THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (25 page)

“An individualist. If he had been born at a different time, in a different place, we can only wonder what he might have done. In ancient Rome, he might have been one of Horatio's noble three who held the bridge and saved the city of seven hills. If he had been born a hundred years ago, in America, he might have ridden shotgun, protecting the stagecoach from the James gang.

“To our great good fortune, however, he was born in Prague in 1918. He was here when we needed him most.

“He was a free spirit. He died that the rest of us could be free.”

Ryk couldn't go on; he could feel the tears welling up. Tomorrow may never come. He had to sit down.

Strange. He scarcely knew Joe. But it was a warning he had already learned to his great sorrow. Don't make friends. It can cause too much pain.

16
“They Have Run Away”

[Russia] is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

Winston Churchill

I
n the months after their escape, Kaz and Jan often wondered if they had made the right decision. Their rash actions had caused the deaths of Piotr and Wincenty. Even though the two of them had escaped, life was little better than that in a prison camp; they faced a constant struggle to survive.

Their first objective was to get away from Smolensk as far and as fast as possible. In the excitement immediately after their escape, they made quick time; they moved about 100 kilometers in the first week. There were few notable events.

One was a brief ceremony as they crossed a bridge. If they were caught, they didn't want the Russians to know they had escaped from Katyn; that might be fatal. Rather, they were Polish soldiers who had fled east from the German invasion, and didn't know where they were. They had been disoriented by the German shelling, and were simply wandering around trying to survive. Kaz Jankowski and Jan Tomczak would have to disappear. As they got to the middle of the bridge, they took off their dog tags, kissed them, and dropped them into the water below. Kaz briefly buffed his new dog tag on his sleeve; from now on, he would be Lt. Karol Kwiatkowski, his fallen comrade from the defense of Warsaw. Similarly, Jan became Lt. Edward Szymczak.

They decided to head west, back to the Russian sector of Poland, and then south toward Romania. With luck, they would get help from Polish farmers. If they did get caught, their story—that they were itinerant survivors of the German attack on Poland—would be more believable once they were back in Poland.

By late summer, they had worked their way to the southeast corner of Poland; they could almost smell the freedom of Romania, less than fifty kilometers away. But then, perhaps lulled into complacency, they entered a small village. They were eager for news of the war, and hoped to find a newspaper posted somewhere in the village. They were particularly anxious to find out if Romania had entered the war; if so, there might be no point in trying to escape to that country. They didn't realize that the newspaper bulletin-board was a favorite spot for NKVD informants; people make careless remarks when they read the news.

Kaz was shocked to see a small story on the German occupation of France: “My God, Jan, the French have collapsed. The Germans are in Paris.”

His exclamation drew the attention of a middle-aged woman, who looked almost as scruffy as the two travelers.

“You hadn't heard of the German invasion of France?” she wanted to know.

Kaz mumbled something incomprehensible.

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Where have you been? Who are you?”

She signaled to a Russian soldier fifty meters away. Kaz and Jan were soon back in a prison camp—as Lt. Karol Kwiatkowski and Lt. Edward Szymczak. Fortunately, the NKVD informant had not heard Kaz call Jan by his right name. The two determined never again to be so careless; Karol and Edward it would be, regardless of the circumstances.

The prison camp—just over the border in the Ukraine—was a repeat of the dreary camp of the previous year, except that it was filled with officers of the regular army, not reservists. The routine was harsh, but not as bad as the first camp. Jan had an explanation: most of the guards were Ukrainians, not Russians.

As 1940 passed into the early months of 1941, they noticed another welcome difference. The winter was not nearly so bitter; the camp was further south. Somehow, the one thin blanket seemed much thicker and warmer than the blankets in Smolensk. The struggle to survive was not so desperate; fewer inmates died. And spring arrived early. Kaz delighted in filling his lungs with the warm, moist spring air, particularly when it carried the soft, sweet fragrance of apple blossoms; he would drift off into memories of springtime on his uncle's farm. Occasionally, his daydreams were jarred when the wind shifted, blowing in quite a different smell from the latrines.

Soon it was June.

