by Mario Bolduc
“And governments have been giving ideological cover to the violence, sometimes even perpetrating it, like what happened in Belgium in October 1999.”
Attempting to discreetly rid themselves of newly arrived Slovakian Roma, police had trapped a few families, inviting them to register at the police station on the pretext of regularizing their situation in the territory — they’d even sent the invitation in Romani to hide their true intentions. At the same time, other police went through the local schools and took every Romani child out of the classrooms before sending everyone to the airport for deportation.
“It was the first ethnically motivated mass arrest in Europe since the Second World War.”
The police officers even wrote the seat assignments of the deportees on their forearms with a felt marker.
“Remind you of anything?”
Not a single person responsible for this abject act faced any consequences, of course.
According to Burgess, there were similar cases all over Europe: from the Czech mayor building a wall to isolate “his” community from a Romani district to a Romanian senator demanding the creation of special colonies to better supervise the Roma.
“So how is Kevin involved in all of this?”
“By allying himself with Laura Costinar, he found himself in the centre of machinations that were out of his depth.”
“Cosmin Micula mentioned that Laura knew who had murdered her husband. That she was trying to leave Romania for a safe haven where she might be able to denounce them.”
Burgess sighed. “Kevin Dandurand recently developed an interest in the Roma. We don’t know why. We also have no idea how he first got in touch with Cosmin Micula or why he recruited him. He wanted to get Laura out of the country, but he had something else in mind.” She came near Max. “We’re counting on you to help us find his true motivations. Let’s join forces, Max O’Brien. Naturally, our work together must remain a secret.”
“And you would trust a crook?”
“Why not? The new Indian government holds you in high esteem after your involvement in Kashmir.” She smiled. “For us that’s enough of a recommendation.”
A change of clothes awaited Max in another room. He became a businessman in casual business attire. The sort of man who’d been looking forward to his game of squash all week. When Max had changed and come out of the bathroom, he realized the car that had brought him to the car wash was gone. A brand-new Jeep Grand Cherokee had taken its place.
Sitting in the passenger seat, the ponytailed volunteer gestured Max over to get behind the wheel. A suitcase on his lap, the man offered his hand. “I’m Laetshi. Sorry for earlier.”
“Lovari, like your friend?”
“Sinto. A German Rom.” He smiled. “Over there they know me as Kurt Dönitz.”
“Exchanging pseudonyms is always a nice sign of trust, right?”
Laetshi chuckled as he riffled through his briefcase. He pulled out several documents and handed them to Max. “Driver’s licence, passport, credit card, cellphone. And you’ve got a full tank of gas.”
“A gift from your organization? Where did you get the money for all these goodies? Surely not from reading palms and weaving baskets?”
“Any other questions?”
“Where do I sign?”
Laetshi chuckled again. Cheery fellows, these Roma.
“We’ll be in touch. If you need help, you know where to reach us.” The Sinto handed him a key. “The Sheraton on boulevard René-Lévesque. You have a suite.”
“A bit too ostentatious maybe?”
“The surest way to be found is to try to hide.”
Max wasn’t about to disagree; if he moved around in broad daylight, he’d be less noticeable to those hanging out in dark corners hoping to find him.
“Be careful.”
“Careful? Where did you learn my middle name?”
“Latcho drom, safe travels.”
25
Bucharest, June 14, 1968
Like most Roma, Emil Rosca held farmers in contempt. The support he’d offered to Ceauşescu’s plan for collectivization hadn’t been a sacrifice or compromise for him — quite the opposite. The damn yokels hated the Roma, in any case. And, anyway, Emil lived off hunting and trapping. Or off whatever dead animals he could find. Birds that crashed into his house’s huge bay windows. He would prepare those, or the deer the regime’s cadres hit on their way to or from their weekend retreats from Bucharest in their luxury automobiles. From time to time, a Rom knocked on his door with some dead animal to honour his protector, his bulibasha. Others stole chickens that they brought to him, as well.
These gifts were all cause for celebration, an opportunity to pull out the old gormónya, his Paolo Soprani, and play late into the night while Eugenia and their eldest daughter, Alina, prepared food inside — all the while keeping an eye on the family’s newest baby. Around the fire the men tore at the burning meat, knives in their hands. Eugenia was responsible for the purity of the food. There would be no eating of pork, or even chicken, unless it had been stolen. Boar, however, was another story. And hedgehogs especially, niglo, a favourite of the Roma, hunted at night, killed with large metal rods and cooked in boiling water.
That night Emil was entertaining two guests.
The first was a Tshurari from Bulgaria who’d been living in France since the end of the war: Rossen Markov. The other, tall, blond, smiling, his skin so white it was almost pink, spoke with a Romani accent Emil couldn’t quite locate. Maybe a Lovari accent, or Linguari, a clan of woodcarvers. The two men were stuffing their faces as if they hadn’t eaten in months. As a Rom, Markov’s having an appetite for hedgehog wasn’t surprising. The other man, however … gadje never acted like this tall blond man. Usually, they were disgusted by the Roma — and doubly so by what they ate.
