Josef did not mention Law 117. When things are good for the gadje, they are bad for the Roma. When they are bad for the gadje, they are even worse for us.
Sarah had brought several bowls of pickles and salads to the table, with white squares of cheese crumbled on the top.
‘Look,’ said Ctibor, gesturing at the abundance of food that had appeared merely as accompaniments. ‘I don’t believe any real harm can come to the world. Just look.’ He raised his hands to indicate the whole of his large kitchen with its copper pans in ascending sizes and huge blue ceiling and decorative plates on the walls. ‘We sit here in this lovely house which hard work and God has granted me, and around this table we three diverse souls. Doesn’t it fill your heart with hope?’
Ctibor beamed at his wife and at Josef, and his wife and Josef beamed back at him, but not at each other.
PART 2
1933
CHAPTER 4
Justin Zelinka was the only man in the kumpánia who could read and write, so he read Ctibor Michálek’s letter to Josef out loud as the men huddled in the wagon, one freezing dark January night.
‘Greetings Brother,’ he read, and Václav gave a contemptuous snort. He did not approve of the fact that Josef and Ctibor called each other brother.
Justin paused. Josef gave Václav an annoyed glance. Václav became interested in the contents of his unlit pipe. Josef nodded at Justin to continue.
‘I hope this letter finds you well,’ Justin read, ‘my wife sends her greetings to Mrs Růžičková. We think often of your young boy in this bitter winter. Has the Jihlava frozen to its bed? Here, everyone is saying it is as bad as ’29. I have wrapped the trees on the north side of my fields with blankets, round the trunks, but I doubt it will help …’ At this, the assembled men grinned at each other. How absurd, swaddling trees like babies.
Josef was smiling too. ‘They are like horses to him …’ he said, shaking his head.
‘I hope your winter quarters are proving …’ Justin frowned at the page and shook his head. ‘… ress… ressy …’
‘Resilient?’ suggested Josef. Justin shrugged.
Václav snorted again and this time there was a murmur of agreement in the wagon. Their winter quarters were far from resilient. They were supposed to reside at the Black Huts until March, according to their papers, but the barrel factory in Třebič had closed and there was no more hoop-making to be had. They had to take to the road every few days, illegally, just to feed themselves and the horses. They were working the small towns and villages around in a wide, anti-clockwise arc. The women sold charms. The men cleared snow and dug ditches. They only went out one wagon at a time because it was now against the law for Gypsies to go anywhere in a group larger than one family. Law 117 was growing new clauses every season. They sprung like snowdrops.
‘Tell him our winter quarters are proving as overcrowded, freezing cold and miserable as ever!’ declared Václav, stabbing the air with his pipe. Václav was a bitter man this season. He now had five daughters. His oldest, Zdenka, was still unmarried, although she was nearly sixteen. Eva and Pavla were marriageable but could not be betrothed before their sister, so Václav had five little spinsters on his hands, slipping around the Black Huts like dark ghosts and taunting him with their small, stubborn good health. Then, last autumn, Václav’s wife Božena had finally given birth to a boy, Martin, a sickly thing who now had whooping cough and gasped and wheezed all night. They were all terrified for him. Václav had become religious and self-blaming, asking Josef what sins he had committed against God to be punished so.
‘We will get to the reply in a minute …’ Josef said gently. ‘Justin, go on …’
Justin read the rest of the letter without interruption. ‘My offer of work still stands, Josef. I go to Prague every month now and am pleased to report that the office is running as efficiently as can be expected under the current circumstances. It was the right decision to sell those acres last summer, although as you know I was most disappointed by the poor price I received. I am still of the belief that my expansion into timber would have succeeded were it not for the entry of the Russians on to the market. Far more experienced merchants than myself were taken aback by the sudden price drop. I cannot regret my attempt to diversify. Do not forget that I do not forget you, Brother. Warmest regards, Ctibor Michálek.’
