Once We Were Brothers

by Ronald H. Balson

  “The days passed by in our idyllic seclusion. We rarely saw anyone other than Krzysztof or the folks I’d meet going to Nowy Targ. Krzysztof never brought his wife to the cabin and I respected his wishes not to involve her. In turn, we never went to Krzysztof’s house.”

  “What about the Germans?” Catherine said. “Did they come around?”

  “They never came to the cabin. On occasion I would see them walking around at the market but they never questioned me. I heard that they were starting to force their presence on the Zakopane Jewish community, so I stayed away from Zakopane.

  “In June, with my money running low, having heard nothing from my folks or Zamość, I sat down with Krzysztof to plan an escape route to the Adriatic. He had a tattered map of the Tatras which he spread out on our kitchen table.

  “‘Do not enter Slovakia at Łysa Polana, there are German guards at the crossing,’ he warned. ‘Take your Buttermilk, cross the border near Zdziar. There’s a pass through the mountains there. It’s rugged, but there are trails. Go down through the Bratislavska Dolina Valley and follow the river. Stay clear of the Slovak cities, like Poprad and Kosice. Remember, Slovakia is Germany’s ally.’

  “He traced a route through eastern Hungary, portions of Romania and into Yugoslavia.

  “‘I do not know the Yugoslavs or their country. You’re on your own when you get there.’

  “We talked deep into the night about the trip. It would take weeks and cover many miles, but as long as we had Buttermilk and our wagon, I felt we could make it. Beka, however, was against our leaving the cabin. She wanted to wait for Mother and Father. ‘We shouldn’t leave without them,’ she said. ‘Let’s stay another month.’

  “‘Beka,’ I said, ‘it’s mid-June and we’ve been here for ten weeks. Father told us to make a break for it.’

  “‘No, he said to wait in the cabin as long as we were safe, and if we were threatened, then we should try to escape. We’re safe here in the cabin, Ben. There have been no Germans in this area. We can wait a little longer.’

  “‘We’re running out of money,’ I argued. ‘When it comes time to leave, have you thought about how we’ll get food on the way to Split? Have you thought about how we’ll pay our expenses on the way? What if we have to pay for passage to America?’

  “Beka put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin. She had our mother’s stubbornness. ‘Have you thought about where we’ll sleep while we’re traveling through Slovakia and Hungary?’ she countered. ‘Have you thought about how we’ll make it through the mountains with your rickety wagon and a wheezing old horse? And if the family were to come tomorrow, after we left, how would they make it to Yugoslavia? They’d need us, Ben. We can’t leave without them.’

  “‘I agree with Beka,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll leave the decision to you, but I’m for staying.’”

  “So you stayed?” Catherine said.

  Ben nodded. “Until July. Then our money ran out. I sat the girls down after dinner and said, ‘I’m going back to Zamość. I’m going to see what happened to our family and try to get some of that money that’s buried at Grandpa Yaakov’s.’”

  Ben paused. His eyes filled with tears. “They tried to talk me out of it, Catherine, they didn’t want me to leave. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ they said. But I was bullheaded and foolish. ‘I can take care of myself,’ I said.

  “Beka and Hannah rightfully feared for my safety. They worried that once I went into Zamość, I’d never get out again.

  “‘Stay here,’ pleaded Beka. ‘Don’t go back. Let’s wait another week. Just one more week.’

  “‘We don’t have any money,’ I said. ‘What if I can’t find Father’s contact in Split? Or what if he demands money for passage to America? We can’t hold out here without money for the market.’

  “‘We’ll make do,’ she said.

  “I shook my head. I had made my decision. ‘I have a road map from Krzysztof and I’ll take Buttermilk back to Zamość on the country roads. I’ll try to stay out of sight.’

  “They protested, Hannah cried, Beka stomped her foot, but I wouldn’t listen.” His voice broke. He paused and looked hard at Catherine. “I didn’t listen, Catherine.” Ben stood up abruptly, trying to suppress his convulsive sobs. “Damn me all to hell, I didn’t listen to them.” Covering his eyes, he dashed to the restroom, leaving Catherine sitting at the table, bewildered.

