“I told you to shut up, Jew!” Beckermann shouts and steps towards Gunari.
This is my chance. I sprint through the doorway towards the huge mass that is Beckermann and I rake the tiger claws diagonally down his back. He screams in pain, a high-pitched animal howl, and falls to his knees, shaking the floor.
At the precise moment I attacked Beckermann, Janko took the opportunity to barrel his head into the midriff of Joachim. The force knocks down the burly guard and the gun flies through the air. Gunari displays the speed and grace of a man thirty years his junior to raise himself off the floor and burst over to Joachim.
The pistol clatters on the floor and Gunari reaches it first and kicks it away. Joachim has managed to rain a couple of punches down on the top of Janko’s head. Before he can unload a third one Gunari kicks Joachim in the throat. Joachim emits a truly awful gargling noise and begins writhing on the floor and clutching his neck.
Gunari moves over to the pistol and picks it up. He aims it at Joachim, who is still making horrible sounds. He sees the gun and holds his hands up. Beckermann remains on his knees, his fat arms are unable to reach the area of his back that I have sliced open. Bloody gore is dribbling on to the flowery carpet, painting it burgundy.
I walk around to his front and Beckermann half-heartedly tries to grab me. I direct a forceful jab straight into his bulbous nose and he once more falls back and howls in pain.
Gunari drags Joachim over to the window and tells him to kneel which he obeys. Joachims turns to Beckermann and says:
“I’m sorry, Grandad,” Is he the brother of the butcher who kickstarted this whole crazy chase around Europe?
Beckermann doesn’t respond to his grandson. His attitude has spun so fast from hectoring anti-Semitic superiority to a man who knows the time for judgment has arrived.
“Kill us now, Jews. Show some courage for once,” Beckermann says.
“We are not Jewish,” Janko walks over to Beckermann, “We are Roma, and we are in the process of imparting justice upon you and your friends,”
“Disgusting pigs,” Beckermann once more spits bloody saliva at Janko, “You can kill me but you won’t stop our work. We are on the right side of history,”
“That’s what you think. And we saw the consequences of this at your little clinic in Berlin. We also met your son there.”
“That was you? You dirty reprobates?” Beckermann is nonplussed, “You killed my son,”
“Probably,” Janko says, “I remember my friend over here ripped out his eyeball with a spoon. I’m not a medical professional but I do believe that may have been a contributory factor in his demise,”
Beckermann is irate and tries standing up, I move over and punch him hard in the stomach and he collapses. Smears of blood are decorating the walls and carpet. His grandson is in tears at the window.
“Your clinic is no more. You are an immoral person Mr Beckermann. You have the same arrogant bearing as another of your late colleagues, Michael Schwarzer.”
Beckermann doesn’t reply to this. It was probably dawning on him anyway that we had killed Schwarzer.
Gunari then interjects:
“Ana, did you locate Tremmick?”
Everyone in the room turns towards me, including Beckermann. Panic crosses his face which reminds me of the moment his son realised Gunari was going to scoop out his eye in the manner of a Venetian gelato server.
“I killed him on the platform at Èze station,” I say. I decide not to elaborate. Janko maintains his eyes on Beckermann, Gunari sends a nod my way.
Beckermann’s head sinks as the realisation that everyone in their despicable group has now been eliminated. He lifts his head up to me and speaks:
“Why would you do this?” I ignore him but Janko does speak, his voice now back it’s normal, grizzly self.
“We did this for the justice of our people. This is the punishment for anti-Ziganists like you. This is our response to the porajmos, people like you committing genocide against the Roma. This is for the people labelled as satanic wizards and for the people mutilated simply for being born a gypsy.
“This is for the people who were told they were a plague or an infestation, no better than the rats in the sewers. This is for the people who are automatically assumed to be criminals, told they are pickpockets or rapists, or that they are scum, that they are dirty. That they are unhygienic and lazy malignant presences in your cultured cities.
