“Silly bitch,” he said out loud as he switched off the light.
After that night, Abel found that several more coffee stains appeared on the Persian rug during the next several months, some caused by compliant waitresses, some by other nonpaying guests, as he and Zaphia grew further apart. What he hadn’t anticipated was that she would hire a private detective to check on him and then sue for divorce. Divorce was almost unknown in Abel’s circle of Polish friends, separation or desertion being far more common. Abel even tried to talk Zaphia out of her decided course, only too aware it would do nothing to enhance his standing in the Polish community, and worse, it would put back any social or political ambitions he had started to nurture. But Zaphia was determined to carry the divorce proceedings to their bitter conclusion. Abel was surprised to find that the woman who had been so unsophisticated in his triumph was, to use George’s words, a little demon in her revenge.
When Abel consulted his own lawyer, he found out for the second time just how many waitresses and nonpaying guests there had been during the last year. He gave in and the only thing he fought for was the custody of Florentyna, now thirteen, and the first true love of his life. Zaphia agreed to his demands after a long struggle, accepting a settlement of $500,000, the deed to the house in Chicago, and the right to see Florentyna on the last weekend in every month.
Abel moved his headquarters and permanent home to New York, and George dubbed him “The Chicago Baron-in-Exile” as he roamed America north and south building new hotels, returning to Chicago only when he had to see Curtis Fenton.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The letter lay open on a table by William’s chair in the living room. He sat in his dressing gown reading it for the third time, trying to figure out why Abel Rosnovski would want to buy so heavily into Lester’s, and why he had appointed Henry Osborne as a director of the Baron Group. William felt he could no longer take the risk of guessing and picked up the phone.
The new Mr. Cohen turned out to be a younger version of his father. When he arrived at East Sixty-eighth Street, he had no need to introduce himself; the hair was beginning to go gray and thin in exactly the same places as his father’s, and the round body was encased in a similar suit. Perhaps it was in fact the same suit. William stared at him, but not simply because he looked so like his father.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Kane,” said the lawyer.
“Good God!” said William. “The great debate at Harvard. Nineteen twenty——”
“Twenty-eight. You won the debate and sacrificed your membership in the Porcellian.”
William burst out laughing. “Maybe we’ll do better on the same team if your brand of socialism will allow you to act for an unabashed capitalist.”
He rose to shake hands with Thaddeus Cohen. For a moment they both might have been undergraduates again.
William smiled. “You never did get that drink at the Porcellian. What would you like?”
Thaddeus Cohen declined the offer. “I don’t drink,” he said, blinking in the same disarming way that William recalled so well. “—and I’m afraid I’m now an unabashed capitalist, too.”
He turned out to have his father’s head on his shoulders. Clearly he was fully briefed on the Rosnovski-Osborne file and well ready to face William. William explained exactly what he now required.
“An immediate report and a further updated one every three months as in the past. Secrecy is still of paramount importance,” he said, “but I want every fact you can lay your hands on. Why is Abel Rosnovski buying Lester stock? Does he still feel I am responsible for Davis Leroy’s death? Is he continuing his battle with Kane and Cabot even now that they are part of Lester’s? What role does Henry Osborne play in all this? Would a meeting between myself and Rosnovski help, especially if I tell him that it was the bank, not I, who refused to support the Richmond Group?”
Thaddeus Cohen’s pen was scratching away as furiously as his father’s had before him.
“All these questions must be answered as quickly as possible so that I can decide if it’s necessary to brief my board.”
Thaddeus Cohen gave his father’s shy smile as he shut his briefcase. “I’m sorry that you should be troubled in this way while you’re still convalescing. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can ascertain the facts.” He paused at the door. “I greatly admire what you did at Remagen.”
William recovered his sense of well-being and vigor rapidly in the following months, and the scars on his face and chest faded into relative insignificance. At night Kate would sit up with him until he fell asleep and whisper, “Thank God you were spared.” The terrible headaches and periods of amnesia grew to be things of the past, and the strength returned to his right arm. Kate would not allow him to return to work until they had taken a long and refreshing cruise in the West Indies. On the sea voyage William relaxed with Kate more than at anytime since their month together in London. Kate reveled in the fact that there were no banks on the ship for William to do business with, although she feared that if they stayed on board another week William would acquire the floating vessel as one of Lester’s latest assets, reorganizing the crew, routes, timings and even the way they sailed “the boat,” as William insisted on calling the great liner. He was tanned and restless once the ship docked in New York Harbor and Kate could not dissuade him from returning to the bank at the first opportunity.
William soon became deeply involved again in Lester’s problems. A new breed of men, toughened by war, enterprising and fast-moving, seemed to be running America’s modern banks. President Truman had won a surprise victory for a second term in the White House after headlines in the Chicago Tribune had informed the world that Thomas E. Dewey had actually won. William knew very little about the diminutive ex-senator from Missouri, except what he read in the newspapers, and as a staunch Republican, he hoped that his party would find the right man to lead them into the 1952 campaign.
