by Mario Bolduc
Author’s Note
While this novel’s foundations are anchored in historical truth, the story itself is fictional. A troop of fictional characters was added by the author to the living and dead historical characters who make an appearance. What’s more, the real-world chronology of certain events was modified for narrative purposes.
Romani culture is rich and varied. As much as possible, the Romani words and phrases used are those of the Kalderash of Eastern Europe. However, some expressions and customs of other Romani groups, notably the Manush and Romanichal, are also woven into the story.
So long as we travel the paths of justice, honour and duty, no one and nothing can turn us from our goal, because we have at our side a devoted and honourable ally — suffering.
— Gheorghe Nicolescu, 1936,
quoted by Donald Kenrick and Grattan Puxon in Destiny of Europe’s Gypsies (1972)
Table of Contents
Cover
Author’s Note
Epigraph
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Part Two
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Part Three
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
Where Are They Now?
Acknowledgements
In the Same Series
Part One
The Emperor’s Son
1
Auschwitz-Birkenau, August 23, 1943
The Paolo Soprani was in rough shape — one of the mechanism’s supports had come unglued, and part of its veneer had begun to peel. In other times, the accordion, the gormónya, would have been destined for the trash heap. But young Emil Rosca had disassembled the keyboard, refurbished the pallets, and glued both supports back on after reinforcing them with threaded shafts made of old barbed wire. All that did nothing to mend the hole — right in the middle of the bellows. A disaster. The accordion’s owner had probably fallen headfirst off a freight car. He’d attempted to break his fall with the instrument and only managed to tear a hole two inches wide. Emil folded a piece of cardboard that had previously been luggage lining along the bellows’ folds. He made a strap out of an old belt stolen from the camp’s depot, the effektenlager, also called “Canada.” The effektenlager was where the detainees’ goods were held. Poor souls coming out of the showers at the far end of the ground were registered and given an identification number. At Auschwitz those numbers were etched directly on their left forearms. In the case of children whose arms were still too thin, the number was cut into the leg instead. They then dripped black ink directly in the open wound.
Emil wasn’t stupid. Since he disinfected clothes, he knew that many of the new arrivals who were told they were being quarantined were never seen again after being marched toward the showers. “The final shower,” the veterans said. “Hell,” others whispered. Day or night made no difference at all; smoke rose behind the barracks, right over there, over the crematory ovens. It never ceased to surprise Emil how disinfecting the clothes of a convoy of prisoners took more time than erasing their existence from the surface of the earth did.
They were fifty or so assigned to the chore, all Roma prisoners of the BIIe sector, the Zigeunerlager. Most of them were older, more worn to the bone than Emil — but they were all as clever as him. They made piles of coats, pants, dresses, entire wardrobes, really, under the bored supervision of SS officers, all the while secretly going through every pocket. Results were scarce. Others had gone through the pockets before them, officers responsible for the reception of the convoys. Even they rarely found something worth stealing. Sometimes a watch, maybe a wallet, pictures. Junk.
Surprisingly, Emil had been the only one to notice it: the Paolo Soprani buried under a pile of suitcases the newcomers had abandoned, jostled ever forward by the guards and the barking dogs all around. Its trip to Birkenau’s Judenrampe had been long and difficult. A sunbeam reflected against the instrument’s keys, a sudden burst of light that caught his eye. Emil walked discreetly toward it, pretending to pick up discarded clothes. A meaningless precaution: the guards weren’t paying attention. The accordion’s owner? Gone, disappeared, evidently without having managed to keep his instrument with him. It was a small miracle he’d kept it so long, anyway.
Emil covered the gormónya with a long dress shirt, wrapped three or four others over it, and managed to bring it back to the Roma camp. Young Emil received a hero’s welcome when he returned with his bounty. The children danced and jumped around him as if he’d won the lottery. Emil had always been a little vain. He wasn’t going to refuse the attention. He played a few notes before even taking the time to repair the instrument and then began a longer piece. A Romani lament his father had learned somewhere along the travels of his kumpaníya. Emil and his family were Kalderash, a Romani people who specialized in the traditional making and repairing of cauldrons — in short, metalworkers. Since forever they had travelled Romania far and wide. At the beginning of the war Emil had been separated from his family in a police raid — he still had no idea what fate had befallen them.
The Paolo Soprani whistled out of every hole and crack in its bellows but still managed to hold a tune. Suddenly, a shadow fell over the young musician.
“Do you know how much we can get for that?”
Emil Rosca raised his head. Standing before him was Martin Hofbauer. He was a tall, brawny Sinto man, born somewhere in northern Germany, a horse trader who’d quickly made friends with the SS when he got to the camp. He’d become the long arm of the law, making sure the rules were respected — “his” rules, really. His size helped make him more persuasive. For his participation in the invasion of Poland with the Wehrmacht, he’d been decorated with the Iron Cross. But after the decree on German Roma was signed by Heinrich Himmler in December 1942, he was picked right out of his battalion and sent to Auschwitz. The idiot still proudly wore his medal on his shirt.
Emil didn’t hesitate for a second. “The gormónya is mine. I’m keeping it.”
