The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries)

by Kate Moira Ryan

  Gudrun heard her mother’s screams fall to a whimper and then to nothing. She clawed at her palms and silently prayed for her absent father to save them, although they hadn’t seen him in nearly two years. The soldiers left, but Gudrun did not dare open the cellar door. Her mother was dead, she was sure of it, and she was too frightened to find out what would happen to her if she did. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Gudrun looked around for the trunk that belonged to her older brother, Max, who’d been killed on the eastern front. In it were letters he’d written, clothes he’d worn, and his favorite board game, Adlers Luftverteidigungs Spiel, the Eagle Air Defense Game, which Gudrun had given him for Christmas in 1941. The game was designed to teach members of the Hitler Youth to defend the homeland, and Max and Gudrun had spent hours playing it while Max had been on holiday from NaPolA (National Political Institute of Education), one of the prestigious state-run boarding schools, to which Father had insisted his only son go.

  Their mother had wanted Max to stay home; she wasn’t as keen on National Socialism as the rest of the family was. She especially didn’t like the persecution of the Jews. When her old friend, Angela, had been taken to the station to be deported east, she’d defied her husband and brought Angela food for the journey. When Gudrun had told her father about it when he was home the following weekend, there was a terrible row. Her mother had refused to speak to her for a week; she was so furious at her daughter for tattling on her. After Gudrun threatened to turn her into the Gestapo, her mother broke down weeping and shared a small photo tucked away in a book.

  “This is Angela and me on our first day of school,” she said, pointing at little girls with matching bows each holding a schultüte, a large cone stuffed with sweets and small presents, given to each child to make the first day of school a little sweeter.

  “I should have hidden her. I should have helped her,” her mother said, sobbing.

  Gudrun shook with rage. How could she, a junior leader in the Bund Deutscher Mädel (BDM), the Hitler Youth for girls, have a mother who loved the Jews? How was that possible?

  “You will see what will happen after this war is over. Germany will be disgraced,” her mother said as she put the photo back into the metal candy box. It was the same box she’d run back up into the house to get when Karlsruhe had been overrun.

  Her mother had been right about Germany’s fate. No final victory had come. Germany’s last gasp, its final defense, the people’s army, the Volkssturm, was a ragtag collection of old men and young boys, hardly a match for the hundreds of thousands of troops entering Germany. All was lost. The hell to pay was just beginning, and Gudrun had to figure out how to survive. She knew what would happen to her if she left the cellar, but she couldn’t stay there for more than a week or maybe even less. The supplies her father had sent from Berlin had grown meager with each parcel, and there was barely food to last a couple of days.

  Gudrun’s eyes looked at Max’s trunk again. Perhaps she could disguise herself as a boy. At fourteen, Gudrun was still flat-chested. The small breasts which had started to grow the preceding year could be bound against her chest with the cloth bandages stored in the first-aid kit.

  She unlatched the trunk and pulled open the top. It smelled of must and cedar chips. Max’s life in this trunk had been frozen in time. It was odd to think that all that was left of her brother were these things. She pulled out the clothing he had worn before he’d left for school. She unfolded blue-tweed pants that seemed the right length, and then unfolded a white-linen shirt, yellowed by time. Her BDM uniform shoes were plain brown oxfords, so they would not stand out. Her golden braided plaits would have to go. Even when they hadn’t gotten along, which had been more often than not as Gudrun had entered her teenage years, her mother had loved to braid her hair each morning.

  An hour later, she ran her fingers across her nearly bald scalp and felt the soft buzz left by the razor she’d found in Max’s belongings.

  Max was alive. She was Max.

  Rome, 1949

  “So you became your brother.”

  “I spent five days in the cellar, and when I unlatched the door, I found my mother on the kitchen floor, her knickers pulled down and blood all over her. Can you rape someone to death? Is that possible?” Gudrun asked shyly.

  Slim reached over and squeezed the young woman’s shoulder.

