Karolina's Twins

by Ronald H. Balson

  “‘No, sir.’

  “He straightened the bill of his cap, brushed his hands along his coat, as though he had touched a goat, and walked away. I continued walking until I saw the lights of my house.”

  Lena stopped and closed her eyes. “I paused on the corner and stared at my house. For just a moment, I was thirteen. I was coming home from school. My mother and father were waiting for me. Milosz was playing with his cars in the middle of the living room. Magda was making dinner and the scent of roast beef added to the memory. I could walk right in the door and the last three years would be nothing but a dreadful nightmare and everything would be just as it was before. I closed my eyes and wished hard. I willed time to reverse itself, but the sound of a car horn brought me to my senses. It was 1942 and I was a Jew in Nazi Germany. I pushed the cart forward.

  “I knocked on the door and a young girl with a shy smile opened it. Warm, well fed, safe and secure in my house. Is this the new Lena, I thought? Has she been chosen to take my place in the life of the girl who lives at 1403 Kościuszko? Are these just new cast members hired by the studio to play the roles of the family who lives happily at 1403 Kościuszko?

  “‘I’m here to see Colonel Müller,’ I said to her in German. ‘Just a minute,’ she said and disappeared into the house. A moment later, a beautiful woman appeared at the door. She had blond hair with styled curls, red lips, a rouged face and long eyelashes. She wore a calf-length dress with padded shoulders and a deep neckline garnished with an exquisite string of pearls. She looked at me like I was trash. ‘What do you want?’

  “‘I’m sorry to disturb, madam, but I have a delivery for Colonel Müller.’

  “‘Leave it on the stoop and be gone.’

  “I didn’t move. ‘I can’t. My instructions are to see him personally.’

  “‘Fine, then wait. He’s not here.’ She turned around and slammed the door. I took a seat on the concrete stoop and hoped that the colonel would get home before another SS officer came by to hassle me.

  “It was dark, it was February, and I was cold. I moved around to keep warm. An hour or so later, two German soldiers, brown shirts, came walking by in animated conversation. Laughing, telling tales of conquests on a winter night. They stopped. One pointed at me. Oh no, I thought, here we go again. But they laughed again and resumed their walk. Shortly after that, a black Mercedes pulled up beside the curb, the colonel got out, locked his car and approached the door.

  “‘Well, if it isn’t the little hitchhiker. Good evening, Miss Scheinman.’ He tapped the bill of his cap and chuckled. ‘So you are my new deliveryman? Very well, then, come this way.’

  “He unlocked the front door, grabbed the bundle of coats from my cart and walked inside, beckoning me to follow with a tilt of his head. I stepped into the foyer and froze. Gone was the classic Polish decor so favored by my parents, with rich polished wood and traditional Polish hues of carmine, blue and gold. Gone were the soft, plush sofas in subtle woven fabrics and the stately wingback chairs. Gone were the blues and greens of the Impressionist oil paintings framed in gold leaf which had adorned the wall over the breakfront.

  “Now my house was furnished in Jugendstil, German Art Nouveau. Cold, modern, free-form shapes. Tall pieces of glass art. Enameled vases sitting on light-grained, sculpted wood occasional tables. A steel and frosted glass dining table sat beneath a twisted bronze chandelier. Wild, provocative ink drawings, in blood oranges and browns framed in free-form chrome, lined the walls. It broke my heart. All in all, my home was unrecognizable. I stood transfixed at the sight.

  “‘Do you approve?’ the blond woman said from her couch. ‘You look as though you are passing judgment on my taste in furnishings. Does it not meet your standards? You should have seen the shit I had to throw away.’

  “‘I’m sorry, madam, I’m just delivering coats to Colonel Müller. I would not presume to question your exquisite taste.’

  “‘Ha, ha,’ Colonel Müller said as he reentered the room. ‘Else, are you giving this young woman a hard time?’

  “Else folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, she was examining my home like she was an appraiser or something. Or maybe from the magazines? Rather than just a Jewish shop worker.’ She shivered and scrunched her nose. ‘Who is she to judge? I don’t even like her looking at my things. She soils them with her eyes.’