  A few minutes later Ben returned, his eyes red and his chin quivering. “Forgive me,” he said.

  “Ben, don’t punish yourself because of your decision. It seems perfectly logical.

  “I had a bad feeling about what was going on back home. I felt I needed to check on my family. We were out of money. But it was the wrong thing to do and I’ve had to live with that decision ever since.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  Ben nodded. “I had reasoned that since there were no German patrols in our area, and since Beka and Hannah were strong and fit and had become self-sustaining, I could return to Zamość and get back without putting them at risk. They knew the mountains and they were much safer in the cabin than back in Zamość. Besides, I’d only be gone a week.

  “So early the next morning I started out for home. The weather was accommodating, warm and sunny, as Buttermilk clip-clopped along the country roads. We ate what we could find in the fields, hay for Buttermilk and vegetables for me, and I slept in the wagon. By the time we got to Grandpa Yaakov’s a few days later, the good horse was ready for a rest. It was late afternoon and Mr. Zeleinski was in the field when I pulled up.

  “‘Ben? Is that you?’ he said.

  “‘Mr. Zeleinski, it’s good to see you.’ I climbed down from the buckboard. ‘Could I have a glass of water?’

  “He quickly shuttled me into the barn. ‘Ben, what are you doing here? All Jews have been ordered into New Town. It is forbidden to leave the city.’

  “‘I wasn’t in the city. We’ve been living in the mountains. I came back to see my father. Would you mind if I spent the night in the barn? I promise to be gone first thing in the morning.’

  “‘Please, don’t ask me that,’ he said. ‘I am forever grateful to your father for letting me live on your grandfather’s farm, but I would endanger my entire family if I let you stay here. I have a six-year-old son and a wife. Please, don’t ask me.’

  “‘I understand. May I rest for just an hour in the barn and then I’ll walk to town?’

  “‘Sure. Of course. You may leave your horse and wagon here, Ben. I’ll take care of her for you.’

  “He left me alone in the barn. When I heard the farmhouse door shut, I went directly to the last stall in the far corner and brushed back the piles of straw. Grabbing the iron crowbar we kept hanging on the wall, I pried open the board to our secret hiding place, and pulled up the old wooden treasure chest. I was thunderstruck by what I saw. There were watches, rings, diamonds, and jewels of all description, twenty times more than the Solomons and the Weissbaums had given to Otto. I recognized my mother’s jewelry. There were gold picture frames and lockets. There were pieces of sterling silver. But there was no money. I dug through the entire cache, but there was absolutely no money. My father’s life savings, tied up in a brown envelope, was nowhere to be found.

  “I set the chest back into the hole, replaced the floorboard and covered it over with straw like I had found it, all the while cursing Otto. Full of rage and feeling betrayed, I left for Zamość.”

  Catherine’s conference room intercom broke into Ben’s narrative to announce that Liam Taggart was waiting in the reception room. He entered the room a few minutes later carrying a folder of papers.

  “Hello all. I have some interesting news. Ol’ Liam’s been snooping around.” He pulled the rubber band from around the accordion folder and laid his papers on the table. “Do you remember what Rosenzweig said about coming to America in 1945?”

  “He said he came through New York, a penniless immigrant, after he was liberated
from the camps,” Catherine said. “Although he never said which camp.”

  “It had to be Auschwitz,” Ben said. “That’s the only camp that tattooed prisoners with numbers.”

  “Well,” Liam said, “I’ve spent the last two days at the Chicago office of the National Archives and Records Administration, assisted by a wonderful woman named Bertha McKenzie.”

  “I’m not familiar with that agency,” Catherine said.

  “Oh, I think you are. NARA’s in charge of the National Archives in Washington, D.C., which houses the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. It also maintains a huge collection of papers, photos, motion pictures and sound recordings. Bertha told me there’s more than eight billion pieces of paper.”

  “And where’s this going?”

