Introduction

"A meticulous, raw study of the uneasy relationship between Catholic and Jewish Poles....Told without artifice or irony, Mekler's story of intergenerational immigration [is a] cooly composed novel... Despite its literary trappings, 'The Polish Woman' is also a straightforward mystery, littered with clues, red herrings and narrators who always know less than the reader....By the time the ending veers into John Grisham territory, Mekler has already transcended plot in favor of uncompromising examination."-- Lizzie Skurnick, New York Times Book Review

The Polish Woman, set in New York and in Poland, is a gripping post-Holocaust story with a fresh, highly suspenseful mystery twist. The novel is the story of a search for the identity of an attractive young woman who appears to be a possible survivor of the Holocaust--or perhaps a cunning scam artist. When 29-year-old Karolina Staszek appears in the office of a New York Jewish lawyer, Philip Landau, in 1967, her hair wet from the cold December rain, she seems so helpless and sincere. Yet Philip does not believe her strange story--that she is the long-lost child that his Uncle Jake had paid a Catholic family to hide on its farm near Lublin, Poland, during the World War II Nazi occupation.

Jake survived the Holocaust, but believed his daughter had not. It seemed too farfetched to Philip that more than 20 years later and a month after Jake's death, she would show up, claiming she was now living in New York and by chance had read Jake's obituary and recognized his photo in the newspaper. Was she a scheming Pole who saw an opportunity to inherit Jake's fortune?

Even after the woman recalls the names of Jake's dead wife, Rachel, and the daughter, Chava, Philip retains his suspicions. The Landau family sends Karolina and Philip to Warsaw, Lublin and surrounding farm areas to search surviving records and interview residents who may remember the Landaus or the family that raised Karolina as their own, the Staszeks.

As they pursue blind leads and tantalizing but inconclusive ones--at archives, with old Lublin neighbors and with a priest and an elderly housekeeper at a church near the Staszeks' old farm--and as they encounter post-war Polish anti-Semitism, Philip and Karolina are drawn to each other. Finally they locate a man who worked on a farm adjoining the Staszeks' and who, in a startling climax, recalls witnessing events that unravel the mystery of Jake's child--and set the course of Karolina's and Philip's love and lives.

"Stunning...well-crafted....adding depth and resonance to a gripping read.Not to be missed by anyone who loves a tale well told." ----Library Journal

"Paced like a thriller, the story also comes to us in the chaste sentences of a literary master." ---Thrive NYC

"Vividly drawn characters, both major and minor...The tale itself is compelling, combining romance and mystery and reminding us of the difficulty of unearthing personal truths when one of history's great cataclysms has buried them." --- The Wall Street Journal

"A haunting portrait....Strongly evoked....The understated and moving story of a woman whose memories open so many old wounds." ----Philadelphia Inquirer

"An emotionally tantalizing tale [that] is simply and lucidly written and offers an unflinching look at Polish anti-Semitism and the destruction it wreaked on both Jewish and Polish psyches long after WWII." --Publishers Weekly

"A haunting tale of the perils of trust and mistrust....Convincing....A novel meditation on the ways we manufacture memory."--Kirkus Reviews

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

It had been raining since early morning. Karolina Staszek sniffed the animal scent of damp wool from winter coats and jackets that filled the overheated subway car and felt her eyes begin to itch. She pulled off a glove and rubbed her lids hard. The train was half-empty at this mid-morning hour, and most of the passengers looked half asleep. Across the aisle, a droopy-eyed student, probably on his way to classes at a Manhattan college, buried his chin in his scarf and stared at a textbook balanced on his knees. Next to him, a broad-shouldered man in workman’s boots with a metal lunch box propped on his lap slumped in his seat, dozing.

Karolina herself had not slept well the night before. She’d not slept well in weeks really, moving through her days groggy and distracted as if her mind and body inhabited separate universes. Everything had changed since she’d seen Jake Landau’s picture and obituary in the newspaper; now, the thought of presenting his nephew, Philip, with her extraordinary story made her nervous.

