“Oh, yes sir. You can count on me.”
“Please don’t come back and tell me that there’s not much on Otto Piatek.”
“No, sir.”
“What about Solomon?”
Wuld looked uneasy and hung his head. He spoke in mumbles. “Not much on him either. Sorry”
“Tell me what you know,” Elliot said with obvious irritation.
“He came from Poland after the war. Immigrated in 1949. No criminal record in Illinois. No arrests. I can’t find anything through the Secretary of State’s office, you know, no DUI’s. I guess he pays his bills on time – there’s no judgments against him. No bankruptcies. Rents a place on Bittersweet.” Wuld shrugged. “That’s it.”
“That’s it? That’s it? The man lives in Chicago and that’s all you can tell me?”
“Sorry.”
“I need to know more,” Elliot said. “Maybe I’ve made a mistake hiring you, Carl.”
“No, sir. You have not. I’ll get more. Don’t worry.”
“Why did this man put a gun in my face, Carl? Are you following me? I want information. I want to know why this man linked me up with some Nazi.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir. I won’t let you down.”
Chapter Ten
Chicago, Illinois October 2004
The dedication ceremony for the new Rosenzweig Pavilion for the Performing Arts took place beneath the ribbons of brushed steel which framed the bandshell in Chicago’s new Millennium Park. A chilly northeast wind blew in off the lake and across the Great Lawn, shaking loose and scattering the season’s last brown and yellow leaves. Only a smattering of sailboats remained in Monroe Harbor, tied to their buoys and bobbing in the whitecaps.
Elliot Rosenzweig was introduced by Mayor Burton, who referred to him as “Chicago’s treasure.” The ceremonial assembly included the usual government dignitaries along with members of the Fine Arts Council. The crowd, which had come more to listen to the symphony orchestra than to see a dedication, numbered about six hundred.
Elliot, his white hair tussled by the wind, accepted the silver plaque and leaned forward to speak into the microphone. “Mister Mayor, members of the City Council, Maestro Bernard, and all you wonderful people of Chicago, I thank you for the generous words which have been spoken about me today and for the honors given to me. I am deeply humbled.” His words came out in echoes. “It has been my privilege to serve the cultural core of the finest city in the world and to play my small part in its ongoing development.” The wind sent rumbling noises into the microphone, which were amplified throughout the Millennium Park sound system like rolling thunder.
While Elliot addressed the assembly, two elderly men stood at the back, watching from the promenade. The one on the left handed a pair of binoculars to the one on the right.
“It sure looks like him, but it’s been so many years,” said the man as he returned the binoculars. “I don’t know if I could swear to it in a court of law.”
“Did you ever know that man to be imprisoned at Auschwitz? Did you ever come across an Elliot Rosenzweig?”
“No, Ben, I didn’t, but there were so many.”
“You were there for two years, Mort. Until the liberation. You worked on intake. You saw them all.”
“No. No one saw them all. We only saw some of the ones they registered. A fraction of the many. Dead skeletons and walking skeletons. Only a small number survived. But, in truth, I never knew an Elliot Rosenzweig.”
“Back in Poland, before your family was shipped to Majdanek and you to Auschwitz, do you remember Piatek standing in the square? Doesn’t that man look like him?”
“There’s a resemblance, I won’t deny it. Of course, Piatek was young with a head full of blond hair. And that was sixty years ago. I don’t know, Ben”
The crowd applauded enthusiastically as Elliot waved and the Grant Park Symphony Orchestra began its program with selections from Grieg’s Peer Gynt.
Chapter Eleven
Early Tuesday morning, Liam unlocked the door to his small office on the second floor of a Dearborn Street brownstone, just north of the Loop. Yesterday’s mail, delivered through the brass chute in the door, lay scattered on the wooden floor. There was a message from Catherine on his voice mail: “I’ve scheduled a meeting with Ben Solomon today at 1 p.m. Would you please join us?”
He dialed her office.
“Ben’s due to arrive in a little while,” she said. “I want you to come and sit in with us.”
“I’m sorry, Cat, but I’ll have to take a pass. I have a meeting with Lawrence McComb on a new job. From what I understand it’ll be a big project. Lots of witnesses, statements, pictures.”
“Liam, you’re the one that roped me into this. Solomon is a difficult client – he’s hard to keep on task and I’m worried about the time he’s taking. Besides, he unnerves me, fading in and out of conversations like he does, and Adele can’t come today. The least you could do is sit with us. Are you sure you can’t get away?”
“I’ll try to get there late this afternoon, maybe around five or six, if you think he’ll still be there.”
“He’d still be here next Christmas if I let him. Please. Whenever you can. By the way, did you see the news last night? The dedication ceremony?”
“You mean Rosenzweig? Chicago’s treasure? I saw it.”
“How can I support bringing a lawsuit accusing Chicago’s Treasure of being a Nazi?”
“Are you harboring thoughts of representing him?”
“Absolutely not. Right now, I’m merely doing a favor for you and Adele. Keep that in mind. It’s a favor.”
“And I appreciate it. Evaluate his case and then decide if you want to go further.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s clarify my role here. Evaluation only. There is no further. If there’s sufficient evidence, I’ll send him over to Tryon at Justice. If he insists on a civil case, I’ll help him find an available civil lawyer. That’s it, Liam, but I have to tell you, so far I haven’t seen enough factual support to justify either. I can’t even get him to focus on the relevant issues. He just wants to give me history lessons.”
“Cat, please be a little patient. I know you’re busy and I realize this isn’t Jenkins and Fairchild’s usual inventory, but Ben’s a sweet old man and he’s been through a lot. He just needs someone to listen to him. You never know. He may have something.”
“Liam, you don’t understand the kind of pressure that large law firms put on associates. They don’t give me time to talk to sweet old men. And frankly, I have concerns about his sanity. He holds conversations with ghosts. I think I’ll rue the day you talked me into this. Get here as soon as you can.”
“Rue the day?”
“Just get here.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Catherine hesitated and then spoke quietly. “Liam, there’s something else.”
“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 waitin
g 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.
Once We Were Brothers Page 5