Karolina's Twins

by Ronald H. Balson

  “‘Yes, I am.’ I was bursting with enthusiasm.

  “He unrolled white wrapping paper and took out a pair of shoes. Brown laced oxfords, service type, round toe, leather heel. I don’t know what you’d call those shoes today. I don’t see them anymore. If you looked at pictures from the 1940s, you’d see them, maybe on the feet of the Andrews Sisters. They were a little clunky. ‘Size nine?’ he said.

  “‘How did you know?’ I asked, and then looked over at David, who was smiling.

  “He handed the shoes to me and I looked them over. They were pretty and hadn’t been worn, but they were all scuffed up to disguise the appearance that they were new. After all, how would a Jewish girl in the ghetto get a new pair of leather shoes?

  “‘Is this my reward for being a spy?’ I said.

  “‘Try them on,’ Jan said.

  “I put them on my feet and they fit. ‘They’re fine. Very comfortable.’

  “‘Not too tight?’

  “‘No, should they be?’

  “‘A little. Take them off.’

  “I handed them back to Jan. He pulled back the sides of a shoe to show me the inside. ‘Watch.’ He lifted the insole and the inner platform. Underneath the leather were three folded pieces of paper. Counting both shoes, six pieces of paper altogether. I could tell they were handwritten, though he would not show me the contents.

  “‘You are not to read these reports under any circumstances, Lena. They contain information about the camp and the identity of our men. So even if tortured to your death, you would not be able to reveal the contents.’

  “‘How reassuring,’ I said. David laughed. I could always pique his humor. Jan was not amused. That was okay with me.

  “‘You are to deliver a load of coats to your contact tonight,’ Jan said. ‘When you are safely in the house, give him the papers from your shoes. If you are stopped, they may look in every stitch of clothing, but we don’t think they’ll take your shoes apart.’

  “‘Where am I supposed to get a load of coats?’

  “‘You work in a coat factory,’ David answered.

  “‘But those are for the Nazis.’ Then a lightbulb lit up. ‘My contact is a Nazi? A Nazi’s going to take these notes to Churchill?’

  “‘Does that bother you?’ Jan said.

  “‘No. I think that’s kind of cheeky.’

  “‘Good. David will wrap a load of coats for you, put them in a cart and you will wheel them to your contact tonight.’

  “‘Tonight? That fast? Where am I going?’

  “‘The address is 1403 Kościuszko. It is a redbrick house.’

  “I stood as frozen as a statue. ‘What’s wrong?’ David said.

  “‘That’s my house.’

  “‘Good,’ Jan said. ‘So you know how to find it. And because you were a teenager in high school once, you probably know inconspicuous back ways to get home. Very good.’

  “‘Who … what Nazi pig is living in my house?’

  “David put his hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s your old friend Colonel Müller.’

  “‘A Nazi colonel, who lives in my house, is my contact?’

  “David nodded. ‘Colonel Müller is your contact.’

  “‘But, when I was in the attic, I heard his wife. “I won’t touch a Jew’s clothes. You have to disinfect the toilets.” She’s a raging anti-Semite.’

  “‘Maybe it was an act,’ Jan said.

  “‘Maybe? Maybe it was an act?’

  “‘And maybe not. So don’t talk to the wife, just to Colonel Müller. Now you must get ready to leave. He’s expecting you.’

  “Then I knew. From the dispassionate way in which Jan delivered my instructions, I was just another soldier, a tool of war. I was a commodity. If I were used up, there would be another. I was being deployed.

  “‘I’m ready,’ I said with a salute.”

  Catherine set her notepad down and took a deep breath. “That’s enough for today. As you know, I’ve scheduled a motion in your case for tomorrow morning. I’m asking the court for an extension of time to file our response to Arthur’s petition. I’ll need a little time this evening to prepare for the hearing.”

  “Do you expect the judge to grant our motion? To give us adequate time?”

