The Roma Plot

by Mario Bolduc

  And so, until the day she gave birth, Eugenia would stay with a cousin in Chitila, a suburb of Bucharest, where the kumpaníya’s women regularly visited her, along with their only daughter, Alina. Besides them, Eugenia lived as a recluse. Anything she touched in her cousin’s house was also considered unclean and would be destroyed after the child’s birth. And even after her delivery, Eugenia wouldn’t be able to come near her husband for several weeks and would be forced to wear gloves inside the house to avoid contamination.

  Of course, such customs had loosened over the years. The world Emil had been born in had possessed far more unyielding traditions. But Emil was attached to his people’s traditions, just as Eugenia was. For him, as for his father, the Roma weren’t aimless wanderers on the road of life, but possessed traditions, history, culture.

  In the kitchen, where the family spent most of its time together despite the size of the house, Emil had pinned a green-and-blue flag to the wall, a red wheel at its centre. The official emblem of the Roma, adopted at the London congress a few months earlier. The flag had similarities with the Indian flag, to remind all Gypsies of their roots. What was more, that word — Emil had to correct himself often — would no longer be used by the Roma. The word Gypsy was banned in favour of Roma, the Romani people, a decision made to change gadjo perceptions as well as to elevate the distinct identity of the Roma.

  At the congress a national anthem was also adopted, composed by the Serbian Rom, Žarko Jovanović: “Opre Roma! Roma Arise!” And April 8, the date of the congress opening, would be forever known as International Romani Day.

  Emil had never felt better than he had since his return from London. Romanestan wasn’t spoken of much there except by a few doe-eyed romantics and nostalgics. The youth were elsewhere. As one participant had stated: “All of Europe is our nation. Why should we create another?” And since the greatest concentration of Roma in all of Europe was found inside Romania’s borders, Emil’s speech had been well attended.

  Speaking in front of the delegates, Emil had recalled his family’s exceptional trajectory. The Rosca had played a determining role in the emancipation of Romani slaves in the nineteenth century. His father, Anton, had spat in the face of Heinrich Himmler. Emil spoke of unity, of solidarity, words he’d never used — the words of Ceauşescu and his pals — but which that day, before the assembled Roma, finally came to mean something he endorsed.

  Emil also spoke of the future, of the changing role of Romania, his country forgotten behind the Iron Curtain in the deep end of Europe. It would evolve, yes, like all nations eventually did. The Roma had a responsibility to help it along, to contribute to this evolution, by learning how to read and write, by becoming interested in gadjo affairs, by refusing to circle the vôrdôná and think only of themselves, as they had done too often over the centuries.

  He received a standing ovation. Emil had never felt so important, so useful. The admiration he received had nothing to do with the blind, hypocritical adulation of the one-hectare Romani kings of his homeland. As the crowd applauded, he took a moment to think of his father and dedicate the moment to him.

  When he returned to his room later, a woman was pacing in the corridor, waiting for him.

  Christina, joy plain on her face.

  She took him in her arms, hugged him close. “You were magnificent.”

  Back from London, Emil found that Nicolae Ceauşescu wasn’t in a hurry to see him or hear his report. Emil attempted to talk to Ceauşescu but was simply passed from one secretary to another without ever managing to actually speak to the Conducător himself. Finally, Nicolae invited him to his own house.

  Emil was forced to wash his hands with alcohol twice and put on rubber gloves and paper shoes before being admitted to see Ceauşescu. The dictator led him through the door to an immense room shrouded in darkness. Ceauşescu flipped a switch, and fluorescent light exploded in the room, blinding Emil. As he blinked back sight to his eyes, Emil realized that most of the area was taken up by a large table covered in a thick velvet sheet. Ceauşescu seemed as nervous as a child showing off a science experiment. With a single movement, he finally whipped the sheet off the table, and an enormous model appeared under Emil’s surprised gaze.

  “So?”

  Emil looked at his friend, standing far from him as usual, afraid of his germs.

