The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

  Klauser slipped his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers round his SIG Sauer 9 mm police-issue pistol. He inserted the key as silently as possible then pushed the door. It swung open, revealing the sparsely furnished sitting room. The pillows on the couch had not been moved, yet he had a strong sense that someone or something had been through the flat. He slipped off his shoes and, in his socks, walked soundlessly to the kitchen. And there, nailed by his paws to the kitchen table, a knife gash running from neck to abdomen, was Erasmus, eviscerated, the intestines spiralling out like stuffing from a rag doll.

  Erasmus’s eyes were closed. Maybe they used chloroform, Klauser thought hopefully, otherwise the cat would have put up a fight. There was a note shoved under the dead animal. Forcing down the bile that rose to his throat, Klauser pulled it out from the blood and fur:

  You’re next if you don’t stop asking questions – let dead gypsies lie.

  The words were composed of cut-out letters from what looked like newspapers and magazines, but the distinctive shape of the ‘Z’ in Zigeuner – gypsy – caught Klauser’s eye.

  ‘You have to understand that because Romany history is carried only through storytelling,’ Helen began formally, ‘there is no reliable written record originating within the Romany community. A researcher like me has to rely on the reports of witnesses or non-gypsies close to, or living among the Roma, and I keep a broad record of references to holy relics that appear to have both Sara la Kali and Kali connections – whether these are referring to the same relic remains to be seen.’

  Helen carefully turned the paper, covered in handwriting that looked as if it had been written in great sweeping gushes of enthusiasm. Matthias, leaning over her, became aware of the scent of her hair; he breathed it in, couldn’t help himself, but if she noticed she didn’t let it show.

  ‘This is from an old journal kept by a parish priest in Ukraine during the sixteenth century. In 1553, at a wedding, he witnessed a “most extraordinary event”. He describes the unveiling of a small statue the gypsies claimed was a holy relic fallen from the heavens and of the Holy Virgin herself. To his dismay this statuette had four arms, despite a halo, and was made of a substance he’d never seen before. The gypsies told him that those pure of heart were blessed by the statuette’s touch and those impure of heart were cursed by it. Those Kalderash attending touched the statuette for good luck and for healing. But when he touched it he felt an unpleasant sensation that made him conclude the statuette was both heathen and possessed by evil spirits. Apparently a Kalderash woman of loose morals had touched the statuette and died; the gypsies called it Kali’s blessing and told him it was punishment for seducing another woman’s husband.’ Helen turned and smiled at him. ‘Roma are very superstitious, but there might be something in it – after all, belief is as powerful a weapon as anything else.’

  ‘Does the priest give an exact description of the statuette?’ Painfully conscious of the proximity of their bodies and terrified she might realise he found her attractive, he shifted slightly away.

  ‘Just to say that on close inspection it was grey-greenish in colour – of a texture he had never seen in any known metals.’

  ‘It was obviously not gold or silver by the sound of it – hard to imagine why the SS bothered to take it at all.’

  ‘The policy of the Nazi Party was racial obliteration of a people – this included the destruction of customs, religious artefacts, graveyards, etc., but they also tended to collect anything that was potentially powerful either in the occult sense or culturally – Hitler’s obsession with the mystical was well known. The priest also talks about its ability to draw other objects towards itself – magically,’ Helen continued. ‘And in the lyrics of an old Romany ballad there’s the story of a gypsy woman who claimed she was as beautiful as a goddess, and how the goddess revenged herself by appearing as a heavenly statuette who stared at the woman until she dropped dead – sound familiar?’

  ‘Possibly. My sources described it in far more positive terms.’

  ‘Your sources?’ she asked, her direct question and candid bemusement confusing him.

  ‘A half-brother who is far more unhappy about the family connection than I am. It’s a little overwhelming, to discover you are not who you thought after thirty-seven years.’

  ‘Identity is a complex issue, ethnic identity a minefield. But in the end we are all the same species. When it comes down to it, we all eat, shit, reproduce and then die. The beauty and the bathos lie in the different ways we do those things.’

  ‘You must come across so many different belief systems – some of them must have inspired you? I know physics inspires me, if you can describe that as a belief system.’

  ‘Oh, I’m inspired every day. I’m a romantic; I tend to believe when the subjects of my research believe – I’ve been told it’s my Achilles heel as an academic. But your statuette, regardless of whether it has powers or not, would be an extraordinary artefact – one clear link back to the Baro Tem – the old land – for the Roma people, something they have held on to over centuries of both slavery and brutal persecution.’

  ‘Until 1943.’ Matthias couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  He strolled along the corridor, distracted by a whirlwind of questions spinning around his mind. From somewhere he heard his name being called and looked up. Mies Goepfert, a smile plastered across his face, stood before him.

  ‘Matthias, what a delightful surprise. What brings you to this department – or have you swapped the microscope for the tape recorder?’

  Matthias hesitated. ‘Just a coffee with a friend,’ he said, unwilling to reveal the Roma link. Goepfert looked unconvinced. ‘Professor Thorton. She’s an anthroplogist. And you?’