  Catherine nodded. “Sure. It’s routine. I’m certain we’ll get time, but I don’t know how much of an extension he’ll give us. I’ve requested thirty days.”

  As Catherine walked with Lena to the front door, she said, “I’m sorry for giving you a hard time, for doubting your story. I was a little cranky today.”

  Lena smiled. “I’m going to attribute it to your backaches. Arthur gave me a lot of backaches before he was born.” She paused. “And afterward.”

  TWENTY

  ON THE EIGHTEENTH FLOOR of the Richard J. Daley Center, in courtroom 1803, Judge Willard G. Peterson took the bench for his morning motion call. Judge Peterson had presided over his probate call with a strong fist for sixteen years. He was generally known as a fair jurist, but he’d heard it all and tolerated no nonsense.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” Catherine said, handing a stapled group of papers to the judge. “This is Respondent Lena Woodward’s motion for additional time to answer or otherwise plead to the petition of her son Arthur Woodward.” To Catherine’s right, Michael Shirley and his associate, Susan Cooper, stood with plastic smiles on their overconfident faces. Neither Arthur nor Lena was present.

  The judge peered down over his reading glasses and stroked his mottled gray goatee. “I’ve read it.” His deep voice resonated with a rumbling, grumbling sound. “Are there any objections from the petitioner?”

  “I should say so,” Shirley said with a bit of a twang. “This matter is set for a hearing on January twenty-first, and that’s in just four days. My client’s mother’s well-being is in jeopardy. She suffers from severe dementia and any delay will surely inure to her detriment and perhaps the irretrievable loss of her considerable financial wealth. The petition is quite explicit. Why does the respondent need more time?”

  The judge grimaced and leaned forward, staring down at Shirley. “Indeed, Mr. Shirley, why would Ms. Lockhart need more time? Since I’m sure you’ve already disclosed all of your documents, your entire list of witnesses and you’ve produced them all for their depositions, correct?”

  “No, of course not, Your Honor, not yet.”

  “Right. And your expert medical witness? And his report? You produced them as well?”

  Shirley sighed. “No.”

  “So, who are we kidding, Mr. Shirley?”

  “Your Honor, I can produce all of the petitioner’s witnesses and their reports within two weeks. Can we set the hearing on a date three weeks out?”

  “No, Mr. Shirley, we cannot. I will give you a provisional date in three months. April twenty-fifth. Ms. Lockhart, you may respond to the petition within twenty-one days. I assume, like all lawyers in my courtroom, you will file a motion to dismiss, and we’ll brief it, and I’ll dismiss at least a part of the petition, and Mr. Shirley will refile, and you’ll brief another motion and sometime in the fall we’ll get around to trying this case. Am I right?”

  “I do intend to file a motion, Your Honor,” Catherine said.

  “Surprise. Surprise,” Judge Peterson said in his low gravelly voice.

  From the back of the courtroom, Liam’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “That’s my girl,” he whispered to the attorney sitting next to him. “Ass-kicker to the stars.”

  “Just a moment, if you please,” Shirley said. “Mrs. Woodward suffers from dementia, and her condition declines and deteriorates with every passing minute. Will this court take no notice of her grievous condition? Will the record show that this court has done nothing to protect this defenseless woman from her financial predators? What will be left to preserve sometime in the fall?”

  “Spare me the oratory, Mr. Shirley. There’s no jury here.”

  “But, Your Honor, this is an emergency and this cou
rt is obliged to convene an interim hearing to protect the interests of the petitioner’s mother. I’m not asking for your discretionary approval. The statute gives us an absolute right. She is at least entitled to the appointment of an impartial attorney.”

  “She has an attorney,” Catherine said.

  “Oh my lord,” Shirley said with exaggerated hand movements. “Let’s put the fox in charge of the henhouse.”

  Judge Peterson slammed his wooden gavel. “I demand civility in my courtroom, Mr. Shirley. You will not insult a respected member of the bar. What possible basis would you have for such a censorious comment, and it better be good.”