  “My future House of the People …”

  The Romani leader knew Ceauşescu dreamed of leaving something behind, a monument to posterity worthy of his achievements. But Emil had never thought it would be so … grandiose.

  “It will be the largest building in the world, Emil. After the Pentagon in Washington. My beautiful Elena came up with the idea.”

  “And where will you build it?”

  “In the capital, of course. We’ll tear down the slums to build it.”

  Emil didn’t know what to say. Anyway, Ceauşescu didn’t care to hear his thoughts. Hypnotized by his fantasy, it was if Emil were no longer in the room. His eyes filled with a strange light, contemplating the mad model of a madder idea.

  A long moment. Emil shifted from foot to foot. Finally, Ceauşescu spoke. “You wanted to speak to me, Emil?”

  “About my trip to London …”

  “London? Why the hell did you go to London?”

  After that, Emil didn’t go back to see Nicolae. When Eugenia had become pregnant, he hadn’t told Ceauşescu the news. In any case, the King of the Roma was far too busy thinking of his new child. At night he would try to come up with two names to give the child. A Romani name that would be used in the kumpaníya, and a gadjo name that would change according to country, religion, and culture. On her end, Eugenia would give her son or daughter a third name, a secret one, known only to the mother, which she would whisper in his ear to protect him from life’s trials. None of these names would be spoken aloud before the child was baptized in a ceremony in which he’d be washed in running water to clean him of all impurities.

  Emil hoped only one thing for this new son or daughter, the same thing he’d wished before the birth of his other children: that they would never know the horrors, the pain, that had so filled his life and his father’s life. Emil had hope. For the first time in years, he was optimistic. The London congress had made him realize the political strength of the Roma, and their future as a people.

  Tires squealed, tearing through the night. Car doors slammed shut. The sound of feet running toward the house. Emil rushed to the window but didn’t have time to open it. Police burst through his front door, filling the kitchen. Emil’s eldest son — sleeping in the next room — woke and ran to his father’s arms. Emil cowered against the wall. Other men in civilian garb strode in. Emil recognized among them the Securitate agents who’d interrogated him before he’d left for London. That was why they were here — his trip to London.

  “Wait a minute! What are you doing?”

  Emil sought to calm the men down, to get them to listen to him, but there was no point. He noticed through his window that several houses on his street, all of them Romani homes, had been raided in the same manner. All of a sudden Emil was filled with the memory of his family’s arrest by the Nazis in 1942. He held his son against him even more tightly.

  An agent came near him. He walked with the air of one in charge. A tall man, physically strong, face covered in acne scars, he wore a heavy leather coat despite the season. As the men tore through the entire house ransacking it as they went, the agent noticed the Paolo Soprani on a chair next to the table. He was about to throw it onto the floor but suddenly changed his mind when he noticed the Romani flag hanging above the table.

  “You don’t love Romania anymore, Rosca? You don’t love my country?”

  His country.

  Emil didn’t want to answer. The Securitate agent smiled. He ripped the flag from the wall and threw it onto the floor before stepping on it and finally spitting right in the m
iddle of the wheel.

  Emil couldn’t help himself anymore. “Ceauşescu will make you pay for that, you goddamn bastard!”

  The brute took one long step toward him, face to face, staring him down. “What did you just say, you son of a bitch?”

  “Ceauşescu will put you in jail for what you just did!”

  The man looked at Emil for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Ceauşescu? He’s the one who sent us!”

  They were handcuffed and dragged out of the house and into the yard. Emil walked first, his son following him. They saw flames bursting out of the windows of several homes on the street, the shouts of Romani men and women as they fled into the night, taking with them only what they could carry. Emil recognized some of his neighbours being arrested, stuffed into the back of prisoner trucks, packed like sardines without a care. A mass arrest taking place all across the neighbourhood at once. What was happening? Why? Why now?

