by Joan Dempsey
“Good one, Matka.”
He shook open the paper and went back into the house just as Lolek lumbered down the stairs. Immediately Frank felt fine, happy to see his brother.
“How can anyone make Levis seem so formal?” said Frank. “Do you iron those things?”
Surprised, Lolek glanced at the back door, as if checking to see if Frank had broken the glass to get in. He hadn’t seen his brother in months. Frank looked good, his dark tarnished copper hair cut short and neat, his thick biceps and muscular chest filling out a sheepskin-lined green sweatshirt, his fawn-colored Carhartt’s relatively clean. He must be off today or he’d be in uniform. Only a slightly rounded belly betrayed his move from field to desk; when he’d taken over as fire chief in Huntsville, he’d sworn he wouldn’t gain the requisite paunch. Lolek poured coffee into a mug and handed it to his brother. Frank wanted to get the cream out of the fridge, but hesitated. He sat at the round pine table.
“Got any cream?”
“Like I would know.” Lolek opened the fridge.
“Senator’s Son Attacked,” read Frank. “Check out Matka! Professor stands sentinel, it says.”
Lolek set the carton of cream in front of Frank and peered over his brother’s shoulder at the paper. Instinctively and immediately he judged his own photograph effective. And then he saw his mother and was unexpectedly swept by a rush of gratitude and pride.
“What is she now, eighty-five? I hope I look that good at her age.”
“You don’t look that good now. You’re like a middle-aged pony in winter.”
Lolek smiled and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.
“It’s like a still from some war epic,” said Frank. “Closing scene, she’s everyone’s mother. Only need a battered flag waving in the foreground, maybe some swelling hymn. She’s like a Polish Katherine Hepburn. What else have we got?”
He turned to page three. A photograph showed Frank leaving the hospital with their parents and Marta.
“I didn’t know you were there,” said Lolek.
“Why would they want this shot? You’d think we were the Kennedys. Of course I was there. I heard it on the scanner. I called Shelly over at police headquarters right away to let him know it was Tommy. He’s all over it. Shelly’s convinced a neighbor will have seen the attacker’s car. He’s probably still out there knocking on doors.”
Lolek poured his own coffee and searched around in frustration for the sugar bowl. He should have thought to call Sheldon himself.
“It’s here,” said Frank, pushing the sugar across the table to Lolek.
Just as Lolek spooned out some sugar, the phone rang, and both brothers together glanced at the clock on the oven: 6:12. The second ring cut off abruptly, and they heard creaking from the master bedroom upstairs. Lolek picked up the kitchen extension and walked to stare out the back door.
“I’m on, Marta, what is it?”
Frank frowned at his brother’s presumptuousness. Granted, his kid was in the hospital, but he’d bet Lolek would have picked up regardless. Lolek tended to command whatever space he was in.
“Wait, Dad, start from the beginning. What about the police?” He turned to Frank and mouthed, “It’s Dad.”
“I gathered.”
After a few minutes, Marta came into the kitchen wearing long silk pajamas, navy with orange piping, and faded navy Keds with the backs squashed flat. Lolek frowned. She always dressed for company. Maybe she hadn’t known Frank was here.
“I’ll put in a call to Warren Meck today, Dad, at least see if he has any ideas. I do, I think he’s honest. No, just instinct, something about him.”
To Lolek’s astonishment, as Marta walked sleepily past Frank, she paused to give him a quick kiss at the base of his right sideburn, then touched his shoulder ever so briefly. It wasn’t the sort of kiss that sounded alarms in a long marriage—Lolek recognized it as merely friendly, sisterly—but it was also troubling, as casually routine as pouring a refill, which Marta now did for Frank. He suddenly wondered if Frank knew about Tommy’s marriage. Last night when he’d gotten into bed, Marta had feigned sleep, and Lolek had let her. Now he stepped forward and held out his mug. Marta topped it off. He cradled the phone against his shoulder, moved between Marta and Frank, and stirred in some more sugar.
