The Lost Boy

by Kate Moira Ryan

  “We’re going to try and help this woman find her son. Now, you know what you can do, Barbara? Take the carriage and wheel Tiny up the block and back,” Warner said.

  “I’ll do it if you take me to the Luxembourg Gardens to race sailboats,” Barbara said impishly.

  “I’ll give you money to do that, and you can go with your governess later.” Barbara took the carriage and headed down the street. Warner watched her go, “From Zwierzyniec to governesses and Swiss boarding schools. How did we get from there to here?” Warner asked, patting the sweat off his neck with a handkerchief.

  Remy came out and addressed the distraught woman in Polish. They spoke for about five minutes and then Remy began to translate into French. Slim relayed what was said in English.

  “Uncle Jack, she said she’s from a village just outside of Zwierzyniec. Her father owned a farm. Before the Germans came, she worked as a maid for one of the families in Zwierzyniec. In 1943, the Nazis came and said they needed their farm for ethnic Germans living in the area. They were told they were being resettled and to pack ten kilos worth of clothes and supplies.”

  “Resettled where?” Françoise asked.

  “They were brought to a transport camp in Zwierzyniec and her son was taken.”

  “Who took her son?” Warner asked.

  “The SS. They took her son. They said they would give him to a German family. Then she was deported to Auschwitz. She has been trying to find him for five years, since her liberation from the camp,” Slim replied.

  Slim sighed. Five years was a long time to search.

  Shakily, the woman unsnapped her worn handbag, pulled out papers and said, in heavily accented English, “Chicago, America.” Remy handed the papers to Slim.

  “She said there is a group in Chicago that will give them a new life. They will pay their passage. She has six weeks to find him before the ship leaves for Chicago. If she does not, she will have to go alone.” Slim translated from Remy’s French.

  “How did she find me?” Slim asked, curious how someone who did not speak French could find an American detective living in the Marais.

  “Monsieur Claude from Tour D’Argent gave her your address,” Remy replied in French.

  Slim met Claude Terrail, owner of the famous Michelin-starred restaurant when she was working on her last case, finding a missing female British spy. He had been a friend to her father and had even offered to host her wedding, but Slim had been too pregnant to want a big ‘to do.’

  “We’re going there tonight. Barbara is going to have her first duck.” Warner said.

  “I’m jealous,” Slim said.

  “Come with us.”

  “No. I’m still a bit worn out from the birth.” Slim smiled wanly; she was feeling tired again.

  “While you two chat, I’m going to feed this woman,” Françoise said. Although gruff, she did have a soft heart when it came to those battered by the war. She and Remy led the woman inside.

  Warner waited for them to be out of earshot and then said, “Still no word from Daniel? I heard everything from Marlene.”

  “Not a peep,” Slim said, trying not to dissolve into tears.

  “Marlene said you think Klaus Barbie took him,” said Warner skeptically. “Slim, I’ve done plenty of Nazi movies, but if someone came up with that plot, I’d order a rewrite.”

  “Klaus Barbie told me himself that he was looking for Daniel,” Slim said. In her last case, she had been kidnapped and tortured by the infamous ‘Butcher of Lyon’ because Barbie had been trying to find Daniel. “Rumor has it that Barbie’s doing counterintelligence for the Americans against the Russians, so he’s untouchable,” Slim continued.

  “The communists are not to be taken lightly.” Jack Warner hated communism with a passion and wasn’t shy about letting anyone know it.

  “Neither were the Nazis, Uncle Jack.” After working for four years at a Red Cross Displaced Persons Center, Slim had seen first hand the physical and emotional devastation the Nazis had wrought. “I don’t think the Americans should be using them against the Russians. Look, I don’t want to get into an ideological argument with you, Uncle Jack. I’m glad you and Barbara came to see me. She’s grown so much.”

  Warner smiled, “She’s a great kid. Anne and I are fortunate to have her. Listen, Slim, what are you going to do with that Polish woman looking for her son?”

  “I’m going to tell her that I’ve just had a baby and I am exhausted. The truth is, if she hasn’t found her son in five years it’s likely he’s dead.”

