Dog Robber: Jim Colling Adventure Series Book I

by Robert McCurdy

  Chapter Ten

  June, 1946

  If Colling had returned to the road that paralleled the Vistula, he would not have seen the cottage with its barn and workshop. As he approached the little cluster of buildings, he observed that smoke was rising from the chimney of the cottage, and he could hear the sound of a hammer from within a long shed situated close to the water’s edge.

  The reeds had been cleared from the Vistula’s bank and a passage cut through their dense growth to provide an access channel to the river. Colling watched as a flat barge floated serenely by fifty meters out in the river, kept on course by four oarsmen manning long sweeps.

  Colling shouted a greeting as he approached the shed, and a bearded man stepped out to meet him. He held a large hammer in his hand, and Colling, not wanting to appear to pose a threat, stopped at some distance from him.

  “Dzién dobry!” said Colling. “I am called Jan Woznica. I mean no harm. My family and I have come a long distance. We were looking for a place where we might encamp for the night. Is that possible?”

  The man grunted and replied, “I am called Petr Zaminoski. You may camp over there,” he said, pointing towards a small stand of trees.

  “Do you have food?” asked Colling. “We have money and can pay.”

  “Bring your family, then we shall talk,” Zaminoski said, hefting the hammer onto his shoulder.

  Colling returned less than an hour later, leading the little gray mare pulling the wagon. He wheeled it into place in the shade provided by a pair of stunted trees and set the horse free to graze in a nearby patch of grass. Elizabeth cleared a place for a fire, and Colling and Tomasz created a simple shelter by stretching a canvas tarpaulin from one side of the wagon. They were just completing their usual routine of setting up camp when Zaminoski walked up to join them. A woman holding an infant and a girl of about seven or eight were with him. The girl clung to her mother’s skirts, looking shyly at the strangers. Zaminoski still carried his hammer on his shoulder.

  “This is my wife, Natalia, and my daughter, Maria. The little one is Marek, after his grandfather,” said Zaminoski. “Natalia, this man is called Jan Woznica,” he continued, pointing at Colling.

  Colling reached out to shake the hands of Zaminoski and his wife, then turned and introduced Elizabeth and the three men with them. When Elizabeth made a fuss over the baby, Natalia immediately invited her to the house, and the women went off together.

  Zaminoski invited the men to see his workshop in the shed, which turned out to be a boat-house. He was working on repairs to a hull resting upside down on sawhorses. Colling estimated the craft was about sixteen feet long. When Zaminoski mentioned that the length of the vessel was five meters, he did the conversion and congratulated himself on his accuracy.

  “You build boats, then, Petr Zaminoski?” asked Colling.

  “Not so much build these days. It is difficult to find materials…wood. All has to be shipped from the south. Mostly now I repair boats. I take parts from two or three to make one whole again.”

  Admiring the boat on which the man was working, Colling asked, “Would it be possible for us to work for you in exchange for our keep, Petr Zaminoski?”

  “I am a poor man, Jan Woznica. I cannot afford to pay wages, and we have little food to spare. Besides, you do not seem to be boatwrights, or even carpenters.”

  “True enough, Petr Zaminoski. But we are used to hard work. Perhaps we can do simple things and allow you to perform the work that requires your skill.”

  “The most difficult work is retrieving broken boats from the marshes.” At Colling’s quizzical look, he continued, “When the Germans retreated before the Red Army, they crossed the Vistula in anything that would float. This stretch of the river is where they came ashore, and the remains of much of their transport is scattered among the reeds. The one in my shed that I am working on at present took me four days to drag from where I found it.”

  “With four of us, it should only take one day to bring you another,” smiled Colling.

  “Jan Woznica, you will find it is no pleasant thing to be in freezing water to your chest while your feet are deep in mud.”

  “I have cleaned stables, and it can be no more unpleasant than having your feet deep in manure,” interjected Tomasz.

  Colling countered, “True, Tomasz, but the manure is usually much warmer.”

  Zaminoski laughed out loud with the rest of them, then said, “All right, gentlemen. Perhaps you can pull out one of the bigger boats for me to repair, so I can make more money.”

  That evening, the five travelers sat around their campfire eating a stew that Elizabeth and Natalia had brought from the cottage. Elizabeth had contributed some of the potatoes from their cart, and the Zaminoskis had added two rabbits taken from a line of traps at the edge of the marsh.

  As they ate, Elizabeth said to Colling, “They have a tin bathtub in the cottage. Natalia said if we would haul and heat the water, we could take a bath in the barn. I would really love a bath, Jim.”

