Chapter Fourteen
December, 1946 – February, 1947
Kwonowski donned his overcoat and led Colling out into a fenced yard behind the shop. Two bicycles were leaning against the building’s rear wall, and the electrician invited Colling to use one of them. They rode together to the woods where Colling had hidden Jalesow’s truck.
When he saw the pickup, Kwonowski whistled under his breath to show he was impressed that Colling was in possession of a Soviet Ford, but he stopped short of asking Colling how he had managed to do so. They threw the bicycles into the back of the truck, and Kwonowski told Colling he would show him where to drive.
Once on the main road, the electrician gave directions that took them several kilometers further east of Dwiespestka. Colling had begun to wonder whether the man knew where he was going when Kwonowski suddenly pointed to two pines that seemed to be more widely spaced than the others in the forest on the left side of the road. Colling skidded to a halt, and Kwonowski told him to drive between the trees, assuring him that there was enough clearance for the truck.
A rough narrow track had been cut through the woods, winding in and out between the trees. After some time, the track widened, and Colling could see that it was paved with gravel. They traveled along for a kilometer or so before they emerged from the forest into a wide driveway in front of a two-story villa sheltered by the overhanging boughs of massive firs. The house was white stucco, trimmed in dark wood. Its gables were rounded in the usual style of Polish country mansions. Colling could see outbuildings behind the main house, and as they stepped out of the truck, he could faintly hear barnyard sounds coming from that direction.
The villa’s front door opened as Colling and Kwonowski crunched across the gravel driveway, and a heavily-built man wearing an old-fashioned black formal frock coat came down the semicircular steps leading to the mansion’s entrance.
“Dzien Dobry, Kwonowski,” said the man in accented Polish, “What brings you out here?”
Gesturing to Colling, Kwonowski replied, “Hermann, this is Mr. Krazinsky, from the United States of America. Might we see the Countess, please?”
Colling extended his hand, and Hermann took it, saying, “Welcome, Mr. Krazinsky. I am Hermann, butler to the Countess. Follow me.”
The interior of the villa was expensively furnished in walnut and mahogany. Oil paintings decorated the walls, and there were stands holding bronze and marble sculptures in the entrance hall. Colling guessed that the Countess was not only appreciative of the arts, but had the wherewithal to indulge her tastes.
Hermann ushered them in a book-lined library off the entrance hall and asked them to remain there while he fetched the Countess. Colling seated himself in a chair and leaned back and crossed his legs. He noticed that Kwonowski took a chair as well, but sat stiffly without leaning back, his cap held in his hands. The electrician pointed to the chandelier and said, “Electric lights, no?”
When Colling looked up and noticed that the light from the chandelier did in fact come from electric bulbs, he was taken aback. Before he could comment, Kwonowski continued, “They are too far from town to have use of Dwiespestka’s hydro power. The Count was trained as an engineer. The estate has a water-driven sawmill about a half-kilometer off, and he added a generator right after he bought the place.”
“And that is how you came to know the Countess?” asked Colling.
“For truth. The Count was smart enough to lay in a supply of spare parts, and I have maintained the generator and the electrical system these many years. But a shaft bearing is, I fear, not long for this world, and then, unless a replacement can be brought from Germany, there will no electricity for the estate.”
Kwonowski was explaining something about the voltage differential between the generator and the house when Hermann returned accompanied by a frail white-haired old woman, leaning on his arm for support. The butler announced, “Gentlemen. The Countess von Brechtsler.”
Kwonowski rose immediately and bowed slightly to the Countess, and Colling decided he should do the same. As Colling straightened he looked up to see the old woman staring at him. She asked, “Who is this person, Sebastien?”
“An American, Madame,” said Kwonowski. “His name is Krazinsky.”
Colling stepped forward and said, “Jerry Krazinsky, Madame. From Milwaukee, U.S.A.”
“I know perfectly well where Milwaukee is, young man.”
“Yes, Madame,” said Colling sheepishly.
“And what occasion is it that brings you here?” she asked Colling.
Kwonowski interjected, “Mr. Krazinsky does not wish to encounter the Russians, Madame.”
