Until Warsaw.
Until Natalia… a ray of light in a dark world.
But at the one moment when it might have mattered, he had been incapable of doing anything. It was as though his feet were buried in the same cement that had hardened his heart. At the moment when he stood watching from the window of the hospital in Raczynski Palace, he had desperately wanted to run to her and embrace her. But he was immobilized by his fear, his smoldering anger… his guilt.
And then she was gone.
Adam woke at dawn, after finally drifting off for a few restless hours. His back ached and his mind was a murky haze. Coffee helped. The English breakfast—with real eggs and real bacon—helped even more. By nine o’clock, when the taciturn chauffer arrived, he was ready to face the day, though he was still uncertain what good would come from a tour of a German concentration camp.
Whitehall’s staffer, Tom Donavan, was a tall, lanky man in shirtsleeves, sporting a colorful bow tie. He slid into a chair in Whitehall’s office with a file folder on his lap and sat quietly, waiting for instructions.
“Very well, then,” Whitehall said, “shall we get started?” He glanced at Adam. “I realize that some of this may be a bit difficult for you, old chap, but God knows, you’ve undoubtedly seen worse.”
Whitehall motioned to Donavan, who opened the folder and removed a sheet of paper. He studied it for a moment before he began. “The Sachsenhausen camp was constructed in 1938 at Oranienburg, just north of Berlin. Before the war most of the inmates were German communists and other political dissidents. After the invasion of Poland the camp was expanded, and the number of inmates grew significantly—Jews, trade union leaders, political prisoners from Germany, Czechoslovakia and, of course, Poland.” He looked up from the paper. “We estimate the total number of prisoners sent to Sachsenhausen at more than a quarter million.”
“The survivors?” Adam asked.
Donavan laid the sheet of paper on the edge of Whitehall’s desk. “We understand there were approximately three thousand survivors when the Russians liberated the camp. We don’t have any names, of course, but the Russians will have the records.”
“What happened to them?”
Donavan shook his head. “I’m afraid we don’t know. The SS guards apparently ran off before the Russians got there, and some of the survivors simply walked away. Those that were left were mostly the ones too sick or weak to leave.”
Adam turned to Whitehall. “What happens next?”
Donavan gathered his papers and left the room.
When they were alone, Whitehall said, “You’ll be going to Berlin, to join the investigation team and to find out what you can about Ludwik Banach. Of course, we’ll provide you with an entire list of names the Poles are supposedly interested in—to make it seem more logical, you understand.”
“The Russians control Berlin. How are you going to get me in?”
Whitehall leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. “A conference is being arranged between Stalin, Churchill and the new American president to implement the Yalta agreements. It will take place at Potsdam, a suburb of Berlin that is still mostly intact. British and American officers are being allowed in to make arrangements.” Whitehall swung around and hoisted himself off the chair, once again indicating the meeting was over. “It’s a frightfully tedious process, but we should be able to get you in. It’ll take a few days to work up the papers. I’ll give you a ring.”
Three days later Adam met Whitehall for dinner in a small, private dining room at the Lion’s Head Pub just down the street from SOE headquarters. It was a smoke-filled, dimly lit place with cracked leather booths and creaky floors. “Is everything set up?” Adam asked when they sat down.
Whitehall was silent as a waiter appeared, delivered two pints of ale and departed. The portly colonel took a sip of ale. “Everything’s in order. I’ve managed to get your U.S. passport renewed and cleared the mission with your State Department. God, they’re a bloody tiresome lot, wanting to know what you’ve been up to the last five years and all that rubbish.” He slid the blue passport across the table.
Adam slipped the passport into his pocket and picked up his glass, though he hated the warm, flat British beer. He’d give anything to plunge his hand into a bucket of icy cold water and pull out a frosty bottle of Budweiser. “So, what did you tell them, Colonel? What’s my cover story?”
“Yes, yes, I’m getting to that. It’s all been worked out. Quite simple actually. Almost everything is exactly the way it really happened. You’re a naturalized American citizen and a former American soldier who was born in Poland. You returned to Poland in ’36, lived with your aunt and uncle in Krakow, and went to law school. When the Germans invaded in ’39, you were deported and came to London—and this is the new part—where you’ve been ever since, working as a liaison between the British Government and the Polish Government-in-Exile.”
Adam took a swallow of beer, grimaced and set the glass down. “So, I’ve been a diplomat for the last five years instead of an assassin.”
Whitehall shrugged. “Bit of a stretch, perhaps, but your State Department bought the story. We threw a lot of paper at them, and they filed it all away.”
“I doubt the Russians will be as easy to fool, Colonel.”
“No, I’m sure they won’t be. And of course that’s the sticky part.
The Russians are very suspicious about the Americans and the British, and vice versa. Tensions are high. Everyone is treading lightly to make sure this conference comes off.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“The Russians, as you know, will not communicate directly with the Poles. That’s why I chose you. But they’ll investigate. Even though you’re an American, and a civilian, the Russians will try to find out everything they can about you. And I don’t have to tell you what their attitude is toward the AK.”
Adam snorted. “Their attitude is to wipe out the AK. But it’s a little late to worry about that now, isn’t it?”
“It’s never too late to change plans. What I want to know is, are you sure the Russians don’t know who you are? Are you sure they don’t know the name Adam Nowak?”
Adam set his glass down. “I haven’t used that name in six years.” The mention of his name to Natalia in the ammunition cellar flitted through Adam’s mind, but he ignored it. “I haven’t used it since the day I arrived in Antwerp in November of ’39 and telephoned you. I was nobody then, a former student who’d been doing research for his uncle, and I was being deported from the country. And Poland has been in chaos ever since.” He paused, glancing around the small dining room, making sure they were alone. “If the Russians knew who I was, Colonel, I wouldn’t be here. I’m exactly what your people trained me to be: dark and silent.”
Whitehall beamed. “Well then, Adam Nowak is back.”
The food arrived: baked fish and cold vegetables. They both picked at it with little enthusiasm. After a while, Whitehall wiped his mouth and dropped the napkin on top of his plate, obviously eager to get on with the business at hand. “The Russians will go through the motions at the Potsdam conference, but we doubt they have any intention of allowing free elections in Poland,” he said. “According to our intelligence, they’re organizing a group of Polish communists in Lublin as the new government.”