  “I’m sure I could use one as well,” he responded. It had been several days since they had found a camping place close to a running stream or river, and those occasions had provided the only opportunity to wash. Even at that, their clothes had not been washed since before they had left Warsaw, and Colling imagined how they must smell. He agreed to move the tub to the barn and draw the water to be heated in a large iron kettle that hung from a tripod in the middle of the yard, if Elizabeth would start the fire. When Karol, Tomasz and Jan discerned what Colling and Elizabeth were doing, they joined in, and used all the buckets they could find to bring water. Elizabeth went first, and when she was finished, the men took their turns. Colling deferred to the Poles, so that he was the last to bathe. He discarded the bath water still in the tub and filled it afresh, and he luxuriated as he immersed himself and used a piece of soap to work up a lather. While he was still soaking, Elizabeth came in and took away his grimy clothes. She brought other clothing from their suitcases, and informed him she was washing what he had been wearing because they were filthy. The things she brought him had not been washed in the recent past, but were not nearly as pungent as the ones she took away.

  The following day, Zaminoski led them along the edge of the reeds and pointed to where they could see the prow of a sunken vessel. Realizing that the work would be muddy, Colling stripped bare before wading into the water. The three Poles followed suit, and soon the four men were tugging and pushing a thirty-foot boat through the marsh towards Zaminoski’s boathouse. There was a large hole in the bottom of the boat, which prevented its being floated, so that they were reduced to using main force to move it along. It took them the better part of the morning, but finally they dragged the hull up onto the bank outside the workshop. They returned to the place where the boat had been found and retrieved another smaller vessel by the end of the day. The days that followed were as exhausting as the first, made more difficult as they were forced to travel ever greater distances to locate the sunken hulks.

  Along with Karol and Tomasz, Colling began to feel that the hard physical labor was making him stronger, especially as they were well fed by the meals Elizabeth and Natalia prepared for them. Jan, however, did not seem well, and Colling suspected, from his color and his tendency towards fits of coughing, that the man had tuberculosis. By unspoken agreement, he was allotted the less demanding task of searching the riverbank for half-sunken boats.

  By the end of the week, there was a line of beached hulls near the boathouse, and Zaminoski told them they could cease their retrieval efforts. Instead, he showed them how to remove useable parts from the boats, and how to judge when damaged planking and ribbing could be salvaged and reshaped. The wood that was removed was stacked against the side of the boathouse to permit it to dry. Anything that was not of any value was used as firewood. Once the lumber was no longer wet, the boatman instructed them in scraping and sanding off any paint or other foreign matter.

  Zaminoski finishe
d the vessel on which he was working, and when its buyer came, the two of them launched it into the river and the man rowed away. The boatwright had been paid for his work in restoring the boat, but Colling suspected that he had not received enough to allow him to continue to feed such a large household. A day or two later, Colling approached Zaminoski out of the earshot of the others and pressed the last of his zlotys into his hand, telling him, “For Natalia to buy food.”

  The boatwright looked at the banknotes for a moment, and before he could reply, Colling continued, “We do not wish to be a burden. Your hospitality has been greatly appreciated, and we do not wish to abuse it.”

  “But you will help with the boats, will you not?” asked Zaminoski. “Your labor will pay for your keep.”

  “We cannot stay long,” responded Colling. “We may not be able to fully repay what you have provided.”

  “Since you have come here, I have not asked your destination.”

  “We go to Pomerania. That is our homeland.”

  “You know, Jan Woznica, that the Russians are blockading all the roads to the west, and they have guards on all the bridges across the rivers. I have heard that anyone who does not possess papers giving permission to travel is sent to a labor camp. You do not seem to me to be the sort that would have such papers.”

  Colling paused a moment, then said, “You are right, Petr Zaminoski. But as soon as we have rested a bit more, we will attempt to slip past the Russians.”

  “There are too many of them, and it is said they patrol the roads in lorries day and night.”

  “We must take the chance.”

  “Why not stay here? Two men came to me yesterday, asking to purchase boats. With your help, we can build many boats.”

  “I thank you, Petr Zaminoski, but we must be on our way,” said Colling. “We will stay long enough for you to complete two more boats, but then we will go.”

  That night as Colling and Elizabeth lay curled together under their blankets in the barn, Colling told her that he had given Zaminoski all of their remaining zlotys. He asked that she take some of their American currency from her suitcase so that he could go into the town the following day to exchange it for Polish banknotes.

