by Joan Dempsey
“Oskar.” Her voice was reedy, broken.
The man took a step toward her.
“So you are Apolonia! I’m Stanley Brozek. You have no idea how hard you were to track down. Oh, Christ, I’m sorry, are you passing out on me?”
He rushed around the desk and threw one arm around her back, just under her shoulder blade, the other under her elbow. He guided her into the desk chair, keeping a light hand on her shoulder. Ludka’s vision cleared and she stared at him, unabashedly looking him up and down.
“Dear God.”
She reached up and grasped his wrist, then took his warm hand in both of her own. Had he been closer, she would have laid a hand on his cheek. He was older than twenty-two, she could see that now, probably closer to forty, a faint tinge of gray in his beard stubble and spiked through his chestnut hair. And heavier, of course, softer, because at twenty-two Oskar had been starving, like everyone else. But this man standing before her was the proof she’d never stopped hoping she would find: Oskar had survived the war.
“They say I look like him, but I don’t know. ‘Oskar,’ as you call him, was my grandfather, Pawel Brozek.”
He slowly pulled his hand from hers. He reached behind her and retrieved a large cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee from the windowsill, then moved away to make himself at home in the other chair. A scarred, tan briefcase stood on the floor at his feet. He regarded her in much the way she was regarding him. Ludka, dizzy, realized she’d been holding her breath. She inhaled slowly through her nose, felt the air expand her lungs and belly, then slowly released it. She slumped a little in her chair, heavy with the sudden gravity of inevitability; despite impossible odds, she’d never stopped expecting to see Oskar again, and here now was a young man who had given her hope, a man who could dash that hope with a few simple words.
“Should I come back at a better time?”
“You don’t just resemble, Mr. Brozek. You are spitting image. Like a ghost. Like time evaporates.”
Stanley passed a hand over his mouth and chin, glanced out the window, then back at Ludka. He began to say something, and stopped. “Please, call me Stanley. And I’m afraid I don’t know how to address you. Professor? Apolonia?”
“Forgive old woman, Stanley. You are a bit of a shock. I am Ludka.”
Her heart was not calming down. Was, he’d said. Was my grandfather. She was grateful she’d not yet taken off her cape. The radiator under the window was just beginning to clank to life. Maybe she had misheard him, maybe he had said is.
“Is Oskar …”
She couldn’t go on. Sixty-four years she’d been wondering. If Oskar was alive, this young man was about to tell her where she might find him. If Oskar was … She closed her eyes. Her heart thudded in her ears.
“I was hoping you might tell me,” said Stanley. “He disappeared two years ago. Left all his stuff behind. We’re pretty sure he’s gone back to Poland, but we haven’t been able to track him down. Maybe you’ve heard from him?”
Ludka felt buoyed—he had lived a long life after all! Perhaps he was living it still, at eighty-six. She didn’t bother to ask how it was they hadn’t found him. Oskar knew how to disappear.
“Oskar I have not seen since 1945.”
Had he searched for her, too, then, as they had promised? It had been impossible, with nothing but code names. How many times had she berated herself for not having asked his given name, or shared her own when she’d had the chance? Of course he wouldn’t have told her, and thank God for that. What they’d done to him in Pawiak Prison … she never could have held out.
“Pawel Brozek,” she whispered. “Pawel.”
For years she’d sought out works by every sculptor she could find, in an array of countries where Oskar might have landed: Poland, of course, and America, but also France, Holland, Switzerland, Israel, Australia, even Germany and Italy. In 1960 she’d been grateful to join the newly founded International Sculpture Center, and each month she scoured every last page of their magazine, including the classifieds, the same with their newsletter. Every so often she’d see a sculpture Oskar might have conceived and then she’d spend some thrilling moments, sometimes hours and sometimes even days, before the advent of the Internet, doing research in a highly agitated state until she discovered the inevitable artist’s photograph that dashed her back to square one.
“I kept searching for his work. I am anxious to see.”
Stanley cocked his head and frowned. “His work?”
“His sculpture, his drawings.” She was suddenly wild with impatience to hear everything and she gestured to him to hurry up.
“But he wasn’t an artist. He built people’s kitchens. Home Depot. I’m the one who’s into art. A dealer. Nothing major at all, just working my way with a small gallery. I only recently came across you—your book on collectors of Polish art in America—and that’s when I suspected you were her. It was in his things I found out about you. I can’t believe I’m sitting here with Apolonia! I thought for sure you’d be … well, it’s just wild that I’m here. And what luck that you’re there.”
He gestured toward her with his coffee cup, then took a long drink. He slipped lower in the chair, rested the cup against his stomach, and in this posture his resemblance to Oskar began to diminish.
“His things?”
“Papers, drawings, diaries … you know.”
Had Oskar written of her sketches, then, or of …? Her stomach tightened. Did Stanley know about the Chopin?
“Last we saw him was at his place in San Francisco. We thought maybe he’d gone back to New York. He lived there until my grandmother died.”
Ludka had lived in New York for three years before Izaac arrived on the boat in 1950, and then they’d lived there together until Lolek was born. Imagine if she’d seen Oskar on the street! She worried at her scarf, tugging it this way and that, and still it sat uncomfortably on her neck.