She pulled out her compact and inspected her face again. Today, the tiny crow’s feet fanning out from the corners of her eyes made her look older than twenty-nine and she rubbed at the lines, worried that her pale, drawn face gave the impression she was insincere. She snapped shut her compact and tossed it back in her shoulder bag. It was pointless to worry. She needed to concentrate on how best to explain herself. Where should she begin? With her childhood memories? When she first had an inkling that something was wrong? Or last month when she saw Jake Landau’s obituary? Did it really matter since she knew she was likely to spill out her thoughts and feelings as they presented themselves? Noah Landau believed she was telling the truth about her relationship to his Uncle Jake. So why not Philip? But Noah had been infatuated with her since the day she came to work for him and she suspected he’d believe anything she told him. Noah had cautioned her that Philip, Jake’s other nephew, might be hard to persuade. He told her Philip was smart, quick-witted and hard working — he’d graduated at the top of his class in law school — but he could also be arrogant and strong-willed, a lawyer with a lawyer’s cynical turn of mind, Noah had added, not without a trace of dislike for this cousin.

Karolina was suddenly afraid. What if Philip Landau didn’t believe her? What if in her eagerness to convince him that she was telling the truth, she became confused and her English failed her, and he ended up thinking she was a fraud? Perhaps she should put off seeing him. Her life was so uncertain, so unstable. She could lose her job and then she’d be even more dependent on Jim, just when their affair was beginning to fade.

No, it was too late to back out. Delaying her meeting with Philip Landau might make Noah think she was an unprincipled schemer.

The train slowly made its way across the Williamsburg Bridge to Manhattan. Karolina gazed out the rain-splattered window at the East River and thought of Warsaw and how mist hovered over the Vistula in just such weather. Her mind wandered back to dark winter mornings, to the feel of a heavy blanket tucked around her shoulders, and her father beside her in the wagon, driving her to school down the frozen, hard-packed road. Thinking of home and how loved she’d felt when her parents were alive, filled her with deep pleasure; still, she knew that whatever comfort she derived from envisioning Warsaw or Lubartow or Lublin would inevitably turn painful. Happy memories always exact a price.

Paper rustled at her side. An elderly man in a heavy tweed overcoat had snapped open a newspaper with the headlines: protesters gather in newark for anti-war rally as u.s. planes pound hanoi. Every day the tabloids screamed of anti-Vietnam marches and race riots in the largest typeface the front page could accommodate. Nineteen-sixty-seven was drawing to a close and it seemed to Karolina that America was coming apart. A few months ago, blacks in Detroit tried to burn down their city. Last month, young men publicly destroyed their draft cards in an act of defiance that in Poland would have sent them to jail for the rest of their lives. Karolina marveled at the audaciousness of Americans. How far could the police be pushed, she wondered, before they started shooting everyone in sight?

She recalled a Saturday the previous May, when Jim managed to steal away from his family for a few hours. In the six months since he’d brought her to the States on an art grant, they’d been rendezvousing weekly at his friend’s midtown apartment. But the place was not available on weekends, so this time they had met in front of the fountain in Central Park. They’d been unaware that an anti-Vietnam rally had taken place in another part of the park until protesters straggled by, some still holding up their homemade signs, like school children showing off their art work. The group moved slowly down the path, looking wearily content and giving off an air of quiet camaraderie. She and Jim stopped to watch, and as the marchers moved past her, she saw on their faces a sincerity of purpose and conviction that moved her deeply. These were people who knew who they were and where they belonged. Had she ever felt this sure of her place in the world?

