“Yes?”
“If so, we're bucking a strong headwind. Keep your fingers crossed. It may be a close thing, whether we'll have enough fuel to make it to Sweden.”
There was a tense silence. Then Ryk was back on the intercom.
“We've got a big decision. We can increase our range by slowing down. But that will mean a fifteen or twenty minute flight over German territory after dawn. Which do you prefer—the risk of getting shot down by the Germans, or ending up out of gas, swimming the last lap in the frigid Baltic?”
“All in all, I'd choose a quick death to a slow one in freezing water. If we slow down, perhaps we can count on the incompetence or chivalry of the Luftwaffe.”
“Don't bet on either. But I vote for a slowdown, too. We can always hope for cloud cover.”
Anna surprised herself. For fifteen or twenty minutes, she remained very worried and tense: would they make it? But then she became serene. There was absolutely nothing she could do; it was in Ryk's hands.
An hour later, the Eastern sky began to lighten. She looked down. In the faint light, land stretched as far as the eye could see; the Baltic was nowhere in sight. She looked even more eagerly for clouds. White streaks were faintly visible in the distant sky, somewhat higher than their present altitude.
Apparently Ryk saw the wisps of cloud at the same time. The power in the engine increased, and they began to climb, very gradually, toward their distant goal.
As the light increased, Anna once again felt apprehensive. She could now do something, and she did. She began to scan the sky, particularly behind the Fokker, searching for German airplanes.
“The Sea, ho!” came Ryk's excited voice over the intercom.
But Anna didn't look ahead. Her eyes were focused on a small, dark, ominous dot in the sky, which was rapidly becoming larger.
“A German fighter. Almost directly behind,” she shouted.
Ryk responded with a surge of power; the triplane accelerated toward its top speed of 165 km per hour.
With Ryk warned, Anna glanced forward anxiously, toward the water. They wouldn't make the coast before they were intercepted. But there were scattered clouds ahead. Involuntarily, she grasped the bicycle pump more tightly.
Suddenly, the German fighter was very large indeed. Anna was relieved; it was going to pass on the left side rather than attack. It streaked by; Anna had the odd sensation that their triplane was going backward. Then the Fokker rocked in the wake from the heavier plane.
The German pilot began a sharp turn; he was going to circle back. Anna looked longingly toward the clouds; they were still in the distance.
There was something more she could do. She pulled back the hood of her jacket and removed her goggles, heavy scarf, and cloth helmet with earphones. Her long blond hair began to flow backward in the airstream, dancing lightly in the turbulence from the propeller.
Fortunately, the German showed no signs of attacking this time, either. He was going to pass once more to the left. Now, he was flying much more slowly; his flaps and leading-edge slats were down. As he approached, he slowed even more, gradually drawing closer and then holding his position directly beside the Fokker. The pilot had pushed his goggles up over his forehead. He was obviously puzzled. Anna waved, and tried hard to smile. He smiled and waved back. She blew him a kiss.
Anna was much prettier than Ryk, and the German pilot gazed at her for some time. Anna mouthed a few words in German, hoping that the fighter pilot would waste precious minutes trying to make out what she was saying. She dared not glance ahead, to see how close the clouds were. Then the German moved up a few meters, and waved—in a decidedly less friendly manner—to Ryk. The fighter pilot pointed downward, and mouthed the words “Follow me” distinctly in German. Obviously, he was ordering Ryk to land. But Ryk pretended not to understand. He held his hand to his ear; he could not hear.
The German wagged his wings and lowered his wheels; Anna guessed this must be a signal to land. Ryk still played dumb. But the games were over; the German, still beside the Fokker, fired a burst into the open sky. Ryk waved, to indicate that he now understood, that he would accompany the Messerschmitt. The German began a slow turn to the left; Ryk turned left, staying side-by-side.
Anna felt a surge of panic. She couldn't stand the thought of a German interrogation. She had no parachute. Still, she had the urge to jump. She faced death, one way or another. Why not skip the torture?