Rossen Markov smiled at him; he seemed to guess what Emil was thinking and nodded in his friend’s direction. “Paul has known the Roma forever. Before the war, when he was a child, he travelled across Europe with Dutch Kalderash. He was born in Holland and learned Romani with them. Learned how they lived.”
Emil had been introduced to the man earlier but had forgotten his name. “Paul?”
“Paul Vaneker,” Markov said, mouth full, smiling.
That name tickled something in Emil’s mind. A vague memory. Yes, he remembered now. Auschwitz. What Christina Müller had told him about Himmler’s interrogation of his father.
“The spy Himmler was trying to catch, right? That was you?”
“I worked with the British a little bit, trying to mobilize Romani resistance. When it comes to transporting a message, to gathering intelligence, no one’s better than the Roma.”
Many Sinti who’d settled in Alsace had been useful to the Allies because they spoke German, Vaneker told him. And in Italy the Americans were able to count on Romani resistance. On the Eastern Front, while the Wehrmacht worked to stem the Soviet offensive, the Roma sabotaged supply lines from behind enemy lines.
“Thanks to Paul and his team, the Russians were able to push back the Wehrmacht more rapidly,” Markov said.
That explained why the Nazi leader had so wanted to put his hands around the throat of the Romani-sympathizing secret agent.
“My father saved your life,” Emil declared.
Vaneker nodded without understanding.
“He knew where you were hiding, you and your men. He resisted, with his life, and kept the secret from Himmler.
The Dutchman hadn’t known that.
“And you’re still a spy, right? Against Ceauşescu this time?”
Markov pushed his plate away. “Paul and I haven’t come to Bucharest to spy on anyone. Quite the opposite.”
“Is the Securitate aware of your presence in Romania?”
“We mean you no harm, Emil. You’ve got nothing to fear.”
“Nicolae Ceauşescu is my friend,” Emil said finally. “More than a friend. A brother.”
“We know that,” Markov said. “We also know Romanian Roma respect you and your family’s name.”
“What do you want then?”
In a few words, Markov told him that things were changing in Eastern Europe. There had been Budapest, then the wall in Berlin, an unfortunate event. Other things had been moving quickly in the past few months, history in action. Alexander Dubček in Czechoslovakia dragging socialism in an entirely original direction under Moscow’s supervision. Since 1948, Marshal Tito had been leading Yugoslavia without the consent of the Soviet big brother. And in Bucharest, Emil’s friend, Ceauşescu, had replaced the Stalinist Gheorghiu-Dej. He’d softened the regime, abolished work camps, eased travel restrictions, stood up to the Russians. On the other side of the Iron Curtain, Dubček’s and Ceauşescu’s initiatives were attracting attention, doubly true because both countries’ economies were growing much faster than in the other dictatorships of the proletariat.
“Socialism is reaching a watershed moment,” Vaneker added. “Thanks to Romania and Czechoslovakia.”
“The Iron Curtain will soon open,” Markov added. “A few months from now, a few years at most.”
“Europeans in Western Europe talk of expanding their economic relations to make it a political union one day,” Vaneker explained. “Europe will become a single country. A confederation of states like the Soviet Union or the United States.”
“And what does that change for the Roma?”
Markov got up and walked toward Emil. He wiped his mouth as if preparing to make a speech, then described his project to bring all Roma together in an international association. There were Roma all over the world, and in Europe especially, from east to west. And all Roma were beginning to realize their political power. In Prague, the Union of Czechoslovak Gypsies had forced Dubček to tackle issues that concerned the Roma. In France, since 1912, all Roma had had to carry an anthropometric passport with them, which recorded, among other things, their names, birthdates, and morphological details. That passport had just been abolished and would soon be eliminated in Belgium, as well.
“And that’s not to mention television,” Vaneker added. “It’s been introduced in gadjo homes, but in vôrdôná, as well now.”
An incredible means of communication that cared nothing for borders, he claimed. Thanks to television, Roma could now establish relationships with one another across Europe, no matter the diametrically opposed interests of the governments of the various countries they lived in.
Markov leaned toward the Roma leader. “Romanestan, Emil. The dream of all Roma, which the gadje have been promising us forever. You were a victim of their false promises, too, weren’t you? Where is the country promised by your friend, Ceauşescu? Under the pillow of the beautiful Elena?”
Emil sighed. The Bulgarian was right. Ceauşescu had been in power for three years, and the project hadn’t been mentioned once. Emil reminded him regularly, but he refused to honour his promise. And yet Ceauşescu didn’t owe anyone anything now; he could make whatever decisions he wanted.
“We can’t wait for the gadje anymore,” Markov said. “We must organize. Roma, Sinti, Manush, Kalderash, Tshuraria … all Roma, no matter what country they’ve ended up in. With the support of the United Nations, we’ll be able to change things.”
“United Nations?”
“A process has begun to recognize the Romani nation, with the help of the Indian government.”
“A nation without a territory!” Emil mocked.
Markov fell silent for a moment before finally saying, “The first objective of the International Gypsy Committee will be to force the German government to recognize the genocide of Roma during the last war.”
“Hundreds of thousands of Roma assassinated in concentration camps,” Vaneker added.
