“You said you’d be concealing people’s real identities,” I said. “So is Paul Radbuka not his real name?”
The ecstasy left Wiell’s face, replaced again by her patina of professional calm. “He’s the one person who doesn’t seem to have any living family left to be upset by his revelations. Besides, he’s so intensely proud of his newly recovered identity that it would be impossible to persuade him to use a cover name.”
“So you’ve discussed it with him?” Don asked eagerly. “He’s willing to take part?”
“I haven’t had time to talk about it with any of my patients.” She smiled faintly. “You only broached the idea yesterday, after all. But I know how intensely Paul feels: it’s why he insisted on speaking up at the Birnbaum conference earlier this week. I think, too, he’d do anything he could to support my work, because it’s changed his life so dramatically.”
“How did he come to remember the name Radbuka?” I said. “If he was raised by this foster father from the age of four and wrenched from his birth family in infancy—have I got that chronology right?”
Wiell shook her head at me. “I hope your role isn’t to try to set traps for me, Ms. Warshawski. If it is, I’ll have to look for a different publisher than Envision Press. Paul found some papers in his father’s desk—his foster father, I should say—and they pointed the way to his birth name for him.”
“I wasn’t trying to set a trap, Ms. Wiell. But it would certainly strengthen the book if we could get some outside corroboration of his Radbuka identity. And it’s remotely possible that I am in a position to provide that. To be candid, I have friends who came to England from central Europe with the Kindertransport in the last months before the war began. Apparently one of their group of special friends in London was named Radbuka. If it turns out your client is a relation, it might mean a great deal, both to him and to my friends who lost so many family members.”
Again the rapturous smile swept across her face. “Ah, if you can introduce him to his relatives, that would be an indescribable gift to Paul. Who are these people? Do they live in England? How do you know them?”
“I know two of them who live here in Chicago; the third is a musician who’s visiting from London for a few days. If I could talk to your client—”
“Not until I’ve consulted with him,” she cut me off. “And I would have to have your—friends’—names before I could do so. I hate to have to be so suspicious, but I have had too many traps set for me by the Planted Memory Foundation.”
My eyes narrowed as I tried to hear behind her words. Was this paranoia born of too much skirmishing with Arnold Praeger, or a legitimate prudence?
Before I could decide, Don said, “You don’t think Max would mind your giving his name, do you, Vic?”
“Max?” Wiell cried. “Max Loewenthal?”
“How do you know him?” Don asked, again before I could respond.
“He spoke at the session on the efforts of survivors to track down the fates of their families and whether they had any assets tied up in Swiss or German banks. Paul and I sat in on that: we hoped we could learn some new ideas for ways of looking for his family. If Max is your friend, I’m sure Paul would be glad to talk to him—he seemed an extraordinary man, gentle, empathic, yet assured, authoritative.”
“That’s a good description of his personality,” I said, “but he also has a strong sense of privacy. He would be most annoyed if Paul Radbuka approached him without my having a chance to speak to Mr. Radbuka first.”
“You can rest assured that I understand the value of privacy. My relations with my clients would not be possible if I didn’t protect them.” Wiell gave me the same sweet, steely smile she’d directed at Arnold Praeger on TV the other night.
“So can we arrange a meeting with your client, where I can talk to him before introducing him to my friends?” I tried to keep irritation out of my voice, but I knew I couldn’t match her in sanctity.
“Before I do anything, I will have to talk to Paul. Surely you understand that any other course would violate my relationship with him.” She wrote Max’s name in her datebook next to Paul Radbuka’s appointment: her square, printlike hand was easy to read upside down.
“Of course I understand that,” I said with what patience I could muster. “But I can’t let Paul Radbuka come to Mr. Loewenthal out of the blue in the belief that they’re related. In fact, I don’t think Mr. Loewenthal is himself a part of the Radbuka family. If I could ask Paul a few questions first, it might spare everyone some anxiety.”