Suddenly, Ryk reduced power and veered to the right, toward his original course. The German turned right too, and also cut his power. But he was now in front of the slowly moving triplane; he would stall if he tried to slow down further, to get back even with the Fokker. For a moment, Ryk was directly behind the German, and lined up the Messerschmitt in his gun sight. If only the Fokker still had its two machine guns!
The German broke off, turning sharply to the left as he raised his landing gear and flaps. He was going to go around again, and this time there would be a hail of bullets. Ryk applied full power and pointed toward the nearest cloud.
Anna closed her eyes, held her breath, and began to count. She half expected her life to flash before her, but all she could think of was the German circling for an attack. Ninety five, ninety six.... She reached one hundred and opened her eyes. She was surrounded by light, fluffy, pure white clouds. She began to breathe freely again.
She put her helmet back on; she was back in communication with Ryk. Their plan was obvious. Ryk would try to keep in the clouds, while heading in a generally northwesterly direction toward Sweden. Whenever there was a break in the clouds, Anna should scan the skies for Germans; Ryk would head for the nearest cloud cover. What was Anna's weather forecast again?
“Clouds all the way.”
A little white lie.
They broke out of the clouds ten minutes later. In front, there was another bank of clouds, perhaps a kilometer away. Ryk headed straight for it, lowering his nose and adding power for maximum speed. He hoped this contraption would take the strain.
Anna scanned the skies. Two German fighters were circling, off to the right. She guessed they were several kilometers away, and perhaps a thousand meters higher. Suddenly one of them broke into a dive, headed directly toward them. Anna cried a warning to Ryk, who turned slightly to the left and steepened his dive.
This was going to be close. Anna apprehensively glanced forward, trying to estimate the distance to the cloud; then back toward the diving Messerschmitt. It looked as if they were going to make it. Anna wondered: what's the range of a machine gun? The clouds were closer, closer; now they were in them. Ryk banked sharply to the left, pulling back on the stick and the throttle. Anna was horrified as machine-gun bullets ripped out a jagged line in the lowest right wing.
Ryk was now well into the clouds, going much slower, and obviously testing his controls. He was soon on the intercom; the German had gotten off one burst at extreme range, just as they were disappearing into the cloud. There was no problem with controls; the ailerons were on the top wing. But the damaged wing would cost them lift and speed.
For a moment, Anna was indignant. They had certainly been beyond German territorial waters when they were attacked. But then she relaxed: what were a few technicalities between enemies?
Another 15 minutes, and Ryk announced that the fuel situation was becoming critical. He would slowly descend and fly just below the clouds, looking for somewhere to land. If German fighters appeared, he would climb back up into the clouds.
When they broke out of the clouds, they were still over the sea. The plane was bouncing; apparently the air was turbulent just below the clouds. Anna began to feel queasy.
Ryk pointed back over his right shoulder. Anna looked back, scanning the sky. Nothing. Then she looked down. In the distance, she could see a large ship; she couldn't be sure, but she thought there were two huge guns in each of its forward turrets.
“A German battleship,” was Ryk's guess. “Looks big.”
“We've been living rig
ht,” he added. “Look ahead and to the left.”
From the back seat, Anna's vision was blocked. Ryk explained: he could see land.
The approach was painfully slow; they were still fighting a headwind. Soon it became apparent that it was not the Swedish mainland, but a large island.
“Swedish, I can only hope,” said Anna.
“Can't really tell. I'll take one low pass along the coast, to make sure we can't see Nazi flags. If we don't, I'll land as soon as possible. Have your pump ready. If I wave my hand, start pumping as hard as you can. If the engine starts to sputter, I want to be able to use whatever's left in the back tank.”
As they flew along the coast, it was a tranquil sight. A few villages were tucked into small inlets and, on the right, out to sea, fishing trawlers dotted the water. Ryk could find no sign that the island was German. He chose a field, pointed into the wind, and gradually descended. The instant he flew over the last line of trees, he dipped the nose sharply; Anna felt as though she had left her stomach behind. Then, just as abruptly, the nose came up again; she got her stomach back. But Ryk was an expert; they touched down softly. Then came the bumpy part, as they bounced across the rough, freshly plowed field. Ryk cut the engine and they scrambled out of the plane.