  Elizabeth handed him three twenty-dollar notes the next morning before they joined the others in the farmhouse for breakfast. When he had eaten, he told Zaminoski that he had to go to town to obtain some zlotys. Colling explained that he had some small items of jewelry that he hoped to sell, and asked the boatwright where the best place to do so might be. Zaminoski informed him that the closest town with a market was Wilistka, some ten kilometers to the north. He went on to say that, with no Jews left in Poland, the tavern-keeper whose establishment was on the town’s main square was the only person who was known to buy jewelry. Zaminoski warned him that Wilistka was the site of a bridge across the river, and there was a garrison of Russians. He advised caution, and that if stopped, he should say that he was a workman for Zaminoski the boat-builder. He also warned Colling that the tavern-keeper was involved in the black market and was probably an informer for the Russians as well.

  With two of the twenties in his shoe, and the other tucked deep in the pocket of his jacket, together with one of the wedding rings taken from the German deserters, Colling walked the dusty road to Wilistka. He met no one, and he quickly surmised that the Red Army patrols must be achieving their objective in stopping the movement of refugees in the region. Once he heard the sound of a truck approaching from behind him and he slipped into a handy screen of bushes until it drove past. Through the cloud of dust thrown up by its wheels he saw that it was a Dodge deuce-and-a-half with a half-dozen Russian soldiers seated in it. Red stars were painted where white ones would have been on a U.S. Army vehicle.

  Contrary to previous experience, no militia groups had stationed themselves on the outskirts of the town, and Colling strolled through its streets to the central square. A market was in progress, and a fair crowd was milling around the displays of produce and other goods offered for sale. Colling tried to act as if he were familiar with the place, and found his way to the tavern described by Zaminoski. A couple of worn folding tables and chairs were grouped in front of its entrance, but it was too early in the day for them to be occupied.

  The tavern was dark after the brightness of the square, and it took Colling’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the change. A heavy man stood behind a well-worn bar, and Colling guessed that he was the owner.

  “Dzién dobry!” said Colling.

  “Dzién dobry,” answered the barkeep. “How can I serve you?”

  “I would have a glass of vodka, if I could sell this for cash,” said Colling, pushing the gold wedding ring across the top of the bar.

  The man’s eyes narrowed, and Colling sensed that he was torn between caution and greed.

  “Do I look like a Jew to you, Countryman, that I would be a buyer of gold?” said the tavern-keeper, feigning insult.

  “Everyone knows that there are no Jews in Poland any more,” said Colling, “And others now have the opportunity to make the money that they stole from honest working Poles for so long.”

  The barkeep seemed to like what he heard. He picked up the ring, held it to the light, tested its weight in his palm, and then bit it. Apparently satisfied, he said, “I can give you 500 zlotys.”

  Colling held out his hand, “I will find another buyer. Please give back the ring.”

  The man continued to hold the ring in his clenched fist, then replied, “Seven hundred.”

  “Done, if you throw in a glass of vodka to boot.” said Colling.

  The tavern-keeper counted out a stack of Russian-made bills, then poured Colling a small tumbler of clear liquid. It sent fire down Colling’s throat when he drank it, and he fought the urge to cough as his eyes watered. When he could speak, he held out his hand to the barman, and said in a hoarse voice, “My name is Jan Woznica. I am Petr Zaminoski’s cousin. I am working for him.”

  “Good to meet you,” said the tavern-keeper, “I am Zosi Baretszokowski. I own this place.”

  “Panowie Baretszokowski, sir,” said Colling, placing the twenty-dollar bill from his pocket on the counter, “I have here some American money that I wish to change into Polish. With no Jews about, can you do that for me?”

  The tavern-owner’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak, then it closed abruptly at the same time that Colling felt the grip of a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see that a Russian soldier was the one holding him. In badly broken Polish, the soldier ordered, “You come…me, please.” He forcefully tugged Colling towards the door. Baretszokowski turned away as if nothing unusual were happening, and gave his full attention to the small cluster of bottles on the shelf behind the bar.

  Colling was debating whether to attempt to break away from the Russian when he saw that he was being dragged towards an olive-drab Plymouth staff car with large red stars painted on its front doors. His heart raced and he was on the verge of panic when the soldier shoved him roughly into the back seat, then leaned with his back to the door, blocking any chance of leaving the vehicle.

  Beside him on the seat was another Russian. This one’s uniform was of much higher quality and better cut than that of the man who had pushed him into the car. While he was unfamiliar with Russian insignia, the gold on the man’s shoulder boards told Colling that the man must be an officer, and probably one of relatively high rank.

  The Russian officer looked Colling over carefully, then spoke in the same broken Polish that the other Russian had used, “I am Colonel Kuznetskoff.”

  Not sure what to say, Colling forced himself to remain calm, and replied, “Yes, Colonel, sir. I am called Jan Woznica, sir. What have I done that has offended you, sir?”

  “Nothing, Woznica. My driver watches the tavern. Baretszokowski is known to me to buy and sell things of interest. My driver is under orders to bring me anyone who is in possession of American money. Since he has brought me you, I must guess that you
have American money. Is that so?”

