Once We Were Brothers

by Ronald H. Balson

  Ben sadly shook his head. “Catherine may be right. He may be too powerful, too likeable to defeat in court.”

  “Ben, it’s my job to bring out the truth,” Catherine said. “He won’t have an easy time with me.”

  Ben looked up. “His wife,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “Can you question Rosenzweig’s wife?” he said more alertly.

  “Yes, I have the right to take her deposition, but why?”

  “I think you should,” Ben said. “Take her deposition.”

  “What’s on your mind, Ben? Why should she take it?” Liam said.

  “I’m not sure why, but I know she should.”

  Catherine tilted her head. “And why do you know this?”

  “It’s just an idea that came into my head. An inspiration. You may discover something.”

  Catherine sighed and walked to the window with her coffee to stare at the blowing snow. The brief December daylight had vanished and the streetlights had come on illuminating the falling snowflakes. The neighborhood holiday lights twinkled through the veil of the storm. But for Catherine, the impressionistic setting did little to evoke seasonal cheer. The massive task before her bent her spirit like the snow bent the tree boughs. “How was it I got all tangled up in this snare?” she asked herself aloud.

  “It’s not a bad idea, Cat,” Liam said from the couch. “There were no other Rosenzweigs listed on the Santa Adela manifest. No Mrs. Rosenzweig. Other than Elliot, I didn’t find any Rosenzweigs who came through Ellis Island.”

  Ben folded his arms and said, “There’s something else. We need to look at the numbers.”

  “What numbers?” Catherine said.

  Ben frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Another inspiration?”

  Ben nodded. “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve handed over my career to a man who receives litigation strategies from the ether – a paranormal paralegal. I’m the one that needs a psychiatric evaluation.”

  She turned around to find Ben with a crestfallen expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “What numbers are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know, Catherine. I just know that somehow numbers will be important in this case.”

  “And you know this because…?”

  “Because I know it, that’s all.” Ben stood up and walked to the windows. He stood face to face with Catherine. “Did you ever get an idea, a fabulous idea, and you thought, ‘How in the world did I ever think of that?’”

  She nodded.

  “At the time, weren’t you amazed that such a great idea just came to you out of the blue?”

  “Okay. I guess everyone has.”

  “Right, and how about inspirations. Do you think Mozart was inspired when he wrote a symphony at age six? Who put that music in his head? What about Jonas Salk and Thomas Edison and Frank Lloyd Wright? What about Shakespeare and Socrates? Who planted those incredible concepts in their minds? Where’d they come from? These people were inspired, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Okay, I agree.”

  “Ideas came to them, like ideas come to all of us from time to time, but the difference is – they were receptive to their inspirations. They were better listeners. They took hold of them, embraced them and developed them.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Catherine, the word inspiration comes from Latin and means: to breathe into. I believe that inspirations are divine revelations. In some way, they come from beyond. The biblical prophets were inspired. Poets are inspired. I dare say that even lawyers, on occasion, are inspired. Ask any writer – they thrive on inspirations, like waiting for the next bus.”

  Ben shrugged. “Like everyone else, ideas come to me. One of those ideas says, ‘Look at the numbers.’ It’s still not very clear to me what that’s all about. I’m sure it’s my fault, maybe I didn’t listen well enough, but I would like us to think about numbers and how they relate to this case.”

  “Okay,” Catherine said, “we’ll think about numbers. In the meantime I have to respond to Jeffers’ discovery demands. I want you to give me the names and addresses of any witnesses that you can call.”

  “Mort Titlebaum, an old friend of mine and Adele’s, might be a witness. He was in Auschwitz. Actually, he lived in a small Polish village and was sent to Zamość for resettlement. He saw Piatek in the square, but only once.”