  “I put the small photo of my mother and her best friend Angela in my pocket. I packed up whatever supplies I could find, and then I left.”

  “Did you know where you were going?”

  “I wanted to go to Natzweiler to find my father. I went to the train station, and the ticket agent told me the trains weren’t running because the tracks had been destroyed by Allied bombs.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I started to walk west, and then I ran into Kronzi.”

  “Kronzi? Who’s Kronzi?”

  “It’s a nickname. It is short for crown prince. I met Kronzi at Berghof when I was twelve.”

  “You went to Berghof?” Slim asked, shocked that Gudrun had managed to go to Hitler’s mountainside retreat. “Did you meet Hitler?”

  “Yes, we were invited to the Mooslahnerkopf teahouse. My father was heading up research for Himmler’s Reich Anatomy Institute and was asked to present some of his findings to the Führer. Mother didn’t want to go, so I went in her place.”

  “So you knew that he was more than just a doctor seeing to the prisoners at the camp?”

  “Yes, I knew, but I thought he was doing important research.”

  “Gudrun, your father was gassing Greek Jews, removing their flesh, and having their skeletons sent to the Reich Anatomy Institute. That was his important research.” Gudrun winced as if Slim had hit her. She wanted to be clear that she wasn’t finding Gudrun’s father to reunite them; she was finding him because he was the last link in the chain to Marie Claire.

  “When the Allies interrogated me, they said he was doing experiments on the inmates. They never mentioned that he was”—Gudrun paused—“doing . . . such things.”

  “Who’s Kronzi?” Slim asked, moving on.

  “He’s Jäger’s son.”

  “Rudolf Jäger? One of the architects of the Final Solution?”

  “Yes, we both sought refuge in the Maulbronn Monastery. Kronzi told the monks that I was a girl, and they brought me to the Sisters of Notre Dame in Coesfeld.”

  “What happened to Kronzi?”

  “He’s studying to be a priest.”

  Slim laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” Gudrun asked.

  “You’re a nun, and he’s a priest. The ironies never cease.”

  “What can I do to help you, Miss Moran?” Gudrun asked.

  “I need you to bring me one of Sister Margaret’s habits tomorrow morning.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to make a visit to Bishop Alois Hudal. Do you know who he is?”

  “A little bit. He’s the head of the German church in Rome, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, and I think he might know where your father is.”

  After arranging to meet at nine the next morning, Gudrun left, and Slim walked over to the small bar set up in her room. She started to pour herself a drink of grappa, but the smell repelled her so much, she recorked the bottle. Where was Daniel? She wondered. He wasn’t much of a drinker, so he most likely was not drowning his sorrows with wine. Probably out walking. Sometimes he walked the streets from dawn until dusk. She slept intermittently, hoping that Daniel would knock on her door, but he didn’t.

  Slim got up early the next morning and ordered breakfast, and Gudrun arrived at nine on the dot.

  “I brought you one of Sister Margaret’s habits,” she said, holding up a luggage bag. “She said that you were both the same size when you were at school together.”

  “Come, sit and have something to eat,” Slim said as she shut the door behind them.

  “I am too nervous.”

  “Coffee’s
still hot, and I left you some rolls with jam and butter. You should try to eat. It’s going to be a long morning.” Slim took the garment bag into the dressing room attached to the bathroom, unzipped it, took out a black habit, and pulled the scratchy fabric over her head.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door.

  “Miss Moran, I forgot to give you the stockings and shoes.” Gudrun handed another bag to Slim, who pulled out thick black-cotton stockings and leather oxfords.

  When Slim emerged, she twirled around. “So do I look like a proper nun, Gudrun?”

  Gudrun shyly smiled, unsure of whether she should find this humorous.

  A rabbit warren of buildings, the Teutonic College of Santa Maria dell’Anima, also known as the Collegio Teutonico, had been established in 1876 to educate German priests. As one of the properties of the Holy See, the college was under papal jurisdiction, thereby untouchable by Italian law. Slim knew if anything happened to her inside its walls, she would most likely be unable to escape unscathed.