Mounted police had appeared on a nearby rise. Their faces, half-hidden by helmets, gave them an anonymous, sinister presence. Jim pulled her onto a grassy knoll, far enough away to be safe, close enough to witness any incident. The officers hovered a moment, then tapped their spurs, and in what seemed like an instant, they were bearing down on the marchers, herding them, pushing them toward the park exit where they had been heading all along. People scrambled out of the way. Some fell to the ground and dropped their signs; others rolled onto the grass, then righted themselves and fled. Within a few minutes, everyone had dispersed. The police brought their horses to a standstill and surveying the scene with silent disdain, slowly, deliberately trampled on the abandoned posters, crushing the cardboard and splintering the wood, giving any protestors still looking on one last reminder of who was in charge, one last indignity to remember.

Tears welled up in Karolina and she had leaned into Jim’s shoulder and wept. No weapons had been drawn that day and no one had been badly hurt, yet the almost-violence, the humiliation of that afternoon stayed with her like the shadow of a physical pain. She had cried, long after Jim had gone home to his wife, long after she had returned to her apartment alone. She cried until she no longer knew if she were crying for herself, for Jim, for their dying affair or for her ever-diminishing faith in the possibility of peace. There would always be hatred and violence in the world. The human race seemed addicted to it.

Now, the train was speeding past the 51st Street platform and with a stab of panic she realized she had missed her stop. She’d have to transfer to a downtown local or get off at the next station and walk the ten blocks back to Landau’s law office on West 49th Street. A half-hour earlier it had been raining hard in Brooklyn; even if it had cleared up now, the air would still be biting cold.

Before leaving Williamsburg, she’d called Landau and Gottlieb and asked the secretary if Mr. Landau would be in his office all morning. Yes, his secretary said, and when she told Karolina she needed an appointment, Karolina thanked her and hung up. She didn’t know why she wanted to arrive unannounced, but she trusted that using Noah’s name would get her seen.

Karolina stood up and clasped her coat collar to her neck. Nothing she’d told herself had calmed her, and now she was feeling damp and feverish with anxiety. She adjusted her scarf more securely around her head and waited for the door to open. Yes, she would walk. The sting of cold air on her face would feel good. It would clear her mind, it would rejuvenate her, it would give her time to gather up her courage before she confronted Jake’s nephew, Philip Landau.

The day the Polish woman came into Philip Landau’s life he arrived early at the office intending to tell Simon he wanted to end their partnership. He busied himself all morning rechecking the details of an upcoming traffic accident trial and now it was approaching noon and he still hadn’t made the short walk down the hall to face Simon. Normally, he had no trouble shelving qualms once he’d made up his mind. Not that he hadn’t given a lot of thought to making the break — he’d been gearing up for a big life change since the end of his marriage two years earlier — yet each time he pictured Simon, he put it off. His partner would be hurt and angry — all the emotions he himself would feel if he were left stranded just as business was starting to pick up.

He gazed across the room at the photo Ellen had taken of him and Simon at a Knicks’ game the year before. They’d just signed on a malpractice suit they were sure would land them a sizable settlement and they stood in the Garden’s back row with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning deliriously into the camera. Those were good times. He and Ellen had been seeing each other for about a month. They talked law passionately. Made love passionately.

Philip gave his hair a quick, rough rake and let out an exasperated sigh. Was it loyalty to Simon or just plain guilt? Probably both. Simon counted on him for friendship, for legal advice, even for tips on handling the difficult women he was addicted to, and although Philip felt flattered, he might have enjoyed the hero-worship if their partnership had brought them more success. They’d been friends since law school and cocky enough to believe that, with Philip’s trial skills and Simon’s boyish charm, they could slave a few years, make a reputation as big-time litigators, then move on to the work they’d dreamt about — Philip back to civil rights and constitutional law, Simon ready to storm into his banker father’s corporate world having proved he could make a six-figure salary on his own.