“This is for the people marked by the Nazis with a black triangle, for the people murdered in cold blood by the Einsatzgruppen or forced into the gas chambers at Treblinka, Auschwitz and Sobibor. This is not only for the million that were devoured by the Nazis but for every Roma who has faced discrimination and hatred simply for their ethnicity.”
Beckermann’s face is impassive. Janko takes the gun off Gunari and shoots Beckermann square through the nose. Despite the attached silencer, the noise of it snappily reverberates around the room. Beckermann’s brain explodes all over the wall. His grandson wails and tries to attack Gunari who is simply too strong for him. In one swift motion Gunari drags Joachim close to him and breaks his neck. Joachim collapses on the floor.
We three survivors all survey the scene. Janko is frozen and Gunari has to physically begin moving him.
“Wait a second,” I say and run off to pick up my rucksack. I take out the copies of photos of Tremmick that I obtained from Jacob and place them on the table. I also drop a couple of sheets of paper detailing who lived here and who Beckermann is, along with documents about the underground clinic underneath Stadtmitte station.
The three of us exit the apartment and quickly make our way out of the block. On the street there is the hustle and bustle of Monegasque city life. There are no screams or indications that anyone has heard the gunshot. We walk fast away from the scene and back to Janko’s Argenta outside the Millefiori tower. Somehow, I missed spotting the car on my way to the apartment.
Gunari drives us and I sit in the passenger seat. Janko lounges in the back and holds a towel to his bloody mouth.
“You should probably book an appointment with the dentist when we return home,” I say.
“That’s true,” Janko says, “I think this incident may potentially may hamper my chances of marrying Benedetta Barzini,”
“Ana,” Gunari says, “I think that was the most heroic thing I have ever witnessed today.”
“Why were you there?” I say, ignoring the compliment.
“Well, I waited for a couple of hours at the station, then headed to where you two were supposed to be and I realised you were gone. So I broke in to Tremmick’s apartment to see if there was anything I could find. I thought there may have been a chance that he would return there. The last thing I expected was Janko walking in being held at gunpoint,”
“Probably not the finest moment of my long and distinguished career,” Janko says.
“I thought that was the end for me Ana,” Gunari says, “I was certain me or Janko would be killed, possibly both,”
“I’ll always save you guys,” I say my cheeks reddening with pride, “You did the same for me,”
“There is no greater love than laying down your life for your friends. That’s what you did for us,” Gunari says and grabs my hand and holds it tight. He stares directly into my eyes, deep into my soul and adds, “Thank you Ana,”
The Scouring of the Balkans
Friday, 10 July 1992
My passport bears the name of Maria Lawina, citizen of the Federal Republic of Germany. The photograph identifying Maria was taken two Christmases ago. Her eyes are a double abyss, highlighting that it was taken during a low phase. Her eyes are those of a woman who has become trapped after staring deep into a pit of despair.
I have no clue where I first heard the phrase ‘pit of despair’. It’s one of those expressions you hear somewhere or read about and it sticks with you. It was when I actually read about its origins that it seemed to perfectly reflect my own emotional state.
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sp; An American psychologist studied the impact on monkeys of being torn away from their mothers and locked in tiny, darkened cages. Within weeks they would be withdrawn, huddled in a corner of the isolation cage. The scientists forced the females to bear offspring which they would neglect or attack. Sensory deprivation would cause the monkeys to lose their essence of what made them monkeys.
For myself, instead of a cage it was a dark cloud enveloping me in depression. I could almost see the cloud approaching me, wisps of despondency bursting out of the haze and touching me. This sinister cloud would be always be on the verge of intruding into my life.
The trigger, or probably more accurately, the biggest trigger for the dark clouds was the newspaper article that I discovered at the cottage. Janko was at hospital for a routine appointment and Gunari was away visiting family gravestones.