  The twenty-dollar bill was still clenched in Colling’s fist, and he opened his hand so that Kuznetskoff could see it. The Russian took the note and unfolded it, holding it up to the window of the car and studying it carefully.

  “Where did you come to have this American money, Woznica?” asked the Colonel.

  “It came from relatives in the United States,” stuttered Colling nervously.

  “Yes,” said the Russian with a sly smile, “All Poles seem to have relatives in the United States who send them money. All of them live in Chicago.”

  There was no doubt in Colling’s mind that he was on the verge of being arrested, if he were not already under arrest. He did not know whether the Russians had formally to declare that he was arrested or not. But it made no difference. His destiny now was to be sent off to a labor camp. He would never see Elizabeth again. When he didn’t return to Grabensheim, he would be listed as a deserter from the Army, and his family would be shamed. If the Russians found out he was an American, that would be even worse. He might be classified as a defector, someone who favored Communism. And if they interrogated him, would he tell them about Elizabeth and Karol and his friends? What about Zaminoski and his family? Would they be arrested too? The Reds were as prone as the Nazis had been to putting people into concentration camps. Despair overwhelmed him as he resigned himself to the helplessness of his situation. He only hoped that he would not betray Elizabeth and the others.

  He was jarred from this gloomy train of thought by the Colonel, who asked, “Will you take 3000 zlotys for this American twenty dollars, Woznica?”

  The question was so unexpected that Colling found himself at a loss for words, and it seemed to him that it was taking an eternity to answer, but he finally choked out, “Well, yes, Colonel, sir. That is very generous.”

  “Have your relatives sent you more such American money, Woznica?”

  “Some, Colonel, sir.”

  “Do you have it with you, Woznica?”

  “No, Colonel, sir,” lied Colling.

  “Well, then. I am here almost every day. I will be here tomorrow. If you bring more American money, I will pay the same rate, 150 zlotys to the dollar.”

  “Yes, Colonel, sir. I will try to return tomorrow,” said Colling, adding, “If my wife will allow it.”

  The Russian laughed, “She had better allow it, Woznica, or I will come looking for you.”

  “Yes, Colonel, sir. I will tell her what you have said.”

  Kuznetskoff took a large wallet from inside his coat and handed three thousand-zloty notes to Colling. The bills were new, and the thought crossed Colling’s mind that the Russians must be making sure that their ranking officers were well supplied with cash.

  Walking away from the staff car on unsteady legs, Colling forced himself not to look back. With each step, he expected to feel a hand closing on him again. It was not until he was well outside the town limits that he felt confident enough to turn around to see if he were being followed. There was no one behind him.

  During his return journey to Zaminoski’s, Colling remembered that he had told the tavern-owner that he was staying with the boatwright. He wondered how much the Russian driver understood of the conversation, and whether Kuznetskoff would arrive with a truckload of soldiers to arrest them all, Zaminoski and his family included. Colling walked faster, as if reaching the boathouse a few minutes earlier would somehow result in their escape if the colonel were in pursuit.

  Elizabeth came out of the house to meet him, and he told her of his encounter with the Russian officer. When he had finished, she said, “Don’t be overly concerned, Jim. The Reds are giving their troops fistfuls of currency to spend in all the occupied zones. This Kuznetskoff fellow is as interested in buying hard currency as any black marketeer. He’s more interested in you bringing him some more U.S. dollars than in arresting you.”

  “Still,” replied Colling, “I think we ought to ask Jan to watch the road to town and raise an alarm if it looks as if the Russians are on their way here.”

  Elizabeth agreed, and they found Jan sitting in the boathouse, scraping the paint from planks taken from the salvaged boats. Colling explained what had happened to Zaminoski and the others, and they sent Jan off with one of the Mausers. If he were to see Russian soldiers leaving the main road for the boatyard, he was to fire a shot into the air.

  Colling took Jan’s place cleaning the recovered wood, expecting at any moment to hear a warning gunshot. When the end of their workday arrived without incident, and Jan returned from his post to join the evening meal, Colling was ready to concede that Elizabeth was right. While they ate, whether Colling should return to trade more dollars for zlotys on the following day was debated. The consensus was that he should make another exchange, as a final test of the Russian Colonel’s intentions, and as a way to avoid arousing the officer’s ire. It was agreed that Colling would also buy provisions, since his use of the new 1000-zloty notes would be less conspicuous than if Natalia were to spend them in the market.

  The olive drab Plymouth was parked in the same place as it had been the previous day. Colling passed by slowly, searching for the Russian driver, when he heard a hiss, and saw Kuznetskoff beckoning to him from the rear window of the car. The officer pushed open the door and Colling slid into the seat beside him.

