There was a voice mail message when Kat got home from school on the first Tuesday in early March.
"This is Mr. Vincent," the message said. "Iris, please call when you get home."
Orysia was at the old house with Danylo, packing up the last of the rooms. Kat ran all the way there. "Call Mr. Vincent," she said breathlessly. "I think the judge has made his decision."
Danylo's phone had already been disconnected, so they had to walk all the way back home before returning the call. Danylo slumped on the sofa in exhaustion, and Kat sat beside him and held his hand while her mother called the lawyer.
Orysia put the phone down. "We're to be at court tomorrow at 9," she said.
With such short notice, there were not many observers. Mrs. Caine was there, as was Mr. Vincent, but aside from Danylo, Orysia and Kat, the only other people present were a couple of reporters.
The judge regarded the almost empty room, then sat down in his usual place high up on the platform. He cleared his throat, then began to read from a paper in front of him.
Kat tried to listen as the judge summarized the details of her grandfather's hearing. He pointed out that this was not a criminal trial, but a deportation hearing. "I am not here to judge whether Mr. Feschuk is a war criminal," he said. "My job today is to determine whether, on the balance of probabilities, Mr. Danylo Feschuk lied to immigration authorities when he came to Canada."
Why then, Kat wondered, had all of those witnesses been called?
"There were a number of banned immigrant categories at the time Mr. Feschuk came to Canada," said the judge. "Let us go over them and see how Mr. Feschuk fits. Was he a Communist? No. Was he a member of the SS? No. In fact, he couldn't have been a member of the SS because he was not Aryan. Was he a member of the Nazi Party? Again, he wasn't eligible. Only German citizens were allowed to join the Nazi Party. Was he a criminal? No. A professional gambler, a prostitute, a black market racketeer? No, Mr. Feschuk was none of these things."
The judge flipped over his page and considered what he had written on the next page. "Mr. Feschuk did not use a fictitious name, he wasn't a member of the Mafia, nor of the Italian Fascist Party and he wasn't a Trotskyite."
The judge then looked over his glasses at Danylo. "However, the next category is more problematical. Was he a member of a revolutionary organization?"
Danylo regarded the judge unflinchingly, waiting for his answer. "No," said the judge. "There is nothing revolutionary about defending your country."
Danylo breathed a sigh of relief.
"However," continued the judge. "On the balance of probabilities, I find that Danylo Feschuk lied during his immigration screening."
Kat raised her hand to her mouth, stunned.
"I believe that if Mr. Feschuk had told immigration authorities that he was an auxiliary policeman, they would have questioned him very carefully about this, even though this would not have been a reason to deny him entry."
Kat stared at the judge in confusion.
"The fact that he claims not to remember much about the interview implies to me that he wasn't subjected to such questioning, and therefore must have lied about what really happened," continued the judge. "I find, on the balance of probabilities, that Mr. Feschuk obtained Canadian citizenship by false representation or by knowingly concealing material circumstances."
Kat felt a slow flush of anger envelop her. She wanted nothing more than to go over and shake the judge. Did he really think that his judgement was justice? She looked over at her grandfather, who was sitting between Kat and her mother. Danylo's face was pasty white in shock. She saw that her mother had grabbed one of Danylo's hands in a white knuckled grip, and Kat reached out and clasped the other.
The judge set down his papers and took off his glasses. He looked over at Danylo and his family and seemed to understand the emotional turmoil they were in. Gently, he said, "The Minister of Citizenship may wish to consider the following points: there is no evidence that Mr. Feschuk lied during immigration proceedings. There is no evidence that Mr. Feschuk was a Nazi; there is no evidence that Mr. Feschuk committed any crimes in his position as an auxiliary police officer. There is evidence that Mr. Feschuk used his position with the auxiliary police to work against the Nazis. While the Minister may consider these points, it is not in the scope of this court to do so."
With that, the judge stood up and walked out of the chambers.
Danylo, Kat and Orysia did not move. Instead, they sat, hands locked in each other's. One of the reporters flipped his steno pad shut and walked out of the room, but the other one approached the family. He was a young man with wire-rimmed glasses and an earnest expression.
"Mr. Feschuk," the reporter said, pen poised over steno pad. "What will you do now?"
Danylo looked into the reporter's face, but did not reply. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the reporter left.
The only people in the courtroom now were Mrs. Caine, Mr. Vincent, Danylo, Orysia and Kat. Mrs. Caine stuffed some sheets of paper into her briefcase and then clicked it shut. She smiled triumphantly at Danylo as she walked past him to the exit.
"He had nothing to lie about," Orysia said to Mr. Vincent.
"I know," he replied.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
"There is no appeal to a deportation and denaturalization hearing," said Mr. Vincent in a strained voice. "I don't know what to say."
CHAPTER 42
THAT NIGHT, KAT tossed and turned. She kept on dreaming about what was going to happen to her grandfather. Were the RCMP going to show up at their door and handcuff Dido? Where would they take him? If they deported him back to Ukraine, where would he live? Kat knew that no family had survived in Orelets.
Kat still hadn't slept a wink when she heard the squeak of the front door opening and the thunk of a newspaper being dropped in. She shivered slightly as she got out of bed so she grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it over her nightgown for warmth and then padded down the stairs. It was still dark out, but already, both the Globe & Mail and the Toronto Star were sitting between the doors. She grabbed them both and sat down on the living room sofa. A headline on the bottom of the front page of the Globe caught her eye, "Ex-Nazi set for deportation."
The judge had found that her grandfather was not a Nazi, but they weren't going to let that fact get in the way of a good headline, she thought cynically. Kat didn't even have the heart to read the article. The newspaper slid from her lap and landed on the floor.
The front page of the Star was even more sensational, "Ex-Nazi lied to live here." Kat felt her face redden in anger. Where did this "ex-Nazi" stuff come from? As she scanned the article, anger turned to a feeling of hopelessness. There was no mention of the fact that her grandfather had worked with the Ukrainian resistance. The implication was that her grandfather had joined the auxiliary police in order to avoid farm labour in Germany. And to kill Jews. Kat threw the paper down onto the floor. How could this sort of thing happen in a country like Canada?
She walked across the living room, into the kitchen, and opened the basement door. She was so angry and distressed that only one thing could settle her, and that was her art. She didn't even bother turning on the light, but instead, relied on the glimmers of sunrise that were peeking through the basement windows. On her TV tray sat several of the pysanky she had worked on so carefully during the hearing. They had brought her comfort and hope each evening as she had a chance to sit by herself and understand what each witness had been trying to convey. What was the point, anyway, she thought now. Who had been listening? The judge had heard all the same points that she had, yet he had managed to come to a completely different conclusion.