The Katyn Order (40 page)

In the background a trumpet sounded from high in the Gothic tower of the Mariacki Church.

“Three o'clock,” Leopold said. “Rabbit and I should go now. If you want to send a message, meet me here tomorrow at this same time.”

19 J
UNE

O
N
T
UESDAY
the weather was clear. Piotr hitched up the horses to the wagon, and he and Adam left the small cluster of cabins just as the sun crept slowly above the tall mountain peaks. Thin yellow rays filtered through dense conifers. Nuthatches and chickadees flitted about, and an occasional rodent scurried in the underbrush as the horses clopped along the muddy pathway, the wagon creaking along behind. It was a quiet morning, gradually warming as time passed and the sun cleared the treetops.

They had ridden in silence for awhile when Adam said, “You're a lucky man, Piotr. Krystyna is a beautiful woman.”

Piotr smiled. “That I am. I don't deserve her.”

“Was she in the AK before you married?”

Piotr gave the reins a gentle flick as the horses plodded up an incline. He kept his eyes on the path and nodded. “Her father, Borys, was Casimir's second-in-command. He and Krystyna made regular trips over the mountains into Slovakia back in '39 and '40, guiding our soldiers on their way to France. Since then we've kept the routes open for supplies, weapons, couriers, that sort of thing.”

“Is Krystyna's father still—?”

Piotr shook his head.

“What happened?”

“Russians got him, last October. Borys and three others from Prochowa were on their way back from Slovakia. Krystyna wasn't with him, thank the Lord. We were married two months earlier and we were living down here. Borys' group encountered a Russian patrol near the border trying to find their way to Zakopane. They were hunting down some Germans in the area when they got lost.”

Adam looked away. He knew from the pain in Krystyna's eyes the night before what was coming next.

“One of the men from Borys' group was wounded, but he escaped and managed to walk back to Prochowa and tell the story. Borys knew the risk, but there wasn't much he could do once they happened to cross paths with the Russians. They were now our
allies,
of course.” Piotr spit into the path. “As soon as they got what they needed, the fuckin' Russians just turned on them and started shooting.”

Adam thought about Natalia and the story of her village being burned to the ground by the Russians. Her family had disappeared, and her brother had been shot in the back of the head and buried in a ditch in the Katyn Forest. He'd been away from her for three days and it was killing him.

They stopped for lunch in a clearing alongside a stream, and ate heartily—cold chicken with black bread and cider. Piotr asked him again about America, obviously a subject of great interest. It reminded Adam of the night he and Natalia had huddled in the ammunition cellar in Warsaw and he told her about baseball.

“Do you miss it?” Piotr asked.

Did he miss it?
It had been so long, and so much had happened that Adam could scarcely remember. In the years since he'd left, the years during which he'd shared the agony of war with the proud and stubborn people of his birth country, his previous life in America had faded to vague recollections. But there was one thing he remembered with complete clarity, one thing he knew he would never forget. “I miss freedom,” he said.

Piotr nodded and looked off into the mountains.

The air was crisp, the blue sky crystal clear as Adam watched a hawk gliding in a lazy circle high above the beech and aspen trees. The forest was still thick at this altitude, and he imagined a lynx, or a red deer, or a wild boar keeping a close eye on them from inside the tree line. He remembered Natalia saying she wished they could escape into the mountains. It sounded wonderful . . . if it could ever happen.

Half an hour later they climbed back on the wagon and continued on, climbing higher and higher up the mountain, the path twisting and turning through thinning forests. Eventually the terrain flattened into a plateau, and the path widened into a rutted road, passing through broad grassland meadows populated with long-wooled Podhale sheep. Cabins appeared, nestled between small, neat fields of oats, potatoes and cabbage. A farmer, trudging behind an ox and plow, raised his hand to wave as they passed by.

By mid-afternoon, the village of Prochowa came into view, dozens of cabins clustered close together, all constructed in the Górale style of whole logs, squared and notched at the ends, high-pitched roofs and narrow windows. Men working the fields shouted greetings as they recognized Piotr. Women and children peeked out of cabin windows as the wagon creaked past and drew to a stop in the village center.

