Inside they met the mayor, an officious man in his late forties with a walrus mustache. Behind him was a woman on her knees scrubbing the floors with a worn cloth. It was clear from the tone of the conversation that this pompous man was driving both Pasha and Krzysztof a bit mad. Finally, there was a slight standoff, and then the mayor shrugged and went back to his official duties.
“What did he say?” Slim asked as she followed the two of them outside.
“The Count and Countess Zamoyski have not lived here since 1945. When the Germans came, the bottom floors were used as the ‘resettlement’ office. The Count and Countess lived on the top floors, where the Count managed his farmland to provide the German army with food. Recently the Count was arrested and sentenced to five years in prison for collaborating with the Germans, which means he was a member of the Polish Resistance and the Russians do not trust him. The mayor does not know the whereabouts of the Countess,” Pasha said.
They began to walk back to the car. Slim noticed the woman who had been scrubbing the floors was running towards them with a piece of paper.
“Did you drop anything, Slim?” Pasha asked her, puzzled. “This woman is saying we dropped something.”
The woman grabbed Slim and whispered, “To jest adres Hrabiny.” She thrust the paper into Slim’s hand and ran back inside.
“I think we know where the Countess is.” Slim handed Krzysztof the piece of paper.
He looked at it and then sighed.
“What?” Slim asked, concerned.
“The Countess Zamoyska is about an hour outside of Warsaw,” he replied, shoving the paper into his pocket.
“Should we try to find Lena’s father?” Slim wondered.
“How are we going to do that?” Pasha asked.
“We could ask the mayor to see the town records, which he will refuse to give us even if he has access to them because all private farms were most likely seized,” Slim replied. “Or we could ask at the farms outside Zwierzyniec.”
They both looked at her as if she was mad.
“Hundreds, even thousands of people were expelled by Himmler to make way for the ethnic Germans. Why do you think anyone would know who Lena’s father was, or is?” Krzysztof asked exasperatedly.
“Krzysztof, when we went to see the photographer in Zywiec, you knew the ruling prince there because he was your cousin.”
“Yes, of course, but…”
“And when we arrived here you knew where the Count and Countess Zamoyska’s palace was, correct?” Slim asked, interrupting him.
“Yes,” Krzysztof replied, warily.
“Then why wouldn’t a farmer know another farmer in the same village? Isn’t it like a prince knowing another prince in a neighboring town? Just because you don’t know them, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Now come on, let’s drive to some farms and ask.” She headed to the car and they both followed silently.
They stopped at the first house they came to and struck out. After the tenth door shut, Slim started to think that maybe this idea wasn’t so bright after all. Finally an hour later, she walked up to the painted yellow house with a thatched roof. There was something familiar about the house. Before Slim could knock on the door, a hunched, elderly woman came out. Her skirt was hitched up high, and a shawl was tied around her shoulders. Her gnarled fingers wrapped around a dish rag nervously.
“Co ty chcesz?” she asked, suspiciously. Her eyes were darting from Slim to the two men.
Slim held out a photo of Karol and said, “Czy ty znasz to dziecko?”
The woman took the photo and stared at it. Then she opened the door to her house and waved them in. They followed her into the farmhouse. Expecting a dim and dark room, Slim was surprised by the flowing light. She motioned for them to sit at a large wooden table. Slim looked at the vase of flowers sitting prominently in the center. The room was cleanly swept, and the smell of baking bread lingered in the air. The woman went over to the cabinet, pulled out a tea tin and opened it. She took out several photos and arranged them on the table in front of Slim. There was a photo of three men in their twenties, several tow-headed children held by two women.
Suddenly the door opened, a tall man in his sixties walked through the door. He barked at the woman who, instead of being cowed, yelled back. Then he smiled in spite of himself. He walked over curiously to the table. He stopped when he saw the photos laid out. He shrugged and walked over to the basin and bowl to wash. The woman held up the picture Slim brought. The older man dried his hands quickly but gently took the photo of the woman.