When the first report came in from Thaddeus Cohen, it left no doubt that Abel Rosnovski was still looking for stock to buy in Lester’s bank; he had approached all the other benefactors of Charles Lester’s will, but only one agreement had been concluded. Susan Lester refused to see William’s lawyer when he approached her, so he was unable to discover why she had sold her six percent. All he could ascertain was that she had had no financial reason for doing so.
The Cohen document was admirably comprehensive.
Henry Osborne, it seemed, had been appointed a director of the Baron Group in May of 1946, with special responsibility for the Lester account. More important, Abel Rosnovski had secured Susan Lester’s stock in such a way that it was impossible to prove the acquisition went back to either him or to Osborne. Rosnovski now owned six percent of Lester’s bank and appeared to be willing to pay at least another $750,000 to obtain Peter Parfitt’s 2 percent. William was only too aware of what Abel Rosnovski could do once he was in possession of eight percent. Even more worrisome to William, the growth rate of Lester’s compared unfavorably with that of the Baron Group, which was already catching up to its main rivals, Hilton and Sheraton. William began to wonder again if it would now be wise to brief his board of directors on this newly acquired information, and even whether he ought not contact Abel Rosnovski directly. After some sleepless nights, he turned to Kate for advice.
“Do nothing,” was Kate’s reaction, “until you can be absolutely certain his intentions are as disruptive as you fear. The whole affair may turn out to be a tempest in a teapot.”
“With Henry Osborne as his hatchet man, you can be certain that the tempest will pour far beyond the teacup. I don’t have to sit around and wait to find out what he is planning for me.”
“He might have changed, William. It must be over twenty years since you’ve had any personal dealings with him.”
Kate said nothing more, but William let himself be persuaded and did nothing except keep a close eye on Thaddeus Cohen’s quarterly reports—and hope that Kate’s intuition would prove to
be accurate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Baron Group profited greatly from the postwar explosion in the American economy. Not since the twenties had it been so easy to make so much money so quickly—and by the early fifties, people were beginning to believe that this time it was going to last. But Abel was not content with financial success alone; as he grew older, he began to worry about Poland’s place in the postwar world and to feel that his success did not allow him to be a bystander four thousand miles away. What had Pawel Zaleski, the Polish Consul in Turkey, said? “Perhaps in your lifetime you will see Poland rise again.”
Abel did everything he could to influence and persuade the United States Congress to take a more militant attitude toward Russian control of its Eastern European satellites. It seemed to Abel, as he watched one puppet Communist government after another come into being, that he had risked his life for nothing. He began to lobby Washington politicians, brief journalists and organize dinners in Chicago and New York and other centers of the Polish-American community, until the Polish cause itself became synonymous with “The Chicago Baron.”
Dr. Teodor Szymanowski, formerly professor of history at the University of Cracow, wrote a glowing editorial about Abel’s “Fight to Be Recognized” in the journal Freedom, which prompted Abel to contact him. The professor was now an old man, and when Abel was ushered into his study he was surprised by his physical frailty, knowing only the vigor of his opinions. He greeted Abel warmly and poured him a Danzig vodka without asking what he would like. “Baron Rosnovski,” he said, handing Abel the glass. “I have long admired you and the way you continue to work for our cause. Although we make such little headway, you never seem to lose faith.”
“Why should I? I have always believed anything is possible in America.”
“But I fear, Baron, that the very men you are now trying to influence are the same ones who have allowed these things to take place. They will never do anything positive to free our people.”
“I do not understand what you mean, Professor. Why will they not help us?” asked Abel.
The professor leaned back in his chair. “You are surely aware, Baron, that the American armies were given specific orders to slow down their advance east to allow the Russians to take as much of central Europe as they could lay their hands on. Patton could have been in Berlin long before the Russians, but Eisenhower told him to hold back. It was our leaders in Washington—the same men you are trying to persuade to put American guns and troops back into Europe—who gave those orders to Eisenhower.”
“But they couldn’t have known then what the U.S.S.R. would eventually become. The Russians had been our Allies. I accept we were too weak and conciliatory with them in 1945, but it was not the Americans who directly betrayed the Polish people.”
Before Szymanowski spoke, he leaned back once more and closed his eyes wearily.
“I wish you could have known my brother, Baron Rosnovski. I had word only last week that he died six months ago in a Soviet camp not unlike the one from which you escaped.”
Abel moved forward as if to offer sympathy, but Szymanowski raised his hand.
“No, don’t say anything. You have known the camps yourself. You would be the first to realize that sympathy is no longer important. We must change the world while others sleep.” Szymanowski paused. “My brother was sent to Russia by the Americans.”
Abel looked at him in astonishment.
“By the Americans? How is that possible? If your brother was captured in Poland by Russian troops——”
“My brother was never taken prisoner in Poland. He was liberated from a German war camp near Frankfurt. The Americans kept him in a DP camp for a month and then handed him over to the Russians.”
“It can’t be true. Why would they do that?”
“The Russians wanted all Slavs repatriated. Repatriated so that they could then be exterminated or enslaved. The ones that Hitler didn’t get, Stalin did. And I can prove my brother was in the American Sector for over a month.”