“I know, Dad, this takes it up a notch. You’ll call Abe? We’re heading over to Mercy as soon as we’re done with our coffee.” At this he turned inquiringly to Marta. She nodded. “Yes, I’ll tell them. See if Abe can convince Tommy about the alarm system at the house. Tommy will listen to him. Better yet, have him tell Robert.”
Marta sat down across from Frank. He turned the paper so she could see the front page and she reached for it. Lolek ended his call, and they looked at him expectantly. He leaned back against the counter, and his stomach cut uncomfortably into his waistband. He crossed his arms and stood up straight.
“What are you doing here exactly?” he said to Frank.
“He’s here,” said Marta, “that’s all. His godson, or have you forgotten?”
Lolek bent toward his right, trying to stretch out the tension in his left hip.
“What do either of you know about the Redeemer Fellowship?”
“You said police,” said Frank. “Did something else happen?”
“Someone left a hate note on your parents’ porch last night,” said Marta. “A warning to think twice about defending … well, Tommy.”
“‘Your faggot grandson’ is what they wrote.” Lolek told Frank the story.
“Sheldon went over himself, which was nice of him. Said they had the place locked down like Fort Knox.”
“They’ve got to be scared,” said Marta.
Frank and Lolek both snorted at this. They exchanged a quick smile, and Lolek felt a sudden surge of fondness for his brother. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Excited, maybe,” said Frank to Marta. “Nothing like a good cause to get a rise out of Dad. And Matka? Already it is adventure!” He held his hand over his heart.
Lolek laughed. Frank smiled down at his mug.
“I’m going up to get dressed,” said Marta. “I’ll phone the hospital and see what’s going on. See what you two can do about some breakfast.”
In her absence, the brothers sat and drank their coffee. After a minute, Frank retrieved the paper. He handed a section to Lolek. It was nice, Frank thought, sitting here with his brother. He was ashamed that he momentarily felt grateful for Tommy’s situation, but it was such a rare thing, to get Lolek to himself.
“One of my guys at the station goes to that Redeemer church. He’s reliable, a solid team member, works hard, smart. He never talks about it, isn’t preachy or anything. Only thing is he never swears, never has a beer, not like the other kids I usually get. But he’s quiet about it, doesn’t keep anyone else from their fun. The men like him.”
“Doesn’t proselytize?”
“Well sure, at first, but nothing pushy, a couple years ago, right after he joined. He seemed almost apologetic, like maybe it had been assigned, like the Jehovahs. Maybe they have some kind of quota. They have another church on the Cape, I think. He and his family go there for vacation.”
Immediately Lolek wondered if there were other branches around the state, if their locations were consistent with the districts that had fired teachers.
Marta came back into the room. She had brushed out her chestnut hair and put on a pair of boot-cut blue jeans and a lime-green angora sweater. Lolek got up and opened a bag of bagels on the counter and peered inside. He pulled cream cheese and a carton of eggs from the fridge.
“I spoke to Robert,” said Marta. “They’re letting Tommy go home this morning.”
Lolek hadn’t known his shoulders were tense. He smiled at Marta, who was looking with shining eyes at Frank. Frank smiled softly and nodded. Lolek turned back to the counter. He pulled a knife from its storage block and started slicing bagels. When he had three, he went to the fridge and stared into it.
“Do we have any lox?”
“Of course not.”
Lolek carefully closed the door and set down the knife. He looked out the window over the sink. It had finally begun to get light. Some kind of wildlife had split a trail straight through the snow-covered yard.
“I’ve got to go get changed for the office,” he said.
“I thought you weren’t going in. Maria Rose is here.”
“Have her call me when she gets up. Maybe we can meet up for lunch.”
“But what about Tommy? I thought we’d help him get settled at home.”
“Frank will be there. Won’t you, Frank? Be there to help?”
Frank looked at Lolek like he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.
“If you need me. Of course.”
“Well there you have it.” Lolek left the room and speed-dialed Aggie’s number.
