Once We Were Brothers (43 page)

“Zeleinski. Say, that’s not a bad idea, Liam.”

“Maybe it was an inspiration, huh Cat? I’ll see you Wednesday. Love you.”

She hung onto the silent phone for a few minutes before returning to her work.

Chapter Forty-nine

On Thursday morning, the day of Rosenzweig’s deposition, the mercury sank below the zero mark. In the grips of a January deep-freeze, Liam sat and waited with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a jelly donut, double-parked in front of Ben’s apartment building, still jet-lagging from the trans-Atlantic flight the day before. Ben was uncharacteristically tardy. Finally, Liam picked up his cell phone and called him.

“Hey, sleepyhead, it’s 8:15 already. I’ve been out here for twenty minutes.”

“Sorry. I’m moving kind of slowly this morning. I had a rough night, thinking about Otto’s deposition and facing him again. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Ben walked stiffly out to the car and Liam noticed a slight limp.

“You okay, buddy?”

“It’s these creaky old bones, Liam. Sometimes I feel like Methuselah. But you look chipper today.”

Liam had a sheepish grin. “How do you always seem to know things before I tell you?” He pulled away from the curb. “It’s Catherine. Your case seems to have brought us together. Actually we’re planning on moving in together. Maybe when your case is over.”

Ben smiled. “
Mahzel tov
,” he said. “It’s not a bit surprising. Only that it took you two so long to discover the obvious.”

Liam slowly proceeded down Bittersweet. The engine seemed to agonize in the bitter weather. “You matchmakers work in peculiar ways.”

* * *

The closest parking place to Catherine’s townhouse was two blocks away, and by the time they reached the front door the frigid morning wind had chilled them to the bone. They quickly shuffled into the living room to stand before the warm fire. Ben couldn’t stop shivering and he took his place in the overstuffed chair, rubbing his hands together.

“He’s not looking well, Cat,” Liam said quietly in the kitchen. “His breathing seems short and it’s an effort for him to walk.”

“Liam. Why didn’t you drop him off?”

“I tried to. You know Ben.”

“It could be the cold, it’s freezing today,” she said. “Or it could simply be nerves. He’s going to face Rosenzweig today for the first time since the opera. I’d expect him to be anxious. I hope he’s not coming down with something.”

“Here’s some steaming hot tea for you, Ben,” Catherine said, setting out a tea service and a plate of muffins.

Liam leaned against the wall and paged through a folder. “You know, there’s something puzzling about these records. There was no Cook County marriage license issued to Elliot and Elisabeth Rosenzweig in 1947 or at any time thereafter. Either they’re not legally married or they got married before they immigrated. But the name Elisabeth Rosenzweig does not appear in the NARA immigration records. Not at any time that I can find.”

“They could have been married in some other state,” Catherine said. “She could have immigrated under her maiden name.”

“True. Still, it’s another curious aspect to this case.”

“I’ll ask him about it today during his deposition. Do you have the records produced in Frankfurt?”

Liam held out an envelope. “Birth certificate for Elliot Rosenzweig, born in 1921 to Joshua and Mildred Rosenzweig in Frankfurt, Germany. And here’s a copy of Otto Piatek’s birth certificate I obtained when I side-tripped to Leipzig. The certificate says he was born in 1921, and it lists Stanislaw and Ilse Piatek as the parents.”

“A birth certificate from Frankfurt means nothing,” Ben said weakly from his chair. “When the Nazis were fleeing in the face of certain defeat, they used the names and identities of Jewish families from the cities where the Jews had all been killed. They used these fake identities to immigrate to Britain, South America and the United States. That’s a well known fact and any World War II historian can give you the details.”

Liam nodded. “I found Zeleinski, the six year old boy who cared for Buttermilk. His first name is Vitak and he still lives in Zamość, although no longer on a farm. He’s almost seventy now but he remembers Otto Piatek and Ben’s family.”

“Can he help us?” asked Catherine.

“He was very young at the time and he doubts he could recognize either Ben or Otto. I asked him if there were any pictures or other items that might identify Piatek. Wouldn’t that be great if he had a picture of Ben and Otto together? He said there was a trunk in storage, packed by his father after the war, which no one has been into for many years. He promised to take a look. I gave him your email address and he said he’d drop us a note.”

“Where are we going for this deposition today?” Ben said.

“Jeffers’ office and it’s just about time to leave. Ben, are you all right or do you want to stay here?”

“Nothing on earth could keep me away.”

* * *

They taxied down to Jeffers’s office and were shown into an empty conference room. A few minutes later, a young court reporter wheeled her equipment into the room and set up her stenograph machine at the end of the walnut table. Finally, precisely at 10:00 a.m., Rosenzweig, Jeffers and the two young Storch and Bennett associates filed into the room and took their seats. Rosenzweig stared icily at Ben and then at Catherine with a look that broadcast how offended he was at the colossal impertinence of the proceeding and the public assault upon his character.

“Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth,” the reporter said, “so help you God?”

“I affirm, I do not swear to God,” replied Rosenzweig. “And although it seems to have been in short supply recently, you will hear nothing but the truth from me.”

After the requisite preliminaries, Catherine asked, “Where were you born?”

“Frankfurt, Germany. In 1921.”

“Where did you go to high school?”

“In Frankfurt.”

“What was the name of the high school?”

Elliot’s eyes were fixed contemptuously on Catherine. “I can’t recall.”

“Did you attend a Jewish synagogue?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Did you attend a Jewish synagogue?”

“Yes.”

“What was the name of your synagogue?”

Elliot looked around the room, studied the table in front of him and said, “I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember the name of your rabbi?”

“I do not.”