  “NARA also maintains immigration records for arrivals to the United States between 1820 and 1982. Passenger lists for arrivals through New York are available on microfilm. You can view them at NARA’s office on South Pulaski Road, where they’re happy to assist anyone doing genealogical research. They don’t get many visitors.”

  Liam sat back with a broad grin and laced his fingers behind his head. “There’s no record of Elliot Rosenzweig coming to America in 1945.”

  “Well, what does that prove?” said Catherine flatly. “He could have entered the United States through some other port or border crossing. Some came through Canada.”

  “Nope. NARA would have the immigration records.”

  Ben looked at Liam and cocked his head. “There’s more here, isn’t there, Liam?”

  “There sure is. Elliot Rosenzweig entered the United States through the port of New York in November 1947 aboard the Santa Adela, which sailed from Buenos Aires. From Argentina, not Europe.”

  “How can you be certain that this is the same Elliot Rosenzweig?” asked Catherine.

  “He was naturalized by the United States District Court in Chicago in 1948, showing his birthplace as Frankfurt, Germany, and listing his residence at a posh address on North Lake Shore Drive. He’s in the 1948 Chicago phone directory, but not in the 1947 book or before.”

  Ben slapped the table. “Argentina. That’s where Nazi big shots went after the war through the ODESSA network. Eichmann was captured by the Israelis outside Buenos Aires and brought to Israel for trial in the 1950s. Mengele went there, too and became a wealthy man owning a farm and a drug company.”

  “Cat, if Piatek escaped from the Allied forces and followed the Nazi underground to Argentina, he could have changed his name to Rosenzweig, immigrated to the U.S. in 1947 and drawn upon some overseas bank account where he stashed his wealth.”

  Ben stood and walked quickly to the windows. He covered his face with his hands. “Oh my sweet Hannah, it’s all coming together,” he whispered. “Now he’ll answer to the world. His past will finally catch up with him.”

  Catherine said softly, “That’s great work, Liam. We’re getting close. We still need more than immigration records, though. We need that smoking gun. We need a tie-in to Piatek. I wish we had some physical evidence.” Turning to Ben, she said, “Let’s talk more tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I can’t. It’s Friday and I have an appointment. I’ll come back Monday.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Winnetka, Illinois November 2004

  The formal dining room was aglow with candles and the uniformed server carefully set the dinner entrees before the three family members. Elliot smiled at the lovely presentation of rack of lamb and said, “Thank you, Gwyneth. It looks delicious.”

  Rosenzweig’s wife winked at her granddaughter, giggled and announced in a sing-song voice, “Elliot, Jennifer has something to tell you.”

  He sat back in his chair and folded his hands on the table. “Well, my angel?”

  The pretty young medical student blushed and held her crystal wine glass to her lips with both hands. She peered over the top of the glass at her beloved grandfather and said, “Popi. Michael proposed to me. And I said yes. We’re getting married.”

  Rosenzweig beamed and clapped his hands. “Aahh, congratulations.” He pushed his chair back from the dining room table and bustled quickly around to hug his precious granddaughter. “We’ll have the grandest wedding Chicago has ever seen,” he said. “When?”

  “We’d like to get married next June, after graduation.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” said Mrs. Rosenzweig, “our little granddaughter will be a bride. And Michael’s such a lovely boy.”

  “Imagine that,” Elliot said, “a doctor and a lawyer, such a professional union. You’ll be very successful.”

  Jennifer giggled. “He’s only a third-year associate, Popi.”

  “But he’s with a prestigious firm: Storch and Bennett. Soon he’ll be a fancy partner. This calls for a celebration! Robert,” he called, “would you please bring us a very good bottle of Champagne.”

  The uniformed butler entered the room. “We have a chilled 1966 Dom Perignon, Mr. Rosenzweig, would you like me to pour it?”

  “Excellent, excellent.”

  Resuming his usual seat at the head of his lacquered dining table, Elliot said, “Have you thought about where you’d like to have the ceremony?”

  “I’d like it to be here. At our home. We can have it on the back lawn. There’s plenty of room for a dance floor, a lattice archway and bunches of tables.”

