by Joan Dempsey
Lolek passed the top of the Grand Staircase and walked up a set of narrow marble steps to the fourth floor, his energy increasing with each step. Tommy had not seemed scared, exactly, but bewildered; he’d always possessed an abiding faith in people’s innate goodness, a faith Lolek himself had instilled and encouraged in his children and still, for the most part, believed. Tommy, however, had finally run headlong into someone else’s differing definition of good, someone else’s unwavering faith, and it pained Lolek that Tommy would soon discover what Lolek had learned his first year in office: a person’s faith—however defined—could be as entrenched and unmovable as the granite cornerstone anchoring the State House itself; reason was powerless to budge it.
For Lolek, however, entrenched simply meant a greater challenge, and he loved a good challenge, particularly at this time in the legislative cycle, when a slew of them cropped up in every bill, each one needing a decisive strategy that fell into two general camps: kill or champion. Some bills he’d arrange to kill immediately, while others he’d have to tirelessly combat; some would die a natural death for lack of interest; and some he’d push into study committees where they’d languish forever, essentially dead. The few bills he’d choose to champion he would shepherd along on their lengthy journey, nurturing small victories at each successive stage until he stood next to the governor, who signed them into law, when at long last they could finally begin their real work of transforming people’s lives which was, after all, the point. Despite the often thankless nature of the job, there was nothing Lolek would rather do. It was true what people assumed about the power—it was fantastic.
In the Education Committee’s modern, darkened suite, no one was at the reception desk, but beyond it Chairman Gauch’s door stood ajar, light on, and Lolek called out so as not to startle him.
“Early to rise, then, Mr. Chairman?”
A chair scraped, and then Representative Gauch appeared in the doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand, silver-rimmed reading glasses anchored high on the bridge of his nose, which was long and thin, like everything else about him. He lowered his head and raised his eyes to peer over the top of his glasses, but they were on too securely and he squinted through them, not able to see Lolek clearly. He stripped them off and tossed them back into his office where they skidded across his desk. He strode out to meet Lolek.
“President Zeilonka! To what do I owe the honor?”
“Senate Bill 79, Steven. What have you got on file?”
“Why, yes, Lolek, I did have a nice weekend. How about you?”
Lolek smiled and offered his hand. Gauch had always been a worthy opponent, and even though they saw eye to eye on almost nothing, Lolek admired his political acumen and respected his work, which had always been evenhanded and ethical. Gauch shook Lolek’s hand and turned on the receptionist’s desk lamp, setting his coffee mug beside it.
“Unless Lori’s reorganized again, the files should be just here.”
He opened a drawer.
“You can’t truly think SB 79 has a chance,” said Lolek.
“Not ordinarily, no. But …”
He pulled out two accordion files, both thick with written testimony, and set them on the desk in front of Lolek.
“You’ve been busy,” said Lolek.
“Not me. 79 is by request, a constituent of yours, actually. Warren Meck, you know him?”
“The radio host?”
“My son and I love his show. He’s a legislator’s dream. Well, this legislator’s dream, anyway. He’s pretty determined. Have your people get these back here before eight if you can. Nothing leaves Lori’s suite. Get me in a heap of trouble.”
Lolek lifted the heavy files, pressing them against his chest, an awkward bundle.
“Did you know my son got fired?”
“Not until it was over, Lolek. I’m sorry.”
Lolek’s feet felt too tight inside his shoes. Gauch met Lolek’s gaze. Lolek hiked the files a bit higher up on his chest.
“A courtesy call would have been appreciated.”
Gauch straightened his back, as if he were about to protest, but then he sighed and stared at his coffee. He knew he should share the testimony for the related bills. A goodwill gesture, the right thing to do. It was only a matter of time before some staffer of Lolek’s would come to retrieve it.
“This one could get ugly, Mr. President. I want you to know in advance it’s not personal.”
Lolek gave a short laugh. “Listen to yourself. Even you don’t believe that. This one’s as personal as it gets.”
