“Bormann had perked up now he had the cash to escape. His joy would last barely a few minutes. They packed their cases in the back of their car outside and drove off. Seconds later the car exploded, a massive roar echoed around the valley. Christ almighty, you wouldn’t believe how loud it was, I was sure they would have heard it in Hamburg. Věštec had set the car bomb off to perfection. We both waited in the cottage overnight and I hope I never endure a night like that again. Věštec was also incredibly nervous, the size of the explosion was truly epic. We were awake all night expecting a bunch of Nazi soldiers to arrive but they never did.
“The day after we locked the house up and rolled the burned out car containing the crispy corpses of Bormann and Reutlinger into the lake. Sadly the money had also been incinerated but twenty thousand francs was a worthwhile investment in punishing a man like Martin Bormann. We headed back to Salzburg feeling euphoric. Finally, we were gaining revenge for the crimes perpetrated by the Nazis,”
“That is an incredible story Janko,” I say, utterly captivated by the tale, “and the public has no idea who killed him,”
Janko looks thoughtful and we both stare at the painting on the wall of a sad-looking man in a blue suit carrying his painting equipment along a parched path lined with trees.
“People outside our community believe Martin Bormann killed himself, or the Soviets did it. Our people know that his blood was let by Roma. That is all that matters.”
“Is this the painting Janko?” I ask. Surely this can’t be a priceless painting hanging on the wall of this rustic cottage in the middle of nowhere. I turn my head from the painting towards Janko and I see he is smiling contentedly.
“Yes, I returned to Salzburg to see Smith who kindly allowed me to hold on to the painting in case we needed funds for our work. Smith moved to Israel after the war and I never heard from him again. I’ve read virtually every book written about Israel and I’ve never seen any mention of Smith or Isaaksen,”
I stand up and walk towards the wall, piercing white sunlight is striking the painting and I can see it in all its glory. So this is a Van Gogh masterpiece. I have barely given it a second glance, simply accepted it an image of a man walking along a path by surrounded by bright yellow and green fields.
As Janko said the painting is about an artist and I can see he is burdened with multiple cases and canvases. The artist himself casts a dark shadow but the trees accompanying him cast colourful shadows that bounce off the cobbled road.
It’s hard to tell what the painter is thinking about as his face is so impassive. He is situated in the middle of the painting so I can’t discern if he is eager or hesitant to reach his next destination.
The painter is stuck between two places. Am I being arrogant in thinking that I feel a certain parallel with my life? I can’t go back and I’m wary about moving forwards. In the distance of the picture lies a town with mountains in the distance. Can the painter not simply forget the path he is walking and head back home?
A Leaf in the Wind
Wednesday, 25 December 1985
“I was born on a farm, I don’t even know exactly where. Can you believe that Ana?” Janko is telling more tales following our Christmas dinner, “A farm in Czechoslovakia, somewhere on the road from Plzen to Munich. My father was helping to build a barn along with some of his cousins. We moved a lot when I was a boy, a traditional Romani life. The borders didn’t mean much to us, everything was still in flux after the Great War. I didn’t know what a Habsburg was then and to be honest I barely do now!
“History is a strange thing. When you’ve been in the middle of major events you simply don’t realise it. People look back on these points in time and say they define an era. But when you actually live it, these moments are your day to day life. Wars, currency collapses, revolution - that was our normal. And when society is in turmoil, that is when our people face the most danger.
“I was six years old when I first saw a man being killed. We were in... I’m not sure, I seem to remember it was in Austria, somewhere along the border with Germany. That’s another thing, with time certain details slip away and not only the little things. Sometimes, the major details, the catalysts, they simply drop out of your memory like soap suds bursting. It could be the brain trying to keep you sane.
“My father and I were in a busy market town, he was there hoping to sell a horse to a local man. Across the road from us was a bank and a man was arguing with a bank clerk. It appeared to me that the clerk was escorting the man from the building. It was noisy in the town but I could sense the tumult growing louder and louder. But it wasn’t the noise that grabbed my attention. It was an electricity that started pulsing through the people walking around doing their daily business.
“They started looking towards the man who was becoming more and more irate. His suit was tatty and his shoes were falling apart, the clerk was dressed in an immaculate suit but his hair was ruffled and he had a look in his eye that I had never seen before. I know now what the look meant. It was disgust. The bank clerk was disgusted by the human being in front of him. A man who clearly possessed nothing except his pride.
“Both men were shouting at each other but were now looking around and they realised there was a crowd developing around them. The poor man became more agitated, he started bellowing at the top of his voice and began pushing the bank clerk. The clerk kept his bearing, his composure began to return to him. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, from the crowd, another man appeared and I saw the gleam of a knife. He looked at the clerk and a wordless moment passed between them and he stabbed the poor man straight in the middle of the chest.
“I was twenty yards away and I saw it all. When he pulled the knife out I could see blood splash back over him like flicked paint. The stabbed man simply stood, the crowd went quiet and then erupted, one man threw a wild punch at the attacker who then started swinging his knife to make some room and then he ran away.