“But,” Abel began, “was he an exception or were there many others like him?”
“Oh yes, there were others,” said Syzmanowski without apparent emotion. “Hundreds of thousands. Perhaps as many as a million. I don’t think we will ever know the true figures. It’s most unlikely the American authorities kept careful records of Operation Kee Chanl.”
“Operation Kee Chanl—why don’t people ever talk about this? Surely if others realized that we, the Americans, had been sending liberated prisoners back to die in Russia, they would be horrified.”
“There is no proof, no known documentation of Operation Kee Chanl. Mark Clark, God bless him, disobeyed his orders and a few of the prisoners were warned in advance by some kindly disposed G.I.’s, and they managed to escape before the Americans could send them to the camps. But they are still lying low and would never admit as much. One of the unlucky ones was with my brother.” The Professor paused. “Anyway, it’s too late now.”
“But the American people must be told. I’ll form a committee, print pamphlets, make speeches. Surely Congress will listen to us if we tell them the truth.”
“Baron Rosnovski, I think this one is too big even for you.”
Abel rose from his seat.
“No, no, I would never underestimate you,” said the professor. “But you do not yet understand the mentality of world leaders. America agreed to hand over those poor devils because Stalin demanded it. I am sure they never thought that there would be trials, labor camps and executions to follow. But now, as we approach the fifties, no one’s going to admit they were indirectly responsible. No, they will never do that. Not for a hundred years and by then all but a few historians will have forgotten that Poland lost more lives in the war than any other single nation on earth, including Germany. I had hoped the one conclusion you might come to was that you must play a more direct role in politics.”
“I’ve already been considering the idea but cannot decide how. In what way.”
“I have my own views on the subject, Baron, so keep in touch.” The old man raised himself slowly to his feet and embraced Abel. “In the meantime, do what you can for our cause, but don’t be surprised when you meet closed doors.”
The moment Abel returned to the Baron he picked up the phone and told the hotel operator to get him Senator Douglas’s office. Paul Douglas was Illinois’s liberal Democratic senator, elected with the help of the Chicago machine, and he had always been helpful and responsive to any of Abel’s past requests, mindful that his constituency contained the largest Polish community in the country. His assistant, Adam Tomaszewicz, dealt with his Polish constituents.
“Hello, Adam, it’s Abel Rosnovski. I have something very disturbing to discuss with the senator. Could you arrange an early meeting with him?”
“I’m afraid he’s out of town today, Mr. Rosnovski. I know he’ll be glad to speak with you as soon as he returns on Thursday. I’ll ask him to call you direct. Can I let him know what it’s about?”
“Yes. As a Pole you will be interested. I’ve heard reports from reliable sources that the U.S. authorities in Germany assisted in the return of displaced Polish citizens to territories occupied by the Soviet Union and that many of these Polish citizens were then sent on to Russian labor camps and have never been heard of since.”
There was a moment’s silence from the other end of the line.
“I’ll brief the senator on his return, Mr. Rosnovski. Thank you for calling.”
The senator did not get in touch with Abel on Thursday. Nor did he call on Friday or over the weekend. On Monday morning Abel put through another call to his office. Again, Adam Tomaszewicz answered the telephone.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Rosnovski.” Abel could almost hear him blushing. “The senator did leave a message for you. He’s been very busy, you know, what with so many bills to be acted on before Congress recesses. He asked me to let you know that he’ll call back just as soon as he has a spare moment.”
“Yes, of course. He asked me to assure you he felt certain the rumor you heard was nothing more than a piece of anti-American propaganda. He added that he’d been told personally by one of the Joint Chiefs that American troops had orders not to release any of the DP’s under their supervision.”
Tomaszewicz sounded as if he was reading a carefully prepared statement and Abel sensed that he had encountered the first of those closed doors. Senator Douglas had never evaded him in the past.
Abel put down the phone and asked his secretary to contact another senator who did make news, who was unafraid to sit in judgment on anybody.
Senator Joseph McCarthy’s. office came on the line asking who was calling. “I’ll try and find the Senator,” said a young voice when she heard who was calling and why.
McCarthy was approaching the peak of his power and Abel realized he would be lucky to have more than a few moments on the phone with him.
“Mr. Rosenevski” were McCarthy’s first words.
Abel wondered if he had mangled his name on purpose or if it was a bad connection. “What is this matter of grave urgency you wanted to discuss with me?” the Senator asked. Abel hesitated; the realization that he was actually speaking to McCarthy directly had slightly taken him aback.
“Your secrets are safe with me,” he heard the Senator say, sensing his hesitation.
“Of course,” said Abel, pausing again to collect his thoughts. “You, Senator, have been a forthright spokesman for those of us who would like to see the Eastern European nations freed from the yoke of communism.”
“So I have. So I have. And I’m glad to see you appreciate the tack, Mr. Rosenevski.”
This time Abel was sure he had mispronounced his name on purpose, but resolved not to comment on it.
“As for Eastern Europe,” the Senator continued, “you realize that only after the traitors have been driven from within our own government can any real action be taken to free your captive country.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 43