  “But what if he was taken in by a German family and adopted? She has a right to know what happened to her son.”

  “I suppose, but…” Slim trailed off.

  “Right after we started liberating the camps, Eisenhower flew a bunch of us studio heads over to see what was going on and what I saw was indescribable.” Warner sighed. “Look, that woman is from the same town that my family fled. Like I said, her father and uncles are probably the reason that I’m the head of Warner Brothers. I mean if they hadn’t driven us out, I would have been gassed too. I’ll pay your fee if you help her find her son.”

  Slim laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” Warner asked, puzzled by her reaction.

  “My father once told me you’re the cheapest man alive.”

  “He should know. He died with the first dollar he ever made in his fist.”

  “He said you used to dock the studio hands’ pay if they didn’t turn out the lights on the sound stages.”

  “Electricity costs money.”

  “He also said you made Joan Crawford wear the same dress in three movies,” Slim said, baiting him.

  “Ah, what can I say? When you grow up without a nickel, it’s hard to see money wasted. I do want you to take on this job if you can. It would do you good to start working again. Think about it. Ah, here’s Barbara with Tiny. I think that name suits her. Tiny Moran.”

  “Tiny Cohen.”

  “An Irish Jew, that’s all we need. Takes paranoid to a whole new level,” Warner said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ✽✽✽

  Later that evening, Slim sat down with Remy and the thin Polish woman in her office upstairs from the bar while Tiny slept in a bassinet nearby. She took out her embossed leather notebook and began to copy down details of the woman’s case.

  “First off, what is your name?” Slim asked, while Remy translated.

  “Her name is Lena Machak,” Remy replied.

  “What is your son’s name?” As futile as it seemed, Slim knew it was important to refer to the child as if he were still alive. After all, he might be. It didn’t seem likely, but again, it would allow Lena to talk without spilling over into grief.

  “Her son’s name is Karol. She is from a farm just outside of Zwierzyniec…” Remy began explaining.

  “Yes, I know where she is from,” Slim said, trying not to let her impatience get the best of her. Maybe she should have Remy stay with the baby again tonight so she could get some sleep.

  “It is part of the county of Zamość and the region is known for its black, fertile soil. She lived there with her father, Mlan.” Remy translated Lena’s words slowly. “They lived on the farm for several generations until the Nazis expelled them.”

  “Why did they expel you?” To Slim, this made no sense. Why didn’t the Germans just keep the Poles as slave labor? The latter thought was abhorrent, but at least it would have allowed them to survive.

  “They wanted to colonize Poland for Germany,” Remy said.

  “So what happened the day of the expulsion?” Slim stifled a yawn. What she would do for a strong pot of coffee. But she better not, if she wanted to get some sleep tonight.

  “They came at night — November 27, 1942. She had just put Karol to bed when she heard the shouting.”

  ✽✽✽

  1942 — Poland

  Lena went first into the small bedroom she shared with Karol and began to pack while Karol played quietly with hi
s metal Polish Cavalry soldiers on the bed His breath condensed in the air. The window had been left open by her father who believed that the cold air built hearty children. The straw and bale cottage her father built when she was born kept the house insulated in the winter and cool in the summer. She pulled the shutter closed. Karol was a healthy child, but she didn’t want to tempt fate.

  The rumors were beginning to swirl when she went to town yesterday to sell eggs at the farmer’s market at Plac Na Stawach in Zwierzyniec. People whispered that the Germans were taking their black, fertile soil for their people, but they hadn't yet. All the Germans seemed to want were the Jews. In 1939 they started shooting them in the Jewish cemetery close to the railway station and the nearby Borek forest. It was quiet for a while. Then in September 1942 the Germans decided to get rid of them all. Some were shot point blank, others shipped away in cattle cars to an unknown destination. In turn, Jewish homes were looted by the Poles who were disappointed not to find what they imagined to be untold wealth in the modest houses of their neighbors.

