Karolina's Twins

by Ronald H. Balson

  “I would like to come and meet with you and Ms. Lockhart.”

  “To what end?”

  “Well, it’s about Arthur’s mother. She hasn’t been well. Arthur’s concerned about her … uh … her…”

  “Estate, Mike. The word you’re looking for is estate.”

  “No, no, not at all. He’s concerned about her health. You know, she’s eighty-nine years old.”

  “She looked pretty healthy to me. But, in case you didn’t know, Ms. Lockhart’s not a doctor.”

  Shirley’s tone changed. “Liam, let’s stop playing these games. My client wants me to set up a meeting. We can meet in Ms. Lockhart’s office or we can meet in a courtroom. Why don’t we try to avoid the latter?”

  “Why didn’t you call Catherine directly? Why go through me?”

  “I’m sorry, I tried. She wasn’t in this afternoon and she hasn’t returned my call. I figured you could get through to her quicker than I could.”

  “When do you want to meet?”

  “The sooner the better. Arthur is very concerned.”

  “No doubt. I’ll speak to Catherine and I’m sure one of us will get back to you tomorrow.”

  “That’ll be just fine, Liam. Just fine.”

  * * *

  CATHERINE ENTERED THE FOYER, brushed a few November snowflakes from her coat and hung it on the coatrack.

  “How was your appointment this afternoon?” Liam said. “Did Dr. Epstein tell you it was the most good-lookin’-est baby he ever saw?”

  Catherine laughed. “There’s not a lot they can see on an ultrasound at this stage, but he said I’m doing fine.” She feigned a pout. “I’ve gained four pounds!”

  Liam spread his hands. “Where? No way. Tell him I’ve paid close attention to every inch, under the most intimate of circumstances, and the mother-to-be has her movie-star figure intact.”

  Catherine gave him a peck on the cheek. “There was a message that Michael Shirley called me this afternoon about Mrs. Woodward. He wants to schedule a meeting.”

  “I know. I spoke to him. He represents Arthur. He wants to meet with both of us.”

  “Liam, there is absolutely nothing wrong with Lena Woodward. She’s sharp as a tack. I wish I had her memory skills.”

  “Shirley threatened a lawsuit. Said he’d meet us in your office or in court.”

  “The bastard’s going to sue his mother? She hasn’t been through enough in her life that she has to face a competency hearing brought by her own son?”

  “It’s about the money.”

  “No shit, Liam.” Catherine stormed into the kitchen and started to rattle the pots and pans.

  “What are you doing, Cat?”

  “Making pasta!” she snapped. “So I can gain another four pounds!”

  He walked up behind her, put his arms around her and kissed her on the neck. “Come on, put the pots down. Don’t let that jerk get under your skin. I’ll take you to Sorrento’s.”

  She turned around and looked up into Liam’s eyes. “She’s such a sweet, courageous woman.” She shook her head. “We’ll have to meet with him, you know. I don’t want him running into court and filing some scathing petition accusing her of dementia.”

  “You know how this will go. We’ll meet with him. It’ll get nasty. He’ll demand you stop seeing Arthur’s mother. You’ll refuse. And at that point he’ll hand you a petition that he’s already drafted and tell you he’s going to file it the next day.”

  Catherine nodded. “Right. And at that moment, I want you to punch him in the face.”

  Liam smiled. “I love the way you negotiate.”

  As they walked to the car, Catherine said, ‘I’ve already set up a meeting with Lena for tomorrow at noon and I’m sure it will take the entire afternoon. Tell Shirley we’ll meet with him on Thursday.”

  TEN

  “LENA, BEFORE WE GET started, I have to advise you that Arthur’s attorney has requested a meeting with me.”

  Lena sat with her hands folded in her lap. Her posture erect. As always, she was smartly dressed, this day in a tweed suit, white blouse and contrasting silk scarf. Her makeup was deftly applied and her hair was fashionably styled.

  “He has scolded me for coming here and demanded that I cease seeing you,” she replied. “What is your position? Will you meet with his attorney?”

