Traditionally, the celebrations in honor of Saint Sarah were noisy affairs. After dipping the saint’s black-faced statue in water in homage to Sarah’s miraculous sea journey, then offering up heartfelt thanks for the kindnesses she’d done them over the past year — a lame colt made sound, a woman delivered of twins, an ugly grandson finally married — the clan would celebrate. Many of its members hadn’t seen one another since the previous Feast Day. There was news to share about births and deaths, gossip to spread about robbery and kisses, hair-raising adventures from the road to act out hilariously. Handiworks were compared, babies were displayed, coins were tossed, dice rolled. Horses were paraded before critical eyes, guitar and violin strings were tuned. Wine barrels were opened, and chickens were slaughtered to roast on spits alongside leaping lambs. The clearing would smell deliciously, and everyone would be happy.
But that day, the day the scarlet kite flew, was different from the gatherings of the past. Everything looked almost as it always did — the freshly painted caravans standing beneath the birches at the clearing’s edge, the cart horses hobbled and released to clomp through the weeds; the fires burning, the lambs cooking, the children running, the musicians playing. But the flutes and fiddles rang out less brazenly than usual, and no boisterous husbands were swinging their wives in circles, and no women, elbows linked, were spinning together in a colorful whirl of skirts and sleeves and scarves. Instead, the women were consulting mutedly, reading secrets revealed by tea leaves or the creases of a palm; and the men were more interested in comparing what they’d heard and seen on their travels than in joining their children’s soccer game. Everything seemed muffled, as if the glossy day was blanketed in snow.
Andrej knew why.
When the soldiers and the army lorries had first appeared on the road, Andrej’s father had told his eldest son not to be so worried. “This is the gadje’s war, Andrej,” he’d said. “It’s got nothing to do with the Rom. Let the gadje fight each other if they want to: their quarrel won’t involve us.” Andrej’s father had been right — this wasn’t a Gypsy war — but he had also been wrong. The war was touching everything, gadje or not. Like a roach it was sniffing its way into the smallest corners and lurking there; like a great storm it was sprawling out hugely, darkening the land. Everything it touched it tainted, making ordinary things different from how they’d been — making them difficult, and sometimes dangerous. Everywhere they traveled, Andrej felt the unease.
And here the war was, on this sunny afternoon, in the clearing with the clan on the Feast Day of the saint, leeching the day of its buoyancy. The Rom had no allegiance to either side that was fighting and had nothing to do with the reasons behind the war, nor any wish to be drawn into the conflict: but the roads felt less safe for them now, and sullen glances seemed to turn on them more often, and there was less money to be earned weaving rattan and telling fortunes and shoeing horses, so life had become slightly fragile. There had even been talk of canceling the Feast Day gathering, but such talk had been seen for what it was, a sign that the Rom were bowing to the influence of the gadje. And because no one cared for the thought of doing that, the day went ahead as planned; but no one was pretending things were as they had been, and Andrej wondered if he should request of Black Sarah an end to the war, rather than a soccer ball. Everyone said the war would end soon though, so it seemed wasteful to ask.
Andrej, in common with the other children running around the clearing that day, was trying to believe that despite what their eyes and hearts told them, nothing was badly wrong in their world, and that all they had to do was behave themselves, and not pester the adults, and eat what they were given, and everything would become all right.
The last moment of peace and normality that Andrej remembered was of seeing his cousin Nicholae kick the soccer ball hard and high. Nicholae was the best soccer player Andrej had ever seen; his ability had been born with him just as had the port-wine birthmark that lay like a patch over one eye, and he was graceful and artistic, although not above showing off. Ignoring the oncoming charge of his cousins, Nicholae trapped the ball with the point of his toes, then booted it beautifully over the boys’ heads. Andrej remembered following the ball’s flight toward the clouds and seeing there the scarlet kite, red and clean as a knife wound against the sky, and thinking to himself Nicholae is showing off but recalling his mother saying that God gave Nicholae his skill in apology for also giving him the birthmark, and that Andrej wasn’t to begrudge his cousin the occasional skite.
