Once We Were Brothers (30 page)

“She nodded, grabbed a wool coat from her closet and wrapped it around her night clothes. She drove me to the north edge of town, to where a large home lay nestled in a walnut grove, and stopped the car at the end of a long gravel driveway. ‘That’s where he lives. His bedroom is on the second floor at the end of the hallway. Be careful,’ she said and drove away.

“The house, a three-story stone building with light-blue shutters and a gray slate roof, was dark. I found a back window unlatched and climbed through. A winding staircase ascended from the foyer. I found Otto easily. He was sound asleep, loudly snoring off the evening’s alcohol and thankfully he was alone. I took my Lugar from my belt, walked to his bed and pushed the cold steel barrel against his neck. He opened his eyes, looked at me and didn’t move.

“‘Where’s Hannah? Where are my parents?’

“‘You’re a dead man,’ he said in a gravelly whisper.

“I pushed the nose of the gun harder against the base of his skull and repeated my question.

“‘They’re no longer in Zamość,’ he said. ‘They were sent out last week with a group that marched to Izbica. You’re lucky. I was good to you. I could have sent them straight to Belzec.’

“‘Get up,’ I said, ‘We’re going to get them.’

“He laughed. ‘Even you can’t accomplish that,
Fox.
The moment we enter
Izbica, you’ll be shot.’

“‘Then so will you. You better pray that everyone’s alive. Your life depends on it. Get up.’

“I opened Otto’s closet and removed two uniforms. Each of us put on the uniform of an SS hauptscharfuhrer. We got into Otto’s car and he drove the twenty-one kilometers to Izbica with my pistol sticking in his ribs, arriving just as the sun was coming up.

“Izbica was teeming with refugees, thousands more than could fit into the small wooden huts and barracks. The streets were muddy and the primitive conditions were far beneath my most dreadful expectations. Izbica was a transit ghetto, just a stop on the way to Belzec, Sobibor or one of the other death camps.

“We parked Otto’s black sedan on the outskirts of the village. I approached a sentry and demanded in German to know where the group from Zamość had been housed. He didn’t know. There must have been ten thousand people in a rural town fit for five hundred. With my pistol in Otto’s back, we walked together through the filthy streets, our boots sticking in the mud, asking people about the Zamość refugees. It seemed to be an overwhelming task.

“‘What will you do if you find them?’ Otto said. ‘Where will you go? All Poland is enemy territory to you. There isn’t a town you can hide in and as soon as you’re caught you’ll be shot or sent to Belzec.’ He turned his head and looked at me with his steel eyes. ‘If you drive me back to Zamość right now, I’ll let you go.’

“I dug my pistol into his ribs and prodded him forward. ‘Pray to whatever demon gods you worship that I find my parents and Hannah. Pray that they’re alive and haven’t been sent on to Belzec. Otherwise this mud will be your grave.’

“All afternoon we sloshed through the dirt of Izbica, looking into the crowded barracks, into the gaunt faces of the poor, uprooted families. ‘Have you seen a group from Zamość?’ we asked, but we were Nazis in full uniform and the people just cowered and shook their heads.

“As the October darkness settled in, we neared the edge of the town and my hopes were dwindling. We rounded a wooden barrack, and there, in the dim light of the setting sun, I saw my Hannah. In her cotton dress, standing in the mud, she was still the prettiest girl in all the world. It took her a moment to recognize us and realize what was going on. She inclined her head for us to follow her and led us into a long wooden building. Plywood bunks lined the walls, four rows high, slabs of wood without mattresses. My mother and father were sitting on the edge of a bunk.

“‘Otto?’ Father said. ‘You came for us?’ He started forward. Then he saw my gun and understood.

“‘There. Now you have them,’ Otto said to me. ‘You see, they’re just fine.’

“‘Take off your uniform,’ I said.

“‘What? You found your family, now let me go.’

