by Mario Bolduc
“Roma tend to blend in with the culture that welcomes them,” Garrison explained. “In Muslim countries, they’re Muslims. With Catholics, they become Catholics. In the past few years, many of us here have converted to Pentecostalism.”
They also picked names based on common gadjo ones in their community of choice. Jean-Baptiste “Django” Reinhardt, for example, the inventor of Romani jazz. Or the guitarist Ricardo Baliardo, nicknamed Manitas de Plata. The Roma often changed names according to the country they travelled through. Today Dumont or Villard in a suburb of Paris. Tomorrow, in Great Britain or Canada, they became Walker or … Garrison.
A tradition of adapting. The Roma were history’s chameleons.
The young woman had accompanied Ioan Costinar during his visit. The murder had happened on his way to the Winnipeg airport after three days spent with the Vlach-Roma of Woodlands and surrounding municipalities.
“What was his attitude like at the time?” Max asked. “Did he seem nervous? Did he feel threatened?”
“No, quite the opposite. He really enjoyed his stay. And everyone loved him.”
So the hit had come from elsewhere and likely had nothing at all to do with the communities Costinar was visiting. The killers had chosen Manitoba for tactical reasons. Max was coming to the same conclusion as Garrison: a well-planned crime executed by professionals. Like the murder of Laura. And Kevin’s cousin, Cosmin Micula, the photographer.
“We went over a list of all travellers who came into Winnipeg by plane over the few days before the murder with a fine-toothed comb. We looked at everyone who’d rented a car either downtown or from the airport.”
Jennifer pulled a large binder from behind her desk filled with pictures taken during Costinar’s visit. Max recognized the Romani leader. The man seemed happy, radiant even. Pictures of him holding an oversized cheque, surrounded by community leaders. Others were of him seated at a table, chatting away with his hosts. Max also recognized Jennifer, her hair cut short back then. She pointed to the picture of a man near Costinar with a shaved head. His driver and bodyguard, she said, the man at the wheel of his car who’d rushed him to the hospital, only to get there too late to save his boss’s life.
Max looked most attentively at the un-staged photographs. Costinar embracing a friend or smiling at a joke. And in one, Max recognized a silhouette, someone who seemed familiar. He asked Jennifer, who’d flipped right by it, to go back.
No, it couldn’t be possible.
Max found other pictures of the same event, and there he was, the same man, but this time there couldn’t be any question. A man in a well-tailored suit shaking Ioan Costinar’s hand.
Raymond Dandurand.
22
Bucharest, October 20, 1956
Bear handlers, musicians, and singers had travelled all the way from the Carpathian Mountains. Entire families in their colourful clothes making their way toward Bucharest. The vôrdôná trailed, one behind the other, on the long roads that stretched between the capital and the north of the country. On the shores of Lake Tei, tents had been raised, some absolutely gigantic. Marquee tents around which dozens of children played. Romanians avoided the site. For this weekend, they’d abandoned the lake to the Roma. The police watched from a distance.
Traffic had been diverted on Barbu Văcărescu Boulevard. Identity checkpoints farther up the road, around an enormous house surrounded by trees. In that house, since the previous spring, a certain Emil Rosca lived. Turrets, dormers, and colonnades in an Arabian decor. A castle of sorts, pushing kitsch to its absolute limit. Inside, a ballroom, a great staircase, all of it lit by chandeliers that would have been at home in Buckingham Palace.
The whole place felt like living in a layer cake. Emil had inherited it from Mircea Remescu, King of the Soroca Roma, who’d used the place as a pied-à-terre when visiting Bucharest.
A number of Roma had already settled nearby, families of his own kumpaníya and of others, as well. They lived in more modest homes so as not to cast shade on Emil.
