Fires in the Dark Read online

  Then, in July, it comes. It isn’t even marked confidential. The General Commander of the Civil Police in the German Protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia has issued the order for The Elimination of the Gypsy Menace.

  It is to be called Registration Day, and every Gypsy must register. The date is set for the first week in August. Deportations will take place the same day. Holt sends one of his men to fetch Karel Malík.

  When he arrives at his office, Karel seats himself unhurriedly on the other side of Sergeant Holt’s desk. Holt stands with his back to Karel, staring out of the window. Beyond the courtyard outside his office, the lane swoops down, revealing an uninterrupted view of fields where treetops sway gently in an old summer breeze. He thinks how innocent those breezes seem, and how simple compromises are, morally simple. If a man points a gun at a child’s head and says, I will shoot this child, or I will shoot those two children over there, what are you supposed to say? You say, all right, shoot him and spare those two. Shooting one child is half as bad as shooting two. Men who can’t admit that are more than cowardly, thinks Sergeant Holt, they are morally corrupt.

  He hears himself saying to Karel Malík. ‘I don’t know what the transports are for. For one of the camps, I suppose, but I hear some of those places are not so bad. You have to work but you get fed. You’re all on file. I can’t see what anyone can do. You can hardly take off down the road in a big gang. You won’t get ten kilometres.’

  Karel is sitting on the other side of Holt’s desk, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded, as relaxed as if they were discussing a rabbit hunt. ‘There must be something …’ he insists simply, calmly. Success with Holt depends on him behaving as little as a man like Holt would expect a gypsy to behave. As a consequence, Karel is so relaxed he appears almost somnambulant.

  Holt is still staring out of the window, watching one of his men sweep the yard. That is all the authorities are asking of us, he thinks, to keep the place clean. Eventually, he turns and looks at Karel, although he still does not sit. ‘There is a possible loophole …’ he says thoughtfully. ‘But I can’t get all of you through it.’

  Karel nods, to indicate that he appreciates what Holt is doing, and that he will agree to the price.

  ‘We can try and say that you’ve been settled so long that you don’t count as Gypsies. You can apply for Christian status, but we’ll have to do it straight away, before Registration Day. Several of you have jobs. That makes a difference. Normally, it wouldn’t work, but I know the local Commander …’ There is another pause, another nod, another tacit agreement to the local Commander’s price, whatever it may be. ‘But …’

  Holt allows that but to hang in the air while he wanders over to his desk and seats himself. ‘It is known that we have a Gypsy settlement here and there will be talk if I do not send you off to be registered. I have to be seen to be obeying the law or they will simply replace me with someone who will. You must give me some of your people. Half. A truckload. Once they have been sent off, we can begin an appeal procedure immediately. Maybe we’ll get them out. But the rest must stay invisible in the meantime. You know what I mean. Anyone who is known in the town must go, otherwise people will notice you’re all still here and someone will tell. You yourself are in great danger. I don’t know whether I will be able to protect you.’

  ‘I cannot give you half,’ Karel says reasonably. ‘How would I persuade them? It would mean splitting up families. Half is out of the question.’

  ‘Give me twenty, a dozen even. I can fob them off with that, for a while at least. I can’t do it for less. You know what I am risking even agreeing to that.’

  Karel regards Sergeant Holt with a steady, clear-eyed gaze. Karel is a man who understands a bargain, particularly a bargain with a gadjo. It is how he has lived his whole life, and he knows that his whole life and the whole lives of every man, woman and child in Romanov is what is at stake.

  ‘Four,’ he says evenly, after a pause. ‘I can give you four.’

  *

  Considering she was a poverty-stricken beggar, and a drunk, and stank to high heaven and was a universal embarrassment to everyone, Shabba had a surprisingly haughty demeanour. Líba would watch the old woman sometimes as she shuffled up and down in front of the cottages, pausing occasionally to importune the fresh air. Líba enjoyed watching Shabba, the only inhabitant of Romanov ineluctably lower in status than herself. The old woman was not as old as she made out, Líba decided. Shabba was tall and large-faced, with deep grooves that led down from either side of her nose to the edges of her mouth. Her skin was so filthy it was impossible to tell how black she really was, but her hair always looked surprisingly clean and white, falling loosely around her heavy features like the branches of a weeping willow.