“‘I don’t think so, Otto. We wouldn’t get far before you and your soldiers re-arrested us. No, you need to stay here awhile, but don’t worry, you’re among your people now. These are your Zamość townsfolk, the ones you grew up with, the ones who taught you math and history, the ones that served you sodas after school.’ I waved my arm at the people standing in the barracks, watching us and smirking at Otto’s comeuppance. ‘Now, take off your uniform.’

“He stripped down to his underwear. ‘I’m not safe here,’ he said quietly to me. ‘I got your family out, didn’t I? You owe me. I’m begging you, Ben, these people are hostile to me.’

“‘You’ve always made friends easily, Otto. Tell them all about how you grew up and rose to your lofty position with the Third Reich.’ I handed Otto’s uniform to my father and told him to put it on.

“With the laces from his boots, we tied Otto’s hands tightly to the bunk with multiple knots and left him standing in the barracks, shivering in his underwear. The Zamość captives turned their backs and walked outside. But even if one of the townsfolk decided to help him, it would be a while before they could get the laces untied. We walked quickly back to Otto’s car, saluted by the sentries and guards as we passed –
heil Hitler
to the hauptscharfuhrers and their women prisoners. We drove south out of Izbica, through the valley; Hannah, Mother, Father and I.”

Catherine whispered, “Bravo.”

Chapter Thirty

Chicago, Illinois November 2004

Monday morning, a few hours before she was scheduled to meet with Ben, Catherine entered the offices of Jenkins and Fairchild, to box up her belongings under the watchful eye of security personnel. After her argument with Walter Jenkins, the firm immediately locked her out of the system, confiscated her computer and sealed her office. Now she was allowed a short period of time to gather her personal effects, submit them for inspection and take them home.

She carefully wrapped each of her little mementos in newspaper – figurines, pictures, gifts from clients, all accumulated over the years and sitting on the office bookshelves – and placed them into a cardboard box. She took her diplomas from the wall, brushed the dust off the tops of the frames and set them inside the box. A patchwork of nostalgia played out in her mind. Suddenly, she was shaken from her daydreams by a knock on the open door.

“May I come in?” Walter Jenkins said.

Catherine nodded. He dismissed the watchman, shut the door and took a seat beside her desk. The vest of his three piece, dark blue suit was clasped with the gold chain of his pocket watch.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “Why don’t we talk this through?”

Her eyes filled with tears. She reached for a tissue and dabbed her running mascara.

Jenkins, thirty years her senior, spoke kindly and paternally. “You’re a fine litigator with a bright future and I don’t say that lightly. I was lucky when Taggart recommended you after your troubles. I didn’t know at the time what a top-notch lawyer I was getting, but I took a chance on you. Give me a little credit. I gave you a new start and it worked out well for both of us. Don’t throw it all away. You’re making a big mistake. I keep thinking you’re doing this out of some professional stubbornness, because I demanded that you give up a case. Am I right?”

“No. It’s your office and you have the right to decide what cases the firm’ll handle, but…” She shook her head. “It’s not stubbornness – but I think I have an obligation. I gave my word and I’m going to see it through.”

“I have news for you that just may change your mind. Gerry Jeffers came to see me this morning.”

“Ah, the prominent Mr. Jeffers.”

“Now wait a minute, Catherine. Wait till you hear what he told me. He said that Elliot Rosenzweig has invested a considerable sum of money trying to find Otto Piatek. He’s hired a firm of private investigators and they found him. He’s got a house in Cleveland. Are you listening to me? They found Otto Piatek and he’s not Elliot Rosenzweig.”

“Seriously?” Catherine looked stunned. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

Jenkins smiled. “Thought so.”

“Where is he? Did they turn him over to INS?

“Well, they don’t have him yet. Although they’re sure they’ve located his home, the lights are dark. No one’s been home for a few days. But they’re watching it.”

Catherine tilted her head. “They don’t have him yet?”

“No, but Jeffers says it’s only a matter of time. So, now you can let the Government handle this matter and get back to your work.”

“That’s extraordinary,” Catherine said. “I can’t wait to tell Ben. I’m due to meet with him in a couple of hours. He’ll be delighted to learn the news.”

