of bodies, the army greatcoats and boots marking each man an officer. Close-ups. A neat hole in the back of each head. Hands tied behind the back with rough twine.
“Is this how they were all killed? Hands tied, and a bullet in the back of the head, I mean.”
“For the most part, yes. Reports from the Red Cross indicated that some had their hands tied with barbed wire. There were some with stab wounds from bayonets, but those were in the minority, likely those who resisted at the last minute,” Radecki said, lighting another cigarette. “It appears they were driven into the woods, then forced to walk to the pits. Each man saw, and heard, what was done to those who went before him.”
It was a horrible vision, but what I was seeing was not a forest outside of Smolensk. It was a London neighborhood near the Liverpool Street Tube Station, where a dead Russian was found, his hands bound behind his back with string, and a single bullet hole to the back of the head. I looked at Kaz and wondered.
“It is a terrible sight, isn’t it?” Radecki asked.
“Can you be certain this wasn’t done by the Germans and then blamed on the Russians, as a propaganda ploy?”
“Yes, we are certain, and so is the International Red Cross. The bodies were all heavily clothed, which points to the date of the killings as being April of 1940, when the temperature was still quite cold. The Russian story is that the Germans captured the Poles in August 1941, when they were performing roadwork as part of a labor detail. The clothing does not make sense for hot, dusty summer work.”
“And there is the matter of the letters,” Horak said. “Both the letters that were returned, and the fact that many letters and other documents were recovered with the bodies. None had a date after April 1940.”
“This is a Russian crime, Billy. A mass murder. And no one wants to hear about it,” Kaz said. “The British government worries that a split over this might move the Russians to make a separate peace with the Germans. They are quite willing to let us die to defend England, but they will not seek justice for our murdered dead.”
“Look at this,” Radecki said, handing me a memo on the stationery of His Majesty’s Government. It was from Anthony Eden, British foreign secretary, to Winston Churchill, on the Katyn revelations. One line stood out:
His Majesty’s Government have used their best efforts not to allow these German maneuvers to have even the semblance of success.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“The best efforts of a government in peril often bring out the worst they are capable of,” Radecki said as he took the memo back. “It means that the British will never reveal that the Russians were responsible for the executions. It is not in their interest.”
“How did you get this letter?”
“Remember, London is a city of spies.”
“I will,” I said, looking Radecki in the eye, and wondering if he went out armed, and what caliber his weapon was. “Do you think the American government will listen to you if the British won’t?”
“We hope so. We hear that General Eisenhower is a fair man.”
“Major Horak,” I said, appealing to the ranking officer present. “If there is one thing the general values above all, it is Allied unity. Fair or not, I don’t see him risking that, no matter how strong your evidence. You could argue it was all circumstantial. A clever plot by the Nazis to divide the Allies. There are no living witnesses, except Russians.”
“That is not quite the case, Lieutenant Boyle. There is someone we would like you to meet.” He nodded, and Radecki and Kaz left the room. “There is a witness. Lieutenant Kazimierz will bring him in. It is best if Captain Radecki is not present. He may make him somewhat nervous.”
“Why?”
“The ordeal has been difficult, and he would prefer to not speak of it. Radecki had rather insisted, and the poor fellow suffered a setback, so we kept them apart for a while. Then we tried again, and their relationship improved greatly, but still, there is no need for a crowd. Our guest does have a nervous disposition. Ah, here they are!” The door opened, and Kaz entered the room with a young man. Kaz had his arm around him, and I wasn’t sure if it was to keep him from falling over or running away. His eyes flitted around the room, as if he was searching for an unknown threat. Kaz whispered something to him and he relaxed as they drew nearer.
“Tad, this is my friend, the American I told you about. Billy, this is Tadeusz Tucholski.”
“Glad to meet you,” I said, standing and extending my hand. Tadeusz flinched.
“It’s all right,” Horak said in a calming voice. “We are all good friends here.”
“Yes, yes, sir,” Tadeusz said. “Sorry.” He and Kaz sat on the couch together. Tadeusz was dressed in the same uniform with the Poland shoulder patch, but he wore no indication of rank or other insignia. He looked maybe twenty, but it was hard to tell. His face was thin and pale, and his dark eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets. He rubbed his hands together, rubbed them on his pants, then together again. He studied them for a minute, and then spoke without moving his eyes off them.
“They want me to tell you, to tell you what I saw. I don’t want to, but I will. I know it is important.” The words came out in a rush, the rapidity of his speech at odds with the stillness of his body.
“If you want to,” I said. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Coffee?” He sounded like it was the oddest question he’d ever heard. “Yes, please.” I poured a cup from the silver coffee service and put it down in front of him. I filled my cup and held it, wisps of steam drifting above it. I took a sip, and it was still warm.
“I was a cadet,” Tadeusz began. “When the Russians came, I was a cadet, in training to become an officer, you understand? In a special school for cadets.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said. He spoke English well, though with a heavy accent.
“They took us prisoner. It was terrible. At first, they put all of us in the basement of a building. They left us there for three days. No food, no bathroom. A little water, nothing else. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Three days, over one hundred cadets. In a dark basement. Do you understand?” He took the cup and saucer in his hands. They trembled, and the china made a clattering, clinking sound as he spilled coffee into the saucer. Kaz took it from him gently and touched his arm.
“Then we spent two days and two nights in railcars. There was bread and water. It was bad, but not as bad as the basement. There was fresh air, and we had something to eat. Do you understand?” He raised his voice, the question insistent.
“Yes, I do. It wasn’t as bad.”
“No, and then they marched us to the camp. There were showers, and barracks. Soup for dinner. We thought the worst of it was over. They let us write home. They questioned us, each of us, alone. They seemed to know a great deal about us, what our parents did, what youth groups we belonged to. There were many rumors, always about going to Romania. They were going to send us there any day. But that day never came.”
“What happened next?” Kaz prompted him.
“They came for me one morning. I thought it would be more of the same. More questions about school, the other cadets, and about Marxism. They wanted us to believe in Marx and Stalin, but no one listened. I thought it was going to be more of the same. But they beat me. A big NKVD sergeant, he started beating me while an officer sat in a chair and watched. No one said anything. Then they threw me out into the snow.
The next day, they came for me again. This time the officer sat at a table. He had a confession for me to sign. It was in Russian, and he told me it was my confession about spying for the Germans.”
“But you were just a kid,” I said.
“They said my father was a spy. He had been to Berlin, for business meetings. He was an architect, so it was normal for him to travel. I tried to explain, but they said we were all spies, all capitalists, my father, mother, and little sister, we were all enemies of the people. He told me my father had confessed, and showed me a piece of paper with his signature. It was his, I recognized it. I knew they had forced him, I knew he was not a spy, not an enemy of anyone. He was an architect, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. They told me it was important for you to understand. I wouldn’t talk about it otherwise. It’s too painful.”
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“Yes, I must, it is my duty. I did not sign. They told me they would be lenient with my mother and sister if I signed. But I was smarter than that. I knew that if my mother and sister had confessed, they would have shown me