  ‘Oh, another endless funding meeting, you know how it is. Speaking of which, Christoph told me your research has been going really well – close to a breakthrough, were his exact words.’ Matthias couldn’t help looking startled. ‘He’s proud of you, you know.’

  ‘Is he?’ Matthias’s reply was cynical.

  ‘Indeed he is,’ said Goepfert. ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on him. Well, I should be getting back, mustn’t be late. Please send my regards to Professor Thorton.’

  ELEVEN

  It was about three in the afternoon by the time Matthias found his way to Rümlang, the forested area near the airport. Last time he’d been there, he stood outside the fence staring in; now he knew he belonged inside. He parked the Citroën just off the road. There was a ploughed field and a cluster of fir trees edging a forest. He knew the gypsy camp lay beyond – already he could hear the sound of dogs barking, the rumble of a motorcycle being driven round and round and the faint cries of children playing. He stepped out of the car, wrapped the scarf Marie had knitted for him a lifetime ago round his neck, pulled his leather jacket tightly about him, locked his briefcase in the boot, and made sure all the doors were locked. Even now he found himself wrestling with old prejudices. He climbed over the fence and jumped down. With the frozen earth crunching beneath his leather soles, he began walking across the field. A small flock of crows picking at the hard ground flew up and started circling over him as he walked determinedly towards the trees.

  The wind, now bitterly cold, started to whip up, blowing back his hair, numbing the front of his face. It was a welcome blankness. He’d made his mind up – now it was a question of action.

  He reached the other side of the field. A path wound into the undergrowth then disappeared into the forest. It was in this direction he could hear the sounds of the camp, and through the branches he could see glimpses of the grey steel of campervans, motor homes and even some brightly coloured wooden caravan roofs. He began down the path when suddenly four dogs came bounding violently from behind the trees, barking furiously as they ran straight for him. Panicking, Matthias glanced wildly round. A branch lay broken on the ground; he lifted it up and brandished it as a weapon as the dogs surrounded him, snarling and snapping. Matthias, keeping his
eyes on all four animals, warded them off. There was the sound of a thin whistle above the wind. The dogs immediately retreated as a group of young gypsies, five in total, emerged from behind the fir trees. The oldest looked to be in his early thirties, the others little more than youths, swarthy, sharp-faced, in black tight leather jackets and flared jeans, bright kerchiefs tied round their necks, all wearing hats – trilbies and black berets. They surrounded Matthias in a hostile silence; the dogs, now lowered to the ground, still growled in suspicion.

  ‘Please, I come as a friend.’ He spoke in German. The leader stepped forward.

  ‘You don’t look like a friend. You look like a policeman, one of those well-dressed detectives.’

  ‘Or maybe some rich businessman who made a wrong turn!’ one of the youths remarked, making the others laugh. Matthias kept still, painfully aware of how vulnerable he was, knowing the worst thing he could do was to show fear.

  ‘Please, I’m here to see someone – Latcos.’

  ‘We don’t know any Latcos – you’ve got the wrong camp, my friend,’ the youth said in a very unfriendly way. Matthias held his ground.

  ‘Please, he’s visiting, a Kalderash from Romania.’

  ‘A Kalderash? Why would a gadjo want to see a Kalderash?’

  Another youth said, ‘You want copper pots? We have copper pots…’ Shrugging, he turned to the others, his hands and eyes conveying his disbelief. Matthias stepped forward, now towering over the five youths.

  ‘I have something for him.’

  Just then an older gypsy, obviously the leader of the gang, pushed his way past the others.

  ‘What do you want from Latcos?’ he demanded. ‘Maybe you think he’s here in Switzerland illegally? Maybe you’ve come to deport him? In which case it’s a pity for you that you’ve come on your own.’ He pulled back his jacket revealing a knife, hidden in an ornately patterned leather sheath tucked into his belt.

  The other men began to circle Matthias again, taunting him.

  ‘Yes, most unwise,’ another of them muttered, eyeing the watch on Matthias’s wrist.

  ‘I told you I’m a friend,’ Matthias protested.

  ‘Nice watch.’ The fourth youth, a skinny boy of about eighteen with embroidered cowboy boots visible at the bottom of his jeans, reached out and pushed him so that he stumbled, but stayed on his feet, now trying to control a growing anger.

  ‘I could do with a watch like that. Want to make a gift of it? Eh? I’m a friend of Latcos too,’ he said lewdly, again sending the others off into laughter. Matthias looked behind him, calculating how long it would take to bolt back to the car, when suddenly the sound of a man shouting sounded out from the forest.

  ‘Enough!’ Latcos stepped out of the foliage, a horsewhip in one hand. ‘What kind of way is this to treat a friend, one of our own?’

  Surprised, the others swung round, then turned to stare back at Matthias disbelievingly. ‘One of our own?’ the older man repeated incredulously.

  ‘He is pas Rom. He is my half-brother.’ There was a stunned silence then the younger men turned to the older leader, awaiting his reaction. Finally a gleaming smile broke out of the swarthy complexion. He stepped forward and placed an arm around Matthias’s shoulders. ‘Of course, there is such a strong resemblance I should have realised it immediately!’ he joked, and the others followed suit, now smiling at Matthias. But the cynical undertone to the Sinti’s voice left Matthias uneasy.