Jenkins stood. “Excellent. Give the news to Solomon, close your file and come on back to work. All’s forgiven.”

“Well, that’s quite an offer. I don’t know what to say. Except I need to finish what I’m doing. I haven’t quite completed taking the history. No matter who handles this case, whether we do, or the Government, they’ll need my background notes. And I think I owe it to Ben to let him finish his story. We’ve spent a lot of time and it’s been very emotional. It would be hard for him to do it all over again.”

“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. There is no reason for you to spend your time, the firm’s time, on Mr. Solomon’s case. When Rosenzweig finds the guy, the INS will take over. They’re very good at taking notes.”

“But I made a commitment to him. And he may still want to proceed civilly against Piatek.”

“I don’t want us to handle that case, or even take any more notes. I assured Jeffers that we, that you, would no longer be involved with Ben Solomon.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Jeffers asked me to. For obvious reasons, Solomon is a pariah to Rosenzweig. Jeffers asked that we disassociate ourselves entirely from Solomon and I agreed.”

“You didn’t even consult me and I gave Ben my word.”

“Your word? You didn’t give your word that you’d take a civil case to trial, did you?”

“No.”

“Okay then, so pitch it. Cut him loose. There’s no basis for a civil case against Rosenzweig anyway. Piatek has been found in Cleveland. Let some Cleveland lawyer bring a civil case.”

“Well, to be precise Walter, Piatek has not been found, nor has he been positively identified. Rosenzweig thinks he found his house. He could be wrong.”

“He found him. Can’t you accept that? What would be the sense in fabricating such a story?”

“I gave Ben my word I would see it through.”

“This whole thing, Catherine, it’s a waste of time. We’ll never make a penny. And it’s a huge embarrassment to me.”

Catherine rocked forward in her chair. “What about the moral imperative, Mr. Jenkins?”

“What?”

“The moral imperative – doing it because it’s the right thing to do. And because you gave someone your word.”

“Am I missing something here? Do moral imperatives pay the rent? We have payroll due twice a month for one hundred and forty lawyers, eighty clerical employees and twenty-some-odd paralegals. Have you thought about what would happen to this firm’s gross income if we pissed off Jeffers and Rosenzweig and the rest of the legal community?”

Jenkins stood and raised his voice. “Some of our largest institutional clients, like Atlas Insurance, for example, would pull out on us in a second. Rosenzweig’s a power in this town. Jeffers is a power in this town. They wield a hell of lot more influence than any moral imperative I know.”

Catherine dropped her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t abide by those principles. I have a law license – a privilege to make a damn good living practicing a public profession. And it’s a
service
profession, Mr. Jenkins. It’s not just about the money and your books of business and how many institutional clients you can collect. It’s about using that license to further justice. I’m going to do what I can for Ben Solomon. If it means helping him get to the U.S. Attorney, I’ll do that. If it means bringing Piatek to justice for him, whoever he is and wherever he is, I’ll do that. I’m not turning my back on Ben and I’m not breaking my word just because it might piss off Rosenzweig, Atlas Insurance, Jeffers or anyone else. Shame on you for asking me.”

Unencumbered by misgivings, she picked up the box and left Jenkins standing uncharacteristically silent by her desk.

Chapter Thirty-one

Ben was sitting on Catherine’s front stoop, huddled in his winter coat, when she pulled up to the curb.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, lifting the box from her trunk. “I hope you didn’t catch a chill. It’s bitter this morning.”

“I’m okay, but you don’t look so good,” he said, pointing to her eyes. He took the banker’s box from her and followed her to the door.

“It was a rough morning. Enough said. Why don’t you build us a fire?”

Ben threw a few birch logs onto the fireplace grate and lit the gas starter. Catherine brewed a pot of tea and they sat across from each other, close by the warm fire trying to take the edge off the raw November morning. Ben leaned back in the stuffed wing chair, holding a steaming mug. The fire crackled.