Justin folded the letter and replaced it in the rough, crackling envelope, then handed it to Josef. There was a general murmur and shifting amongst the men as Justin picked up his quill. Then he raised his inkpot up to the lantern light and said, ‘Brothers, you have a few minutes to debate our reply. I still have ice in my ink.’ He cradled the inkpot in his hands and began singing to it.
There was a sudden burst of laughter from the adjacent wagon. The women were becoming raucous.
‘Someone go and tell those women to keep quiet! We are doing business here!’ growled Václav. The other men glanced at each other. No one was minded to go out in the cold and dark. ‘She’ll feel the back of my hand tonight …’ muttered Václav. He could not forgive Božena for giving him five healthy girls and one sick son.
‘Laughter keeps us warm …’ said Yakali reasonably, quoting the proverb, ‘Laughter and song …’ As if on cue, the women’s voices could be heard raised in a chant.
‘Miroslav, please …’ said Josef. He no more wanted to quiet the women than Yakali, but Václav must be placated if they were to get anything done.
Miroslav rose from where he was squatting and, pulling his blanket tight around his shoulders, opened the door.
The men braced themselves for the flood of freezing air that rushed through the wagon. Justin took advantage of Miroslav’s exit to move closer to the stove. His father Yakali moved back to allow his son to warm himself.
Yakali was an example, Josef thought. He had just been released from two years in prison, because a gadjo picked a fight with him in a market square, but he remained as philosophical as ever. Justin and Miroslav had married the South Bohemian girls and had two children each. Miroslav’s first child had died of the measles but his wife was now carrying his third. The Zelinka family seemed to have the knack of managing misfortune, of refusing to let it overwhelm and defeat them.
What would they do with Václav when his son died? It would destroy him. It would be hard for Josef to comfort Václav without sounding smug. Emil was five years old and the toughest, healthiest boy a man could wish for – his hair still fair, his looks marred only by the thin red scar on his forehead. He was the prince of the kumpánia.
It was hard not to love the boy too much. Josef felt full of fortune every time he looked at him. It was as if all the other children he should have had by now, all the unborn babies, had given the gifts of their tiny souls to be poured into Emil, to fill to full his store of perfection.
Another wave of cold air rushed into the wagon as Miroslav returned. He was rewarded by a place next to the stove where he squatted down and began to shudder melodramatically.
‘I think we should discuss whether or not the Rom Baró goes to Prague,’ said Václav.
Josef looked at him in surprise.
‘I know,’ said Václav. ‘But how else do we survive this winter? Our horses are so bony you can hardly keep a harness on them. Josef, how much longer will the fodder last?’ Václav’s question was rhetorical. They had been rationing the hay for weeks now. The horses had begun to eat their filthy straw bedding.
‘I’m more greatly concerned about the harnesses …’ Josef said. The straps were nearly worn through, where they fed through the brass rings. A new harness would cost thousands of crowns and the women’s jewellery was long since sold. When the current tackle went, he would have to sell one horse to harness the other. He had two mares now, once clean and brisk, now bony and plodding, with bleeding gums and textured patches on their flanks.
‘Well then,’ said Václav, looking round at the others. ‘What choice do we have?’
‘Prague …’ said Yakal
i uncertainly. It would be like sending Josef to the moon.
Josef had been to Prague once, when he was a boy. His uncle had taken him. He could remember the trams, the screeching noise they made, the people crammed together, men and women pressed up against each other. The women didn’t even seem insulted. The men wore brown suits, cravats, funny round hats that looked ripe for knocking off with sticks – all those people all herded together like hens in a coop, but a coop that hurtled along the streets and screamed as it shot around a corner. It made Josef’s hair stand on end just to think of it.
But then he imagined being in a warm office with windows to protect him from the wind and rain. He would be the boss, Ctibor had told him. He would tell all the gadje in the office what to do. The first order he would give them would be to keep the stove so well stoked that the windows fogged up.
‘What does the farmer Michálek actually want you to do, Kakó?’ asked Miroslav, and at that everyone glanced at Josef, who pulled a face and shrugged.
