The Lost Boy

by Kate Moira Ryan

  “In 1940, ten thousand Polish officers were murdered by the Soviets in the Katyn Forest,” Pasha said.

  “The Germans did it just like they did everything else,” Krzysztof angrily spat out.

  “Krzysztof, I had access to classified information from Winston Churchill. The Soviets tried to pin Katyn on the Germans during the Nuremberg Trials. As we speak, there’s a report being brought to the U.S. Congress by the former Ambassador to Poland, Arthur Bliss.” Pasha then switched into Polish and spoke to his cousin in a measured tone. Slim could see the knuckles on Krzysztof ’s fingers grip the steering wheel as they drove out of Warsaw.

  Krzysztof had calmed down by the time they were passing through Pruszków. “Durchgangslager was in Pruszków. Did you hear of it, Miss Moran, in any of your searches?” Krzysztof asked.

  Slim shook her head no. “I’m assuming it’s another camp because it has the suffix lager attached.”

  “You are right. It was a transport camp on the site of the train repair shops. After the Warsaw uprising, 650,000 went through there. Poles of every extraction, old, young, workers, laborers, Polish Jews on Aryan papers, even a prince.”

  “You were imprisoned there?” Slim asked.

  “Yes. I was lucky. I didn't get sent to Treblinka. There are so many of these satellite camps that no one knows. We are passing the camp now. It is to the right. There were so many of us, the old, the very young, the sick. The rest of us were slaughtered, you know. We took up our arms to fight the Germans thinking the Allies would help us.”

  “The Soviet Army was just outside Warsaw. They could have helped you, but no, they wanted to bring Poland to her knees so they could conquer you,” Pasha said with disdain.

  After that, no one spoke. The three drove on through towns with low brick walls and through forests of endless evergreen trees. The remnants of war were not as distinct as in Warsaw, but there were not so subtle reminders: burned out cars, and in one case a downed plane in the middle of a field, with children playing on top. Slim closed her eyes and soon she was fast asleep.

  They arrived in Zywiec late that evening. Slim opened her eyes to take in the sixteenth-century buildings painted in yellows, reds and greens. At the center of the square Slim could make out a fountain. Where were they going to stay, she wondered. She didn’t have to wonder long as they were approached quickly by an innkeeper desperate for Western money.

  They found themselves in comfortable, clean rooms overlooking the square, but Slim had slept so long in the car she had a hard time falling asleep. Finally, around two in the morning, Slim succumbed. Her slumber was not to be peaceful. She dreamt of Daniel. He was there holding Tiny, whispering to her. As she came closer, he looked up and smiled. “I have decided on a name. She is to be named Adrienne. We can call her Adi.”

  Slim woke up with her arms empty. She closed her eyes again, wanting to walk back into the dream; it was too late.

  She met Krzysztof and Pasha in the dining room. They were eating sweet rolls called drożdzówka. Krzysztof poured her a cup of tea. “I was just telling Pasha that while you two are on the hunt for your photographer, I am going to visit the Hapsburg Palace where I played cowboys and Indians with my childhood friend, Archduke Karl Albrecht. We were mad about American Westerns. I want to walk the grounds and reminisce. The innkeeper told me they’re turning the palace into a technical school.”

  “What happened to your friend, the Archduke?” Slim asked.

  “During the occupation, he declared himself Polish; he was arrested and tortured by the Gestapo. Karl Albrecht left prison paralyzed and almost blind. He lives in Stockholm now. None of our lives turned out the way we thought.”

  With that, Krzysztof stood up and excused himself. Pasha took the address the woman at the Red Cross had given him. He asked the innkeeper for directions, who shook his head no.

  “What is he saying, Pasha?”

  “He’s saying that Brasse is no longer a photographer; he’s a sausage maker. The innkeeper buys his sausage there. He told me where Brasse’s small factory is. It’s not too far a walk.”

  Slim put her arm through Pasha’s and they walked off in the direction the innkeeper had told them to go.

  They arrived at a red brick workshop and asked for Brasse. A blonde man in his thirties with a nose that looked like it belonged to James Cagney, stepped out in an apron. He looked at them, surprised, especially at Slim; surprised to see such well-dressed woman.

