Hard spring rains slanted into Poland's Palmiry Forest. The dank woods were full of muted human voices. Under trees that had seen 300 springs, workmen hunched against the weather, moved about looking for young, slender pines. With them went uniformed foresters, guiding, pointing.
During the German occupation these foresters had seen Nazi troops in the woods, had heard the sound of shots, had discovered fresh-turned earth. Carefully they had planted little pines to mark the places, with dates carved into the trunks. Now they pointed here, there. Picks thudded into the sodden soil.
When one pine-marked trench was opened,...
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