The Lost Boy

by Kate Moira Ryan

  Chapter nine

  Afterward, on the drive back, Slim was once again lost in her thoughts. It seemed that the news immediately after the war and the years following it reported only the atrocities committed and very little of the individual sacrifices of ordinary people—and some extraordinary — as in the case of the Countess, had made. These small yet significant acts of courage had been like drops in a bucket. The more buckets that were filled, the more water there was to wash away all the blood. It was in these unknown acts some humanity had been saved.

  They decided to leave for Bavaria the next day. Krzysztof arranged a small dinner for the three of them at Hotel Polonia Palace. He arrived promptly at eight, cleanly shaven in a pre-war suit with wide lapels and a broad grin. They spoke of the different people they had met on their search for the boy, then he and Pasha told tales of their pre-war misbehavior.

  “Since our mothers were sisters, like King George V and Tsar Nicholas, we were almost identical. Like our mothers were. When we were around ten no one could tell us apart. We decided at the end of one visit that we would switch places. Back then all children were dressed in white sailor suits. So I stayed very happily in Poland and Krzysztof went to my palace to St. Petersburg. It took a week for anyone to notice. And when they did, I was punished,” Pasha laughed.

  “How did they discover you had changed places?”

  “My tutor figured it out. Pasha’s French accent was too good to be mine,” Krzysztof laughed.

  “We wouldn’t be able to do it now, would we?” Pasha said, smacking Krzysztof ’s belly.

  Slim left them to spend their last evening together. Slim knew Pasha wanted to spend more time with his cousin. She went into the lobby, asked for two long-distance phone calls to be placed and then took an elevator ride upstairs to her room. An hour later one of the calls finally came through. It was Gran on the line.

  “Slim, do you have any idea what time it is?” she demanded in her imperious voice.

  “Gran, I know you are up reading Agatha Christie.” Slim had gotten her love of Agatha Christie from Lady Johnson.

  “I’m almost finished with her latest, A Murder Is Announced. I’ll give it to you when you get back. How is it going there?” Gran asked.

  “Lots of dead ends, but I may have a lead. How is Tiny? Does she like her new nanny, Josie?” Slim asked, concerned.

  “They’re getting on well. And don’t you worry, I am keeping a sharp eye on her — the nanny, I mean. King George VI acquired that awful stutter because his nanny was always pinching him before she brought him to see his parents,” Gran said with an air of authority.

  “I hope she won’t forget me,” Slim said.

  “Slim, she barely knows who you are, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Slim knew that Gran hadn’t meant to be mean. She probably meant to be helpful, but it still stung and Slim burst out crying. “How can you say something so awful?”

  “Slim, are you crying?” Gran asked, shocked. She had heard Slim cry only a couple of times.

  “It’s just that I’m a rotten mother and…” Slim gulped for air.

  “Slim, I didn’t see my mother ever. She was much too busy having an affair with the Prince of Wales, the future Edward VII, to give me any attention, and I’m fine,” Gran said.

  “I want to be a good mother, Gran,” Slim said calmly.

  “A good mother is a happy mother. If it makes you happy to work, then work. Tiny has Nanny Josie and me. In a week or so, she’ll have you back, and all will be right. Now stop blubbering and let me get back to my book,” Gran said, hanging up.

  Slim smiled despite herself. Tiny was fine and Slim would be home soon to hold her daughter.

  The next call came quickly; it was Françoise calling from the bar. Slim could hear the noise of people, clinking glasses and music.

  “Ciao, Slim!” Françoise shouted above the din.

  “Hi, Françoise, how’s it going?” Slim replied back in her American-accented French. Slim so wished she could be taken for a native, but as hard as she tried, she would never be.

  “Good, the profits are good,” Françoise said.

  Slim heard a dog barking in the background. “What’s that? Did someone bring a dog into the bar?” Slim asked. There was a long pause. “Hello, Françoise, can you hear me? Whose dog is that?”

  “It’s Zorro. He’s mine,” Françoise said gruffly. “He’s tiny; he’s less than three kilos.”

  Slim rolled her eyes. As if Françoise could see her do that, she replied, “You have a baby, why can’t I have a dog?”