In my usual curious way I was perusing Janko’s notebooks and folders. They contained all kinds of articles on a wide range of topics. Not only stories about Mengele or Bormann but innocuous columns on motor racing, North African cuisine and ski resorts. As I casually leafed through the eclectic mix I came across a large folded page. It’s size struck me as odd as most of the other articles had been carefully cut out of the newspaper.
However this one was ripped out and as I unfolded it not only did I notice that it was a front page of the paper that my dad used to read, Dnevnik, with its distinctive red letter masthead. But also, the front page had a large headline stating ‘Kje je?’ - meaning ‘Where is she?’ and a photo of myself taken from my last school pictures.
The article told a story of how a deranged, gypsy teenage arsonist called Ana Bihari had torched her headmaster’s house. It had left the headmaster and his wife with serious burns. Three weeks had passed since anyone had seen ‘the trouble-causing teenager with a record of insubordination’ and that she faces a possible thirty year prison sentence, once the Yugoslav police catch her.
I read the article dozens of times, examining every word. No mention of any motive, only a litany of slurs against me. They wrote that I was known for outbursts of rage in the classroom. A lie. They wrote that I had once been expelled for a week for trashing a store room at school. Another lie. They wrote that I had missed a term of school due to a pregnancy scare. Yet another lie.
What I didn’t expect was the range and intensity of the emotions I felt after discovering the article. Anger coursed through my body and it took tremendous self-control not to rip the cottage apart like wild-haired version of Bruce Banner. Never in my life had I experienced such searing inner fury.
Barely seconds later, the anger drained away and overwhelming shame and embarrassment caused me to burst into shuddering tears. It felt like someone had used a vacuum cleaner to suck up any remaining humanity straight out of my body. All I could think was how disgusting I felt, a wretched creature unworthy to be alive.
The despair arrived, entrenched itself deep into my head and it has never gone away. I am unable to parse gloom from my soul and my past. I struggle to come to terms with the fact that once upon a time I was not consumed with hopelessness.
Sometimes the clouds are out of sight but it is like standing at the top of the nearby hills and I can see the rain-clouds coming. That’s when I know the cascading low is heading my way. And for the last few years the rain-clouds have always been in sight or hanging over me, drenching me with torrential misery.
More and more I would listen to Gunari reading from the bible on an evening. Over the years Janko seemed saddened that I was taking such an interest in religion. Gunari’s faith was the only thing that sustained him. For Janko, any faith in God was obliterated during the war.
Janko never said anything about it but I imagine many years ago, the two of them will have had debates. At times, the atmosphere was similar to that between two parents after a big argument when no one wants to mention what has happened in front of the children. Gunari didn’t preach to Janko who in return would refrain from making his thoughtless barbs.
A bible verse that Gunari once said has grown on me over the years. ‘It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.’
I had never known fear until I was taken away by Gunari and Janko. After the events in Berlin and Monaco I learnt the true meaning of fear. I wasn’t even sure what I was fearful of. It could have been the thought of being arrested by the police or that someone would gain revenge upon me. Eventually I realised that it was the sense that God was ready to judge me. And that he would not judge me kindly.
So I exist with a shadow of foreboding cast over my heart. I can be performing the most menial of tasks such as slicing vegetables when I break down. I am unable to control the sobbing and my anxiety would only increase if Janko saw me and asked what was wrong.
I never told him about the darkness residing in me. That I was like Jonah swallowed by the giant fish. I couldn’t tell him that I saw no way out of the belly of the beast and that I could see no hope for me. All I could do was to hold him and bawl in to his neck. He would stroke my hair and tell me everything was going to be alright. Which only made me feel worse as I was sure that things actually weren’t going to turn out OK.
So for the last few years, I have tried to understand my depression. If I can pinpoint exactly what is making me so despondent perhaps I can do something that may alleviate it. Unfortunately, I have come no closer to a cure, or anything at all to alleviate my hurt.
