Gables Court

by Alan S. Kessler

  “I guess so, if it’s Miami.”

  “It is. All I need is a hundred.”

  “In cash.”

  “Easier for me. Wrap it so no one knows what’s inside. I’ve learned that trick. You’ve always been a good friend, Samuel. Are you dating anyone?”

  “I am.”

  “The girl of your dreams?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s great. I’m happy for you. You won’t forget?”

  “Us?”

  “The money.”

  Even after they’d said good-bye, Samuel held the phone.

  On the way to the Federal Building he stopped at the bank, then the post office.

  Unlike the Dade County Courthouse no vultures nested on top of the three story Federal Building. Built of coral stone, a colonnade in front, its windows arched and well suited for the heraldic shields above them, an eagle, carved from marble, looked down from the building’s parapet.

  Inside the use of marble continued. Samuel walked across a large star inset into the marble floor, around him marble of various shades formed the pilasters and wainscoting. But in creating a secular temple the government had, above leather covered doors, decorated with more than glistening rock. In one lunette a bas-relief woman representing Love and Hope played the lyre; in the other half moon space Wisdom and Courage looked respectfully at a tablet of laws.

  Samuel took the elevator. When the door opened he saw on the wall in front of him the Department of Justice seal, its Eagle holding an olive branch in its right talons, arrows in the sinister ones.

  What will I get today?

  Squeezing tight the handle of his briefcase, he entered the high ceiling, United States Attorneys office for the Southern District of Florida. Consistent with the somber, tall, black wood wainscoting and the slashed plaster above it, wall plaques depicted thorny stems winding around the bloom of a rose. His footsteps echoing loudly in the room, Samuel walked over to the receptionist.

  “Yes sir,” she said, her face, eyes, tightly buttoned, dark blue suit, austere, official, and unfriendly.

  “I’m here to see Mr. O’Malley.”

  “Your name.”

  “Samuel Baas.”

  “He is expecting you.” Still looking at Samuel, she picked up the phone.

  When playacting a lawyer, a grownup, an adult responsible for other people’s lives, Samuel knew if he kept his jacket on no one would see him sweat. This helped him control his voice. In court he always spoke calmly and firmly. Now he was about to meet a man who could strip Mr. Gleba of his citizenship, residency, and deport him to the Soviet Union. Haitian cases were routine tragedies. This wasn’t routine. Samuel hoped he wouldn’t squeak.

  He pressed against his temples, quickly took his hand away and pulled his jacket straight.

  “Mr. Baas,” the tall, muscular man said, striding over and firmly shaking Samuel’s hand. “Richard O’Malley.” He smiled brightly, his blue-gray eyes those of someone too intelligent and calculating to show what he thought or felt. “Let’s go into the conference room where we can talk.”

  Sweat ran down Samuel’s armpits.

  They sat across from each other, a file in front of O’Malley, the room, like the reception area, windowless, wooded, and dark.

  “I have an advantage, Mr. Baas.”

  “I agree, you do,” Samuel answered. “The government has resources. I’m just one lawyer. But I don’t have the burden of proof.”

  “I’m not talking about Mr. Gleba,” O’Malley said, again smiling, Samuel now noticing the U.S. Attorney’s thin lips. “I feel I know you. I’ve talked to lawyers in this office who represented the Justice Department in your Haitian cases. They describe you as smart and ethical. I was pleased when you called me. I have an offer.”

  Samuel folded his hands and waited.

  “If Mr. Gleba renounces his citizenship and permanent residency status the government will deport him to a country of his choice, assuming, of course, it is willing to accept him.”

  “That isn’t an offer. My client intends to win this case and clear his name no matter how long that takes.”

  “Yes, it’s true, this case could go on for years. In the end, he’ll be deported. And my offer, which is a good one, will no longer be on the table. Mr. Gleba will end up in the Soviet Union. Unfortunately for him they don’t view traitors very sympathetically. But he might have another way out.”

  “Which is?”

  “He could die first.” O’Malley’s eyes continued to show no emotion.

  “Is that his file?” Samuel asked. “It looks thin.”

  “We have everything we need. The case is ready for trial.”

  “Based on the testimony of a KGB informant.”

  O’Malley actually looked surprised.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Victor Yarema. He might seem credible to you. He owns the Ukrainian Post and has his neatly typed list of names, but I’m sure he didn’t tell you he tried blackmailing Mr. Gleba. My client refused to pay him. I don’t think the court will give much weight to the testimony of an extortionist. Mr. Gleba has lived in this country for more than thirty-two years. He worked hard, took care of his family, and never committed a crime.”

  “Except when he immigrated here illegally,” O’Malley stated. “Yarema, you say.” He wrote the name down. “Thank you. I’ll check him out.”

  The room closed in. No routine headache followed. Knowing he had just irreparably damaged Mr. Gleba’s case by disclosing information the government didn’t have, Samuel sat cold and wet, his shirt soaked with sweat. Spikes of pain repeatedly jabbed him behind the eyes.