  Françoise’s last pet was an ill-tempered howler monkey name Chou Chou who liked to jump on guests as they came through the door.

  “Has Herr Wiesenthal called?” Slim asked. “Is there any news of Daniel?”

  “He called. He said he had no news. Slim, I don’t know where else you can look,” Françoise said. There was a knock on the door.

  “Hold on,” Slim said as she put the put the receiver down and opened the door to find Pasha looking devious.

  “Hello, there,” he said with a wink.

  Slim picked up the receiver. “I have to go, Françoise.”

  “Who is in there with you? Are you back with that Russian Prince?” Françoise asked cynically.

  “Françoise, I want that dog gone by the time I get back home,” Slim said, knowing full well, the dog would not be gone.

  “Have fun, Slim,” Françoise said.

  Slim hung up and sized up Pasha. “You look a little worse for wear.”

  “Too many toasts,” he said. He stumbled to the bed.

  “You’re going to be worse for wear tomorrow,” Slim said as she helped him off with his shoes.

  “I know, believe me I know,” Pasha said as Slim covered him with a blanket. Slim sighed. Alas, this would not be a night of grand passion.

  ✽✽✽

  Krzysztof also looked the worse for wear when he picked them up the next morning to drive them to the airport. He kissed Slim on her cheeks three times, the Russian way, and then turned to his cousin. She could see there were tears in his eyes. Pasha gripped his cousin’s hand in his and placed his other hand on Krzysztof’s shoulder. They stood like that for ten or fifteen seconds, then embraced.

  Pasha turned to Slim as they walked away and said, “I will never see him again. Perhaps we will meet in the next life.”

  Slim reached out, put her arm through his.

  “It is what it is,” Pasha said with resignation. How many times had Slim heard that phrase? ‘It is what it is?’ In the future, she hoped her daughter would hear instead, it isn’t what it was.

  Chapter Nine

  They flew into Schwechat, the British Royal Air Force base, in Vienna. Pasha woke up from his rough night and blinked. He lit a cigarette and coughed. Slim looked out the plane’s window.

  “All I know of Austria is that it was the first victim of Hitler’s aggression,” Slim said, waving away Pasha’s smoke.

  “Austria is benefiting from the Marshall Plan more than any other European country,” Pasha said, referencing the program proposed by and named for United State’s Secretary of State, General George C. Marshall. The Marshall Plan provided significant economic aid to rebuild European countries devastated by the war.

  “Vienna, like Berlin, is controlled by the four powers; the Soviets, British, French and Americans. Vienna is still reeling from the war. The thing to know? Black market, petty crime and prostitution are running rampant. Watch out for everything and everyone,” Pasha said as they exited the plane.

  “My father took me here when I was little — before the war I remember the giant Ferris wheel and Sacher Torte,” Slim said as they made their way across the tarmac.

  “The golden age of the Hapsburg Empire and the remnants of that lost civilization are still present, but scratch the veneer and you will see a city on the verge of chaos. The Americans keep dumping money because they see Bavaria as the ‘European Korea.’ If it falls t
o the communists, the rest of Western Europe could go as well. It’s a tinderbox,” Pasha said as he waved someone over.

  A young man around twenty came over. He bowed slightly to Slim and took their cases.

  “This is Jones,” Pasha said.

  “Are we going to kill him too?” Slim whispered, thinking of Phillips.

  “No, this one’s all right. I trained him. Jones, Miss Moran just asked if we were going to kill you,” Pasha said wryly.

  If Jones was shocked, he refused to show it. “I didn’t hear that,” he said with a half-smile.

  “Where are we booked?”

  “The Sacher Hotel, Sir Robert,” Jones said, addressing Pasha by his alias.

  “What about the Grand Hotel?” Pasha asked, annoyed.

  “The Soviets are occupying it,” Jones said.

  “God help it,” Pasha said. “What about the Bristol?”

  “The Americans have the Bristol,” Jones replied. “We’re lucky that any hotels are standing. During the waning days of the war, Allied air raids and street fighting essentially destroyed Vienna.”

  “Hotel Sacher it is then,” Pasha said.