  “Welcome, Woznica.”

  “Thank you, Colonel, sir.”

  The Russian grinned, “You have American dollars, Woznica?”

  “Yes, Colonel, sir,” said Colling as he produced the two twenties he had carried in his shoe the day before, and handed them over.

  “Very nice. I see that your wife has good sense,” Kuznetskoff said as he counted six thousand zlotys into Colling’s hand. “Have your relatives in the United States sent you more than this?”

  “Sorry, no, Colonel, sir. This was from before the war. It is the last of the dollars.”

  “If you should receive more, you will remember me, will you not, Woznica?”

  “For sure, Colonel, sir. May I go now?”

  Kuznetskoff dismissed him, and Colling left the car. An hour later, he had a cloth sack over his shoulder filled with food and other items he had purchased in the Wilistka marketplace. No one seemed to take any interest in the fact that he presented new 1000-zloty notes in payment.

  The restoration of the boats proceeded without incident. They were undisturbed by visits by Russian troops. Colling had once helped his uncle repair a wagon, and he found that what he had learned from that experience was similar to what was required to fit planks onto the ribs of the boats. Karol and Tomasz also had no difficulty in picking up the manual skills required by the work.

  Zaminoski and Colling were finishing painting the second vessel that Colling had promised to see to completion when the boatwright asked, “Jan Woznica, you will leave soon, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Petr Zaminoski. We must.”

  “The Russians are thick on the roads to the west, and all the bridges have guards.”

  “I know. But we have no choice. We must go while the weather is still decent.”

  “I have a suggestion, Jan Woznica, about how you might complete your journey to Pomerania.”

  “Do you know of a road that might not be guarded, Petr Zaminoski?”

  “Yes, there is one road, you might say. The river.”

  Colling thought for a moment, then replied, “A boat?”

  “Yes, Jan Woznica. I can build you a boat, and show you how you might use the Vistula to reach Danzig. From there, you can without doubt find a fishing boat to take you along the coast to the west.”

  “But one would need papers to show the Russians patrolling the river. And so many people in one boat would be suspicious.”

  “Not if you were on official business, Jan Woznica,” grinned the boatwright.

  Zaminoski explained that the watercraft he was selling were used ostensibly for fishing, but that even the Soviets must be able to guess
that some of his customers were using them to ferry contraband across the river. It was rumored that if only black market merchandise was involved, and the proper bribes were paid, then a blind eye was turned to the traffic. Trouble came if the cargo was made up of human beings. It was true that five people in one boat would invite trouble from the Russians, but if there were an excuse for their presence, then it would be possible for them to drift unimpeded to the Baltic.

  “But what ‘official business’ would allow such a thing to happen?” asked Colling.

  “River surveyors,” said Zaminoski. “They were common before the war, and even during. The currents change the channel in the river. A survey of depth and location must be made. I have not seen them at work since the end of the fighting, but such bureaucracy must return. In my younger days, I worked on a survey crew. I still have the papers, including some blank forms. With a little imagination, we can outfit all of you.”

  “But we will need a large vessel,” said Colling.

  “True, but there is an eight-meter hull there on the shore that we can put to rights. It will be perfect,” replied Zaminoski, becoming more enthusiastic as his plan began to take shape.

  Colling had to agree that it seemed the idea was sound. He called Elizabeth, Karol, Tomasz and Jan together and allowed Zaminoski to tell them of his proposal. As it was outlined to them, and began to sink in, in contrast to the round of objections that had been raised to each of Colling’s decisions, Zaminoski’s concept quickly became a project involving all of them.

  As soon as the paint was dry on the boat on which Colling and the boatwright had been working, it was replaced on the sawhorses by the hulk of the larger vessel that had been hastily dragged into the boathouse, and repairs on its damaged structure were begun.

  Once the project was underway, preparations began, and each of them did his part to put all of its various pieces into place.

  Natalia went off to Wilistka to buy five sets of similar blue work jackets and pants that would serve as a kind of uniform for each of them. Karol revealed a heretofore-concealed ability to create documents, using the examples and blank forms provided by Zaminoski. Colling made depth-sounding poles from straight saplings he found growing alongside the nearby road.

  Natalia cut up an extra pair of the blue work trousers and made cloth caps for each of them. She and Elizabeth cut small red stars from scrap fabric and sewed them onto the front of the caps. Elizabeth theorized that the Communist insignia was likely to carry some weight with the Russians they were certain to encounter.

  Their boat was completed and launched two weeks after Zaminoski first broached his idea to Colling. It was a trim little craft, complete with a small cabin. Zaminoski used the metal from tin cans to fashion numbers and letters that he painted black and affixed to the boat’s bow. He assured them that the markings were consistent with those used by the Polish River Service before 1939. Colling did not object, but silently hoped that obsolete insignia would not give them away.