It had taken all of Emil’s courage to answer him. Once, he’d seen Hofbauer break a man’s skull for stealing his tobacco — under the amused watch of the kapos, common criminals who supervised the work of Auschwitz detainees. Emil hadn’t been a big guy even back when he’d had three meals a day. And here, in the camp, he was barely more than a hundred pounds. Little Emil, who’d never thrown a punch in his life.
But just as Hofbauer was about to punch him and steal the Paolo Soprani, a hand came down on the giant’s shoulder. A delicate, frail, sickly man was behind it. Even smaller than Emil. Hofbauer could put him out of his misery with a single blow, Emil was sure. But the man, whom Emil had never seen before, spoke in Romani: “He is a descendant of Luca le Stevosko.”
Hofbauer hesitated. The Sinto had lost some of his confidence. The sickly man’s declaration seemed to have frozen him in his tracks. His enormous arms suddenly hung limply. He mumbled something, then turned and left, without another word. The stranger — Emil’s guardian angel — also departed. Emil suddenly felt filled with prodigious strengt
h despite his tiny frame. He stuck his chest out and held the accordion against him. More proof that all of the Hofbauers in the world couldn’t do a thing against a direct descendant of Luca, son of Stevo.
Emil’s ancestor had fought alongside Mihail Kogălniceanu, the Romanian statesman who’d contributed to the abolition of Romani slavery in 1856. Since that day, the Roma offered his family limitless respect. As bulibasha, or local leader, Anton Rosca, Emil’s father, led the Kris romani, the tribal council of Wallachian Roma. He was known throughout Europe. Even in Auschwitz, the Kalderash, Lovari, and Tshurari respected the Rosca family. Once again, Emil had evidence of their respect.
The Zigeunerlager was a privileged place. Within the BIIe, the Romani camp, the prisoners were kept with their families, and no one wore a prisoner’s uniform. Almost five thousand Roma in all. Oddly, the SS hadn’t broken them up, for a reason Emil didn’t know. Their skills were put to use. The Kalderash, metalworkers, maintained the barbed wire. Others, like Emil, worked in the effektenlager. There was even talk of a zoological garden at Buchenwald. A Rom there took care of a bear.
Here, in Auschwitz, the Zigeuners were never beaten. The rest of the camp, however, was pure hell. Emil knew the Jews and the politicals, the “red triangles,” resented the Roma for the preferential treatment they enjoyed. Fights would break out among the prisoners. And so the Roma had to look out not only for the SS guards but for the other prisoners, as well.
Often, however, the gadje pressed their faces along the metal fencing, watching the Roma. Men without children, without wives, women without husbands — emaciated creatures, all of them. The shouts and laughter of Romani toddlers tore holes right through their hearts; it killed them, in addition to the forced labour. A small death preparing them for the larger one. Emil saw them wander about the camp, those they called the “Muslims,” the famished, who no longer had the strength to breathe. Compared to those poor souls, the Roma gave the impression of being on vacation.
The Zigeunerlager, a sinecure.
Almost.
Last spring more than a thousand Roma had been gassed to prevent a typhoid epidemic.
“Give me your accordion.”
An outline in the door frame, Otto Schwarzhuber, son of the SS-Obersturmführer. Otto was six. Every day the child left the Kommandantur buildings and wandered among the prisoners to get a bit of air. He wasn’t given permission to come near the ovens and gas chamber — the guards made sure of that — but the rest of Birkenau was open to him. The detainees knew him, bowed low when he passed, the son of one of the most important camp officers after SS-Obersturmbannführer Rudolf Höss. His mother joined him sometimes. A stern-looking woman, always in a dark blazer. Her hair pulled back tightly, her lips tighter. Proper manners were essential to her. When Otto stepped in a puddle of mud, she’d chide him right in front of the astonished prisoners.
More often than not, however, Otto went on his peregrinations alone. To protect the boy from newly posted, overzealous SS guards who might take him for a young prisoner and send him to the showers, his mother had tied a small placard around his neck with a strap of dark leather: I AM THE SON OF SS-OBERSTURMFÜHRER SCHWARZHUBER!
For the past month or so, the child had been coming to listen to Emil play his Romani songs. That day, when Emil finished his piece, Otto reached out his hand and asked for the accordion again. Emil refused, shaking his head. Of course, if Otto made his request, just once, through the offices of a kapo, gone would be Emil’s precious instrument.
But Otto added: “I’ll trade you your accordion for this.”
He pointed at the sign around his neck. Emil burst out laughing. Otto showed the hint of a smile. Emil had never seen him laugh. The little German boy didn’t have an easy smile, probably because of his mother, who seemed so austere. Among the Roma, children were treated like royalty; they could do what they wanted when they wanted. Emil felt sorry for little Otto, who never laughed — for him and the other officers’ children. Romani children ran and played and laughed and brightened the cesspit of their lives. The camp’s authorities seemed to enjoy it. At Christmastime the SS brought the Romani children gifts, and the children would sing “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” in return … and there were New Year’s gifts for the mothers and sisters. Many of the officers would have sex with them. And when Emil played the accordion, the SS listened. They stood stiff as boards behind the children, but they listened. Emil was no virtuoso, but who would complain? There wasn’t much competition at Auschwitz-Birkenau.
