"Would anyone be in a position to let the prisoners out?"
"There was a rumour that some had escaped to the forest, but I don't know how they would have managed it," she replied.
"No more questions," said Mr. Vincent.
And with that, the hearing was adjourned for the day. As soon as the judge left the chamber, Orysia was on her feet to talk to Mr. Vincent.
Kat and Danylo stayed sitting. Every muscle in Kat's body ached from the strain of listening so intensely and trying to make sense of it all. In her mind was an image of a barbed wire enclosure with starving men herded up like cattle. Had her grandfather actually willingly guarded such a place? She looked at him, sitting beside her. His face was grey with fatigue. Even though everyone around them was getting up, stretching their legs and gathering their belongings, Danylo sat, still as death.
"Are you okay?" asked Kat, placing her hand on her grandfather's forearm.
"My zolota zhabka" he said. "Through what eyes are these people viewing me? They must think I am a monster."
Kat leaned over and gave her grandfather a gentle bear hug. "You are my grandfather," she said. "And I love you."
Orysia was still talking with Mr. Vincent. His two colleagues began to gather up the books and the papers from the table and they were putting them away in wide leather briefcases. Mr. Vincent looked up and saw Danylo and Kat still sitting. He broke off his conversation with Orysia and walked over to them.
"Mr. Feschuk," he said. "I know you're tired, but could you stay for a bit longer? I need to ask you some questions."
Danylo inclined his head in a tired nod.
Orysia came over and stood beside Mr. Vincent. "Kat, why don't you take the subway home?"
Kat regarded her mother and then Mr. Vincent. She got the distinct impression that they wanted to talk about some things without her there. "Okay, Mom," she said. "That way I can start dinner."
"That would be great," said Orysia, brushing Kat's cheek lightly with a kiss.
As Kat walked to the subway stop, she marvelled at the people she passed. To them, this was just another day.
The testimony she had heard so far was devastating for a number of reasons. First, to hear what horrors so many people had lived through many decades ago. Kat had known about much of this, but it hadn't really hit home until those survivors had got up into the witness stand and given their testimony. It was also devastating for another reason. Not one of the people who had testified that day had anything specific to say against her grandfather. She was also curious about the uniforms. Her grandfather had been issued an armband only, but again and again, she heard of the black uniformed police. Were these the SS?
If the worst anyone could say against her grandfather was that he had made people do push-ups, why was he being grouped with people who had done far worse? It especially troubled her to think that her grandfather and others like him were being painted with a broad brush of guilt, even through there were no witnesses and no evidence. What was going on?
She wished her grandfather would actually talk to her about the things he'd had to live through. Maybe then she would be able to understand. It was a time in his life that he had shut the door on. Had it not been for this hearing, Kat wouldn't even know this much about it.
When she got home, she was dismayed to find a police car idling in her driveway and what looked to be the beginnings of another swastika being spray-bombed on the front of the house.
The passenger door of the police vehicle opened, and out stepped the middle-aged police officer who had been to her house before Christmas. He had a big grin on his face.
"Miss Baliuk," he said. "I am so glad that you're home. We caught your graffiti artist."
"You're kidding," said Kat.
She peered in through the back window of the car and saw a head of short dark hair and a blue winter jacket. The person turned to face Kat.
It was Michael. He looked at her with a pleading look in his eyes. She watched his lips through the cruiser window and saw them form the words, "I didn't do it."
"We caught him in the act," said the officer to Kat. "My partner had a suspicion that he'd be back today, what with the hearing and all, so we've been down this way several times."
Kat had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had just been starting to get to know Michael, and now this? What made it worse was that Michael was Mr. Vincent's son. What would this mean to her grandfather's case?
Kat grasped the officer's hand. "Thank you," she said. If only all the other matters could be solved so simply, she thought to herself.
As the officer got back into the cruiser, Kat asked, "Can I paint over his artwork, or do you still need it?"
"Go ahead and paint it. We've taken samples and photos." And with that, the cruiser backed out and pulled away.
Kat walked up the back steps and into the summer kitchen with a heavy heart. What a dreary end to a dreary week. She noticed that there were two packages sitting on the picnic table in the summer kitchen: an open box with something wrapped in newspaper nestled inside and something flat and oblong, secured with a plastic grocery bag. She opened the one in the grocery bag first, and discovered a casserole dish of chicken cacciatore. There was an envelope stuck inside the bag, so she pulled it out to read it. It was a note from her grandfather's neighbour, Mrs. Wentworth, and it read, "Dear Danylo and family, I know how you love my chicken cacciatore, so enjoy! Re-heat at 350 degrees for one hour. My prayers are with you."
Kat's eyes began to water. What a thoughtful gesture of Mrs. Wentworth.
Kat then pulled at the newspaper wrapping in the second package. Inside was a Zip-Loc bag of small crescent-shaped pastries. Kat opened the bag and pulled one out. Biting into it, she grinned with delight. They were filled with apricot preserve, just like Baba used to make. There was something wrapped in tinfoil besides the bag of cookies, and so Kat pulled back a bit of the foil to look inside. A loaf of rye bread, homemade and fresh from the oven. This package needed no note; it was from the priest's wife.
When Orysia and Danylo arrived home, they were greeted with the aroma of chicken cacciatore warming in the oven, and not a trace of graffiti on the house.
Mr. Vincent called that night and asked to speak to Orysia. She frowned with concern as she listened to what he had to say and then she handed the phone to Kat. "He would like to talk to you too," she said.
"I'm sorry about the incident with Michael at your house today," Mr. Vincent said. "But remember, innocent until proven guilty, right?"
"Right," said Kat.
"Let's put this behind us and deal with your grandfather's hearing," said Mr. Vincent.
"Absolutely," she said. "One thing at a time."
CHAPTER 26
KAT DID NOT usually sleep in on a Saturday morning, but January 12th was no usual Saturday morning. The week before, and especially the day before, had been so exhausting that she had gone to bed at nine o'clock on Friday night and didn't wake up until nearly noon when she heard a persistent tapping at her door. She looked over at Genya's bed and saw that it was neatly made. Not a trace of her older sister: had she even come home last night?
The tapping continued, and then her mother's voice called, "Kat, are you awake?"
"Come in," said Kat.
Orysia walked in, holding a mug of lemon tea.
Kat sat up in bed and gratefully took the mug of tea from her mother.
"I need your help," said Orysia.
"Sure," said Kat.
"Mr. Vincent has asked that your grandfather come to the office this afternoon. They need to go over a few things before the hearing continues on Monday, and I would like to be there with him."