A number of people, apparently farmers and their families, came running across the field. “Sweden?” Ryk asked in German. “Sweden?” Anna added, in English.
“Danemark,” came the answer. Ryk was puzzled. How could they get that lost, to land in Denmark? And how could they possibly have gotten there so quickly?
The Danes made it clear, through a mixture of languages, that they were to go to a nearby village, to see the Prefect of Police. One of the teenagers would accompany them on bicycles.
The police station was a Spartan wooden building, unpainted, and obviously beaten by the weather whipping in off the Baltic Sea. The Prefect was a slim man in a heavy woolen uniform which was surprisingly crisp; apparently it had recently been ironed. His pipe—Joe Stalin style—seemed oddly out of place.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Or you speak English?” he asked hesitatingly, in a heavily accented voice, puffing rapidly on the pipe.
“Oh English, please,” Anna implored. “I'm English. We want to get to England.”
“Slowly, please.”
She repeated herself, pausing between each word.
“If English, what for in German plane? And what for here?”
“I've been visiting Poland,” she replied slowly, shaving the truth. She nodded toward Ryk, and shaved the other side of the truth. “He's a Polish businessman. His family have owned the plane for twenty years.”
The Prefect waited.
“We would like to get to the Danish mainland as soon as possible, and fly from Copenhagen to London.”
“Bad idea.”
“But why?”
“Better... go to Sweden. Closer. This Bornholm Island, near Sweden. Also, Germans stop Denmark boats. Sometimes. But not Sweden boats. Keep Sweden happy. Need Sweden steel. You lucky. Sweden mail boat leaves... two hours. I take you on bicycle.”
The phone rang. The Prefect picked it up and listened. Anna tried to make out his reply, in Danish of course. As far as she could tell, he was being asked a series of questions, and didn't have whatever information the caller wanted. Ominously, he said goodbye in German.
“We leave... five minutes. I telephone first.”
Anna couldn't follow the conversations. Unfortunate, because she would have been delighted with what she heard.
The earlier call had been from the German consul. He had heard that a pirate plane from Poland had landed on Bornholm. The prefect replied that he knew nothing. The plane had been stolen from the Germans, said the consul; he insisted that the plane and the miscreants be turned over to Germany. The prefect didn't see how, as he knew nothing of the plane. Then the Danes had better search the island from the air, or the Luftwaffe would.
Now, the prefect made three calls. The first was to his deputy. He was to rush out to Ryk's landing field and burn the Fokker. At once. They should pile brush and small logs on the fire, to obliterate the shape of the plane and make it look as if the farmers had been celebrating the end of the harvest with a bonfire.
The second call was to the tiny airport in the center of the island. Did they have a small plane available? Good. They should get a pilot to take off—sometime within the next hour or two—and search the island for a plane with German markings. He should be methodical, starting at the west end of the island, and flying north and south in narrow swaths until he had completed his job. Thoroughness, not speed, was important; he should take whatever time was necessary to make sure he didn't miss anything.
Needless to say, Ryk had landed near the eastern tip of the island.
The third call was back to the German consul. The prefect had checked with the other police stations and there was no report of any unauthorized landing. But, in the interest of harmonious relations with Germany, he was having a small plane scour the island for any sight of a downed German plane.
Anna had no way of understanding the three telephone calls, but she still had ample reason to be grateful. As she was about to get on her bicycle, she pressed several Reichsmark notes into the Prefect's hand.
She could scarcely avoid the unhappy truth. She could have offered him pound notes, but there was no doubt: marks would be more useful.
11
Katyn:
The Dark Forest
War would end if the dead could return.
