The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

  They were running, Yojo and herself, through one of the fields the familiya used in the summer; it was night and day, something Keja only realised when Yojo, at the peak of his beauty – sixteen and muscle-shiny in his youth – pointed up to the sky and there it was, the moon full and white like a fat mushroom floating beside a low red sun.

  ‘Where is the girl?’ Yojo asked, smiling. ‘Your granddaughter – the pale one. I hear her singing for us… where is she?’

  For a moment Keja forgot who he was talking about – after all she herself was only twelve and full of the wonder a twelve-year-old who worships her brother feels and it was nice running there beside him, the tall grass whipping at their ankles, the whistling wind catching at her long black hair. But Yojo stopped running and turned to her, his brow serious.

  ‘Keja, you are dreaming; where is the girl?’

  She woke in the narrow caravan bed, the dream still pressing down upon her. She waited until it passed and was just about to call out Latcos’s name when she remembered he was still away. She shivered: she hated being left on her own and, although she trusted the Sinti they were camping with, she felt isolated. As she became fully conscious the pain of her cancer flared up. Latcos had left the morphine but it got in the way of her dreaming and filled her days with fake voices. She decided not to take it.

  To distract herself from the throbbing she looked out of the caravan window. The snow was tipped with silver and there was that luminosity that came with bright winter nights, the stretched-back wonder of foxes and wolves and all that hunted in such light. She’d always loved it – even as a child. It was her natural domain. The camp was quiet; one light shone in a caravan parked across the clearing, the golden outline of a young mother suckling a baby framed in the window. Everybody else was sleeping.

  Keja tried to look further beyond the forest towards the city, looking for her granddaughter, that nebulous presence that kept reaching out for her blindly. She doesn’t even know I exist, yet she needs me, Keja spoke out to the four walls and the family photos hung over the camping stove. Has she even been told about her Roma grandmother? Keja wondered, thinking of the blond-haired man she’d once given birth to. Had he told her? And what of him with my Roma son? Matthias and Latcos – are they safe out there? She’d heard terrible stories about the DDR; it had the reputation of being even less tolerant of gypsies than Romania. Young gypsy men had been murdered, houses burned. Would it ever change? And if they found the statuette would her people get justice?

  ‘All one can do is watch over one’s family, Ža Devlesa – Go with God,’ she whispered, hoping they would hear her.

  She slipped out of the bed, wrapping the thick dressing gown round herself to keep out the creeping cold. Placing a candle on the table, she lit it then whispered a prayer of protection for the granddaughter she hadn’t yet met and her two sons. In an instant the candle blew out of its own accord and the caravan filled with the sound of a man exhaling – an older man, his last breath filling Keja’s head like the sound of the sea in a seashell. She stared into the dark, waiting; this spirit did not dare to come further than the kitchen chair, but the profile visible in the moonlight was instantly recognisable.

  ‘It was me. I cursed you,’ she told Ulrich’s spirit, ‘and now you will never find peace.’

  A second later the candle flame flickered back into life and she saw that the kitchen chair was empty.

  NINETEEN

  Matthias stood beside Liliane as the undertakers placed the ornate oak coffin into the family mausoleum: a granite construction built in the style of a Grecian temple 150 years before, when Christoph’s great-great-great-grandfather had decided the von Holindts’ status merited such a presence in the Friedhof Nordheim.

  It was, Liliane had whispered – as though it was an obscenity to speak out loud – as if Christoph had consciously chosen to die the night before Matthias returned.

  The pallbearers slipped the coffin into the tomb then, with black hats clasped against their chests, stepped back waiting for the priest to recite one last prayer before closing the gates, the mourners forming in a semi-circle around the entrance of the mausoleum. Matthias found it hard to imagine that such an enormous presence in his life was no longer there. Both the animosity and love between them had defined him, Matthias realised – the competitiveness in his younger self arising from an intense desire to prove his autonomy to the patriarch.

  Would I have forgiven you, Christoph? Matthias silently addressed the coffin. Perhaps. Not your politics, or the fact that you let me live a lie for so long, but because I believe you loved me. Then you got away, just when I have the biggest questions of all to ask, he told the glistening oak, just as the coffin vanished completely into the tomb. He now remembered childhood incidents that, in retrospect, were obvious indications he’d been adopted. Events he’d naively stumbled through at the time – they were like beads he had begun to string together to make sense of the shifting landscape his identity had become. The heavy iron gate of the mausoleum was closed and bolted again. At the thud of the metal Liliane broke into sobbing, leaning into her father’s shoulders.