“Karol? Gdzie on jest?” And then he looked at Slim. “Gdzie jest Lena?”
“He wants to know where…” Pasha started to translate.
“Tell him that Lena is in Paris and is trying to find Karol so she can immigrate to the United States,” Slim said.
This time Krzysztof translated.
“Are you Lena’s father?” Slim asked.
He nodded and then said something to Krzysztof, which made Pasha do a double take.
“What did he say?”
“He says Karol is not his grandson.”
“But, that’s impossible! If Karol is Lena’s son, then…” Slim didn’t finish the sentence.
“He said Karol is not Lena’s son.” Pasha translated.
“What? Then whose son is he?”
The man sat down. The woman lit the stove and put an iron kettle on to boil water.
“He said he has a story to tell you and he believes that it might save Karol’s life if he is still alive.”
Slim nodded as the man looked at the picture of Karol and Lena. Slim suddenly realized that the house in the background of the photo Lena had given her was this one. That’s why it seemed so familiar.
“Karol’s name is not Karol. It is Itzhak Morgenstern. Lena was Itzhak’s nanny. When the Germans invaded Poland, Itzhak’s parents begged Lena to hide him.”
“Perhaps, they survived. Perhaps that’s who is sponsoring their immigration to America,” Slim said.
“No. He says that they were shot to death in the square of Zwierzyniec.”
“He is certain?” Slim asked.
“He stepped over their bodies,” Pasha said.
✽✽✽
1942 — Zwierzyniec
As he did every other week, Mlan brought his horse and cartful of eggs and dairy to sell to the Jews in the New Town ghetto. It was noon. He was supposed to be met by a member of the Judenrat, but the ghetto was being surrounded by the police and SS. He saw the head of the Gestapo, shouting at the Jews, who were lining up.
“What is happening?” He asked one of the policemen, a man he had bribed from time to time to let him sell.
“They’re rounding up the Jews and marching them to the train station. That’s all I know.”
Mlan heard shots, and in an alley off the square, he saw a row of bodies twitching while policemen continued to fire. There was a scream, and he looked up at one of the buildings. An old man was thrown out of a third story window onto the street, followed by a baby.
Stunned, he did not know what to do. Lena had gone earlier to deliver milk and cheese to the Morgensterns and to check on Itzhak, the boy she had raised since birth. His daughter was in this mix of hell. He drove his cart and horse out of the square and parked on a side street, away from the chaos. He knew he was taking the risk of his goods being stolen, but his daughter was missing. He ran back into the square shouting for Lena. He stopped a policeman who was whipping a child. The policeman was Wiktor, a boy who had been a friend of Lena’s from primary school. Suddenly Mlan flashed back to him as an altar boy, bringing up the gifts during mass.
“What are you doing here, Mlan?” he asked, wide-eyed. Mlan could see the panic in Wiktor’s eyes as he backed away from the screaming child.
“I’m looking for Lena,” Mlan whispered.
“Lena? What is she doing in the ghetto?” Wiktor asked.
“She wants to see the boy she brought up, Itzhak Morgenstern. She
wanted to bring the family some milk and bread.”
“She shouldn’t be here. The ghetto is being liquidated today. We must find her before they push her onto a train. I can help you with the police, but not the SS. Stay with me. Hold onto my shoulder.”
They went through the crowds of people. Every thirty seconds or so, Mlan heard gunshots and screaming from the surrounding buildings. There was no order, and people who had tried to hide were being led into the square and summarily executed. Mlan began to panic, and then he saw the Morgensterns standing there with Mrs. Morgenstern’s hand through her husband’s arm. Wiktor was called away by someone.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
Mlan ran up to them. “Where is Lena?”
Relieved to see Mlan, Mr. Morgenstern said, “She took Itzhak to your farm. We had papers forged for him. You must take him. If he survives, my brother, Emil, in Chicago will take them both.”