‘I say he goes,’ said Václav. ‘Let’s write the letter.’
‘I say we wait until the end of the month,’ said Yakali. ‘See if something turns up.’
Václav snorted in derision. They all looked at Josef.
‘Václav,’ said Josef, ‘what would you write?’
‘I would write this,’ said Václav firmly. ‘Dear Gadjo, I will work for you in Prague but I will not demean myself. I will abide by our laws at all times. My food must be prepared separately and I will not work in the same room as filthy gadji whores. I expect fifty per cent of everything, half of it advanced to me to send to my kumpánia. O Del is the one true God and the Roma his only people. Josef.’
Václav gave a single firm nod, then glared at them, defying them to compose a better letter.
‘Yakali?’ Josef asked.
Yakali frowned. ‘Dear Farmer Michálek,’ he began. ‘I am most sorry to hear that frost is cracking your fruit trees. Our horses’ hooves are also cracked. We wish you all advancement and hope that God may guide you through this bitter time. I am sorry that my people cannot spare me from my duties caring for them, but very much hope to see you in the spring, when we may travel to your lands earlier than before. Your honest friend, Josef.’
Josef glanced at Miroslav, who said, ‘His timber business failed. Who’s to say his canning is going to do any better? I say go for a wage rather than a cut. When you have collected a bucketful of beetles you feed them to the chickens straight away, you don’t give them a chance to run off.’
Justin said. ‘My ink is now unfrozen, Kakó.’ He held his quill poised above the brown sheet of paper that quavered on his lap.
Josef exhaled heavily.
‘Dear Ctibor,’ he began, and paused. The wagon was silent but for the scratching of Justin’s quill. ‘Greetings to you, Brother. Our winter quarters have proved sound again this year. I feared that both my horses were lame last week but my fears proved groundless. The road is long. May God bless you and your house and keep you from harm. Your Brother, Josef.’
There was a silence, during which a certain puzzlement amongst the men was apparent. Had the Rom Baró made a decision or not? Václav exhaled shortly through his nostrils.
Josef looked from one to the other, then raised his hands as if to say, well, it’s a compromise. He gave an uneasy, conciliatory smile, before declaring with a flourish, ‘Brothers, I declare this divano concluded!’
*
The next morning, the sun shone so brilliantly that when Josef opened the door to the wagon, the sparkle from the snow hurt his eyes. He sat down on the step, tugging a blanket round his shoulders, and lit his pipe.
The wagons had been pulled up in a circle, rear entrances facing in, so that his group had their own small enclave on the edge of the Huts. From his vantage point he could watch the men leading the horses out so that they could sweep out the Huts, and the women running from wagon to wagon, busying themselves with all those women’s tasks that suddenly became so important once the weather turned fine.
After the grey gloom of the last few days, the bright white light was irresistibly beautiful. Justin and Miroslav were laughing and joking as they brushed down the horses. Eva and Ludmila were chattering as they sliced up the huge grey block of soap which rested on a stone, and wrapped the individual pieces in cloth. Even Václav raised his hand in greeting to them all as he emerged from behind his wagon and hung his copper washbasin on a nail by the door.
It was a source of great amusement to the other Roma in the settlement that Josef’s kumpánia stabled their horses in the Huts and slept in their wagons. Josef thought the Huts disgusting, barely fit for the animals, let alone decent Roma. He had never slept in a house in his life. Not even a winter as bitter as this was going to make him start.
There was only one other nomadic kumpánia at the Black Huts, over-wintering there like them. The rest of the inhabitants were settled Moravian Roma who were there all year round – and there was one family of poor, filthy gadje who had fallen on hard times and stank to high heaven. All the other families lived in the Huts themselves. Their children would come around, when they were bored, and gallop up and down the wide river of frozen mud between the Huts, shaking their heads and making whinnying noises. The joke amongst the other Roma was that the Kalderash loved their horses so much they gave them their beds to sleep in.
