Free The Things We Cherished by Pam Jenoff

had been freshly ironed. Money, she realized, lots and lots of money. Brian had said Dykmans was an investment banker and she could see that now in the unmarked hands, the delicate tan. Of course, refinement was hardly an indicator of culpability or innocence. The SS had been doctors, scholars. Closer to home, she had read about a prestigious Main Line physician, rumored to have bludgeoned his wife with a garden hoe, who then sat down to dinner while she bled to death ten feet away, polishing off an expensive bottle of chardonnay before calmly turning himself in. But there was an air of serenity about Dykmans that belied any sort of guilt.
    “This is Charlotte Gold. She’s been sent by your law firm in America to try to help with your case.” Jack did not, she notice, reference his brother. Dykmans’s eyes flicked over her and then away again, indifferent. Charlotte’s annoyance flared; she was here for his benefit, not her own.
    “Why don’t we sit down?” Jack suggested, setting his briefcase on the table. When Dykmans had taken the seat across from them, he continued. “As you know, the trial is just a month away. So we were hoping that you might be willing to tell us a bit more. If we could just go over the file again.”
    Dykmans did not respond but gazed out the window. He was not dismissive of her, she realized, but of the entire situation. It was as if someone else’s life was on the line and it was merely a show that he was watching. She was reminded once more of the inner-city kids she represented—they’d been burned by the system and were understandably wary, and she needed to gain their trust.
    She pulled a black-and-white photograph from the file Jack had shared with her at his office, a picture of a group seated before a fireplace. “Is that your family?” she asked. It was one of the two things she often found she could bond over with clients—family or sports—and the latter seemed unlikely to work here. Of course, family might be a risky topic, given the nature of the allegations against him.
    But Dykmans seemed to take the question in stride, reaching for the photo with calm hands. “That’s my
Mutter
and my father.” He mixed his English and German without noticing. “Of course my brother, Hans, and our sister, Lucy.” He did not speak further but continued to stare at the photo, a faraway look in his eyes.
    “Herr Dykmans,” she began again gently. He looked up, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “We noticed on your passport that you’ve returned several times to Poland in recent years. Can you tell us why?”
    “Business,” he said simply. Charlotte blinked. She didn’t know what answer she expected but it wasn’t that.
    “You mean the emerging capital markets?” Jack asked, a note of impatience in his voice. Charlotte looked in his direction, annoyed. It took time to get close to a client, earn his or her trust. And she wanted to hear Dykmans’s explanation in his own words, without Jack jumping in.
    The older man shook his head. “No, sorry, I misspoke. Not that kind of business. Family matters. Attending to our home in Wadowice.”
    “It’s still there?” Charlotte interjected, unable to contain her surprise.
    “Yes. After the war, it was expropriated by the Communist regime. But ten years ago or so the Polish government passed restitution laws and one could file an application to have propertyreturned. I did, and it was in a terrible state of disrepair, so I’m having it renovated.”
    For what purpose, she wanted to ask, but before she could speak further, Dykmans stood. “I thank you, but I’m growing a bit tired. If you’ll excuse me.” He walked to the door and knocked, waiting for the guard.
    “So that’s it?” Charlotte remarked a few minutes later as they walked through the front door of the prison.
    Jack nodded. “And for Dykmans, that was a long conversation. Probably the most I’ve heard him say.”
    “I see what you meant about him being