The Wind and the Rain

by Martin O'Brien

  “We staked out the house under the guise of sun worshippers on the beach. After a few hours we finally caught a glimpse of the three of them having some food on the terrace. We had heard that he had had reconstructive surgery to change his appearance but we knew it was him. All three of us were certain.

  “Nuri wanted to kill the Bosserts along with Mengele. Gunari and I vetoed that idea. We were there for Mengele, not for mass murder. Nuri conceded and said she will kill him. As we discussed the best way to kill him Mengele walked past us on the way to swim in the sea.”

  “He walked straight past you?” I say.

  “It’s true, Mengele couldn't have been more than ten metres away. He didn’t notice anything strange, he kept walking on confidently to the sea. Nuri spotted her opportunity, she stripped to her bikini and followed Mengele to the water, she hid a syringe in her hand filled with sodium cyanide that we had smuggled in from Europe.

  “I wanted to take a closer look but Gunari held me back. Nuri came back to us after a couple of minutes and said ‘It’s done. We should go’. We packed our stuff up and headed straight for the airport. The news of Mengele’s death would not come out for six years.

  “Why would that be the case?”

  “The Bosserts had him buried under his new name and the Brazilian dictatorship had no interest in making the news public. It wasn’t until last year that the West German police raided Sedlmeier’s office in Günzberg and discovered letters from Bossert informing him of Mengele’s passing.

  “How did Nuri kill him?” I ask, wondering why Janko would miss out the most vital part of the story.

  “It was only when we were on the plane back that she told us what happened. She waded out to where he stood in the water. She said he seemed to be looking into the distance. She swam up right behind him and said to him: ‘Dr Mengele?’.

  “The man who was known as Wolfgang Gerhard turned round and he once again became the Angel of Death. She said he smiled at her. She knew it was him without a shadow of a doubt, Nuri had done so much research she knew his face better than her own. Even with plastic surgery, she was adamant it was him.

  “She jabbed the syringe in to his neck and let the poison flow. Mengele tried grasping at her but it was too late. Nuri easily brushed him off, Mengele ripped out the syringe and tried making his way to shore. Nuri watched him as he struggled in the water, waves were breaking over his body and he wasn’t making progress. Finally his body disappeared from view and Nuri headed back to us.

  “There’s a chance he might not have died, he may have reached the shore and used an antidote,” I say.

  “Possibly. His body was exhumed a few weeks before we first met Ana. That’s when it was confirmed that he had died in seventy-nine. His acolytes tried to claim he died of a stroke but we knew the real cause of death. We had spread the word in the community that we had eliminated him and this was our vindication.

  “And also it spurred a lot more calls to us for help. Meeting you turned in to a happy coincidence,”

  “Every cloud…” I say but my thoughts are drifting away to visiting one of the most notorious places in the history of humanity tomorrow.

  The Beauty That Remains

  Thursday, 8 May 1986

  “I know this sounds silly Janko, but I’m nervous about visiting Auschwitz,” I say. I can’t help but embarrassingly look out of the bus window. Janko emits a short chuckle.

  “There’s nothing there now that can hurt you,” Janko replies, “but it may lead you to question everything that you believe which makes you human,”

  “Why didn’t we drive it here?” I say, the chatter on the bus from Polish schoolkids is turning my brain to mush.

  “I’m hoping we can find what we need and leave. If we drove we would probably have to stay over as I can’t do too much driving these days. The less time I spend there the better,”

  “But you have never been before?”

  “Without wanting to sound sarcastic Ana but when you have seen one concentration camp before in your life, you don’t want to rush back to see another one, even an empty one,”

  “Gunari spent time in Auschwitz, didn’t he?” I say. I wish I hadn’t said it but I have to keep talking.

  “Yes,” Janko replies, “He was originally in a camp called Marzahn, near Berlin after they seized his family from France. They were all taken to Auschwitz in nineteen forty-four. Gunari managed to escape after a few weeks. He never saw his family again after that,”

  That comment finally brings to contemplative silence. For a few seconds anyway.