  “Really,” Catherine said. “Could you bring Mr. Titlebaum over? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’s in Florida. I don’t think he’s planning on coming back here until June. But maybe I can talk him into coming up here next month. I’ll call.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Winnetka, Illinois December 2004

  The iron gate slid open and Jeffers drove slowly onto the grounds of the Rosenzweig estate. Heavy snows had blanketed the lawn and flocked the trees, creating a picturesque landscape in the days before Christmas. It was fit for a holiday card, minus the seasonal decorations of which Elliot would have no part.

  Seated in the den, Jeffers set his folder of papers on the desktop.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about Piatek’s picture,” Elliot sneered. “Mornay caught me totally by surprise.”

  “I didn’t know about it.”

  “That’s great. My hotshot lawyer can’t keep up with NBC.”

  “I told you not to go on TV. The reporters can be murder.”

  “The two pictures look identical, Gerry. Christ, he could be my twin brother. I could get convicted just because I used to look like some Nazi.”

  “It’d take more than that. Other than that picture, they have no tangible evidence of any kind connecting you with Poland or the Nazis.”

  “Other than that picture. Shit. Other than that nasty incident, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

  “What I’m saying is, they don’t have any other evidence that puts you in Poland.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” Elliot said. “I’ve never been to Poland.” Elliot paced furiously. “What other surprises am I going find?”

  Jeffers shook his head. “In response to our requests, Lockhart has produced copies of your immigration papers from 1947, public records of the formation of your companies and a page from the 1948 telephone directory showing your address on Lake Shore Drive.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, there’s a bunch of newspaper photographs taken over the years: one from 1951, a few from the late fifties and a few photos from magazines. Same stuff. Nothing incriminating. Just photos of you with the mayor or your business partners.”

  Elliot snorted. “Photographs.”

  “They disclosed a witness, a Morton Titlebaum, who they say will testify to the physical description of Otto Piatek.”

  “Never heard of him. Do they have any other pictures of Piatek?”

  “They’ve disclosed no other pictures.”

  “Damn that Mornay. Smiley little bitch stabbed me in the back.”

  “I also received a notice to take your deposition and a subpoena to take the deposition of your wife.”

  “Elisabeth?” Elliot jumped up and grabbed the subpoena. “What the hell do they want with her? She’s never had a part in my business. She rarely goes to public functions. She hates to be in the spotlight.” He quickly read it over. “Quash this thing. I don’t want my wife involved. You hear me, Gerry?”

  “I’m not sure I can. They could argue that she has information leading to relevant evidence. After all, Elliot, you’ve established her as an officer of several multimillion-dollar corporations.”

  “She knows nothing about those corporations. I made her the president so we could qualify as a minority owned business. And what does that have to do with accusations of war crimes?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe they’re trying to trace money. I don’t know.”

  Elliot threw the subpoena back at Jeffers. “This bastard is causing me no end of grief and now he
wants to upset my wife. This is extortion, can’t you see it?” He circled around his desk making wild arm gestures. “I’m not even going to tell her about this. She’s in the middle of planning a wedding. You get this subpoena thrown out, do you hear me, Gerry?”

  “I hear you. I’ll do what I can. They didn’t put me in charge of the court system yet. Meanwhile we’re scheduled to take Solomon’s deposition January 6th. I think you should be there to confront him.”

  “Not interested. Besides, I thought you were going to Poland.”

  “Not personally. I’m sending Dennis the second week of January to examine the official county records. He’s verifying that there are no records pertaining to you in Warsaw or Zamość. He’ll also look for any records regarding Otto Piatek. If we find some, we can use them to prove that you’re two different people.”

  “Is Lockhart going too?”

  “No. She’s sending her investigator, Liam Taggart.”

  Rosenzweig slammed his fist on his desk. “I want this case over, Gerry, and I want it over now!”

  “It’ll be over by April, that’s for sure.”

