The Katyn Order (23 page)

The driver retraced the same route back to the Landwehrkanal, then crossed the foul-smelling waterway on one of the only intact bridges and headed toward what was left of the Berlin city center.

Adam found some vengeful comfort in the destruction on the other side of the canal. Detouring around craters and mountains of rubble, they followed the Russian truck through a maze of barely passable streets lined with demolished buildings and eventually entered a vast open area of fetid swamps on either side of a pockmarked road. The remains of armored vehicles lay mired in muck, scattered among thousands of charred tree stumps. It took Adam several minutes, mentally recalling maps of Berlin, to figure out where they were. He nudged Meinerz's shoulder. “The Tiergarten?” he asked, remembering pictures he had seen of Berlin's magnificent central park.

“What's left of it,” Meinerz said. Then he pointed to a shadowy silhouette off in the distance. They turned right and followed an intersecting road through the murky swamp, drawing closer to the silhouette, now recognizable through the haze as the shattered remains of a colossal building with four towers and a domed top. “The Reichstag,” Meinerz explained. “The SS Nordland Battalion was holed up there in the final days of the assault. The Russians circled it with heavy artillery and spent a whole day shelling it before the battalion surrendered. It's a wonder there's as much of it left as there is.”

Farther on, they passed the Brandenburg Gate. Atop the heavily damaged monument, where a goddess in her chariot had overlooked the city since the beginning of the nineteenth century, a Soviet flag fluttered in the breeze. Smoky, dust-filled air burned Adam's throat as they turned onto Wilhelmstrasse, the main artery of central Berlin and its administrative center since the days when it was the Kingdom of Prussia. A shiver ran down the back of Adam's neck as they drove past the bombed-out Reich Chancellery, where a cadre of NKVD riflemen stoically guarded Hitler's vacated Fuhrerbunker.

Meinerz leaned over. “I was attached to the Sixty-Ninth Infantry Division, First Army Group. We made contact with the Russians on the Elbe, west of Berlin. The higher-ups had decided that the Russians were going to take Berlin, so we stopped and sat there while the Red Army pounded the hell out of the city for over a week with heavy artillery and Katyusha rockets. They had a million troops closing in on Berlin from three directions, probably killed as many of their own men as they did Germans.”

Adam knew about Katyusha rockets, incongruously named after a Russian wartime song about a girl longing for her lost lover. The rocket launchers weren't very accurate but, when they were massed in large numbers for saturation bombardments, they created a hell of a paralyzing shock on enemy troops and civilian populations.

Adam imagined the scene: So Meinerz had just sat there with the rest of the Americans, watching as the Russians laid waste to Berlin, watching those rockets blast the life out of the city. Wasn't it the same thing the Russians had done in Warsaw, standing by while the Germans blew it to hell? Did it matter whether it was Germans or Poles, Russians or Americans? Did it make a difference depending on which countries were allies at the moment? He didn't know. Nobody did.

A moment later they drove past a group of Red Army soldiers smoking cigarettes and jeering at a couple of elderly women hoisting rubble into a horse-drawn cart. Adam instinctively jerked his thumb toward the Russians. “These are the same fucking cowards who sat in their tanks and
watched
while a quarter of a million Polish civilians were slaughtered in Warsaw and the rest driven out of their homes!” He stopped abruptly, realizing he couldn't say any more without creating doubts about his cover story. Meinerz was a savvy, no-nonsense officer, and that suspicious look in his eye had returned. But with that spontaneous outburst Adam realized he had just answered his own question. What happened in Warsaw and Berlin
were
different. They were different because he was in Warsaw when it happened, and Poland was his birth country. It wasn't a matter of who was right and who was wrong. But it
did
make a difference. It made a difference to
him
—because it was personal.

Meinerz raised his eyebrows. “Christ, if you hadn't told me differently, I'd swear you were right there watching it happen.”

“We got the reports in London,” Adam replied quickly, then changed the subject. “I understand the only German troops left to defend Berlin by the time the Russians got here were old men and the Hitler youth.”

Meinerz looked at him for a moment before responding. “Yeah, and most of them ran away when the Red Army moved in. The Russians charged through the streets tossing grenades into the cellar windows of wrecked buildings. They didn't care who they killed—women, children, it didn't matter. Then they'd kick in the doors, drag out any women still alive and rape them.”