  The extermination of the Jews of Zwierzyniec made the town seem empty. The buildings in the square were pockmarked by bullets and the shops initially occupied by Jewish tradesmen had been taken over by their Polish neighbors. Mr. Pacemczuk, the elderly shoemaker, whispered to Lena that Zamość was to be renamed Himmlerstadt after Heinrich Himmler, one of the most powerful men in Nazi Germany.

  If Lena left with Karol and her father, where would they go? She couldn’t take them into the forest, Karol was too young to survive there. Perhaps, the Germans would let them stay on their farm as workers and then, after the war, maybe, the farm would be theirs again. When she told her father this, he berated her for being naive. In his mind, the Germans had come for the Jews, and the Poles would be next. “They want us only as slaves,” he had said with bitterness.

  And as promised, they had come. Her father entered the doorway with two SS men. One of them was waving a paper with their names on it. The other spied Karol. He pointed to his blonde hair. The first SS man nodded. Lena grew fearful and went to the boy’s side.

  “Lena, it’s time.” Her father scooped up Karol and placed the boy in her arms. A metal soldier dropped from his small fist to the floor. The younger of the SS men kicked it under the bed and then said to Lena, “Schnell.”

  ✽✽✽

  “Did they take Karol from you that night?” Slim asked, trying to piece together the timeline of events.

  “No, not right away. First, they took them to a transport camp where she worked in the kitchen. Then she had a confrontation with one of the guards and Karol was taken away from her. She has not seen him since.”

  “Did you contact the Polish Red Cross?” Slim asked.

  “She has written to them many times. They contacted the International Tracing Service, but the same answer always came back, ‘We regret to inform you that we cannot find your son, Karol.’” Remy said.

  Slim knew that reply well. During her job at the Red Cross, she had written many times to the International Tracing Service in Bad Arolsen for people seeking news of their relatives and received the same reply.

  “I can try some of my old contacts, but the files are being turned over to Germany from the Allies and I heard it’s a bit of bureaucratic mess right now.”

  “Lena says that the United Nations has stopped actively looking for missing children. They’re not taking on any new cases and 1951 is the last year children will be allowed to repatriate.”

  “I guess they feel that the children are either deceased or too old to be sent back. How old would Karol be now?”

  “He was kidnapped at seven and a half. He would be around fourteen.”

  “But, you don’t want to go back to Poland. You want to go to Chicago, is that right?” Slim asked.

  The woman’s eyes lit up at the mention of Chicago. She nodded vigorously.

  “What about your father?” Slim was trying to figure out if anyone was left.

  “He escaped into the forest and joined the partisans and became part of the Zamość uprising. After the war, the Soviets took over and shot all the partisans because they were anti-communists. She assumes he is dead. That’s why she doesn’t want to go back.”

  Slim yawned, “Okay, that’s all for tonight. Tomorrow I will let you know if I can take on the case.”

  Slim took Tiny and said goodnight. The baby was up every three hours, and finally Slim took her to the bed. She undid her nightgown and laid the infant on her skin. That soothed her. They slept like that for five hours straight. When Slim awoke, she peered down and saw Tiny’s diaphragm move up and down as she inhaled and exhaled. She looked at the baby in wonder. Tiny was hers alone. Daniel's disappearance was without an explanation. She had called everyone she knew, hunted down every lead and everything led to a dead end. After Tiny’s birth, all she could feel was rage towards him. Why had she had this baby? She looked at Tiny and told her herself to quit whining.

  Yes, Daniel was gone, but she wasn't alone. She had Remy, Françoise, and Margaret. Perhaps, Daniel would find his way home. Slim patted the soft spot of Tiny’s skull. Soon it would close up. Tiny stirred again, and her lips smacked. She was starting to wake and would need feeding.

  The next morning Slim awoke and noticed Tiny gone. She heard Remy in the next room cooing at the baby while changing her diaper.

  “You slept in, Madame Daniel. It is good for you to sleep,” Remy said, nodding approvingly.

  Since Slim’s marriage, Remy had switched from Mademoiselle Slim to Madame Daniel to signify her entrance into the ranks of matrimony.

  “Where is Lena?” Slim asked.

