Once We Were Brothers (7 page)

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. But there’s more to this story than betraying his family and stealing their jewelry.”

“Why? Did he tell you something on the phone? What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. I just know it. Lawyer’s intuition. There’s something deeper involved here. No one would be driven like this if it was solely about money and property.”

“Well, Adele said he betrayed Ben’s family. They raised him and cared for him and he became a Nazi.”

“There’s more. You can bet on it.”

“Keep on digging, Cat. You’ll find out.”

Shortly after one o’clock, Catherine was informed that Mr. Solomon had arrived. She found him in the reception area shaking his head, wheezing and complaining about the buses and the traffic.

“I know you think I’m just an old fool
kvetching
about public services, Miss Lockhart, but two buses drove right past me. They didn’t even slow down. Once you reach your eightieth birthday, young lady, you start thinking that whatever time is left to you shouldn’t be spent waiting for buses.”

Catherine walked him back to the conference room and opened the file she had started. There were already several sheets of notes.

“Can I help myself to a cup of tea?” he said. Without waiting for a response, he filled his cup and took a seat at the head of the conference table, dunking his tea bag. “So tell me, Miss Lockhart, where do we stand in our case against Elliot Rosenzweig? Have you done anything yet?”

“Done anything?” She smiled. “I need a lot more information before I can make any referrals on your case.”

“What do you mean, referrals? I want
you
to be my lawyer.”

“We’ll make a decision on how to proceed when you finish telling your story. Your case might be better handled by the U.S. Attorney’s office or a law school legal clinic.”

He wrinkled his face. “No, Miss Lockhart, you’re the one. You were meant to handle this case. Besides, some young law grad would get his ears pinned back by Piatek and his power brokers.”

“Not necessarily. But I’d like you to begin to tell me how Otto Piatek wrongfully obtained possession of your family’s property. Really, the history of Poland is fascinating, but I need to focus on the liability aspects. Can you jump ahead and tell me what property was taken and when?”

“I’ll get there soon enough.”

Catherine sighed, took up her pen and yellow pad, and rocked back in her chair. “The last thing you talked about was the increased violence in the streets of Zamość.”

“That’s right. After Beka was attacked, we were told to come straight home from school.

Zamość, Poland 1936

“Everything in our world seemed to be influenced by what was going on in Germany and everyone we knew was trying to keep abreast of the news. My father had a short-wave radio in a large walnut console that stood in the corner of our living room and we gathered as a family, almost daily, to listen to broadcasts from Germany, England and America.

“There was no TV back then, you know, so families would congregate around the radio. My father would sit in his armchair to the left of the console and work the dials, tuning in the foreign stations. Mother would usually sit on the couch, with her darning or her knitting. Beka, Otto and I would lounge about on the carpet. I was a little conversant in German, I’d studied it in school, and so I could understand the German broadcasts pretty well. Because of his business dealings, my father spoke German and, of course, Otto was fluent.

“We listened in bewilderment to the speeches coming out of Berlin, the rantings of Der Fuhrer and Goebbels’ propaganda. My father would shake his head and tell us that Hitler was blaming the Jews for the cold of the winter and the heat of the summer.

“As the Depression raged on, Polish street violence worsened and members of our community became increasingly alarmed. Finally, since most Poles were Catholic, there was a decision to send a delegation to the Archdiocese in Warsaw. My father was asked to participate in the conference.

“‘Rabbi Perelman and three other rabbis are going to see Cardinal Kakowski,’ he said. ‘We’re hoping he’ll take a stand and issue a pastoral declaration condemning the violence.’

“So on a cold winter morning, we all piled into the car and drove Father to the Lublin station where he met the other delegates and boarded the train for Warsaw. He was gone for five days.

“When he returned, he looked very disheartened. ‘The Cardinal was a gracious host,’ he said. ‘He warmly welcomed us and served us tea in his office where we detailed our concerns and presented our petition. He patiently listened to us, nodding his head in sympathetic agreement, assuring us that these gangs were inimical to all God-loving people, not just the Jews. But when we finished, the Cardinal said, “If life in Poland is so dangerous, why don’t the Jews leave? Why do you stay here in danger?”’

