“A few days later he told us that Jews were banned from using any vehicles and none of us were allowed to exit the town, except in work details.”
“What happened to your car?” Catherine said.
“It was usually parked in front of our house. One day German soldiers came and demanded the keys. And that was especially devastating to my father. He loved his car and kept it polished. It ran like a dream.” Ben smiled. “It was a German car. It broke his heart to hand over the keys. But the loss of Father’s car was another slap of reality. As long as we had a car, we had mobility, a way out, a chance to escape. Now we were trapped.”
Ben stopped. He stood, put his palms on the table, leaned forward and looked directly into Catherine’s eyes. “And now, Catherine, we will focus on Mr. Otto Piatek.” He pointed his finger at her yellow pad. “Get ready to write.”
“It is the night after they took our car. We are clearing the dinner table when there is a loud knock on the door. My father opens it to find Ilse and Stanislaw standing there, she in a long tan raincoat and he in the khaki uniform of a minor SS functionary. They don’t wait to be invited in; they just brush past my father and demand to see Otto.
“I fetch him from our bedroom. He takes one look at his mother and father and makes a spitting noise.
“‘You are not permitted to stay in the house of Jews,’ declares Ilse. ‘You are a German citizen, here are your papers.’ She holds out a folded identity card, but Otto refuses to take it.
“‘Otto, take your papers,’ she says. Otto shakes his head.
“‘Do what your mother says, you ungrateful little snit,’ says Stanislaw.
“‘Or what?’ Otto says belligerently.
“Seeing that Otto won’t budge, Ilse softens her demeanor. ‘I have help for the Solomons, but you must listen to me.’
“‘Can you get us all out of Poland?’ Otto says.
“‘That I cannot do, not at this time. But I have arranged an appointment for you here in Zamość. You’ll be an assistant clerk and work in the offices of the German administration, part of the group that reports directly to Vice-Reichsfuhrer Heydrich’s office in Berlin. You are to help administer the Jewish work details for the Zamość region.’
“‘Oh really? Send my people to do slave labor? How gracious of you. No, thanks,’ Otto says and he turns to leave.
“Ilse pleads, but Otto shows no interest.
“‘Wait a minute, Otto,’ Father says. ‘Maybe we should talk this over.’
“Otto is surprised but he’s not about to question my father, especially in front of others, so Otto nods and says to Ilse, ‘I’m going to talk this over with Uncle Abraham. In private. I’ll let you know later what I decide.’
“‘Liebchen, there’s a war going on,’ Ilse says. ‘Look around the room. These people are declared to be enemies of the Reich. Without your help, they may all be casualties of the war.’
“‘Come back tomorrow night and I’ll give you my answer after I talk to Uncle Abraham.’
“‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Stanislaw says, pushing aside Beka and making his way toward Otto. ‘No Jew is going to make decisions about my son. You listen to your mother, you Jew-loving punk.’
“Otto, who is much younger, taller and stronger than Stanislaw, steps forward and blocks Stanislaw’s approach. ‘Don’t you ever push anyone in my house,’ he says. ‘Ever. Or I’ll break you into little pieces.’
“Ilse turns to her husband and says through clenched teeth, ‘Shut up, you fool.’ Then, turning back to Otto and squeezing his hands, she pleads, ‘Please think about your opportunity here, Otto. You’ll be an officer of the Reich in an administrative position. And you’ll be able to help your friends. Just think about it. I’ll come back tomorrow night.’
“She gives him a kiss on the forehead and walks to the door. Stanislaw follows and as he reaches the doorway, he turns, gives a Nazi salute, snaps his heels, and barks ‘Heil Hitler.’ He laughs and slams the door behind him.”
Catherine shook her head. “The Otto you’re describing in your story, he’s…”
“Once we were brothers,” said Ben sadly.
Catherine looked at her watch. “I’d like to keep going, Ben, but it’s five o’clock and I have a department meeting in half an hour, which, by the way, I dread.”
“Shall I come back later?”
“How about dinner?” Liam said. “Bernini’s? I’m buying.”