  “So what did he do? He must have been young?”

  “Yes, he was only eleven or twelve when he escaped,”

  “And he never saw his family again. Poor Gunari, no child deserves that,”

  “No child should ever be in that situation. He has only told me little pieces of information over the years, I think he told Nuri in more detail but I don’t believe he was able to open his heart like that to another man. He tries to be brave and he is brave but you can’t bottle your feelings up inside of you. It’s not healthy,”

  “How did he meet you?” I ask, I’m not sure why I never asked it before. For some reason I assumed they had always known each other. The time I have spent in Germany feels as long as the previous eighteen years of my life. Funny how you view time.

  “Gunari made quite a name for himself over the years in the Roma community. Ultimately he became a bare knuckle prize fighter. He would box all over Europe and gained quite a reputation.

  “We knew of him, word travels fast in our community about Roma boxers when they are travelling around. His fights would always attract large numbers of Roma followers. Over three thousand people saw him fight once outside Lyon. I witnessed him fight for over half an hour against a huge African in Marseille. The more he fought, the more his scar on his neck would glow bright red.

  “Finally, Věštec and I visited him after a fight in Turin. A Sinti champion from Hungary had given him quite the beating. His face was a mess when we met him outside his lodgings. He was holding a slab of meat over his right eye so I made a joke asking him if he was eating that steak later. I wasn’t sure if he was going to punch me but instead he cracked back about bringing out some peppercorn sauce.

  “Gunari spoke to us about his life after the war. Travelling around fighting most nights for a little bit of cash. It was a tough life and even at twenty-six he looked almost forty. In fact he looks the same as he does now, he’s finally grown into his lumpy face.

  “He is much more intelligent than he gives himself credit for. Our work requires strength and bravery, of course. But most importantly it requires cunning and cleverness. Traits that I see in you too, Ana.”

  I blush at the complement and I notice the bus has gone past the road sign indicating we are now in Oświęcim. The sun blinds me through the windows. A beautiful day to visit such an infamous place of darkness.

  The town is surprisingly clean and pleasant. I was under the mad assumption that the town would be dour and depressing but it looks like any other normal town. The chatter on the bus is still continuing but quieter than it was for most of the journey.

  Janko gives me a slight nudge and says “We’re approaching now,”

  Green fields are on both sides and ahead I see an austere low-rise brick building topped with a three-storey tower with an archway in the middle. The bus parks up outside and the schoolkids bounce off the bus with the teachers saying hushed words to them. Presumably trying to knock some sombreness in to them.

  Janko stays sitting after everyone has disembarked. He is holding the headrest of the seat in front, his arm rigid.

  “Are you OK, Janko?” I ask. Janko’s face has a dreamy look about it.

  “Yes Ana, I’m feeling my age a little bit, that’s all,” the dreaminess of his face has now turned to that of a tired man, “It may be better if you go on ahead. Take it in by yourself. I need a little time to myself for a few minutes,”
/>   I don’t think Janko is going to go in at all. I realise that the memories of the Second World War are still incredibly vivid for the people of his generation. I nod and squeeze his shoulder and then hop over him and off the bus.

  I didn’t notice it on the bus but it grabs my attention immediately: the railway line that goes under the archway only yards from me. I stand under the arch and kneel down to touch the railway.

  Hundreds of thousands of people transported along this line to their doom. The wonders of technology used not to better the lives of people but to exterminate them. For the Jews it was the Holocaust. The word used by Gunari and Janko to describe it for the Roma is Porajmos - The Devouring. And this is the heart of it where they attempted to remove every Roma from the planet, to destroy our culture, our bodies and our humanity.

  Gunari and his family were forced from their lives in the South of France, taken by train to Germany and then to here. I have to sit down for a few moments to prevent me fainting. A couple of the schoolchildren walk past talking excitedly, we exchange looks and they walk off embarrassed.