  Latcos stepped forward and, approaching the leader, held his hand out and said something in Romanes. The man appeared to ignore him, the tension heightened and Matthias again glanced at the field, wondering whether he should run.

  Holding his ground Latcos repeated the statement, a little more aggressively. This time, to Matthias’s amazement, the Sinti reached into his pocket and produced Matthias’s wallet. He held it out to Latcos, who took it, then handed it back to Matthias without a word.

  ‘Come, it’s this way to my caravan.’ Latcos gestured towards the trees. Matthias glanced back at the leader, who was now leaning against a tree smoking, a cynical smile playing across his face. Ignoring him, Latcos led Matthias through the trees as the others melted back into the forest.

  ‘You have to understand we don’t trust or like the gadjé – the non-gypsies,’ Latcos told Matthias when they were out of earshot. ‘History and experience has never given us a reason to; besides, we don’t understand the gadjo’s greed for objects or land. Why? When the Earth gives us the wood in the forest, the fish in her rivers, the birds and beasts? It’s because of these beliefs we think it our right to take from the gadjo – to trick him so that we can eat. But there is also another belief that before the crucifixion of Jesus a gypsy stole the fourth nail intended for Jesus’s heart – because of this we believe God gave us the right to steal from the gadjo’s world. There is a saying – Romano tshachimo – the truth is expressed in Romanes.’

  ‘What do you believe?’

  ‘I believe in survival. And it’s getting harder. They persecute and murder our young men, they push us onto poorer and poorer land, we are losing our traditions. Our way of life. And lately I find myself thinking about revenge. But you, you are a puzzle – where are we going to fit you?’

  ‘I had to come. I had to see you. I’m not going to apologise for this.’

  ‘Jankos, the man you just met, thinks you will bring danger to the camp. They are frightened of the authorities here; there has been some trouble. They can’t believe you’re half-gypsy.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ Matthias said solemnly, at which Latcos laughed.

  The trailer sat at the edge of a clearing in the middle of the forest, a little distance away from the other vehicles, a motley collection of old trailers, motor-homes and several more traditional gypsy caravans with their curved tin roofs. Several old cars were parked haphazardly in the clearing, and a great pile of old machine parts – bits of washing machines, motors, steel sinks, wheel spokes and various other metal bric-a-brac – sat at one far edge of the camp; they looked as if they’d been flung there by a giant child. Beyond that several horses huddled in a field, a donkey standing indifferently among them. A small crowd of dirty-faced children followed the two men across the camp, laughing and jostling as if daring each other to talk to the well-dressed stranger. Latcos caught Matthias looking at the pile of debris.

  ‘The Sinti here are carpet dealers; they import fake Turkish rugs and sell them from the road,’ he said. ‘The women make a little money fortune-telling and hassling at the markets on Sundays. It’s not easy – the Kantonspolizei has threatened to move them on after the summer.’

  Several of the men had made a roaring fire of wood and branches in the centre of the camp, around which a few of them stood smoking and talking while a row of men seated in old wooden chairs warmed themselves against the dancing flames. One very old silver-haired man sat in the centre on an ornate but battered armchair, the light of the fire dancing across his dignified features. He raised his hand in greeting when he saw Latcos, who greeted him with a return wave.

  ‘That’s their Shero Rom, the leader. He’s a good man. It’s because of him that we are allowed to stay here. He knew our uncle, Yojo.’

  ‘We will find who murdered him, I promise,’ Matthias found himself saying.

  Latcos stopped and studied him for a minute, his breath a plume in the freezing air.

  ‘You’ve changed since I last saw you. You believe me now?’

  ‘I’ve made a decision. Coming here is the first step.’

  They arrived at a caravan painted with traditional decorations around the windows and roof. Parked on the other side was a 1970 green Chevy, a silver horseshoe dangling from the rear-view mirror and a Romanian number plate on the back. Matthias glanced at Latcos.

  ‘She’s pretty, no? I do well. I am one of the best copper workers in the familiya and I also have a good trade in antiques, some real, some not so real. This is my second home; the other is my house in Timişoara,’ Latcos
explained, then added with a smile, ‘See, you’re not the only success in this family.’ He peered into the window. ‘Keja is with the other women, but she will be back later. It is better this way. We will have privacy. Come.’

  Matthias sat by the small wooden foldout table with a glass of home-made pear liqueur, as Latcos knelt to light a small heater that was attached to a gas cylinder. He studied the traditional caravan – the vurdon, which was far neater and cleaner than he had imagined. There was a small glass cabinet containing china, a row of old black-and-white photographs that looked as if they were of relatives from the last century, and several icons hanging over the small camping stove and miniature fridge; one was of a black Madonna. At the far end of the vurdon were two built-in sleeping compartments, one on top of the other. Two decorative wooden panels flanked the sleeping compartments, inset with oval mirrors, and they had elegant wooden cabinets curving out beneath. On the left cabinet stood a copper water jug and china washbowl, while the beds were covered in embroidered bedspreads and pillows. A guitar lay on the top bunk.