“Sounds good to me, but maybe Catherine has had enough of me for one day.”
Catherine breathed a sigh of surrender. “I’ll meet you at Bernini’s at 7:30.”
Chicago, Illinois October 2004
“You have information, Carl?”
The private investigator stood meekly before Elliot’s desk, shifting from one foot to the other. Brian sat to his left. “Well, sort of, Mr. Rosenzweig. Otto Piatek was born in Germany. In Leipzig. I guess that’s how he ended up becoming a Nazi officer. I can’t find out much about his early life, there’s no records on him in Germany. He’s not mentioned in the records of the Hitler Youth organization. I’ve checked the major German cemeteries, especially those where German soldiers are buried. Again, nothing. I also checked the immigration records after the war. No Piatek. That’s not surprising, they change their names. But I got an idea.”
Elliot raised his eyebrows. He glanced at Brian who was taking notes.
“I got a contact, Mr. Rosenzweig. He’s like a friend of a friend. You know what I mean?”
Elliot shook his head. “What’s the point, Carl?”
“Yes, sir. Well, he belongs to the Liberty Crusade. It’s a Teutonic group. You know, some people would call them Neo-Nazis. The have a lodge and hold meetings out on Mannheim Road. They network with a lot of those kinda groups.”
Elliot stood. “You mean, Piatek is a member of this group? You have that information?”
“No. Not yet.” Wuld winked. “Some of these guys are, how shall I say, former German citizens. Maybe sons of National Socialists or German soldiers. They have ways of keeping in touch and finding out what happened to their people. My friend’s friend, he’s always in financial difficulty. I’m thinking he could be a source. You know, for the right price?”
Elliot smiled. “Good work, Carl. Let Brian know how much you need. And get back to us as soon as possible. What about Solomon?”
“I’ve obtained some additional information and I’m putting it all together for you. I should have a report by tomorrow.”
Wuld left the office and Elliot glanced over at his secretary. “Who’s he kidding, Brian? Friend of a friend? Indeed.”
“Sounds like he’s looking for an extra payday, sir,” Brian said. “But I’ve always been a bit wary of his political inclinations. Shall I discharge him and engage another firm?”
“Hell, no. Let’s see what he digs up. Besides, I want to see his report on Solomon.”
“May I ask, sir, why are you still concerned about this Piatek fellow? The unpleasant episode at the opera has come and gone. It’s all but forgotten by the public. I doubt that anyone ever thought you were a Nazi anyway.”
“I’m not so sure. Brian, I was publicly accused of being someone else, and not just someone, but according to Solomon, a murdering Nazi. It doesn’t get much worse than that. And I don’t know why he would single me out. Maybe Piatek found his way to Chicago and maybe Solomon spotted him somewhere. Maybe he looks like me and Solomon got confused. I know it’s a long shot, but if that’s the story, I want to find Piatek. You know, Brian, if this guy does exist, if he was a Nazi murderer and he’s still around, then he ought to be caught. We’d be doing society a favor. And it would put to rest any suspicions that anyone could have about me.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll see that Wuld gets the money he needs for his friend of a friend.”
As Brian stood to leave, Elliot added, “Brian, when we get information on this guy, dead or alive, I want to make sure that all the papers and the TV stations und
erstand that I spearheaded this search. That will clear my name. When you give Carl his money, have a talk with him. Make sure he knows that all the information is to come directly to you or me and nowhere else.”
Chapter Eighteen
Chicago, Illinois 2004
Liam and Ben sat on wrought iron stools at Bernini’s bar, leaning their elbows on the stained, cigarette-burned oak, sipping beer and waiting for Catherine. Located on a tree-lined side street in Chicago’s Little Italy, the tiny trattoria had been in operation since the Twenties and was rumored to have been a haunt of the old prohibition gangs. The daily menu was written on a chalk board over the bar and featured specials like Fusilli Carbonara, Manicotti al Forno and Steak Vesuvio.
“She seemed tense to me today,” Ben said.
