Cover
Author’s Note
While this novel’s foundations are anchored in historical truth, the story itself is fictional. A troop of fictional characters was added by the author to the living and dead historical characters who make an appearance. What’s more, the real-world chronology of certain events was modified for narrative purposes.
Romani culture is rich and varied. As much as possible, the Romani words and phrases used are those of the Kalderash of Eastern Europe. However, some expressions and customs of other Romani groups, notably the Manush and Romanichal, are also woven into the story.
Epigraph
So long as we travel the paths of justice, honour and duty, no one and nothing can turn us from our goal, because we have at our side a devoted and honourable ally — suffering.
— Gheorghe Nicolescu, 1936,
quoted by Donald Kenrick and Grattan Puxon in Destiny of Europe’s Gypsies (1972)
Part One
The Emperor’s Son
1
Auschwitz-Birkenau, August 23, 1943
The Paolo Soprani was in rough shape — one of the mechanism’s supports had come unglued, and part of its veneer had begun to peel. In other times, the accordion, the gormónya, would have been destined for the trash heap. But young Emil Rosca had disassembled the keyboard, refurbished the pallets, and glued both supports back on after reinforcing them with threaded shafts made of old barbed wire. All that did nothing to mend the hole — right in the middle of the bellows. A disaster. The accordion’s owner had probably fallen headfirst off a freight car. He’d attempted to break his fall with the instrument and only managed to tear a hole two inches wide. Emil folded a piece of cardboard that had previously been luggage lining along the bellows’ folds. He made a strap out of an old belt stolen from the camp’s depot, the effektenlager, also called “Canada.” The effektenlager was where the detainees’ goods were held. Poor souls coming out of the showers at the far end of the ground were registered and given an identification number. At Auschwitz those numbers were etched directly on their left forearms. In the case of children whose arms were still too thin, the number was cut into the leg instead. They then dripped black ink directly in the open wound.
Emil wasn’t stupid. Since he disinfected clothes, he knew that many of the new arrivals who were told they were being quarantined were never seen again after being marched toward the showers. “The final shower,” the veterans said. “Hell,” others whispered. Day or night made no difference at all; smoke rose behind the barracks, right over there, over the crematory ovens. It never ceased to surprise Emil how disinfecting the clothes of a convoy of prisoners took more time than erasing their existence from the surface of the earth did.
They were fifty or so assigned to the chore, all Roma prisoners of the BIIe sector, the Zigeunerlager. Most of them were older, more worn to the bone than Emil — but they were all as clever as him. They made piles of coats, pants, dresses, entire wardrobes, really, under the bored supervision of SS officers, all the while secretly going through every pocket. Results were scarce. Others had gone through the pockets before them, officers responsible for the reception of the convoys. Even they rarely found something worth stealing. Sometimes a watch, maybe a wallet, pictures. Junk.
Surprisingly, Emil had been the only one to notice it: the Paolo Soprani buried under a pile of suitcases the newcomers had abandoned, jostled ever forward by the guards and the barking dogs all around. Its trip to Birkenau’s Judenrampe had been long and difficult. A sunbeam reflected against the instrument’s keys, a sudden burst of light that caught his eye. Emil walked discreetly toward it, pretending to pick up discarded clothes. A meaningless precaution: the guards weren’t paying attention. The accordion’s owner? Gone, disappeared, evidently without having managed to keep his instrument with him. It was a small miracle he’d kept it so long, anyway.
Emil covered the gormónya with a long dress shirt, wrapped three or four others over it, and managed to bring it back to the Roma camp. Young Emil received a hero’s welcome when he returned with his bounty. The children danced and jumped around him as if he’d won the lottery. Emil had always been a little vain. He wasn’t going to refuse the attention. He played a few notes before even taking the time to repair the instrument and then began a longer piece. A Romani lament his father had learned somewhere along the travels of his kumpaníya. Emil and his family were Kalderash, a Romani people who specialized in the traditional making and repairing of cauldrons — in short, metalworkers. Since forever they had travelled Romania far and wide. At the beginning of the war Emil had been separated from his family in a police raid — he still had no idea what fate had befallen them.
The Paolo Soprani whistled out of every hole and crack in its bellows but still managed to hold a tune. Suddenly, a shadow fell over the young musician.
“Do you know how much we can get for that?”
Emil Rosca raised his head. Standing before him was Martin Hofbauer. He was a tall, brawny Sinto man, born somewhere in northern Germany, a horse trader who’d quickly made friends with the SS when he got to the camp. He’d become the long arm of the law, making sure the rules were respected — “his” rules, really. His size helped make him more persuasive. For his participation in the invasion of Poland with the Wehrmacht, he’d been decorated with the Iron Cross. But after the decree on German Roma was signed by Heinrich Himmler in December 1942, he was picked right out of his battalion and sent to Auschwitz. The idiot still proudly wore his medal on his shirt.
Emil didn’t hesitate for a second. “The gormónya is mine. I’m keeping it.”
It had taken all of Emil’s courage to answer him. Once, he’d seen Hofbauer break a man’s skull for stealing his tobacco — under the amused watch of the kapos, common criminals who supervised the work of Auschwitz detainees. Emil hadn’t been a big guy even back when he’d had three meals a day. And here, in the camp, he was barely more than a hundred pounds. Little Emil, who’d never thrown a punch in his life.
But just as Hofbauer was about to punch him and steal the Paolo Soprani, a hand came down on the giant’s shoulder. A delicate, frail, sickly man was behind it. Even smaller than Emil. Hofbauer could put him out of his misery with a single blow, Emil was sure. But the man, whom Emil had never seen before, spoke in Romani: “He is a descendant of Luca le Stevosko.”
Hofbauer hesitated. The Sinto had lost some of his confidence. The sickly man’s declaration seemed to have frozen him in his tracks. His enormous arms suddenly hung limply. He mumbled something, then turned and left, without another word. The stranger — Emil’s guardian angel — also departed. Emil suddenly felt filled with prodigious strength despite his tiny frame. He stuck his chest out and held the accordion against him. More proof that all of the Hofbauers in the world couldn’t do a thing against a direct descendant of Luca, son of Stevo.
Emil’s ancestor had fought alongside Mihail Kogălniceanu, the Romanian statesman who’d contributed to the abolition of Romani slavery in 1856. Since that day, the Roma offered his family limitless respect. As bulibasha, or local leader, Anton Rosca, Emil’s father, led the Kris romani, the tribal council of Wallachian Roma. He was known throughout Europe. Even in Auschwitz, the Kalderash, Lovari, and Tshurari respected the Rosca family. Once again, Emil had evidence of their respect.
The Zigeunerlager was a privileged place. Within the BIIe, the Romani camp, the prisoners were kept with their families, and no one wore a prisoner’s uniform. Almost five thousand Roma in all. Oddly, the SS hadn’t broken them up, for a reason Emil didn’t know. Their skills were put to use. The Kalderash, metalworkers, maintained the barbed wire. Others, like Emil, worked in the effektenlager. There was even talk of a zoological garden at Buchenwald. A Rom there