Once We Were Brothers (19 page)

“‘500 Zlotys, enough to buy food and supplies for a few months.’

“‘How long do you think it will be before the rest of the family joins us? I miss Mother and Father. And Grandpa Yaakov. I even miss grumpy Uncle Joseph.’ Beka was homesick already.

“‘I would hope no more than two or three weeks,’ I answered, fearful that if my parents did not escape before long, the gates of opportunity would close.

“Suddenly there was a sharp knock on the door. I waved the girls into the back bedroom and stepped out onto the porch. A large, bearded man in mountain clothes and heavy boots stood before me, a single shot carbine in his hands.

“‘What are you doing in Joseph’s house?’ he demanded.

“‘Who wants to know?’ I said.

“‘A man with a rifle.’

“‘Joseph is my uncle.’

“‘You are Abraham’s boy? Little Benjamin, the piss-cutter?’

“I laughed as he shook my hand like a water pump. He said his name was Krzysztof Kozslowski and he lived further down the valley beyond the pines. He saw the smoke from the stove and thought there were poachers. I invited him in for coffee and called the girls out.

“‘Do you remember Beka?’

“‘The giggly one,’ he said.

“‘And this is my Hannah.’

“‘She is your wife?’

“I blushed. ‘Not yet.’

“‘What brings you to the Podhale District and how is my friend Joseph?’

“I explained about our escape from Zamość and our plans for gathering the family and eventually making our way to the Yugoslav coast.

“‘Who told you there are no Germans here? There’s a garrison in Zakopane. The area is crawling with Nazis. There’s also a Gestapo police school in the town of Rabka, up the road from Zakopane. The SS and Gestapo come from all over to train the recruits on how to be prison guards. And there’s a villa nearby where the officers hold their parties. They call it a spa, but it’s nothing more than a brothel with drunken Germans and young girls. Everyone knows to keep their daughters away from Zakopane and Rabka. There are stories about girls being snatched off the streets and taken to the villa.’

“He poured himself a mug of black coffee, took a gulp, opened the door and spit it into the yard. ‘This stuff’s awful. I think Joseph must have purchased these beans in 1930. I’ll bring some to you.’

“He handed his cup to Hannah. ‘There are also German guards in Łysa Polana at the Slovak border crossing. You must be very careful if you go into the towns for food or supplies. As far as I know, they haven’t come up here to the mountain valleys, but I hear stories about shootings.’

“‘If I can’t go to Zakopane or Łysa Polana, where will we get food? Will you buy some things for us if I give you the money?’

“‘Your father and uncle are old friends and I would help them any way I could, but please don’t ask me to assist you in hiding or escaping from the Germans. If I were caught, they would surely kill me and my wife. I’m afraid you’ll find that to be the general attitude of the people in the district. I don’t think anyone would run to the Nazis and turn you in, but they will avert their eyes.’

“‘I understand.’

“He clasped my arm. ‘I’ll tell you what I can do. I have an old horse and a wagon. Take them. On Thursdays and Sundays there is an open market in Nowy Targ, twenty kilometers up the road, which draws Slovaks and Poles from all over the region, many of them with a horse and wagon. You’ll blend in with the crowd. So far, the Germans have not shut down our market, but go Sunday, it’s safer. On Thursdays, many Jews come to buy for the Sabbath and there have been stories of harassment.’

“I tried to give Krzysztof money for his horse and wagon, but he refused. Later that day he came by with coffee, eggs, butter and bread to hold us over until Sunday.”

“We need to stop here,” Catherine said. “I have a brief that’s due Wednesday afternoon, and I’m hopelessly behind schedule. As much as you’ve snared me in your saga, I’ve got to get back to my deadlines.”

“Does that mean we can’t meet tomorrow or Wednesday?”

Catherine nodded. “I’m afraid so. Let’s shoot for Thursday, bright and early.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Chicago, Illinois November 2004

Catherine was awakened several times by dreams of Zamość and visions of the high Tatras. At five a.m. she gave up trying to sleep and dialed Liam.