The accordionist from Auschwitz was now thirty years old. At the recent Kris romani, the bulibasha of the Wallachia Kalderash had become the leader of all Romanian Roma, despite his young age. He had thus taken up his father’s mantle. The others respected him as they had respected his father. Unfortunately, his power was limited to his own community and meant nothing to the gadjo authorities. Of course, thanks to the support Emil had lent to the Romanian government since his return from Vorkuta, he had friends in the halls of power. But the Romani leader was disappointed by the current leaders. He’d been promised Romanestan, and his people were still waiting for it. And yet Emil had fulfilled his end of the bargain. He’d supported collectivization of agricultural land. When those opposing the regime had found refuge in the Carpathian Mountains, using the inhospitable landscape as a base of operation for sabotage and violence, the Roma had lent no help. They hadn’t hid those people or supplied them with food or weapons — something they’d done for partisans throughout the war.
There was no doubt the situation of the Roma had improved. Despite collectivization, the Roma could still work seasonally, just as Ceauşescu had promised in Vorkuta. And the regime guaranteed them work in the country’s new economy. Low-paying jobs, unfortunately, but jobs that made the Roma full-fledged citizens, integrating them into Romanian society.
What was more, Emil could count on the discreet but efficient support of the government, which dissuaded his opponents during the assemblies of the Kris romani. The Securitate hadn’t intervened, but the Roma knew it was there, close by, in the shadows, threatening. In his moments of doubt, Emil wondered whether he’d re-created among his people the same sort of dictatorship the Communist Party was imposing on Romanians.
More unpleasant still, Emil sometimes had the feeling he was becoming a gadjo. He almost never travelled anymore — even if he had the permission of the authorities — preferring the comfort of his Bucharest home to the inconveniences of the road. Emil was becoming less interested in the numerous social occasions he was invited to. It was a smokescreen, another one.
And now another betrayal. He’d learned how to read in order to be able to decode without outside help the letters and notes his friend, Nicolae Ceauşescu, sent him. Emil had applied himself. All these scribbles had only confused him at first, giving him headaches. But slowly, meaning emerged. Words, sentences — he could now understand documents sent from the various ministries. Any day now, he was expecting to be told the good news of the creation of Romanestan. But day after day the authorities pushed the date back.
“In good time” seemed to be Ceauşescu’s motto.
And so, of all of Emil’s dreams and ambitions, there wasn’t much left. He had his little world, his luxury, which induced amnesia — the broken promises forgotten.
But on this day Emil had no intention of bemoaning his fate. It was a great moment for him. An important celebration: his marriage. Emil had fallen for a young Kalderash; she was just seventeen, from Târgu Mureş, at the foot of the Carpathians.
Of course, in his heart of hearts Christina was still his soulmate, his one true love. What was more, he’d learned the German woman had survived the war. Three months after his release from Vorkuta he’d discovered through Ceauşescu that Müller’s widow had travelled west and been caught by American troops in April 1945. She’d managed to escape and had fled to Paraguay with some others from Auschwitz, including Josef Mengele. According to Nicolae, she’d married a notary from Asunción.
It was hard for Emil to believe, knowing how Christina felt about Mengele and the others, but he hadn’t the means or the time to conduct his own search. Christina had survived, and that was all that mattered. He would never forget her, no matter the intensity of his attachment to Eugenia.
When they’d decided to live together, Emil had strictly followed Romani tradition. One night he sneaked into Eugenia’s kumpaníya an
d “kidnapped” the young girl. He’d brought her back to Bucharest in the Mercedes he now drove, which inspired jealousy even among his party member friends. Eugenia’s entire family were accomplices in the abduction, the romni nashli. An old Romani custom. Her parents had looked away so as not to see the suitor. Gunshots were fired in the air to add to the illusion.
The next day, in his shiny pre-war Citroën, Eugenia’s father, a Kalderash who recycled scrap iron, King of the Roma of Târgu Mureş, had come to negotiate the union of his daughter with Emil, as per tradition. The two men determined the amount Emil should pay him to compensate for the loss of his daughter.
A great celebration was organized, with Eugenia’s parents crying and wailing, according to custom, to demonstrate their grief at having been robbed of their child. A plotska followed a few days later. The bride received a necklace made of coins, given to her around a bottle of wine covered in a silk handkerchief.