  “‘Really, Else, she’s only delivering coats from the Shop.’ Then, turning to me, he said, ‘I have written requisition forms in the other room. Come with me.’ As I walked through the living room, Else followed me with her eyes, as though she were a leopard sitting atop a boulder.

  “When I entered my father’s study, the scene hit me like a punch in the pit of my stomach. Nothing had changed. It was as if the last two years had not occurred. It was all there. My father’s leather chair. The deep red Persian rug. His chestnut rolltop desk, with its little cubicles where he would hide pieces of peppermint candy for Milosz and me to find. The fringed brass lamp in the corner, a present from my grandmother, that my mother would call chaloshes. So many memories. So hard to take.

  “The bookcase looked the same, but my father’s medals and war papers were gone—stolen by some contemptible German, no doubt. Also missing were photographs of the family, especially my father’s favorite—the one of Milosz and me sitting on his lap that he kept on the corner of his desk. It was all too much. I broke down.

  “Colonel Müller shook his head. ‘They shouldn’t have sent you. I told them.’

  “‘I didn’t know,’ I cried. ‘When I accepted the assignment, I didn’t know where I would be sent.’

  “‘Well, now you know. The drops have to be made at this house. We can’t do it anywhere else. Tell David he must assign some other courier.’

  “I shook my head. ‘No. I can handle it. I’ll be all right. It was just the shock.’

  “He pursed his lips. ‘What happened to your face?’

  “‘SS. He slapped me and squeezed my face to demonstrate his racial superiority. Monsters, every one of you,’ I said, glaring at him, and cried again.

  “‘Not everyone.’ He stood looking at me for a minute and then he said, ‘I don’t want Else to see you like this. She’ll ask me why a delivery girl should be crying in my home. We have to be careful around Else. I’m going to scream at you and make it look like I gave you a reason to cry.’

  “I nodded.

  “‘But first, where’s the report?’

  “I took off my shoes, lifted the insoles and gave him the papers. He examined them and put them in a metal box, locked the box and set it into the desk drawer.

  “‘Are you ready?’

  “I closed my eyes and nodded.

  “He opened the door a crack and yelled, ‘You lazy, stupid fool! Two of these coats have tears in the seams. Are you so blind you would bring me torn coats for my soldiers?’ He pushed me out the door and through my living room with a stiff arm in my back. Else sat on her couch with her legs crossed, sipping her cocktail, a satisfied smile on her face. My eyes locked on her wrist and the woven gold bracelet she wore. My father gave it to my mother on their tenth wedding anniversary. Suddenly, the colonel pushed me from behind.

  “‘Go back and tell them to look at the damn coats before they send them,’ he yelled. ‘I’m tired of their incompetence.’ He threw the two coats at me and shoved me hard into the foyer and against the front door. I must admit, it hurt. It wasn’t hard to cry and I left the house rubbing my elbow.

  “I set the coats in the cart and started pushing it back to the Shop with a grin from ear to ear. ‘I did it!’ I said to myself. ‘I delivered my first secret report. I’m a flippin’ Polish spy!’ I’m sure it wasn’t proper Irish style, but on the corner of Kościuszko Street, I parked my cart and danced a jig. I couldn’t wait to get back to the Shop and tell David.”

  Liam’s cell phone buzzed and he looked at the caller ID. “I apologize. I’ve got to take this. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Sorry.” He lef
t the room and closed the door behind him.

  “So, you took the two coats and reported back to David at the Shop?” Catherine said.

  Lena’s face lit up at the memory. “I was so proud of myself, and I wanted David to be proud of well. He was waiting for me, and I could tell he was as nervous as hell. I knew he was worried about a successful delivery of the report, of course, but I hoped that it was more. And it was. From his expression, I could tell that he was worried about me, about my getting back safely. It was well after midnight. He took me up to his office without a word and shut the door.