16
The Rape of Europa
“Today we watch film,” said Ludka.
In the honors library, the students sat in oak armchairs around a large, polished conference table in the ornate room where they normally met. A huge crystal chandelier complemented the scale of the twenty-foot-high ceiling. Three wavy-glassed, twelve-over-twelve wood-framed windows punctuated the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A lush maroon carpet muffled sound. A room with much history, Ludka always thought, a room in which she felt at home. She stood at one end of the table, fingertips lightly touching the surface, an incongruous TV and DVD player on a cart just behind her.
“I expect you all heard the news about Thomas Zeilonka. He is my grandson. Last night held little sleep for me and this morning … much fame.”
She held up the newspaper and mimicked her own haughty pose. The class laughed.
“We wondered if you might cancel,” said Will.
Ludka flapped her hand dismissively, although she had considered it.
“Already the bullies have disrupted too much. To cancel class is their victory. The one acquiescence is to teach by proxy of film to protect you from my muddled brain. Again, you will see that Mr. Stanley Brozek in the back there is our guest. He is trying for the free education and so far already he is succeeding.”
More laughter. From where Stanley sat by the exit he lifted his hand and smiled.
“How’s your grandson doing?” said Will. “Is he okay?”
Ludka could see Will’s evident concern, and still it unsettled her, how quickly someone’s personal trauma could be appropriated by others. Father Skurski had called on her first thing that morning, showing up unannounced at the house, and initially Ludka had been touched. But later, as he was leaving, when he told her he’d be praying for Tommy, she hadn’t liked the subtle condescension in his tone and suspected he was rather enjoying himself, maybe even gathering material for his next sermon. For the first time since Tommy had explained to her and Izaac the nature of his relationship with Robert, six years ago now, Ludka had experienced what had to be a mere fraction of the judgment Tommy must routinely encounter. She had thought of the serious blond boy with the woolly curls, holding high his signs: God Hates Fags and You’re Going to Hell.
How could she possibly tell Will whether Tommy was okay? “
This morning he is home, thank you.”
“I guess they’re organizing a protest rally,” said Annika, cradling her tattooed arms by the elbows. “My brother’s at the high school. He said it’s not just for the school but for the whole district, in some public place, maybe even in Boston. The students all want him back.”
The protest was news to Ludka, and she wanted to phone Izaac immediately. Sophie and Ashley, who sat together at the other end of the table, glanced at each other. Sophie nodded and Ashley bent her head to her cell phone and began to type. Sophie tentatively cleared her throat and fiddled with her cross, which now hung visibly outside her blouse and sweater. Will and Annika leaned forward to see beyond the row of students seated alongside them. Sophie dipped her head shyly and then lifted it again and addressed Annika.
“Some of the students are actually relieved,” said Sophie. “My brother Brandon among them. No offense, Professor, but Mr. Zeilonka wasn’t too tolerant of the Christian kids.” She glanced at Will and dropped her gaze again. Ashley crossed her chunky arms.
“We’ll just see how many people show up at the rally,” said Will. “I’ll put money on it the place is mobbed.”
“And what will that prove?” said Sophie.
“Let us see,” said Ludka. She made a show of digging into her bag. She pulled out the syllabus and held it up.
“As suspected, protest rally is not on the syllabus. The Rape of Europa is. Already who has seen this film?”
“Speaking of bullies,” said Will. He surveyed the class. “Wait, no one else saw it? Nazis as art thieves? Seriously? They were the biggest art thieves of all time.”
Ludka glanced at Stanley but couldn’t read his expression. As previously arranged, he had met her here in the classroom while the rest of the students were arriving. Ludka had taken a hard look at the sunglasses he’d propped at the top of his forehead. She’d said nothing of her suspicions, only thanked him for cleaning the kitchen and tried to gauge his expression, which seemed to show nothing but concern for Tommy. After the hubbub of last night’s intruder, and before she woke Izaac or called the police, Ludka had carefully locked the Chopin in the back coat closet with the rest of the paintings, and taken the subterfuge painting—the girl looking over her shoulder—upstairs where it belonged. The climate-controlled closet contained racks for any size canvas, Izaac’s brainchild when their collection had gotten too big. The painting would be secure until she could find another hiding place, which she’d need to do in the next three weeks, before Izaac pulled out the paintings for the student art tour.
