“You should go, Dad,” she shouted so he could hear her, and he shook his head. “They’re going to start arresting people.” She could see the riot police closing in on the crowd.
“I know,” he said again.
“You’re a judge,” she shouted, and he smiled.
“I lost my son,” he shouted back. “Fuck this war. Bring our boys home!” She started to laugh looking at him. Her father, the militant Republican hawk, was marching for peace.
“I love you,” she mouthed to him.
“I love you too,” he shouted at her. “See you in jail.”
“I’ll bail you out,” she promised, and he grinned. And a few minutes later, the riot squads plunged into the crowd and started dragging them away and putting them in paddy wagons. She could smell marijuana in the air, and hoped her father didn’t get arrested for drugs. That wouldn’t sit well for a judge, but neither would an antiwar protest. She wondered if he’d get kicked off the bench, but he didn’t seem to care.
They were put in separate wagons, and she was taken to the women’s jail. She’d brought enough money to pay bail for herself, since she doubted they’d be charged with more than disturbing the peace. Once she was released, shortly after midnight, she went to the men’s jail to find her father, and wondered if he’d already gone home. She asked for him by name, and was told he was probably still in a holding cell with the others, but they didn’t have his name on any lists. She found an officer and asked if he could inquire, and said she was worried about her father, and she gave him his name. He came back a few minutes later and drew her aside.
“There’s a guy back there who says he’s Robert McKenzie.” And then he whispered to her, “Is he the judge?” She nodded and the policeman looked unnerved.
“My brother was killed in Vietnam in July. He was nineteen.” She didn’t know what else to say, and he told her to wait. He came out with her father a few minutes later, and Robert was smiling.
“I forgot my wallet at home and no one believed who I was,” he said when he got to his daughter. “Everyone was very nice.”
She laughed at him, and the policeman ushered them to a side door and said there were no charges against her father, and they should leave quickly. They hailed a cab as soon as they got outside. “They didn’t even arrest me,” her father complained.
“Of course not, you’re a judge.” She grinned at him in the back seat of the cab, and he leaned over and kissed her.
“I’m glad I went,” he said proudly.
“So am I.”
“Let’s do it again sometime,” he said, and she laughed as he put an arm around her and hugged her close, smiling for the first time in months.
* * *
—
Her father was better after the peace march, although he still had hard moments, and so did her mother, and Meredith herself. They missed Alex terribly. She had a photograph of him on her desk now, of him laughing on Martha’s Vineyard the summer before, after he caught a big fish.
She was making notes for one of her clients, in a discrimination case about an unlawful termination, when Claudia dropped by to see her. She was in the city to have lunch with her mother, and said there was something she wanted to ask Meredith. She seemed hesitant about it, and embarrassed. But her eyes looked serious.
“I want to do something for my children,” she said quietly. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Do you want to set up a trust for them?” Meredith asked her. They obviously didn’t need a discrimination lawyer at their age. “My father can help you do that. He’ll send you to the right person. I can probably figure it out, but I’m not very good at it.”
“That’s not what I had in mind. And I don’t want to tell my parents, they’d be upset. I want to open a restitution claim against the Federal Republic of Germany. I know that other people have done it. I always said I didn’t want to, but it’s different now, with my children. It’s the only thing my parents can give them, and I think they’d want to. They had wonderful houses, important art. My mother had lovely jewelry that I still remember. I met some people a long time ago who knew my parents and grandparents in Berlin, and they were talking about how beautiful their house was and how much art they had. I never asked for anything back. And I think there’s a very small limit for what they give. Maybe nothing even. But I’d like to at least try. I don’t have any photographs or any kind of proof, but there must be some record of it somewhere, or what was taken from them, where they lived, the house, something. I was too young to try to get anything after the war. But whatever I get, I’d like to give to my children, as a gift from their grandparents and a symbol of the life I lost.”
Meredith assumed that the Steinbergs would leave Claudia something one day. They were fair people and very wealthy, and Thaddeus’s family had done extremely well. Her children would never lack, but Meredith understood instantly what it meant to her, from the look on her face, and it went straight to her heart. It was the first time she had ever asked for something back from the people who had tried to kill her, and successfully destroyed everyone she loved.
“We both speak German, so I thought we could figure it out,” Claudia said.
“I’ll make inquiries right away,” Meredith told her. “The consulate must have information, or forms. I’m sure a lot of people ask for restitution.”
“The war ended twenty years ago,” she reminded her. “It may be too late.”
“I’ll bet it isn’t. Let’s find out.”
“Will you help me, Merrie?”
“Of course.” Meredith smiled at her. “I’d love to. Let’s get the bad guys and make them pay,” she said, and Claudia laughed. “I don’t know yet. But we might have to go to Germany to appear in court there. Would that be okay?”