  Pasha explained why they were there. Brasse nodded, took off his apron, shouted to a worker and then grabbed his cap.

  They followed him to a small cafe. He motioned for both of them to sit and then said something softly.

  “He wants to see the photo of the boy,” Pasha translated.

  Slim took out the mugshot and slid it over. Brasse looked down at the photo. His expression changed, the young man in his thirties looked back at her ashen and aged. He began and Pasha translated.

  “He learned photography from his aunt in Katowice. His father was Austrian, his mother Polish. In 1939 when the Germans came to Zywiec, he was imprisoned by the Gestapo after refusing to swear allegiance to Germany. After he was released, he refused to be forced into the German army. Brasse ran off to join the Polish resistance. In 1940 he was captured on the Hungarian border and deported to Auschwitz, where his prisoner number was 3444.” He looked at the old man behind the bar and said, “Wódka, proszę.”

  The barkeep brought over a clear bottle with three small glasses placing them on the scarred wooden table. Brasse poured himself a drink and threw it back.

  “He worked in the kitchen peeling potatoes until February 15, 1941 until he was summoned to the Political Department of the camp.”

  ✽✽✽

  1941 — Auschwitz

  Brasse was terrified when Haupscharführer Palitzsch called out his name to go to Block 13. He was sure they were going to shoot him against the death wall. And why not? Palitzsch was in a fury. Just last night, he had lined up a helpless Jehovah’s Witness and tried to get him to say, “Got its tot.” When the Jehovah’s Witness refused to say that God did not exist, Brasse watched as Palitzsch kicked him to death. Palitzsch was sadistic, and his attacks were random, brutal and ultimately led to death. On the walk to Block 13, Brasse was joined by three others who were equally terrified. “Why do they want me? I’m just a photographer from Warsaw,” one of them said in a voice just above a whisper.

  “So am I,” Brasse responded. It turned out the other two men were photographers as well. As they were led into Rudolf Hoess’s office, a blonde secretary looked up curiously and caught Brasse’s eye. In another time, Brasse thought he might have smiled back or even winked. A door opened and a member of the SS came in. The four looked at each other uneasily and wondered if they were to be part of another sick game.

  “I am Oberscharführer Walter. I will be interviewing each one of you about your knowledge of photography.”

  Brasse relaxed. Photography was the one thing he knew. In fact at age 24, it was the only thing he was confident he could do.

  They were made to answer a series of questions about working in the darkroom, mixing chemicals, using fixer, developing fluid, copying, enlarging and about portrait photography. When it was Brasse’s turn, Walter asked, “What makes you a good portrait photographer?”

  Brasse smiled. “I can put people at ease,” he replied in flawless German. Walter looked at him curiously.

  “You speak German?” Walter asked.

  “My father is Austrian.”

  “The rest of you are dismissed,” Walter said with a curt nod. The other men filed out, looking at Brasse enviously.

  Walter took a pad out of his front pocket. “This is your transfer to Block 25.”

  Twenty minutes later, Brasse was led into barracks next to the crematorium. Brasse noticed there was a sink in the corner with running water and even a toilet that flushed. Also, there were bunk beds with real bedding stacked up against the wall. He had been s
leeping on the floor for a year. The next day he started at the Identification Unit. He had found his foothold, his safety net and he knew then he would survive Auschwitz.

  ✽✽✽

  1950 — Zywiec

  Brasse’s hands began to shake as he lifted the carafe of vodka. Slim took it and poured him another shot. As she moved towards Pasha’s glass, he held his hand up to refuse. Slim was unsure how to proceed. She could push Brasse to try and remember the boy in the photograph, or she could let him talk. Experience had taught her that there was two type of interviews — one where direct questions were asked and answered and one where the interviewer was allowed to ramble. She often found that although the latter took longer and was more roundabout than what she wanted, it also allowed her to get more context for the information that she was pursuing.

  “Ask Mr. Brasse about the type of camera he used,” Slim said, deciding upon the latter approach.