  I can go home. Shut the door and get into bed. That’s what children do when it’s late and they’re done playing…

  “It’s only fair to tell you,” O’Malley rested his hand on the file. Samuel forced himself to listen. “We have someone who can identify your client as a guard at Treblinka.”

  “Saw him there?”

  “Yes, and on Miami Beach where our witness also lives. His name is Jakub Weiss. He is a survivor.”

  Survivor testimony…

  The pain lessened. Samuel could again think like a lawyer.

  “Treblinka I or II?” he asked.

  “II,” O’Malley answered.

  “That was a death camp. All the Jews died.”

  “Mr. Weiss didn’t.”

  “I’m sure you know, Mr. O’Malley, that survivorship testimony isn’t reliable. Memories are imperfect, especially after so much time. In 1942 Mr. Gleba was a young man. How can Mr. Weiss be sure this is the same person?”

  “He is. We showed him a number of photographs. He picked out Gleba. He remembers the eyes.”

  “Does he remember the camp in detail? I’ll ask him.”

  “That will be unpleasant,” O’Malley stated matter-of-factly.

  “I have a client to represent.”

  “Of course.”

  “You have a weak case,” Samuel stated. “One old witness.”

  “Do you like sports, Mr. Baas?”

  “I swim.”

  “A good exercise. I played football in college. We had a thick playbook but what often worked best was our basic, run up the middle. Truth is like that. One strong play.” He got up. “Thank you for coming. Let me know if your client accepts my offer.”

  Outside the building, Samuel almost ran to the car. He wanted to get back to the office quickly and tell Mr. Gleba. They were going to win!

  “Mr. Baas?” In
the parking garage, a slender, slightly balding man walked over and cutting in front of Samuel, blocked the way. “I’m Lenny Shapiro from the Herald. I’d like to talk to you about your client, Kyrlo Gleba. Did you just meet with the U.S. Attorney?”

  When a reporter interviewed him regarding his Haitian clients she had been polite and interested in their lost cause. Shapiro looked like the ones who had waited outside his office building—probing and predatory. Nothing mattered but a headline.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shapiro, but I can’t comment.”

  “It’s alleged Gleba was a guard at Treblinka.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “And now he lives on Miami Beach where there’s a significant Jewish population. Was that his strategy? Hide out in the open?”

  “Mr. Gleba has nothing to hide. Excuse me.” He tried walking past Shapiro who, staying in front of Samuel, backed up, notebook and pencil in hand.

  “As a Jew, how do you feel about defending a war criminal?”

  Samuel stopped.

  “My client is facing a denaturalization hearing for supposedly leaving out information on his application for immigration. He’s never been accused of war crimes.”

  “But if he worked for the SS—”

  “Think about it, Mr. Shapiro. What is the worst the government can say he did? Guard a fence? That doesn’t kill people.”

  “No?”

  Samuel also didn’t blink.

  “Murder requires intent. I’m an attorney. I swore an oath to represent my clients justly and not disclose confidential information. That includes talking to the press.”

  In continued good spirits, he drove back to his office and called Mr. Gleba.

  10

  Samuel and Margaret continued dating. Each night at the Castaways she hugged him outside her room before saying goodnight.

  He loved her.

  Is this the blessing of Christ? Samuel wondered while driving back toward his condo. They had gone to a movie and sat holding hands. What I feel is more beautiful than the colors I lost. Have I opened my heart not only to Margaret but her Jesus?

  After leaving the elevator, Samuel saw a body slumped against his door.

  “Kate!” He ran over. “What’s wrong?”

  Pale, twitching, she looked up and vomited.

  Carrying her to his bed he came back from the bathroom with a wet cloth and gently cleaned her face. She began shaking. Samuel put a blanket on her, got into bed and pulled her close. During the night he placed cold compresses on Kate’s forehead, sat in a chair and watched her.

  Soft on his face, morning light through the window didn’t wake him. She did.

  “Thank you,” Kate said weakly.

  Samuel jumped up.

  “Do you need something?”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “I want to help. What can I get you?”

  “Nothing…a little more sleep…” Her eyes closed. She snored softly.

  In the afternoon, when again checking on her, he found Kate sitting up in bed.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much. I must look awful.”

  “Not to me,” Samuel said.

  “I don’t remember. Did I have my purse with me?

  “I put it on the kitchen table.”

  “My cosmetics are inside. Will you bring me the bag? I’m going to take a shower.”

  Samuel imagined her naked.

  When he returned steam billowing out through the open bathroom door titillated him with its promise of hot wet skin just a few feet away. Hesitating before looking in, he saw Kate’s blurred form behind the shower curtain, the undulating motion of her body pulling him toward her.

  He shut the bathroom door…

  Placed her purse on the bed and left to buy breakfast.

  Returning with eggs, orange juice, and a can of chicken soup, he saw the note written on a napkin.

  Hi Samuel,

  Had to leave.

  Thanks for taking care of me. It was the flu.