  They entered the Collegio through the side entrance, and at the rectory office, Slim asked to see Bishop Alois Hudal. When it became apparent only German or Italian was spoken, Gudrun took over, explaining that she had lost track of her father in the waning days of the war. She was hoping that Bishop Hudal could help her locate him, as she’d heard that he helped many Germans after the war.

  Slim could see the priest in the office hesitate, but then he asked Gudrun the name of her father. When he heard Gudrun say, “Gerhard Brandt,” the priest told them to wait. As the minutes ticked by, Slim could feel herself beginning to sweat under the austere garb while Gudrun’s stomach growled.

  “I told you to eat something,” Slim chided her. Gudrun seemed to be lost in thought. Was she thinking about what Slim had told her last night about her father’s role as a doctor in Natzweiler? Slim hadn’t meant to be cruel, but she needed Gudrun to understand why it was so important to find her father.

  “Gudrun, are you OK?” Slim whispered.

  The young woman shook her head no.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t turn my father in to you.”

  “I just need to speak to him.”

  “When the Allies interrogated me after my father escaped, they said he experimented with a typhus vaccine on the prisoners.”

  “Gudrun, I just want to find your father so he can tell me if the woman I have been looking for is still alive,” Slim said, trying to assuage her concerns, but she was worried. If Gudrun turned on her, then her journey to find Marie Claire would come to an abrupt end.

  “Then why did you tell me what he did? Why did you have to do that?” Gudrun’s lip quivered.

  “I wasn’t trying to be cruel, Gudrun. Look, I had a complicated life with my father, too. Do you know who he was? Did Sister Margaret ever tell you?”

  Gudrun shook her head no.

  “My father was Tyrone Moran.” When she was greeted by a blank stare, she said, “He was a movie star before your time. Everyone thought, ‘Her father must be like the man I see in the motion pictures, a swashbuckling romantic hero,’ but my father was a drunk who ignored me. You know, sometimes fathers can be two different people. You had one you loved, and you can’t accept what he did. I knew what my father did, and I didn’t love him. We are children of men who disappointed us. Gudrun, I need you. Can you help me?”

  The young woman nodded and then shyly looked at Slim. “Was your father really a movie star?”

  “Yes, and I’ve inherited a little bit of his talent, so let me take the lead when we meet Bishop Hudal, and translate exactly what I’ve said, OK? Don’t tell him why I want to find your father. Just stick with why you need to find him.”

  “I understand. Do you think my father is in South America?”

  “I have no idea. You know, Gudrun, he might not even be alive.”

  “I know, but I hope he is.”

  “I hear someone coming. Are you on my team?” Slim looked into Gudrun’s pale blue eyes.

  “I’m on your team. Did you grow up in Hollywood?”

  “A little bit. I’ve met a lot of movie stars. How about I tell you about them after we meet with the bishop? We’ll get some gelato in Piazza Navona.”

  Gudrun grinned, and suddenly, she seemed to be her age. The door opened, and the priest motioned for them both to follow him.

  Bishop Hudal was seated at a large mahogany desk. Behind him velvet drapes were drawn, blocking the sun and making the room feel dismal and oppressive. The priest who led them in murmured something to Gudrun and then bowed slightly to Hudal and left the room.

  “His Excellency is very busy. We have only ten minutes,” she whispered to Slim.

  Hudal nodded and motioned for them to sit. Slim turned to Gudrun and said, “Please tell His Excellency that my name is Sister Margaret Dunham, and I am here to assist you in finding your father.” Slim affected a stern if haughty tone. The bishop looked up at Gudrun quizzically after she translated what Slim said. He answered back in rapid-fire German.

  “His Excellency says that although he wishes he could help us, he has never met my father and does not know his whereabouts.”