It hadn’t worked out that way. After eight years of practicing law in the world of backroom deals and politicos in judges’ robes, all they’d acquired was a bad case of cynicism and a client list of small-time litigation and negligence suits that barely covered expenses. Simon might think it okay to be taking home a few hundred a week, but Philip had come to the end of a long, dismal road. He hadn’t gone to law school to become a businessman, a Hessian, a hit-man-for-hire. He was tired of living in a state of suspended misery, tired of dragging himself to work to face the assortment of house closings and landlord-tenant squabbles that littered his desk. Last month, when his Uncle Jake died and left him $300,000, he felt he’d been handed a reprieve. Jake’s money could buy him time to find his way back into civil rights. And put Alice in private school. And pay his ex-wife her alimony on time.

During the year they’d been dating, Ellen had seen his unhappiness up close and had started needling him. A committed Legal Aid attorney, she was eager for him to stop chasing money and do something “relevant” — her favorite word and one that made him wince. “You’re deluding yourself if you believe you’ll just walk away from a lucrative practice once you have one,” she told him, and although Philip had his own ideas about what motivated most of the do-gooders she worked with, he suspected she was right.

So last night he’d called Abe Drottman.

Gearing up the courage to make the call wasn’t easy. He hated asking for favors, not because he feared being indebted, but out of personal shame at needing anything from anyone. There were other firms he could check out, but if he were going to risk his small income for a position that might earn him even less, it would have to be with the best. Which Abe was. His old professor had marched with King in Selma and Montgomery, and over the last decade had become a star defender of high-profile civil rights cases. Philip had been one of his favorite students at Columbia and they’d kept in touch during Philip’s brief tenure at the ACLU. When he left to go into personal injury law, Abe cut him loose, relegating him, Philip supposed, to the rank of ambulance chaser. Philip rarely paid attention to what people thought of him; still, Abe’s silence cut him.

After agonizing over what he’d say, Philip told himself he’d sound like a fool if he was anything but his usual blunt self, and since he wasn’t sure that Abe would even take his call, he decided to try him at home. When Abe got on the line, Philip told him straight out what he wanted. Abe went silent for a long moment and Philip braced himself for a royal snub. Then, in a voice that said he’d been waiting for Philip to come to his senses, Abe asked if he was willing to work on a civil rights violation case.

“The American Jewish Congress is representing a Jew who was refused accommodations at an Atlanta hotel and I’ve assembled a top-notch team for the case. We’re working pro bono for the organization, but I can give you a small salary. And who knows? Maybe you could learn something,” Abe added in his customary sardonic drone. “Maybe you can even be of help,” he threw in with a mollifying laugh. “I’ll be in midtown around one tomorrow. I can fill you in. Interested?”

Philip was stunned. “Sure, I’d like to hear more,” he said, managing a cool, professional tone, yet when he replaced the receiver his hand trembled. He flopped down on the couch, then sprang up a moment later and began pacing around the living room, trying to sort out his thoughts. He’d just been offered a chance to work with one of the best legal minds in the country! And on a Jewish case! What could be better? A hero, a Jewish hero. Or about to be. Odd, he thought, that this should come to mind.

Now, Philip gazed out his office window at the rainy, mist-bound spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, leaned back in his chair and felt a spike of exhilaration, something he rarely permitted himself. He’d take Simon to lunch somewhere quiet. He’d explain. He’d reassure him that he’d always be there for him, always be available for consults, still be his buddy. Simon would understand. He’d get over it. He’d have to.

He was about to dial Simon’s extension when he heard a rustle and, looking up, found Dorothy standing at the door, smoothing back the gray hairs that were always drifting down from her bun.

“There’s a woman outside to see you,” Dorothy said, rolling her eyes toward the waiting room. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”

“Know who she is?”

“She said your cousin Noah sent her. She has an accent.”

They exchanged knowing looks. His family was always sending him feisty widows eager to sue some Miami Hotel for a lumpy mattress or their landlord for a chipped lobby tile. But every once in a while European immigrants like his father or camp survivors like his Uncle Jake showed up with stories that tore at his heart — only they could talk away half the day if he let them. So he and Dorothy had a little rescue plan going: If he wanted more time with the person, he’d buzz and tell her; if not, she’d come in after fifteen minutes and gravely inform him that his next appointment was waiting.