  The ferocity of the assault on Christoph had shocked Matthias, and he was sure it was connected to the warning Christoph had given him the day before he’d left for Germany. The company director had been murdered, or at least bullied to death. His death had to be linked to Klauser’s investigation and murder, and, more disturbingly, Matthias’s recent activities. The question was – who could get through Christoph’s security? The whole house was wired with the latest surveillance and anti-burglary systems – none of which had been triggered. In the days since Christoph’s death, Chief Inspector Engels had run a very cursory investigation despite the fact that Bertholt Tannen had been killed during the break-in. An unfortunate set of circumstances, the chief inspector had told Matthias, pointing out that Christoph himself had been vague about the sequence of events when questioned and had claimed he’d slept through the break-in and murder – an impossibility, given the fact that he had been tortured. Instead Christoph had insisted he’d broken his own fingers falling out of the bed to crawl towards his heart medication. It made no sense. Christoph must have known his attacker. How else could they have got past the front gate, never mind be let through the front door? I should have been there; I could have saved him. Christoph’s words from the last time he confronted him were blazoned on his conscience. You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Matthias. This is not some equation you can just unravel. And I cannot protect you if you try…

  Was Christoph murdered trying to protect him? Matthias thought back on the file Klauser had sent him; it indicated there was a cartel of men involved: Christoph, Ulrich and two others. Janus Zellweger was an obvious candidate, but who was the fourth? And there would have to have been others, smaller players facilitating the shipping and laundering – minor officials, bankers, customs officers, gallery owners. All those who had either been bribed to turn a blind eye when the goods entered Switzerland or been actively involved and still were in the concealment of the goods, those who would kill to keep their reputation pristine. Was Marie’s blood on their hands? The book of clocks was a clue, as was the metal symbol for infinity he’d found in Ulrich’s safe and the metal symbol Christoph had given Liliane, the very same symbol he was fingering in his pocket right at that moment. Were the book and the symbols connected? They had to be – but how did Zellweger fit into the scenario, and what had Klauser found on him that had led to the detective’s murder? The arms dealer practically owned the city guild as well as half the official representatives of the canton. He could afford to act with impunity. He was also one of the few men who could have entered Christoph’s home without being questioned. Yet, if it was Zellweger, Christoph had not betrayed him, not even on his deathbed – and what could terrify a dying man so much that he wasn’t willing to give up his attacker?

  Matthias took Liliane’s hand and they began making their way towards the road, the m
ountains spread out before them, blue-white tips against the pale sun. At least the dead have a great view, he observed, the touch of Liliane’s warm fingers an anchor in the unfurling whirlwind of events. But was he risking her life too, by pursuing the statuette?

  ‘Are you all right, Papa?’

  He paused, disarmed by her concern. ‘I’m just sad we weren’t reconciled when he died.’

  Liliane stayed silent, marvelling at the complicated affection between men, how so much of it lay unexpressed, like an iceberg lurking just below the surface. Her mother’s funeral had been a lot more painful; it was so vivid that Liliane avoided the memory altogether – but now walking through the crematorium with its immaculate topiary and tall yew trees, themselves as dark and sombre as the pallbearers, she suddenly saw herself at twelve by her mother’s graveside collapsing in a yelling grief, her father’s arms sheltering her from the appalled embarrassment of the other mourners.

  She glanced up, studying Matthias’s strong profile, the beauty of the symmetry of his brow and cheekbones, his downcast face dipping in and out of shadow as they walked. It felt, for once, as if her father wasn’t in control – this was so uncharacteristic that for a moment she panicked, pulling his hand closer. Surprised, he glanced over – they hadn’t walked like this since she was a little girl.

  ‘I think I forgave him at the end,’ Liliane ventured. ‘I mean, I didn’t forgive the fascist in him, but the man. He was so shrunken and different, as if… as if something had broken his soul.’ Liliane gazed up at the sky, the towering spike of a cypress pine piercing the blue-white. ‘If I were to be anything I’d be a pantheist. I learned about them in religious studies. They worship Nature and Nature doesn’t lie, doesn’t fill you with false expectations or make promises.’

  Matthias couln’t help smiling. ‘No, Nature doesn’t lie. In a way I would say us scientists are sort of Nature worshippers – we just help reveal her secrets.’

  ‘Mutti would have loved you saying that, wouldn’t she?’

  Matthias stopped in his tracks. ‘Liliane, I know what you see – those last few minutes of Mutti’s life —’

  She looked shocked. ‘I think she’s trying to tell me something, something about her death.’

  ‘We’ll find out the truth, I promise you with all my heart.’

  From above, the rustle of the branches and cawing of the birds washed over them, a crystallisation of that moment – one, Matthias knew, that would stay with them for ever. After it had passed they began making their way down the slope toward the cars.

  Two dachshunds came bouncing over the grass, leaping up affectionately towards Liliane.

  ‘Brunnhilde! Sieglinde! Naughty girls!’ A tall, Slavic-looking man, muscles bulging in a suit, ran after the dogs.

  ‘So sorry,’ he told Matthias and Liliane as he clipped the leads onto the collars of the excited animals, ‘but an hour waiting in a car… funerals are not for dogs. Unless, of course, you are burying one,’ he explained in a heavy Russian accent. There was something about his manner that Matthias took an instant dislike to and as he began to guide Liliane to the other side of the road the door of a silver BMW parked nearby swung open and Janus Zellweger stepped out.

  ‘Herr Professor von Holindt, my condolences… I see you’ve already made the acquaintance of my two little girls.’ The man with the two dogs now stood beside him, the animals fawning at their master’s feet.

  ‘Herr Zellweger, I was surprised not to see you at the funeral.’ Matthias kept his face and voice neutral.