“God, he must have been seventy-five or more when he finally retired. He did want to take up sculpting—stone, of all things—which was a surprise to everyone, but of course he couldn’t manage the materials and he wouldn’t hire any help, so he dubbed around with wood, but he couldn’t handle that, either. Finally, he did a bunch of drawings, but he was so weird about them, refused to use anything other than vine charcoal. My father gave him a great set of compressed charcoals along with sticks and chunks of graphite and a bunch of other tools, and they’re all still sitting in their boxes. What a waste. Poor bastard, made no sense at all. As for me, I’ve decided to branch out into Polish art, learn something about my heritage, all that jazz. Would have pleased him no end. I don’t suppose you’re about to teach a class I could sit in on?”
Ludka started and checked the clock behind his head. She thought of Izaac hollering that she’d be late and told Stanley he was welcome to sit in, yes, she’d like that. To Ludka, Oskar’s choice made complete sense. He’d been limiting himself, building a structured frame within which to work, like a poet confined to villanelles. Vine most closely resembled the charred wood they’d used in Warsaw, abundant when the fire-stormed buildings were still smoking, but rare when the fire was out, since people scavenged whatever wood they could find, even the char, which they used as fuel and burned to fine ash in whatever makeshift stove they had fashioned.
Oskar building kitchens for Home Depot … Ludka shook off the thought.
“What kind of paper?”
“Paper? Oh, that my grandfather used? Nothing but newsprint, the trimmings he collected from the local rag after their weekly run. Crazy old man. Did reams and reams of them. Wait! I almost forgot. I brought one along that seems to be of you. It says Polly, but I suppose that’s short for Apolonia?”
Ludka grew instantly warm. She unfastened her cape and loosened her scarf. Oskar had always called her Polly, always with a dreadful attempt at an American accent. Like Humphrey Bogart, he would insist, pretending to be stricken by her dismissive laugh before he threw his arms around her and, in early ti
mes, before persistent hunger necessitated focused energy, lifted her off the floor. Stanley retrieved his briefcase and, holding the edge of the Styrofoam cup in his teeth, set the case on his lap, opened it, and retrieved a rolled paper, secured with a rubber band. Ludka wanted to leap across the desk, so long did it take him to close the case, futz with his coffee, and, with tiny twanging sounds, roll off the rubber band and unfurl the drawing. He considered it, peered skeptically at Ludka, and shook his head.
“Like I said. Keep it, it’s yours.”
He turned it around. Ludka groaned involuntarily and laid a hand on her collarbone, the chill of her silver necklace cutting the heat of her palm. No doubt it was Ludka. But not as she had been when she’d known Oskar. Rather it was Ludka as she was now, as perfectly rendered as if she had posed. She imagined him imagining her, adding up the years, taking into consideration gravity and foolishness and wisdom, sketching away in some spartan studio. Brozek handed it across the desk. The paper seemed to retreat from her tremulous hands, tried to curl back into its accustomed shape. She anchored it on her desk, one hand pinning each side. In the bottom left corner was written, simply, Polly, and in the bottom right it was signed with only the letter O.
Maybe Oskar hadn’t imagined. Maybe he had found her.
Brozek was talking when she came to.
“… but he got me turned on to war-influenced works, so I have him to thank for that. There seems to be a growing market, and I’m sick of seascapes if you want to know the truth, although that’s steady money. That’s really why I’m here, to get some advice. Well, in addition to asking about my grandfather. I understand you know a little something about the war era—Seksztajn, Roslan, Mieroszewski, those guys.”
Mieroszewski? For a moment, she couldn’t make sense of what he had said, and then she realized why—he had situated Mieroszewski in the wrong century. Either her fear was founded that he’d learned she was harboring Mieroszewski’s Chopin, and he was deliberately baiting her, or he didn’t know the first thing about war-influenced Polish art. Ludka gave herself some time to think by making room for Oskar’s drawing in her top desk drawer. She snuck a peek at Stanley and found him glancing around, looking as if he’d misplaced something, and then he stepped over to the wastebasket and dropped in his cup.
“Mieroszewski was early nineteenth century. You can cross him off list.”
Stanley frowned and asked if she was sure. When she nodded, he smoothed his hand over his mouth and chin and shook his head.
“Exactly why I need to attend your class. You see?”
He seemed a bit lost, then, like an insecure man in a new profession who’d applied bravado where knowledge was lacking. When she told him to come along, they were going to be late, he smiled gratefully, and once again she was beholding Oskar.
“Oskar’s grandson.” She shook her head in disbelief. “So many questions for you I have.”
8
All These Trojan Horses
When Lolek arrived back at his office with the accordion files, Aggie was operating in high gear and started to talk before he’d even had a chance to get through the door.
“Not only is there more than one, there are at least ten that could be related, all of them having to do with hiring and firing teachers. The good news is they didn’t try to mess with the anti-discrimination statute. They probably knew they wouldn’t stand a chance trying to reverse that one.”
She followed him into his office and, more forcefully than was necessary, slapped the bills down one by one on the conference table adjacent to his desk. Lolek dumped the folders next to them.