“Okay, send her in.”

The woman stood in the doorway for a moment, a tall, lean figure in a black vinyl raincoat and high-heeled leather boots, untying a silky mustard-yellow scarf she wore on her head. She looked somewhere in her late twenties and more handsome than pretty, with a broad, high-cheekboned face, widely spaced blue eyes, and a fringe of light brown hair hanging in damp strands across her forehead. Her vinyl coat still glistened with raindrops. As Philip rose to greet her, he remembered his father mentioning that Noah had hired a Polish nanny to take care of his three-year-old daughter. “A Polish shiksa no less,” his father had added bitterly, “to bring up a Jewish child.”

“Excuse me, please,” the woman said politely. Her voice was high-pitched, but pleasant, her accent decidedly Slavic. As she moved into the office, her stiff coat crinkled and Philip couldn’t decide if she was trying to look like Audrey Hepburn or one of those Warhol Chelsea girls who seemed to turn up on every magazine cover these days.

“This is a surprise,” Philip said, taking in her sharp, almost day-glo blue eyes. “Usually my family never sends me anyone under sixty.”

She looked confused, then smiled tentatively, exposing a row of small, perfectly shaped teeth. “Thank you for seeing me. Noah sent me. I am nanny to his little girl, Amanda.”

“I know.”

“Ah, he told you I was coming?”

“No. I figured it out.”

She gave him a quizzical look, then put out her hand and gave his a quick, firm shake. “Staszek. Karolina Staszek.”

“Please. Take a seat.” Without taking his eyes off her, he tented his hands and rolled over the possibilities. Noah had sent him a green card problem. Or maybe this woman had found herself a hippie willing to marry her just to make a statement against The Establishment and now she needed someone to finalize the papers. Any lawyer could handle this, but Philip was the only lawyer in the family and the price was right. True, she was appealing in an earthy, European way, but suddenly she seemed like too much work. He glanced at his watch. It was after noon. He should call somewhere nice and make reservations for lunch.

She caught his glance and half-stood. “You are busy now.”

“I’ve only got a few minutes,” Philip said, “but go ahead.”

“No, no, I must tell you whole story and there is not enough time now.” Tilting her head to the side, she considered him briefly, then lowered her eyes. “But I can come back,” she said. “Is this okay?”

Her odd mixture of candor and coyness struck him as flirtatious, a package he wasn’t used to. And those eyes. He relaxed in his chair. “Give me a minute. Let me see if I can postpone my appointment.”

Relief flooded her face. She perched herself on the edge of the chair and placed her hands over the black shoulder bag she’d propped on her lap. “Thank you.”

He picked up the phone and buzzed Dorothy. She answered immediately.

“Do I need to bail you out?”

“No, just tell my appointment I’ll be a little late.”

“Not a typical family friend, I gather.”

“Not at all.” He hung up. “Please,” he said, nodding. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you. I am grateful.” In the short silence that followed, he pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and a small box of wooden matches from his desk drawer, then looked at her. “You permit?” she asked, looking up. When he nodded, she accepted the cigarette and lit it. “I have been nervous all morning about coming here because I must tell you my story is strange. It is strange because I myself am not sure how much is true. That is why I come to you for help. I thought I was ready to tell this, but. . . .” She let out a nervous laugh, dismissing her silliness. “I come here from Poland one year ago. I won grant to study sculpture in United States.”

“Oh? I thought it was hard to get a visa from a Communist country.”

“Yes, but since Gomulka is president we have new freedom for artists. Sadly, now I hear from friends in Warsaw these things change.” A small frown appeared on her forehead as she struggled to collect her thoughts. “When my grant was finished I wanted to stay in your country, so I asked director of Polish-American Foundation, Mr. Jim Lubetski, for job in his office and he gives me job. My Polish friends warned me I would be unhappy in America, knowing no one in art, but I thought to myself, I am unhappy in Poland, so what is difference? A few weeks ago, I left —”

“I wish I could help you, but immigration law is not my area,” Philip interrupted.