Claudia looked shocked and shook her head. “No, no…I couldn’t. I can’t go back. I don’t want to see any of it again. You’d have to go.” She went pale at the thought. It would be like returning to the camp again. It was unthinkable for her.
“Let’s see how it works before you get upset. Does Thaddeus know you’re doing this, by the way?”
Claudia shook her head. “No. I just wanted to talk to you. If it’s not possible, I don’t need to tell him. He might think it’s weird.”
“I doubt that,” Meredith said quietly. “I think he’d understand. You had a whole life there, and a heritage and a family that were taken from you. That’s a lot to lose.”
“I know. That’s why I want to do it. Thank you,” she said and stood up. She had to go to lunch.
“I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
Claudia hugged her then and left a few minutes later, as Meredith sat at her desk, thinking about it. It sounded like a challenging project to her, and just the kind she liked. Claudia was the epitome of the Jews who had lost everything, and she deserved to get something back.
* * *
—
Meredith waited until after lunchtime and then called the German consulate. They gave her the runaround and acted like they didn’t know what she was talking about, even in German. So she hung up and called the embassy in Washington, and wished her grandfather were still alive, to impress them.
But at the embassy, they were shining examples of Germanic organization and efficiency, and said that previously there was an entire section for requests such as hers. They said it was no longer fully active, but there was a New York office of the Claims Conference, and a Herr Gross would be able to answer her questions. They gave her the phone number, and Meredith got through to him immediately. He told her that requests for restitution had to be submitted in writing with all details available, names, addresses, bank statements, receipts where possible, testimonials, photographs. She listened to the list until he wore himself out.
“I don’t think most camp survivors were able to travel w
ith those documents, Herr Gross,” she reminded him and there was silence at the other end.
“You are calling for a camp survivor?” He sounded nervous as he said the words.
“I am.”
“Which camp?” Did it matter?
“Auschwitz. Her entire family died there. All of their property was seized by the Nazis, and restitution was never made.”
“Has she requested it previously?”
“No, she has not.”
“We only make restitution when requested. We cannot track everyone down,” he said, sounding defensive and annoyed.
“No, I suppose you can’t. That would be a lot of people. She’ll have very little of the documentation you’re asking for, because she left Europe straight from the camp, but there must be public records of their houses, addresses, bank accounts. It was a prominent family. They were not unknown.”
“Jewish, I assume,” he said drily.
“Obviously.”
“Well, send me what you have. If the claim appears to be valid, I will send it on to Germany. It must be submitted to the Claims Conference in West Berlin, and then she will have to make an appearance to substantiate her claim, and be interviewed by the committee. There are different departments. Real estate, banking, art.”
“What if she’s not able to appear?” Meredith was testing the waters.
“It could disqualify her. Is she physically disabled? We would have to have extensive medical documentation to prove it.”
She didn’t want to tell him she was traumatized and too scared to go back. “She’s not disabled,” Meredith said quietly.
“Send me your request. In German. I will pass it on.” She had been speaking to him in German, so he knew it wasn’t a problem. And she was exhilarated after their conversation. It didn’t sound easy, but it was entirely possible. And he hadn’t said it was too late.
She called Claudia at her mother’s apartment and reached her just before she left. “This is very exciting. I spoke to the embassy in Washington. They were useless here. The embassy in Washington referred me to a claims office in New York. I spoke to them. You have to make a request in writing, in German, listing whatever you lost, with any proof you have. I told him there was none. He sends it to a committee in Germany, and they evaluate the claim. If they feel it’s bona fide, then we have to appear before them so they can interview you. I know you don’t want to go, Claudia. But this is for your kids. Don’t blow it because you won’t go back. I want you to think about it. You don’t have to decide now. And I want you to write a letter, describing everything you lost. Everything, houses, art, cars, describe everything and your family too. Get to work.”
“I’m not going.”
“I get that. Just shut up and give me the list, and make it long!” She was excited by the project and wanted to help her, and she wanted to go back to Germany with her. It would be incredible if they could actually get something out of them. Claudia had never thought of it before, and since the Steinbergs had wanted her to sever all ties with Germany and her past, they had never suggested it either.
“I’m not sure if I love you or hate you,” she said, and Meredith smiled.
“Either one will do. I’ll come out and work on it with you this weekend if you want.”
“That’s perfect. Thaddeus is going to L.A. to interview some subjects for a film. He won’t be here.”
“You can’t keep this a secret forever,” Meredith chided her.
“For a while. Auf wiedersehen, goodbye,” she said, and then hung up.
* * *
—
As promised, Meredith took the train to Connecticut to see Claudia that weekend. She had fun playing with Sarah and Alex until Claudia put them to bed. They were the only children Meredith ever saw. And she loved them like a niece and nephew. She couldn’t imagine herself with children of her own. Her clients and cases were her babies. It was a choice she had made. Work was always a comfort to her, especially since Alex’s death. She had brought legal pads and files, and once the children were asleep, Claudia brought out the list she’d been working on all week.