Emil sighed. The enthusiasm of the Bulgarian annoyed him. Of the Dutchman, as well. Of course, he felt cheated by Ceauşescu. Almost twenty years after Vorkuta, Romanian Kalderash were still waiting for their promised land. Sometimes he would glance at himself in a mirror and see the memory of the Nazi concentration camps in his eyes, the memory of what they’d done to his people; the anger and sadness he felt overwhelmed him. But the Roma were finding their own way to deal with their past, different than what Jews had chosen to do. The Jews kept reminding the world of the Holocaust that had victimized them. The Roma didn’t want to remember, to be reminded of their porajmos. What the Jews were trying to exorcise through remembrance, the Roma were exorcising through forgetting. Not remembering the dark years, not looking back on that terrible period, not cheering for the heroes and martyrs of the unnameable butchery. And here was Rossen Markov wanting exactly the opposite — to remind the world of what the Roma had been trying hard to forget.
Later, in a car driven by Paul Vaneker, they rode down Republicii Boulevard, the only other traffic being a few Dacias, Skodas, and Ladas. In their ZIL limousines with tinted windows and small flags on their hoods, drivers ferried friends of the regime to meetings. Interested by the two men’s ideas, Emil had agreed to accompany Markov and Vaneker to a meeting of Romanian Romani leaders. Emil was expecting the worst. They were barefoot kings, all of them, a Romani specialty. Screwballs who took advantage of gadjo naïveté to proclaim themselves lifelong leaders of a handful of Roma. A bit like Ceauşescu had done with the gadje. Like Emil Rosca himself.
A left turn, heading south, then a right turn. The car was in Ferentari now, where military barracks had been built. Already they were showing signs of disrepair.
Seated in the back by himself, Emil recalled his car ride with the Soviet emissaries in Vorkuta. He had the uncomfortable impression of déjà vu. His Indian ancestors were perhaps right: every life is repeated, treading the same ruts.
The two men hadn’t stopped talking since they’d left Emil’s house. Liberty, democracy, representation, compensation … they were both dreaming in Technicolor.
Emil looked behind them. He expected there might be a Securitate car, since his movements were sometimes under surveillance. His detail was likely on a break tonight.
“Your family’s blood has fertilized Romanian soil,” Markov said. “They’re part of its history. The kings who lead the several clans will only follow a Rosca.”
Markov was right. In Poland the Kwieks had wielded the same power. But by collaborating with the Nazis — Rudolf Kwiek was tried and convicted in 1947 — they’d discredited themselves, an error that Anton, Emil’s father, hadn’t committed. Anyway, the results were the same. Janusz Kwiek, Rudolf’s rival, was crowned king by the archbishop of Kraków in 1937 before dying in Auschwitz. Anton’s end was the same. Joseph XIII, the Czechoslovak Romani leader, was killed in Bergen-Belsen.
Emil felt immense pride at being part of a great family but wouldn’t let himself be fooled so easily a second time by the promise of Romanestan, whatever Markov and Vaneker said. Back in Vorkuta, he should have done as his father had and spat in the Soviets’ faces.
Vaneker stopped the car in front of a building. Several windows were lit up. “We want you to lead the Romanian committee. You could give it the national profile it deserves.”
“You’ve got the wrong man. I’ve no taste for politics.”
“Think of the future, Emil,” Markov said.
A big word that, a big lie. Ceauşescu had promised him a future in 1949 and what had it got Emil? His clan and the Kalderash in general were excluded from power. Victims of racism. Forced to rot in unsanitary districts.
“I’m not your man. I want nothing to do with your promises.”
Markov and Vaneker stopped talking, out of arguments, mercifully.
If they wanted to dream, good for them. Emil didn’t want to risk his life and the lives of his family for an illusion. He had no intention of raising the ire of Romanians toward the Roma further still.
They climbed the staircase to the third floor and walked through a dirty, poorly maintained corridor. Emil was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this clandestine meeting. Sure, he hadn’t seen a Securitate car. But sooner or later his friend, Nicolae, would be informed of his conversations with the two strangers. He’d been foolish, imprudent, to welcome them into his home.
Emil turned around. Markov and Vaneker stood back in the corridor, as if they didn’t dare walk any farther.
“What’s happening?”
“Apartment 328, Emil,” Markov said. “They’re waiting for you.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Go, Emil.”
Emil hesitated for a moment before his curiosity got the better of him. He pushed open the door to a large room plunged in darkness. Emil had expected to see the usual collection of fools, but the place was deserted. Slowly, his eyes became used to the darkness. A desk. A sofa. And soon a silhouette near the window. A woman. She turned around.
Emil couldn’t believe his eyes.
Christina Müller.
“Good evening, Emil,” she said in German.
He closed the door behind him as she walked toward him. His hands shook, and Christina’s whole body seemed to do the same. For a moment out of time, they inspected each other, ghosts of the camp between them. Christina wore her red hair short. Her scent filled the room, paralyzing Emil. Speechless, he closed his eyes. Eugenia would shake him awake soon, wouldn’t she? It had to be a dream, or some new form of torture, a terrible joke.