  The boat was finally provisioned and fully equipped, and Colling announced that it was time to leave. Zaminoski informed him that they could not leave the following morning, as it was a Sunday, and river surveyors were government workers who would not be working on the Sabbath. Natalia prepared a farewell dinner, and the two women cried on each other’s shoulders at the prospect of their never seeing one another again. Colling gave Zaminoski the cart and the little gray mare. The Mausers and ammunition were in the boat’s cabin, as well as their luggage. Colling kept his Luger shoved into the back waistband of his trousers.

  When Monday arrived, they set out in the pre-dawn hours, and Colling noted from the official-looking “work record” that had been created by Karol that it was the 24th of June. He had lost track of time, and realized that he had been in the U.S. Army for over a year. Because he was now undoubtedly classified as a deserter, if he made it out of Poland, he was probably destined to spend the rest of his enlistment, perhaps longer, in a military prison somewhere.

  They allowed themselves to be carried by the Vistula’s current, rowing occasionally, and from time to time making it appear as if they were testing the depth of the river, especially when river barges or other vessels passed them, or they observed that they were being watched from the shore. Their progress was leisurely, and they agreed that their mode of travel was far less tiring than their walk from Krakow. They stopped at islands or lonely stretches where the riverbank was not marshy to establish camp each night.

  Three days passed in this manner without incident, but at mid-morning of the fourth day, as they rounded the bend by which the Vistula curved back upon itself and headed north-easterly, they looked up at the sound of a boat’s engine. The approaching vessel was still not in sight, and Colling ordered Jan and Tomasz, who were manning the sweeps, to stop their rowing. Elizabeth quickly took up a position in the bow with a clipboard, and Colling began using the pole to take depth soundings.

  The motor launch that came around the bend towards them flew a red and white flag which at that distance could make it either Polish or Soviet. As it drew closer, they made out the familiar brown Russian uniforms of the two soldiers on its forward deck. Its small wheelhouse was manned by men in dark blue uniforms. The soldiers held sub-machine guns at the ready, although the weapons were not as yet pointed at them. It was small comfort to Colling when he recognized that the launch’s flag was Polish.

  Colling raised his hand in a friendly wave, calling out one of the Polish hailing phrases that Zaminoski had taught him were used by those who sailed the river. One of the men in blue emerged on deck and returned the greeting in Polish. Colling let out a small sigh of relief when he heard the fluent use of the language and saw the two gold stripes on the sleeves of the man’s coat. It appeared that the boat was manned in part by Poles, and perhaps was under Polish command. His relief was tempered by the presence of the Russians, whose vigilant attitude did not relax as the patrol vessel pulled alongside their boat.

  “What is your business on the river?” shouted the launch’s officer.

  “River survey, Lieutenant, sir,” said Colling, making an educated guess about the man’s rank, which was apparently correct, since the man did not attempt to board them, but simply looked down into their boat. When his gaze fell on Elizabeth, he touched the visor of cap in her direction.

  “Good day, Lady,” said the officer.

  “Good day to you, sir,” replied Elizabeth with a smile.

  “I see that the Survey Service has improved the looks of its crewmen,” said the officer, “Lieutenant Sobieskie, at your service.”

  “Elzbieta Woznica, Comrade Lieutenant,” replied Elizabeth, “Women must serve as well as men.”

  At the word ‘Comrade,’ there was a noticeable relaxation on the part of the two Soviet soldiers, who lowered their weapons. Lieutenant Sobieskie seemed slightly embarrassed. He returned his cap to his head, and asked Colling for their identification. As he examined the documents that Colling handed him, Colling was surprised to hear Elizabeth speaking Russian to the two soldiers, who both laughed in response to whatever it was that she was saying. When Colling turned around, he saw the two men crouched down on the launch’s bow, engrossed in conversation with Elizabeth, who was standing with one hand on the side of the patrol boat.

  Sobieskie leafed quickly through the papers he had been given, commenting to himself as much as Colling that the Survey Service seemed to be still using up old forms. He glanced towards Elizabeth and the two Russians, one of whom had handed Elizabeth a cigarette, then quickly back to the papers as she turned up her face to exhale a cloud of smoke. Seeming to be satisfied that he had performed his duty, Sobieskie clambered back onto the launch and waved at the helmsman to proceed. The two Russians were smiling and waving as the motor launch pulled away and left them in its wake.

  As soon as the patrol boat was out of sight, Elizabeth coughed and tossed the cigarette overboard, “God, those are awful!” she said in English.