  Until I was taken away my Roma roots were not a defining feature of my personality. I saw myself as an average Yugoslavian kid. Naturally, I knew I was Roma but we were settled, my dad working on the buses. There was the odd incident and the occasional hateful word but nothing that resulted in me fully embracing my Roma identity.

  Even after the little incident of burning down my headteacher’s house it was an act of defiance for my own reasons. It wasn’t an act of political violence, one for all of the gypsies. It was my battle as an individual. My small world, all that I knew.

  Now nearly a year later I am here, walking around Auschwitz-Birkenau. Words from text books. Almost swear words. The way that certain place-names evoke a sense of humanity’s most destructive impulses: Stalingrad, Hiroshima, Beirut.

  I am overwhelmed by it all. The scale of this place is immense, industrial-sized. The sun is blazing down yet the air hangs heavy. The red squat buildings add to the feeling of dread that pushes your shoulders to the floor. It isn’t only being here at Auschwitz but everything I have experienced in the last few days. I close my eyes and I see Schwarzer’s face at the point his life extinguished. What was going on in his head in those last few seconds?

  I don’t know how long I am sat on the grass outside of the ruins of Crematorium III. I expected to be shocked by Auschwitz but it is a different type of distress than I first anticipated. It’s the extent of the whole enterprise that staggers me. State apparatus used to such a macabre end. How could anyone fight against that?

  “Hey, are you OK?” a voice speaks in English to me. I look up and a gangly, bespectacled man not much older than me, is standing over me. He is wearing khaki shorts and a dark green woolen jumper. I don’t think it’s jumper weather today.

  “Hello,” I say, unsure what else to say.

  “Taking a breather?” he says. I have no idea what ‘a breather’ is but he is being friendly so I’m guessing it’s not an insult, “There aren’t many benches to sit on here,”

  I laugh a little at the joke, it’s not the most cheerful of places so some levity is appreciated.

  “No, I’ll have a look for a suggestion box later,” I reply and the boy finds it amusing enough to laugh. He motions next to me and I wave an open arm, inviting him to plonk himself down.

  “My name is Jacob,” he says offering a hand to which I shake gingerly, “What is your name?”

  “I am Ana, is this your first time visiting here?” I say and straight away I realise it may be the stupidest question I have ever asked.

  “No it’s not, I’m studying here. The Israeli government pays for Jewish students to research here from around the world. I am from the United States - Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Have you heard of it?”

  “Philadelphia,” I almost yell, “That’s where Rocky is from!” Once again I embarrass myself with my gaucheness. I’d hate to see how red my face is.

  “That’s the one!” Jacob laughs at me, again in a friendly way, “He’s our most famous citizen,”

  “Have you run up the steps?”

  “I think everyone in Philly has run up the steps singing the theme music,” Jacob says, “But I’ve yet to punch any hanging slabs of meat in the back of an abattoir. So where are you from Ana?”

  “I am originally from Yugoslavia, do you know it?”

  “Of course, I was in Zagreb earlier this year when I travelled around Europe. It’s very beautiful,”

  “It is beautiful,” A sharp pang of homesickness hits me and makes me teary. I can’t hold back and I begin to cry. I don’t know if it is possible for me to be more embarrassing. Jacob puts an arm around me and I sink into the nook of his neck and sob.

  “You’re not the only person to have this reaction here Ana,”

  “It’s not that,” I say, “Actually, it is a little bit. But, it’s everything else. I’m sorry, you’ve only just met me,”

  “Come on, let’s go for a coffee. My office is five minutes away.”

  We walk off towards Jacob’s office and he keeps his arm around me. I can barely hold my snotty head high. I can’t face the contrast of the bleak camp with the dazzling bright sky.