  “Most respectfully, Your Honor, the petitioner seeks to protect his mother from the fees and costs of a farcical, quixotic adventure promoted and supported by the respondent’s very own attorney, the eminent Ms. Lockhart. Ms. Lockhart and her husband are the very individuals who pose the financial threat. They are the ones who abuse their fiduciary duty to Mrs. Woodward and exert undue influence over her for their financial gain.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes and wished at that moment that Forrester’s social services report and findings were publicly available and not confidential by statute.

  Judge Peterson sat back and thought about the charges he was hearing. “These are wild charges, Mr. Shirley, and if true would require Ms. Lockhart’s disbarment. If they’re not true, I will have you brought up before the disciplinary commission.”

  “Do you think I haven’t considered that, Your Honor? Do you think I would level such an accusation if I didn’t have the factual support? I have a client to represent here, and even though it might be quite inconvenient for Ms. Lockhart’s career, I am obliged to address this matter. Ms. Lockhart is churning fees from Mrs. Lena Woodward, a woman so beset with senile dementia that she doesn’t know what’s going on and cannot defend herself.”

  The judge pursed his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Ms. Lockhart, are you representing this woman in another matter?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “This other matter, explain it to me.”

  “I cannot, Your Honor. It’s confidential. I am bound by the attorney-client privilege.”

  “I didn’t ask you what she said or you said. I only want to know what this other matter is about. Why is the subject itself confidential?”

  “Because at this stage it consists entirely of confidential communications and secrets disclosed to me within the confines of my representation. Nothing has been filed or disclosed publicly.”

  The judge shook his head somberly. “I can order you to divulge the nature of the matter. This woman’s welfare has been placed before the court.”

  “Respectfully, I will not obey that order. What my client has said to me and the subject matter of our communications is strictly confidential.”

  “Nonsense,” shouted Shirley. “She’s exploiting my client’s mother and draining her financial resources. And you have the power to stop her. This court must order Ms. Lockhart to fully disclose all of the details of her legal relationship with Lena Woodward, including all fees billed and paid.”

  “Mr. Shirley knows that such an order is improper. Your Honor would not issue such an order and if you did, I would be forced to disregard it.”

  The judge paused to ponder the quandary into which Shirley had maneuvered him. “Have you notes of these private conversations?”

  Catherine nodded. “I do.”

  “I can order you to produce the notes.”

  “I will not obey that order. My notes of Lena’s remarks are privileged.”

  Judge Peterson began to raise his voice. His judicial temperament, unfriendly to begin with, took a stern tone. “The privilege belongs to your client, Ms. Lockhart. Not. To. You.”

  Catherine remained calm. “She has not waived the privilege, nor has she authorized me to divulge any of her confidences.”

  “Hmm. I see. Well, let me tell you what I will do. I will give you forty-eight hours to provide me with a full description of everything you are doing on behalf of Mrs. Woodward and to produce your notes for my in-camera inspection. If you fail or refuse, I will hold you in contempt. To the extent you believe waiver is an issue, I suggest that you consult with your client and determine whether or not she will waive the privilege before you invoke it again.”

  “Ah,” Shirley said. “In most cases that would be proper. But here, her son has alleged that Mrs. Woodward is incompetent by reason of her weakened mental state brought about by her advanced age. She suffers from an all-consuming obsession to find imaginary children from a bygone era halfway around the world. And this poor woman is now encouraged to pursue this folly by the undue influence of her attorney and her investigator. They are the ones that are enriching themselves with this fanciful odyssey. She does not have the mental capacity to go against her lawyer and waive the privilege.”

  The judge nodded. “Perhaps. And maybe I will appoint a guardian ad litem. I will consider it all next Thursday at ten A.M. This matter is adjourned.”

  * * *

  “WHAT’S THE HARM IN having a guardian ad litem appointed as additional counsel to represent Lena in the probate proceeding?” Liam said from the far end of Catherine’s conference table. “He’ll talk to Lena and confirm that she’s sound in body and mind.”