“‘We were dumbfounded,’ my father said. ‘This is our home, we told him. There are over three million Jews in Poland. Are we all supposed to leave, to run from the lawless violence? Cardinal Kakowski said he would take the matter up with his superiors and see what he could do. Unfortunately, he also cautioned us that Rome is fearful of antagonizing Hitler. Things aren’t going too well for the Church in Germany. There have been persecutions of priests and nuns. Church property has been confiscated. Besides, Cardinal Kakowski doubts that the street thugs are church-going Catholics anyway, so he reasons that pastoral declarations will have little effect.’

Ben opened his hands. “But in the end it didn’t matter. Nothing came of the visit. There was no pastoral declaration.”

Catherine paused to refill her coffee and left the room to check her messages. When she returned, Ben was standing by the window, speaking aloud. He blushed, like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Oh, don’t mind me,” he said. “It’s just an old man’s eccentricity.”

She nodded and resumed her place at the head of the table. “So, you got information about Germany from the radio broadcasts?”

“Not just the radio. People who traveled to Germany would return with first hand information. My father had a cousin Zbigniew, we called him Ziggy, a big, thick man with a bushy gray beard. He was a salesman who called on customers in Berlin and Munich. From time to time, he would come to dinner and tell us bizarre stories about what was happening in Germany.

“Like one night in October 1935, about two years after Otto came to live with us, Ziggy returned from a trip to Berlin with a frightening report. ‘The Nuremburg Laws on Citizenship and Race,’ he said, ‘that’s the latest – another crazy law passed by Hitler. He just revoked the citizenship of all German Jews, no matter who they are – war heroes, city officials, doctors – you name it. No longer are they even citizens of their own damn country. Only people of German or kindred blood can be subjects of the Reich.’ Ziggy punctuated his story with his fat finger. ‘The law specifically states, “A Jew cannot be a citizen of the Reich.” It says a person of Jewish blood can’t vote and he can’t hold public office.’

“‘What’s Jewish blood?’ my mother asked. ‘As far as I know, we all have the same chemistry.’

“‘That’s a good question. The Germans look at your grandparents. If three out of four of them were members of the Jewish religious community, you got Jewish blood. If two out of four, then you got mixed Jewish blood. There’s all kinds of goofy rules. A non-Jew, who has never been inside a synagogue in his whole life, has Jewish blood if one of his parents was Jewish and he was born after the Law on Protection of German Blood and Honor.’ Ziggy took a sip of wine and laughed. ‘I guess Jewish blood flows through your veins with a Yiddish accent.’

“My parents shook their heads. It all seemed morbidly unreal. Otto, Beka and I sat there at the dinner table looking at each other like we were hearing fantastic ghost stories. To us it was all fiction. It was happening in Germany and that was worlds away from Zamość. It might as well have been happening on the moon.

“‘From now on,’ Ziggy said, ‘anybody’s right to be a citizen of Germany depends on a grant of Reich citizenship papers. Papers are the big thing. Everybody’s got to have them. And of course, no Jews are allowed to have papers.’

“Then Ziggy went on to tell us about the rise of the SS, the secret police. ‘Himmler recruits his SS out of the German youth program, mostly from middle and upper class families,’ he said. ‘They dress all in black – black tunic, black pantaloons tucked into black boots, black helmets. They’re called the
Schutzstaffel,
the guard echelon of the National Socialist party.’ Ziggy shivered and his shoulders shook. ‘They’re terrifying, I tell you. Everyone’s scared to death of them, all the way down to the average German workingman. Scares the hell out of me every time I go to Berlin. I don’t know how much longer I’ll go there.’

“He pointed a fork at my father, ‘As crazy as Hitler is, Abraham, that’s how crazy this Himmler is. Maybe even more. He’s got himself a castle in Westphalia, a big medieval fortress up in the mountains, and he calls it Wewelsburg. He runs it like King Arthur.’