It was a grassy square, dominated on one side by a church with a high-peaked roof made of wood shingles. On the other side of the square was a large earthen area ringed with wooden benches and hand-hewn, oak tables. In the middle of the ring, large spits of meat roasted over wood fires, the smoke and tantalizing odor of mutton wafting through the village.

Within minutes the wagon was surrounded by a dozen hardy men dressed in coarse, felt trousers, leather moccasins and wide-brimmed hats. They joked with Piotr and glanced curiously at Adam. Women with long, braided hair partially covered with tasseled scarves or white head-cloths stood nearby, children peeking from behind their ankle-length, embroidered skirts.

Adam anxiously scanned the crowd, but his uncle was not among them.
Should he be?
What had he expected, that Banach would just suddenly appear in the middle of a crowd of mountain highlanders? He realized that he had no idea what to expect.

Piotr stood up in the wagon and held his hands in the air, silencing the crowd. He motioned for Adam to stand and addressed the group in a deep, commanding voice. “Thank you, my friends of Prochowa, for your warm welcome. Allow me to present a friend—an American—who has traveled here by way of Krakow.”

That sent a buzz through the crowd. The men glanced at one another and nodded, a ripple of applause, a few cheers. Adam's face flushed. He waved and mumbled a few words of thanks. Then he and Piotr jumped off the wagon, surrounded immediately by well-wishers patting them on the back.

A moment later a thin, regal-looking man pushed through the crowd. He appeared to be in his sixties, with leathery skin and dark piercing eyes. He wore a short black coat over a white linen shirt and gripped an ornate, hand-carved walking stick that Adam recognized as a
ciupaga,
with an axe blade on the top end and steel-tipped spear point on the bottom. The group fell silent.

Piotr removed his hat, bidding good day to Casimir and said, “I bring greetings from Krystyna.”

The elderly man smiled broadly. “Ah, Krystyna, I'm told she is with child. Is she well?”

“Getting big as a house. But she can still swat me when I do something wrong.”

Casimir laughed. “Women are all the same. She'll settle down a bit when she's chasing after a little one.”

Piotr laid his big hand on Adam's shoulder. “Allow me to present a fellow
patriot.”

The emphasis on the word “patriot” created a flicker in Casimir's eyes, and an unspoken communication passed between the two men. Casimir removed his wide-brimmed hat, revealing a shock of thick white hair. “Welcome to Prochowa,” he said, then raised his voice for the rest of the crowd. “We shall have a special meal this evening, in honor of our guest from America.”

Adam and Piotr spent the next few hours chopping and stacking firewood near the cooking fires, then touring the village. Adam was bursting with anxiety, barely able to concentrate, expecting that his uncle might appear at any moment, stepping out of one of the simple cottages, or perhaps sitting under a tree with a book. But he tried to be patient and not offend his hosts.

It was a small settlement, no more than thirty or forty dwellings Adam guessed, but incredibly clean and well-organized. Behind the church was a community building where women gathered to weave rugs. A horse stable stood nearby, with harnesses and saddles hung neatly on wooden pegs, the planked floor swept clean with not a trace of straw or manure outside the stalls. There were chicken coops and a turkey roost beyond and downwind from the main village area.

A blacksmith shop was located at the end of a narrow road, along with a millwork shop where several Górale men were hard at work producing shingles, planks and beautifully crafted wooden furniture. A young man in his mid-twenties stepped from behind a turning lathe, wiping his hands on a rag, which he stuffed into the back pocket of his coveralls. “I'm Zygmunt, the shop foreman,” the young man said pleasantly. “Would you care for a look around?”

For the next thirty minutes Zygmunt led Adam through his shop, explaining each piece of equipment and every tool, then proudly showed off a set of spindle-back chairs his crew had just completed. Adam shook his head in amazement. Like everything else in the tiny village, the millwork shop was efficiently operated and impeccably maintained, right down to the split-rail fence surrounding the building with not a rail or post askew. He found it hard to fathom that such neatness and order could still exist in this country so ravaged by war.

