The Katyn Order

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  But Kovalenko recovered quickly, standing up and striding over to the sideboard where a dozen bottles of wine were lined up. “How about our second course?” he announced loudly, and the butler appeared an instant later. Kovalenko uncorked a refreshing Sancerre, and the sumptuous meal proceeded with lemon sherbet, followed by thinly sliced veal, acorn squash and two bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape ’38.

  After dinner they adjourned to the terrace with cigars and cognac. Despite the good-humored spirit of the evening, Adam was still edgy in the presence of the Russians. He remembered what Natalia had told him about the Russians burning her village; about the disappearance of her parents, relatives and friends; about her brother, most likely among the thousands of Polish officers murdered at Katyn and dumped into a ditch. He took a sip of cognac and watched Kovalenko and Andreyev, who were bantering easily with Whitehall. Despite his prejudice against Russians, Adam found himself rather liking Andreyev, feeling some connection with him. He decided he’d better be cautious about that.

  Halfway through his second cognac, Kovalenko finally came to the point of the evening. “Gentlemen, I suggest we address the issue that brings us here tonight. I asked Captain Andreyev to see if he could find out what our NKVD friend, Dmitri Tarnov, was up to the last few years. It seems he found a rather—shall we say—intimate source.”

  Andreyev set down his glass and leaned forward. “She’s a German woman who followed Tarnov around for a few years until he tired of her. Hans Frank introduced them.”

  “Frank?” Whitehall exclaimed. “Tarnov had dealings with that monster?”

  “A lot of dealings,” Andreyev said. “From ’39 to ’41—while Germany and Russia were allies—Tarnov traveled to Krakow on a regular basis, collaborating with Frank on the plunder of Poland. What the woman told me the other night, however, was new information.”

  Adam and Whitehall exchanged glances. Kovalenko reclined in his chair, puffing on his cigar.

  Andreyev continued. “As you can imagine, contact between Tarnov and Frank stopped after Germany invaded Russia in June of ’41. Tarnov returned to Moscow and took the woman with him. However, a year and a half later, in the fall of 1942, when it looked as if Germany might win, Tarnov made a secret trip to Krakow.”

  Adam stared at the Russian captain in disbelief. “How the hell did he manage that?”

  Andreyev smiled. “The woman said it was pretty complicated, a lot of stops at out-of-the way places and—”

  “Bloody hell! He took her along?” Whitehall blurted.

  Kovalenko roared with laughter. “That’s my favorite part. The son of a bitch apparently couldn’t get along without her. And then he was stupid enough not to shoot her when he finally dumped her.”

  “What happened in Krakow?” Adam asked.

  “According to the woman, Tarnov carried a briefcase that he never let out of his sight the entire trip,” Andreyev said. “She told me that one evening they were invited to Frank’s private quarters at Wawel Castle. Only the three of them were present, and late in the evening, after dinner and quite a few drinks, she recalled Tarnov removing a file folder from the briefcase and handing it to Frank. She asked him about it later when they were alone, and Tarnov said it was a secret document about Poland that very few people knew existed. She claimed Tarnov was always boasting about his connections and his access to high-level orders.”

  “He cut a deal to save his own skin,” Whitehall muttered.

  “Exactly right! The fucking traitor!” Kovalenko snapped, glaring at the other three. “And what do you suppose that document was? What do you think he gave to Frank in exchange for his personal safety if Germany defeated us?”

  The group was silent as the question hung in the air.

  Whitehall finally spoke up. “General, now might be a good time to tell Adam what you know about Tarnov.”

  Kovalenko turned to Adam. “You don’t know whether to trust me or not, do you, Mr. Nowak.”

  Adam looked him in the eye. “No, General, I don’t.”

  “Fair enough, at least you’re honest. Well, you can trust me on this. Dmitri Tarnov carried out the murders at Katyn. He did it to curry favor with Commissar Beria, who happens to be his second cousin. But it didn’t work out the way Tarnov had hoped. After it was all over, Beria cut him loose, and Tarnov’s dream of a high-ranking position in the NKVD never materialized.”