Now, Will fingered the rings on his ear and held out a hand to Ludka. “Enlighten these heathens, Professor.”
She smiled and sat down, her fingers entwined in front of her on the table.
“Not only did Nazis murder. Already they were also champion art thieves, and on an industrial scale. World War II you think concluded by atom bombs in Japan, but still today there is unfinished business. Adolf Hitler lost the war, yes?”
She glared around at them as they exchanged confused glances, as if this were a trick question.
“Ask the Jews of Poland, my home country, who lost the war. Before the war, more than three million Jews. My home city, Warsaw, was the capital city of European Jewry. Today? Somewhere between five and twenty thousand Jews only in whole of Poland! Hitler is not rolling over in the grave.”
“Have you been back, Professor? To Poland?”
Ludka twisted her rings and stared for a long moment at her hands. Someone coughed nervously. Ludka shook her head.
“It is irrelevant. We focus on the art of the Holocaust. Why? So we know the heart of the Nazi, and the resilient soul of a people. Art created during the Holocaust, after Holocaust, and art as victim of Holocaust. Art still is missing, its provenance interrupted, masterpieces disappeared forever. Destroyed. Lost. Hidden. To steal art is to steal the soul of a people, to destroy culture.”
Stanley lifted his briefcase onto his lap. He rested his arms across the top.
“In a couple weeks you will see a great collection of contemporary Polish art at my home. Mr. Brozek got private tour already last night.”
“Wait till you see it,” said Stanley.
“But why do I have modern collection? Why not great art from an earlier era? I will tell you why. I want Hitler rolling in his grave. The Rape of Europa will show he despised modern art—degenerate, he called it: Matisse, Picasso, Kandinsky, Van Gogh, all degenerate—and he destroyed it like he destroyed the people, through intentional system with vast bureaucratic support. Particularly he had hatred for Polish art. And Polish people, not only Jews, he directed killed without pity or mercy—Poles were in his mind same as Jews: subhuman. Thank God there are people who did what they could to p
rotect Poland’s cultural heritage, who today work still to recover art. Only I do my small part.”
Ludka felt pain in her left wrist and realized she had been banging the table. I did not steal, she was thinking. Only I liberated, and preserved! She got up and turned to the TV, her face flushed. She wheeled the TV close to the table and felt a rising fury as she did.
“Enough speech. It is time to watch. Someone will pull blinds.”
She jabbed the buttons on the TV and DVD player, and adjusted the volume.
“Mr. Brozek will turn out lights, yes?”
As the film began, she made her way through the flickering light to the back of the room. She would watch only until they began to show the destruction of Warsaw, and then she would have to leave. She had watched only once what the camera had captured as it silently panned the expanse of her leveled neighborhood, the sky a sudden shock of unencumbered space. She’d buried her memory of seeing that exact vista, which she’d witnessed while the choking dust and ash had still been settling heavily down, while the fires still burned. She had also been perplexed as modern tourists in the film strolled amidst the surreally colored buildings of her reconstructed neighborhood, known colloquially as Starówka: the cobbled streets, the wide, locked courtyard doors, the view of the Royal Castle from her own ulica Piwna. But this was one of many reasons she employed to explain to herself why she’d not been back—a reproduction, no matter how meticulously crafted, no matter how seemingly familiar, was an imitation nonetheless. She sat down next to Stanley, eyed him peripherally. His sunglasses were tight against his forehead, like a second set of eyes. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable in his chair. As the narrator explained how Hitler had finally gained enough power to force his artistic tastes on Germany, Stanley leaned close to Ludka and told her he had already seen the film.