  Zellweger smiled. ‘I was here – I make a point of observing these things from a distance as I have a theory that death might be contagious.’

  ‘It’s certainly an inevitability.’

  ‘And one I would like to delay for as long as possible. A tragic set of circumstances for both you and the company. But you have no interest in taking on the leadership, I believe?’

  ‘Wim Jollak is the new CEO – he finally got Christoph’s blessing, as he has mine.’

  ‘I understand. Switzerland and Zürich in particular are blessed to have eminent physicists like yourself; it’s always a pity when we lose one to America or Britain – or even in some sudden accident. There seem to be so many around at the moment: first that poor Inspector Klauser, a little accident with a rope in a brothel – so careless with the knots – and now your father, forgetting to put the burglar alarm on. I’m not sure if Zürich can psychologically sustain so much tragedy and drama. We are, after all, Swiss. We like it quiet and boring. It makes us feel safe.’

  ‘Liliane, go to the car.’

  ‘But Papa…’

  ‘Go!’

  Reluctantly, Liliane turned and crossed the road towards the car – there was something about the thuggish-looking man with his tattooed knuckles and a missing index finger from one hand that was familiar, but not from her waking life. She shivered and climbed into the car. Adjusting the rear-view mirror she continued to watch the two men converse.

  ‘Nice-looking girl, your daughter.’

  ‘Herr Zellweger, I should really be going…’ As Matthias turned Janus grabbed hold of his left arm in a surprisingly powerful grip. The chauffeur stepped forward and stood threateningly close.

  ‘You should take good care of her, now there’s just the two of you,’ Zellweger said.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Good, then bear this in mind: I like scientists to be scientists and not amateur sleuths. I also value my privacy above anything else and I’ve paid a high premium for it in my life, higher even than you, Herr Matthias von Holindt, can imagine, and I am not about to surrender it without a bloody fight. And remember, I am a fighter while you are not.’ He dropped Matthias’s arm, which was now a throbbing band of pain between wrist and elbow. ‘Good day, Matthias, and again my condolences for your loss.’

  Back in the car Liliane glanced at her father anxiously.

  ‘Who were those men?’

  ‘Nobody I want you to meet in the future.’ Matthias sat for a moment trying to conceal his shaking hands before slipping the key into the ignition. As he accelerated away from the kerb he watched Zellweger and his chauffeur recede into the distance in the rear-view mirror, both of them staring at the car as he drove away.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ Matthias tried to keep his tone casual, light, but he was nervous. He hadn’t spoken to Helen since the night they’d made love. So much had happened since then that now it almost felt like he might have imagined the whole affair. He put his hand over the receiver, frightened his breathing might give him away.

  ‘No, not yet. Franz Boas on biological race is no competition for you. When did you get back?’ The sound of her voice took him straight back to their lovemaking and he hardened.

  ‘A few days ago.’ Christ, it was good hearing her. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called you sooner, but it’s been frantic.’

  ‘I imagine so. I’m sorry about your… about Christoph.’

  ‘We buried him today.’ Matthias, alone in the study, rested his head against the receiver, abruptly overwhelmed by a profound exhaustion.

  ‘Matthias?’

  ‘I’m here. The truth is…’ He faltered.

  ‘The truth is?’

  ‘I want you. When can I see you?’

  ‘Now? I have some news for you, something I’ve found out about the statuette you might be interested in.’

  He stared out over Küsnacht, down at the islands of light other people’s lives were making, beacons of humanity. Each house with its own lives and deaths, its own unspoken secrets, and he thought about Liliane and himself, their island; tonight there was only room for two.

  ‘I have to do some work first.’

  ‘I’ll leave my key under the mat and you can surprise me in bed.’

  ‘It will be very late.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She put the phone down; the dial tone sounding out into the study like a fading pulse.

  Matthias turned back to his
desk. It was past nine, his favourite hour for study when the house had breathed out the chaos of the day and he was finally left with nothing but the whisperings of his own brain. Everything Klauser had sent and given him was laid out on the table top: the illustrated book of clocks, the newspaper clipping on Zellweger, the four A4 black-and-white copies of the Nazi lists, and the three metal objects – the hourglass symbol and the symbol for the element Water he’d taken from Ulrich Vosshoffner’s safe, and the symbol Christoph had bequeathed him, a simple metal triangle with the tip marked off, which he now realised must represent either Air if it were sitting on its bottom, or Earth if it were balanced on its tip. They lay to his left, glinting under the lamplight, like a riddle taunting him with its enigma.

  Holding them under the light he could see that the outer metal edges were bevelled, as if they were meant to slot into a larger structure. He laid Christoph’s symbol so that the tip was balanced on the tip of Ulrich’s symbol. He then tried to place the hourglass symbol over the apex of the two but it didn’t quite fit. Nevertheless he had the feeling that the hourglass made up the heart of the whole puzzle-key. The assemblage looked incomplete. He was certain he was missing two more triangular pieces of the puzzle-key that would make up the shape of a square with the hourglass as the centre. He glanced at the book, turning to the illustration of the four eighteenth-century clocks commissioned for Marie Antoinette. On the opposite page were the descriptions for each clock: