The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Don’t help me, save the books!’ she said impatiently. ‘They’re valuable, and I can’t afford to get them wet.’ She pushed herself back onto her feet as Matthias reached for two books, both anthropological texts.

  ‘Stupid heels,’ she muttered, Matthias now noticing that she was rather good-looking, her Schweizerdeutsch tinted by a strong American accent as she took the offered books with one hand while holding the broken-heeled shoe in the other. ‘Serves me right for not changing into boots, but it was only meant to be a short trip.’ Without asking, she leaned against Matthias’s shoulder as she slipped the books back into the briefcase, then peered short-sightedly up at his face.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  He stiffened. He was seen occasionally in the social pages, accompanying Christoph at high-profile events, so sometimes people mistakenly thought they knew him.

  ‘From on campus, maybe?’ she persisted. ‘I’m Helen Thorton, Anthropology.’

  He glanced over at the showroom. The abrupt sense that he was being watched made him edgy. ‘No, I don’t think so. Are you all right now? I can help you to your car but I have an appointment…’

  Helen, who’d never completely adjusted to the formality of the Swiss despite five years of living in the country, struggled with the palpable frostiness of the man standing before her. His face was familiar and she had a feeling it was through university circles, although he was good-looking enough to be an actor or TV star. She snapped off the offending heel and slipped on the shoe.

  ‘I can manage – thanks anyway.’ Turning, she began half-hobbling back to her car. It was only after she’d climbed into the seat that she remembered where she’d seen him before – there was a photograph of him pinned up on the physics department notice board – Matthias von Holindt, the wunderkind of Swiss physics. Flushed with embarrassment, she looked across the road. The physicist was staring into the window of a luxury showroom. He seemed a little lost and there was something endearingly vulnerable about him despite his towering height. It was only now that she noticed the showroom was for the Holindt Watch Company – his father’s own company.

  The front window was discreet, so discreet it was almost impossible to tell that it was actually a display of watches. The entrance was a heavy oak door with a video camera installed above it so that the ever-present security guards on the other side could screen visitors. Over the buzzer was a brass plaque with the company’s insignia engraved on it: that distinctive square divided into triangles, the same design Matthias remembered had been found on the murdered gypsy’s body only days earlier. Standing before it Matthias didn’t even bother to press the buzzer. He just looked directly up at the video camera lens and smiled. A second later he was buzzed in.

  ‘Guete tag, Herr Professor von Holindt. I’m afraid Herr Guth is out. Did you not make an appointment with his secretary?’

  Matilde Jools, the showroom’s second-in-command, whose immaculate uniform of a black Chanel suit and pearls had not changed in the twenty years she’d worked for the company, stepped out from behind the gleaming desk that was surrounded by display cases, their contents twinkling under discreet spotlights. Two security guards stood by the elevators and there was one permanently stationed by the front door. Again Matthias found himself wondering how the murdered gypsy ever imagined he’d be able to break in to such a fortress.

  ‘Oh, it is such a minor thing I didn’t want to disturb him. I have to check some tax records for the board – one of the shareholders had some questions; it’s all very tedious, but it has to be done, and Father, well, you know all about my father. I didn’t really want to bother him any more than I have to. He’s terribly fragile, you know.’

  ‘So I believe. The records are kept in the basement, Herr Professor; I’ll send Claus down with you to show you the way. But if you want to wait for Herr Guth he will be back soon.’

  Matthias glanced at the clock over the elevator.

  ‘Normally I would love to, but I have to get back to the laboratory.’

  ‘I understand.’ She gave a curt nod to one of the burly security guards. They entered the lift, Matthias painfully aware of the bulky revolver he wore at his waist.

  The elevator opened out on the basement. Closest to Matthias were the most recent records, housed in two rows of ugly metal filing cabinets painted hospital green. Behind them were the nineteenth-century records, in wooden cabinets. Against the back wall, he knew, was a row of even older, more ornate wooden filing cabinets, the contents of which went back more than 150 years.

  ‘You don’t have to wait, Claus. I’ll be a while.’

  The guard smiled. ‘Oh, it’s what I’m paid for. How is Herr Christoph? We were all very upset by his illness. The place is very quiet without his visits.’

  ‘Oh, you know my father, fighting with his body and now with everyone else,’ Matthias said, wondering if the guard had been instructed to watch him. He reached into his pockets and exclaimed, ‘Oh damn, I’ve left my glasses upstairs.’

  ‘That’s all right, Herr Professor, I’ll fetch them for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind. They’re in my briefcase, on the desk.’

  As the sound of the ascending elevator faded, Matthias opened the cabinet marked 1940 to 1945 and flicked quickly through the hanging files. They all looked legitimate until he came to the file marked 1942. It was empty. He lifted it out and held it up to the light. There was a dust mark where the original paperwork had sat and there was also a faint smudge reading ‘1868 A’, as if an embossed ink reference number had marked itself against the cardboard cover of the file. Behind him he heard the lift click as it began descending. Matthias quickly replaced the empty file then bolted over to the cabinet that would contain 1868 and looked under ‘A’. At the very back was a modern-looking envelope. The lift was almost at the basement. Matthias shoved the envelope deep into his jacket and was in front of the late-twentieth-century cabinet just as the lift doors pinged open.

  Back in the safety of the Citroën Matthias pulled out the envelope and carefully opened it. Inside was a letter.

  January 10th 1942

  The Vosshoffner Casting Factory

  Lorrach, Basel.

  My dear cousin,

  We received the shipment today. As described, twenty casements are to be made from the melted down gold with the inscription For the great occasion of the Führer’s fifty-third birthday with a swastika placed beneath it. No doubt the Führer will be most appreciative of your excellent craftsmanship. I trust our ‘arrangement’ will continue. Here, life continues with as much normalcy as possible – the Allies bombed a nearby warehouse but missed us entirely, thank God.

  Heil Hitler and with warm regards, Rudolf

  Matthias stared disbelievingly. All the stories of Christoph’s activities during the war erased in an instant: stories about funding refugees, giving money to the White Rose resistance group – all lies to smokescreen his real activities. There was no doubt the gold was war plunder, seized by the SS. Matthias knew there was a German branch of the von Holindts, but Christoph never spoke about them. Who exactly was cousin Rudolf? And where exactly was this factory in Basel?

  As he pulled away from the kerb a BMW pulled up at the lights – a burly, broad-shouldered man with a shaven head of Slavic appearance sat at the wheel, with a second man, shorter and younger, in the passenger seat. Both watched as the Citroën turned into a side road. A few moments later the BMW followed.

  It was past ten by the time Matthias returned to Küsnacht. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon struggling with the equation that had been haunting him for the past few days. He’d worked six hours straight, but as soon as he stopped his research the letter and its contents flooded straight back into his thoughts. Now the incriminating evidence felt like it was burning through the fabric of his jacket, branding him the child of a Nazi. He was torn between destroying the letter, thus saving the reputation of the company and Christoph terri
ble persecution, or behaving ethically. The shadow of the war still fell over Europe, the collective horror of nightmares playing out in the apartments of Paris, West Berlin, in the bleak Soviet accommodation of Moscow – trauma stamped on the DNA of generations: those living and those waiting to be born. He felt the shadow now, like a chill across his skin.

  He parked his car in the driveway and, with his briefcase under his arm, began down the curved garden path. As he walked he had the feeling someone else was nearby, just the sound of a night bird’s wings fluttering in the crisp winter air startled him. He swung round but saw only the patina of moonlight catching at the flagstones. Nevertheless his unease grew, and he hurried across the front lawn.

  Suddenly he felt a violent push from behind. He hit the snow-covered grass face-first, his hands breaking his fall as his briefcase flew onto the ground in front of him. He couldn’t move and realised someone was pinning him down, and he saw a pair of feet in rubber overshoes and gloved hands reaching for his briefcase. Then he saw his technical papers falling to the ground quickly, one after another, apparently of no interest to his assailants. Matthias, as angry as he was frightened, tried to shout, kicking out and struggling, attempting to hurl the man on his back off him, but the man was heavy and strong and pushed his face into the snow. Finally he was hauled to his feet, arms pinned back. Now he could see that his assailants wore balaclavas, and he could smell the incongruous whiff of kirsch on the breath of the one who had him in a tight grip.

  ‘What do you want?’ Matthias managed to say, as the smaller man who had plundered his briefcase searched his jacket, finding the envelope in his inside pocket. The man stepped back, waving the envelope at his partner. Whatever the gesture meant Matthias did not find out, because a dark form leaped from the bushes. Matthias felt and heard a meaty smack behind his head, and a rip of cloth, and the grip on him loosened instantly. He swung round to see the large mask-clad figure staggering away and instinctively kicked him between the legs. The dark figure was already out of view. Matthias turned to see a young gypsy holding a knife to the smaller man’s neck.

  Matthias snatched the envelope from his hand. At the same moment the man drove his elbow into the gypsy’s ribs and both attackers fled, one clutching a bleeding arm.

  Matthias ran over and retrieved his papers then turned to his rescuer, who appeared cut on the cheek.

  ‘Are you OK?’ The gypsy spoke German with a strong accent.

  ‘I’m in one piece, thank you, but you’re bleeding.’ The cut was deep, blood welling up from between the young man’s fingers. ‘I should get you to a hospital.’

  ‘No. No hospital. Anyhow, I’ve done my duty and now I should leave.’

  ‘At least tell me your name!’

  ‘Latcos.’

  ‘Come into the house, Latcos. I can stop the bleeding.’

  ‘I shouldn’t; I want no trouble.’

  ‘Trouble, what trouble? Are you the gypsy who’s been watching my house?’

  ‘Rom. I am Kalderash – from Romania. And I haven’t been watching the house – I have been protecting it.’ He turned to leave but stumbled and Matthias grabbed his arm.

  ‘Please, let me wash the cut and bandage it. It’s the least I can do…’

  Moments later Latcos sat perched on one of the high kitchen stools as Matthias carefully stemmed the bleeding, then placed a surgical bandage on it.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ Latcos asked tentatively, a little intimidated by the surroundings.

