Karolina's Twins (19 page)

“She's right, Catherine,” said Liam, walking into the conference room. “Lena's right. His name was Witold Pilecki.” Liam took a seat, spread a group of papers on the table and pointed to the name. “It's spelled this way but pronounced
Vee-told Piletsky.
You asked me to do the research.”

Lena hung her head. “Thank you.”

Catherine was stunned. “You found the name of the spy?”

Liam nodded. “There was more than one. But I think the one Lena is talking about is Witold Pilecki. A true Polish hero. In World War I, as a teenager, he fought for the Austro-Hungarian army. He was awarded the Cross of Valor, not once, but twice. Between the wars he went to officer training school and was a second lieutenant in the Polish army when World War II started. In November 1939, when the Poles were overrun, Witold and his commanding officer formed the Polish Secret Army, the TAP. The Polish underground knew that a huge prison camp was built at Auschwitz and that tens of thousands of Poles were being interned. Using the alias Tomasz Serafinski, Pilecki volunteered to get arrested and sent to Auschwitz in order to organize a resistance unit and smuggle out information. Sometime in 1940…”

“September nineteenth,” Lena said.

Liam nodded and smiled. “Exactly. During a Nazi street roundup in Warsaw, Pilecki said good-bye to his two little children and his wife, merged into the group, got himself captured and transported to Auschwitz. Starting in 1941, his Auschwitz underground, called the ZOW, smuggled out detailed reports along a Polish network to the Polish Army in Exile. For a while, they even had a radio. It was Witold's hope, even though he was a prisoner, that the Allies would bomb Auschwitz.”

“How did he get notes out of Auschwitz?” Catherine said.

“From time to time, prisoners escaped, believe it or not,” Lena said. “There was a time in 1942 when three Polish prisoners overcame their guards, stole their uniforms and walked right out the front gate. I met one of them in David's office. Another time, a report was smuggled out in Nazi uniforms that were being taken into town to be laundered. The ZOW found different ways of smuggling out his reports.”

Liam smiled and continued. “Finally, in 1943, the Nazis started to uncover the identities of the resistance leaders. One by one, members were executed. One night in April 1943, Witold managed to unlatch the back door of the bakery where he was working. He and a couple other inmates took off into the night and escaped. He made his way back to Warsaw and worked with the underground trying to get the Allies to bomb or capture Auschwitz, all to no avail.”

Catherine looked astonished. “So Witold survived the war?”

“You think that's all? I'm not done. During the 1944 Warsaw Uprising, Witold commanded a unit. After a few weeks, when the uprising finally failed, Witold was captured by the Germans and sent to a POW camp. There he spent the last months of the war. In July 1945, he was liberated and went to Italy.”

Catherine shook her head. “I guess he finally deserved to sit back, have a glass of Chianti and a bowl of pasta.”

Liam laughed. “Think again. He returned to Poland. As you know, after the war, Poland was a puppet of the Soviet Union behind the Iron Curtain. Witold joined the Polish underground and gathered evidence of Soviet torture and atrocities carried out against Polish citizens. In 1947, he was arrested by the Communists and accused of espionage. After a make-believe trial, Witold was executed. His last words were ‘Long live free Poland.' The Communists kept the information secret until 1989. He's a hero in Poland, Cat. He was awarded its highest award posthumously—the Order of the White Eagle—in 2006.”

Catherine stood, walked over and hugged Lena tightly. “I'm so sorry to have doubted you. You were actually part of Witold's network?”

She shrugged. “I never met him. I knew him only as Ares.”

“Tell me how you got involved.”

“After my initial meeting with David and Jan, I went back to my usual routine, if that's what you'd call it. I would sew at the Shop during the day, stand in line for food with my ration card, try to mend my worn clothing, and sleep as best I could. Other than the occasional ribbing from Karolina there was no follow-up to my dinner with David.”

“Ribbing?” Liam said.

“Not your business,” Catherine said.

Lena laughed and turned to Liam. “I spent the evening at David's apartment. My meeting with David and Jan was late, and I was instructed to tell Karolina that David and I had had an evening assignation. So Karolina jumped to the obvious conclusion and teased me.”

Catherine pointed at Liam. “Until you've read my notes, you'd do well to listen and hold your questions.”

“A thousand pardons.”

Lena smiled and continued. “For several days, I wasn't called upon to do anything. Every so often, David would casually pass by my station, pretend to inspect my work, chitchat a bit and tell me to be patient.

“Daily life in the ghetto continued to deteriorate in 1942. Disease and sickness was rampant, especially among children and the elderly. But again, keep in mind that disease and disintegration were tools of the Final Solution and much cheaper than poison gas. Stronger young men were taken out and requisitioned for labor details. Sometimes just for the day, but more and more frequently, they did not return at all. Karolina maintained her relationship with Siegfried and continued to bring home provisions for us. As a result, we were healthier than most. It's very likely that without Karolina's food, I wouldn't have survived either.

“In late February of 1942, David stopped at my station, leaned over and whispered, ‘At the end of your shift, come upstairs. Jan is here.'”

“Were you worried that you'd get caught in David's apartment? It was also the Shop's office, wasn't it?”

“Maybe a little. There were Nazis everywhere. Most of them were young, noncommissioned draftees, but they wore the uniform and peered distrustingly at all the girls. They had a snake's eyes, and their heads swiveled from side to side like an owl, as they hungrily looked for any infraction of their insane rules. Mainly, they were hoping to catch someone with contraband—illegal possessions, like fruit, cheese, or anything that could be used on the black market—maybe pieces of jewelry or money. Nazi eyes were everywhere, and I had concerns that I'd be discovered going up to David's room, but I trusted David and I would take risks for him.

“That evening, during the chaos of shift change—five hundred in, five hundred out—I managed to slip into the stairway and up to David's office. Jan was there in his usual dark gray outfit, sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette. ‘Are you ready to jump into the fire?' he asked.

“‘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.”

 

T
WENTY

O
N 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.