“A couple of people made half-hearted sprints after him and the bank clerk had retreated inside the bank and locked the doors. People were looking after the man, my father went over to help but was shooed away by a doctor who was on the scene.
“The blood was spreading out over the cobblestones as I went to hold my father’s hand and we simply watched as the life drained out of him. The doctor then informed the onlookers that he had died. It was almost as if the crowd was one organism and they were his next of kin. Housewives broke down in tears and some of the men who were there began to bang on the doors to the bank. A policeman also appeared and began to ask the congregation questions.
“My father then took me away, we walked the four or five miles back to where we were camping in total silence. I would usually be chatting away constantly but all I could think about was how small, how insignificant the actual stabbing was. The tension preceding it had been noticeable but the act of violence seemed as mundane as buying a loaf of bread. The emotions of the crowd that day and the finality of the murder have probably lived with me longer than anything else in my life.
“I can’t remember my own father’s face as vividly as I can that man lying in the street. His eyes watering in pure fear, enveloped by the realisation that his life was ending there in a street outside a bank by some rickety market stalls, killed by a man he probably didn’t even see or know.
Janko picks up a cigarette but instead of lighting it he puts it down. He then walks to the drinks cabinet and pours a brandy each for the three for us and drops some ice in each glass. He hands the glasses around and I mumble my thanks, as does Gunari. Janko takes his seat and sips his drink.
“Our family mainly moved around Bavaria and my father would trade horses and horse equipment. He made good money in those days too. In the twenties, not many people owned a car. They were good times for us in Germany at that time. Occasionally we would be abused in the street by drunkards but that was generally as bad as it got.
“I had been training to become a prizefighter from about ten yea
rs old which was handy as that was when things began to take a downturn for the Roma in Bavaria. The Great Depression hit, people stopped spending their money, especially when it involved handing money over to ‘filthy gypsies’, as people started calling us.
“By the time I was fourteen in thirty-three, going into urban areas alone was dangerous for Roma. Gangs of militiamen would be prowling the roads looking to attack Roma and other undesirables. Not just Nazis either, Nationalists, Communists, you name them - they would beat the hell out of us given the opportunity.
“On a weekly basis, I’d end up having a scrap with someone, usually after a day at the market where we would be selling furniture. My dad was good with woodwork and had built carriages for horses, then moved into making tables and chairs. People would turn up and start hurling insults at us.
“I was so wild at that age, I remember one man who must have been in his fifties casually calling us ‘mongrels’ in the same tone as he would be if was asking to borrow a newspaper. I leapt across one of our tables and floored with him one punch to the temple. My father was furious with me and to be honest it was a big mistake.
“More and more people would turn up each day and make life intolerable for us. We were pretty much the only Roma family that was living in the town. My mother wasn’t well so we simply couldn’t keep moving around.
“It seemed every few days I would have a confrontation with some bigot or other. Most of the time it was verbal abuse but occasionally it would descend into a fight. One on one, I was never beaten - they didn’t realise I was fighting for my family, to the death if needs be. They were foolish, but when they had a group of them together they were also very dangerous.
“One time near Christmas in thirty-four, my brother and I were hauling our stock back on to our carriage when a group of five or six big blokes turned up. Full of Christmas spirit, you could say. They tried picking on my brother who was a bookish sort. They pinned him up against the carriage and one of the guys gave him a hard punch to the stomach. He keeled over and they tried pulling him back up.
“I had to step in, and I knew this would come back on me, but I went for it. I ran in and punched one guy from the side. He wasn’t expecting it and I could feel his cheekbone disintegrate over my knuckles. The guy went down hard, the other guy holding up my brother was frozen but a fat chap grabbed me from behind.
“I easily used my boxing skills to ebb in front and then step away and hit him with the sweetest, cleanest jab on his nose. He went down too. Then my own head started spinning after another punch from God-knows-where landed on the side of my chin. One more crack above the temple put me down. I screamed at my brother to run. He was stood stock still, and I shouted again telling him to get the hell out of there.
“Next thing I know I was waking up in the middle of the street, the remaining stock had been destroyed and the carriage too. I was in an incredible amount of pain. A couple of ribs were definitely broken, as was my nose and probably my jawbone. I managed to stand up, it was now late evening, I looked up at the clock at the town hall and it said nine o’clock.
“It took a couple of hours to walk home and my mother gave me a massive hug when I arrived back. Despite the pain, it was the best hug I’ve ever had. My brother tried apologising but I told him he had to run. If they could do that to me, they would have snapped his weedy body!
“Finally, at the start of nineteen thirty-five, my parents decided to travel to the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia and live there instead of Germany. The growing impact of the Nazis was becoming intolerable. Civil society was being hollowed out, the remilitarisation of the armed forces and the discriminatory policies were in full swing.
“As you know, the Nazis would annex the Sudetenland before World War II. Nothing much changed immediately for my family but I had already left. My genes were urging me to roam. I left my family and visited friends and family in Germany before the war began. I was careful and never interrogated or captured.
“Did you ever see any of the camps Janko?” I say, fearful of the answer, even though I wasn’t even there.