  Robert brought out the Champagne and filled the crystal flutes.

  Elliot raised his glass. “This is the happiest day of my life.”

  As they rejoiced over their granddaughter’s engagement, a solitary figure ascended the brick staircase from the beach and stepped out onto the Rosenzweig back lawn. The night was dark and he kept to the shadows. Every now and then he would sneak up to the back of the house, peer in a window and move on. As he looked into Rosenzweig’s den, the overhead security lights came on and a buzzer sounded in the main security station.

  Robert promptly came to the table and whispered into Elliot’s ear. “There’s been a breach of security in the back, sir. Russell is checking it out.” Elliot nodded.

  Frightened by the lights, the intruder quickly returned to the staircase and descended back to the beach, blending into the darkness.

  A few moments later, Robert returned to inform Elliot that Russell found nothing out of order, but that they’d review the tapes.

  “Probably an animal,” Elliot said and returned his attention to the gaiety.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chicago, Illinois November 2004

  Catherine unlocked the front door and entered Jenkins and Fairchild’s still-empty offices before dawn the following Monday. Ben wasn’t due to arrive until noon and, despite working all weekend, she had a desk full of files screaming for attention. She hung her blazer on the back of her chair, rolled up her sleeves and dug into the overflowing in-box. At nine o’clock, she was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.

  “Miss Lockhart, there are three attorneys from Storch and Bennett in the reception room asking to see you.”

  “I have no appointments scheduled.”

  “Yes, ma’am. They say it involves Mr. Solomon and that you’ll want to talk to them.”

  Curious, Catherine walked to reception. She recognized the older of the three, F. Gerald Jeffers, past president of the bar association and a legal force in Chicago. The other two were much younger, clearly in their late twenties, and were introduced as associates.

  “We’d like a few minutes of your time,” said Jeffers. He wore an expensive hand-tailored blue pin-striped suit, Brioni tie and contrasting pocket square. He carried a cashmere coat, folded over his arm. “It concerns your client and his recent activities.”

  Catherine led them back to the conference room. Jeffers carried no briefcase. He left the toting to his two juniors, one of whom carried a business case large enough to house a laptop and a projector, which he proceeded to unload and set onto the conference room table.

  �
��What’s this all about?” Catherine said.

  “As I said, it’s about your client. May I turn off the overhead lights?” Jeffers said.

  A surveillance video began to play out on the conference room wall.

  “You’re looking at the rear of the Rosenzweig estate,” Jeffers said. “The pool and cabana are on your right, the living room windows are on your left. The steps to the beach are directly ahead. The time is noted on the bottom – it’s nine p.m. This was taken Saturday night, two nights ago.”

  Catherine watched as a darkened figure approached the windows from the side bushes. It was Ben. He peered into one set of windows for a while, took pictures with a small camera and then walked outside of the surveillance area. The video paused and then resumed with a different view. The scenario was similar: Ben peering into the windows and taking pictures. Three different cameras, all recording Ben snooping around the massive home, taking pictures and then running to the steps.

  The projector was switched off and the lights turned on.

  “We understand that you represent Mr. Solomon,” Jeffers said with a beneficent smile. “Stalking, burglary, trespassing, harassment – take your pick. Mr. Rosenzweig has had quite enough.” He nodded to one of his juniors, who took a folder of papers from his briefcase and laid them on the table.

  “Here are four copies of a proposed Order of Protection that we’ve prepared for Mr. Solomon to sign. After he affixes his consent, we intend to present the order to a judge and have it entered forthwith. As you can see, the order restrains Mr. Solomon from stalking, harassing or bothering Mr. Rosenzweig or his family in any way. In fact, it prohibits him from coming within one-half mile of the Rosenzweig property. He may not contact Mr. Rosenzweig, confront him, speak publicly about him, accuse him or denounce him in any way. As the order recites, violation of its terms will be punishable by contempt – a fine or punitive incarceration. If Mr. Solomon refuses to sign this order by tomorrow, we will immediately file an action against him.”