“They'll shoot Lena for doing this,” Mlan said to them angrily. He had not wanted Lena working for the Morgensterns. He wanted her to stay on the farm. Now her life was in danger.
Wiktor came over.
“Do they know where Lena is?” Wiktor asked.
“She’s back home on the farm. I must go.” Mlan felt the Morgensterns’ eyes on him. He leaned in close and whispered, “I will protect the boy as long as I can, but if it is between him and Lena…” Mlan didn’t finish the sentence.
“Thank you,” Mr. Morgenstern said.
“You had better get out of here. The SS doesn’t have enough trains, and...” Wiktor said quietly.
Mlan hurried away with Wiktor, pushed by the crowd. He turned back to look and saw Mrs. Morgenstern scream as her husband was shot point blank in front of her. There was another shot and then she fell on top of him.
Wiktor pulled him away. “Come, you must go.”
“If they are doing this to the Jews, what are they going to do to us?” Mlan asked.
✽✽✽
1950 — Zwierzyniec
Slim felt the steam from her cup flush her face as she shakily picked it up to drink. The old woman stared at the pictures she had taken out from the tea tin. She sighed and then wept softly, crossing herself several times. Mlan took out a pouch of tobacco and began to roll a cigarette.
Pasha lit it for him. Mlan cracked his neck, waiting for the next question.
“And then?” Slim prompted, realizing he was not going to go on without a nudge.
“He got back to the farm, and there was Itzhak and Lena — except Itzhak wasn’t Itzhak anymore. He was Karol. Apparently, Lena had been preparing him for months. The boy knew his name was Karol now. He knew to call Lena ‘mama’,” Pasha translated. He inhaled deeply from his cigarette and the smoke curled around his mustache.
“Was he told to call you ‘grandfather’?” Slim asked Mlan. Pasha asked and then translated the answer.
“Yes. The last time he saw them both was the night the Germans came and threw them off their land. He went into the forest to fight for the Resistance. He begged Lena to leave the child and come with him, but she wouldn’t.”
“She had Karol until the Nazis took him,” Slim said. “She said they put him in the children’s camp in town and then he was taken to be Germanized.”
After Pasha translated, Mlan looked confused and asked what Germanized meant.
“The Germans lost many men in the war, and they tried to replace them with stolen children,” Slim explained.
Mlan laughed. Pasha translated, “A Jewish boy, Germanized? He says the joke was on them, then.”
“But couldn’t the Germans see he was circumcised?” Slim asked.
“He wasn’t,” Pasha translated. “Both of his older brothers were hemophiliacs. One had died from circumcision; the other from a fall when he was three. Their rabbi said they didn’t have to circumcise the boy. Had he been, Mlan would never have allowed him to stay because it would have been too dangerous.”
“Would you like me to give a message to Lena when I see her again?” Slim asked.
“He says, tell her not to come back. There is nothing here for her,” Pasha said.
“That’s it?” Slim asked, a bit stunned by the coldness of the message.
“Lena made her choice. She chose Itzhak over him,” Pasha said.
“She was the boy’s nanny. She raised him since he was a baby,” Slim chided softly.
“He says Itzhak would have been better off if he had died with his parents,” Pasha translated.
“Why would he say that?” Slim asked, shocked.
“If he’s still alive and the family who adopted him finds out he’s Jewish, they will kill him. That boy is running on borrowed time if he is indeed alive. Unless, of course, Countess Zamoyska was able to save him. The Countess was able to save hundreds of children from the internment camp that was set up on the grounds of her estate. She also was able to get medical care for many other children in one of the four hospitals she organized. The Countess knew his daughter. She also knew the Morgensterns. He says she will know what happened to Itzhak.”
“We heard that she is no longer in Zwierzyniec,” Slim said.
Mlan shrugged. “A couple of months ago, the Polish communists arrested the Count, and she and her children had to flee. That’s all he can tell you,” Pasha said.