“You’re up early,” he said in a whispered voice.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m caught up in Ben’s story and I’m so disturbed. It occupies my thoughts, day and night.”

“You’ll have to fill me in. Do you want me to come over?”

“Thanks, but I’m meeting with Ben a little later this morning. I’m going to head down to the office.”

“Are you going to take his case?”

“I’m not even close to making that decision. But he’s such a compelling narrator, I’ve become engrossed in his odyssey. I keep trying to move him along, pry out the evidence, but he won’t be rushed. He says I need the details to fully understand the case and I’ve come to think he’s right.”

“What about Otto Piatek? Have you learned about his part in all this?”

“Not yet. Thus far in Ben’s narrative, he hasn’t done anything but assist the family. As Ben says, they were like brothers. But there’s no doubt in my mind that we’ll reach the point where Otto Piatek betrays the Solomons and absconds with their assets.”

“But you think there’s more.”

“Oh, I know it. There’s a door to a dark room that Ben hasn’t opened. I’m scared to death to see what’s behind that door – something very horrible that has nothing to do with money and jewelry. ”

“What makes you think so?”

Catherine took a deep breath. “Liam, I can feel it. If you sat with Ben you would know. You would see his determination. It’s all rising in a crescendo.”

“What will you do when he finishes his story?”

“I don’t know. Ben wants to file a civil lawsuit to publicly expose Rosenzweig. He says that Nazis must always be exposed so the world will never let down its guard, but, again, I know there’s something deeper. He’s driven by his ghosts – they want retribution, retaliation, I don’t know. Anyway, a civil suit may not be the best way to go about it. I think he’d be better served referring the matter to the Government. When ex-Nazis are arrested in America, the Government revokes their citizenship and sends them overseas to be tried for war crimes. I’ve half a mind to send the file to Richard Tryon at the U.S. Attorney’s office now, but Ben insists that the Government won’t take on such a powerful man without further work-up and he’s probably right.”

“How do you know Richard Tryon?”

“From law school. I can approach Richard, but we’ll need better evidence.”

“Which we don’t have?”

“I haven’t seen it. All we have is Ben’s uncorroborated identification. And let’s face it, even if I filed a civil suit, I’d need more than Ben’s testimony. I’d never get to the jury. The case would get thrown out on a motion. I need something more and I’m waiting to see if it’s there.”

“Such as?”

“Well, another witness or two for starters. People who can eyeball Rosenzweig and swear that he’s Piatek. Maybe a picture of Piatek in uniform taken during the war. Maybe some discrepancy with his immigration papers. I’d like to know something more about Rosenzweig’s history.”

“Aahhh, I got you. That’s where I can help. I’ve already been doing a little digging. I can bring it by later this morning. I’m a pretty damn good PI, you know.”

“I know you are, and I knew I could count on you.” She lay back and stared at the ceiling, cradling the phone on her ear. “I’m terrified, Liam.”

“About what?”

“About what I could learn. That maybe Elliot Rosenzweig, this pillar of Chicago society, was and is a monster, a ruthless Nazi who crawls about today living on the property he wrenched from his victims.”

“You could be right.”

“And then it’ll be little ol’ Catherine tilting windmills, accusing a civic icon of being part of the most heinous atrocities ever known to man. Talk about nightmares!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“This morning I brought muffins,” said Ben with a smile as he set them on the sideboard next to the coffee urn. “These are carrot and these are blueberry.”

“Oh, Ben, you’re such a bad influence,” Catherine said.

She placed a blueberry muffin on a napkin next to her coffee and picked up her pen. “Time’s a wastin’. I need to get you through this story before my retirement.”

“Very funny,” he answered. “I’m like Timothy Turtle, slow but sure.”

Uncle Joseph’s Cabin 1941

“On Sunday morning, bright and early, I hitched up Krzysztof’s horse. I called her Buttermilk – after Dale Evans’ horse, which was kind of a joke, because my Buttermilk was a sway-back, tired old lady.”

“Dale Evans?” Catherine shook her head.

“Are you serious? You don’t know Dale Evans? She was Roy Rogers’s wife. Don’t you know anything about Roy Rogers? The Sons of the Pioneers? Happy Trails to You?”

