by Mario Bolduc
At the end of the reception Himmler approached Christina and apologized for giving her the cold shoulder earlier and began reminiscing about the magnificent evenings he’d spent at her family home. The head of the Gestapo, nostalgic. Christina’s father had died of a heart attack in 1935 only two years after Hitler had come to power. Her father hadn’t had the joy of witnessing the triumphant march of the Nazis throughout Europe. Since she’d reached Auschwitz, Christina had often wondered if her father would have been disgusted — as she was — by the extermination policies of the Nazi regime. She didn’t think so. He, too, like her husband, would have become blind and deaf, an accomplice to the massacre.
As Christina exchanged banalities with Himmler — she couldn’t bear to look him in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time — an SS officer rushed toward him and leaned over to say a few words. The latter nodded, then turned back to Christina and sighed. “Work, always work.” After a moment of reflection, Himmler took her delicately by the arm. “No, you should come. Come and witness the power of the Third Reich.”
In the small living room on the other side of the building, officers of the Kommandantur waited for them, looking rather satisfied with themselves. When they turned to welcome Himmler, Christina noticed at the end of the room a man sitting on a wooden chair, his back bent. Sallow, weak, he wore the garb of a prisoner employed outside the camp: stripes of grey and blue. The outfit was torn. His shoes were wooden soles strapped to his feet with strips of leather. The same shoes all detainees wore, in winter as in summer. Between his knotted fingers, a striped cap. The prisoner looked as if he’d been beaten; perhaps he’d tried to escape? An officer explained to the head of the Gestapo how the man had stuffed a piece of a paper bag under his uniform for extra insulation against the cold. The paper bag had been used to transport cement to the building site he was labouring on, one of the Buna-Werke factories. It was a serious crime.
With one hand, Himmler dismissed the other others from the room. Only one SS guard, Himmler, and Christina remained. She didn’t know what was expected of her, and her glances at Himmler in no way at all helped her to understand. The Nazi leader was entirely focused on the prisoner, who turned toward him but without raising his head. The man was only skin on bones now, a dry grey skin that gave the impression of being about to crack. Himmler smiled. He walked to the man, and with a sudden gesture, tore off the red triangle sewn to his uniform identifying him as a political prisoner. Himmler let out a dry cackle. “The Gypsy king is suddenly ashamed of his origins, is he not?”
So the man was a Gypsy and should have been wearing a Z on his uniform for Zigeuner. For a reason Christina didn’t fathom, the man had attempted to conceal his identity in the mass of prisoners. But why? She remembered listening to impassioned conversations at her father’s house in Berlin about the fate of the Gypsies. For some theorists, they were the true pure race at the origin of all other European races, including Aryans. Others, more pragmatic, including Himmler, saw Gypsies as the bastardized, corrupted version of the original Aryan race. And so they would need to be exterminated just like the Jews. What’s more, their fortune tellers sapped the morale of the German people by predicting the defeat of the Nazis.
For a few years both theories competed. In 1939 a few Gypsies were liberated on Hitler’s birthday. A proposal went around that would allow some nomadic groups free circulation in Germany. Another option was the settling of Zigeuners in a model village, like a zoological garden, allowing Germans to visit the quite charming — though inferior — race.
In Auschwitz, since the beginning of the war, the ambiguity persisted. Exempted from forced labour, allowed to wear their own clothes and keep their hair, Gypsies received preferential treatment.
And now it seemed this prisoner had chosen to hide instead of staying among his kin. Christina was intrigued.
Himmler circled the Gypsy as if trying to gauge the man. He seemed to be evaluating his opponent, a man waiting to die, a man he could have finished with a single punch. A “Muslim,” as the other prisoners called them. So much care and caution surprised Christina.
Finally, Himmler said, “They speak of you in Bucharest, Anton Rosca. Of you and your family. Well, you knew that already, didn’t you? We intercepted your messages, your coded communications. You thought you’d be protected behind your little red triangle. But we’ve found you now. You can’t hide from the Reich.”
