Lt. Karol Wojtila of the Polish cavalry was having dinner in the officers' mess
when he saw his friend Wojciech Jaruzelski amble in.  Wojtila waved the younger
officer over.

"Where have you been hiding out?" Wojtila asked.

"I was visiting with Anna," Jaruzensli confessed.

Wojtila chuckled.  "That's the third time this week.  Are you two becoming an
item?"

"Not if her father has anything to say about it," said Jaruzelski.

"Ah, forbidden fruit," Wojtila said knowingly.  "How does the rest of her
family feel about you?"

"Her brother Stanislaw likes me well enough," said Jaruzelski.  "In fact, I
spent the afternoon with both of them."

"Providing cover for both yourself and Anna," Wojtila commented.  "Very sound
tactics.  I've taught you well, young squire.  Was Stanislaw actually present
at all during his sojourn with the two of you?"

"The whole time," Jaruzelski said with a small sigh.  "He might like me, but he
insists on observing the proprieties."

"Such is life," said Wojtila.

"Mind you," said Jaruzelski, "there were compensations.  Stanislaw is a
veritable font of gossip.  If it's happening anywhere within fifty kilometers
of Lomza, Stanislaw knows about it.  For instance, did you know that the
Koczanskis are planning to move to Bialystok?"

"You don't say," said Wojtila dryly.

"According to Stanislaw, Andrzej Koczanski has been hired as a machinist's
assistant at the Garden.  Good money they pay at the Garden, Koczanski is a
lucky man.  Stanislaw also told me that the Nasos are planning to torch a
wheelwright's shop in Yedwabne tonight."

Now Wojtila frowned.  "And how would Stanislaw know what the Nasos are
planning?"

"He keeps his ear to the ground, that's all," said Jaruzelski.  "He knows
people."

"People wearing black shorts?" said Wojtila, his frown deepening.

"Well now," Jaruzelski said, "I'm sure he's not a Naso himself."

"I should hope not," said Wojtila.  "What's the point in going to all the
trouble of beating the Brownshirts if they're just going to turn up again in
our back yards?  Have you told Colonel Lasky what the Nasos are planning?"

"What could he do about it?" Jaruzelski pointed out.  "If he sends some troops
to Yedwabne, the Nasos will just keep out of sight, and wait until tomorrow
night to torch the Jew's shop."  The younger man shrugged.  "It's not our
problem."

Jaruzelski continued to chatter, but Wojtila heard none of it.  He was turning
over his friend's words in his mind.  The worst thing was, Jaruzelski was
right.  Colonel Lasky could send a hundred men to Yedwabne and accomplish
nothing.

But Wojtila wasn't ready to dismiss the Nasos.  Like many young Poles,
especially in the Army, he had always idolized Marshal Josef Pilsudski.  When
Pilsudski said that anti-Semitism had no place in a great nation, Wojtila took
his words to heart.

One man could not change the hatred in millions of hearts.  However, Wojtila
realized, one man could act effectively where a hundred men would be helpless.
And just like that, Karol Wojtila knew what he had to do.

Yedwabne, Polish Commonwealth
12 - 13 August 1944

Moshe Abramowitz was awakened in the dead of night by the sound of voices and
the smell of smoke.

"Hey, Jew-boy, rise and shine!  We got a little present for you!"

Abramowitz exhanged a glance with his wife Manya, likewise awakened by the
tumult outside their shop.  The wheelwright looked down from the window of his
bedroom to the growing crowd outside.

No, he thought to himself.  Crowd is the wrong word.  Mob would be more like
it.

At least a dozen men, most of them wearing Naso uniforms or armbands, most of
them holding torches aloft.

"Come on out, Jew-boy!"

"Stay here," he told Manya.  Quickly donning a pair of boots, Abramowitz
hurried down the stairs to his shop, and out into the street to confront the
mob.

"What do you want?" he said.

"We want you to get the hell out of Poland, you Yid bastard!" bellowed one of
the torch-bearing men, a heavyset man in full Naso regalia.  The others
chorused their agreement.  "We'll give you one minute for a head start, then we
take care of your shop!"  Another chorus of agreement, accompanied by
enthusiastic waving of torches.

 A shot rang out, and the ringleader's torch was torn out of his grip.

"Do you think you've got enough men to handle one Jew?" a voice rang out.
"After all, there's only fourteen of you!"

As one man, Abramowitz and the Nasos turned to see the dark figure of a man
silhouetted against the flank of a white horse.  He was dressed in black from
head to foot, and his face was hidden by a mask.  Both hands held pistols, and
both pistols were pointed at the Nasos.

The ringleader's words were threatening, but Abramowitz could hear the fear
lurking beneath them.  "Butt out, stranger.  This is none of your concern."

The masked man took a step forward, and the Nasos shrank back.

"I've made it my concern," the dark figure said in a voice that was low and
menacing.  "My first shot was a warning.  The next one will be fatal.  If any
one of you thinks he's man enough to stand against someone who can fight back,
go ahead and try.  Otherwise, you'd better all crawl back under whatever rocks
you came from."

Abramowitz could see sweat running down the ringleader's forehead.  The
frightened Naso glanced to his men, but none of them seemed inclined to test
the stranger's claim.

The masked man took another step forward, and one of the Nasos broke and ran.
He was quickly joined by the rest of the mob, until only the ringleader
remained.

"You may have won this round," the Naso snarled, "but we'll be back."

"The next shot," the stranger repeated, "will be fatal."  He pointed one of his
pistols at the Naso, and the uniformed thug turned and ran after his men.

Abramowitz watched the last Naso pelt away, then he turned to face the masked
man.  "They'll be back," he said.

"So will I," said the man in black, as he holstered his pistols.  Hanging a
small object from the sign above the shop's door, the stranger turned away.
Two great strides brought him to his mount, and he vaulted effortlessly into
the saddle.  As the horse reared back, the rider cried out, "Hajo, Argent!
Away!" and a moment later he was gone in a cloud of dust.

Manya emerged from the shop to join her husband.  "Who was that masked man?"
she wondered.

Moshe Abramowitz shook his head.  "I don't know."  Taking down the object the
rider had hung from his sign, he added, "But he left behind this silver cross."

--
Johnny Pez
Newport, Rhode Island
March 2001