  “I didn’t know you spoke Russian,” said Colling, the tone of his voice conveying his annoyance, both at her concealing her linguistic ability and her flirting with the two soldiers.

  “Not very well, but those two will think it’s a Polish accent,” she replied, “And if you can contain your male pride for a minute, I found out their base is at Torún. We passed it yesterday. I told them we would be up that way in a few days, and I’d have a drink with them. They’re on their way back from down river. I told them I was with the Polish People’s Liberation Army during the war, and how much I missed big Russian men. I also think it was the red stars on our caps and my calling them ‘Comrades’ that did the trick.”

  Colling had to agree that her performance had played a big part in their being taken at face value for a survey crew. Elizabeth added that they had told her that the patrol’s schedule was such that they would probably see them again before they reached Danzig.

  The amount of barge traffic on the Vistula had increased steadily as they moved closer to the Baltic, and they were forced to move ever more slowly, pretending to be carrying out survey work, as they wended their way northward. The days were warm and sunny, and their progress leisurely. Provisions had been brought for a ten-day journey, and Colling began to consider what would be involved in someone going ashore to buy food. He had decided that the next small town they came to would be where a foray in search of supplies would be made, but when Karol informed him that they were within a half-day from Danzig, that plan was set aside.

  They had one more encounter with the patrol boat a little more than a kilometer from where the canal system linking the Vistula with Danzig intersected the river. The motor launch pulled alongside them once again, but this time the two Russian soldiers had their sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders, and were grinning and waving, calling out “Elzbieta” as they approached.

  Colling had been concerned that Sobieskie might ask his superiors about the presence of survey crews working the river, but apparently it had not entered the officer’s mind to do so, because their meeting was cordial. Colling went so far as to invite the Lieutenant on board their boat to have some vodka while Elizabeth chatted with the Russians.

  When at last they parted company with the patrol boat, Elizabeth told Colling that they had best move quickly and enter the connecting canal that would take them to the port facilities. The Russians had asked her if she had yet had to deal with the “Bastard” …in their terms…who commanded the Red Navy vessel watching the mouth of the Vistula. When she admitted she had not had that pleasure, they advised her that the man had no liking for Poles, and it would be best to avoid him if they could.

  With all four men straining at the long oars and Elizabeth at the tiller, and aided by the current, they made good progress through the canal, steering past moored barges and smaller craft, until they reached the anchorage. There were more than a dozen ships spread out before them, and they rowed about, looking for an American or British flag. The words, Orion Belle, Baltimore, painted on the stern of a freighter caught Colling’s eye, and he told Elizabeth to steer towards it.

  Their boat bumped against the hull, drawing the attention of a crewman who leaned over the side and cursed at them to stand clear. Colling shouted back, “We’re Americans! Drop a ladder.” A few minutes later, a rope ladder was lowered down the side of the Orion Belle, and shortly after that, Colling, Elizabeth and the three Poles were standing on the deck, their luggage in hand. Elizabeth immediately opened her bag and rummaged for their U.S. passports, which she quickly found and handed over to the uniformed officer who seemed to be in charge.

  “I’m Langford, First Officer,” he said as he compared Colling and Elizabeth with the photographs in their passports. “Who are these men?” he asked, pointing to Karol, Tomasz and Jan.

  “They’re under my protection, Mr. Langford,” said Elizabeth. “They’re Polish nationals who have been granted asylum by the U.S. government.”

  “And who might you be, Miss…Hamilton?” asked Langford, glancing down at her passport.

  “Actually, my name is Collins. This is my husband, Jim. We’re just recently married, and the name on my passport hasn’t been changed yet, but he has our marriage certificate. My husband is an officer in the American armed forces. I’m with the American Red Cross, and if I can just see your captain, I can explain further.”

  The First Officer looked at the shabby work clothes they were wearing and the caps with red stars on them and remarked, “You certainly don’t look like what you say you are, ma’am.”

  “I know, Mr. Langford, but we have had a difficult journey. I really would like to see your captain in private so I can explain everything.”

  She was interrupted by a noise coming from beside the ship, and when Colling glanced over the railing, he saw a large gray-painted escort vessel wallowing alongside. The same crewman who had shouted at them to stand clear repeated his warning to the new arrival, and received another shout from the other boat in return.

  “It’s one of them Russky patrol ships, sir,” said the sailor to Langford, who came to the ship’s side to see for himself, but before he could do so, a naval officer climbed over the rail, having used the rope ladder that not been pulled up after Colling, Elizabeth and their companions had reached the deck. The officer was immediately followed by two sailors armed with rifles. Colling rapidly deduced that they were Russians.

