The Lost Boy
Kate Moira Ryan
A SLIM MORAN MYSTERY vol.2
Children usually do not blame themselves for getting lost.
Anna Freud
For Ainsley Burke
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
written permission of the publisher.
© 2019 Kate Moira Ryan All rights reserved
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Prologue
1942 — Poland
The boy sat rocking back and forth on his ankles humming an old Polish military song as he lined up the lead cavalry soldiers on horseback, ready to charge against the Germans. He knelt further down, spread out his slender legs and whispered commands. It was to be a battle to end all battles, and he knew the Poles would win. They would finally drive out the Germans.
Twenty-five year old Lena looked out the window of the small wooden house. She saw Karol, playing with the soldiers her father had given him, and sighed. Like Lena’s, Karol’s hair was the color of straw, his eyes dark blue with flecks of green. Only Lena knew who his father was. She often saw her own father staring at Karol quizzically trying to figure out why Lena was so attached to this boy.
The small boy’s stomach grumbled. Supper would be soon. The old man would come in from the fields and both would sit while Lena fussed over them. Then Karol would have a sponge bath in the tub in the kitchen. At bedtime, Lena would page through a large picture book and they would recite the alphabet together. Then she would read to him from the massive book of Polish fairy tales. He would sound out the words with her and read along. His favorite was The Legend of the Three Brothers. He knew it so well he could recite the first five lines by heart: “Over one thousand years ago, there lived a king who ruled over the lands that lay near the mouth of the Vistula River. When the king died, his wealth was left to his three sons, Lech, Czech and Rus. Their father's kingdom was not large enough to be divided between the three brothers, so they decided to set out in search of other lands.”
Every night Karol would beg for the story and, every night, Lena would comply. Tonight was no different.
After Lena put the boy to sleep, her father said, “You spoil that boy. We need to toughen him up. It’s just a matter of time until the Germans come.”
“Nonsense, they are already here, Tata,” she replied, rinsing off the evening dishes.
“Not the soldiers, the German people. They are resettling the ethnic Germans. They will come and take my land. We have to be ready, Lena. You have to get the boy ready. You have to get yourself ready,” her father said as his calloused hand touched hers.
Lena looked at him. Over six foot, he had gone gray after her mother died and seemed older than a man in his fifties.
“If they come and take us off our land, there is no place for us to go.”
“I will probably be shot,” Lena's father said, smiling ruefully. “You could work. You and the boy would be able to survive.”
“Don’t say that, Tata. I won’t listen to any more of this.” Lena wiped off the last dish and placed it on the wooden rack.
“If it’s a choice between your life and the boy’s…”
“Stop, Tata.”
“He will not survive without you. Save yourself.”
“Would you have done that with me, Tata?”
“Mama?”
They both turned, startled to see the small boy before them in his nightgown.
“What are you doing up, Karol?” The man asked sternly.
“Mama, there’s a fire outside my window,” the boy said, rubbing his eyes.
As soon as he spoke, Lena smelled the smoke.
“They have come,” the old man said, as he looked at her, then the boy, and he wondered which would survive.
Chapter One
1950 — Paris
Twenty-eight year old American Slim woke with a start, covered in sweat. She ran her fingers through her long auburn hair she inherited from her late Irish movie star father, Tyrone Moran. With skin so fair, she blended into the white sheets. Turning towards the window, she saw a tiny fist punch the air from a bassinet and heard a baby’s cry. Five days ago, she had given birth to a daughter whom she still had not named. Slim tried to reach for the baby, but pain overcame her. The howling continued for another thirty seconds; then Slim’s door opened and her housekeeper, now a baby nurse, Remy, rushed in. She picked the baby up, soothing her, and saw that Slim was awake.
“Madame Daniel?” Remy asked in German accented French and looked over at her worriedly. Slim saw Remy’s face get wide-eyed. Remy rushed out of the room shouting for Françoise downstairs. Slim looked down at her white coverlet and saw it covered in blood. She was hemorrhaging and would surely bleed to death, leaving that premature nameless infant without a parent. How had she gotten to such a disastrous place? Why had her life turned out like this?
Less than one week ago, she was celebrating her marriage to Daniel Cohen downstairs at La Silhouette, the lesbian bar she had opened for Marlene Dietrich’s lover, Françoise. She had just solved her first real missing persons’ case for the Pitchipoi Agency, she started after the Red Cross Displaced Person Center where she worked was closed. The unusual name, Pitchipoi, had been Daniel’s suggestion. It meant ‘imaginary place’ in Yiddish or Polish. Pitchipoi was a term coined by the Jews in the transport camp of Drancy for their final, unknown destination, Auschwitz.
A Nazi hunter who spent his time avenging the murder of his family, the dark haired, twenty-seven year old, Frenchman had disappeared during their wedding reception while picking up the cake from Finkelstein’s bakery in the Marais. He hadn’t run off; Slim was sure of that. There was blood on the street where they had found the cake box. Daniel had made some powerful enemies, one of whom was a member of the Gestapo named Klaus Barbie. Known as the Butcher of Lyon, Barbie, the man Daniel had hunted throughout Germany after the war, had turned the tables. Now Daniel was his prey.