“Well, to be frank, you’ve taken a pretty good chunk of her time recently and she has to meet with her department heads tonight. I’m sure her time records will be addressed. They’re going to want justification for the time she’s spending with you.”
“She has to understand how it was.”
Liam lifted his frosted mug. “Does she really? In such detail? In order for her to evaluate your case or to be an effective advocate, does she need to know any more than the strength of your evidence? Does she really need to have all the historical background?”
“It’s about passion, Liam. For a lawyer to take on a case like mine against a monster like Piatek, she has to have no reservations. She has to attack like a bulldog, with a fire that burns from within, not because it’s another piece of legal inventory or a case assigned to her by a department chairman.”
“Maybe you’re not giving her enough credit. She’s very dedicated.”
“Oh, of that I have no doubt. But to take on Rosenzweig and all his wealth, and prevail in a lawsuit which accuses him of participation in Nazi atrocities, will take more courage, more heart, more dogged determination than this young woman has ever had to muster. That’s why she must know the whole story, piece by piece, day by day. She has to have a true feeling for what happened. And that’s also the reason that she can’t farm it out to some clinic or some inexperienced lawyer.”
“And what if Rosenzweig isn’t Piatek, after all? Have you considered that possibility? What if Piatek ended up dead in the war? Or exists somewhere as a retired plumber? You’ve got to have proof of the connection. That’s what she’s looking for.”
“Rosenzweig is Piatek. And I will have the proof. I just need Catherine to believe in me and be strong.”
“Don’t sell her short, Ben. She’s a good person and a great lawyer. You can believe in her, even if she doesn’t believe in herself. Sometimes she’s her own worst enemy.”
Ben turned to Liam. “I’ve come to notice that. How well do you know her?
“About as well as two friends can know each other.”
“Who is she, Liam? Tell me about her. After all, I’m entrusting quite a lot to her.”
Liam pondered the request. “I guess you’re entitled,” he finally said. “Cat was two years behind me in high school. Prettiest thing you ever saw. A buddy of mine was dating her and that’s how we met. She was part of our social group. After a while we came to be very close friends. I became her confidant. She’d call me at night and talk to me like a girlfriend.”
Liam stared at the condensation on his beer mug. “I always had a crush on her, but you know how it is, they never date their best friends. So even after she broke up with my buddy, I stood on the sidelines as she passed through her high school ups and down – the boyfriends, the trueloves, the break-ups.
“After graduation, she attended UCLA and I went downstate to Illinois on a football scholarship.”
“Football?”
Liam nodded. “I played tight end. Started every game until I blew out my knee in the last game of my senior year. I had aspirations of playing professionally, but a Wisconsin strong-side linebacker ended those dreams. Anyway, even though we were thousands of miles apart, Catherine and I stayed connected. We’d get together on the breaks and the vacations. Just best friends hanging out.
“After she got her undergraduate degree, she enrolled at Northwestern Law School and moved back to Chicago. Every so often we’d link up for dinner or a movie. We’d still have our ‘girl talk.’ ‘Who are you seeing,’ she’d ask me. ‘Is it serious?’ It never was. I’d tell her I was still waiting for the right one to come along.”
Ben smiled. “So how come you didn’t tell Catherine she was the right one?”
“Hey, wait a minute. We’re talking about Catherine’s life story, not mine. Don’t twist this around, you sneaky old coot.”
“Well, I’m just thinking, maybe they’re connected.”
“Yeah, well, quit thinking.”
Liam finished his beer and ordered another. “Cat was a great law student and finished near the top of her class. She had offers from all the top firms. She ended up taking a job at Drexel Youngquist and was soon on her way up the ladder. She was a rising star.
“It was in her seventh year, she had just made partner at Drexel, when she met Peter Goodrich. He was a trader at the Mercantile Exchange in the high flying Nineties. Good looking and glamorous. Fancy car, fancy clothes. Mister Rush Street.”