The soccer ball, flying like a bullet, jetted into the thick woods that surrounded the clearing, and disappeared. The game came to a jogging halt. Andrej, who was nearest the trees, called, “I’ll get it!”
The trees were birch trees, growing close together. Their trunks and branches were slim and white and their leaves were lucidly green, yet a birch forest always seemed denser and less friendly than it should. The air was cool and smelled of stagnancy and rot; the soil was black and slippery, and stuck to the soles of Andrej’s feet. He picked his way from trunk to trunk, the hair on his arms lifting with chill. He scanned all about for the soccer ball, but couldn’t see it lodged anywhere. He walked deeper into the woods, puzzling. In every direction were peaky tall trees gathered like gaunt spectators to his quest. The earth was too lumpish for the ball to have rolled away, the trees too crowded to have allowed it to bounce far, yet Andrej couldn’t see the ball anywhere it should have been.
What he did see was Tomas, sitting cross-legged on a mossy rock, nursing Wilma in his lap. “It’s up there.” Tomas untucked an arm and pointed to the soccer ball, which had caught in the fork of a tree. “You’ll have to climb.”
Andrej frowned and asked, “What are you doing here?” even though he knew. Tomas was skulking, as unsocial as ever. Around his family he was as outgoing as a parrot. Unfamiliar faces made him retreat like a snail.
Tomas knew his failing, and did not try to deny it. “Mama told me to take the baby and get out from under her feet.”
“Hmm.” Andrej imagined their mother’s tolerance for her son’s clingy ways snapping jaggedly, like a finger. She was worried about the war, Andrej knew. When he was supposed to be sleeping he had heard his parents talking on the steps of the caravan, his mother’s voice brittle with entreaty. She wanted to go somewhere far away. There had to be a place too humble to be of interest to the war. His father’s frustrating reply was that only gadje should be forced to flee a gadje war. “Come and play soccer with us,” Andrej told his brother. “Nicholae is playing really well.”
Tomas shook his head woefully, as Andrej had known he would. “No one lets me kick the ball. I never get given a chance.”
“You make your chance, Tom, you don’t get given it —”
“I don’t want to.” Tomas’s mouth set stubbornly.
Andrej sighed, and considered his brother and newborn sister. Wilma was asleep, but her face was white, and a minuscule insect shaped like a sail was walking on her cheek. “At least come out of the woods,” he said. “You’re being silly.”
“No. I like it here.”
“But it’s cold. Wilma will get sick if you sit here.”
Tomas touched the baby’s cheek, chased away the sail-shaped bug. Perhaps it dawned on him how much angrier their mother would be if he didn’t take proper care of her. “All right.” He unfolded a leg that was printed with crimps from the rock. “I’ll help you get the ball out of the tree.”
And Andrej realized something then — that although he had been wandering around the woods for long minutes, no one had shouted at him to hurry up, and none had ventured to come after him to help with the hunt. He looked over his shoulder toward the clearing, and the strange knowledge came to him that he’d rather be scolded for being an incompetent searcher than hear such silence behind him. “What is it?” Tomas asked, immediately stilled.
Andrej cocked his head. “Can you hear anything?”
Tomas listened. “Only the leaves.”
&nbs
p; Andrej remembered later the childish thought he’d had at that moment: that the entire clan had packed up the food and instruments and the statue of Black Sarah and hitched the horses and driven off soundlessly, leaving him behind. In the next instant he’d recognized this as merely a child’s nightmare, and so hadn’t run frantically back to the clearing. He’d walked, and Tomas carrying Wilma had followed him, and the good damp earth of the birch woods had soaked up the noise of their footsteps. “What about the ball?” Tomas asked, and Andrej said, “Shh.”
Yet for all his imaginings he had not expected to see what he saw when they reached the fringe of the woods. He didn’t know what he expected — something unusual, or maybe nothing so. But he had not expected what was there. He stepped past the last tree into the clearing, then sprang back like a startled cat. “What is it?” said Tomas, and Andrej clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth. Tomas’s dark eyes rolled up to him, and Andrej saw he understood the need for utter silence, and lowered his hand.
Silent as spiders, hidden in shade, they leaned forward to see beyond the trees.
