At age eighty-three, the great Polish director Andrzej Wajda is indefatigable, having completed nearly forty features since startling the world with his mid-fifties trilogy about wartime resistance. Wajda's stature allowed him to venture into prohibited territory, creating such wonders as Man of Marble and Man of Iron in the midst of Soviet rule. But there was one subject forbidden to him: the World War II massacre in the forest of Katyn. In 1939, when the German and Soviet armies vied for Poland, over 8,000 Polish Army officers were taken prisoner, then sent to Russia and executed. Soon to occupy the nation, the Soviets quickly blamed the Nazis for the slaughter. Among those murdered officers, really the intelligentsia of Polish culture, was Wajda's father. This solemn narrative, made all the more somber by the plaintive Krzysztof Penderecki score, closely follows the sisters, mothers, and widows of the dead as they grapple with the truth. One, the wife of a missing army captain, declares: “He is part of me and no part of me has died.” Like that persevering widow, Wajda's poignant film is testimony that the memory of Katyn survives.