  Sometimes, Shabba would pause in front of Líba’s cottage and turn and stare knowingly at her, her haughty expression defying Líba to pity her. The hooded eyes would look her up and down, as if she was saying, I know you. I know what goes on in your house. At other times, her expression would be glazed and drunken, and Líba would go swiftly into the cottage and place a piece of bread or some potatoes on a plate, cover them with a chequered cloth and take them out to her. All the women fed Shabba. She was one of their own, after all, and the fewer times she went into Orlavá the better – she shamed them all.

  They had an even greater interest in keeping Shabba off the streets now. The rumours had begun some weeks ago. The Roma were to be rounded up and sent north, like the Jews. Karel had tried to reassure them. He was good friends with Officer Holt, wasn’t he? Holt would warn them before any round-up. But in the meantime, they had to keep their noses clean. They had to try to be forgotten. If anyone saw Shabba heading for the town, she must be brought back immediately. The women were to see to it.

  Líba believed what Karel said. Karel was Jan’s brother, and if Jan was all-powerful and believed his brother then she must too. But sometimes, at night, she would lie awake listening for the sound of trucks – the sound of a motor vehicle approaching Romanov would only mean one thing. She realised that it was impossible to distinguish the exact point at which a sound began. Sounds did not have starting points. They grew from nothing, from silence, which meant that all silence could be the nothing immediately prior to the start of the sound.

  The next morning, tired and bleary-eyed, she would curse herself for her fears. Nobody cared about them, a small bunch of Roma stuck out on the edge of an insignificant town like Orlavá. What would be the point of taking them anywhere? Wasn’t there a petrol shortage?

  *

  Jan was over at Karel’s house, so Líba was taking the opportunity to sit on the step of her cottage and wait for her daughter. Marie was at the well, lingering because she knew her father wasn’t around, talking to the other girls perhaps. Líba hoped so. She herself never mixed with the other women, she didn’t dare, but her daughter was allowed a little more freedom, and it pleased her that she had been able to develop a few friendships in the hamlet. If Marie had friends, it would protect her. When I am gone … Líba thought sadly. She had nearly died of pneumonia last winter. Her hair had a few white strands, already. I suppose I am in my mid-twenties, she thought to herself. Already.

  Marie was thirteen, and as tall as her mother, which was short Her skin was a few shades lighter, but other than that, they were identical. This much I have done, Líba comforted herself, when she thought of her child. She has got this far at least, my small sleek girl. And I can tell, just by looking at her, that she is cleverer than the rest of Romanov put together.

  Down the lane, she heard a small laugh, like water. Marie was walking slowly towards her with another girl, her pretty cousin Ilona, Karel’s oldest daughter. They were both carrying two buckets, walking slowly in the late afternoon heat.

  Marie stopped when she saw her mother sitting on the step, bowing her head.

  Líba nodded at Ilona. ‘Off home now,’ she said, with all the sternness she could muster.

  The two
girls exchanged sly looks as Ilona turned away. Líba felt a rush of envy for their conspiracy. Let me join in, she thought helplessly, oh, let me be one of you. I’m not on his side, not really. I never have been.

  Marie put the buckets down on the ground and, seeing her mother’s forlorn look, rushed over to her. She knelt in front of her, then glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Your father is out,’ Líba said.

  Marie smiled, then put her arms around her mother’s waist and her head in her lap. ‘I will never leave you,’ she said simply.

  I fear you may not, Líba thought, but said nothing, stroking her daughter’s headscarf until she became worried that Jan might return and find them so affectionate. ‘Come,’ she scolded. ‘It is nearly evening and I was waiting for that water so I can cook, as you well know.’ Her daughter disentangled herself with a small sigh.

  *

  Jan returned from his brother’s house with a puzzled air, an air he did not explain until he was seated at his table, food in front of him, his wife and daughter standing by the dresser awaiting his commands.