“Nor do I, Sebastien, nor do I. Am I to assume, Mr. Krazinsky, that you seek shelter?”
“I would be most appreciative if you could provide, Madame. I am prepared to pay.”
“This is not a hotel, Mr. Krazinsky. We do not charge our guests room and board,” said the Countess. She sized Colling up for a moment, then continued, “You speak Polish quite well. Somewhat of a slight accent, but not bad. You could pass for a Pomeranian Pole.”
Surprised, all Colling could think of to say was, “Thank you, Madame. I learned from the family of my mother. They were all born in Poland.”
“What brings you to Poland, young man?”
“A woman friend has been taken by the Russians, Madame. It is possible that she is being held in the camp near here. It is my ambition to free her, if I can.”
“You know of this, Sebastien?” asked the Countess, turning to Kwonowski.
“Yes, Madame. This is why it is important that Mr. Krazinsky have a safe place to stay while he proceeds about his business. He has a motor vehicle that he wishes to put out of sight, as well.”
“Very well,” said the Countess, “Hermann, after you have taken me back to my sitting room, show Mr. Krazinsky where he might conceal his motorcar, and then show him to one of the bedrooms. Sebastien, you may be assured that Mr. Krazinsky will be well-cared for. Mr. Krazinsky, you will join me for supper at eight.”
Colling and Kwonowski waited in the library until Hermann returned from escorting the Countess to her room. The butler showed Colling the stables where he was able to park the pickup. Kwonowski took his bicycle from the truck, leaving the other for Colling to use if he should have a need to return to Dwiespestka. The electrician explained that he knew one of the camp guards, and the man would be in the tavern in town that night. Kwonowski would try to find out if he knew of a young blonde woman prisoner, and would return to the villa with any news the following day.
Refusing to let Hermann carry his luggage, Colling followed the butler to a bedroom on the second floor. There was a bath down the hall, and Colling indulged himself with a hot soak before putting on fresh clothes before he would join the Countess for dinner.
Hermann knocked on Colling’s door a minute or so before eight, and took him to a sitting room at the end of hall on the same floor. A table for two had been prepared, set elegantly with linen, crystal and sterling. They were served a first-rate Zurek soup by a maid whom the Countess addressed as Helga. The soup was followed by thick sliced pork roast in gravy, potatoes and vegetables. The meal seemed more for Colling’s benefit than the Countess, who had been served only small portions and, even at that, picked at her food.
When they were alone, Colling spoke to her in German, asking how she came to be in Poland, instead of Germany. The Countess at first seemed startled that he spoke the language, then pleased. Colling explained that he actually had some formal education in the German language, while he had simply learned Polish from speaking it with his relatives.
The Countess admitted that, except for occasionally conversing with her two servants, she had not spoken German in years. The opportunity to do so seemed to open the floodgates, and she was soon matter-of-factly telling Colling of her background.
Her late husband had been a businessman who had seen opportunity in Poland between the wars. Count von Brechtsler had established himself with the Pilsudski government and became a success at everything from agriculture to banking. Their primary residence remained in Berlin, but they spent considerable time in their houses in Warsaw and Krakow as well. The villa hidden in the forest was a vacation home where they could escape to the countryside.
They had three children, two sons and a daughter, all of whom had become adherents of Adolf Hitler. Her daughter married a primary school teacher whose ambition for higher station led him to join the SS. The Countess did admit that he looked quite handsome in his black and silver uniform. The Count died in 1936, and the Countess, disgusted by the Nazis’ boorish manners as much as anything, deserted Berlin for the villa, where she had remained ever since. By 1938, both her sons had left the family business in the hands of managers to become officers in the Wehrmacht. She had last seen her older son two months after the invasion of Poland. He had brought a group of his fellow officers to the villa. They had been most gracious and charming, but as they were leaving, her son suggested that he have someone from his unit dynamite the bridge over which the estate’s main access road passed, in order to isolate the place. She had taken his advice, and it had turned out to be fortuitous. The track through the forest that Kwonowski had shown Colling had become the only way in or out. The locals were aware, of course, but neither German nor Russian troops passing through the area had stumbled upon their hideaway. She had helped and supported the Home Army guerrillas who operated in the area, and the villa had remained unmolested. The estate actually consisted of a cluster of working tenant farms, and throughout the war they had been better fed than most.