  Pasha gave her a quick look of surprise, and asked. Brasse visibly relaxed. His hand stopped shaking, and he began to speak in a matter of fact manner.

  “He said they used a large professional camera with a Zeiss lens, which shot in an 18 x 24–centimeter format. All the equipment had been sent over from the Sachsenhausen camp. The camera stood on a platform a meter and a half wide and four meters long. Attached to the platform was a camera on a stand, and it was outfitted so it could take three mugshots in different positions. The focus never had to be changed, and there was a swivel chair which allowed him to move the subjects quickly,” Pasha translated, rolling his eyes, then looked pointedly at Slim to hurry up.

  “What were the three positions you shot?” Slim asked, ignoring Pasha.

  Brasse pointed to the photograph of the boy. “Cap in half profile.” He pointed to the second mugshot. “Without the hat.” Then lastly, he pointed to the third, “In profile.”

  “For each shot, he pulled a lever, and the chair swiveled into the correct position. The Germans kept paperwork on everyone.” Pasha said wryly.

  “Did you always take photographs of children?” Slim asked.

  “No, he started in 1942, when they began expelling Polish families from the Zamość region. He remembers this one girl. Her name was Czesława Kwoka.”

  “Didn't they only identify the prisoners by numbers? How did you know her name?”

  “He always asked,” Pasha said as Brasse looked at Slim, barely meeting her eyes.

  ✽✽✽

  1942 — Auschwitz

  The girl came in after her mother. Her striped uniform was so large it had to be safety pinned together at the lapel to prevent it from falling open. Her freshly shaved hair was matting from the summer heat. She looked around curiously. A woman Kapo hurried her along yelling, “Schnell!” at her.

  Brasse looked at the girl quizzically. How old was she? Maybe eleven or twelve, perhaps thirteen? She seemed different from the other prisoners. What was it? She didn’t have the starved look the Jews from ghettos had. The girl looked cared for and well fed. Brasse motioned for her to sit. She climbed up in the chair. He took a plaid wool scarf and tied it around her head, so the opposite ends looked like two long ponytails. He could imagine her in a dress on Sunday, going to church, hitting her brothers. There was something quite healthy about her. He smiled at her and then took the shot. Just as he was about to tell her to remove the scarf, the Kapo began shouting at her in German. The girl looked at her then at Brasse, asking beseechingly, “What does she want me to do?”

  Before he could say anything, the Kapo began hitting the girl with a stick, shouting at her. Brasse saw the girl hold her hands up trying to protect herself from the blows. Then the Kapo ripped off the scarf covering the girl’s head in disgust and threw it on the floor. She exited the room, leaving Brasse with the whimpering girl. He picked up the scarf and handed it to her. “Here. Wipe your tears,” he said softly. The girl started wiping her tears. He touched his lip and looked at her. A small tongue licked the blood from her torn lips. He pulled the level; the chair swiveled, the girl jumped, scared at the sudden movement. “I am just taking another angle. What is your name?” Brasse said softly.

  The girl looked at the number on her chest and responded, “Czesława Kwoka.”

  Brasse pulled the lever again, and this time the girl did not flinch. He looked at her and saw the grave fear in her eyes. The flash went off. The girl had no idea what was in store for her, but Brasse knew one thing: he would not forget her.

  ✽✽✽

  1950 — Zywiec

  Brasse looked down at his hands, then spoke. Pasha translated. “After he came back to Zywiec, he tried to be a photographer again, but he kept remembering that girl’s expression. Her look of horror. Everyone he photographed haunted him in his dreams. He could not look through another lens.”

  He looked at the Auschwitz photo of the boy and tapped it. “This boy was murdered like the girl.”

  “You are positive?” Slim asked, “Surely you photographed thousands of children.”

  “He did, and most were gassed. He knows this boy is dead, because Mengele told him to photograph him. Mengele?” Pasha asked Slim, “Who is Mengele?”

  “He was called the 'The Angel of Death.' He was a doctor who did experiments on children." Slim replied, "Ask him what sort of experiments he witnessed.”