Tonight, the abiav, the marriage itself. It, too, would conform to tradition. Among the community, before the káko, the clan elder, Emil and Eugenia would join hands and swear to be true and faithful to each other. After the ceremony, while the guests danced and drank to the tune of Romani music, the young couple would lock themselves into the nuptial suite in Emil’s home …
“Might I have a private audience with the King of the Roma? Or must I content myself with the benediction you’ll bestow on your subjects in just a few hours?”
Emil looked up.
Nicolae Ceauşescu stood before him, a bottle of champagne in hand. A smile on his emaciated face. Since Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej had replaced Petru Groza as head of state in 1952, Emil’s friend had quickly risen in rank. He now sat on the Politburo of the Romanian Communist Party. Groza and Ceauşescu had met in a camp during the war. Former cellmates now leading the country, following the example Stalin had set. The young, timid activist who couldn’t speak without a stutter, who’d been little more than a boy when they first met in the forests of Vorkuta, had transformed himself into a cunning politician.
While Emil was on poor terms with many apparatchiks, he liked Ceauşescu. And the man returned the favour. The Roma, meanwhile, appreciated the influence Emil exerted over this important political player, which explained, in addition to his family’s origin, the decisive role Emil played among the Romanian Roma.
When a policy was proposed to house the Roma in depressing apartment buildings, for example, Emil had intervened. He’d patiently explained to Nicolae, with utmost seriousness, that the Roma couldn’t tolerate a woman walking over their heads. Ceauşescu had burst out laughing. According to Emil, because of this ancient custom, the Roma could only live in one-storey homes. This complicated their integration into urban environments. Ceauşescu applied pressure, successfully, on the minister who’d come up with the plan.
Later, when the government had proposed to take Romani children away from their families so that they might receive a socialist education from the state, Emil once again got involved. Family was sacred to the Roma. Yes, Emil had learned to read and saw the immense benefits of learning how to read and write. But he certainly couldn’t consent to placing the future of the Kalderash in peril by allowing the state to take their children and turn them into second-class gadje. Once again, Nicolae made sure his friend’s proposal won the day.
Now, Ceauşescu came forward and the two men embraced. Despite his good mood, the Romanian seemed tired. Exhausted, in fact. Emil, who now read the newspaper, knew that the government was fighting tooth and nail to maintain its independence from Moscow. Soviet politicians had learned a lesson from their conflict with Yugoslavia. The Soviets were only just beginning to rebuild their relationship with Marshal Tito. And so the struggle for autonomy was a daily battle, which Gheorghui-Dej’s regime wasn’t certain it could win. What preoccupied Romanian leaders most of all, Emil knew, was de-Stalinization, which the Romanian regime opposed.
“Nikita Khrushchev is making you thin, Nicolae! The Russians are ruining your appetite.”
Ceauşescu smiled. He was seated near the low table. On it, an immense Bohemian crystal vase. He struggled to pop open the champagne. “You’re like my wife, Elena. I can’t hide anything from you.”
As Ceauşescu gained in power, the little seamstress had increased her influence over her husband. Emil had never met her; according to what he’d heard, she despised the Roma.
The bottle popped open like a gunshot. Champagne poured out onto the table. Emil brought his glass over, which Nicolae filled to the brim.
“Long life to the bulibasha of Romania …”
“And the government’s second-in-command!” Emil emptied his glass in a single gulp and dashed it against the wall, where it shattered. “That’s what the Russians will do with Gheorghiu-Dej!”
Ceauşescu shook his head. “No, no …”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“I agree with you, Emil. It’s a risk. But one that might just be very profitable in the end. At least that’s Gheorghe’s opinion. And the old fox hasn’t been wrong yet!”
Since the end of the war, Romania’s economy had grown more than any other country in Eastern Europe’s. While Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia, for example, couldn’t pull themselves out of postwar misery, Romania’s agriculture and economy were growing year after year. The country had more autonomy than its neighbours and could refuse Moscow’s generosity.