She had not received correspondence from her children since the summer of 1943. It was assumed that her sons were either dead or prisoners of the Russians, and that her daughter and grandchildren…there were two…had been killed by Allied bombs. Their attachment to Hitler had put the final touch to an estrangement that had begun before the Count’s death, and she had resigned herself to the prospect that she was destined to be the last of the Von Brechstlers.
The Countess asked Colling about his family, and he answered with a mixture of fact and fiction, leaving out any reference to his namesake’s Communist background or his own prior history with the Army. He did go into some detail concerning his objective of rescuing Elizabeth, if she were still alive. The Countess listened intently to his story, but made little comment.
Colling slept well that night in a comfortable bed, a significant improvement over the Polonia and the inns and hostels he had stayed in since leaving Krakow. He awoke the next morning and realized that he had not dreamed of Jalesow. Except for that momentary rush of emotion after striking Jalesow down, he believed himself to have been unaffected by the man’s death. He had been bothered for days after the episode with the German deserters, and he wondered whether killing another human being was something that became easier with repetition.
Colling shut the double doors to the library, but remained standing near them in order to learn as much as he could. From what he was able to hear, the visitor was a doctor who had come from Krakow. The physician was conducted upstairs to the Countess’ sitting room, and a half-hour later, Colling heard him speaking to Hermann, giving instructions on increasing the dosage of morphine. Once the doctor had gone, Colling confronted Hermann and bluntly asked what was wrong with the Countess.
“Alas, Mr. Krazinsky, the Countess is gravely ill with a malignancy,” said the butler.
“Is it the cancer?” asked Colling.
“Just so. Her pain requires greater and greater amounts of morphine.”
Colling expressed his regrets that the Countess was so ill. Hermann thanked him in a dejected tone of voice and excused himself.
Kwonowski arrived at mid-afternoon. He joined Colling in the library. He closed the doors behind him, and after removing his overcoat and hat, related what he had been able to discover. The evening before, the electrician had met in the village tavern with the soldier who was assigned to the guard detail at the camp. Kwonowski was of the opinion that the man’s information was reasonably trustworthy, explaining that the guard was a native of eastern Poland who had been drafted into the Red Army in 1944 during the Soviet advance. Prior to his conscription, he had managed four years of successfully avoiding military service. He was unhappy that he was not being allowed to return home now that the war was over, and had no love for the NKVD officers who were in charge of the prison. He did, however, consider himself lucky to be a cook, which was better than standing in a guard tower with a rifle. His duties allowed him access to the prisoners’ quarters to supervise the distribution of food, and he was able to confirm that a young blonde woman was being held at the camp.
That morning, Kwonowski himself had bicycled to the camp to perform routine maintenance on the old generator. In the course of inspecting it, he had managed to strike up a conversation with the sergeant who was assigned to accompany him while he did his work, and ask about the blonde woman prisoner. To provide an explanation about his interest, Kwonowski told the sergeant that there were rumors in the village that she was a German motion picture actress, and asked if she was as good looking as the gossip said she was. The guard had laughed and told Kwonowski, “Not any more.”
When Kwonowski saw the pained look that this brought to Colling’s face, he apologized, but Colling told the electrician to go on with his story.
Speaking gently, Kwonowski continued, telling Colling that the sergeant had said that it appeared that the NKVD was through with the blonde woman, and that she would be sent to the east within the next few days.
Colling asked, “Can you take me to the camp? Someplace where I can look it over?”
“Of course,” said Kwonowski. “Fetch your bicycle and I will take you there.”
Before leaving, Colling asked Hermann if there were a pair of binoculars in the house, and the butler obligingly went off and returned with a large leather case.
