Once We Were Brothers (5 page)

“Well put, Mr. Solomon. That is a lawyer’s function. But attorneys also have responsibilities to their practice and to the bar, to investigate the bases for a claim before charging another with a liability.”

“Then perhaps we’re on the same page. I’m trying to give you a sufficient background to understand not only the claim, but the client. If an attorney is going to speak for me, then she needs to know who I am. If you’re going to advocate my claim, then you need to know the circumstances. Please don’t shortcut me.”

Catherine nodded in resignation. “Go ahead.”

“I had a sister Beka, the apple of Mama’s eye. Her real name was Rebecca. She was blessed with the same lovely features as my mother: rich black curly hair, green eyes and a soft, classic profile. She was a real beauty and smart as a whip.

“Before the war, Zamość was a multi-cultural city – Greeks, Armenians, Scots, Hungarians, Russians, Italians. And so there were Greek neighborhoods, Russian neighborhoods, Jewish neighborhoods. But we all got along. The mystery of other cultures was something we were taught to respect. In those days, Zamość was about one-half Jewish.

“We were also blessed geographically. The surrounding countryside was like an impressionist’s canvas with thick forests, clear rivers and rolling hills. Farmlands lay to the north and east. And in the middle, our pastel village. All in all, Zamość was an idyllic place to live. That was before the Germans decided we were a sub-species to be exterminated like a colony of ants.

“A few hundred miles to the south, in the Carpathian Mountains, my Uncle Joseph had a cabin nestled in a valley surrounded by the peaks of the High Tatras where the whole family would gather once or twice a year – uncles, aunts, cousins.”

Ben paused. “There were fields of yellow flowers, tall pines, juniper berries hanging on the bushes. When I close my eyes, I see Beka and me running to poke our toes into the icy cold waters of the mountain stream.” Ben smiled at the vision. “What an infectious laugh she had. What joyous days those were, especially for us children.”

When he opened his eyes they were tearing. His facial muscles twitched. He took a sip of tea.

“I apologize and I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Solomon,” Catherine said, “but I have a meeting in a little while. When you were here last week, you said there was a triumvirate. “Otto, you and…”

“Hannah.”

“Ben’s wife,” said Adele softly.

“We were all close friends from high school.” Ben wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and turned his head from the group. His lips were tightly clamped. “Please understand, I’ve never…” He stopped and started again. “There are very few people who know the whole story. It’s not an easy thing for me.” An uncomfortable silence pervaded the room. “Forgive me,” he said and he walked quickly to the windows.

“Why don’t we take a few minutes?” Catherine said. “Let’s stretch our legs and get some fresh coffee in here.”

During the break she pulled Adele and Liam aside.

“Is all this worth it? For the price of some jewelry and watches? For the sake of an accusation?”

Adele answered in a whisper. “Ms. Lockhart, surely you must realize it’s not about the jewelry or the property. It’s about his family and Otto Piatek. It’s about a betrayal.”

“And Ben is convinced that Rosenzweig is Piatek.”

“He is certain.”

“I’d like to get to the details of that betrayal. Will he tell me?”

She shrugged. “He will try.”

They reassembled a few minutes later. Catherine retrieved her pen and resumed her questions.

“Ben, you were saying that the three of you were close friends from high school. Is that when you met Otto Piatek?”

“No, I met him earlier, when I was about twelve.”

“Did you meet him at school?”

“No. He was left on our doorstep, in a manner of speaking. My family took him in. In the late 1920s the Depression hit Poland pretty hard – like the United States, only worse. Many families lost everything. I was very young, but I remember my father forming a council of businessmen. Through the council, efforts were made to help keep families afloat. As the Depression worsened, visits to our study became more frequent and visitors more desperate. I think my father would have given them all jobs at the plant if he could, but truth be told, his sales were down, too. Nevertheless, my mother made extra food and no one ever went away from our home hungry.

