The Roma Plot. Mario Bolduc
Читать онлайн книгу.
Max couldn’t yet see. Five or six people. The impromptu crowd was composed of ruddy, paunchy men, listening with interest to the speaker. The man got up suddenly to shake the hand of someone he knew, giving Max a view of him. Fifty-five years old, more or less, wearing a finely trimmed moustache over thick lips. Tanned skin giving him the look of a South American.
“Victor Marineci, the Gypsy MP. ” The barman was watching the man, as well. “This conference is quite the opportunity for him. With the elections coming up, Prime Minister Popescu-Tăriceanu is in trouble and Marineci might be part of the next government. Minister of the interior, maybe. Can you imagine? A Gypsy head of the police!”
Max turned around. “With you, no need to listen to the news. The lounge lizards in Romania must be the most informed in the world.”
“I’ve got a Ph.D. in political science from the University of Bucharest. I got my diploma the day Ceauşescu was killed. And so — barman for life!”
Max smiled.
“Would you like another?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Me, too.” A young woman had just slid onto the stool next to Max. Heavy makeup, friendly smile, provocative short skirt.
“Let me guess, you’re an American,” she said with a strong Russian accent. She offered her hand. “You can call me Tatiana.”
Max saw Josée Dandurand walk into the bar. Tall, blond, elegant, her step confident. She scanned the room for Max among the sea of conference-goers. A man offered her a drink. She smiled politely, no thanks. Max turned toward her and she recognized him. She quickly closed the distance and they held each other in their arms hard, just as they’d done after the rivière Saqawigan tragedy a few years earlier. Max, comforter-of-all-trades. Josée hadn’t slept since she’d heard the news, doubly so because the trip over to Romania had been difficult.
“I thought they’d gotten back on their feet, the Romanians,” she said to Max. “This country is a disaster!” A crushing bureaucracy, lines in front of cash machines, the faces of the border guards drawn and heavy. “They took hours just to look through my papers!”
By the time she’d reached the hotel, she’d been so tired she collapsed on her bed. She was just waking up now.
Josée smiled. “You’re not going to introduce me to your friend?” She pointed at Tatiana.
But the young Russian woman had turned her back on Max already and was now speaking to two Italians who’d approached her. Max led Josée to a table.
“I spoke to a few journalists,” she began. “The authorities have no concrete proof. No witnesses. I’m sure we’ll be able to get Kevin out of his bind.”
“If we can find him.… Do you want to eat something?”
“I’m not hungry. All I can think about is Kevin.”
“He’s innocent.”
“The fact he’s vanished is rather incriminating.”
Josée informed Max that a liaison for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Marilyn Burgess, would be present the next day for their meeting with Adrian Pavlenco. Max had been expecting it. Canadian authorities would surely want to follow the investigation closely, given the nationality of the suspect.
“Did you get in touch with a lawyer here in Bucharest?”
Josée shook her head. “I’m waiting to know what he’s actually accused of. After that we’ll see. I’ve got a few names.” She smiled. “Strange to meet again in such circumstances. Are you still living in New York?”
“Yes.”
“Still a banker?”
“Still a banker.”
Josée looked him over carefully for a long moment. Behind her Max saw Tatiana leaving with the two Italians.
“We’ve got to get Kevin out of this mess,” Josée finally said. “I’m convinced he’s innocent.”
Max nodded. It was imperative they help him, and quickly. But probably not using the methods the young lawyer was thinking of.
5
Auschwitz-Birkenau, September 19, 1943
Three men, all dressed in white, were standing in front of a sort of workbench, their backs turned to him, working in silence. They weren’t paying any attention at all to Emil Rosca, who was lying on the operating table. Among the men, Dr. Hans Leibrecht. Emil hadn’t taken his hands off his precious ears since he’d been brought into the room, especially after a nurse had come to measure them that very morning. Sure, they weren’t the prettiest ears around: they were a bit thick, slightly folded at the points, and stuck out from his head a little. But they were his ears, and the Nazi doctors were preparing to take them away from him for no reason at all.
His whole life Emil hadn’t thought of his ears twice, like the rest of his body, really. It was his and he lived in it, and that was all. And yet today here he was envying the men and women sent directly to the gas chamber. At least their deaths were painless. Would he still be able to hear? The guards’ orders? The music from his accordion? Last night Samuel seemed to have been able to hear his voice. Or perhaps Emil’s movements had jolted him awake. In the dark, Emil hadn’t dared to ask how the boy was feeling without his ears. By the time light returned to their dormitory, Samuel was dead. Two orderlies took his body away, leaving a brown stain on the boy’s pillow in the shape of a butterfly.
Absorbed by their work, the men spoke among themselves in a German Emil could barely understand, despite his fair knowledge of the language. In 1940, when the Wehrmacht had come into Ploesti to secure its oil wells, the Roma had begun trading with the soldiers. Out of necessity, Emil had learned basic German, which he spoke as well — or as poorly, really — as he did Romanian. But he couldn’t read or write either language. Nor his own language, Romani, the tongue of the Roma. And yet he enjoyed its musicality, its intonations. Every day in the camps he felt nostalgic for the paramíchi, the stories that had enthralled him as a child. And soon, maybe, he would never be able to hear anyone speaking his own language again. Or any other. A pang of anguish overtook him. He thought of his parents, who ’d vanished. The SS had chosen not to split up Romani families in the camps, but his own family, for a reason Emil didn’t know, was scattered to the four winds. The young Rom had discreetly asked around. He was the only Rosca in Auschwitz.
“As long as we don’t have a solution for transporting specimens,” Emil overheard Dr. Leibrecht say, “we’ll face the same problems time and time again.”
“The institute is supposed to take care of it.”
“Dr. Josef refuses to ask anything of them.”
“We’ve got the same issue with eyes.”
Dr. Leibrecht turned around, adjusting his glasses on his face, then leaned over Emil without ever looking at him. Emil felt like an object, a piece of furniture, about to be repaired. Or broken. Leibrecht pulled a lever under the table, sending it upward suddenly. The movement surprised Emil, and he dropped his hands from his ears. The two others, orderlies of some kind, quickly grabbed his arms. Emil was far too scared to cry out. Within a few moments, he was tied to the table, his back uncomfortably pinned against the flat, hard surface. Leibrecht muttered something to one of the orderlies, who quickly went off to grab a metal tray on which were placed surgical instruments — all Emil could make out was the glint of the scalpel’s blade.
The doctor put the tray on a small panel he’d pulled out of the table like a drawer. He examined his instruments, as if unsure which one he should use. Panicked, Emil struggled pathetically as one of the orderlies held his head firmly.
“Is the phenol ready?” Leibrecht asked.
A syringe appeared in the hand of the other assistant.
“Draw the sample as soon as the specimen’s