Kwonowski and Colling pedalled towards Dwiespestka first, then the Pole showed Colling a place where they could push their bicycles through the woods to the top of a forested ridge overlooking the camp. They moved cautiously to the edge of the forest, remaining concealed behind a snow-covered fallen tree. The compound was about half a kilometer from them, and Colling used the high-powered field glasses to survey the place. There were several wooden barracks, a larger building that Colling guessed was the headquarters where it was likely interrogations took place, and a scattering of other smaller structures. Kwonowski pointed out the shed where the camp generator was located, as well as the cookhouse.
As they watched, an olive-drab car with red stars on its sides chugged into sight on the road below where Colling and Kwonowski were hidden. Beside him, Kwonowski said, “Same time of day, always.” The car turned in and came to a stop in front of the camp gate, which was then opened by as soldier who emerged from a sentry box. The car, which Colling recognized as an old Opel, pulled in front of the main structure. Two uniformed men climbed out of the car and stamped up the building’s steps and disappeared inside. Colling could see that the trim on their peaked caps was red, indicating they were probably Red Army, and not NKVD.
After several minutes, the two soldiers returned, followed by two men wearing Soviet enlisted men’s uniforms. The second pair of soldiers was supporting a man between them who seemed to have difficulty walking, and they were half-dragging, half-carrying his limp form. The man was wrapped in a blanket, but Colling could see that his feet were bare, and that he was probably wearing a pajama-like prison uniform.
Kwonowski whispered in his ear, “The drivers are Russians. They don’t want to have to touch the prisoners. Afraid of catching something. They let the Polish guards do the dirty work.”
The two Russian soldiers took their places in the front of the Opel, while the two guards half-threw their burden into the back seat. With a cloud of smoke from its exhaust, the car started and was driven out of the camp.
Colling said, “I’ve seen what I came to see.”
The afternoon sun was low in the sky when they made it back to the main road to Dwiespestka. The air had become colder, and Kwonowski wanted to return home before dark. Before they parted, however, Colling asked, “Do you know of some men who might be available to assist me?”
“There are many hereabouts who would be willing.”
“I have money to pay,” added Colling.
“That would be welcome. Times are hard.”
“I will need three men. Good men, not afraid and able to keep their mouths shut.”
“I know such men,” said Kwonowski.
“And three wagons with horses. I will drive one of them. These also I will pay for.”
“Easily done.”
“And some crates with fowl or pigs, small pigs.”
Kwonowski frowned, a puzzled look on his face. “You wish livestock? I would have thought you would want men with firearms.”
“It is my wish to use guile, not force,” replied Colling.
The Pole rubbed his chin, and after a moment’s reflection, said, “Chickens are best.”
“I want nice plump chickens,” said Colling. “A dozen or two.”
“One of the men who will do this with you has such chickens. It will be done.”
“Tell each of the men I will pay one hundred American dollars for their services. And two dollars for any chicken that is not back in its cage after the work is done. You must bring these men to the Countess’ villa tomorrow, so that I may tell them what they must do.”
“Just so,” said Kwonowski, “Tomorrow at 1600 it shall be.”
Early the next morning, Colling went to take the pickup from the stable where it had been hidden. He was already in its cab when Hermann appeared and rapped on the truck’s window.
“Yes, Hermann, what is it?” asked Colling.
“Pardon, sir, but driving this vehicle upon the roads may prove very dangerous. The Russians are known to patrol now and again.”
“But I must use it, Hermann. I have some errands that I must perform that require that I travel some distance.”
“You might wish to use the motorcycle, Mr. Krazinsky. It might prove less conspicuous.”
“You have a motorcycle?” asked Colling, a touch of disbelief in his voice.
“Oh, quite so, sir. Let me show you,” said the butler, indicating that Colling should follow him.
The motorcycle was an older German model with the Zundapp trademark on its sides. It had not been driven in some time, and it took some prompting from Colling and Hermann before it finally sputtered into life. Colling had learned to ride his Uncle Otto’s motorcycle, an old Indian model, around the country roads near the farm where he spent his summers, but he had to ask Hermann to give him some pointers on how to operate the German machine. Colling filled the tank with gasoline from one of the pickup’s jerry cans, and after a few spins around the stable yard, he felt confident enough to take it on the road.