“This is not a worry. I have papers.” She gazed somberly at the floor a moment. “I wanted to leave Foundation job . . . for personal reasons and then —” She lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “What to do? I thought maybe I could work for New York Arts Council your Mayor Lindsay set up, but with my poor English, this was not possible. People told me artists here work in restaurants, but for me children are more interesting than serving coffee, no? Even when I was student in Lublin, I like to work in nursery.”

“Lublin? Did Noah tell you our family is originally from there?” Philip said, warming to her. “Ja rozmawiam po polsku,” he said, giving the “r” his best trill.

She let out a delighted laugh. “Naprawde mówisz po polsku.”

Philip stopped, startled by the unfamiliar pitch and melody of Polish without a Yiddish accent. “No, not fluently, but I understand a lot. My father and his brothers spoke it to each other when I was a kid.” What he didn’t tell her was that the Landaus had no love for Poles and only spoke Polish when they fell to reminiscing about their life before the war. It was at times like these, when his uncles communicated in the language of their youth, that Philip caught a glimpse of the light-hearted young man his grouch of a father must have been — which was maybe why he, Philip, still had a fondness for the language.

“Oh, there is much to tell,” she said, waving her arm dramatically. “But I have to say this in correct order. I feel I am not so crazy when I speak it to someone else.” She tossed back her hair, exposing a strong chin and long neck, and squinted through a cloud of rising smoke.

“When I was still at Foundation a person in office showed me. . . what is the word for notice of person who has died?”

“Obituary?”

“Yes, obituary in newspaper. My friend said, look, this person was born in Lublin like you. I read in newspaper this Jewish man, Jake Landau, was in Maidenek concentration camp and his first wife and daughter died in war. When I saw his picture I felt strange shiver as if something I once knew touched me. And the name, Landau, I say, I know this name. But how can this be? All morning I stare at his picture, trying to find in myself what was so familiar. Then I see his funeral is in place near Foundation office so I go.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and began to fuss with her collar. “There were many people sitting in chapel who spoke kindly of this man. I stand in back, waiting to hear something, I do not know what, that would explain why I came here. Then a little girl ran down the aisle, crying. She bumps into me and I pet her head, and speak softly to calm her. A woman came to take her, but child was crying so hard I follow them to lobby and make a puppet from my scarf to amuse her. The little one stopped and the woman thanked me for my help. Later, when people were leaving, this woman — it is Noah’s wife, Linda — comes to me and asks how I know her family. I was embarrassed to say — it sounds crazy, no? — so I make up story that I walked by and became curious because of big crowd. Linda complimented me, saying I was very good with children and I say this is because I have experience in nursery in Poland. I am working now, I tell her, but want to find job with children. She is pleased and says she needs a nanny for her Amanda. We talk a little more and I give her Foundation telephone number, saying she must check with director Jim Lubetski to know that I am good, responsible person.”

Here she stopped abruptly, as if something had suddenly occurred to her. “I saw you leave with a woman, an older woman who is crying. I notice because you are handsome man.” She delivered this piece of information matter-of-factly, simply as an observation. Philip was surprised by her frankness, then gave her a wry half-smile she seemed not to notice.

“When I went for interview, I tell Linda I am Catholic, but she said this is not important in America.” She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray and stared at it a moment. “Excuse me for speaking so much,” she said with a soft sigh. “You are kind to listen. Everyone has been kind to me, Noah and Linda — and now you.”

Philip sat back, curiously moved by the play of emotions on Karolina’s face. He must have shown it because she put her hand on his desk and leaned in confidentially.

“Two days ago I see picture of Jake Landau in Noah’s album, picture from Lublin when he was young man. He is Noah’s uncle, tak? And your uncle, too?”

Philip nodded. “Jake was my father’s brother. He came to the States after the war.”