  Brasse did not answer right away. Finally, he started speaking. Pasha translated, “They were sick, sick experiments. He’d inject blue dye into children’s eyes trying to change their color and then perform autopsies on them while they were still alive.”

  “And you had to take photos of these experiments?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And you remember this boy? You believe he was killed by one of these experiments,” Slim asked.

  “Yes. he photographed his body.”

  Pasha stood up. He threw a stack of zloty on the table. Slim followed suit, “Thank you for your help.” They had their answer. As far as Slim knew, she could close the case but then Brasse spoke again. Pasha turned suddenly.

  "What did he say?" Slim asked.

  “He said he photographed both their bodies,” Pasha said.

  Slim stopped. “What does he mean both their bodies?”

  “He was sewn to his twin. They died of gangrene.”

  “His twin?” Slim asked.

  “Yes. Mengele liked to perform experiments on identical twins. One was always the control but in this case…” Brasse trailed off. Pasha paused.

  “Are you telling me this boy was a twin?” Slim pointed to the photograph.

  “He says, yes. Dr. Mengele was very excited about these two boys. He used to bring them chocolates. They called Dr. Mengele 'uncle'. They were like pets to him. Brasse hoped they would be spared, but then he was summoned to Mengele’s laboratory and asked to take a photograph.”

  “You are certain this boy was a twin?” Slim asked.

  Brasse nodded and spoke.

  “He and his brother had just turned 12.” Pasha said.

  “Twelve? Do you know when this was taken?” Slim asked.

  Brasse answered. Pasha cleared his throat. “In August of 1942. Dr. Mengele saw his photos and wanted him to photograph pictures of his ‘experiments.’” Brasse nearly spat out this last word. “He summoned me to Block 10. They recognized him and said, ‘Do you remember us? You took our picture last week. We’re the Nowicki twins. It’s our birthday, and uncle gave us chocolates!’”

  “And when did you see them next?” Slim asked.

  “The last week of August, when he was asked to photograph them. Their bodies had been sewn together. One was already dead. Later, Dr. Mengele called him in to express his happiness with the pictures that Brasse had taken,” Pasha said. He looked at Slim incredulous.

  “You are certain that this boy is a twin? And the year this was taken?” Slim asked.

  “Yes. He wants to know if someone told you this was the boy you were looking for?” Pasha translated.

  “Yes. The
y thought it might be. Someone from the International Tracing Service.”

  “Brasse says that’s very odd,” Pasha said.

  “Why is it odd?” Slim asked.

  “He says because almost every name has a record. The person who gave you this photograph could have cross-referenced the number the boy is holding, and saw his name in the Auschwitz records,” Brasse replied through Pasha.

  They sat there until Pasha broke the silence. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Slim got up.

  “He hopes you find that boy you’re looking for,” Pasha said.

  “I hope so too,” Slim replied.

  Brasse nodded and went back to his drink.

  Slim was quiet on the way back to the inn. Pasha lit a cigarette and coughed.

  “Those things are going to kill you,” Slim said, breaking the silence.

  “Look, if the Bolsheviks couldn't kill me, my Dunhills won’t.” He took a long drag, filling his lungs with smoke.

  “I heard about Dr. Mengele from Remy, the woman who works for me in Paris. Mengele personally led her two children to the gas chambers.”

  “I had heard something about Nazi experiments, but not the name Mengele. My work is of a more covert nature. I never dealt with crimes against humanity.”

  “Then what — what exactly did you do in the war? What are you doing now?” Slim didn’t mean to sound short, but she was tired of this cat and mouse with the Soviets again.

  “It’s to keep England safe. That’s all I can say.”

  They walked along and Slim blurted out, “This boy in the picture, he’s a week away from being sewn to his brother. I cannot even comprehend this.”

  “They were all a bunch of psychopathic criminals,” Pasha replied.

  “There’s one thing I can’t wrap my head around.”

  “What’s that?” Pasha asked.

  “That anyone can be a criminal.” Slim stopped on the road by a short red brick wall and leaned against it.

  “Slim, are you okay?” Pasha threw his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out with his foot. He put his hand on her back and whispered, “Slim?”