Colling found the motorcycle handled well, in spite of the poor condition of the road and the frozen ruts he encountered. He sought out the route that he discerned led east from the prison camp, and rode until he came around a curve and saw the camp’s cluster of buildings in the distance. He then backtracked, looking for a place where he might put to work the plan he had in mind.
About five kilometers from where he started he found what he wanted. The road curved to the left, sharply enough so that anyone rounding the curve would not have a clear line of sight in the direction from where they had just come. Colling found a suitable place to conceal a horse-drawn wagon in the forest bordering the road. Now it would be necessary to put everything into place and hope that things would work out as he envisioned.
Colling was warming himself before the fire in the villa’s kitchen, watching Helga and Hermann piece together a mannequin from discarded articles of clothing, when the Countess unexpectedly walked through the door.
Hermann jumped as she asked, “Hermann, what is going on here? You have not asked what I wish for lunch.”
“Sorry, Madame,” replied the butler, while Helga dropped what she was doing and went to the stove, saying that there was soup and stew cooking.
“You have still not answered my question,” said the Countess, “What are you doing?”
Colling interjected, “Assisting me, Highness. I have diverted them with a task, and for that I humbly apologize.”
“And what may this task be, Herr Krazinsky?”
“The assembly of a mannequin, Highness. It is my intent to substitute it for the young lady I wish to rescue from the Russians.”
“That will not prove to be a lasting ruse, Herr Krazinsky. If you are able to make a substitution, it is certain to be discovered in short order.”
“True, Highness, but I hope to gain enough time to permit us to put some distance between ourselves and them.”
“And then they will tear this countryside apart looking for you. That will create great hardship for the people who live here.”
“I will instruct everyone that they are to cooperate with the authorities and tell them we have fled westwards,” said Colling, his words more confident than his thoughts.
“I would not think Sebastien will appreciate an interrogation, nor would I or those for whom I am responsible. I would not want the Russians finding my home. They are barbarians.”
This was the one aspect of his plan that Colling had been wrestling with. Try as he might, he could see no way in which Sebastien and the Countess, and the others who would be helping him, would not be subject to harm in the aftermath of his escape. He had no answer, and the only thing he could think of to say was, “If no one resists them, the Russians should have no reason to harm anyone.”
The Countess said, “Hmmpf,” and turning on her heel, told Hermann to bring her lunch to her in her sitting room.
That afternoon, Kwonowski and three men arrived in two wagons. The electrician introduced them, all farmers in the region, and one-time members of the Polish Home Army. Colling took them to the stable and outlined his plan to them as they eagerly listened, offering comments and suggestions to improve their chances of success.
Colling expressed frankly that his main concern was timing. Kwonowski had told him that the transport from the camp took place late in the afternoon, and the electrician repeated his earlier statement. One of the farmers confirmed what Kwonowski said. His was the farm bordering the camp, and he had seen the Russians driving to and from the place on many occasions. He added that the reason for this was that the prisoners were driven only so far as Koltraskow, fifty kilometers away, where they were put on a train to be sent further east. The car had to conform to the railway schedule, so that the prisoners could be placed directly on the train. There was no place in Koltraskow where they could be held, and the station master, who carried some weight because he was a Communist, did not want prisoners waiting anywhere near his station.
When he had finished, Colling reminded them of the risk involved, both to themselves and their families and friends, and offered them to chance to withdraw. None of them accepted, and in fact, expressed their pleasure at the opportunity to irritate the Russians.
Kwonowski explained that one of the wagons was Colling’s, and they would return to their homes in the second. Colling reminded them of the curve in the road where they were to rendezvous the next day at mid-afternoon.
Throughout the following day, Colling was filled with nervous anticipation. He and Hermann placed the mannequin in the wagon under a tarpaulin. Hermann had somewhere borrowed peasant’s clothes for Colling to wear, and Colling repeatedly went over in his mind what was to take place before the day ended. He realized that they could not be certain that there would be a transport that afternoon, or that when it occurred, that Elizabeth would be the prisoner being transported. He carried his Luger, prepared to use it if he had to.