The day after Remy found her in a pool of her own blood, Slim woke up in the American Hospital in Neuilly, weak and exhausted. Sister Margaret, her college roommate from Trinity, a Catholic women’s college in Washington, D.C., was sitting beside her. Margaret had joined the order of the Notre Dame de Namur nuns after her three brothers were killed during the war and was studying for her doctorate at the University of Rome. A stunning blonde, her parents had hoped she would make a brilliant match among the Catholic elite but were mollified when Margaret had been posted to Rome.
“S.S.S,” Margaret said with a half-hearted smile, using the initials for ‘So Slim Spill.’ Well into their twenties, they were still using the silly patois of their former days as students.
“How did you find out I was here?” Slim asked, wondering.
“Françoise telephoned me this morning. I caught a flight from Rome to Paris.” Margaret said, grimacing. She hated air travel. It was too loud, and the flights were too bumpy, “So do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“I’ll take the good news first,” Slim said.
“You’re getting out of here tomorrow.”
“But, I was hemorrhaging,” Slim said, confused.
“Apparently women bleed for weeks after birth. Sometimes they bleed quite heavily,” Margaret said.
“I thought it might have been from the…” Slim trailed off and looked the other w
ay.
“The abortion?” Margaret shook her head no. “No, it had nothing to do with that.”
Slim had only recently admitted to Margaret that she had had a botched abortion her senior year of college, after her beloved fiancé, fighter-pilot Patrick McCarthy, had disappeared in a raid over Germany.
“So what’s the bad news, Margaret?” Slim closed her eyes and thought of her husband Daniel. She wondered where he was and if he was still alive.
“The bad news is that your baby still doesn’t have a name and isn't baptized,” Margaret insisted. “If God forbid something happens to her, you do not want her to be stuck in limbo because you didn’t baptize her.”
“Oh please Margaret, you don’t believe all that bunk about limbo,” Slim rolled her eyes. Slim was an à la carte Catholic,; she picked and chose what she liked about her faith.
“Unless, of course,” Margaret drew her lips into a thin line, “you want her to be raised Jewish.”
The thought had occurred to her. After all, Daniel was Jewish and the only member of his family who hadn’t perished at Auschwitz. He should have a say in their child’s religious upbringing.
“You know, the baby won’t be officially recognized as Jewish because you’re not Jewish.” Margaret pointed out the rabbinical law, which stated that only children with Jewish mothers could be considered Jewish.
“Well, the truth is he’s not around, and I’m not making that decision until he comes back.” Slim saw Margaret start to say something and then purse her lips. “Margaret, I know he might not come back, but it wouldn’t be fair to have her baptized without his consent.”
“Didn’t you two discuss what religion you were going to raise your child as?” Margaret was incredulous.
“No, and I know that’s idiotic, but we didn’t. The only reason I got married is because I was pregnant.” Slim did not want to get married. She found her relationship with Daniel tempestuous to say the least, but he wanted his child to have a family recognized by the law. “He also stopped believing in God after his entire family was gassed.”
“Don’t the Jews name their living after the dead? Didn’t Daniel have a little sister who perished?”
“Yes, her name was Adrienne. I don’t know if I want to name her after a dead seven-year-old child. It’s macabre.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is about baptizing her; it’s just some water on a forehead. Just do it to appease me.”
“Margaret, you're pushy.” Slim felt suddenly tired. She closed her eyes.
“I’m going to let you sleep. Plus, I want to spend some time with my goddaughter. Yes, I appointed myself her godmother.”
“Françoise will not be happy,” Slim said.
“You can’t have an avowed lesbian as the child’s spiritual godmother,” Margaret said with an eyebrow raised.
“And what about Marlene?” Slim said, mentioning her father’s old lover, Marlene Dietrich.
“Let’s just come up with a name and then worry about everything else later. Did I mention that Margaret is a great name? She could be little Peg.”
Slim opened her eyes just long enough to roll them and then settled back into a languorous nap.
One month later, Slim was feeling like her old self. She was still sore from the baby’s birth, but she felt well enough to walk down the stairs to the bar.
Françoise was counting bottles from a liquor delivery and arguing with a man in ripped corduroy pants and a beret. A handsome woman, Françoise wore men’s suits customized by a seamstress who worked for Christian Dior. Fine boned, her tall frame was feminine while her exterior presentation was decidedly butch..
The large folding doors were open, and Slim could see Remy with the baby in a pram next to her. As a German married into a Romani gypsy clan, Remy had lost her husband and two small children to the gas chambers of Auschwitz. Remy was over-protective of the baby and only would allow her out of sight when the infant was with Slim.
Slim sat down next to Remy, who was polishing drinking glasses. She peered inside the blue Silver Cross pram her grandmother, Lady Johnson, had sent for her great-granddaughter. When it arrived, Françoise had remarked that it was larger than her green Citroen and ‘probably cost more.’
The baby was sleeping. Her pink, red eyelids fluttered as she dreamt soundly. Slim reached in and caressed her cheek.