Lolek had a fleeting thought of keeping the files in his office until noon, making Gauch sweat, but even as a freshman representative he’d known enough not to succumb to those juvenile urges. Still, the thought gave him a moment of mean-spirited pleasure. He stepped toward the door just as it flew open, nearly hitting him.
“Hey, whoa, sorry, Mr. President,” said Carey Best, Gauch’s top aide. “How goes the battle? Hey, Chief, good morning.”
“Carey,” said Gauch.
Best unzipped his black parka and looked eagerly at his boss, trying to gauge what he might have missed.
“Right. I’m out of your way then. Carry on. I’m in my office if you need me.”
Lolek had never understood what Gauch valued in this guy, a shiny-faced, erect young man who thought compromise was something for “sissies.” Best disappeared, and Gauch shrugged, knowing what Lolek was thinking.
“What can I say? He’s always three strategic steps ahead. A little reining in now and then—small price to pay.”
They appraised each other for a moment, as if awaiting a bell to send them back to their corners. Then Lolek thanked him for the files and walked out.
6
The Chopin
It had been Oskar’s encouragement that ultimately convinced Ludka to “liberate”—as she preferred to think of it—the world famous Mieroszewski portrait of Chopin from the Ciechomska’s vacated Warsaw apartment after the Nazi occupation. Today the priceless portrait of Poland’s most celebrated composer—the earliest known portrait—was officially classified as missing, just another of the innumerable confiscated artworks evaporated into a Nazi-riddled history. In reality it hung just there, above Ludka’s dresser in Ludka and Izaac’s bedroom. The painting, oil on a canvas not much bigger than an American-sized sheet of paper, was carefully hidden—even from Izaac—in a museum-quality frame, tucked behind another portrait by an unknown artist of a young woman glancing back over her shoulder. Affixed to the back of the frame was a folded note containing the precise location in Warsaw of the buried provenance papers. Oskar had gone back to the Ciechomska’s weeks later to locate them. They were thorough, he told Ludka, a short list detailing each owner since the painting had left Mieroszewski’s studio in 1829, ending with the listing for Laura Ciechomska. Oskar had carefully sealed them inside a glass vodka bottle, which he thickly wrapped in burlap, laid in a tin box, and buried one night in Ogród Saski, deep at the base of the oldest tree, one of the few in the park that had weathered the initial bombing. He had drawn her a detailed map, and only the two of them had known the location. At the end of the war, however, when Oskar had been missing more than a year, there’d been no possibility for Ludka to find them; the city had been razed. Nevertheless, Ludka had always imagined someone happening upon the box, a construction worker during the rebuilding, or a city gas worker or park gardener, someone with enough intelligence and initiative to recognize the papers’ importance, who would do the right thing and turn them over to museum officials, who would understand, perhaps with a moment of joy, that the Nazis had not succeeded in stealing the Chopin, that someone else had rushed in to protect it. And then, of course, there was the prospect that Oskar himself had survived the war and unearthed the papers.
Only when Izaac went away—which he hadn’t done for some time now—would Ludka take down the painting, open the frame, scrub her hands, don her white cotton gloves, scrutinize the condition of the varn
ish, check for dust and insects, and clean the painting when necessary. Over time she had built a small ritual around this act, and every time it brought her a calm and uncommon sense of security. Still, she often felt a vague uneasiness about the compulsive quality of this secretive ritual—and each time she became aware of the uneasiness, she suppressed it. Izaac regularly complained about her constant fussing with the dehumidifier and thermostat—“it’s just a bedroom, kochanie,” he’d say—but she’d shoo him away, pretending she wanted to keep the room allergen-free, and claiming credit for their good health. For all these years, and even though Ludka had been an advisor and contributor to the Commission for Art Recovery, which sought justice for victims of Nazi art theft, she had continued to tell herself she was doing what was right—keeping the painting safe. The Ciechomska family would have wanted her to save it, of that she was certain, and so her original notion of liberation continued to serve as a comfortable justification, a justification that should have become null and void the minute the war was over. She had always intended to return it to Poland, to hand it over with pride to some authority who would immediately appreciate the care she had taken, who would tell her what she’d always believed herself—that no one could have done a better job. But somehow, for reasons she didn’t fully understand and didn’t push herself to examine, she had allowed the days to pass, and then the years, and there it hung, a lifetime and a reputation later.