  The officer was speaking angrily in broken English, demanding that Langford hand over the five of them to him. About a dozen of the Orion Belle’s crew had gathered around, voicing their bad opinion of the naval officer and his men, and the Russian sailors began nervously fingering their rifles. Colling had his Luger in the back waistband of his trousers, and he slid his hand under his jacket and took hold of the butt of the weapon, ready to pull it out.

  Langford was motioning with his hands and calling for quiet, but before he could speak, another American joined the group, and Colling concluded that he must be the freighter’s captain.

  “What the hell is going on here?” demanded the newcomer. He then noticed Elizabeth and added, “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Langford explained, “Captain, this Russian officer wants us to give him these people. Two of them are carrying American passports,” and pointing to Colling, “That fellow is an American Army officer, and the lady works for the Red Cross.” Langford handed their passports to his superior.

  The Russian officer started to interrupt, but the captain of the Orion Belle spoke first, “Well, Loo-ten-itzky, or whatever you call yourself, my name is Stackhouse, and I’m master of this vessel, which is registered in the U.S. of A., and under contract to the U.S. government. You ain’t gonna come on board my ship demanding nothing. The Polish port authorities are still in charge here, no matter what you say, so if you want anything, go get ‘em, and we’ll talk. In the meantime, get off my ship. The Belle made fifteen runs across the North Atlantic; we still got our guns, and my crew knows how to use ‘em.”

  Colling looked up to see what Stackhouse was waving his arm at, and saw that men were pulling the canvas cover off the twin barrels of a dual 40-millimeter cannon pointing skyward from a round emplacement at the bow. When he glanced toward the stern, he realized that the ship still carried its complement of weapons, which Colling guessed would also include a couple of five-inch guns. That the covers had just been pulled from twin forties told him that the captain must have given the order to do so before joining the group on the deck.

  The Russian officer’s face had gone pale. He stared anxiously at the twin barrels which were being lowered and traversed towards where they stood. Colling could not see how any shots from the gun could reach the cutter, which was too close to the freighter’s hull and out of its line of fire. About the only thing that he could see would possibly be hit if the 40-millimeters opened fire, was the top of its radio mast, but the Russian captain looked nervous nevertheless. Perhaps he was thinking about the consequences of a
n “international incident” on his career. Without another word to Stackhouse, he gestured for his men to leave and followed them over the side. The rope ladder was pulled up as soon as the Russians were safely back on their boat.

  Stackhouse thumbed through the passports that he had been handed.

  “You’re Elizabeth Hamilton, I suppose,” he said to Elizabeth.

  “Yes, Captain. Could we go to your cabin and talk in private?”

  “Yes ma’am, you can,” said Stackhouse, indicating with a wave of his arm that his cabin must be located somewhere in the tall superstructure amidships that housed the ship’s bridge. Colling started to follow, when Elizabeth turned and said, “Jim, why don’t you see if Mr. Langford can find us quarters somewhere. I’ll take care of this.”

  Langford led Colling and the three Poles to what had apparently been designated at one time as the ship’s passenger accommodations. The four small cabins were located on the main deck. Each had twin bunks. Each of the Poles took a cabin for himself, leaving Colling and Elizabeth with the remaining one.

  Colling sat restlessly waiting for nearly an hour before Elizabeth joined him. She was telling him that Stackhouse had agreed that they would not be forced off the Orion Belle, when they felt the ship move. Elizabeth added that the tide must have changed, because the freighter was due to leave on the outgoing flood.

  Elizabeth noticed the cabin’s tiny bathroom, which was not much larger than water closet but did contain a shower stall, and began to undress. “God, I have so wanted a hot shower for so long,” she said. When she stepped out some time later, she had wrapped herself in a towel and had used another as a turban. She looked at Colling and offered, “You next, Big Boy. I asked Captain Stackhouse if he could find us some decent clothes, and he said he would see what he could do. If you want to shower, they may be here before you’re done.”

  The shower was wonderful. Colling was surprised at the spray of heated fresh water. He would not have expected it after his experience on the troop transport that had brought him to Europe, with its cold salt-water showers. When he emerged from the cramped bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, Elizabeth was dressed, wearing a woolen shirt and dungarees that seemed to fit her reasonably well. She also had on socks and tennis shoes. A similar outfit was laid out on one of the bunks, and Colling dropped the towel and began dressing.

  “Next stop is Stockholm,” said Elizabeth. “We get off there. Captain Stackhouse will radio ahead to tell them we’re coming.”

  “Fine. I’m glad to see you have everything under control,” replied Colling sullenly.

  Elizabeth ignored his mood, and continued on, telling him that they would be back in Germany in just a few days. That reminded Colling that the issue of his desertion still loomed ahead, but he did not mention his concern.