  I’m not with Rory anymore, but I’m doing fine.

  The money really helps.

  Luv ya, Kate

  Samuel mixed the orange juice with vodka and after a few screwdrivers went to work.

  “Bankers hours,” Vera snorted when he walked in.

  Samuel made arrangements to see Daniel at Krome and Margaret for dinner.

  He wrapped Kate’s weekly allowance and sealing the envelope kept it pressed against his lips.

  11

  “That case, the one where the tenant moved his office as a favor to your client who then tried to evict him. When was that?”

  “Ten years ago, Your Honor,” Samuel answered. He sat in Judge Kowalski’s chambers, a room without any photos or decorations. It reminded Samuel of his condo. He had spoken with the judge many times in the past but always on the phone.

  “Since then, Mr. Baas, you have done well. You have listened to my advice. Your practice of law is honorable.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I consider you a friend.”

  His wisps of hair now white, his small body thinner and more compressed than when Samuel had first met him, the judge’s dark, joyless eyes hadn’t changed.

  “I am a judge. You are an attorney. We aren’t friends.” He stared hard across his desk. Samuel also felt the eyes of the man sitting in the chair next to him.

  “I would like you to meet Mr. Weiss,” Judge Kowalski stated.

  Samuel turned, prepared to shake the man’s hand. Weiss remained still, quiet, his small hands palms up on his lap, his eyes as dark as the judge’s but sorrowful, as if in constant mourning.

  “Jakub Weiss,” the judge said. “Witness for the government.”

  Samuel sat back. He now knew why Judge Kowalski had wanted this meeting in chambers after the courthouse closed.

  There are no witnesses to this breach of ethics by a judge and lawyer—

  If I stay…

  “Mr. Weiss has an attorney. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Then go,” Judge Kowalski said. “No one is stopping you. I thought it might help if you heard directly from Jakub what he knows about your client. Maybe I’ve misjudged you. Maybe you aren’t interested in the truth.”

  “We were at the train, waiting to be deported,” Weiss began, his voice flat, matter-of-fact and distant, but also so present Samuel no longer thought about leaving, the subdued sound of loss, soulful beyond emotion yet still full of pain, captivating in its solemnity. “I sat beside Sarah, my wife, and held our son Joseph. Four years old. ‘Why are we here, daddy?’ he asked me. ‘We are going on vacation,’ I told him. He smiled at me. Sarah knew I was holding him for the last time. I saw it in her eyes. They put her and the boy in a different cattle car. That was it.

  “I don’t have to tell you about Treblinka. The Germans tried to hide it. Cover it up. But the world knows what happened there. I will say this. When I got out of the train I saw flowers. There were signs. The ramp looked like a train station. A German yelled, ‘Hurry! To the showers before the water gets cold!’ There were so many people. Where were Sarah and Joseph? Who knows? Probably already dead. I survived by throwing bodies into a fire. I held the legs, another man the arms. I was young. Strong. Those at the arms changed many times. I don’t remember their faces or names.

  “Some Sonderkommandos escaped. I was one of them. I got away, but died. I had a family. It ended. I found a way to stay alive in the camp. That ended too. I learned there that life and death cannot be separated.
I lived to die. Do I love my new wife, our children and grandchildren? I try.

  “The man who shouted at us about the showers was Kyrlo Gleba.”

  The three men sat in silence. Samuel spoke first.

  “Mr. Gleba is Ukrainian.”

  “Time blurs memory, Mr. Baas,” Weiss said, now looking directly into Samuel’s eyes. “For the dead like me there is no time.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” Judge Kowalski asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Samuel answered.

  He left first.

  Outside in the quiet of a muggy, moonless, Miami night, Samuel went to a payphone and called Mr. Gleba.

  “Sorry, I know it’s late.”

  “Is something wrong?” Gleba asked, the fear Samuel heard irritating; Mr. Weiss had just spoken quietly about the death of his child and wife.

  “Nothing to worry about. I was wondering. Do you speak German?’

  “A few words. Ja, sir. Nein, sir. That’s all I needed to know. I am not good with languages. Even my Russian isn’t much better than my English!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gleba, that’s useful.”

  “It helps me?’

  “Yes. Again, I apologize for disturbing you.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Baas. I’m used to getting up a few times a night. I pee, then go back to bed. I never have any trouble sleeping!”

  As Samuel walked to his car, the dark bodies of the courthouse’s buzzards, shadows in the night, circled overhead. Men and women could love and hope, possess wisdom and courage, depict them in artistic form in a Federal building, but these birds didn’t contemplate or create. They nested and flew, their lives uncomplicated.

  Mr. Weiss didn’t remember the arm-men at the fire pit. He thought Mr. Gleba spoke German. Perhaps most damaging, the government’s witness had been a Sonderkommando. Although an understandable effort to survive, by burning bodies he became part of Treblinka’s efficient killing machine, a conveyor taking Jews on arrival to the gas chambers then an inferno.