Stanley Baldwin
Kaz and Jan headed southeast from Warsaw—the most direct route toward Romania and freedom. Midway through the first day, they had an unpleasant surprise: they saw German tanks and trucks moving eastward, and the planes overhead were definitely German, not Russian. Somehow, without thinking, Kaz and Jan had simply assumed that the Russians would occupy all the area east of Warsaw and the Vistula River. But they were obviously mistaken. They readjusted their plans. They would head eastward until they got to the Russian zone—wherever that was—and then turn south.
After crossing one more wide river—the Bug—they were, at last, in the Soviet sector. Goodbye to the German army; an especially fervent farewell to the SS. The first part of their journey was over. It had been uneventful, although distinctly unpleasant.
Most uncomfortable was the biting nighttime cold. They were still wearing their heavy military jackets, but these were inadequate for the increasingly frigid weather. They took to staying in the warmth of stables, and, along the way, found several heavy blankets in a partially burned-out farmhouse. They were subsisting mainly on handfuls of grain that they found in the stables, meager rations indeed. In his hunger, Kaz thought back to the story of the Prodigal Son: “he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat.” For a moment, he felt nostalgia for his childhood Sunday School, and smiled at the way he used to squirm and fidget as the priest tried so earnestly, but vainly, to hold their interest.
The third night into the Russian zone, they approached a small stable cautiously; they came up from the side opposite the farmhouse to avoid being seen by the inhabitants.
The stable was a ramshackle affair, obviously built in stages, over a period of decades, by farmers unskilled in carpentry. But it had a loft, whose very smallness would trap the heat rising from the animals below. Kaz and Jan were exhausted. They each munched on a handful of oats that they found in the loft. Kaz was getting sick of the restricted diet, but it eased the hunger pains. Although the evening was still early—about 7:00 p.m.—they each pulled a few inches of hay over their single blankets and were soon dead asleep.
Kaz was awakened several hours later by voices; from the sound, two teenagers. He shook Jan to waken him. The young people were climbing up to the loft. Kaz didn't want Jan's light snoring to betray their hiding place, particularly as the teenagers were not speaking Polish. Kaz was, however, relieved that their language was Slavic, not German. P
robably Russian; he thought he could make out some of the words, but wasn't sure.
Kaz pressed closer to Jan as the two teenagers flopped on the hay, less than a meter away. Now, he was scarcely breathing. The boy said a few soft words in an importunate tone; the girl giggled; they kissed. They broke for air; the girl was again giggling, while the boy was making a soft purring sound. The teenagers began to roll slowly toward Kaz. He couldn't move; he was already pressing hard against Jan, who was unaware of the imminent danger. The girl bumped into Kaz; she squealed. At once, all four figures were sitting upright. They could barely see one another in the pale moonlight filtering through the cracks between the boards.
“Please be quiet,” whispered Jan, apparently in Russian, a language that he spoke with ease. “We're only here for the evening.” Kaz didn't understand every word, but guessed what Jan was saying.
“Don't worry,” said the boy. The girl now had her arms around his neck; she was clearly frightened by the two unkempt interlopers, with their scruffy week-old beards. “We don't want to be given away either. We'll be quiet if you will.” The two teenagers were now withdrawing toward the ladder leading down to the stable.
As the young couple got several meters away, the immediate danger receded, and the girl became curious. “Who are you? How long have you been here?”
The truth, thought Jan, is as good as any story I can concoct on the spot.
“Polish soldiers. We just got here. We'll be gone tomorrow. We're trying to get to Romania.... We've escaped from the Germans,” he added, thinking that it might help if he suggested that Germans, not the Russians, were their enemies.
“You'll be gone tomorrow?” the boy wanted to be sure.
“Guaranteed. Before dawn.”
The girl disappeared down the ladder and the boy slid down behind her.
“We've got to go,” urged Kaz. “Right now. They may betray us to the Soviet army.”
“Oh, no,” Jan moaned. “I'm aching all over. We may have to search for hours for another stable. It's freezing out there, with driving snow. It's already beginning to sift in through the cracks between the boards.”
THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel Page 12