  “She is staying with friends in Belleville. She asked me to give you this.” Remy handed her an envelope. “She said please not to lose it; it is all she has left of her son.”

  In the envelope was a small black and white photo of a boy outside a thatched cottage squinting into the camera. Barefoot, dressed in dark pants hiked up with suspenders and a white shirt too large for his tiny frame, the bangs of his white blonde hair hung under a peaked cap. The small boy held the hand of someone; Slim couldn’t tell who the hand belonged to because the photo was torn in half. She peered at the picture more closely. The small hand of the boy hung limply in the grasp of slender fingers. A woman held the boy’s hand; Slim was sure of it. But was it Lena? Something else caught her attention, on the woman’s hand was a gold watch with a heart face.

  She pulled out a piece of white parchment. It appeared to be a baptismal certificate for Karol. A torn snapshot and smudged piece of paper were all that remained of a seven-year-old boy. Then she realized he wasn't seven anymore. He would no longer be a small child, but a teenager now. Then something occurred to her. Who was this boy’s father? Lena had mentioned her father, but not the boy's father. She opened the envelope and pulled out a birth certificate. There was no name under father.

  Slim went downstairs to the bar expecting to find Tiny in Remy’s arms. Instead, when she pushed open the door, Slim saw Tiny in the arms of what appeared to be a model in the latest Christian Dior dress leaning against the brick wall of the cafe. A man clad in dungarees and a wrinkled shirt snapped their photo.

  Slim turned to Françoise, who nodded to the photographer, “Don Honeyman from Vogue.”

  Don smiled without stopping. “Hope this is okay.”

  “Using my bar for a photo shoot or using my baby?” Although Slim co-owned the bar with Françoise, sometimes she did pull rank.

  “Okay, let’s take ten. Madame Cohen, this is Juliette Greco.” He spoke in a Midwestern accent. His smile was broad and welcoming.

  A dark-eyed brunette with her eyes slightly obscured by bangs handed Tiny back to Remy, who did a quick check to make sure the infant was unharmed.

  Françoise set a café au lait down next to Slim and popped open two Coca-Cola bottles for Don and Juliette. Juliette took hers and went into the bathroom to change into another outfit.

  “Juliette is the
muse l’existentionalism,” Don said as he changed out the film in his Leica.

  “Dior wants a beatnik to model his clothes?” Slim asked, surprised. Dior’s models were usually culled in-house, not from the Café de Flore, where Jean-Paul Sartre and his acolytes hung out.

  “Believe you me, it’s going to be quite the scandal once this rag hits the stands,” Honeyman took a long swig of his coke. “Françoise tells me that you’re a detective, Madame Cohen.”

  “Call me Slim, please.” This sudden rise to bourgeoise respectability irked her. “I find those lost in the war.”

  “I’m Don, by the way. Are you working on anything now?” Honeyman stood up and started adjusting his light meter in a doorway.

  “Yesterday, a distraught Polish woman claimed the Germans kidnapped her seven-year-old son during the war.” Slim sipped the bowl of mostly foam.

  Honeyman stopped what he was doing and turned to Slim, “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, why?” Slim was starting to feel hungry, which was probably a good thing. After Tiny’s birth, she had lost her appetite.

  “My wife, Gitta, worked for UNRRA after the war. You know, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. Her job was to track down the stolen children.”

  “Stolen children?” When Slim worked for the Red Cross, she mostly reunited survivors of the concentration camps. She had never dealt with ‘stolen children.’

  “The Germans went into Poland and took children for Germanization only if they fit the mold, if you catch my drift.” Honeyman was winding the film with his thumb against the wheel.

  “I don’t.” Slim was thoroughly confused.

  “Blonde, blue-eyed, heck they even measured the shape of these kids’ heads to make sure they were the perfect Aryan specimen. Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow? Gitta can tell you all about it.”

  “UNRRA got shut down in 1946, didn’t they?” Slim asked. Somewhere in the other room, she heard a phone ring.

  “1947. Come over. We’re at 15 Frederic Saunton right across from Notre Dame. Somehow we wound up with one helluva view. I wake up and think, this boy from Iowa has got it made.”