Christina realized that the prisoner’s skin was particularly pale for a Gypsy. Certainly, it had helped him hide from the Gestapo among the camp’s population for so long.
The man seemed neither upset nor fearful. His head was bent over his chest. He breathed heavily. Himmler stopped behind him. Christina expected Himmler to strike the man or order the SS to execute him, but instead he spoke again. “King Michael is sabotaging the prime minister’s war efforts, allowing members of the government to secretly negotiate a separate peace with the English and the Americans. Even the Russians.”
Christina knew little about Romania, though she did know that Michael, who’d replaced his father Carol II in 1940, had been playing behind Germany’s back since the progress of German troops had halted in Stalingrad. The king had perhaps glimpsed the hordes of Red Army troops coming over the horizon from the east and sought to minimize the pain they’d inflict on his country. To maintain their influence, the Germans didn’t have a choice: they had to invade the country.
The prisoner still looked down at the floor, twisting his cap in his hand.
Himmler smiled. “Anton Rosca. I’ve got an offer for you.”
Christina couldn’t believe her ears. The head of the Gestapo wasn’t the sort of man to make an offer to anyone, especially not an enemy. Even less so a prisoner. The Nazi leader took his glasses off and wiped them with his handkerchief before moving away from the Gypsy.
“Adolf Hitler has a vision. Stalingrad is only a small setback. Soon the war will be over. Russia will be on its knees, the United Kingdom, as well. The Americans will no longer have the means for their ambitions. The Jews who advise Roosevelt will have to accept our conditions for armistice. Then we’ll need to govern all the territories. A colossal task, only possible with the collaboration of locals. France is a wonderful example.”
Himmler began pacing around the prisoner again. He didn’t seem to be addressing him directly any longer, but simply thinking out loud. For a brief moment, he made eye contact with Christina. This was a show, a performance. He wanted to check the impact his words had on his privileged audience. She didn’t wince.
“Romania presents a particular problem. Because of the Gypsies, of course. For centuries you’ve been shuttled back and forth from one place to the next — one garbage heap to the next, more like. King Michael despises you, all Romanians hate you. And yet you still ally with them against the forces of civilization. Skirmishes, attacks, sabotage. We’re arresting Gypsies all over the country. Resistance, as you call it, Anton Rosca, is pointless.”
Rosca flinched, and Himmler continued. “One name, Paul Vaneker. The Dutchman is working for the British. You know it as well as I. Because of what he’s done, King Michael has turned against his prime minister. Today Vaneker leads a network of Gypsy saboteurs across Europe and in Romania in particular. Vaneker has been hiding for months, but you’re in contact with him and his men. You know where he is.”
Rosca remained silent, not denying Himmler’s words.
“Paul Vaneker is taking advantage of the good faith of the Zigeuners, just like the British, just like King Michael. It’s time to change that. To choose the right side this time, something Gypsies have never been able to do over the course of their long and painful history. Adolf Hitler is your only chance at salvation.”
Himmler stopped for a moment, as if expecting the prisoner to say something. But the man stayed silent.
“Give me Paul Vaneker, Rosca. Lead the Gypsies down the path of reason. A
bandon King Michael and the people who take advantage of you. Support Prime Minister Antonescu in his effort to conserve power in Romania. And, in exchange, the Third Reich will give you Romanestan.”
For the first time, Anton Rosca raised his head. From her position at the other end of the room, Christina saw his eyes. Piercing eyes, black, with intelligence and strength shining through despite his physical state.
“A country, Rosca. A territory to call your own. A Gypsy enclave inside New Europe, Nazified, pacified, civilized.”
Himmler continued, describing a territory west of Romania, from Hungary to Serbia, where the concentration of Gypsies was the greatest. In Timişoara. Or perhaps farther west, in Austria, in Burgenland. An autonomous government, independent institutions, an end to harassment and discrimination.