  ‘My brother asked to see me,’ he said, frowning at the air in front of him. ‘But when I arrived he behaved as though he didn’t want me there. Then when Dalia asked me to eat with them, he interrupted her and told her not to be insolent. Just as I left, he told me he wanted me to take care of a watch that he was worried about losing and pushed it into my pockets. Then he called me back, then he dismissed me …’

  Marie and Líba remained silent. Comment from than was not necessary. Jan shook his head. ‘They were having chicken livers,’ he added, glancing down at his own plate of thin stew. He tapped the side of the plate with one finger, which meant he wanted more bread.

  Líba had just placed a slice of rough black bread on the edge of his plate, when they all heard, simultaneously, an unmistakable sound. It was the sound of an approaching motor vehicle. Líba froze. Even Jan was rendered motionless as they listened. The noise came nearer, grew, then divided into two different sounds – that of a large vehicle and something smaller, lighter, a motorbike perhaps. The sounds reached their cottage. There was the screech of brakes, applied roughly. The engines died.

  It was a pleasant summer evening. The door stood open. Sergeant Holt stepped into the room.

  Marie and Líba stared at him.

  Jan glanced up from his supper. ‘May I at least finish this?’ he asked, gesturing at his plate.

  ‘No, I’m afraid you may not,’ said Holt politely. ‘Two minutes to put your things together. Clothes only. Valuables are to be surrendered to me.’

  Jan spoke as he rose, his mouth still full. ‘Since when has anyone in this household had any valuables, Holt?’ He looked at Líba. ‘Get our things,’ he said quietly.

  Líba ran to their cupboard and drew out Jan’s spare shirt and trousers. Thank God he was still wearing his boots. Marie had hurried to her alcove and brought over what she could grab. Together, they threw the things down on to the bed and rolled the blanket around them.

  ‘Mama, your shawl,’ said Marie as they turned to the door, Líba looked at her daughter. It was August. Her daughter was only thirteen but had realised straight away that that if her mother survived the next few months, she would need her winter shawl.

  Outside, there was a truck and Holt’s motorcycle. Four German soldiers were ranged in the yard, their guns displayed across their chests.

  Jan looked at the soldiers. ‘Expecting trouble from the Gypsies, eh?’ he said to Holt, indicating the other cottages with his head. ‘Sure you brought enough? We don’t go quietly as a rule.’

  Holt exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Expecting trouble from you, Jan. We’re well aware of your reputation.’ Jan looked at him. ‘We’re not taking any of the others,’ Holt said, looking at the ground, then the sky. ‘You’re the only ones, you three, and the tramp.’

  Jan stared at him.

  Up the lane, from the derelict cottage at the far end of the hamlet, Shabba was being led by a young soldier who was pulling her by the elbow. She was muttering happily to herself in a tuneful sing-song. The young soldier was grimacing extravagantly. He called out in German to his compatriots and the others laughed.

  ‘You won’t see any of the others coming out to give you a send-off,’ Holt said as he mounted his motorcycle. ‘They’ll have made themselves scarce, I think you’ll find.’ With a single bouncing motion, he kicked the motorcycle into life, then turned and pulled it into position in front of the waiting truck.

  Jan and Líba and Marie stood waiting for Shabba as she hobbled and rocked towards them. The young soldier was clearly disinclined to pick her up and carry her. Her clothes hung from her body, wrapped around her head and feet in layers, despite the heat. Shabba had no bundle to carry to the truck – she was the bundle.

  Líba glanced around. The others might be staying inside their houses but she knew their departure was being observed by every inhabitant of Romanov. She wanted to shout at them, to scream. Were it not for her fear of Jan’s displeasure and the reaction of the soldiers, she would have run into the middle of the lane and howled her fury at everyone hiding safely inside their little stone walls. Then, she saw that somebody had emerged after all, silently, like a ghost. It was Karel. He was standing on the verge in front of his cottage, watching impassively, knowing his watching was being watched by the rest of Romanov. Nobody would ever say that Karel Malík had not the courage to face the brother he had betrayed.

