Once We Were Brothers Read Online Free PDF Page B

tilted back in her chair taking notes on a yellow pad which rested on her crossed legs. Liam and Adele sat quietly to the side.
    “Zamość was the jewel of pre-war Poland, a gingerbread city built by an Italian architect in the sixteenth century and modeled after the Italian city of Padua. So colorful, so magical it was, you would swear you woke up in Renaissance Italy,” Ben said.
    Catherine looked up from her notes and smiled. “Sounds lovely. Now I’d like to hear about your property, Ben, what you think Mr. Rosenzweig took and how you can prove it’s yours.”
    Solomon resumed his narrative. “Although he was an educated man with a business degree from the university, my father was apprenticed as an engraver in the family’s glass factory, founded by my great-grandfather in 1861. The plant produced fine lead crystal – wine glasses, goblets, stemware, vases and bowls, much like the Waterford crystal you see in the local department stores. By the time I was born, my father was running the factory, and his products, handcrafted by Polish artisans, were being shipped all over Europe.
    “Abraham Solomon was a rock, a man of inner strength. Sometimes he’d take me to the plant and walk me around with great pride, his only son. He’d say, ‘Did you ever see a handsomer boy?’
    “My father was also a man of great respect in Zamość. Townspeople would come to him, to consult and seek his advice. Many an evening, he would sit in our front parlor and take tea with visitors and I would sit on his lap or fall asleep with my head on his chest.”
    Catherine sighed. She stopped writing, leaned forward, laid her pen down on the table and rested her chin on her folded hands. Solomon remained steadfast in his narrative.
    “My mother was a beautiful woman, Miss Lockhart. Gentle. Elegant, in the ways of the Old World. Well mannered. Modest. Yet she was strong in her constitution and clear in her purpose. Her home and her children were her whole life. Do you follow me, Ms. Lockhart?”
    “Yes, Mr. Solomon,” she answered flatly. “But I’m still waiting to hear about the property that you say Mr. Rosenzweig stole.”
    “There were linen doilies on polished tables, Miss Lockhart.” Solomon’s voice hardened. “Each piece of furniture in our home was special. It had significance. Not like today, when women buy groups of mass-produced generic furniture from warehouse sales on credit terms. Each of my mother’s pieces was a treasure to her. Some were heirlooms, passed to her from her parents and their parents, to be passed on to her children and their children. Do you understand what I’m saying? Her home was a reflection of who she was.”
    “Mr. Solomon, there’s no need to be confrontational. We’re not enemies. I’m sitting here waiting to learn about your legal claims against Mr. Rosenzweig. I’m certain that your mother and your father were extraordinary people, but I’d really like to focus on the issue of the stolen property. After all, that is the foundation of your case.”
    “I’m not an attorney, Miss Lockhart, but as I understand a lawyer’s function, it’s to represent clients, to stand up for them, to give expression to their interests and to further their claims. Is that not so?”
    “Well put, Mr. Solomon. That is a lawyer’s function. But attorneys also have responsibilities to their practice and to the bar, to investigate the bases for a claim before charging another with a liability.”
    “Then perhaps we’re on the same page. I’m trying to give you a sufficient background to understand not only the claim, but the client. If an attorney is going to speak for me, then she needs to know who I am. If you’re going to advocate my claim, then you need to know the circumstances. Please don’t shortcut me.”
    Catherine nodded in resignation. “Go ahead.”
    “I had a sister Beka, the apple of Mama’s eye. Her real name was Rebecca. She was blessed with the same lovely features as my