She shook her head again. “I guess I may have heard the name Roy Rogers.”

“From 1935 to 1940, Otto, Hannah and I must have watched twenty Roy Rogers movies. I told you we pretended to be cowboys on Grandpa Yaakov’s farm. Anyway, the horse Krzysztof gave me was a twenty-six-year-old mare missing several teeth and content to stand in the meadow and chew on the grass with the choppers she had left. I called her Buttermilk.

“That Sunday morning I left Hannah and Beka at the cabin, put on a straw hat I’d found in the shed, climbed up onto Krzysztof’s wooden buckboard, gave a slap of the reins and Buttermilk pulled me into Nowy Targ before noon. Just as Krzysztof had described, there were trucks and wagons from all over the area, loading up with food and supplies from the open market stalls. I didn’t see any Germans but I trusted no one. When one of the vendors kindly mentioned that she hadn’t seen me at the market before, I told her I’d been coming there for years with my parents and I’d be sure to say hello the next time.

“The provisions took at least a quarter of my money and I knew, at that rate, we couldn’t hold out very long. We’d need my father to join us with more money or start the journey to Yugoslavia. In the meantime, with the summer coming, we needed to learn how to supplement our food from the forest. Here, Krzysztof was a big help. He showed us how to find berries, mushrooms and edible foliage. There were juniper bushes at the bottom of the hill and wild raspberry bushes by the stream. He was also a skilled fisherman and the lake below the cabin had an ample supply of trout and pike.

“During the day, the girls would gather plants, boil water, pretty-up the cabin and wash our clothes – we had only three outfits apiece. I’d fish, take care of Buttermilk, cut wood and do repairs. We’d have a fresh meal in the evening and sit on the porch under the stars, talking until midnight. We were about as healthy as three people could get, but the thoughts of our families imprisoned in Zamość haunted us.

“As for Hannah and I, our love grew deeper day by day. I couldn’t stop looking at her or keep from holding her hand. One night, three or four weeks after we had arrived, I was awakened by the squeak of my bedroom door. Hannah quietly tiptoed in and slipped into my bed. Curling up next to me, her body soft and warm, she whispered, ‘Beka sent me to be with you. She said we should stop sneaking around, she knows all about us.’”

Ben blushed a bit. “We’d been stealing a little private time whenever we could. I thought we were doing okay, keeping our intimacy secret, or at least minimally clandestine, but I guess not. Beka was the one that finally put us together.

“The days passed by in our idyllic seclusion. We rarely saw anyone other than Krzysztof or the folks I’d meet going to Nowy Targ. Krzysztof never brought his wife to the cabin and I respected his wishes not to involve her. In turn, we never went to Krzysztof’s house.”

“What about the Germans?” Catherine said. “Did they come around?”

“They never came to the cabin. On occasion I would see them walking around at the market but they never questioned me. I heard that they were starting to force their presence on the Zakopane Jewish community, so I stayed away from Zakopane.

“In June, with my money running low, having heard nothing from my folks or Zamość, I sat down with Krzysztof to plan an escape route to the Adriatic. He had a tattered map of the Tatras which he spread out on our kitchen table.

“‘Do not enter Slovakia at Łysa Polana, there are German guards at the crossing,’ he warned. ‘Take your Buttermilk, cross the border near Zdziar. There’s a pass through the mountains there. It’s rugged, but there are trails. Go down through the Bratislavska Dolina Valley and follow the river. Stay clear of the Slovak cities, like Poprad and Kosice. Remember, Slovakia is Germany’s ally.’

“He traced a route through eastern Hungary, portions of Romania and into Yugoslavia.

“‘I do not know the Yugoslavs or their country. You’re on your own when you get there.’

“We talked deep into the night about the trip. It would take weeks and cover many miles, but as long as we had Buttermilk and our wagon, I felt we could make it. Beka, however, was against our leaving the cabin. She wanted to wait for Mother and Father. ‘We shouldn’t leave without them,’ she said. ‘Let’s stay another month.’