“Can you give me the name of a teacher,
any
teacher, that you may have had in religious school or high school?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps there was a Mrs. Stein.”

“Perhaps? And in all your schooling, that’s the only name you can remember?”

“That’s quite enough,” interrupted Jeffers. “I’m going to object to this line of questioning. It’s completely irrelevant and immaterial. Get on to something meaningful, young lady.”

“Let me ask an easier question,” Catherine said. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“None that are living.”

“What are the names of your siblings that are now deceased?”

Rosenzweig tensed, rose suddenly from his seat and announced, “I wish to confer with my lawyer.” Together they abruptly left the room followed by the two young associates, writing pads in hand.

Left alone in the room, Liam said to Ben and Catherine, “I found no other birth records for children born to Joshua and Mildred Rosenzweig. As far as I could tell, he was an only child.”

“Hmm,” Catherine said. “Then what kind of an answer is, ‘None that are living’? No wonder he wants to talk to his lawyer.”

Rosenzweig and his three attorneys re-entered and took their seats. Jeffers spoke. “For the record, Mr. Rosenzweig and his family suffered greatly during the war. Mr. Solomon has no monopoly on war-time tragedy. As you know, Mr. Rosenzweig was himself a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp until rescued in 1945. Personal questions about his life and family in pre-war Germany are extremely upsetting to him. He refuses to answer any more such questions. He will confirm that he is not Otto Piatek and he has never been to Poland. We are limiting the scope of your personal questions to post-1945.”

Catherine unfolded her hands and pointed at Jeffers. “I don’t accept that and I’m prepared to adjourn the deposition right now to put the matter before Judge Ryan. Mr. Rosenzweig has no right to select which questions he will answer, nor does he have a right to evade pre-1945 questions because they are upsetting. In case you haven’t noticed, pre-1945 is the gravamen of our lawsuit. Furthermore, you do not have the right to limit the scope of my deposition, unless of course your client is taking the Fifth. Are you asserting your rights against self-incrimination, Mr. Rosenzweig?”

Elliot looked to Jeffers for an answer.

“No,” Jeffers said sharply. “He’s not taking the Fifth. He just doesn’t want to be harassed by you any further. Personal questions about what happened during the war are intensely disquieting to him. You wouldn’t know, Ms. Lockhart, you never endured such conditions.”

“What he did or didn’t do during the war is the subject of our lawsuit and I’m going to put the matter to him, disquieting or not. If you direct him not to answer, we’ll seek an immediate hearing before Judge Ryan.”

“What possible relevance does the name of his high school teacher have in this proceeding?”

“I’ll be the judge of that. I wish to examine his memory.”

“Memories of his family are painful and cause him mental and emotional distress. They bear no relevance to your claims. I’m telling you that he is not Otto Piatek and he’s never been to Poland.”

“Is that right?” Catherine asked Elliot directly. “Do you agree with what your attorney has said?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Auschwitz is in Poland, Mr. Rosenzweig.” Catherine leaned forward and stared confrontationally. “Do you want to change your answer?”

“You little smart-ass, I know where Auschwitz is. I was talking about Zamość. I’ve never been to any of the Polish cities.”

“The numbers,” Ben said to himself with a look of astonishment. “Of course.” He cupped his hand over Catherine’s ear and whispered, “I think I know what ‘look at the numbers’ means. Ask him to show you his left arm.”

She nodded and resumed her questioning. “Mr. Rosenzweig, now that you’ve had a chance to confer with your lawyer, do you remember the names of your siblings?”

Elliot stared venomously. “I refuse to talk about my family. It has absolutely nothing to do with your lawsuit. Its too painful. Take me to court if you want to.”

Catherine flipped a page. “We’ll come back to that line of questioning. Right now I’d like to ask you about the day you arrived at Auschwitz. First of all, how did you get there?”

“In a limousine with a bottle of Champagne.” Turning to Jeffers, he said, “Gerry, do I have to put up with this crap?”

“Just give her the answer, Elliot. If she continues to ask stupid questions, we’ll stop the deposition and get a protective order.”

“I arrived, along with the other resettled Jews, in a train. We were unloaded at the Auschwitz station and told to get in line. The men were led in one direction and the women in another. It was very orderly. We were all issued uniforms and given haircuts. Then each of us was assigned a number for identification which was tattooed on our arm. I resided at the Auschwitz II Camp at Birkenau until the Russian army arrived. Now, are you satisfied?”

“Tell me, Mr. Rosenzweig, what date did you arrive at Auschwitz-Birkenau?”

“It was in December 1943. The exact day, I don’t remember.”

“May I see your tattoo, please?”

Again, Elliot looked to his lawyer. “Why?”

“Just show her, Elliot. Let’s get this over with.”

Elliot rolled back his left sleeve to reveal the blackened A93554 on the inside of his left forearm. Catherine wrote down the numbers. Below the tattoo, nearer his wrist, was a four inch scar. On either side of the scar were surgical spots where the cut had been stitched.

“Happy now?” he said.

“Where did you get the scar on your arm?”

He shrugged. “I got injured as a kid.”

“Did a doctor stitch it up?”

“Right.”

“Did you get sliced by a razor blade on the streets of Zamość?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was cut with a piece of metal on a playground. I’ve never been to Zamość. I’ve never been to Poland, except for the internment. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Did you get that scar protecting Beka?”

“Beka who?”

Catherine glared. She leaned sideways and whispered to Ben, “Is that where the cut was?”

Ben nodded.

“Were you forced to work while imprisoned at the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp?”

“Everyone had a job, of course. I helped in the kitchen preparing the meals for the prisoners. They had a reasonably functional kitchen, considering there was a war going on.”