Chapter 7

- London, a few weeks later -

Michael Flat sat in the office of Elisabeth Greyden, who led this orphanage in North London and was one of his dearest friends. Now that the boy was no longer ill, he needed a permanent place to stay.

"You know you can always count on me," she said, looking over her pair of glasses.

"I don't know what the authorities might do if they were to find out he's Russian - I mean Cossack. You could get into trouble."

She shook her head. "Then no one will find it out. I work for the well-being of these children and not for some rules on dead paper. Are you sure he's Cossack?"

Michael nodded. "Some things among his parents' possessions were of Cossack making."

"What happened to their belongings? Were they kept? He'll want to have them when he's old enough."

Michael shook his head. "His parents had been dead for days when we found him. We buried them with everything they possessed, which was not much. It's probably better if he never finds out about his ancestry anyway. If we – and what's more important, he – are lucky, then he's still young enough to forget. Lienz, or more precisely the Peggetz, isn't something someone would want to remember. And let's not forget that he witnessed his parents' deaths."

"Like so many children here did. How did they die?"

Flat reached into his wallet and retrieved a few pictures. "One of the soldiers took photographs throughout the war whenever the opportunity arose." He handed her two of them, one taken when they had found the boy, the other taken slightly later. "We think the father shot his wife and killed himself afterwards."

She looked at them and exclaimed, "Our Blessed Lady!" Still looking down at the photographs, she crossed herself. "Have mercy upon her soul."

Michael frowned. "What about the father's?"

Elisabeth shook her head. "Suicide is a sin against God." She silenced him with a gesture of her hand before he could protest and added, "I know you are not very religious."

He shrugged. "I find the doctrine a bit contradictory. The supposedly kind God denies life eternal because he can't forgive weaknesses - and I count suicide among those."

"Well, that's the case with religion. What about the boy? Is he religious?"

Michael hesitated. "Well...I don't know. Cossacks were said to be very orthodox to be exact. They usually baptized their children shortly after birth. I guess it depends on whether he was born in the Soviet Union or not; religion is more or less prohibited by communism."

She considered this. "Then the boy might already have participated innumerable times in church service. If that is the case, then it'll take some time to accustom him to the Anglican belief."

Michael opened his mouth but decided against speaking his mind.

"Can I keep these?" Elisabeth gestured to the pictures. He nodded, and she put them into her desk. Then she looked at him again with her piercing, eagle-like gaze. "What else do we know?"

He sighed. "Neither his name nor the exact age. And, well..."

"Yes?"

"We're not certain if he knows or acknowledges that his parents are dead. I fear he might believe the soldiers dragged him away from them or something like that."

"I see. It won't be easy then but you already mentioned to expect difficulties." She drummed slightly on the table. "All right. Have him brought here on Monday morning, 9 o'clock. And...he already knows you a little bit. It would be very much appreciated if you could help us win his trust."

Michael nodded. "I'm still in London the next two weeks. I'll visit as often as I can but so far I don't have his trust either."

The Peggetz: In 1945 it was the location of the Cossack refugee camp near Lienz. Today it is a suburb of Lienz. A Cossack Graveyard is located there.