Adam took a last glance at the Red Army soldiers, wishing once again for a weapon.

Farther along Wilhelmstrasse, the Russian truck slowed as they approached a massive seven-story structure surprisingly intact in this area of almost complete devastation. “Here we are,” Meinerz said. “It's the Air Ministry building that Hermann Goering built in honor of his Luftwaffe. I'm told the ceilings of the upper floors were constructed with sixty centimeters of steel-reinforced concrete. That's why it's still standing.”

The truck came to an abrupt halt, forcing the corporal to slam on the Jeep's brakes. He mumbled a curse as the NKVD riflemen jumped off the truck and came to rigid attention. Adam and Meinerz climbed out of the Jeep. Adam stiffened as the thick-necked major from the aerodrome emerged from the cab of the Russian truck. He glared at Adam and Meinerz, then spun on his heel and marched briskly toward the steps of the imposing structure. One of the riflemen motioned for them to follow.

Soviet flags stood on each side of the entrance next to hand-lettered signs in Russian and English, indicating this was the headquarters of the Soviet Military Administration. Inside the building, broad corridors extended in two directions as far as Adam could see. Russian officers scurried past them carrying briefcases and armfuls of documents, the sound of their boots echoing off the hard marble surfaces. Three NKVD officers and a young woman in a Red Army uniform sat behind an enormous reception desk flanked by hard wooden benches.

The thick-necked major stepped up to the desk, spoke briefly to the woman, then marched off without a word. Adam and Meinerz looked at each other and turned to follow, but one of the riflemen blocked their way. He motioned toward the benches instead.

Half an hour passed, then forty-five minutes. Finally, the woman emerged from behind the desk, stepped over and said in English, “Gentlemen, if you please to follow me.”

She led them down the corridor to the left, up two flights of steps and down another corridor. She stopped at a set of double doors. Adam tensed when he saw the brass plate fixed to the wall. He couldn't read the Cyrillic letters but he knew the name was
General Andrei Kovalenko.

“Please to wait here,” the woman said and stepped inside the office. A moment later she reappeared and motioned for them to enter.

The office was about the same size as the parlor of the mansion Adam and Meinerz were staying in and just as lavishly furnished, complete with oriental rugs and soft leather chairs. Enormous, oak-framed windows, two of them still boarded up, covered the wall opposite the door, offering a gut-wrenching view of the ruins of Berlin. On the wall to the left was a fireplace flanked by oak shelves filled with books, photographs and various trophies.

Adam studied the books while the woman laid a file on the general's desk, spoke a few words to him and left the office. The books were all German—military texts by Clausewitz, Guderian, Rommel, von Kluck, and works of philosophy and science by Goethe, Engels and Einstein. Adam wondered whose office this might have been before the Russians took over. Goering's perhaps?

The tall, broad-shouldered Red Army general that Adam remembered from that night on the other side of the Vistula River stood behind the desk with his hands clasped behind him. Now, however, instead of the dusty field jacket he'd been wearing the last time, General Kovalenko wore a crisp dress uniform with gold epaulettes and rows of campaign medals. Adam thought he looked older, his close-cropped hair grayer, his face more heavily creased.

Sitting on one of the two settees in front of the general's desk was the aerodrome major. He did not stand up.

“I am General Andrei Kovalenko,” the general said. His voice was deep and coarse, but his English was as fluent as Adam remembered. He gestured toward the major, who had not looked up or acknowledged their presence. “This is Major Dmitri Tarnov, of the NKVD. I believe you met.”

Meinerz stepped forward and held out his hand to the general. “Colonel Tim Meinerz, American First Army, now assigned to the Judge Advocate General.”

Kovalenko nodded but did not offer his hand. He turned to Adam, his dark, sunken eyes moving up and down, taking in his civilian clothing. There was not the slightest hint of recognition.

Adam stood where he was and kept his hands at his side. “Adam Nowak, Civilian Liaison Officer, also assigned to the Judge Advocate General.”

Kovalenko stared at him for a long moment then said, “You're an American, Mr. Nowak?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“And what is your connection to the Polish Government, which is in exile in London?”