A group of children was running his way now, delighted that the bright sun made it temporarily warm enough to play. Josef saw Emil at the head of them. He was popular with the other children because of his light skin and hair – he could almost pass for a white boy. They were all playing horses, about twelve of them, mostly boys with a couple of small girls trailing in the rear.
They came to a halt where the other men had tied the horses and stood around watching them work Miroslav raised a broom and shook it playfully at them, and they squealed in mock apprehension, retreating a few steps, then creeping forward again.
Josef observed the group. He did not like his son mixing with Moravian Roma. He had talked to him about it, but Emil was a spoilt boy, and disobedient. It depressed him sometimes. He would have sooner thrown himself into a furnace and slammed the door shut behind him than disobeyed his own father, Andreas – a man always ready with the whip. Children had no respect these days. Maybe the problem is me. Maybe I am too weak with him. I don’t like him associating with that riff-raff. He should be learning Vlach ways from other Kalderash boys – but there are no other Vlach families round here, and if there were they probably wouldn’t associate with us because we’ve become so used to Moravian ways. There is no one like our strange, mongrel group. What are we doing here? Why don’t we go back to Wallachia, or Russia, where we belong, and stay put? Hardly anyone travels these days. Ach, relax, Josef, and let the boy play. It’s not his fault. He sighed heavily. At Emil’s age, he was holding bellows for his uncle while he worked. He could remember the heat from the open furnace, how he had appreciated it in layers: the bidding warmth as you approached on a cold winter’s morning, then the growing fury of it – and finally, a pain behind the eyes as you stared at the motlen metal. Staring at it hurt but it was impossible to look away. His uncle’s forearms were speckled with rough spots where the sparks had burnt him over the years – his hands were rough as tree bark. Josef would push with all his might on the bellows, wanting so much to do it hard enough, to be like his uncle: silent and hugely powerful. He was tooling and polishing by the age of eight and receiving a cut of the take for his efforts. He could not remember a time when he had not earned money. Emil was nearly six. He didn’t work because there was no work to be had. He fetched water. He helped his father insulate the Huts with piles of brushwood and swept straw, and he played with the Moravian Roma boys. When would the boy learn a trade?
‘Emil!’ Josef called out to him. The boy did not hear him immediately, too busy giggling with the others. ‘Emil!’
Emil turned and saw his father beckoning. He spoke briefly to hi
s friends and then trotted happily over. Josef slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him to his chest in a bear hug. Emil squirmed and wriggled free.
‘I’ve told you about those boys,’ Josef said. ‘That big one especially, the black one. They laugh at us. They’re a bad influence on you. You should play with your own group, learn something from the men. You should keep busy with us.’
Emil let his chin protrude and looked at the ground, itching to return to his playmates. I would never have dared show such a face to my father, Josef thought angrily. He grabbed Emil’s arm. ‘That big boy, the one who follows you around,’ he said harshly. ‘He is not your friend. They make jokes about us, about our horses. It is time you learned how a Rom responds to people who insult him.’
Emil looked at his father, intrigued. Josef knew he had appealed to the boy’s pride. Emil was impulsive, and strong, and used to being adored by a kumpánia full of girls and women. Adoration was his due.
Josef leant forward and said, ‘Show me you are a big boy, Emil, a boy a man can be proud of. I heard that boy over there making jokes yesterday, jokes that insulted your mother and father.’
Emil stared at him, wide-eyed.
‘Go, show him,’ said Josef.
Emil turned smartly on his heel and strode back to the group of children. Without preamble, he stepped up to the large, dark-skinned boy. He withdrew his fist and, aiming upwards, smashed it soundlessly into the side of the boy’s head.
The boy staggered, howled, and turned away, fleeing over the frozen mud, the other children at his heels.
Emil returned to Josef with a triumphant smile. ‘Good,’ said Josef. ‘Now go and help your Uncle Yakali sweep out that hut, go into the dark corners where he can’t see, his eyesight is bad.’
Fires in the Dark Page 7