The hopelessness always seems to centred on my departure from Ljubljana and not to the deaths that I am responsible for since I left the city. As the black shroud descends it would often be accompanied by the memories of the final gasps of Michael Schwarzer or Paul Beckermann.
But I would be able to rationalise these actions in the context of their time and place. My teenage arsonism maintains its deathly hold on my conscious. I am unable to separate the frustration that caused me to follow that course and the damage it did to myself, my family and the people I hurt.
Some days I sit by the lake for the majority of the day, even in the depths of winter. Occasionally Gunari will come out with a hot drink which I accept but he doesn’t speak to me. He can recognise my hurt, I can only assume he is possessed by the same pervasive anguish. When I come inside, I can barely remember what I was thinking about, as if I was in a trance by the lake.
I’m not sure Janko knew how to handle my moods. I think that ultimately our differing personalities made it hard for us to understand how we both feel. He was of a generation that bore hardship without betraying overt emotion. I believe this was difficult for Janko as he was a naturally open man. It resulted in him becoming a man who wanted to tell you more about his emotional state but he would fear people would disapprove of him if he did so.
Janko said that people shouldn’t be scared of expressing their inner feelings. However he could never truly open up as he had been a ‘strong’ man for too many years for him to be able to change his ways. Perhaps he felt guilty for undermining his own ethical code.
Seven years have passed since I last set foot on home soil. When I left, the country was called Yugoslavia. As I pass through the border at Gorizia and board the bus again I see a sign saying “Welcome to Slovenia”. The guards on the Italian-Slovenian border look relaxed, probably more so than the ones guarding the Serbian frontier.
The bus rumbles through the hills and forests and memories flood back of trips away with my parents. Even though this is tens of kilometres from anywhere I actually visited as a child, rising inside of me is a state of belonging. The green lushness and rising mountains evoke a sense of comfort in me that I haven’t felt for a long time.
I see the signs for Ljubljana and my heart yearns to go there but that will have to wait as business awaits me in Belgrade. The bus is due to head through Rijeka and Zagreb first.
The one time I visited Belgrade, I couldn’t fathom the scale of the city. It was only when our class of schoolchildren were at
Kalemegdan fortress and I could see the river that I could grasp the geography of the place. That moment of clarity when the random shapes mould into something relatable and you can make rational decisions again.
The bus arrives in Belgrade and I am struck by how dreary it looks in the evening gloaming. Massive housing blocks dominate the scenery and I am transported to a moment I was never even present at. I can almost feel the presence of Nuri, living in fear of her stepfather in a cramped apartment with her pathetic mother. I wonder if Nuri would have made the same decision to join our organisation with the benefit of hindsight. I have exhausted the ‘what if…’ scenarios over the last seven years but it is the different endings to Nuri’s story that I most ruminate over.
A flash of a memory hits me. I remember back to when Janko made a comment about me stepping in to Nuri’s shoes. I laugh out loud at the image of Janko’s face after he said it. The stubby old woman next to me on the bus snarls at me so I wink at her. I miss Janko and listening to his stories.
Gunari and I watched Janko pass away comfortably in his sleep at the cottage last winter. There were no ‘last words’ from him. The last few hours he drifted between lucidity and a dream-like state. He would nod if offered water but he didn’t speak. Or couldn’t speak. I suppose I will never know.
I’m not sure what the word is to describe how I felt when Janko died. It was not strictly sadness that I felt, nor was it an empty feeling as a dear friend exited my life. I was proud of the man and the life he led. He had witnessed so much over the years. A tough life beyond the comprehension of most people. Yet he managed to pass away as an old man, surrounded by people who loved him in a safe place. I think that was all he wanted in the end. Recruiting me could be seen as his last significant act as a member of our group.
Upon returning to the cottage after the events in Monaco, Janko never really recovered from the emotional toil. He struggled to walk for long distances and increasingly Gunari and I could be classed as his carers. His brain and fixed-up gnashers worked perfectly but his body was beginning to fail him.
The Wind and the Rain Page 30