  “Ask His Excellency if he would kindly double-check his book and see if he can find your father in it.”

  “Sister, he says he does not know to which book you refer.”

  Slim realized that she was getting nowhere, so she tried a different tactic.

  “Tell His Excellency that we were sent by the son of your father’s colleague, Rudolf Jäger.”

  Upon hearing the name of Jäger, Hudal stood up. He walked around his desk and asked Gudrun a bunch of questions. She seemed to shrink visibly at each one.

  “Tell His Excellency that because you are a minor and under my care that he must kindly direct all questions to me,” Slim said sternly, trying to regain control of the conversation.

  This did not seem to endear the myopic bishop to their cause at all.

  “What is His Excellency asking you, Sister Gudrun?”

  “His Excellency would like to know where Rudolf Jäger’s son is.”

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  “I promised that I would never tell anyone where Kronzi is.”

  “His Excellency is testing you. He knows where Kronzi is.”

  “But . . .”

  “Do as I say.”

  Gudrun told him.

  “His Excellency wants to know why I think my father is alive.”

  “Tell him that you heard through Kronzi that your father was still alive.”

  “His Excellency would like to know why I would like to find my father.”

  “Tell him that your brother was killed on the eastern front, your mother was murdered, and you wish to join the only relative you have left. Tell him exactly what happened the day Karlsruhe was overrun by the French colonial troops. Don’t leave out any detail. He’s testing you to see who you are.”

  Bishop Hudal let Gudrun speak uninterrupted. Her voice wavered and at times fell to barely a whisper as she counted the events of that awful day. When she was done, Hudal took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She blew her nose and tried to hand it back. He motioned for her to keep it.

  No one spoke for a minute, and Slim listened as the cuckoo clock in the background ticked. Finally, Hudal began to talk. Gudrun translated.

  “His Excellency says that he is sorry that such a good Catholic girl as myself went through such horror. He says that my mother is a martyr now and that she has ascended to heaven,” Gudrun whispered and then continued reluctantly. “His Excellency says that the Jews caused this war and that we, good Germans, have to pay for their sins.”

  Slim looked at Hudal and thought, Was this necessary now?

  “His Excellency knows that you are an American. He wonders what your opinion is.”

  “Tell His Excellency that I lost three brothers in the war, and I wish it had never happened.” Slim did her best to sound both wounded and noncommittal. She saw Huda
l nod as Gudrun translated.

  “His Excellency says that he will have someone from the German college take me to see my father.”

  “Ask him if he is in Europe.”

  “His Excellency said that he is in Europe, but only I will be brought to see him.”

  “Tell him that I am responsible for you and that I cannot let you go off on your own.”

  “His Excellency says that it is not possible for you to come.”

  “Then sadly, it is not feasible for you to go, either. Perhaps His Excellency will allow you to write a letter to your father, and he can forward it on for you.”

  After Gudrun relayed this, Hudal glared at Slim. Obviously, this was a man used to getting his way. There was a long pause, and then Hudal finally spoke.

  “His Excellency said that he would think about it and get back to you by the end of the day. I gave him the name of our convent.”

  Hudal rose and extended his hand. Slim walked over, followed by Gudrun. As she kissed the amethyst ring, she wondered how many war criminals had done the same.

  After leaving the gate of the Collegio’s compound, Slim took Gudrun by the arm and led her to the wide-open rectangle of Piazza Navona. Her father used to take her there. He’d sit drinking with a crowd of sycophants while she’d chase a whirling saucer on a stick bought from a peddler. It was midmorning, and the outdoor cafes were getting ready to open for the day. White-jacketed waiters unstacked chairs. There was a sense of a slow urgency; the fall, morning air was crisp, but the last of the summer’s heat would soon make the languid tourists stop for drinks or a light lunch.

  Slim walked over to the cafe her father used to frequent and pointed to the glass case filled with round cardboard containers.

  “How about some gelato, Gudrun?”