  “‘I delivered the papers.’ I said, bursting with joy. ‘I gave them to Müller. I did it, David. I did it!’ I started jumping up and down. ‘I did it!’ He immediately put his finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’ But then he smiled, took me into his arms and lifted me off the floor. ‘There was never a doubt,’ he said. ‘I knew you could.’

  “I spent the night with David. It was magnificent.”

  Catherine smiled and nodded. “Nice. What an incredible evening.”

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  “When was the next time you carried a report?”

  “It was extremely difficult to get reports out of Auschwitz, and they came sporadically and without warning. David would be making his rounds through the Shop and he’d feign a stop by my station to examine my work. He’d lean over and say, ‘We deliver tonight,’ which meant I was to come by at the eleven P.M. shift change. My shoes would be waiting for me in his office.

  “The second delivery, a couple of weeks later, went down without a hitch. When I knocked on the door, Colonel Müller was there to let me in. I didn’t even see Else, and our exchange lasted less than five minutes. I returned with a coat, supposedly defective merchandise, which gave me an excuse to reenter the Shop after midnight and spend the night in David’s office. As always, David was anxiously waiting for me.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Kind, gentle, but solid as Gibraltar. Always deep in thought. One night, as we lay waiting for the dawn, David clasped his hands behind his head and fixed his eyes upon the ceiling. I asked him what he was thinking.

  “‘About when it’s all over. What will our Poland be like?’

  “‘Or if there’ll even be a Poland?’

  “‘Never talk like that, Lena. Never believe that, not for one minute. Because then the Nazis have won. They’ve conquered your mind. You’ve surrendered. You must continue to resist in every thought. At no time do we ever consider the battle lost.’ He stared at me with those deep blue eyes. ‘They won’t win. I guarantee that. Nazi Germany will fail. It’ll go down in flames. And people like you and I will make it happen.’”

  TWENTY-ONE

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, as Catherine sat at her desk drafting her memorandum to present to Judge Peterson, her concentration was interrupted by the buzz of her telephone.

  “Cat, you told me to hold your calls, but Walter Jenkins is on line two.”

  Catherine scratched her head. “Walter Jenkins? Did he say why he’s calling?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the call. Put it through.”

  She picked up the handset. “Good morning, Walter. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I hear you need a lawyer.” She heard him chuckle.

  “Maybe. How did you know?”

  “Hell, Catherine, it’s all over the courthouse. Peterson’s going to show you who’s boss.”

  “Bullshit. Liam told you.”

  “Could be.”

  “So, did you call me to gloat?”

  “Hell, no, I called to represent you. I want to be your lawyer.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t afford the eminent Walter Jenkins or any of his high-priced attorneys.”

  “Nah, this one’s on the house. I never could stand Peterson and besides, I owe you one. Jack Sommers. You got us off an eighty million dollar hook.”

  “Thanks, anyway, Walter, but…”

  “No buts. It’s a done deal. Come on over this afternoon and we’ll work on it.”

  She smiled and nodded, even though Walter couldn’t see her. “All right, I will. And thanks, Walter. I really do need an attorney. It’s very kind of you to offer. Who do you want me to see?”

  “Who? Me, that’s who. I’m going to handle this personally. See you at two P.M.”

  She put down the phone and reflected on life’s intersecting circles. Walter Jenkins, her boss and public enemy number one in 2005, the time she stood up for Ben Solomon and was fired. Walter Jenkins, who came unannounced to her office in 2012, begging Catherine to represent his firm when Victor Kelsen sued them for eighty million dollars. And now the tables had turned. She needed Walter and he seemed happy to repay the favor.

  She dialed Liam. “So you spilled the beans to Walter?”

  “I don’t want you going to jail. I’d be too lonesome. Are you going to see him today?”

  “Yes, at two P.M. You didn’t tell him I was pregnant, did you?”

  Silence.

  “Liam?”

  Silence.

  “Damn, Liam. I don’t want Walter Jenkins knowing all my business.”

  “Well, I don’t want you going to jail, and besides, your business is pretty obvious to anyone who looks at you.”

  “What did he say when you told him about Peterson?”