The clan was grouped in the grassy space where the cooking was done. The adults were lined up in a ragtag row. The children, including the boys who had been playing soccer and the younger ones who’d been flying the kite, were standing near them, herded into a nervous clutch. The scarlet diamond of the kite lay flat in the center of the soccer field, fleetingly catching Andrej’s eye.
Standing around the fires, picking at the roast lamb, was a party of soldiers wearing the dusky uniform of the invading army. Andrej counted seven of them. One, older and stronger than the others, was talking, but quite softly, and Andrej couldn’t hear. He glanced at Tomas, held a finger to his lips, and motioned him to stay where he was; Tomas, hugging Wilma, shrank like a fox cub to the ground.
Keeping to the forest shadows, Andrej skirted the clearing. As he drew closer to where the clan stood, he could hear the voice of the strong soldier. The man was speaking the invaders’ language, which sounded like flying chips of wood. Andrej couldn’t understand it, and he knew that his father and mother and Uncle Marin couldn’t, and that probably none of the clan could either. The soldiers must have known it too, because the one who was speaking was also waving his arms about to illustrate his words. He tucked his hands into his armpits and flapped his elbows like wings. “Krähen!” he said, and his fellow soldiers laughed. “Arrk, arrk! Krähen!”
Crows: it was a name the Rom were used to. They heard it on streets and in market squares every day. The clan elders said nothing, shuffling their feet. The flock of children were watching their parents in shifting, edgy confusion. One small child named Klementina broke out with a burble of upset, and made to rush to her mother. A soldier, whirling, shoved her back among the children. “Nicht weinen!” commanded the strong soldier, his voice an ax striking timber. “Stehen still!” And Mirabela, who was hardly bigger than Klementina, lifted the smaller girl in her arms and said, “Shh, shh, little one.”
Huddled into a shallow of earth, Andrej felt sickening fear. His father said it wasn’t the Gypsies’ war: yet these soldiers were here, in their boots and caps, shouting at the clan and ordering them about; and each of them carried a rifle, and a pistol in a holster. He scanned the clan for his mother and father and saw them near the end of the line, with Marin, slender and watchful and young, younger than Andrej had ever understood, standing beside them. He didn’t look afraid, but Andrej knew he must be; even his father, who never faltered, must be slightly afraid. Some of the women began to mumble prayers but the soldier said, “Ruhig!” and they stopped.
His mother was so close that Andrej could see smudges where she’d wiped her damp hands on her apron; so close that, had Andrej spoken loudly, she might have heard. The soldiers had lost interest in the roast lamb and were strolling the campsite now, nudging at things with their black-booted toes. One of them found the statue of Black Sarah, and held her up by the throat for the others to see. “Hässlich wie die Sünde!” he said, which made his companions laugh. One made gibbering noises, as if Sarah were an ape. The soldier holding the statue gave it a smacking kiss on the lips; then strode to the nearest fire and dumped the statue into the flames.
Old Aunt Emilie, who loved Saint Sarah, bellowed, and cannoned forward. The strong soldier struck her so viciously that she dropped like a stone. Blood splashed as she hit the ground. Someone shouted — Emilie’s son, Miki — and jumped out from the line. Quick as a snake, the soldier pulled his pistol and shot Miki in the forehead.
The shot echoed across the clearing. For a moment there was no sound except this ghostly ricochet. The horror of what had happened lurched through the clan, swaying it like a broken bridge. Andrej, in the hollow, pressed his hands to his mouth.
Then the horses hobbled around the caravans whinnied and shied in fear. Some of the children started to scream. The adults reeled as if pushed by a gale, crossing themselves, covering their eyes. The soldiers roared, “Nein! Nicht sprechen! Stehen still!”
Miki lay facedown in the weeds. His mother, moaning, grabbed at him, pulling at the collar of his shirt. Somebody went to help the old woman, but stopped when the strong soldier barked, “Nein!” The adults looked at the children, pleading at them with their eyes to be quiet and well behaved. The children had clustered tightly together, like sheep. Some were sobbing but the bigger ones hushed them, understanding what was required. Andrej saw Nicholae among them, holding the wrist of his older sister Irena. His naked feet were caked with soil, his black hair was ragged and dusty. In his right ear was a thick hooped earring of which he was very proud. Andrej looked at his mother and saw she was also watching the children. Her green eyes skipped their faces back and forth. She was searching, Andrej realized: searching the children for the ones who were her own.