  At the back of the truck, there was some hiatus. The soldier was trying to lift old Shabba up, pushing at her while trying to keep her at arm’s length – she stank of urine as usual. Had Shabba been sane and frightened, the soldier might have been more brutal, but faced with the unmistakable authenticity of her derangement, he was wincing and coaxing, glancing at Jan appealingly – how do I deal with this one? The other soldiers stood by watching, laughing at him.

  Líba saw her chance. Still holding Marie tightly by the hand, she marched the few steps towards Karel, then stopped and faced him squarely. She spoke quickly and quietly. Even as she spoke, she heard the sureness of her tone and had time to wonder that her own voice, so little used, was so lucid and calm.

  ‘Jan is your brother, Karel, and you will answer in Heaven for what you have done to him. God may not count my life and the life of my daughter as worthy of retribution, but I tell you this. Look at me. Look into our eyes.’ Karel said nothing, but his gaze flicked from mother to daughter. ‘Do you see?’ Líba continued. ‘Do you see us? We may be nothing to you, any of you. But this look, this will pursue you until the day you die. On your deathbed, you will remember it. Tell the others. You will see us.’

  Karel did not move, but she saw his gaze shift to look past her. Jan had seen them. She turned back to the truck.

  As she and Marie walked the few paces back to the truck, she watched her husband’s face to see how he would react to Karel. This would be the moment that Romanov had been waiting for.

  Jan looked at her as she approached, then held out his hand to assist her into the truck.

  *

  Karel Malík observed as his brother Jan helped his wife into the truck, as gently and as chivalrously as a Count assisting his Countess into a carriage.

  When he had helped his daughter, Jan picked up the bundle that lay at his feet and handed it up to them. Then he climbed up himself, his long legs easily gaining the floor of the truck. The remaining soldier jumped up beside them and Jan assisted him in lifting the tailgate, each of them pulling on one of the chains at either side. The soldier fastened it, then shouted to the driver.

  Jan was seated opposite the soldier, still fully visible to Karel as the truck began to bump down the lane. Karel waited for him to turn and stare at him, a lethal stare – but Jan remained impassive. He gazed mildly out of the truck, as if Karel did not exist.

  As the truck swayed away, leaving intermingling vapours of grey diesel exhaust and brown dust, Karel Malík realised that that blank
look was his brother’s revenge.

  Behind him, the residents of Romanov began to emerge from their cottages. They were whispering, and Karel Malík knew what those whispers meant. He was finished. He had saved their lives, for the time being, and he had done the unforgiveable – he had given up four of their people, one of them his own brother, to be taken by the gadje.

  Karel took two paces after the truck, then stopped. He watched as it disappeared down the dusty summer lane, bathed in light.

  PART 5

  1942 – 3

  CHAPTER 12

  The policeman had a fine mare; a great long-legged thing, coal-black, a high-stepper. Emil stared at her as they trudged along the lane. He and his family were at the head of the column, the policeman on his horse directly ahead of them. Sometimes, when the lane widened, the policeman pulled the mare back so they were trotting alongside. ‘Not far now!’ he would call out, encouragingly, the horse dancing lightly on the verge, lifting her legs like a show animal and shaking her fine, narrow head. When Emil looked up, it seemed as if the policeman and his mount were almost floating beside than. White light flashed beyond their combined silhouette.

  The sky was blinding. Sweat poured down Emil’s forehead – he could feel his hair sticking beneath his hat. He and Josef were taking it in turns to carry Bobo who was semi-conscious and moaning with thirst. The only sound was the child’s low groaning and the musical jangle of the horse’s harness.

  His mother and little sister were a few paces behind them. Every now and then he glanced back to see if they were all right. Parni was clinging to her mother’s skirts, hanging her head on her arms. Anna was murmuring to her as they walked. His three aunts were helping old Pavliná. Behind them was everyone who had been taken by truck from Třebič, and others who had joined them in the railway yard at Brno. When they had all stumbled from the train at Nědvedice, his father had jostled their family to the front of the crowd as they lined up to be marched from the station. He needs to control something about this journey, Emil thought, to impose order upon some small element of it.