When Adam reached the table, he handed his credentials to one of the officers who gave him a long hard look, then muttered something in Russian. The second officer laughed at the apparent joke and looked up at Adam, shaking his head.
Adam remained silent and kept his eyes on the officer holding his credentials, wishing he had a pistol under his coat. It was the first time in many years he’d been without a weapon, and he felt naked. The officer was a major with the NKVD 105th Frontier Guards Division. He looked to Adam exactly like every cartoon he’d ever seen of Russian officers—a squat, thick-necked Ivan.
The major studied Adam’s credentials for a long time, then looked up and snarled a question in Russian.
Adam responded in English, “I don’t understand.”
The major scowled and called over his shoulder to one of the riflemen.
The rifleman stepped forward, bent down and listened to whispered instructions. Then he straightened up and stepped toward Adam.
“Hold on!” someone shouted from behind the table.
The din of chatter and laughter in the terminal abruptly ceased as an American army officer pushed through the crowd, followed by two American Eighty-Second Airborne troopers toting submachine guns.
The American officer, who was about average in height, but solidly built with curly black hair, looked down at the NKVD major and pointed at Adam. “This man is with us. May I have his papers?”
The Russian glared at the American, and Adam knew that this Ivan wanted nothing more than to be able to stand up toe-to-toe, but the American officer had moved in too close. A momentary stare-down ensued. Finally, the Russian major turned back to Adam and held out the papers, gesturing with a jerk of his head for him to move on.
Adam snatched his papers and squeezed past the Russian rifleman, who had not backed off. The two Eighty-Second Airborne troopers fell in behind Adam and the American officer as the crowd of American and British soldiers opened a pathway for them to the terminal exit. Adam heard a British voice shout, “Way to go, Yank. Give the bloody bastard hell!”
Outside, the American officer led the way to the first of two Jeeps flying U.S. flags and motioned for Adam to climb in the backseat. A very young-looking American corporal sat behind the wheel. A moment later, a Russian Army truck rumbled alongside with two NKVD officers in the cab and four scruffy, unshaven Red Army soldiers sitting on benches in the open rear compartment. The driver nodded at the Americans, gunned the engine and swerved in front, spraying the Jeep with dust and bits of gravel. The young American corporal spit the dust from his mouth and mumbled an obscenity as he shoved the Jeep into gear.
As they followed the Russian truck out of the aerodrome, the American officer leaned over to Adam and extended his hand. “Colonel Tim Meinerz, with the Judge Advocate General’s office. I’m head of the investigation team.”
Adam shook his hand. “Adam Nowak. I’m your ‘Civilian Liaison Officer,’ whatever that means.” He jerked his thumb back toward the terminal. “Thanks for your help.”
Colonel Meinerz nodded. “I’m sure they piled it on a little extra for a civilian diplomat. So far they’ve been assholes about everything.”
“Well, you did the right thing. The only way to deal with them is to stick your nose in their face.” Or a knife in their ribs.
Meinerz laughed. “Of course, a couple of Eighty-Second Airborne troopers carrying submachine guns always helps.”
They exited the grounds of the aerodrome, and Adam looked around, squinting, his eyes watering from the dust. He cleaned his glasses and took another look. As far as he could see, not one building was intact. All had been reduced to nothing more than heaps of rubble with an occasional chimney, or the jagged edge of a wall poking through the debris. A smell hung in the air, a musty, masonry smell, like wet concrete mixed with smoke. It did, indeed, look very much like his last memory of Warsaw—and it gave him a morbid sense of satisfaction.
“Technically this area is in our sector,” Colonel Meinerz said loudly over the roar of the Jeep. “But both sides are still arm wrestling about the timing of the handover. For now, the Russians are our ‘escorts,’ and we’re under instructions to follow them. They’ll take a roundabout route to make sure you see the sights. They seem proud of their handiwork.”
Had Adam not been in Warsaw during the last days of the Rising, he wouldn’t have believed it possible to lay waste to a city to this extent. Amidst a never-ending expanse of destruction, the only human activity Adam noticed were small isolated groups of women, ragged shawls over their heads, listlessly clearing away piles of bricks from the fronts of shattered buildings. The closer they got to the center of the city, the more appalling the destruction. The piles of debris became mountains, many still smoldering, the rising heat carrying a nauseating odor of rotting flesh. Burned-out tanks and wrecked trucks stood half-submerged in the muck of bomb craters filled with water from broken mains.
By the time they reached the Landwehrkanal, even the rubble-women had disappeared. Sewer pipes dangled from beneath sections of smashed bridges, disgorging thick, brown liquid into the scum-covered waterway. Adam put his hand over his face to fend off the stench and turned away, glancing up ahead at the Russian truck. The Red Army soldiers lounged in the back, smoking cigarettes.
They followed the roadway along the stinking canal for several minutes, then headed south, away from the city center. Gradually the destruction became less complete, and they passed through neighborhoods where perhaps a third of the buildings were still intact. Little glass remained in any of the windows, and the streets were littered with debris, but the rubble-women had reappeared, shoveling bricks into carts. Now and then a few ragged children scampered over the piles, and two old men, struggling with a cart filled with boards and corrugated metal, stared at them with blank, sullen eyes as the Jeep rumbled past.
Later, they were sitting on the terrace of an immense three-story mansion in Schoenberg, part of the American district of Berlin. The elaborate brick-and-stone structure, complete with marble columns, tiled gables and wrought-iron railings, had somehow survived the Russian bombardments with only a few broken windows.
“The house used to be owned by some big-shot German industrialist,” Meinerz said, handing Adam a bottle of dark and refreshingly cold German beer. “He owned some chemical plants in the Ruhr valley, a loyal Nazi, so I heard. Apparently he and the family fled just before Berlin fell, took only what clothes they could carry and the contents of a wall safe in the drawing room. We commandeered it for American officers, and guests.”
“How fast the mighty can fall,” Adam said, glancing out at the neatly trimmed hedges that surrounded a rose garden just beginning to bloom.
Meinerz took a long swallow of beer, then ran a hand through his thick, curly hair. “I looked over the dossier we received from the Brits. You’re a former American soldier with medals in marksmanship and sniper training?”
“That’s right.”
“But you spent the war as a diplomat in London?”
Adam had prepared himself for how strange that would seem. “I served back in the thirties, peacetime army, Fort Benning, Georgia.” He tapped his eyeglasses. “Since then my eyesight’s gone bad. Probably from all the damn books we had to read in law school.”
Meinerz smiled, taking another swig of beer. “Amen to that.” He pointed at Adam’s left ear. “You get that at Fort Benning?”