Early one morning, Kaz was awakened by an ominous, familiar noise—the drone of German aircraft. He and his comrades were quickly on their feet, pulling on their pants as they tumbled out of the barracks. Above flew a formation of Heinkel bombers, their German crosses clearly visible on their wings.

Operation Barbarossa
—Hitler's blitzkrieg aimed at defeating the Soviet Union within a few months—had begun.

In less than a week, the situation in the camp improved. Many of the guards were sent to the front. The flow of supplies into the camp fell sharply, but the remaining guards let some of the prisoners out to forage for food. Hostages were kept behind; they would be shot if the prisoners didn't return.

Then came the news they had been waiting for. They were to be released. Stalin had agreed: the Poles could establish an army in the Soviet Union, under Gen. Wladyslaw Anders. Diplomatic relations were to be resumed between the Soviet Union and the Polish Government in exile in London.

Now they would be soldiers again.

By September, more than 150,000 Polish troops had moved to a training camp. Their spirits were high; Kaz and Jan delighted in every day of freedom.

The word went out from Gen. Anders headquarters: he needed Russian-speaking officers to handle liaison with the Soviets. Jan/Edward volunteered. Soon he arranged for Kaz to join him; he explained to the colonel how closely the two had worked together in the past, and how indispensable “Karol” would be to him.

Kaz wasn't sure that he wanted the job; he was a soldier, not a politician. But he surprised himself; he was soon caught up in the work at headquarters. They were preparing for a December meeting between Stalin and General Sikorski—the Polish Commander-in-Chief and Prime Minister of the Polish Government in London.

The question was: what would Anders' army do? Would they fight the Nazi invader along side the Soviets? Or would they try to get Stalin's permission to leave the Soviet Union and join the British?

The Poles couldn't agree among themselves. To seek a consensus, Sikorski would fly into Moscow to meet with Anders several days before his meeting with Stalin.

“Edward” and “Karol” were invited to join the group going to Moscow, to help with security and administrative matters. They eagerly agreed.

Plans for the Moscow meeting almost unraveled one morning in the middle of November. Karol was in his “office”—actually not an office, but a small area separated from other “offices” by charcoal markings on the barracks floor—when a lieutenant approached, pretending to knock on Kaz's pretend door.

“I'm looking for Karol Kwiatkowski; I was told I might find him at this end of the barracks.”

Kaz looked up from the papers on the battered board that was serving as his desk. “That's right. I'm Kwiatkowski.”

“But I was looking for Lt. Kwiatkowski from Lvov.”

“Yes. That's me.”

“No you're not. I went to school with Karol Kwiatkowski.”

Kaz wanted to kick himself; he had not prepared for this obvious complication.

“You were friends?”

“Yeah. He's my best friend.”

“I'm sorry. He's dead. Killed in the defense of Warsaw.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Let's just say that I needed a new identity, and took his. We were together when he was killed. I'm a regular army officer.... Really.”

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. “Are you a Russian spy?” He, in turn, wanted to kick himself; a stupid question.

“No.” Kaz felt equally silly answering. “But take your suspicions to Col. Polonsky. He handles security.”

“Why should I trust him? Maybe he's in it with you.”

“Maybe our whole army is made up of Russian spies?”

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed even more. He slowly and suspiciously backed away, through the imaginary wall of Kaz's office.

The lieutenant did tell someone. In fact, he went directly to Gen. Anders. He wanted to act as quickly as possible; his life might be in danger if Kaz really were a spy.

That afternoon, Kaz was summoned to Anders' office. It actually
was
an office, more or less—the only one in the camp. Blankets were hung to separate it from the rest of the barracks, and give Anders some semblance of privacy. Col. Polonsky and Jan/Edward were there already.

The General called a corporal and spoke a few quiet words. The corporal disappeared. Almost immediately, a loud chorus of men broke out into barroom songs. Kaz looked puzzled.

The Col. leaned forward and spoke in a barely audible voice. “We really do have to worry about Russian spies. If they're eavesdropping, they won't hear anything but the songsters.”