“I’m impressed!” Meredith said to her friend. “I figured you were going to tell me you didn’t have time.”
“I’m not lazy,” she said, looking insulted, and handed her list to Meredith, who sat staring at it for a long time. There were three houses listed: one in Berlin in the Wannsee district, which Meredith knew was the best residential part of town, where all the really important houses were, a country house near Werneuchen, and a schloss in southern Germany near Munich. She had included them all, approximate size, name, location, and mentioned that the schloss had been in her family since the fifteenth century. She had put down as many of the cars as she remembered. And she said that all three houses were filled with art. She recalled some of the names of the artists, like Renoir, and her father liked Picasso and had several of them, although she had always thought they were crazy looking.
She mentioned her mother’s jewelry, and a boat they kept on a lake near the schloss. She listed a great deal of silver in the home, and chandeliers in every room. Meredith could imagine the committee, and Herr Gross before that, shocked at the magnitude of her claim. She was describing very important homes, and everything in them worth a great deal of money. And then she described her family and the people she had lost in a way that tore Meredith’s heart out. She had told about each one and what they meant to her. The whole picture was there. She had written it in her very poignant, touching way, without exaggeration, but the facts alone were powerful, particularly the description of the family she had lost.
“Do you think I should change anything?” she asked Meredith, who said not a word. Merrie had her write it out longhand, which seemed more personal and human, and she was going to take it with her when she left on Sunday, so she could make copies for the file, Herr Gross at the Claims Conference in New York, and the committee in Germany. And then she suddenly thought of something she had never asked Claudia before.
“Wait a minute. You listed your name as adopted by the Steinbergs. You have to put your original name on here. What was your name before they adopted you?”
Claudia hesitated for a moment. She hadn’t even spoken the name in twenty years. “I have no identification in that name,” she said, hesitating.
“Are you kidding? They have a record of every crust of bread they served in the camps, on what day and to whom, you think they won’t have a record of a whole family they killed, and a child who survived there for three years?”
Claudia looked at her and said the name in barely more than a whisper as Meredith stared at her. It was a name like Rockefeller or Astor, except among German Jews. Even she had heard the name as part of Germany’s history of wealthy families. “That’s you?” Meredith looked shocked. “Are you serious? They wiped out your whole family and took everything?”
“They did it to a lot of people like us.”
“Oh my God, Claudia, they must owe you millions. I doubt they’ll pay you what they owe, but they’re going to faint when they see that name on the documents.”
“I’ve never said that name since the Steinbergs adopted me. I thought it would be disloyal to them since they saved me. I would love to recover some of the art, but I was too young, and I don’t know enough about it. I could never give them a reliable list they could verify. My mother had beautiful Degases and Renoirs in her boudoir, and my father loved Monet. He used to explain the paintings to me and tell me about the artists.” It was surreal listening to her remember, but what she had listed was substantial enough. “I’ll take whatever they give my children,” she said meekly, and Meredith stopped her.
“Not so fast. These people owe you millions and damn near killed you, and killed your entire family. They owe you whatever we can get from them.”
Claudia nodded, and they hugge
d tightly when Meredith left to take the train back to New York on Sunday. Meredith wanted her to get everything she could.
* * *
—
The next day in the office, she got all of Claudia’s paperwork in order, in duplicate and triplicate, with the correct maiden name on it, as well as her married name. But it was her original name that was the showstopper.
Charlie, her assistant, had the package for the Claims Conference ready to take to the post office, when a very attractive tall young black woman walked in, and asked for Meredith.
“Is she expecting you?” he asked coolly.
“No, she isn’t,” she admitted, and he was about to tell her to leave her name, when Meredith walked out of the office to remind him of something else, and she smiled at the woman.
“Hello. Can I help you?” Meredith offered, and the young woman smiled at her.
“I hope so. I’m sorry, I don’t have an appointment, I just took a chance and dropped by.”
“I’ve got a few minutes,” Meredith said, and indicated the way into her office. The young woman sat down and got down to business, so as not to waste Merrie’s time.
“My name is Angela Taylor. I’m a lawyer.” She mentioned her school, and it was one of the better schools for black women and had a law school Merrie had heard of. “I got a job at Elkins, Stein and Hammersmith, and they promised me a partnership in five years, a junior partnership in three, advances and raises no different from anyone else’s. And none of that was true. I didn’t get a raise or a promotion in three years. They passed me over for everything, never gave me the good cases, and treated me like slave labor. They let me go and replaced me with a recent graduate with no experience, who’s someone’s niece, and pay her more than they were paying me after three years, and I did a good job on the cases they gave me.”
The Good Fight Page 20