“Do you need me to zip up a dress, kochanie, or are you having a reverie up there? You’re going to be late.”
Ludka was surprised to find she was sitting on the bed in only her silk tank top, slip, and tights.
“Hold the horses, Izaac. And don’t shout! Deaf I am not.”
She put on her favorite black turtleneck, head first, then each arm. She fastened the hammered silver necklace Izaac had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary, then sat on the edge of the bed to step into an ankle-length gray skirt, her customary winter attire. Another wardrobe standard: solid black ankle boots. She always kept her boots next to the bed, easy to step into the way Izaac stepped into his wool-lined slippers every morning, because you never knew when you’d have to flee, you never knew when those boots were the last pair you’d have for many years. It had gotten so habitual, the buying of sensible boots, their place on the old pine floor, that Ludka had long ago lost sight of her habit’s origins, which had become like the floor’s dark stain, so deeply ingrained as to seem its natural color.
Downstairs, Izaac stood in front of the French doors, newspaper clasped behind his back, watching three deer standing in the morning light beyond the garden at the edge of the field abutting the vast wetland waters, now covered with ice and snow.
“They love the salt lick, you see?”
Ludka stood next to him and felt the chill off the glass. The deer were beautiful. Healthy. When Lolek and Frank were toddlers, there had been only forest and field out there, and then one day a pair of beavers had arrived and resurrected the dormant wetland, drowning the forest in the process. Ludka loved the water but had never gotten used to the way the dead trees jutted up like so many standing chimneys in a bombed-out city. She rapped sharply on the glass. The deer lifted their heads and bounded off, white tails flashing. Izaac frowned, and Ludka shrugged.
“Too much trust.”
He shook the paper at her.
“But they can trust us!”
She hurried into the kitchen to put something together to take for her lunch, and Izaac followed.
“You lure them, Izaac. How can they differentiate? They’ll venture into one of our neighbor’s yards and get heads blown off.”
“Niech to szlag trafi! You underestimate their intelligence. This Brozek character has you all stirred up.”
“Don’t swear at me, old man.” Ludka patted his hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t disrupt your salt lick. Deer will be back.”
“You drive me to drink, I’m telling you. Here. Here’s your travel mug. And call Brozek this morning, will you? Clear up this mystery.”
Ludka lifted the mug’s lid, took a tentative sip.
“Already again with the ice cube?”
“You’ll scald yourself. Cause an accident.”
She gave him a little harrumph. She wondered when, exactly, Izaac’s eyebrows had grown as white and bristly as his hair. They gave him a fierce expression that would have served him well when he’d been working. She secured the lid. Drinking tepid tea was simple enough, a tiny accommodation she could manage. She took a plate of sausage and some cheese out of the refrigerator.
“I’m worried, kochanie. I was up in the night, thinking about conduct unbecoming, which of course is a smoke screen. We know this. But the people don’t know this, the parents; they’ll quickly believe any accusations. We have to pay attention, not be too naive.”
“It is misunderstanding, that is all. Abe will do the favor, take care of it.”
“Oh, I’m sure Abe will do us the favor, it isn’t that. It’s just …”
He pushed a hand roughly through his hair. Ludka tried to wedge a couple of sausages and a large piece of cheese into a Tupperware container shaped like a slice of pie. She had to cut them into pieces and even then it was a tight fit. She used both hands to try to secure the lid but wasn’t strong enough: ludicrous, but nonetheless true. Old age had proven to be an irritating exercise in curbing impatience. She handed it resignedly to Izaac, who muttered as he pressed hard around the edges without success, his arthritic fingers sharply painful. He still hadn’t finished his thought, and Ludka glared at him impatiently.