  Emil and his son received a modicum of privilege. They were seated in the back of a heavy ZIL-114, the acne-scarred agent in front. Soon they were driving away down the muddy road. The car interior reminded him of the one in Vorkuta. A new model, just as luxurious. Nothing good could come out of this ride.

  Emil held his son close.

  The ZIL fell in line behind several other trucks, down Colentina Boulevard. Emil understood they were being driven to police headquarters. It had to be a mistake. His friend, Nicolae, couldn’t be betraying him, not after all these years.

  But instead of going down Moşilor Avenue, the Securitate agent ordered the driver to take a right. Emil, worried, didn’t dare look at his son, afraid of revealing his own fear to him.

  “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

  The agent turned to Emil. “Chitila. I almost forgot about your wife.”

  Emil closed his eyes. He knew it was useless to try to talk to this brute. He slid down the seat, still hugging his son against him. The world was once again falling apart.

  It was dark in Chitila. Honest Romanians were sleeping soundly behind locked doors. The Securitate bastards knew the address already; they didn’t even miss the alleyway on the left, the one you had to take to avoid a dead end. They had been here before — that much was clear. They’d monitored the place, knew what they were getting themselves into.

  The ZIL came to a stop in front of a small, modest house. It, too, plunged in darkness. The agents forced Emil and his son out of the car. Emil saw he had an opportunity. One last chance.

  He shouted as loud as he could in Romani, “Eugenia! Run! Run, Eugenia! Run away now!”

  The butt of a weapon swung into his stomach, and he folded over, his breath short. His son started crying loudly. Another blow, this one to the back of his head. Emil collapsed. Agents ran into the house, turning on every light, waking everyone up. Emil was about to lose consciousness when he heard a tumult coming from the house. He looked up and saw Eugenia and Alina standing before him in their night clothes. Eugenia, her belly wide, fear in her eyes, a policeman holding her by the hair. Emil’s eldest son held on to his father; he didn’t want to let go of him for a moment, not even to go to his mother. Emil realized the neighbours were staring at them through their windows, not daring to come any closer for fear of being arrested themselves.

  The Securitate agent turned toward the street and shouted, “Your neighbours are Gypsies! Do you know what we do to them?”

  Emil heard his wife cry out.

  Then a gunshot.

  Eugenia fell to the ground, hands over her stomach. Blood leaking between her fingers. Eugenia dying on the sidewalk. Ignoring his son’s cries, Emil took his own head in both hands. He wanted to die. He shouted, moaning into the night, the total indifference of the Securitate men the only reply. Stone-faced, they dragged him back to the car.

  A few hours later Emil, dressed in overalls, sat on a short bench, the sort used to milk a cow. The room was completely dark, not a single opening for light to get through. He had no idea of its size, though the echo of his shuffling feet made him think it was cavernous. His ankles were tied to the bench, he realized, as he tried to move his legs farther apart. He couldn’t remember when he’d been tied up. Probably when he reached this jail. Or was he at the headquarters of the Securitate? The second option made more sense. Meanwhile, Emil thought, on the other side of Bucharest, Ceauşescu, the Genius of the Carpathians, slept soundly, dreaming of his House of the People.

  The Romani leader couldn’t believe what the Securitate agent had told him. It simply couldn’t be that Nicolae had deserted him.

  Impossible.

  It had to be a mistake. Nicolae would burst through the door any moment and apologize.

  A light exploded in the dark, blinding him. He couldn’t turn his head away from it. Emil blinked and blinked and finally made out a desk, a man sitting behind it. He wore a suit and tie. A face as serious as death behind small round glasses. He had the air of a professor as he read through a huge dossier in front of him. Emil’s file probably.

  There was a long period of silence, then the man said, “Emil Rosca, I’m Vasil Lionu, the prosecutor named by the Ministry of Internal Affairs to shed light on accusations of sedition and incitement to armed revolt.”

  Sedition? Armed revolt?

  “You know the law. It’s forbidden for any Romanian to have contact with a foreigner unless special permission has been granted by the Securitate.”