  “It’s not soon enough.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chicago, Illinois December 2004

  Early Christmas Eve, as though on director’s cue, large snowflakes began to drift down, lightly at first and then much heavier. With the temperature hovering around the freezing mark, the thick snowflakes had formed more slowly and smoothly, with long fat dendrites, and soon the city shimmered under a fresh white frosting. Liam arrived at Catherine’s shortly after eight.

  “Mmmm. What smells so good?” he said, removing his shoes in her foyer.

  “That, my good man, is rack of lamb,” she answered from the kitchen.

  Liam stepped out of the hallway and took in the scene. The dining room table was set for two, with fresh flowers, votive candles and a decanted bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Catherine’s Christmas tree twinkled in the corner of her living room. Aperitifs were set on a folding table by the tree.

  Catherine, in a curve-hugging black cashmere dress with a plunging neckline, walked in from the kitchen, bringing a tray of appetizers.

  “Wow. You look fabulous,” Liam said. “You didn’t tell me to dress up.” Looking meekly down at his wool sport coat and turtleneck, he added, “I’m totally underdressed.”

  “You’re fine. I just felt like getting a little spiffy.”

  Her meal, all four courses, was culinary perfection. Finishing his dessert of apple tartlets and patting his belly, Liam said, “This was extraordinary! When you asked me to come for dinner….” He stopped short. “Well, I mean I didn’t….We’ll, it’s not that I think you couldn’t…. Or that you would just make….” He shrugged. “There’s no gracious way out of this, is there?”

  Catherine laughed. She covered Liam’s hand with hers and said, “I wanted to make us a nice dinner. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you.”

  Liam waved her off. “It’s okay.”

  “No. I’ve been distant since the night we spent together. I know you thought we had turned a corner, and you had a right to think that. You do have a right to think that. But this is such a crazy time in my life. I’m working through some tough issues. Don’t give up on me.”

  “I’m okay with it.”

  She stood and smiled brightly. “I have something for you under the tree.” She took his hand and led him to the living room where she reached beneath the tree and held out a gaily decorated box with both hands.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  She stood over him while he carefully unwrapped the gift that she had purchased two weeks earlier. Like a child, his entire face broke into a smile and he looked up at Catherine. “What a thoughtful gift. I’ve been lusting for a new camera. How did you know?”

  “I thought you could take this with you to Poland next month,” she said. “You can return it if it’s not what you would buy.”

  “Why do people always say that? It’s ideal. It’s exactly what I would buy, if I was reckless enough to splurge on myself.”

  Catherine smiled proudly. “I’m happy you like it.”

  “I have something for you, and don’t say, ‘Oh you shouldn’t have.’”

  “Okay. I promise,” she said, sitting down and crossing her hands in her lap.

  Liam walked to the front hall closet and retrieved a small square box, unmistakably from a jewelry store. He handed it to Catherine, who tensed noticeably and turned quite serious.

  She shook her head and held out the box. “Liam, I can’t….”

  “Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s not that. Open it.”

  With an anxious look on her face, Catherine slowly opened the box. Inside was a set of designer gold drop earrings.

  “They’re beautiful!” she exclaimed, with joyous relief. “I was thinking…oh, never mind. I love them.”

  They sat together by the tree, had an after-dinner cordial and laughed at a few funny memories. After a while, Catherine looked at her watch.

  “Liam, it’s eleven o’clock. I would very much like to go to midnight mass. Would you take me?”

  “Seriously? I mean, sure, if you want to. Is this a regular thing for you?”

  “No. But I really would like to go tonight.”

  “Okay.” He smiled and shrugged. “Where is your neighborhood church?”

  “I want to go downtown. To Holy Name Cathedral.”

  “Whoa. That’s big time. Doesn’t the Cardinal serve the mass? I think you have to have tickets.”

  “You don’t have to, you can stand in line. After the people with tickets are seated, they let the general public in.”

  “Have you done this before?” he asked as they grabbed their coats. “Holy Name on Christmas Eve?”

  “I never have. But given everything that’s gone on recently, I feel a need to go tonight.”