“Now,” said the General in a stage whisper, “let's get to the point. Kwiatkowski, I'm told you're an impostor. The real Kwiatkowski was killed near Warsaw.”

“That's correct, sir.”

“I want an explanation. Better still: Szymczak, you explain. Did you know about Kwiatkowski? What did you mean by bringing an impostor into my inner circle?”

“Yes, sir, I did know. I confess, General, that I'm an impostor too. I'm really Lt. Janusz Tomczak of the Polish Cavalry.”

Thereupon, Jan and Kaz described their escape from the prison camp near Smolensk, their fears that the Russians were shooting prisoners, and how two prisoners were killed during the escape. They just happened to have the extra dog tags from the Warsaw battle. They decided to use the false identities; the Russians would be less likely to shoot them if they were recaptured.

Jan was speaking more and more softly. By now, the four men were head to head; it looked like a conspiracy.

“If possible, sir, we'd like to keep our false identities. We're still worried what the Bolshies will do if they find out who we really are.”

“Well you might,” responded the Colonel. “After the end of June—when the Russians agreed to release Polish prisoners—we expected thousands of officers from the Smolensk camp, and from two others near Kalinin and Starobelsk. But as far as we know, you're the only ones who made it.”

“Just from Smolensk?” Kaz wanted to know.

“From any of the three camps. We're very concerned. We're afraid you were right—the Russians murdered the others.”

Kaz was surprised by his mixed emotions. He was appalled at the thought of all his fellow prisoners dying. But he was also relieved. He and Jan had not been responsible for the senseless death of the two would-be escapees.

The General continued the Colonel's story. “For your information—and keep this confidential—next month, when Gen. Sikorski meets the Russians in Moscow, he may ask about Katyn—the forest near Smolensk where we suspect our officers were executed. It looks more and more like a brutal massacre. Until further notice, you will maintain your false identities. We don't want to give the Russians any hint that we have two escapees among us.

“Also, we'd like the two of you to keep yourselves apart from the rest of the troops. We don't know who may recognize you. We don't want rumors going around. But it will be helpful if you are in Moscow and can give your story first-hand to Gen. Sikorski.”

General Anders reiterated his main point. “Most of all, don't give any hint of your true identities when you're in Moscow. Even at our most optimistic, we think the discussions with Stalin will be difficult.”

N
ot only were the talks with Stalin difficult. So were the preliminary discussions between Sikorski and Anders.

They took place at the British embassy, which provided some chance of a secure conversation. They were in the main conference room on the third floor, but even there, concerns about listening devices were in evidence. A gramophone was kept playing in the corner to disguise the sound of voices. The music was better than the barroom singers at the barracks. Perhaps as a courtesy to any Russian eavesdropper, they played Tchaikovsky's 1812 Symphony. Over and over. Kaz realized how much he preferred church bells to cannon fire.

After more than two years in captivity, Anders was eager to get his troops into action. How would they get out of the Soviet Union?

Sikorski interrupted. “That's not the first question, General. The real issue is: do we want to keep our troops in the Soviet Union, where they can roll back into Poland with the Red Army? Or do we want to get them out to help the British?”

“Let's get out, by all means, sir. We can fight alongside the British as close allies. There's too much suspicion for us to fight beside the Russians.”

“But Russia's the critical front.
The Soviets are our only hope.
If they collapse, it's hard to see how Hitler can be defeated. We may
never
have a free Poland.”

“Many of our men have had bad experiences with the Russians, sir.” Anders made a point of not looking at Kaz and Jan, who sat inconspicuously at the side of the room.

“Granted. But does that make a compelling case for leaving the Soviet Union?”

“I would certainly think so.” To Anders, it seemed obvious.

“Not so clear. Why do we have trouble with the Russians? Partly, it's history—centuries of sporadic fighting. But Communism is a big complication. Stalin wants world revolution. That means a Communist government in Poland. If we don't have an army on the ground when the Nazis are driven out of Poland, the Soviets may set up a Communist regime. That means you should stay here. Precisely because we
can't
trust the Russians. It's essential that the Russians beat the Germans. But it's also essential that we have an army on the ground when they do.”