“One bitter cold evening in 1933, Otto’s father knocked on our door and asked to speak to my father. We were having dinner. Otto, skinny as a rail in a threadbare coat, stood silently by his father, Stanislaw Piatek. They hesitated at the doorway, Stanislaw’s head bowed, his soiled cap in his left hand, his right arm around his son. I remember how dirty and foul-smelling they were. Stanislaw held a piece of stationery from the Holy Cross Church in his hand, an introduction, which he gave to my father.

“‘Father Xavier sent me to you. He said you help people.’

“‘Come in,’ my father said.

“Stanislaw did not move. ‘I am not a Jew,’ he announced.

“‘And I am not a Christian,’ said my father. ‘And now that we know what we’re not, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea.’

“So they sat in the parlor and talked. Stanislaw cried. He had no way to care for his son. He had lost his job as a woodcutter in the forests outside Zamość and he’d been evicted from the workers’ compound at the lumber company. He had no place to live and no money. Otto’s mother had abandoned them and run back to her family in Leipzig, Germany. ‘My son is freezing,’ Stanislaw said. ‘I cannot keep him warm.’

“There were newspapers stuffed in the soles of Otto’s shoes to keep out the snow. Stanislaw cursed his German wife who had run off. Even if he could find a job, what was he supposed to do with Otto? He’d been told that my father had helped some people get back on their feet.

“It took my mother but a second to see that Otto needed dinner and a bath. She took him by the hand and walked him straight into the bathroom where she filled the tub with hot water. Afterward she asked me to sit with him at the kitchen table where she fed him roast and potatoes.

“Otto and I were about the same size, so we gave him clean clothes. I remember that night like it was yesterday. He sat at the table, staring straight ahead, eating two helpings of everything. And never said a word.

“My mother returned to the kitchen with the news that Otto would be staying with us for a while. My father had found a room for Stanislaw on the south side of town and while he tried to find work and get himself settled, Otto was to live with us and share my bedroom. I was less than thrilled, but my mother had laid down the law.”

“How long did Otto live with you?” Catherine said.

“For the better part of six years. After leaving him with us, Stanislaw dropped out of sight. We came to learn that he was a drinker. Although my father found him a job, a couple of jobs, he couldn’t hold them.”

“Did he visit Otto?”

“Rarely, and only in the beginning. When he did it was mostly to ask my father for money or to help him get another job.”

“And Otto’s mother?”

“For all we knew, she was in Germany. So in their absence, my parents cared for Otto. When he arrived at our home, his soul was empty. His spirit, like an old car battery, was dead and wouldn’t hold a charge. But my parents, with infinite patience, filled him with warmth and love. They nourished his soul. Little by little, they taught him to trust and brought him into the fold.

“At our home, Otto received equal portions and was given equal responsibilities. Beka and I had chores, so Otto was given chores, too. My mother knew that taking on responsibilities would give him pride and self-worth.

“She did everything to treat him fairly. When I got new clothes, so did Otto. When we took our winter vacation at Uncle Joseph’s and I got new boots, Otto did too. I think my parents became resigned to the fact that Otto would grow to manhood in our home.

“Beka and I attended school at the Jewish academy, but Stanislaw, in one of his few early visits, said he thought it best that Otto go to the public school. I don’t know whether Stanislaw ever went to church, but Otto was baptized a Catholic. My parents respected his wishes and sent Otto to public school.”

“And you shared your room with Otto?”

“I did, and eventually Otto and I became fast friends. We were the same age, we had similar interests and enjoyed the same activities, although Otto was much stronger than I – he was the athletic type, I was a more of a bookworm. My Grandpa Yaakov had horses on his farm and we would ride on Sundays. We would pretend to be American cowboys. Tom Mix, Gene Autry,” he said with a slight grin.

“Six years and his parents never came to get him?”

“Not exactly,” Ben said. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling as though it were a window to visions of the past. “The spring of 1935,” he said quietly. “Otto has been with our family for two years. We’re fourteen now. Without warning and out of the blue, Stanislaw shows up at our front door. Standing right next to him is Ilse, Otto’s mother, and the two of them are dressed to kill. In the midst of the Depression, she has a mink stole around her neck. Father invites them in, but they don’t cross the threshold.

