Plunder by Menachem Kaiser (suggested reading txt) 📗

accuse Poland of complicity in the Holocaust; the phrase “Polish death camps” was outlawed. (Following an international outcry, the Polish government backtracked, a little, making it only a civil offense, not a criminal one, and permitted it outright if it was published or said in an “artistic or scientific” context.) But I felt these things at a remove, admittedly. I wasn’t a citizen, I wasn’t a resident, I couldn’t vote, I couldn’t speak the language. As far as I could tell, the political situation wasn’t affecting my reclamation efforts.

Then in July 2017, one week before my trial, the Sejm, the lower house of parliament, passed three legislative acts that targeted, respectively, the Supreme Court; the National Council for the Judiciary (KRS), the body responsible for the appointment, assessment, promotion, and discipline of judges; and the lower courts. This was a careful, comprehensive assault on the judicial system.

The laws targeting the Supreme Court received the most attention, especially the proposal to lower the retirement age for judges, effective immediately, which would result in a huge number of Supreme Court vacancies—​which the PiS-controlled Sejm could then fill. The other two acts were arguably just as pernicious, if less flagrant and more insidious.

Following massive protests in cities across the country, the president vetoed two of the three acts—​the proposed reform of the Supreme Court and the proposed reform of the KRS. (As was widely suspected, however, the vetoes were a diversion tactic, a way to buy time and deflect attention; the laws were soon reintroduced with cosmetic alterations and the president duly signed them.) The reforms of the lower courts he signed into law. Immediately the minister of justice, empowered by the new laws to dismiss court presidents and vice presidents without cause or explanation, did just that: dozens of court presidents and vice presidents across the country were removed and loyalists were installed. PiS had tightened its grip on the judiciary.

On the morning of the trial I met The Killer and Grazyna in the fumy basement of the central bus station in Kraków. My lawyer did not look particularly lawyerly. She wore a pink velour tracksuit with the jacket unzipped, revealing a t-shirt with an enormous lion’s head, and a pearl necklace that did not at all go with but also absolutely completed the outfit. She carried a large shopping bag emblazoned with kittens. Mother and daughter were in a very good mood. They teased me about my weak handshake, about my being a writer, about my being their third-smartest client. I told them that the next time we went to court I was going to wear a matching tracksuit.

The bus to Sosnowiec took about an hour. From the city center we took a taxi to the courthouse, an extremely municipalish building—​nondescript, angular, concrete, brown and gray.

We’d given ourselves a lot of time to get to the courthouse; we were very early. We planted ourselves on a couple of benches at the end of a hallway. The Killer went to the bathroom and returned wearing a barrister’s gown—​black, with complicated ruffles and an elaborate white bow/cravat thing—​and now looked extremely lawyerly, pearl necklace and all. (It did give me a certain pleasure and confidence knowing that underneath the gown was that lion’s head t-shirt.) I prodded The Killer to prep me—​What was the judge going to ask? Was there anything I should make sure to say? Make sure not to say?—​but in so many words she told me not to worry. Her only direction was that if the judge asked what my father’s profession was I should say he was a businessman. Also my grandfather. I should say he was also a businessman. The judge, The Killer said, will be very happy with this answer.

I asked what the plan was regarding my uncle Hershel—​he’s not on the claim, I said, and if it comes up I’d really rather not lie in court. No no, The Killer said, today we are here to decide the deaths of Moshe and Sura-Hena and Michoel and Tamara. The Killer and Grazyna rarely answered my questions directly; they tended just to reassert something tangentially related to the question. If I wanted answers I had to press: And what if it does come up? What do I say? We are here to discuss the deaths of Moshe and Sura-Hena and Michoel and Tamara, The Killer said, again. The case in Będzin went very well for us. I said, again, that I’d really rather not commit perjury. They said, again, that the case in Będzin had gone very well. At that moment our translator, Małgorzata, arrived—​she was nerdy, polite, professional, spoke reassuringly good English—​and the matter was dropped.

Eventually we were beckoned inside. It was a decidedly ungrand room—​windowless, low ceiling, fluorescent lighting, in every direction that coughed-on institutional white—​but still it was recognizable as a courtroom. The judge’s bench was a large cluttered desk set on a foot-high platform. At the far end of the bench, a court reporter sat behind a computer, and a second monitor had been set up for the judge so she could read and amend in real time. Behind the judge’s bench was a large and well-polished Polish coat of arms. In front, on either side of a simple podium, were a couple of wooden benches, one for the plaintiff and one for defendant.

I said hello to the judge, an exhausted-looking middle-aged woman with thick blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her manner was brusque and severely professional. My greeting was not returned.

The judge, riffling through heaps of papers, began what I assumed was a necessary preamble to the hearing. On this day in this place concerning this matter, etc. I caught a few familiar words—​“Kaiser,” “Małachowskiego.” The court reporter scrambled to keep up; the judge had to repeat herself often. She had a loud sharp voice, which could be heard clearly over the construction noises coming in from outside. The Killer, Grazyna, Małgorzata, and I stood before the bench awkwardly. Małgorzata