“Find out everything you can about Warren Meck. He got Gauch to file SB 79, maybe the rest of these, too.”
“Meck’s enormously influential,” said Aggie, “and not just around here. He could be the next Rush Limbaugh. No, really, I’m not joking. A broad demographic listens to him, but all Christian, of course. This guy’s a whole lot scarier than Limbaugh, though—he’s totally likable, gentle in his delivery. If Warren Meck is behind these bills—and based on what I just saw on my first pass through them—we shouldn’t underestimate this campaign. Case in point.”
She smacked a hand on top of each accordion file.
“None of these bills are explicit, I’ll tell you; they’re very clever. Here, look at this.”
Lolek moved to her side and leaned over the table.
“Forget about SB 79,” said Aggie. “We can easily kill that one in committee. But check out House Bill 1298, also from Gauch, also filed by request: An Act Further Protecting Our Schoolchildren. This is the one to watch. They’re mucking with Chapter 71 Section 38G. They’ve added a paragraph that allows the board of education to define sound moral character, which basically means that whatever characteristics the current board likes in their teachers—or, maybe more importantly, doesn’t like—the board gets. They just write it into their policies and guidelines. In other words, a tabula rasa for their agenda. It’s classic, because the public will see through their own lens what the board might do and of course trusts that the board will be fair, so the definition could easily fly under the political radar. Or, let’s face it, how many voters are even paying attention to the board? A select few with vested interests. In other words, this is the perfect Trojan horse. Whoever wrote these bills knew what they were doing. Lesson learned, I imagine, from the ’78 Briggs Initiative defeat in California. They’re not coming right out and saying ‘get the homos out of the classroom’ like Briggs did; they’re just setting the stage to make it possible. Way more strategic than going straight to the ballot.”
Lolek smiled inwardly. A riled Aggie Roth was a sight to see. In general, she tended to mess with her already unruly hair, and when she was wound up, it got downright wild, like the hackles on an attacking dog.
“Here’s another one. They want to strike Chapter 71 Section 39 in its entirety, meaning people applying for teaching jobs could once again be asked about their religious beliefs and political affiliations. And this one here is a doozy. It dusts off Section 30, which nobody has thought about since John Hancock was governor. At first glance this law seems to be specifically about Harvard, but really it’s a broad brush that demands all teachers ‘impress upon’ the kids the ‘principles of piety and chastity and temperance’ and all that rubbish. All they’ve done here is add two words—administrators and and—which effectively means that in addition to teachers, anyone on the board of ed, school boards, superintendents, principals, you name it, has to uphold this totally vague law which also, by the way, says they need to point out the flip side of the good principles or, as it says in the law, the ‘evil tendency of the opposite vices.’ Now that’s going to be a fun one at the public hearing, if it gets that far.”
Lolek walked over to the window. The sky was getting lighter and commuters were hustling to and fro on Bowdoin Street, chins tucked into collars and scarves.
“But why fire them?” he said.
“What’s that?”
“I mean, why fire them now? That’s more of a Briggs-type move. With all these clever Trojan horses, they might have been able to stay off our radar right up until the morning of the public hearing, and it’s certainly possible no one would have considered that people getting fired, or not being hired in the first place, could be a consequence if these became law. But now we’re on alert. It doesn’t make any sense. Unless one hand doesn’t know what the other is doing.”
“That would be good. Or maybe it’s just bad strategy? Rogue elements? Could be fishing for sacrificial lambs, too. Give the public some juicy, real-life case studies.”
Lolek turned his back on the window and strode over to his desk to erase the image he’d just had of Tommy in some easily misconstrued situation, his photograph on the front page of The Boston Globe, or on the Channel 7 news. The phone rang. Before it could complete a second ring they heard someone answering in the outer office.
“Shit,” said Aggie. “Eric.”
She t
hrew Lolek an apologetic glance and rushed out.
“We will absolutely let you know as soon as we know anything further,” said Eric. He smiled at Aggie as she mouthed “hang up.” He nodded as if to say he was already on it, jotted down a name and phone number, thanked the caller, and hung up.
“No worries. I didn’t reveal any state secrets.”
He lifted a DeLuca’s Market bag off her desk, offered it to her, and asked her where things stood. Aggie took the bag and dug around inside.
“Did you bring me a chocolate croissant?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’ll go far in this business.” She smiled and took a bite of the croissant. “Come on in so I can put you to work. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
Lolek was paging through the testimony and took the DeLuca’s bag from Aggie. Probably not the best idea, but he chose a ham and cheese croissant and smiled at Eric as he took a bite. Eric Barton had been with them only since the end of the summer break but already he was indispensable, cheerfully willing to do everything from scut work to drafting legislation. He’d be an elected colleague before too long, Lolek was sure of it, but in the meantime, they’d reap the benefits of his ambition. His black wool overcoat hadn’t a speck on it, his pale blue scarf was tucked in just so, enhancing his blue eyes, and Lolek knew that his suit would also be top of the line. He suspected the kid had gone into debt to look the part, but that sort of investment was advisable; look the part, act the part, the part’s yours.