  * * *

  Chicago’s amber streetlights set the snow-coated city aglow. Filled with holiday spirit, Liam and Catherine approached the cathedral, arm in arm. A long line snaked from the cathedral door, around the corner and alongside the large, gothic structure with its two hundred foot spire.

  Slowly shuffling forward, they entered through the massive bronze doors where they were ushered into one of the side pews. The interior was a feast for eyes and ears. Lights and candles sparkled brightly. The choir and brass ensemble mixed sonorously with the buzz of fifteen hundred worshippers, irreverently discordant but joyfully Christmas. Visiting Holy Name for the first time, Liam took in all its visual majesty – the bronze sculptures lining the walls, the red and black altar with its bronze bas-relief scenes from the Old Testament, and high up, above the cathedra, the five red galeros, the wide brimmed tasseled hats of Chicago’s five deceased cardinals. “If you’re going to do midnight mass,” he said quietly, “no sense going halfway.”

  Throughout the mass, Catherine seemed to be deeply involved in her prayers, but during the homily, Liam noticed that she kept turning around to look at the front vestibule. She appeared to be upset and sporadically shivered. Finally, he whispered, “What are you looking at?”

  “At ghosts, Liam,” she said sadly. “I’m looking at Abraham Solomon and Father Janofsky. I’m looking at a group of frightened, huddled nuns. They’re all here. Over there in the vestibule. I can see them. It’s just like St. Mary’s Ascension Church.”

  Liam patted her leg. “No it’s not, Cat. It’s long ago and far away. A whole different world. This is Chicago and it’s 2004, and that criminal insanity will never happen again.”

  “It’s not so far away.” She shook her head. “Not for me. And like Ben says, don’t think we’re ever immune to such insanity.” Her eyes were misted. “You don’t know – I haven’t told you everything.” Her lips quivered. “Piatek and the others. What gave them the right? All those innocent people.”

  Liam squeezed her hand and held it tightly throughout the
remainder of the mass which concluded at 1:30 a.m. with the singing of “Joy to the World.” With their hefty portions of spiritual nourishment, the worshippers filed out into the bright, clean winter night.

  At the bottom of the steps, Catherine stopped short and pointed across the street.

  “Liam, that man selling chestnuts from his cart – that vendor – it’s Ben!”

  Liam peered through the snow. “I’m sure it’s not Ben. You’re seeing things tonight.” He took Catherine’s hand and led her across the street where they took their place in the small line waiting for roasted chestnuts. The vendor wore a coat layered over two sweaters and his head was covered with a wide-brimmed Italian fedora. Catherine stooped to get a glimpse of his face. He winked at her.

  “Evenin’ missy,” he said.

  “We’ll have two bags, please,” Liam said, placing a ten dollar bill in his coffee can. “Your name wouldn’t be Solomon, would it?” he added with a smile.

  The vendor handed two bags to Liam. “No, sir. It’s Andolini.” His face curled in a wide grin. “You and the pretty lady, you have a merry Christmas. Be thankful for each other. I’m sure your Christmas wishes will come true.”

  Catherine whispered to Liam, “Why did he say that? What does he know about my Christmas wishes? Liam, this is ethereal. It’s ghostly. I’m looking through windows to another world.”

  “Stop. He meant nothing more than Merry Christmas. Relax, Cat. You’re suffering from emotional overload.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  * * *

  Back at her townhome, Catherine brewed some Irish coffee and served it by the fire. After a bit, Liam set down his cup and loudly cleared his throat. He grabbed an invisible microphone and in a rough imitation of Dean Martin, sang, “Here comes the jackpot question in advance. What’re you doing New Years, New Years Eve?”

  He stopped and raised his eyebrows. Catherine laughed. “Kinda late to ask a girl out for New Year’s, don’t you think? Did you expect me to wait around forever?”

  “It snuck up on me.”

  She kissed him. “I accept. What do you have in mind?”