Later, as the sun was setting and the day's work done, the crowd drifted back to the village center, exchanging good-spirited barbs with Piotr and Adam, moving en masse toward the benches and tables. An all-male crew of cooks hoisted the spits off the fires and set about carving the meat. The village women carried jugs of apple cider and beer to the tables, along with platters of goat cheese and sweet-smelling heavy, dark bread. “It's made from oats,” one of the women told Adam, breaking off a chunk and handing it to him. “We call it
chelb.”

Adam took a bite of the chewy bread, suddenly realizing he was ravenous. He glanced around, looking for Banach, but there was no sign of him. There'd also been no acknowledgement from either Piotr or Casimir of the purpose of Adam's visit.

Plates and silverware appeared, followed by enormous platters of roast mutton, potato pancakes and steaming cauldrons of
kwasnica,
a sauerkraut soup that Adam remembered from his childhood days in Krakow. The noisy crowd quieted for a moment as Casimir offered a prayer, then resumed their chatter as the food was passed.

When the meal was finished, the women cleared the tables, the children disappeared and the men gathered by the fire pits with bottles of potato vodka. Glasses were filled, toasts proclaimed to the visitor from America and the potent drink downed in a single gulp.

After a second round of drinks, this one accompanied by a toast to
Sleboda
—Freedom—three young men moved to the center of the group with two fiddles and a goatskin bagpipe and began to play a lively mountain folk tune. Adam stood at the edge of the group, watching as several of the men joined in the singing.

After a while some of the women drifted back, and the music shifted seamlessly to something a bit slower and more rhythmic. A young woman, perhaps in her twenties, wearing a bright red-and-yellow embroidered skirt, her long blond hair woven into a waist-length braid, stepped up to Adam and took both his hands in hers. “It's called a
góralski,”
she said with a bright smile. “I'm Anastazia, Zygmunt's wife. Come and dance.”

Startled, Adam almost tripped over his feet as she quickly drew him into the center of the action. The other couples swirled effortlessly around each other in an eddy of twirling colors, touching only briefly, as the enchanting melody filled the night air. Anastazia was a good teacher, and after a few minutes he was following her lead, taking and releasing her hand, turning and bowing, right up through the grand finale when the entire group joined together in a graceful, serpentine movement Anastazia said was called the
zwyrtanie.

When the dance ended, Anastazia bowed, smiled again, then hurried off to join a group of other young women, who huddled around her, giggling. Adam had the feeling she'd just won a bet.

Suddenly he felt a large hand on his shoulder and turned to see Piotr standing behind him. The big man motioned for Adam to follow, leading him away from the group of revelers, now all clapping in time to the beat of another song.

It was dark as Piotr and Adam crossed the square except for the warm glow of kerosene lanterns in the cabin windows. Adam's heart pounded as they headed for a cabin just to the right of the church. Piotr had not said a word, and Adam knew better than to ask where they were going. He'd already figured it out.

Inside the log cabin was a large, high-peaked living area, lit by kerosene sconces on the walls and furnished with handmade wooden chairs and brightly colored, embroidered cushions. A boar's head was mounted above the door. Casimir sat at a round oak table. Another man sat next to him with his hands folded on the table, a serious-looking man, whom Adam had noticed earlier. Casimir introduced him as Doctor Buchinski and motioned for Adam to take a seat.

“You've come looking for Ludwik Banach,” Casimir said quietly. Then he turned to the doctor.

Adam could barely breathe. He knew what was coming before the doctor opened his mouth. The words seemed unreal, disjointed, as though they were talking about someone other than his uncle. “He was quite ill . . . we did all we could . . . we kept him comfortable . . . but he grew weaker . . .”

Adam looked at the doctor; his vision blurred. “When . . .?”

“Just two weeks ago,” the doctor said. “He held on longer than I expected.” He stood up, placed a hand on Adam's shoulder and left the cabin.

Adam sat in silence alongside Piotr and Casimir, with the same hollow feeling he'd had at Sachsenhausen when he first saw his uncle's name in the Nazi ledger book. He'd always feared his uncle wouldn't survive.
But to get this close? To get within two weeks?