WHEN I FIRST RAISED the subject of how or when his father learned what happened to his parents and other members of the family in Lemberg and Żółkiew, Eli said rather brusquely that he didn’t know. The subject was never mentioned at home. “I suppose he wanted to protect me, so I never asked.” It was a familiar silence, the one chosen by Leon and many others, respected by those around them.
The unlikely chain of events that led to the reunion between Lauterpacht and his niece Inka emerged only from a conversation I had with Clara Kramer, who had been a neighbor of the Lauterpachts’ in Żółkiew. One of her companions when she was in hiding in Żółkiew was Mr. Melman, who traveled to Lemberg after being freed to find out who might have survived. He visited a Jewish welfare committee, where he left a list of names, the few Jews who’d survived in Żółkiew, who included some Lauterpachts. This list was pinned to a wall of the committee’s office, which Inka happened to visit after leaving the convent that offered refuge during the German occupation. She saw the Żółkiew names, made contact with Mr. Melman, then went to Żółkiew. There she was introduced to Clara Kramer.
“Melman came back with this beautiful beauty,” Clara told me with emotion. “She was gorgeous, like a Madonna, my first friend when I came out of hiding.” Inka, three years younger than Clara, became her best friend, and they remained close over many years, “like sisters.” Inka told Clara about her uncle, a famous professor at Cambridge, a man called Hersch Lauterpacht. They would try to find him with the help of the Melmans and Mr. Patrontasch, another Żółkiew survivor who was a classmate of Lauterpacht’s at school in Lemberg back in 1913. The Melmans and Inka left Soviet-occupied Poland for Austria, where they ended up in a refugee camp near Vienna. At some point—Clara didn’t recall the exact circumstances—Mr. Patrontasch learned that Lauterpacht was involved in the Nuremberg trial. Perhaps from a newspaper, Clara said. “Inka’s uncle is at Nuremberg, and I will try to see him,” Mr. Patrontasch told Mr. Melman.
Because he lived outside the camp, Patrontasch was able to travel freely. “He agreed to look for the famous professor Lauterpacht,” Clara explained. He traveled to Nuremberg, where he stood outside the entrance of the Palace of Justice, guarded by tanks. He waited, unable to gain entry, not wishing to make a fuss.
“They wouldn’t let him in,” Clara added, “so he just stood there, day after day, for three weeks. Every time a civilian came out, he whispered, ‘Hersch Lauterpacht,’ ‘Hersch Lauterpacht.’ ” Clara used her body to describe the actions of Artur Patrontasch, cupping her soft hands. She spoke so quietly I could barely hear. “Hersch Lauterpacht, Hersch Lauterpacht, Hersch Lauterpacht.”
At some point, a passerby heard the whispers and, recognizing the name, stopped to tell Patrontasch he knew Lauterpacht. “That was how Inka found her uncle.” From this initial connection, direct contact followed several weeks later. Clara couldn’t remember the month, but it was during the opening days of the trial. Just before the end of the year, in December 1945, Lauterpacht received a telegram with information about the family. There were no details, but enough information to offer hope. “I hope that at least the child is alive,” Lauterpacht wrote on New Year’s Eve to Rachel in Palestine. Early in 1946, he learned that Inka was the only family member to survive. A few weeks passed, then in the spring letters began to pass directly between Inka and Lauterpacht.
Clara asked whether she might share another thought with me. She was reluctant, she said, because she was talking to an Englishman.
“To tell you the truth, there was a moment I hated the British worse than the Germans.” She apologized. Why? I inquired.
“The Germans said they would kill me, and they tried. Then, much later, I was sitting in a displaced persons camp and wanted to go to Palestine, and the British wouldn’t let me. For a time, I hated them as much as I hated the Germans.”
She smiled, adding that her views had changed since then. “I was seventeen; you were allowed such feelings.”