“I recognized his face,” she said, her voice dropping to a half-whisper. “I think this man hide me on farm to save me from Germans. I think . . . he is my father.”

A curious silence filled the room. Philip considered how to respond to this ridiculous statement, then let out a laugh. Talk about 1940’s melodrama! A gray afternoon, a strange woman in a raincoat — the only thing missing was a fedora on his head and Private Investigator etched in gold letters on his front door. Just the kind of thing he used to joke about with his law school buddies when they sat around schmoozing at the West End Bar.

She was watching him carefully now. “I think you were not expecting this,” she said with a guarded smile. “I was not, either.”

“Look, I’m sure you’ve made a mistake,” he said kindly. “If my uncle hid his child — and, frankly, I never heard anything about that — he would have done everything he could to find her. Unless, of course, he knew for certain she was dead.”

She shook her head tragically. “He would not find me. My parents — the people who raised me — move from our farm to distant village when the Germans left Lublin. I think they are afraid someone will come back for me. I believe your uncle put me in hiding just before he was deported. I have calculated dates, Mr. Landau. I was four years old. This is why I do not remember.”

Philip studied her anxious waiting face. Jewish? No way. From her square jaw line to her milky complexion and blue eyes, she was a shiksa, a Polish shiksa at that, just like his father said. Suddenly, her soft, rambling tone and theatrical gestures, her distracted stare, no longer seemed intriguing, but erratic. It crossed his mind that he had a psycho in his office. “Look, I’m sorry . . .”

She leaned in closer, her voice urgent now. “Listen, please! I have many ways to explain why I believe this. When I was child I have dreams of riding in automobile with a man I do not know. But our village had only horse carts and wagons. I do not see a car until I am ten. Whenever I ask to my mother about my dreams, she crosses herself and looks away. I accepted this because she was superstitious person. My father . . . I was close to him, but he did not speak often.” She shook her head solemnly. “It is hard for you to understand such a person, Mr. Landau; you have modern ideas in America. He was poor farmer. He did not have the words. Then I forget about these dreams, but . . . things come back.”

Her smooth, mesmerizing voice and the open sincerity in her face pulled at him, but he caught himself and drew back. A wave of unease spread. This woman could have followed Linda to Park East Chapels. She could have cased out his family and finagled her way into Noah’s home. And here she was, trying to claim Jake’s money.

He started to rise, ready to shuffle her out, but she stopped him with a trembling hand.

“No, please. I must tell you everything. Many times I dream of big doll house and fancy toys and women I could not know, women in lace collars with dark hair who held me on their lap. Their hands were white and soft, not like hands of women who dig radishes.” She looked up at some distant memory. “When I said these things to my father, he put finger to my lips and I knew he would not speak of them. When I saw the picture of your uncle, I recognized him. He is the man in car who brought me to farm.” She took a long breath. “And the most important thing you should know —”

“You know my uncle was a rich man,” Philip said, angry now. “He left a big estate.”

Karolina looked startled. “He had a business, I know, I read that —”

“Jake had no children. He left his money to his widow and Noah and me.”

Her eyes grew wide.

“It’s a lot of money,” he said. “You had to know. I’m sure Noah and Linda talked about it.”

“Oh, no, never!”

“You told Noah about this, right? Why didn’t he call to say you were coming?”

“He said you are lawyer, you can help. I want to find out for sure if this man is my father. And I want to know the rest of my family. It would explain many things that have troubled me.” She gripped the front of her raincoat, her knuckles a white ridge against the black vinyl. “This is difficult for me, Mr. Landau. I was raised Catholic. My family did not like Jews — my village did not. My friends, if they knew I was Jewish . . .”

“Is that supposed to win me over?” he threw in.

She shook her head, not listening. “I did not expect this.”

“Did you expect me to believe your parents took you from a Jew and never said anything about it?”

“Never a word.” She stood and gazed at him as if she suddenly remembered he was there. “Please excuse me . . . I did not know this . . . The money makes everything different.” The woman pulled open the door and rushed past a puzzled Dorothy into the outer lobby.