  Well-situated across from the bombed-out Vienna Opera House (which was in the process of being rebuilt) and the Hofburg Palace, the Hotel Sacher seemed untouched by the war. Giant brass chandeliers framed the lobby; silk drapes hung down from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Slim and Pasha checked into a two bedroom suite with an adjoining sitting room. After the bellman delivered their luggage, Pasha ordered lunch.

  “May I ask you a favor, Slim?” He said.

  “Certainly,” Slim said.

  “I need to be debriefed by Jones about Phillips. Can I get you to stay in your room while that happens?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Slim said.

  “We will leave tomorrow for Oberweis. Jones will drive us — and don’t worry, he can be trusted,” Pasha said hesitantly. “There’s also something else I must tell you.”

  “Pasha, what is it?” Slim asked, turning around.

  “Phillips wasn't the only Soviet spy in MI-5. I think everyone he recruited is working for the Reds,” Pasha said.

  “You can’t kill them all, can you?” Slim asked.

  “It wouldn’t make a difference. The Russian agents we have working for us will be tortured and killed. Our British agents are in deep trouble and we’re going to have a hard time getting them out. Jones is going to tell me how far Phillips has exposed us.” Pasha sat down on the sofa and rubbed his neck.

  “Is there anything you can do?” Slim asked.

  “No, I am afraid there isn’t. The damage is done,” Pasha sighed.

  “You are telling me this for a reason, aren’t you?” Slim asked.

  “If Klaus Barbie has Daniel, I can do nothing. Barbie’s been far too much help gaining counterintelligence information,” Pasha said.

  “You know where Daniel is, don’t you?” Slim asked. Suddenly, she felt as though her head was about to explode.

  “I will try and get him out alive,” Pasha said.

  “Where is he?” Slim yelled. “You need to tell me where he is!”

  “Lower your voice please,” Pasha said. “You’re getting hysterical.”

  “I’m getting hysterical? Pasha, Daniel is the father of Tiny. He is my husband. I am his wife.”

  “You certainly didn’t act that way the other night,” Pasha said.

  Slim slapped him hard across the face and then began to sob. Pasha pulled her close.

  “Just tell me where he is, Pasha. Please,” Slim begged.

  “You are never going to love me the way you love Daniel, are you?” Pasha asked.

  “I’m sorry, no. Now get my husband back,” she said as she walked into her room, slamming the door.

  Slim slept poorly that night. Finally, around three in the morning, she woke up and dressed. Tiptoeing, Slim left the room and went down to reception, handing in her key.

  “Where are you going?” She heard a familiar voice ask. She turned around and saw Jones.

  “I could not sleep. I am going for a walk,” Slim said, moving purposefully towards the door.

  “It’s not safe for you to walk around alone,” Jones said. “You want to go hear some jazz with me? I know a club that’s open all hours. There’s a great band called Fatty George playing.”

  "Sure,” Slim said, “Thanks.”

  “C’mon, let’s go. I’ll get you back in three hours, but you cannot mention this to Pasha. Is that understood?” Jones asked, winking.

  “Okay, I won’t. Promise,” Slim said. “Is it far?”

  “Terribly,” Jones said as he led her outside, nodding to the doorman.

  “Shouldn’t we have the bellman get us a cab?” Slim asked.

  “Perhaps.” Jones smiled some more as they turned the corner onto Kärntner Strasse. He stopped and pointed, “This is the Kärntner Bar. Here's an architectural lesson, the first for the evening. The bar was designed in 1908 by the modernist Adolf Loos. Loos wrote a famous essay called Ornament and Crime in which he eschewed over the top fin de siècle design in favor of a smooth and less ornate decoration.” They stood in front of three rose-marbled pillars.

  “Here used to be a marvelous mosaic of prism glass where the green awning is. It thrust out with the words ‘American Bar’. As you can imagine, it was not a popular name during the Hitler years. Maybe someone will restore it to its former glory one day. Come on in.”

  Slim followed Jones into the bar. Onyx, mahogany, brass, mirrors and glass walls accented the small bar. Even this late, the bar was packed.

  “We’re not going to be able to get a drink here,” Slim said.

  “We’re not going here.” Jones grabbed Slim’s hand and led her downstairs. Straw mats covered the walls and a jazz trio was playing.

  “What’s this?” Slim asked, looking around at the decidedly more bohemian crowd than upstairs.

  “It’s the Art Club, which was founded by an artist named Alfred Schmeller.” Jones waved at a blonde man in his twenties behind the bar. “Jean Cocteau calls it the straw suitcase because of the straw mats on the wall.”

  “Hi, darling,” Jones said to the young man. Slim caught something between the two of them.

  “You have good taste, Jones,” Slim said, winking at him. Jones blushed. “Oh please, don’t tell me you’re here for the art.” Slim nodded towards the hodgepodge of paintings and drawings hanging on the walls.

  “Does Pasha know about you and your friend?” Slim asked.

  Jones laughed, “Yes, Pasha knows. I can fly under the radar as long as I am discreet.”

  The young man came over, bringing two steins of beer.

  “Dieter, this is Slim Moran.” Dieter smiled.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Fräulein.” Dieter put his hand on Jones back, “You are most in luck this evening. Fatty George is playing. Oscar Klein is on trumpet.”

  Dieter left. Jones took a sip of beer.

  “I’m not a Fräulein. I’m married, and my last name is Cohen,” Slim said.

  “I’ve never understood why women change their names. For heaven’s sake, you’re getting married, not adopted. We’re lucky to hear Oscar Klein. His family fled the Nazis and here he is back again. His band is the hottest thing in Bavaria and he’s only twenty,” Jones said.

  “You know I’m the owner of the hottest lesbian bar in Paris,” Slim said. “Maybe Fatty George will play there.”

  “You can ask him when they have a break in their set. Oscar Klein is the king of Dixieland.”

  “How did an Austrian get so good at American jazz?” Slim asked.

  “Haven’t you heard of the swing kids?” Jones asked.

  “No,who are they?” Slim answered.

  “They were called the Swingjugend. In the 1930’s, everyone from age 14 to 18 had to join the Hitler youth. As a rebellion the Swing Kids grew their hair long, the boys dressed in checkered pants, the girls smacked on makeup. These kids l
oved listening and dancing to what the Third Reich called ‘degenerative Negro music’. The Swingjugend movement spread across Germany and into Vienna. There was a massive crackdown in 1941. They threw the ringleaders into concentration camps, but it was a real protest against what Hitler was doing to the youth of Germany,” Jones said

  Fatty George settled into a rendition of Pennies from Heaven. Slim sat back and listened. Her mind started racing. She thought about what Pasha had just told her. Klaus Barbie was being protected by the United States because they used him for counterintelligence. The United States considered communism such a significant threat they were willing to use a war criminal to prevent it from spreading west. Daniel was going to be the Cold War’s collateral damage, and there was nothing she could do about it. Pasha did not have a reason to get Daniel back. Then a sickening thought occurred to her — maybe Pasha was behind Daniel’s kidnapping. After all, with Daniel gone, Pasha could have her all to himself. Slim was learning the simple truth about spies: one could not trust them, ever. Slim looked across the table and saw Jones smile at her while bopping along to the music. She had allowed herself to become a pawn in MI-5’s game of espionage. Slim needed to be more careful now, with her emotions and her life. She could not disappear like Daniel. She had Tiny.

  Hours later, Slim heard someone pounding on the door to her room; she bolted awake.

  “Slim, Slim are you in there?” Pasha shouted.

  Slim stumbled out of bed and opened the door. Pasha stood there, concerned, holding a tray of coffee.

  “Where were you last night?” Pasha demanded of the bedraggled woman before him.

  “Jones took me out,” Slim said, forgetting she had been sworn to secrecy by Jones.

  “Where?” Pasha asked, pouring Slim a cup of coffee.

  “Some art bar to hear a jazz trio play. It was fun,” Slim said, avoiding his eyes.

  Pasha sat down and took Slim’s hands in his. “There is something about which we’ve never spoken. Slim, I’m much older than you are. Perhaps…” he trailed off.

  “I know you are older than I am. For God’s sake, you fought in the First World War,” Slim responded.