The soldiers ignored Miki and Emilie. They stared contemplatively around the campsite, rifles slung at the ready. They talked to each other in their cracked-kindling language, pointing to the caravans and the trampled tarot. In the fire, Black Sarah burned, feeding a high orange flame. Andrej’s mother continued to scan the children, although by now she must have seen that her own three weren’t there. Seen it, but not dared believe.
Then one of the soldiers noticed something. His boots twinkled in the sunlight as he stalked across the clearing. Andrej readied himself to run, but it was not him the soldier had seen. The man snapped his fingers at Nicholae, beckoning him out from amid the children.
No sound was made by anyone, but Andrej felt the clan’s spirit plunge the way a wounded deer goes down on its knees. Then, “Don’t,” said a voice, and Andrej almost jumped up shouting because it was Uncle Marin who had spoken, his precious Marin. “He’s only a boy,” said Marin.
The soldiers paid no attention. They came together to inspect the claret birthmark encircling Nicholae’s eye. Nicholae obligingly tipped his face to the light and Andrej could see that his hands were shaking, flicking loosely against his thighs.
The soldiers poked the mark with their fingers. They spoke thorny words to each other. Their mouths turned down steeply, curious and repulsed. Then they straightened and hedged away, and one of them raised his rifle to Nicholae.
A terrible torn sound came from the Gypsies. “Do not!” shouted Uncle Marin. The soldier with the rifle pivoted, and must have pulled the trigger, because Marin skidded sideways as if he’d stepped on ice. He had fallen to the earth before Andrej could finish thinking, Don’t, he is my friend —
Andrej’s father grabbed Andrej’s mother’s arm. And somehow, without touching him, Andrej’s mother grabbed Andrej. Though he felt as if he had been cut into pieces, Andrej didn’t move from the shallow. Though inside him shrilled a thousand agonized screams, he didn’t make a sound.
The firing of the rifle did change things, however. A heavy door seemed in some way to close. The soldiers, who had been like spoiled boys, became coolly polished and professional. To the adults who were groaning in despair they crooned, “S
hoo, shoo, Krähen.” They hustled the children into the arms of their mothers, speaking in businesslike tones. “Schnell! Kein sprechen! Habt keine Angst.” Mothers drew in sucking breaths as they grappled their offspring to their hips. One soldier beckoned two men out of line, and motioned at the caravans. “Nehmt eure Schaufeln!” he said. When he saw that they didn’t comprehend, he pantomimed digging the dirt. Even Andrej understood that he wanted the men to fetch the shovels that hung against the sides of the vans.
Many of the younger children were crying, a muddy warble which meant they were frightened and didn’t know what was happening. The women petted them, calming them down. The older children and the men were ashen-faced and subdued. Andrej’s father was staring at Uncle Marin, whose body lay awkwardly, bent at elbows and knees. His hat had dropped off when he fell. Andrej’s mother stood with empty arms, her shining gaze sweeping the woods.
The men collected nine shovels from the caravans, and when the soldier indicated they should pass the tools out to others, Andrej’s father was given one.
When everyone in the clearing was finally silent and waiting, the strong soldier looked up from his perusal of the campsite. “Jetzt!” he said. “Habt keine Angst. Folgt diesem Soldaten! Seid still wie eine Maus!” He made a creeping motion, like a prowling cat. A soldier with a metal star on each shoulder clapped his hands and gestured, and the clan, after a hesitation, turned and shambled through the grass after him. Andrej’s aunt Marie helped Emilie up from the ground. The blood that had splashed the old woman’s face was redder than the kite. Women walked close to their husbands, holding their children’s hands. Four men who weren’t bearing shovels were waved out of line and shunted toward the two who lay on the ground. The strong soldier wagged his fingers, indicating that he wanted the bodies carried away.
The Midnight Zoo Page 7