  “An appointed lawyer is not my choice,” Lena answered. “This is just what Arthur wants, to whittle away at my independence. The choice of an attorney to represent me should be mine and mine alone.”

  “I think Judge Peterson may appoint an attorney anyway,” Catherine said. “He has that authority. He’ll want an independent voice to protect the record, but you have the right to decide what, if anything, you say to an appointed attorney. Shirley was clever to raise the issue of undue influence, so there may even be a motion to disqualify me as your attorney.”

  “What about waiving the privilege?” Liam said. “What are you going to do Thursday morning?”

  “I cannot disclose what a client says to me in private. I will give Judge Peterson a legal memorandum on lawyer-client communication, summarizing all of the recent Illinois cases, but I think he’s well aware of them. Everything that Peterson has requested is confidential, and I will continue to assert the attorney-client privilege.”

  “What happens if the judge finds you in contempt?” Lena said.

  “He has broad powers. He can fine me or he can incarcerate me until I purge myself of the contempt.”

  Lena looked at Catherine and put her hand on Catherine’s arm. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with the judge. If you need to tell him what I’ve said or what we’re doing, you have my permission.”

  “Stop!” Catherine said. “The issue is whether or not you knowingly and voluntarily approve of disclosing the content of our confidential meetings of your own free will, not under the compulsion of an illegal threat to your lawyer. And not because you want to protect me. That’s not how justice works. Do you want Arthur to know everything you’ve said or will say in our meetings?”

  Lena shook her head. “Can’t we just give him a general summary, or just tell him the part where I was working in the Shop?”

  “No. Once the door is open, you’ll have to give full disclosure. Everything. He’ll have the right to ask you anything about any of your disclosures to me. Do you want him to know everything?”

  Lena shook her head. “There are some things I do not want him to know under any circumstances. Ever.”

  “Then this discussion is over,” Catherine said. “Let’s get back to Chrzanów, Poland. Tell me about your secret assignments.”

  “Cat,” Liam interrupted. “You can’t go to jail. Not even for a day. You’re five months pregnant and you’ve got a risky pregnancy. The doctor said to keep an eye on your condition. Tell Peterson.”

  “I won’t play the pregnancy card. He has no right to order me to divulge client confidences. Period. That’s all.”

  “Catherine,” Lena said, “I will
not let you go to jail.”

  “This is my call. I’m in the right and Peterson knows it.”

  “Cat…” Liam said.

  “Stop! This conversation is over!”

  Liam stood. His face was red. “Now you listen to me. If you’re going to proceed with this insane hearing, I can’t stop you, but you need to be represented. You need to hire a lawyer. You cannot represent yourself.”

  Catherine nodded. “I’ll think about it. You’re probably right. Now can we get on with Lena’s story?”

  Lena looked at Liam and shrugged. “Okay. Back to Chrzanów and my first assignment as a courier. I was in David’s apartment and I put on my new shoes and my coat. David took me to the loading dock and put a dozen coats onto a four-wheel cart. I gave a sharp nod to him, he hugged me, and I ventured out into the night. My house was eight or nine blocks away, but I had to cross a couple of busy intersections. I had only gone halfway when two SS officers in their long leather coats stopped me. One of them eyed my armband. ‘Documente, Bitte.’

  “I showed him my ID and my Shop permit. He asked me where I was going. I gave him the address.

  “‘Why do you take coats to a residence?’

  “‘Because I was told to.’

  “In a split second, his right hand shot out and backhanded my face. ‘Do not answer me with a dismissal. I asked why you take these coats.’

  “‘Sorry,’ I said, reeling from the slap. ‘I have an authorization.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a delivery document, like a bill of lading, evidencing the delivery of twelve overcoats to Colonel Müller for further transfer at his direction. The SS officer read the paper and gave it back to me. Then he grabbed my cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed so hard I thought his fingers would push a hole through my flesh. ‘Next time a German officer asks you a question, don’t make him ask twice.’