THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (16 page)

“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

K
az 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. Probably 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.”

“You've got a point. And the kid was right; it's unlikely he or his girl want her parents to know where they were.”

“I wonder what they are doing here. They didn't come with the Red Army.”

“My guess—they live in this area, settlers from the period when the Russians occupied Poland. If their parents are living here, you're right. They're not likely to tell anybody.

Kaz and Jan would stay.

It was the wrong decision.

The next morning, shortly before dawn, as Kaz was beginning to stir, he heard a motorcycle drive into the yard between the stable and house. Peering out, he could see its headlight and a smaller light on the sidecar. A man—perhaps the girl's father?—was coming out of the house, pointing toward the stable; the two Russian soldiers leaped off the motorcycle and headed towards the stable, their rifles at the ready.

Kaz shook Jan, and was appalled by how hot he felt; he must be running a fever. He shook harder. “Jan. Jan. We've got to get out.
Right now.
The Russians are coming.”

Suddenly, Jan was wide awake. The two Polish officers slid down into the stable, looking for a back door. They couldn't find one. Kaz helped Jan out a window, and followed headfirst.

A rifle shot whined, ricocheting off the stable siding just above Jan's head. One of the soldiers was about 25 meters away, approaching rapidly, pointing his rifle in their direction. They raised their hands; they were prisoners of the Red Army.

T
hey were in a boxcar, together with thirty Polish officers captured while resisting the Russian advance. Kaz and Jan were the only two regular army officers; the rest were reservists recently called to active duty. In spite of their dirty, unkempt appearance, they were an impressive lot—some of the leaders of Polish society: businessmen, sons of aristocratic families, middle-to-senior level civil servants, teachers and professors, and, fortunately, a few doctors.

Jan was diagnosed with the flu. The doctors insisted that he be put off to one end of the boxcar so that others wouldn't catch his disease. They also insisted that only Kaz and one of the doctors attend to him; they had already been exposed.

Kaz had two main concerns—to keep Jan from getting a severe chill, and to provide him enough water. Kaz gave Jan his sweater; he would do with just his jacket. One of the hardier officers offered his great coat; he wouldn't need it in the relative warmth of the boxcar. The prisoners also provided some water from their already depleted canteens. Fortunately, the looming water crisis was eased when they reached the Soviet border. Because the Russian rails were further apart than those of Poland, the prisoners had to transfer to a Soviet train; in the process, they were allowed to fill their canteens.

T
heir new home was Prisoner Camp #043, near Smolensk. It was already crowded—over 6,000 prisoners, mostly reserve officers—when Kaz and his group arrived.

Although it was only October, a scattered frosting of snow already formed white splotches on the ground. The task for the next five or six months was clear—simply to stay alive through the severe Russian winter. For Jan, the test would come early; he still had a high fever. Again, the doctors insisted that he be put off separately at one end of the barracks to reduce the risk to other prisoners. The end of the barracks was already getting very cold at nights. There was only one small stove for the entire building, and the other prisoners had crowded their bunks around it. Even for them, the nights were frigid. The Russians provided no fuel, although they did allow the prisoners to bring pieces of wood back from the forest when they were out on work details. Kaz vaguely recalled that, according to the Geneva Convention, officers could not be required to do physical labor. But it would be idiotic to make a fuss; the Russians had the guns.

Each prisoner was provided with one thin blanket; they therefore slept with their clothes on. Kaz thought of giving Jan his blanket, but decided not to; if he were going to look after his friend, he would have to remain healthy himself. Both men—and most of the other prisoners—learned to sleep in a curled position, folding the blanket in two while still remaining covered. Kaz found three large stones outside, near the corner of the barracks, and realized they could help to keep Jan warm. Kaz rotated them from a perch on top of the stove to Jan's bunk. His reward was the weak smile that came over Jan's face as he felt the warmth of the stone on his feet or back. Fortunately, Jan was his old self within ten days.

As the weeks stretched into months, Kaz began to feel like a dog. It wasn't just the harsh treatment by the guards. With the prisoners buttoned up for the winter, he discovered that he could recognize his fellow inmates from their smell. There was one slight compensation. Because each prisoner involuntarily announced his approach, there were fewer nighttime thefts of the inmates' meager possessions.

In the lonely, crowded camp, Kaz's thoughts drifted back to Anna. He worried; what had happened to her? She had some sort of classified job—he wasn't sure he believed the bit about weather forecasting. But he feared it was important enough to qualify her for a class-A interrogation by the Gestapo. He suppressed the thought. Particularly what the Gestapo might do to a young woman.

He found himself daydreaming of his time with her, from that very first evening when he saw her softly slumbering on the sofa. Of his urge to take her in his arms. He tried to order his thoughts, to relive their time together. He dreamt of the wedding, and of their two days and three nights at the lodge in the forest. He once again imagined the fresh fragrance of balsam trees drifting on the soft breeze through their window.

He began to embellish his dreams, imagining what might have been if only Europe had remained at peace. The joy of coming home to Anna after a hard day's work. Legs crossed, bouncing his son on his ankle, thrilling to the tot's joyful squeals. He wondered: is it healthy, to live in dreams? Yes. In a mad world, daydreams are a blessed island of sanity.

Occasionally, he dreamt of Anna at night. He could control his waking dreams, but, sadly, not those in his sleep; his recurring nighttime dream was scarcely the fulfillment of his wishes. He and Anna were on an ice floe. A jagged crack began to split the floe; he tried and tried and struggled to jump to her side, but his legs refused his urgent command. Their fingers parted; the two islands of ice drifted apart. He would wake up shivering.