  Regardless of what Adam thought of Kovalenko’s trustworthiness, there was a look in the general’s eyes that left no doubt what he had just said was true. “Is there any proof?” Adam asked.

  “Tarnov wasn’t acting alone, of course. This atrocity was orchestrated at the highest levels of the NKVD. Something of this magnitude required an order—probably signed by Stalin himself and the other members of the Politburo.”

  Adam turned to Captain Andreyev. “You think that’s what was in the briefcase? Wouldn’t an order like that be top secret and securely locked away in the Kremlin?”

  “Perhaps someone made a copy.” Whitehall chimed in. He addressed Kovalenko: “Tarnov’s woman-friend said he was always boasting about his connections. As a relative of Beria’s he’d know certain people, he’d have access to things normally above his station, wouldn’t you say, General?”

  Kovalenko nodded. “It’s possible.”

  Adam absently rubbed the numb, razor-thin scar on the side of his face. “Are you suggesting that Tarnov gave a copy of the Katyn Order to Hans Frank? Why would he do that? He’s NKVD. That would be committing suicide.”

  “Not if he thought the Germans would win,” Andreyev said.

  “Of course!” Whitehall exclaimed. “It makes perfect sense. When the graves at Katyn were discovered, Germany and Russia blamed each other for the murders. Think of the leverage Hans Frank would have had with Hitler if he possessed actual proof that the NKVD conducted the massacre. They were prisoners of war—officers, mind you—murdered in cold blood. Tarnov gave a copy of the Katyn Order to Frank in return for his protection if Germany won the war.”

  “But Frank never used the information,” Adam said.

  “No, he didn’t,” Andreyev responded. “Frank’s window of opportunity closed a few months later, when the tide turned and we had the Wehrmacht on the run.”

  Whitehall nodded. “Quite right, by then Frank would have been preoccupied with saving his own neck—and avoiding capture by the Russians. He couldn’t have risked any connection with that order.”

  “So, what did he do with it?” Andreyev asked.

  “Obviously, no one knows,” Whitehall said, “not even Tarnov, who must be desperate to get it back.”

  “Wait a minute,” Adam cut in. “We’re all just speculating here. The woman just said that Tarnov gave Frank a document. We don’t know for sure what it actually was.”

  Kovalenko, who had been silent for the last few minutes, took two long strides to the round wicker table and grabbed the bottle of cognac to pour another drink. Waving the bottle in the air he glared at the group. “Six months ago Tarnov tore apart Hans Frank’s headquarters at Wawel Castle looking for something. And now, since this revelation about Ludwik Banach and Hans Frank, he’s ordered that all of Frank’s records be sealed, as though he’s terrified there’s something he missed. He’s obsessed with trying to find something, and I think we all know what it is.” Kovalenko filled his glass and stepped over to Adam, holding out the bottle. “You’d better have another drink, Mr. Nowak, because Dmitri Tarnov hasn’t yet found what he’s searching for . . . and now he’s going after your uncle.”

  Thirty-Eight

  12 JUNE

  THE NEXT DAY, Adam was summoned back to the estate in Grunewald. It was chilly and overcast, with occasional drizzling rain, a dreary day that matched Adam’s mood. He hadn’t slept well, and not just because of recurring dreams of wide-eyed corpses. Listening to Andreyev play Chopin had re-opened all the wounds of the Warsaw Rising: the hundreds of AK commandos who lost their lives, the tens of thousands of innocent civi
lians killed and maimed, the churches and monuments, the history, the culture of a great city . . . all destroyed.

  And the conversation after last night’s dinner had also gnawed at him all night. Could there actually be a document, a written order, authorizing the secret murder of thousands of Polish officers? And could Tarnov have managed to obtain a copy of that order and given it to Hans Frank? If that were all true, then Dmitri Tarnov was far more desperate—and far more dangerous—than Adam had imagined.

  Whitehall was waiting for him in the drawing room, dressed casually in gray flannel slacks and a black cardigan sweater. But the butler still wore a tuxedo as he efficiently served coffee and produced a tray of biscuits and jam. When he left the room, Whitehall said, “We’ve received a message from your contact in Krakow.”

  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 t
roopers. 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.