Himmler came closer to Anton Rosca. “A country you and your family would lead. Thanks to Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich, you have a date with history, Rosca.”
A long moment of silence. The minister of the interior was waiting for his answer. Anton Rosca had kept his eyes on him since he’d first mentioned Romanestan. He seemed to be hesitating, to be evaluating the Nazi leader’s offer.
“Just one word, Rosca. Just one. And you’ll be the true King of the Gypsies.”
Anton got to his feet slowly, painfully, as if every movement was excruciating. Standing, he was as tall as Himmler, though he seemed so frail, his body made weak from hunger and violence. As soon as he got to his feet, Himmler insisted, “So?”
Instead of answering, Rosca spat in his face. A stream of viscous saliva, disgusting, as if, during Himmler’s entire monologue, the Gypsy had been drawing all the moisture in his emaciated body, everything he had left, just to spit in the face of the Gestapo chief.
Himmler seemed as surprised as Christina. The guard was already rushing toward Anton to beat him. Himmler took out his handkerchief and wiped his face as best he could as he stalked away from Rosca. Christina couldn’t bear to watch. As the guard began repeatedly striking Rosca, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Luckily for her, Himmler seemed to have forgotten her presence. She heard footsteps in the corridor, officers coming to help their comrade. Christina was still ignored. When she finally opened her eyes, the living room was empty. Anton had been dragged out, unconscious most likely, to be shot. The execution would take place in the yard between Blocks 10 and 11. A place called the sandpit; the SS threw fresh sand on red blood spilled when the deed was done.
Still shaking, Christina was about to leave the living room when she noticed something under a dresser. It was Anton’s cap. He’d dropped it while being beaten by the SS. Christina bent to pick it up. The only sign left of the courageous man. He had stood stalwart against the full strength of the Third Reich without regard for his own life. Comparing herself to him, Christina couldn’t help but feel like a coward. Her only acts of resistance against the horror that surrounded her were her fits of impatience with her husband. She ignored Oskar’s need of her in social situations and played the snobbish, capricious Berliner. The courage of this diminished, weakened man only highlighted how pathetic her resistance was.
As she fiddled with the cap, Christina felt a rigid mass along its lining. She tore at the lining and discovered a piece of cardboard. On the back, a series of numbers.
An identification number.
Emil knew the rest.
Thanks to her husband, Christina had access to the list of prisoners. From that she learned the name of the prisoner who matched the number in the hat. Suddenly, it seemed imperative to save Rosca’s son by any means necessary. The spirit of Anton Rosca guided her. She wanted to be as courageous as the man himself. In the Gypsy camp, an SS guard had informed her that the man in question had been requisitioned by Dr. Mengele and his team of doctors.
“A shame,” the guard had added. “He played the accordion so well.”
14
Bucharest, November 28, 2006
While Josée Dandurand had lost no time at all, she was convinced the Romanian police weren’t working as fast as they should. Despite Inspector Pavlenco’s efforts, Kevin was nowhere to be found. Josée had gotten in touch with a Romanian criminal lawyer who’d given her an overview of what Kevin could expect once arrested. According to the lawyer, the suspect would be held in custody for twenty-four hours, during which he’d be interrogated by Pavlenco and his men. And the Romanian police didn’t have a reputation for patience when it came to stubborn witnesses. Which meant Kevin would likely be roughed up, as they say, until he admitted his crime. The most important thing, according to Josée, was to be able to intervene before Kevin cracked under pressure and admitted everything and anything just to get Pavlenco’s goons off his back.
Marilyn Burgess was also working on extradition papers, but the minister of the interior wasn’t quite open to letting his number one suspect just waltz out of the country. For once the authorities actually had a presumably guilty man, and they were going to take full advantage of it. Especially since the Romani MP Victor Marineci was demanding concrete actions against those responsible for the fire. With the arrest of the main suspect, it was becoming clear that Prime Minister Popescu-Tăriceanu would follow his recommendation.
In other words, the future was far from bright for Kevin.
