Once We Were Brothers by Ronald H. Balson Page A

already several sheets of notes.
    “Can I help myself to a cup of tea?” he said. Without waiting for a response, he filled his cup and took a seat at the head of the conference table, dunking his tea bag. “So tell me, Miss Lockhart, where do we stand in our case against Elliot Rosenzweig? Have you done anything yet?”
    “Done anything?” She smiled. “I need a lot more information before I can make any referrals on your case.”
    “What do you mean, referrals? I want you to be my lawyer.”
    “We’ll make a decision on how to proceed when you finish telling your story. Your case might be better handled by the U.S. Attorney’s office or a law school legal clinic.”
    He wrinkled his face. “No, Miss Lockhart, you’re the one. You were meant to handle this case. Besides, some young law grad would get his ears pinned back by Piatek and his power brokers.”
    “Not necessarily. But I’d like you to begin to tell me how Otto Piatek wrongfully obtained possession of your family’s property. Really, the history of Poland is fascinating, but I need to focus on the liability aspects. Can you jump ahead and tell me what property was taken and when?”
    “I’ll get there soon enough.”
    Catherine sighed, took up her pen and yellow pad, and rocked back in her chair. “The last thing you talked about was the increased violence in the streets of Zamość.”
    “That’s right. After Beka was attacked, we were told to come straight home from school.
    Zamość, Poland 1936
    “Everything in our world seemed to be influenced by what was going on in Germany and everyone we knew was trying to keep abreast of the news. My father had a short-wave radio in a large walnut console that stood in the corner of our living room and we gathered as a family, almost daily, to listen to broadcasts from Germany, England and America.
    “There was no TV back then, you know, so families would congregate around the radio. My father would sit in his armchair to the left of the console and work the dials, tuning in the foreign stations. Mother would usually sit on the couch, with her darning or her knitting. Beka, Otto and I would lounge about on the carpet. I was a little conversant in German, I’d studied it in school, and so I could understand the German broadcasts pretty well. Because of his business dealings, my father spoke German and, of course, Otto was fluent.
    “We listened in bewilderment to the speeches coming out of Berlin, the rantings of Der Fuhrer and Goebbels’ propaganda. My father would shake his head and tell us that Hitler was blaming the Jews for the cold of the winter and the heat of the summer.
    “As the Depression raged on, Polish street violence worsened and members of our community became increasingly alarmed. Finally, since most Poles were Catholic, there was a decision to send a delegation to the Archdiocese in Warsaw. My father was asked to participate in the conference.
    “‘Rabbi Perelman and three other rabbis are going to see Cardinal Kakowski,’ he said. ‘We’re hoping he’ll take a stand and issue a pastoral declaration condemning the violence.’
    “So on a cold winter morning, we all piled into the car and drove Father to the Lublin station where he met the other delegates and boarded the train for Warsaw. He was gone for five days.
    “When he returned, he looked very disheartened. ‘The Cardinal was a gracious host,’ he said. ‘He warmly welcomed us and served us tea in his office where we detailed our concerns and presented our petition. He patiently listened to us, nodding his head in sympathetic agreement, assuring us that these gangs were inimical to all God-loving people, not just the Jews. But when we finished, the Cardinal said, “If life in Poland is so dangerous, why don’t the Jews leave? Why do you stay here in danger?”’
    “‘We were dumbfounded,’ my father said. ‘This is our home, we told him. There are over three million Jews in Poland. Are we all supposed to