“We must at all cost avoid annoying the Russians,” Ceauşescu continued. “They can be so resentful …”
Gheorghe Pintilie and Oleg Charvadze, the two emissaries from Moscow who’d visited Vorkuta in 1949, had lost their influence since Khrushchev had come to power. A new generation now occupied the offices and dachas. Meanwhile, in Romania, Gheorghiu-Dej wasn’t a fan of the new Russian leader, nor was Ceauşescu. When Khrushchev had come on an official visit, he’d mocked Romanian farmers for the methods they used in milking their cows. Ceauşescu had taken great offence to this. Instead of accompanying Khrushchev all the way to Braşov, Ceauşescu had gotten off at the next railway station and taken another train straight back to Bucharest. Certainly, that had done nothing to improve the relationship between the two nations.
Hungary was also rattling its sabre but was going about it the wrong way, in Ceauşescu’s view. It was attracting world attention to the failures of Soviet policies. Hungary was thinking of turning its back on socialism as a solution to its problems, which Moscow would, of course, never tolerate. Hungarians hadn’t forgiven Stalin for refusing Marshall Plan funds, which had so helped Western Europe get back on its feet from the devastation left by the war. Romanians had also had enough of the Soviets’ tantrums, but the country was adopting a different approach. It would be even more socialist than its big brother. And, above all, it would avoid confronting the Soviet Union on the world stage.
It was a strategy that seemed to be working, as of now. In Romania, individual freedoms, be they movement or association, were severely repressed. More severely still than in the Soviet Union, especially since de-Stalinization. Collectivization had been more thorough in Romania than in the Soviet Union. However, on the international stage, Gheorghiu-Dej was looking for new friends.
“The United States?” Emil asked.
“As well as France and Great Britain. Countries that seek by any means to stand in Moscow’s way.”
And countries that couldn’t care less about the living conditions of Romanians, Emil thought. Doubly true for the Roma. Who took care of the Roma, in the end?
No one.
Except for his friend, Nicolae.
Emil grabbed another glass. Ceauşescu poured him a drink. The two men toasted to their friendship and Romania’s future.
“And the future of Romanestan!” Emil added.
Ceauşescu’s face darkened. Always and still that same question. Emil needled his friend whenever he could on his unkept promise.
Ceauşescu’s excuses were becoming increasingly pathetic: geopolitics, border issues with Hungary …
Emil wondered whether Gheorghiu-Dej had any intention at all of respecting the promise his protégé had made. The Roma were more organized now than they had used to be. If Emil chose to gather his troops, to cause a little trouble here and there, he could easily create a serious problem for the Romanian government. Enough to destabilize the internal balance of power and justify Soviet intervention.
“A promise is a promise, Emil. The situation is more complicated than we had expected, but the project remains on the table.”
Emil sighed. He was used to Ceauşescu’s excuses by now.
“As long as I’m in government, you can be sure I’ll have your interests at heart.” The minister smiled. “Do you know what they’re saying? That I have Gypsy blood in me.”
Emil burst out laughing. “We might be cousins!”
23
Winnipeg, December 8, 2006
In what way was Kevin’s father involved in this whole affair? And what sort of relationship had he had with the Roma? A close connection, obviously, close enough to cross half the country to shake the hand of a public figure from Romania, practically unknown in North America despite his notoriety in certain circles in Europe. Surely, either the two men had met before, or Raymond Dandurand had had an in within the Vlach-Roma community. Had Kevin’s mother kept tabs on old friends and political figures in her native Romania, leading to a meeting between Raymond and Ioan Costinar? But to what end? Max still remembered the story Kevin had told him about Raymond bringing Kevin to watch his mother’s possessions burn on the riverbank. Roxanne’s Romanian past, gone forever. It was as if Raymond had wanted to erase his wife’s origins.
Seeing his surprise, Jennifer showed Max a list of Roma living in Winnipeg and the surrounding area. Not a single name rang a bell. Neither Jennifer nor Sergeant Garrison knew Raymond, and neither of them had spoken to him when Costinar had visited. Jennifer, however, recalled the elegant man who’d shadowed the Romani leader at one event, although she hadn’t spoken to him. Perhaps other members of the community knew him; they might give Max a clue concerning Raymond’s reasons for being in Woodlands. Jennifer would ask around, as well, and keep Max in the loop.