  Matthias laughed. ‘No, a scientist, but like all Swiss men I had army training – and that includes basic medical training.’ He stepped back. ‘That will hold for a while but you really should see a doctor.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Latcos was suddenly very awkward; all he wanted to do was to leave, to be back in an environment he was familiar with. ‘Those men, they weren’t after your money, were they?’

  ‘No. I think they were after information.’ Matthias headed towards the drinks cabinet. ‘Whisky? It will take the pain away.’

  ‘Why not?’ Latcos tried smiling, but the luxurious interior of the house intimidated him and the low ceiling made him feel trapped. He tried staring out at the view, imagining he could still feel fresh freezing air under his skin. It helped a bit.

  Although the whisky relaxed him, Matthias noticed his hands were still shaking. His attackers had definitely been after the letter – the question was who had sent them and how had they known he even had it? And who was this young gypsy? Could he be connected?

  ‘I’m intrigued – why would a gypsy think he could protect a villa and me; why would you even bother?’

  To his surprise Latcos laughed. ‘I pity you, despite all your riches and success. You are a half-breed, pas Rom; you belong to no clan and you have no real lineage. Also, you have poisoned blood.’

  Astonished, Matthias put down his glass, now not even sure he’d heard the gypsy correctly.

  Reading his confusion, Latcos repeated, ‘Yes, poisoned blood. But you see, I have pledged to look out for you.’

  Matthias, now insulted, stood up and pushed his chair back.

  ‘I think you should leave now.’ His voice was trembling with rage but the young gypsy, shrugging nonchalantly, was already on his feet.

  ‘You’re right. It is better this way, otherwise you could end up riding two horses with one backside,’ he told Matthias, with a passion that made Matthias wonder whether the gypsy was in his right mind. ‘If you want to find us we are staying in the Sinti camp by the airport. At least now I can tell my mother Keja that I have met her firstborn.’

  ‘Firstborn? What are you talking about? Who’s Keja?’ Matthias demanded, startled how the name resounded in his memory, but from where?

  Latcos stopped in his tracks. ‘Keja is our mother. She is dying and she sent me to find you. Now I have, my job’s done.’ He turned back to the door.

  ‘Wait! You’re telling me we share the same mother? My mother died ten years ago. What is this, some kind of bad joke? It’s impossible.’

  ‘Believe me, that’s what I said when I heard the story. I mean, look at you, and look at me – night and day.’ Latcos walked back and began helping himself to another whisky. ‘But why should you be interested in the truth? I told my mother: who wants to know his father was a monster?’ Latcos lifted the glass. ‘To family.’

  Matthias paled. ‘My father is Christoph von Holindt.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Your father was Standartenführer Ulrich Vosshoffner, an SS officer. In 1943 your blood father enslaved my mother, murdered her family and stole their gold, and a family heirloom. You were the result of the repeated rapes he subjected her to.’

  Vosshoffner! Vosshoffner. The name was familiar. In a flash Matthias remembered where he’d seen it, earlier that day, the name of the casting factory in Basel – Vosshoffner. Again he had a sense of vertigo, as if his world had begun to fall away like scaffolding, piece by piece. He buried his face in his hands, forgotten memories now flashing through his brain like strangely edited film footage: a curtain of long black hair, deep brown eyes, being held up to a train window as the station platform pulled away, a low-flying bomber screaming across a blue sky, the red-tipped wings clearly visible, the name ‘Keja’ being whispered under the staccato montage.

  ‘My father is Christoph von Holindt,’ he repeated falteringly, as if convincing himself.

  Latcos, watching him, softened. ‘I don’t know what he is to you, but he is not your blood father,’ he repeated quietly.

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘You have a birthmark, small, blue in colour, star-shaped.’ Latcos reached out and laid his finger on Matthias’s left arm near his armpit.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ The intensity of his outburst shocked even Matthias. This new reality was too confronting, too undermining of all that he thought he was. Ashamed, he turned away. ‘How do I know you didn’t raid my medical records for a con, even set up the mugging as a ploy for me to trust you?’ />
  In lieu of an answer Latcos began unbuttoning his own shirt.

  ‘Look.’ He lifted up his left arm to reveal a small bluish birthmark – the mirror of Matthias’s own.

  ‘It’s not possible…’ Matthias could barely form the words.

  ‘It must be hard for your world to collapse like a tent, and I don’t care whether you believe me or not, but it’s important for my mother.’ Latcos tucked his shirt in. He glanced round the room and begun to hum, unconsciously, almost as if the tune gave him courage. The young gypsy moved towards the mantelpiece on which sat a photograph of Matthias, Marie and Liliane aged about ten. He pointed out the photograph. ‘This is your daughter?’

  But it was the tune he had hummed that instantly caught Matthias’s attention. He’d recognised it instantly; it was the refrain that had haunted him all his life.

  ‘That tune! How do you know that tune!’

  Astonished at his tone, Latcos backed away. ‘It’s an old gypsy lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a baby.’