“‘Oh, come on Ziggy.’

“‘That’s what I hear. My customers tell me. He sits with twelve of his generals around a big round table like they’re the Knights of the Round Table. And they say that he has a crypt beneath the dining hall he calls the “Realm of the Dead,” encircled by twelve pedestals.’ Ziggy opened his eyes very wide, leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. ‘If one of his twelve knights dies, then they’re going to cremate him and put his ashes in an urn to sit on one of the pedestals in the “Realm of the Dead.”’ He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers.

“My mother put her foot down. ‘Stop telling this nonsense, these crazy horror stories, Ziggy, you’re going to give my kids nightmares.’

“‘It’s nonsense, is it Leah? It’s crazy? Well, it’s happening right now. The SS wear rings with skulls on them. They march through the streets and sing, “We are the Black Band.” They’ve got this medieval caste with ranks and privileges and customs. They believe in dueling as a way of defending one’s honor.
Honor
, mind you. These cutthroats think they have honor and Himmler’s made it all legal.’

“Ziggy held a butter knife over his upper lip to mimic Hitler’s moustache, waved a spoon like a sword and screeched in a Teutonic accent, ‘A German has the right to defend his honor by force of arms!’ The kids all laughed, but not my mother or father.

“Then Ziggy grew serious again and pointed his finger. ‘Here’s the scariest part, Abraham. He has the support of the entire German economy. All the captains of industry and banking bow to him. Butefisch from IG Farben. Schacht from the Reichsbank. The Duetsche Bank. Even German-American companies. Himmler writes his own ticket. I tell you, this is no longer just rabble.’”

“What was your father’s response to all this?” Catherine said.

“Generally, my parents felt like most Poles, that this was German insanity and would be confined within the German borders. But there was an air of uncertainty, even back then.

“‘These may be radical lunatics,’ my father said, ‘but once they have the banks and industry behind them, they have the might of the German economy, the strongest economy in all of Europe.’ And that was all in 1935, four years before the war.”

Ben took a sip of tea. “I also remember a dinner discussion that took place a year later in 1936. After the meal Father and Ziggy retired to the living room for a brandy, while Mother and Beka cleared the dishes. Ziggy lit up his pipe, a big burled wooden thing that looked like a tree stump. I remember it quite well because my mother always complained that the smoke left a stale odor on her curtains.

“‘Germany has eighty million people and their hatred is spilling over into Poland,’ said my father. ‘We have trouble in the streets right now in Zamość. My Beka was attacked just last month, Ziggy. I’m afraid there may come a time when we have to move from the city, maybe to Papa’s farm in the country.’

“‘Or leave Poland, Abraham.’

“My father nodded solemnly, ‘Perhaps, but I don’t think it will ever come to that. Hitler may be a maniac, but people in Poland are good people. They won’t join with Hitler. This will pass.’

“‘It isn’t
joining
that frightens me,’ Ziggy said. ‘It’s the good people of Poland being annihilated that scares the hell out of me.’”

“And Otto?” Catherine said. “His parents were members of the Nazi party. He had German blood. What was his reaction to all this?”

“Same as me. We were kids. We were indestructible. If the Germans dared to come to Poland, we’d wipe them out. There were millions of Jews in Poland and we wouldn’t let that racial madness come into our country.”

Ben emptied his mug and walked to the sideboard for a refill. He turned to face Catherine. “But life went on, Miss Lockhart. Every day, life went on. People went to work, people went to school, mothers diapered their babies, shopkeepers let out their awnings. Life went on. For us kids, we were in high school and that’s where I met my beautiful Hannah. Shall I tell you about my Hannah?”

Catherine put her hands together and her expression said “not really” before she even spoke. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Ben, because I don’t want you to get upset with me and start to scold me about a lawyer’s function, but we’ve been meeting for two hours and I don’t think we’re getting any closer to filling in the blanks on your stolen property. Could we just focus on that issue, please?”