  “I’m your lawyer, Lena. I’ll do whatever you ask. But I have to tell you, Arthur’s hired a very aggressive firm. If I don’t meet with Mr. Shirley, he may up the ante.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s intimated that he might petition the court to appoint a guardian.”

  “A guardian for what? On what basis?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I suspect he’ll claim that because of your advancing age, you’re no longer able to take care of yourself or make decisions concerning your property.”

  “What nonsense! There’s no truth to such a claim.”

  “I know that. Do you think Arthur would go ahead with it?”

  “Arthur is very headstrong. He’s a controlling person, especially since my husband died. There’s distance between Arthur and me. I don’t know what he’d do to maintain control.” She paused. “Could he succeed? I’m eighty-nine years old.”

  “Your age is not determinative. He would need medical proof, from professionals, not just his opinion. Can I ask you a personal question? Do you regularly see any doctors?”

  “I see a rheumatologist for my arthritis, I see my cardiologist twice a year and my regular physician twice a year. I also regularly see my dentist— do you want to know that as well?”

  “No, I’m sorry but…”

  “I don’t see any psychiatrists or psychologists. I don’t see any geriatric specialists.” She looked straight into Catherine’s eyes. “And I’m not senile. I’ve got all my wits. I haven’t misplaced a single wit.”

  “I believe you, but if he subpoenaed your medical records, your chart, your doctors’ notes, would they reveal any discussions between you and your doctors about forgetfulness or memory problems?”

  “When you get to be my age, it’s a subject that comes up regularly at checkups. They’re supposed to ask you about your mental condition. We talk about it. I’ve probably said I wish I was younger, but I don’t think I’ve ever said that I was failing.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I might have said I was forgetful. I can’t remember names as well as I used to. Maybe my memory is not as good as it once was. You know, if you keep packing information into your brain for eighty-nine years, it gets pretty full. But I’m not confused, I’m not incompetent.”

  “I don’t think so either.”

  “Let me ask: at this meeting that Arthur’s demanded, what if his aggressive attorney insists that you stop representing me?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I don’t take my orders from Arthur.”

  Lena nodded sharply. “Good. Then this subject is closed. There’s nothing wrong with me. Shall we continue?”

  Catherine smiled, set her notepad on her lap and replied, “By all means.”

  “I left the Shop and headed for the ghetto to find a place to sleep. My house, Karolina’s house—they were confiscated. I had other friends, but they were Jewish as well, and I suspected that their homes had been taken away too. Besides, I didn’t feel comfortable showing up at their houses and asking to stay there. David told me that rooms were available in the northeast section, in the Jewish ghetto, so that was where I was going.

  “When I left the Shop, it was after curfew and the streets were quiet. I shouldn’t say that. They were quiet near the ghetto. People like me, coming home from work with ID cards, we were quiet. We kept to the shadows to avoid the Germans. But in the square it was a different story. The soldiers were a boisterous, pompous lot. I could see them sitting in the restaurants and bars, full plates of food, steins of beer, laughing and joking. No ration cards necessary for them. If they were out and about, and
if they encountered a Jew on the street, they were inclined to abuse her for sport.

  “As David had warned, many were sadistic. If you were an observant Jewish man, they’d cut off your beard. They’d make you dance on the street to German drinking songs. I saw them force men to lick the dirt off their boots. I saw them force a woman to squat and urinate on her meager groceries. I could go on, Catherine, but you’ve heard all the stories.

  “After work that very first day, on my way to the ghetto, I was stopped by two soldiers and ordered to show my ID. I said to myself, stay calm. But I was afraid. They looked me over and asked me where I was going.

  “‘I’m headed back into the ghetto. I’m coming from work.’

  “‘What is your address?’

  “‘I don’t have one yet.’ My anxiety increased.

  “‘No address? Where have you been living?’

  “‘On the streets.’

  “That answer was totally unacceptable to him and he shook his head. ‘Nein, nein.’ But then his companion said, ‘C’mon, Josef, we’re late. They’re waiting for us at the restaurant. I don’t give a shit about this woman.’