Mlan stood up, signaling that the meeting was over. The three stood up and thanked him for his time. The old woman held out her photos to Slim who looked at Pasha, confused. Mlan said something harshly to her, and she retreated. He paused and then he opened a drawer and pulled out a lead calvary toy soldier. He said something, then handed it to Slim.
“He says this was the boy’s favorite toy. Give it to him,” Pasha said.
Slim took the toy soldier and put it into her pocket. As they headed to the car, Slim asked, “What did the old woman want?”
“She wants you to find her family. They were all taken and have not come home yet,” Krzysztof said, clearing his throat.
They ate an early dinner in town and then decided to drive back to Warsaw. Slim sat in the back of the car writing in her notebook. Itzhak was Karol’s real name. Most likely, Mr. Morgenstern’s brother, Emil, was the one funding the trip for both Karol and Lena to come to Chicago. However, would Lena be allowed to go without Karol? Lena seemed to imply that she would be, but maybe she wouldn’t be allowed to go to Chicago without the boy. Perhaps it was a package deal. To find that out, she would have to find Karol’s uncle. How was she going to do that? She couldn’t go to Hans because if he found out Karol was Jewish, he’d alert whatever high ranking Nazi family had adopted him. That would place Karol’s life in danger. Most fervent Nazis had not stopped believing in the racial laws after the war. Even with the Allied de-Nazification program instituted after the war, there were rumors of a Fourth Reich being set up in South America by the elite ranks of the SS, who had managed to flee using the infamous ‘ratline.’ Time was closing in on the deadline of Lena’s trip. She probably did not have papers to stay in Paris, and if she were found before she managed to leave, she would surely be sent back to Poland. Her father had made it clear that he did not want her. The Morgenstern uncle had most likely written to the International Tracing Service in Bad Arolsen, but he would have done so under Karol’s real name, Itzhak. If Lena was desperate enough to use Karol’s real name when contacting them, it was just a matter of time before Hans Müller found out. Slim had to find out what happened to Karol before Hans found out who he was.
✽✽✽
1950 — Klarysew, Poland
The next afternoon, the three found the Countess living in a small apartment in a town called Klarysew outside of Warsaw, with her young children, her mother, and an odd man called her ‘Guardian Angel,’ assigned to her by the government. The Countess was an angular and strikingly beautiful woman in her early thirties, her reduced means and less than aristocratic quarters were a contrast to her vivacity and grace. After they introduced themselves, she told them tha
t she had about an hour before she began her shift as a night nurse at a nearby hospital.
“Is French our common language? I do not speak English. I speak German, French, Polish, but not English,” the Countess said, smiling.
“Let’s speak French.” Slim replied.
The Countess led them into her small drawing room with frayed furniture. A couple of family oil paintings were on the wall, including one of her in a gown fingering a long strand of pearls. She did a double take when she saw Krzysztof and reminded him that they had attended a ball at his family’s estate.
“I waited for you to ask me to dance,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Had you, I might have remained a princess and not become a countess.”
Krzysztof kissed her hand and bowed slightly. “Ah, Countess Zamoyska, had I known…”
“I hear that you are part of the Polish communist party now,” she said, a bit sharply. “They arrested my husband as an enemy of the people and the socialist regime.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. The man she introduced as her ‘Guardian Angel’ looked at her sharply which made the Countess sigh more. Seeing the situation, Krzysztof stood up, whispered something to the man, and they both walked outside the room. Moments later, her daughter, Elzbieta opened the door with a tea tray. Pasha stood up and took it from her, placing it on the small table in front of them.
“My oldest, Elzbieta, helps me with the younger ones who are three, five and seven. Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Yes. Mama.” The girl smiled shyly.
“Elzbieta?” the Countess asked.
“Yes. Mama?” The twelve-year-old turned to her mother. She had a perfect bearing which was no doubt drilled into her by a series of governesses.
“You may be excused to do your schoolwork,” the Countess said as she offered her cheek for her daughter to kiss.
The Lost Boy Page 13