  Wise Guidance, Waging Wars

  Thursday, 8 May 1986

  Jacob pours me coffee in to a mug. He hands it to me and he sits on the end of his desk. I sit in his comfy looking chair. Upon sitting down, I realise it’s not as comfy as it first appears. One side of the mug says ‘How does Moses make his coffee?’ One the other, it is written ‘Hebrews it’.

  “I’m researching the eugenicists and the experiments they performed. It’s fascinating but it can be hard going. I have cried more times in the two months since I arrived here than in all of the rest of my life I would say. If I could persuade every teenager to visit here I would do,”

  “Maybe,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  “You don’t think so?” Jacob’s right eyebrow is comically high.

  “I don’t know. I think you might be an idealist.”

  “So young and so cynical,” Jacob teases. His eyebrow resets position to neutral, “You seem wired,”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you seem on edge, nervous almost,”

  “It’s been an interesting few days,” I say, raising my own quizzical eyebrow.

  “Why, what has happened?”

  I refrain from mentioning crashing in to a German postal van, stabbing a man to death and witnessing the grotesque experiments at a subterranean neo-Nazi facility.

  “A few ups and downs,” I say. Jacob smiles and allows a silence to fall on us. It isn’t uncomfortable, in fact it is quite nice to be sitting with someone around my age. Jacob walks around the desk to the visitor’s chair and sits down. He’s so angular that the act of him sitting down is performed in such ungainly manner it’s almost charming.

  “I know how you feel,” Jacob is smiling and I notice that I am smiling in return. I immediately feel foolish again and put my head down and stare at my coffee, “Are you Jewish, Ana?”

  “No I’m not. I am Roma,”

  “Oh jeepers, I call the Roma the forgotten victims of the Nazis,”

  “We haven’t forgotten,” I whisper, “We will never forget,”

  “No, neither will we,”

  Quiet fills the room, conversation has again halted but once more it’s not awkward. We both seem to be in contemplation. Behind Jacob, I notice there are photos on the walls of the office. In fact, they are the only real decoration save for the usual office clutter.

  I walk over to the photos for a better look. Black and white photos of a young man on his wedding day, a girl riding a bicycle with other children chasing her, a middle aged couple looking uptight on a spotless sofa. It must be a very old photo, you only see that level of pursed formality in the early days of photography. It’s almost as if they think if they smile, God will burst out of the camera and zap them for display
ing such brazen pride.

  “My grandparents,” Jacob says, turning round in the chair towards me.

  “Were they taken here?” I ask, yet I feel I already knowing the answer.

  “Yes, two of my grandparents were gassed to death here at Auschwitz. My mother’s parents were taken after Operation Barbarossa that saw the Germans overrun the Soviet Union. They were taken from their house in Minsk in the summer of forty-one only a day after they had told their daughter and her husband to flee. Thus my parents made the decision to leave the city.

  “On my father’s side, his parents were living in a village on the outskirts of Minsk. They hid for months before being discovered by the Einsatzgruppen. They were both executed on the spot and thrown into a mass grave along with hundreds of other Jews. They shot everyone, old people, pregnant women, children. Everyone.”

  Another long silence falls over the room. Once more these horrific moments are reduced down to single sentences. Words can never convey the fear his grandparents must have felt wondering when the Nazis would show up. Or those moments when they were discovered. What must have gone on in their heads when they were lined up to be shot? Was it the same things spinning through their brains as Ginesty in Lyon?

  “That is terrible, I never knew my grandparents. They had all died before I was born. Although my dad’s father died when my mum was pregnant with me.”

  “My mother and father could never overcome what happened here. They grew up in Minsk. The Jewish population was very large at the time. Many of the cities in Eastern Europe had majority Jewish populations but you don’t hear much of that history in schools in those places now.

  “My folks escaped to America after reaching St Petersburg. Only eighteen years old and not speaking a word of English. It’s amazing that they were allowed in. The U.S. didn’t recognise what was happening in Europe as genocide. Only a few thousand Jews were allowed in during the War itself. But, somehow they managed to make into the United States which they were forever grateful.