“‘We come for Otto,’ Stanislaw says. Just like that. Matter of fact.

“Meanwhile, Otto and I are in the bedroom, doing homework. Father calls us out. Otto sees his mother standing there and says to her, as cold as ice, ‘What do
you
want?’

“‘We’re here to take you home,’ she says softly and then she starts to sob. ‘We have a beautiful new home for you in Berlin. So get your things. And say thanks to the Solomons.’

“‘
This
is my home,’ says Otto, and he spins around and walks back to the bedroom.

“‘What have you done to our son?’ shrieks Ilse. ‘You’ve turned him against us.’

“‘I’ve done nothing, except to provide for him in your absence,’ Father says. ‘Who knew when or if you would ever return? I haven’t heard from either of you in over a year.’

“‘We’ve been extremely busy. We have very important jobs in Germany,’ Stanislaw says with his nose in the air, trying to look official, pulling on his coat lapels. ‘We have positions in the National Socialist Workers Party and we’re quite capable now of caring for our own son. We don’t need you anymore. And we don’t want him raised here in the home of Jews. Too dangerous.”’

Catherine interrupted. “What were their important jobs?”

Ben leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Ilse was a secretary in the Reichsministry. Somehow she got assigned to Reinhard Heydrich. Maybe because she was a looker. Of course at the time, we didn’t know much about her position or her boss. Heydrich happened to be the first deputy to Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler. Himmler was the second most powerful man in Germany, Hitler’s right hand. Reinhard Heydrich was a ruthless man who held many offices, and became head of the Gestapo and Minister of the Interior. When they decided to kill all the Jews in Poland, they called it “Aktion Reinhard.”

“Anyway, as Heydrich’s secretary in 1935, long before the war, snippets of secret information would come across her desk daily. Piecing them together, she had a pretty good idea of what was going on. She knew about the plans for the Final Solution – she took notes in the meetings and typed the memos. She knew that Heydrich was drawing up death lists with Hermann Göring and she knew that a concentration camp had been set up by Himmler at Dachau in an old powder factory. She knew that plans for mass exterminations were taking form. She knew stuff that nobody knew – that the rest of us wouldn’t learn until much later.

“Stanislaw was nothing but a low level policeman. He had somehow become involved with the SA’s, and was roaming the streets of Berlin with the rest of the uniformed thugs, rounding up intellectuals to send to Dachau.

“In the 1930s, anti-Semitism was running rampant in Germany and that’s one of the reasons they came for Otto. They didn’t want him to be mistaken for a Jew.”

“Why did they say it was dangerous in Poland?” asked Catherine. “Were there Nazis in Zamość in 1935?”

“German Nazis? No. But there were Nazi wannabes in some Polish towns. The devastating effects of the Depression motivated people to search for blame, for the cause of their misfortune. Germans offered up the Jews as the sacrificial lamb. Here’s the reason for the world-wide Depression, they said. Here’s the cause of all your misery: it’s the Jews! Hatred of the Jews had become a national policy in Germany and it was seeping slowly into Poland. What had once been a delicate fabric, community cooperation and tolerance among the diverse ethnic groups, began to unravel. Like a virus, colonies incubated in Poland, mostly among the disenfranchised youth. They called themselves Radical Nationals or National Democrats, patterned after the Nazis, but they were nothing more than bands of young thugs.”

Adele added, “For many years Poland had a history of tolerance towards Jews, the most hospitable country in all of Europe. Lublin was the seat of Jewish learning. There was a yeshiva, a school for Talmudic study, located there and scholars were turning out pages of biblical commentary. And Lublin was just north of Zamość by a few hours.” She sat back and smiled. “Ben told me.”

Ben paused to take a sip of tea and nodded. “The Jewish community was allied with leaders of the Polish government. Jozef Pilsudski was the Premier and leader of Poland following the First World War and until his death, Marshall Pilsudski protected the Jews.