Liam shook his head. “I never liked the guy. I knew he was wrong for her. I told her, too. ‘You’re just like my mother,’ she said one day, giving me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Always trying to protect me. But I’m a big girl, so don’t worry.’
“She fell head over heels for this glamour-boy and within six months they’d moved into a condo off Michigan Avenue. A year later they were husband and wife. He was big time at the Merc, pulling down seven figures, spending money like a rock star. It was a train wreck in the making, but she couldn’t see it. God bless her heart, she gave herself completely to the bastard. She believed all his bullshit.
“The sky fell three years ago. The Feds showed up one night with a warrant and a forfeiture notice. The government froze all their property, including their joint bank accounts and their condominium. Goodrich was arrested two days later in the home of a girlfriend, one of several, it turned out.”
“What’d he do?” Ben said.
“Fraud. Theft. Ponzi scheme. He ran a fund and used the trust assets to fund his commodities trading. He was way over the edge in corn futures, and when the market dipped he couldn’t make the margin call. It was a big swing, millions of dollars. He borrowed what he could from everyone they knew, and what he couldn’t borrow, he swindled with more phony securities. He’d even talked Cat’s mother into loaning him her retirement fund. Cat never knew any of this was going on.
“When the shit hit the fan, she was devastated and went into a tailspin. She couldn’t concentrate or handle her case load. She quit her position at Drexel so she could cash in her profit sharing and give it to her mother. The disillusionment knocked her for a loop. She couldn’t deal with the betrayal or the shame. Even though they didn‘t blame her, she couldn’t face her friends. Deep depression set in. A total breakdown.”
Liam paused for a moment, sifting through his memories. “When I think of all the people affected by her breakdown, it was Mickey Shanahan who took the biggest hit. She has never forgiven herself for what she did to Mickey. He was her mentor at the firm. A legend. Probably the best trial lawyer in Chicago. And she worshipped him. When she fell apart, Mickey tried to cover for her. He handled her overdue assignments, he appeared in court on her cases, and he supported her in the stormy partner meetings. But in the end, Mickey was left picking up the pieces. There were angry clients and the firm lost a lot of business. Not to mention the malpractice claims. Mickey ended up taking the blame and caught a six month suspension from the disciplinary commission.
“To make matters worse, Mickey was going through a bad time himself. He had tragically lost his wife a few months before, a loss from which Mickey has never recovered. Cat felt terrible that she was wasn’t there for Mickey, but then, Cat wasn’t ev
en there for herself.
“She had a sister in Iowa City who finally came in, bundled her up and brought her out to Iowa to rehabilitate. Weeks later, she recovered enough to take a job waitressing in the evenings and baby-sitting her nieces during the day. Seems like a big come-down, but it was all she could handle. It was almost a year and a half before she could regain her balance enough to come back to the city.
“I was doing work at the time for Jenkins and Fairchild and I asked Walter Jenkins if he’d interview her. Of course, when he did, he liked her and hired her on the spot. She’s been in their litigation section for a little over a year and a half. And that’s her story. She’s still back on her heels a little bit, but she’ll come around.”
Liam took the last swallows of his beer and set the empty mug on the bar. “I’ve loved her forever and I’d kill anyone who’d hurt her, including Goodrich, if he ever gets out of the federal pen.”
“Is she happy working at Jenkins and Fairchild, because I don’t get the feeling she is.”
“No, she’s not. She and Mickey were doing some terrific public interest work. Stuff to be proud of. Jenkins is an institutional firm representing large corporate interests. Very unsatisfying for Cat.”
“So, why does she stay there?”
“You know how it is – you get up every day, put your shoes on and go to work. She’s well paid, enjoys the esteem of her colleagues, and has enough work to keep her conscience from reminding her how empty her soul is. But that’s a story for another day.”
“Okay,” said Ben. “It clears up a lot of questions.”
“Do me a favor, Ben. Let’s just have an evening of pleasant conversation, no talk about Poland or Otto or Rosenzweig. Okay?”
“Deal.”
“Hey there, can I get some good looking guy to buy me a drink,” said Catherine, breezing up to the bar.
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