  “Nicolae Ceauşescu authorized my trip!”

  “We aren’t speaking of London.”

  Emil didn’t understand.

  Lionu pulled a sheet out of the dossier. “Rossen Markov and Paul Vaneker. You met both of them willingly on June 14, 1968.”

  That was three years ago, and the bastards had decided to go after him now.

  “Funds of unknown origin are circulating in Romania …”

  “They’re being used for the education of Roma.”

  “Ah, so you’re admitting —”

  “I demand to speak to Nicolae Ceauşescu!”

  The prosecutor took his glasses off.

  Emil added, “He’s my friend. Godfather to my children. I’m sure he has no idea what you’re doing to me.”

  “Where does the money come from, Rosca?”

  “I want to see Ceauşescu.”

  Lionu ignored him. At length, in a tired, emotionless voice, the prosecutor proceeded to enumerate all of Emil’s “crimes,” followed by the number of whatever article of the law he’d broken. A long litany, as useless as it was absurd, a mantra almost, during which Emil thought only of Eugenia, poor Eugenia, and Christina, as well, and every Roma in his neighbourhood, in his kumpaníya. All his fellow Roma who had tried to forget, to annihilate memory, to pretend they were safe. Emil realized that forgetting was death, especially for a people whose future was constantly refused them. He thought of his father, Anton; they’d been separated when he was still so young. Thought of his mother, and his brothers, and the sisters he’d barely known.

  The world walked on its head, he thought. No, it was more like the world walked on the heads of all Roma.

  “Of course, there’s no point in denying it,” Lionu concluded.

  “Leave me alone!”

  The prosecutor put his glasses back on. “The punishment has already been determined. Why burden the court with these crimes committed by a Gypsy?” His eyes narrowed. “The same crimes as always for your people. Treachery, spying, collaboration with the enemies of the people.”

  Emil heard footsteps on his left.

  And out of the darkness, a ghost appeared: Dr. Hans Leibrecht in a white lab coat. He was older, more bent than in Auschwitz, but his eyes were filled with the same evil light.

  Emil couldn’t believe his eyes. He felt cast back to Dr. Mengele’s clinic twenty-eight years ago in Block 10 of the Stammlager.

  “Do you st
ill play the accordion, Emil Rosca?” Leibrecht asked in German.

  Emil was speechless.

  Leibrecht smiled, then slipped his hand in his pocket and took out a straight razor, its blade glinting.

  Emil shivered.

  “Do you know that I have no idea what they did with our samples in Berlin? At the institute, I mean. Mengele was convinced he could demonstrate the inferiority of the Gypsy race by the shape of your ears.”

  Leibrecht barked what in another man might have been laughter. “Those were the good old days, right, Emil? We had fun in Auschwitz, didn’t we?”

  Emil closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next.

  “Such a shame we were interrupted that day …”

  Emil, his eyes still closed, waited for the knife to reach his face. A few breaths, and still nothing. Emil opened his eyes and shouted out in horror.

  His eldest son, unconscious, lay on a gurney.

  Just as Emil had in Block 10.

  Leibrecht walked to the child and slowly rolled the gurney closer to Emil. He could hear his boy breathing softly.

  An angel.

  “Gypsies have the most beautiful ears, don’t they?” Leibrecht smiled wider. “I’ll show you what you missed, Emil Rosca. Look, look and see what you avoided that day. Look closely …”

  35

  Amsterdam, December 20, 2006

  As soon as he was released by Peter Kalanyos, Max rushed to Málaga to grab a flight. On the way to the airport, he called Toma Boerescu in Bucharest. The old man didn’t answer. His second call was to Marilyn Burgess. He told her the anti-Roma movement had nothing to do with this whole affair: it was an inside job. Kalanyos was responsible for the Zăbrăuţi Street fire and the deaths of Cosmin Micula and Laura Costinar. What was more, he was holding Kevin hostage and threatening to kill him if Sacha wasn’t brought back to him.