  “He gave me back my ID, let me go and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I saw a few more people on my way to the ghetto, mostly women returning from their jobs. I stopped some of them and asked them about the Scheinmans. Has anyone seen them? As I told you, most everyone knew the Captain. He was a well-respected man. But the people I met told me that as far as they knew, he had never arrived in the ghetto. They hadn’t seen him, my mother or Milosz.

  “I entered a few of the overcrowded apartment buildings looking for a room, but they were all full. The situation in the ghetto was bleak. You can’t imagine. In an area where a few hundred poor families had lived, there were now close to ten thousand people. If your family had lived in a two-story house before the war, you now found yourselves crammed into a single living space in a decaying building. Perhaps a ten-by-ten room.

  “I went from one building to another. It was getting late. It was also dark and exceptionally cold for an April night. Near the tracks was a four-story brown brick building with two apartments per floor. Each of the apartments now held several families and there was no extra room. I was leaving the building when an elderly man stopped me. ‘Do you need something?’

  “‘I’m looking for a place to sleep. Every room seems to be taken. Do you know of any vacant rooms?’

  “‘It’s almost midnight. You won’t find anything tonight. Most people, if they can, have gone to sleep. I have a little room, but you can stay. I’m harmless.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I’m Yossi.’

  “He lived in the basement in a small furnace room. There was a large coal furnace that heated the building, but it wasn’t functional. There was no coal. We were in coal mining country, but there were no deliveries to the ghetto. Yossi told me that I could sleep for the night on the extra mat in the corner. I was grateful to take it and I offered him a few reichsmarks, but he refused. I sat down on the mat, opened the bag of food that David had given to me and took out a portion of bread and meat. I was famished. As I unwrapped my dinner, I saw Yossi staring.

  “‘Hungry?’ I said.

  “He shrugged, then nodded. I shared my small provisions with him, for which he was tearfully appreciative. I thought, how is this man getting any food? He didn’t look strong enough to stand in the ration lines all day. And he certainly wasn’t healthy enough to work. I hoped he had a family that was taking care of him. Otherwise, he was going to die in this unheated basement. His coat was threadbare and his shoes were coming apart.

  “‘Do you know Jacob Scheinman?’ I asked him while we ate.

  “He nodded. ‘I know Jacob. The Captain.’ He smiled. His teeth were yellowing and some were missing. I was certain that toothpaste was a luxury that he hadn’t seen for a while. ‘I knew Jacob when he was a young man and I was a teacher.’

  “‘He’s my father. He was arrested by the Germans along with my mother and little brother. I think they may have relocated here in the ghetto. Have you seen any of them?’

  “He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry. My walking is limited and my attendance at social functions is minimal. I go to the synagogue if I can get someone to assist me. If not, I stay in my room and read. But I have not run into Jacob.’ He held up his gnarled index finger to make a point. ‘You should inquire at the Judenrat. They keep the census—they know who’s here and they know who’s not.’

  “‘The Judenrat?’

  “‘It’s the Jewish council. Because they’re responsible for filling the work details, they know who’s living here, who’s been sent away, who left on a work detail and who’s never returned. They supply the names of workers to the Germans and then post them outside city hall. Every day, you check the list, and if your name’s there, you show up in the market square for work. Sometimes you come back at the end of the day, sometimes you don’t come back for a week, sometimes you don’t come back.’

  “His narrative made me shudder. ‘And the Judenrat, this Jewish council, willfully supplies the names for the Germans?’

  “‘You can’t blame the members of the Judenrat they don’t have a choice. They don’t run this show, here. I think they’re generally good people, and they try hard. They’re our interface with the Nazi command. If it weren’t for them, there would be no community organization and no one to communicate with the Nazis. But in truth, I suppose you’re right, they’re helping the Nazis enforce their edicts. When you inquire about your family at the Judenrat, ask to see Mayer Kapinski.’

  “Yossi gave me the address and told me that the best time to catch him was right before lunch. ‘They usually meet during the day until just before sunset. They don’t want to violate the curfew.’