In the Intercontinental’s dining room, among the conference-goers, Max O’Brien and Kevin’s half-sister looked like two co-conspirators. Josée had regained her appetite. She seemed to enjoy the mămăligă cu brânză, a sort of cheese-and-lard polenta, a peasant dish out of the Romanian repertoire.
“I called around trying to learn more about this Max O’Brien,” Josée was saying between mouthfuls.
A rap sheet a mile long, according to her. He’d mostly worked in real estate, especially in New York and Chicago. More recently he’d been suspected of being involved in the fraud of a dog-racing promoter in Florida. O’Brien, according to Josée, worked several cons at once, appearing out of thin air to finish a deal.
“What was Kevin doing with a guy like that?” Max asked, all innocent-like, after taking a sip of Silva, the local beer.
“They can’t prove a thing. For Kevin, I mean. They’re fishing. Except for the whole East River business.”
Max could feel the rebuke in Josée’s words. Thankfully, the scam against Nordopak had been hidden from the public by the board of directors — as well as by Cambiano’s own board. There was no point in showing the company’s vulnerability. Until the very last minute Raymond had refused to accept the facts. There had to be an error. It couldn’t be that he — the better, smarter man — had fallen for such a scam. For the first time in his life, Kevin had seen his father hurt, fragile, injured. A crack in his facade. Raymond didn’t care about the money; at least it wasn’t his main concern. His pride was more important. He knew he could no longer walk into the boardroom with his head held high; he wouldn’t receive the respect he was used to when he was batting a thousand. He’d been duped like an amateur. From the heights of Mount Olympus, lost in the clouds, he’d been blinded by hubris. He’d never seen it coming.
To Max it seemed that Kevin had gone after his father with the sole purpose of humiliating him. Money wasn’t the motivating factor at all. The whole gym project was nothing more than an excuse. He’d wanted to have the upper hand, the moral victory. He’d wanted to hand his father a devastating defeat. That seemed more important than anything else to Kevin, more than the millions of dollars he was making. The God Walking Among Us made into a mere mortal.
Max had come to understand that the logic guiding Kevin had been more twisted still. Incapable of rising to the same height as his father, the son had found a way of reducing him, of bringing his father down to his own level, forcing him to interact with Kevin on equal terms. And so it wasn’t only about humiliation; it was also a way of forcing Raymond to see Kevin, to make him understand that the ingrate, hapless son ex
isted — had always existed — by his father’s own fault.
There could have been better ways, simpler ways to get the same result, but Kevin had chosen this winding path. Max, naively, had let himself be pulled along in turn.
Kevin, Claudia, Ted Duvall, and Max had divided amongst them the profits from the operation. Once all expenses were paid, Kevin had come out of it with a few million dollars. He had no intention of resigning straight away. He gave himself six months, so as not to raise suspicions. Discreetly, he began laying the foundation for his new gym.
Raymond had taken his humiliation in stride, trying to revaluate his management approach. The board didn’t blame him openly — they were his friends, after all — but their blind admiration for him was gone. Controls were put into place, experts brought in, to avoid the same sort of mistakes in the future. Raymond agreed. He accepted his fate. Almost serenely.
He still spoke up during board meetings, but with less confidence. He listened more, nodding to signify agreement to others’ proposals. He insisted less even when he was sure he was right. The whole adventure had shown him his limits as a businessman. He’d thought he had succeeded thanks to his talent and intelligence. He wasn’t so sure anymore. In other words, Raymond Dandurand had become a man again, a man like any other, with doubts, weaknesses, disappointments.
The following Easter the family got together for a week off at the house on rivière Saqawigan near Grande-Vallée in Gaspésie, a week that would change everything. Josée had flown in from Paris, between two cases, her cellphone always by her side. One day, Raymond offered to take little Sacha for the afternoon to give Kevin and Caroline some time off. Raymond had babysat Kevin’s son before. Caroline trusted her father-in-law with her baby, and so did Kevin, despite their problems.