“Tommy’s trouble, Izaac, is far from decree. I know you are thinking this, that this is like the decree, is like your father all over again.”
Izaac frowned. He’d been nine when his father had been fired, had come home from the university in tears, not just the quiet, constricted tears of a man but the mucous-wracked weeping of a terrified child. Izaac hadn’t yet understood what his father already knew: the Nazi decree that destroyed his livelihood was only the beginning.
With a savage push of both thumbs, Izaac finally snapped the last corner of the Tupperware lid into place. The center of the lid bulged. He rubbed at his thumbs.
“Jezu! Next time just admit you need a bigger container. I know it’s not a decree, Ludka. Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t be as concerned if Tommy’s was an isolated case. But two other teachers from his school were fired, too. That changes the landscape significantly.”
She flapped a hand dismissively and retrieved an apple from a basket on the counter.
“You and Abe will fix.”
She put her lunch into a well-used paper bag and swiped a cloth back and forth across the kitchen counter. She didn’t want to worry about the fact that there were others.
“I suppose you’re right.” Izaac spoke quietly, as if trying to convince himself. “I’ve already written up a request for the review. By law the principal and superintendent must review Tommy’s case within ten days, but I expect that will be pro forma. Then we’ll petition the commissioner for an arbitration hearing, which they also must grant and hold within thirty days. I suppose any arbiter worth anything will see what’s going on.”
“You see?”
She flapped the towel against his arm. The wall phone next to the refrigerator rang, and Izaac moved to answer it.
“Do not answer! Lolek advised.”
Izaac gave her a look and picked up the receiver. “Izaac Rosenberg.”
He held the phone away from his ear.
“Mój Boże, man, don’t shout! I can’t make out a word you’re saying!”
Izaac listened. He grew very still. Tightened his jaw. Ludka felt a stir of something she realized with surprise was not only a growing foreboding, but also a creeping doubt: What if conduct unbecoming wasn’t a smokescreen? What did she really know about Tommy’s private life? The voice continued its tinny harangue as Izaac carefully placed the receiver back in the cradle. His hand was trembling, bu
t he regarded Ludka with determined eyes.
“I’m calling Abe.”
“Who was it? What did he say?”
Izaac shook his head and dialed the phone.
“Do not attempt protecting me, Izaac. Nothing surprises. Nothing!”
He closed his eyes. She started to speak again and he held up a hand to silence her.
“Judy, good morning. It’s Izaac Rosenberg. Is he in?”
7
Stanley Brozek
Ludka stepped off the elevator, clumped out into the carpeted hallway of the art department’s suite, and headed toward her office. She’d left Izaac in the midst of an animated conversation with Abe. Even in his baggy cardigan and wool-lined slippers, Izaac had sounded every bit the competent attorney general he’d been, and the creeping worry she’d begun to feel had subsided.
She stripped off her gloves and shoved them into her bag. Up ahead, the door to her office stood open. She frowned. Behind her in the open area of the suite, the assistant’s desk was unoccupied, lights off. No one else but the cleaners had a key, and their rounds were long over. It happened, she supposed, that they sometimes forgot to lock up. As she got closer, she heard a soft cough from her office. She stopped, then crept forward as quietly as she could, her spiked galoshes making tiny tearing noises each time she lifted them from the carpet. She stepped boldly into the doorway and there stood a man, looking out her window, and as he turned, she experienced a terrible moment of disorientation, a floating sensation as if she had discarded the husk of her old body and was standing in another doorway in another time altogether, peering into the attic studio where she and Oskar had always met, because here before her was Oskar as she’d known him, here was Oskar at twenty-two. She closed her eyes to reset her mind, but when she opened them, he was still there, as solid as the desk between them.