemen lowered their weapons. His face contorted in rage, Tarnov pushed past Meinerz and stalked across the parking area to another auto that had been concealed in the shadows.

  As Tarnov’s car sped away, Adam finally relaxed and unclenched his fists. Meinerz slapped him on the back. “Fucking NKVD.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Captain Andreyev called me . . . just before you left the Adlon.”

  Adam turned to Andreyev, who said, “General’s orders.”

  Kovalenko’s final words of caution echoed in Adam’s mind. What the hell is going on?

  “This isn’t the end of it,” Andreyev said.

  Thirty-Six

  10 JUNE

  CAPTAIN ANDREYEV HESITATED at the top of the stairs, peering into the gloom of the shattered building, one of the few still standing in Berlin’s Mitte District. While the Mitte had always been the political and commercial center of Berlin, Andreyev found it hard to imagine this shattered section of the city would ever reach those heights again. The entryway of the building was littered with chunks of plaster and bits of broken glass, the window at the far end boarded up. An array of odors assaulted his nostrils—charred wood and masonry dust, human sweat, tobacco and stale beer.

  An abrupt burst of light penetrated the murkiness as a door swung open at the bottom of the stairs and two figures emerged, laughing and stumbling. The larger of the two was a Red Army officer, who finally managed to grip the handrail on his third try and pulled an inebriated woman up the steps. The couple staggered past Andreyev and lurched through the outer door into the night.

  Andreyev descended the staircase, following the din of laughter and drunken shouts, and peered through the smoky haze of the Rats Keller. A long, copper-topped bar was packed three-deep with sweat-soaked Red Army soldiers, all of whom looked as though they’d been there most of the day. Behind the bar, two beleaguered Germans hustled back-and-forth, shoving mugs of beer and glasses of schnapps into dozens of out-stretched hands.

  In the center of the stifling room, a few couples swayed listlessly to the barely audible crooning of Frank Sinatra. Small, round tables covered with heavily stained red-and-white checkered tablecloths lined the perimeter of the room. While Andreyev enjoyed some American music
, particularly jazz, Sinatra wasn’t his style and neither was this disgusting German beer hall. The less time he had to spend here, the better.

  It didn’t take long for Andreyev to spot her, sitting alone at a table in the far corner. She had silky, black hair tied to one side with a pink ribbon and cascading over her bare left shoulder. The dress was yellow, slinky and low-cut, designed for business in the shadowy world of after-hours Berlin. She nodded when their eyes met, her fingers resting gently on the rim of an empty glass.

  Andreyev snapped his fingers at a waiter—a boy of no more than sixteen—ordered two glasses of schnapps and slid into the chair across the table from her. “Fraulein Schmidt?” he asked quietly, though if he’d shouted no one would have heard him over the raucous clamor in the ancient drinking hall.

  She eyed him curiously, then fished a package of Chesterfields from a black beaded purse, withdrew a cigarette and held it up, waiting for a light. “That depends on who wants to know.”

  Andreyev took his time. She appeared to be in her late thirties, her voice was husky, her German refined and cultured, a native Berliner, he thought, upper-class, aristocratic . . . at least she used to be. Finally, he pulled a lighter from his shirt pocket and flicked it open. When she leaned forward to catch the flame, he took hold of her wrist, squeezing it just enough, communicating with his eyes don’t fuck around with me.

  When he let go, the woman sat back and took a short, nervous puff, exhaling quickly.

  The drinks appeared. Andreyev tossed the schnapps back in one gulp and pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. “Now, shall we talk?”

  She took a tentative sip and set the glass on the table, her eyes darting around. “Here?”

  “Ja, here. Or, if you’d prefer, we could take a ride.”

  She twisted a large, ruby ring on her left middle finger. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Dmitri Tarnov.”

  “Schwein! A disgusting turd of a man.”

  Andreyev smiled. “I need some information.”