Adam thought that either Kovalenko did not remember him or that he was very accomplished at deception. Based on his previous experience, he decided on the latter. “I was asked by the British to serve as the representative of the Polish Government for the purpose of investigating war crimes.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment as the three men stood on either side of the mammoth desk. Finally General Kovalenko gestured to the settee opposite the one where Major Tarnov sat and then lowered his husky frame into his desk chair. He shook a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit it with a gold-plated lighter. He took a long drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke and asked, “So, what service may we provide, Colonel Meinerz?”

Meinerz leaned forward. “As we indicated in our correspondence through General Parks' office, the Allied War Crimes Investigation Team requests assistance from our Russian allies to visit the Sachsenhausen concentration camp at Oranienburg.”

Kovalenko's dark eyes were blank. “Correspondence? We received no correspondence.” He took another drag on the cigarette.

Meinerz pressed on. “The correspondence was sent by courier from General Parks' command center to your attention here at the Soviet Military Administration last week.”

Kovalenko shrugged. “You have seen the size of this building, Colonel Meinerz. Many hundreds of Russian officers work here. Perhaps it will turn up.”

“Yes, perhaps it will,” Meinerz replied. “However, since we are here now, shall we discuss arrangements for a visit?”

Kovalenko blew out another cloud of smoke, then he turned to Adam. “So, an American diplomat is representing the interests of Poland and investigating war crimes?”

“Several million Polish citizens were sent to concentration camps,” Adam replied.

“German
concentration camps,” Kovalenko said. “You are investigating
German
war crimes.”

Adam thought about the hundreds of thousands of Poles sent to Russian gulags, and the murder of thousands of Polish officers at the hands of the NKVD in the Katyn Forest. But he wouldn't talk about that . . . not now. “Yes, General,
German
war crimes.”

Kovalenko stared at him in silence and took another long drag on the cigarette before crushing it out in a silver ashtray. Then he abruptly stood up. Major Tarnov stood as well.

Adam and Meinerz both got to their feet. Meinerz said, “General, about the visit—”

Kovalenko cut him off. “I am very busy right now. There are many demands on my time. When I receive your correspondence I will look into the matter.”

Behind them the door opened, and a Red Army officer stepped into the office carrying a thick folder. He said something in Russian that included the name “Marshal Zhukov,” the Supreme Commander of Russian forces in Berlin.

General Kovalenko glanced at Meinerz and signified with a quick nod of his head that the meeting was over.

21 M
AY

N
ATALIA PEDALED HER BICYCLE
up the long hill that ran alongside the Rawka River, pushing hard to keep up with Rabbit. Following the winding pathways through dense stands of birch and aspen trees, they often raced the three kilometers from the thatched-roof cottage buried deep in the Bolimowski Forest to the village. It was a race she routinely lost to the skinny, but deceptively strong, lad. He seemed to have grown a head taller in the last eight months, and much hungrier.

And today was no different. As they embarked on their weekly ride to the village to replenish their supplies, Rabbit had challenged her to another race, the winner getting the first pick of whatever vegetables might still be available at the village's market. Natalia knew he would win, of course, and she certainly didn't care. It was fun, and eight months after the nightmare of Warsaw she was thankful for just being alive, let alone having a bit of fun now and then. Especially since they'd been cooped up in the tiny cottage all winter.

Finding the abandoned cottage had been a godsend after their narrow escape from the collection point outside Warsaw, Natalia thought as she watched Rabbit disappear around the bend. The escape had been a stroke of pure genius, planned by the streetwise youth, who had a knack for getting out of tight spots. Natalia, Zeeka and Hammer, along with Rabbit, had blended in with the civilian exodus and slipped out of Warsaw following the defeat of the Rising. When they met up at the first collection point, Rabbit snooped around—just a curious boy asking questions—and learned that every train included a baggage car at the end, used by the Germans to haul supplies beyond Prushkov. Natalia still wore her Polish railway conductor's jacket, Rabbit had pointed out, and though it was filthy and tattered, she didn't look any worse than anyone else. Besides, the train would be packed with fatigued, hot and ornery people, who wouldn't give a damn about anything except getting to the next stop. If Natalia could exert some authority and lead a small group to the baggage car at the back of the train, it might work.