  “I think he already knew. Word’s getting around. I think you’re going to see a courtroom full of attorneys Thursday morning. They’ll be there for the show.”

  “Oh Christ, Liam. That’s not good news. If the courtroom’s packed with lawyers, Peterson’s going to want to make a stand. He won’t back down in the presence of the attorneys who practice before him.”

  “Is what it is, Cat. It’s an open courtroom. Call me after you meet with Walter.”

  * * *

  WALTER’S CORNER OFFICE HADN’T changed since Catherine worked at his firm in 2005. He still had his inlaid walnut cigar box sitting on his desk, even though he no longer smoked cigars. A putter, three golf balls and a water glass lay on a green runner next to the wall. A few pictures of his grandchildren at various stages of their development marked the passage of time. Catherine summed things up for Walter and leaned back in her chair.

  “So, that’s the whole story, Walter. I won’t give Arthur the ammunition to stop his mother from her life’s quest. If I tell Judge Peterson that I’m meeting with Lena regarding her solemn promise to find Karolina’s daughters, if they’re still alive, Arthur will stop at nothing to prevent her. It may be about the money, it may be about his inheritance expectancies, it may be about control—hell, he may even be right—but I have the feeling that this quest is the most important thing in Lena’s life, and I’m going to fight like hell to give her the opportunity to see it through. It’s my right to resist attempts to reveal client disclosures. It’s Lena’s privilege to have her confidential communications protected.”

  Walter raised his eyebrows and smiled. “As always, it’s Catherine the white knight. But this time Peterson has a point. He’s invoking the mental health act. He has a right to prevent a disabled adult from pursuing a financially disastrous course of conduct. Anyway, Arthur already knows about Karolina’s twins. It’s in his petition. I don’t understand what you’re hiding. You wouldn’t be disclosing anything that he doesn’t already know. What’s the harm in telling Peterson that Lena hired you to find Karolina’s daughters?”

  “First of all, the harm goes to the core of the privilege—that whatever is said to an attorney in confidence shall not be disclosed without the client’s consent. The mental health act doesn’t do away with the privilege. In unusual circumstances, the privilege gives way only when necessary to protect against imminent danger to the client or others. There’s no danger here. Arthur alleges the risk of financial dissipation.

  “Second, it’s about the follow-up questions. Once I reveal the subject matter of my representation, the judge will question me to reveal facts of the
twins’ existence. Then he’ll want to know why it’s so damn important for a physically challenged woman to trek halfway around the world just to tell them something. And then he’ll want to know what that something is. These are things Lena does not want Arthur to know. There’s some secret here, Walter. I’m sure of it.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you, but I don’t know. In order to serve my client, I need to keep Arthur from prying into Lena’s personal business. If I give in to Peterson, I’ve failed. Once I answer his first question and open the door, the avalanche will start. I have to make my stand at the very first question. I’m on solid ground and you know it.”

  “Solid ground? Really, Catherine? You sound like one of our indignant clients. When has solid ground ever mattered when a judge wants to put his foot down? You’ve got yourself caught in a power struggle with the most cantankerous man on the Cook County bench. What’s worse, in this particular situation, this man cares more about losing face than who’s right.”

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “You tell me, Catherine. How do you want to play it? I’m sure he’ll jump at a compromise solution, one which gets him out of this standoff and allows him to keep his rigid reputation intact.”

  “Such as?”

  “Would you agree to answer Peterson’s questions privately to him in his chambers? Kind of an offer of proof, an in-camera review of your knowledge? That way, Peterson can satisfy himself that Lena’s welfare is not in danger, and Arthur won’t know what you’ve said.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I’d have no control over what Peterson does with the information I give him. He can and will ask me anything and everything. And if I disclose it all to him and he decides it’s material, then what? He has the power to order me to put it all on the record. Then if I refuse, we’re back to square one, except now I’ve divulged my client’s confidences and they’re not safe with him. I can’t see how that would work.”

  Walter sighed. “Neither can I. Still, it would take brass balls for him to imprison a pregnant attorney on a civil contempt charge.”