  “I shook my head. ‘I can’t go during the day. I have to be at the Shop. Could you find a way to make the inquiry for me? If it isn’t too much to ask, could you see Mr. Kapinski and ask him about Jacob and Hannah Scheinman and a young disabled boy named Milosz? I could come back here tomorrow night and you could tell me.’

  “He patted me on the top of my head. ‘Of course. Of course. Come back tomorrow and I will tell you if I have learned something. And you may stay in the corner of my basement for as long as you like.’ He looked at the corner and laughed. ‘Or until you find a place to sleep that you don’t have to share with the mice. Be careful.’

  “I thanked him profusely, put my duffel under my head for a pillow and passed out.

  “The next morning I awoke with a sharp poke in my side. Yossi was standing over me. The room was dark, but there was a slice of bright light coming from the stairway. ‘You’d better get going,’ he said. ‘The sun’s up and you can’t be late to the Shop. They will penalize you for late arrival.’

  “‘Is there a place to wash up?’

  “He shook his head. ‘Down the street at the fountain. There’s no running water in this building. Only the fountain.’

  “I returned to the Shop and took my place at the sewing machine just before seven. Bolts of cloth were brought to my station and I commenced work. At noon, there was a break and portions of bread, cheese and a small piece of sausage were distributed. I was ravenous. I introduced myself to the young woman next to me. Her name was Marcja. A thin, little girl with stringy blond hair and high cheekbones. She had come from the town of Trzebinia, five kilometers away. I knew the town; there was a train station there.

  “On the first day of the war, the Germans had bombed Trzebinia, destroying the train station and much of the town. She told me that most of her family had scattered—some to Russia and some to the north—but her mother stayed in Trzebinia. Marcja came to Chrzanów to find work. She walked to and from Trzebinia each Sunday, even through the snowstorms. During the week she shared a room in the ghetto.

  “‘I’ve lost track of my family,’ I said. ‘They were taken from my home. I was hoping that my mother was working here, but David said he hasn’t seen her.’

&nb
sp; “‘People are taken from their homes, people are snatched off the street, people are even grabbed from the Shop,’ Marcja said. ‘I’ve heard there are labor camps being set up all over Poland and Germany, where these people are sent. They don’t come home. That’s where your family might be.’

  “Marcja was a fountain of information about the Shop and day-to-day life, which she was happy to share. She told me that we were given three bathroom breaks a day, ten minutes only, and the women’s lavatory was the best way to wash your body, even though the water was ice cold. She also told me about the few stores that were open early in the morning, before sunrise, where the lines were short and where you might be more successful with your food card.

  “The day ended and I hurried back to Yossi to learn the news about my family. He gently put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Ethel Goodman helped me to the synagogue and I talked to Kapinski.’ He nodded at me. ‘Good news! Kapinski said he knows about your family. He wants to see you in person and tell you himself.’

  “‘That’s wonderful, but how can I see him? My work hours won’t let me go during the day.’

  “‘Kapinski knows that. He says he will see you tonight. Ten o’clock. He will meet you in the old synagogue on Górski Street.’ He smiled broadly, proud that he was able to help me. ‘Kapinski. He has the information.’

  “I was beside myself. Kapinski knew where my family was. I thanked Yossi, I hugged him and I shared my provisions with him. Just before ten, I left for the old synagogue.

  “The streets in the ghetto were dark. Streetlamps were either nonexistent or inoperative. No one filled the gas lamps. Electricity was a sometimes thing. I arrived at the synagogue and opened the heavy door. The halls were pitch black and silent. In the sanctuary, a few candles were lit and along with the ner tamid, they cast a dim glow. I didn’t see anyone and walked down the aisle toward the bimah.

  “‘I’m here,’ Mr. Kapinski said quietly from behind. I turned and saw a tall man with a full gray beard sitting in the middle row. He wore a dark suit jacket over a badly worn white shirt. He patted the seat next to him and gestured for me to sit. Other than the two of us, the synagogue was empty.