“Are you sure she’s not too warm, Remy?” Slim asked. The infant was covered head to toe in a crocheted creation Remy had made for her, “It is July, after all.”
Remy smiled and pulled down the blanket; Slim saw the translucent fingernails on her daughter’s tiny hands emerge.
Françoise came out with a tray filled with three small bottles of Coca-Cola. Her delivery man followed her. He tipped his hat to Slim and went towards his truck with an empty cart.
They all sat there for a moment. Slim closed her eyes and soaked up the sun on her face. It was all so peaceful. Then she heard a booming American voice.
“Slim, darling!”
It sounded so familiar, who was it? She opened her eyes and saw Jack Warner followed by a pretty, smiling girl with chestnut-colored hair dressed in a white summer dress with a blue peter pan collar.
“Jack Warner, is that you?” Slim started to get up to greet the head of Warner Brothers Studio, a dashing man with a Clark Gable pencil thin mustache and larger than life personality.
He had taken her father, Tyrone Moran, an impoverished Irishman from County Cork, and made him into a swashbuckling leading man. Jack had stood by him through all his entanglements with women and booze until the bitter end. In some respects, Jack Warner had been her father’s only real friend.
“Don’t get up. Now, do you remember my daughter Barbara?”
“Hi, Barbara,” Slim said returning the girl’s smile.
“She’s going to school in Switzerland, but we’re doing a little tour of Paris before I drop her off.”
“I remember you when you were this age,” Slim said, pointing to the baby.
“We were just visiting Marlene on Avenue Montaigne, and she told me you were married and had a baby,” Jack said.
“We brought you this for the baby. I picked it out.” Barbara said, her handing over a wrapped parcel.
“What is it?” Slim asked and then added, “and these are my friends, Remy and Françoise.”
“I know you, Françoise. We met at Cap d’Antibes before the war; when you were with Marlene,” Warner said with a wink.
“That we did, Mr. Warner,” Françoise said, returning the wink.
“I will go get more Cokes,” Remy said quietly.
“Just bring some scotch. If you’ve got anything American like Dewars that would be grand. Thanks.”
“I’ll have a Coke, please,” Barbara said. She then added shyly, “Please open the present. And what’s your baby’s name?”
“I don’t have a name for her yet.” Slim thought of Daniel and sighed.
Warner put his hand on Slim’s shoulder and squeezed it. Marlene had apparently told him about Daniel's disappearance.
“Could the baby have a nickname until you decide?” Barbara asked with a smile.
“I guess.” Slim smiled back.
“How about Tiny?”
Jack peered down at the baby. “She is tiny. Tiny does suit her for now.”
“I like it, Barbara, let’s call her Tiny until I figure out a name.” Slim untied the ribbon around the parcel and took out a horse pull toy.
“Barbara’s mad about horses. Anne is sending over half the store at Galeries Lafayette. As soon as Anne found out you had a girl, she went shopping,” Warner said, cooing at the baby.
Remy came out with Cokes, Dewars and some snacks. Then she went inside to wipe down tables for the evening.
“What do you have coming out this fall, Uncle Jack?” Slim asked, curious.
“A slew of Westerns, all of which your father would’ve been great in, and a film based on a Broadway play called The Glass Menage
rie.”
“What’s that one about?”
“You see it, and you tell me. I miss the days of Kaufman and Hart.” Warner began to fan himself. “It’s nice to sit and relax. Barbara’s been dragging me all over Paris.”
All of a sudden a thin blonde woman rushed to the table shouting something in what Slim assumed to be Polish. Slim grabbed the carriage; Warner pushed his daughter behind him while Françoise stepped between the woman and Slim.
“Czy ty jesteś Slim Moran? Ja potrzebuję pomocy w znalezieniu mojego syna. Został zkradziony z mojejo miasta Zwierzyniec,” the woman said as she fell to her knees.
“Go away, we have nothing for you here.” Françoise started to shoo the woman away.
“Wait,” Slim said. “She’s asking for me.”
“My parents were from Poland. I can make out a couple of words.” Warner looked at the woman and said, “Mów powoli, morze mogę pomóc.”
The woman grabbed Warner’s feet and began to weep. He reached down and pulled the woman up, and then gasped. On her forearm were crudely engraved numbers, 98288.
“Auschwitz?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Jüdisch?” Warner asked. The woman shook her head no.
“Katholisch, Zwierzyniec.”
“Zwierzyniec?” Warner asked in disbelief. The woman nodded. He turned to everyone and said, “She’s a Catholic from Zwierzyniec.”
Then the woman began to ramble in Polish. Warner shrugged, saying, “I can’t understand anymore. I just know some words from my youth. It’s something about her kidnapped son, and she wants you to find him, Slim. She’s from the same town as my parents. They left because of the pogroms against the Jews. She’s Catholic; I’m Jewish. Her relatives probably drove my family out. How in the hell did she wind up in Auschwitz?”
“Polish? Remy speaks some Polish, let me go and get her.” Françoise motioned for the woman to wait.
“Daddy, what’s going on?” Barbara asked, wide-eyed. They had all forgotten she was there.
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