Just after noon, he set out in the cart, and not quite two hours later, he found the Poles waiting for him beside the road in two wagons at the place he had designated. One of the wagons, with two of the men riding in it, held a high stack of wooden slatted cages filled with quietly squawking chickens. In front of it was the second wagon, driven by only one man. Colling reminded the Poles of what they must do, then drove his wagon far ahead of them around the curve and pulled in among the trees.
An hour had passed before Colling heard the Opel’s coughing engine, and a few seconds later the car passed his hiding place, headed towards the camp. Colling hoped that his companions were now moving slowly towards him as planned. He stood on the seat of his wagon to obtain a better view of the road in the direction of the camp. He estimated he was afforded a clear view of over two kilometers, and he watched expectantly with the binoculars for the car’s return.
The winter sun was bright overhead, and Colling first saw the car as a small moving dark spot in the clear air. As it came closer, he adjusted the binoculars to keep the vehicle in as sharp a focus as possible. He wanted to see into the back seat, but the car was jostling over the road so that it made it difficult to hold its image steady.
It took a split second for what he was seeing to register, then he realized that the figure seated in the car’s rear seat was that of a man. It was too late to try and drive the wagon to warn his companions, and he almost panicked. But then in an instant, he jumped from the wagon seat to the ground and took off running through the woods towards where he estimated the other two wagons would be by now. He broke from the cover of the trees just as the driver of the first wagon was alighting, and Colling shouted at him to get back on his cart and drive into the forest. The men on the second wagon heard him and reacted first, the driver slapping its horse and steering for an opening in the pines. Colling took the bridle of the horse pulling the other wagon and with its driver urging the horse on, managed to pull among the trees just seconds before the Opel rounded the curve. As the car passed, Colling could see that the prisoner whose head lolled back against the seat was indeed male.
Colling told the farmers that they could return to their homes, but to meet again at the same time and place the next day. As he drove his wagon back to the villa, Colling cursed himself for all the mistakes he had made. He had not prepared a way to be certain it was Elizabeth being transported; he had not anticipated the need to call off the rescue attempt at the last minute; he had not even thought it would have to be called off, and now he wondered whether the Russians in the car had noticed the tracks of the wagons they had passed leading into the woods, and whether they would find that strange. If they attempted the same thing tomorrow, would those in the car find it odd that they would pass the same farm wagons on the same road two days in a row?
Feeling utterly frustrated, he unhitched the horse in the villa’s stable, and gave the animal a rub-down to drive out the cold. After seeing that it was fed, he went into the house. Helga had a hot meal waiting on the table in the kitchen, and invited him to sit and eat. Hermann came in a few minutes later and asked why he had not had one of the farm hands see to the horse and cart. Colling snapped that he needed the exercise, and the two servants left him to eat alone.
That night, Kwonowski visited the villa. The electrician had already heard about the false start that had occurred that afternoon. He told Colling that it was almost certain that the blonde woman prisoner would be transported the next day. Colling stopped himself from saying that he had heard that before, and told the Pole that there would be another attempt.
After breakfast the following morning, Colling rode the Zundapp to the place where he had waited with his wagon the previous day. He left the motorcycle covered with some branches and hiked back to the villa. There was less in the way of preparation to be done, and for some reason he could not discern, Colling found himself calmer than he had been the day before.
The rendezvous with the two wagons on the road was repeated, and after positioning his own wagon, Colling uncovered the Zundapp and rode to the place overlooking the camp where he and Kwonowski had hidden themselves two days before. It was not long until the same olive-drab Opel arrived, and the two Russians entered the headquarters building. Soon after, they came out followed by two guards carrying a limp figure between them. Colling recognized Elizabeth’s face, thinner and paler, above the blanket that was wrapped around her.
Colling pushed the motorcycle down the reverse slope of the ridge for a short distance before starting the engine and racing off towards the road. He was well ahead of the Opel, and was already in the seat of his wagon, watching with the binoculars as the car came into view.
The Polish farmers played their parts to perfection. The Opel slid to a stop when it encountered the first wagon slewed across the road, one of its wheels off, and the driver waving his arms excitedly at the car. The second wagon, piled with the cages holding