“I did, young girl, I did,” Janko’s face returns from the dreamy look he had shown during the tales of his childhood and darkens. A shadow quickly passes over his face, barely perceptible, but I’m certain I saw it,
Janko pulls himself out of the chair, makes his textbook groaning sound and heads towards the drink cabinet and pours himself another brandy. He gestures to me asking if I want another one. I shake my head and keep watching him. He pours one for Gunari who has remained silent during Janko’s stories. Gunari downs his brandy and then announces he is off for a run and leaves the room. Janko sits back in the chair and continues sipping his brandy.
“Strangely enough,” Janko says, “It was before the Second World War. Before the world witnessed what the Nazis had accomplished,” Janko snorts at this.
“Before the war?” I ask. I was sure the camps were set up during the war.
“Yes, before the actual war officially started. For the Roma, the war had already begun. Before I had joined our movement, word had spread that the Nazis were ‘hosting’ a camp for Roma and Sinti people. It was near Frankfurt in Germany. Dieselstrasse was its name,”
“I’ve never heard of it Janko,” I say. Everyone has heard of Auschwitz, Dachau or Buchenwald. Not this one.
“No, I suppose people haven’t heard of it. It wasn’t strictly a death camp, thousands of people were shipped to Auschwitz for extermination. Extermination, it sounds bloody awful, doesn’t it? I’m sorry Ana, where was I?”
“The camp in Frankfurt,”
“Oh yes of course. I had heard that a cousin of mine that I played with as a young boy had been placed there. So I headed there one evening in late thirty-eight with a crazy idea about liberating him. The camp was near to the river and we could hear the buzz of people before we reached it. It was lightly guarded but I was very careful.
“People were living in vans, families were packed into vehicles in numbers you wouldn’t believe. Removal vans! Can you believe that Ana? Being forced to live in trucks while trigger-happy young soldiers prevent you from leaving,”
“This was before the war and it wasn’t news at the time? If it came out surely the war might have been prevented?”
“Unfortunately Ana, there are many reasons why this wasn’t the case. To be honest, it was bigger than our people. The tectonic plates of geopolitics were in motion. Once Hitler attained power, conflict was inevitable,”
“So were the Nazis killing people at this camp?”
“No, not at first. They basically wanted Roma to be herded away from the general population. Adults were still allowed to leave the camp during the day, and children were allowed to attend school until a local government order was brought in to stop that kind of thing,”
“I managed to find my cousin Peter and I spoke to him through the fence. I passed him some money which he used to bribe a guard to allow him to leave. Peter said he knew a man that his father had told him about who may have some work for us. It took us over a year but we finally located Věštec and Mircea.
“Peter departed to find his family in Munich but I never saw him again. I was recruited to work with the organisation and we began performing guerilla actions in Germany. We returned to the camp two years later, we actually sneaked in despite the guards and spoke to some of the captives. That’s when we discovered that a doctor was working at the camp and conducting, oh Ana, how do I even describe it?”
Janko’s hand is shaking and he places his drink on the table beside the chair.
“Who was he?” I ask, the words appalling me to my core.
“His name is Albert Tremmick, the Exterminator of Dieselstrasse - that’s what he was nicknamed by the newspapers during the Nuremberg Trials. Of course, he never faced justice. Jesus, in the years after Ana, we have been close a few times. It wasn’t until after the war that we realised the major role he played in Nazi human experiments”
“So what happened to him? Is he still alive now?” If only he was near me now, I would easily kill the man. Janko looks at me with a bemused face.
“Where is he? I wonder that quite often, Schatzi,” Janko’s eyes narrow, he looks at the Van Gogh, then back towards me. There is a shimmer in his eye.
“Ana, Ana, Ana. There is something on the tip of my tongue and I am sure it has something to do with you,”
“I don’t know where he is,” I say. Janko roars with laughter, stands and paces around the front room.
“Oh, Ana. Why are my bells ringing? You could be the key to the biggest puzzle of them all,”
“I doubt it, Janko,” I watch him stride around the room picking up papers, putting them down, lifting up folders and flicking through the contents.
“Let’s start from the beginning, always the best place to start. Yugoslavia, is that the link? What do you think, Ana?” I start laughing at this daft inquisition.
“I only heard about this man half an hour ago, I can’t tell you where he is living now Janko, stop being silly. You kidnapped me in Ljubljana and we ended up in Venice eating gelato,”
“In Venice! That’s it!” Janko slams his hand onto the table. I jump at the noise.
“What is?” Even I am beginning to be enthralled by his enthusiasm.
“I’m not sure,” Janko shrugs.
My enthusiasm immediately wanes. Janko walks to the bureau and picks up the newspaper I had purchased earlier today.
“Where did we eat that day?”
“It was at the big, long square,”
“Campo Santa Margherita,” Janko scrutinises the paper for a few more seconds, a small smile creeps on his lips and he turns to face me.
“Go and find Gunari. Tell him we may have caught something in the breeze,”
I bound to my feet and run out of the cottage where I spot Gurani stood by the lake in his running clothes. I jog over to him, he glances in my direction upon my approach.
The Wind and the Rain Page 7