Dorothy called to him over her shoulder. “She left her umbrella.”

Philip watched the woman disappear into an elevator, then picked up the phone and dialed Noah.

“What were you thinking?” he said when his cousin got on.

“So, you saw her.” Noah sounded breathless. His secretary had caught him on the way out.

“Yeah, I saw her. She’s quite a crazy,” Philip said. “Just what were you trying to do to me?”

“Wait a minute. I sent her so you could hear her story, so you could help her —”

“Help her how? Find a psychiatrist?”

“Are you saying you don’t believe her?”

Was it possible that cautious, level-headed Noah had bought this far-fetched story? “Noah, the woman’s insane. How could you let her into your home —”

“Didn’t she tell you what happened to her, what she knows?”

“In great detail. And when I mentioned Jake’s money, she ran out.”

Noah released an exasperated breath. “Oh, God, I really messed this up. I should have called first. Karolina didn’t know about the money.”

“Come on, Noah, she works in your house. She had to know. You and Linda must have talked about his estate. The woman probably overheard —”

“No! Just listen a second. Karolina came to me two days ago. She was holding our photo album, pointing to an old picture of Jake. God, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Then she told Linda and me the whole story.”

Noah’s wife was a plain stick of a woman, responsible and listless, the kind of person who treated fun like an assignment. “I can see why you fell for her. She’s a looker and a very good talker — like any con artist.”

“No —”

“Hold on a second, will you? I want you to hear what this sounds like. A woman we don’t know turns up at Jake’s funeral, worms her way into your home, then claims she’s Jake’s true heir. Is that what you want me to believe?”

“I told you she didn’t know anything about the money. And she’s not claiming anything. That’s the point. She just wants to find out for sure if Jake’s her father. That’s why I sent her to you. I was sure you’d want to help.” Noah had turned on his cool, professional voice, the one he thought made him sound reasonable and wise. “What exactly don’t you believe?”

“The question is why should I believe any of it?”

“What about the names?”

“Names?”

“Didn’t she tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“She knew the names of Jake’s wife and daughter.”

Philip went into double-time, scouring his mind. He couldn’t remember ever having heard the names of Jake’s first wife and daughter. They’d died in the concentration camp along with Jake’s sisters and parents. His uncle never talked about them or anything from the past. The Landaus always treated him like a damaged survivor and steered clear of war talk when he was around.

“How do you know she’s right?” Philip said. “No one ever mentioned them. It was always ‘Jake’s first wife, Jake’s first family, Jake’s life before the big H.’ ”

Noah’s breathing turned raspy. “I’m really sorry about this. I should have . . . Listen. I went to Chase yesterday with Jake’s accountant to clean out Jake’s safety deposit box. We found his wife’s and child’s German ID cards stuffed in with a slew of other documents, including Jake’s birth certificate and the yellow star he must have worn in the camp. That’s why I sent Karolina to you right away. When she showed me Jake’s photo, she told me she remembered the names Chava and Rachel. She was right. Those were the names on the ID cards.” view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher:

1.How do Philip and Karolina cope with the central issue of their prejudice toward each other? Do you feel that hostility between Jew and Pole still exists?

2.How do Philip’s feelings toward Karolina change over the course of the novel? What prompts this change?

3.How does Karolina affect Philip’s sense of himself as a Jew?

4.What role did the Catholic Church play in Karolina’s past life? In the present?

5.Karolina believes she is a Jew who was hidden with Catholic Poles during WWII. What personal and spiritual dilemmas arise in her as a result of this belief?

6.How do the secondary characters in the novel affect the choices Philip and Karolina make?

7.As you read the novel, what was your guess as to Karolina's identity? Were you satisfied with the ending?

Weblinks

There are no web links at this time.

Book Club Recommendations

Recommended to book clubs by 0 of 0 members.

Member Reviews

Rate this book