“Happy children! What joy!”
Little Otto quickly turned around. Behind him Dr. Josef appeared. A large smile, warm eyes. The doctor passed his hand through his hair, while the Romani children hurried over, having recognized the doctor’s kind voice. The same enthusiasm every time. Uncle Josef, the children called him. He pulled candy out of his pockets as the children ran toward him. They tugged at his sleeves, demanding sweets. The son of the SS-Obersturmführer was jealous in his own way. Meanwhile Emil, seventeen years of age, felt too old to be joining the fun. And, anyway, he was wary around Dr. Josef.
There were stories about the doctor. He loved Romani children so much because they were useful to him. In his Stammlager clinic in Block 10, strange things happened behind closed doors. Experiments, for the advancement of science. At least that was what the rumours were. He was particularly fascinated by twins. When the convoys arrived, Dr. Josef stood on the platform, a bit apart from the crowd, scanning it, selecting promising patients. He had an eye for them. He’d find prospects, inspect their teeth, feel their arms, their heads — was he checking for lice? And if the shipment was a quality one, it was straight to the lab for the chosen few. Other times he’d select his patients at the entrance of the gas chambers. Those he chose were marked with chalk so that members of the Sonderkommando wouldn’t toss their bodies into the cremation ovens with the others.
The doctor had always ignored Emil. But that day he gestured him over. Emil obeyed nervously, holding his accordion tightly against him. Being noticed in Auschwitz usually meant trouble, sometimes even death. It was doubly true today, with Dr. Hans Leibrecht accompanying Dr. Josef. Leibrecht’s stares had always made Emil uneasy. If Uncle Josef seemed reassuring, Dr. Leibrecht’s angular face, his brusque movements, ensured that kids avoided him like the plague. Luckily for him, Dr. Josef’s smiles were wide enough for the two of them. And he smelled so good.
“Tomorrow you’re transferring to Block 10,” he told Emil.
Still smiling, as if this transfer were the greatest of gifts, an exceptional privilege. Emil didn’t want to go anywhere. It wasn’t as if he could refuse, of course. Dr. Josef noticed his worry. He added, glancing at his colleague, “You can bring your accordion if you like.”
Like the other prisoners, Emil Rosca had never seen a place that was so white. Inmates lay in beds placed one after the other. They were young, most of them. He recognized a few Roma. Jews, as well. Nurses came and went dressed in immaculate white uniforms. They looked like angels. A few moments earlier a truck had dropped them off in front of Block 10, now transformed into a medical laboratory. A dozen children, including two pairs of twins. It was Emil’s first time in the main camp, also called the Stammlager. This was the oldest section of the camp and held the administration offices. The construction of Birkenau — where the Romani camp was — had been completed after Emil’s internment. It was three kilometres southwest of Block 10.
A prisoner, Dina Gottlieb, was drawing a picture of a foot on a tablet placed on an easel. She didn’t bat an eye when Emil — his accordion slung over his shoulder — and the others crossed the room. Emil felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dr. Josef, bringing him along to another section of the block. Although he let himself be guided to the far end of the row of beds, Emil was uncomfortable at being so isolated. This move, the doctor’s attitude — nothing good at all could come out of this.
“The operation
is tomorrow,” Dr. Josef said. “You’ll sleep until then.”
Emil wanted to tell him that he wasn’t sick, that he felt a little weak, sure, but that was normal considering the circumstances. A few good meals, two or three days of rest, and he wouldn’t need the operation, whatever it was. He was certain of it.
Dr. Josef had him lie on the last bed in the room. A nurse ordered him to take his clothes off and put on a gown. The cloth was coarse but clean. As white as everything else. There were a few drops of blood on it, he noticed, but they were pale, almost invisible. An old stain that hadn’t come out in the wash.
Emil heard a wheeze behind him and turned around. In the next bed over, a small shape. A child. All he could see of him was a tuft of hair poking out from the sheets.
“That’s Samuel,” Dr. Josef said. “He was operated on this morning by Dr. Leibrecht. Look, the operation went smoothly. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”
Emil wanted to scream but didn’t dare. Dr. Josef placed the accordion on the bedside table. He went through his pockets and pulled out a piece of candy, handing it to Emil. The doctor watched him for a long time, lost in thought, then left the dormitory. The lights were turned off soon after.
Then silence.
Broken by the whistle of a nearby train.
Emil couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t believe the operation would lead to anything good. He hated Dr. Josef’s good manners. Emil turned on his side. A row of beds, lost in the half-light at the far end of the room. The same wheezing sounds startled him out of his thoughts. Emil turned again and looked at the boy, Samuel, in the bed next to his. The operation had gone smoothly, a satisfied Dr. Josef had said. But what operation, exactly? What had happened? After a moment’s hesitation, Emil put his hand out and shook the young boy. The boy moved a little and muttered in his sleep but didn’t wake up. He might still be under the effect of some painkiller, Emil thought. Tomorrow the lad would be better and Emil could talk to him, ask him questions. But Emil didn’t have the patience, couldn’t wait until tomorrow; he had to know now.
