When there were only two inches left Miksa felt the cross drop suddenly, colliding with the iron skirting around the base of the peg with a metallic clang. A shower of reddish grit skidded down the spire, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a piece of the peg, perhaps half an inch wide, break loose and fall to the ground. The sight concerned him, but there was little he could do about it, as he didn’t have the strength left to raise the cross and inspect the damage. Miksa untied the rope from the cross, returned the iron ring to his pocket and prepared for his descent. The last time, when there had been only him and the old priest, he had looped the rope around the cross and, after the priest tied one end to a tree, had rappelled down the steeple. This time, however, there were too many spectators that he simply didn’t trust. There was no way he was going to risk having some gadjo cut the rope as he came down.
Miksa dropped the rope and began to climb down. The triangular section was easy enough, like walking down a ladder, but the square part of the steeple was far more difficult. Each step had to be aimed correctly or else he would be stepping into thin air with little means of correcting himself. At this point, Miksa could almost feel the ground beneath his feet, and even though it took less time to climb down the steeple than it had to climb up, it felt like forever to him. Instead of traversing the roof of the church and swinging back through the second-storey window as he had done before, Miksa sat and slid down the steeply pitched roof. When he neared the edge he used his feet as brakes, slowing enough to allow him to sit up and halt his momentum.
Beside the church stood a tree, and Miksa leapt into its branches. He was on the ground in a matter of seconds, immediately beginning to look for the priest, not wanting to hang around any longer than necessary.
Miksa could see the disdain in the eyes of the onlookers. He imagined that they must be upset because none of them had been able to restore the cross. They’d come today to see him fail at it too, and now they were disappointed because he had not failed. Their situation was no doubt confused by the fact that some part of them knew they should be happy that the cross was back where it should be, and they were not, which also made them angry, more with themselves than him. But Miksa knew that people seldom take out anger on themselves. He began to wonder if he had been wise to do this job.
The priest, seeing Miksa approaching, stepped forward with his hands outstretched. Unlike the rest of the onlookers, he felt no animosity. In his eyes all he saw was the man who had restored the cross to the top of his church. If he knew what others were seeing in Miksa, he gave no indication.
Miksa forced a smile and grasped the priest’s hands. They were smooth and soft, while Miksa’s were rough with calluses and scarred by this and other days’ work. Even Salvo, only nine years old, had more world-weary hands than the new priest, who had come from a seminary in Budapest just before the Romanians had marched into Transylvania and claimed the territory as their own.
The new priest had worried that the Romanians would take away his church, but they hadn’t so much as spoken to him, and since it was well attended, he assumed that he was safe enough in his position. His only regret had been the lack of a cross on the church, and he had for a long while been distressed as to whether he would ever be able to place a cross on top of the mammoth steeple. He had even considered having the steeple torn down and another, shorter structure erected in its place, one with a cross, but he had been discouraged from this course of action by the people of the town. He had been in a state of utter despair until Miksa Ursari had volunteered.
Now, as the new priest looked at the cross—which he did not believe was a waylaid gift for Saint Stephen for the simple reason that this town was nowhere near the road from Rome to Budapest—his heart swelled. He would not allow himself the luxury of joyous tears in public. He thrust a leather pouch containing coins into Miksa’s hand, wishing he had more with which to reward this Rom.
As soon as the coins were in his possession, Miksa turned and moved towards the tree where Salvo waited, only to find his son momentarily distracted by a butterfly that had landed only inches from his hand. Salvo watched its wings twitch as it settled in and appeared to assess its surroundings. The butterfly seemed intent on spending some time in the tree, unconcerned with Salvo’s presence. A sudden boyish instinct seized Salvo, and slowly he pinched his thumb and index finger around one of the butterfly’s wings. The butterfly, to Salvo’s surprise, did not protest or struggle. It remained calm as Salvo gently plucked it off its branch. He felt moved by the butterfly’s courage and released it just as his father reached him.
Miksa lifted Salvo down from the fork of the dead tree. Without speaking, they started quickly down the road back home. The crowd had not grown any more hostile, but Miksa saw no reason to test their resolve.
Behind them, the new priest was blessing the cross. He stood in front of the church, arms raised to God, as the more-or-less faithful kneeled before him. It was apparent to all how happy the priest was, and his elation was beginning to rub off on some of them.
When Miksa and Salvo were about a quarter-mile from the church they heard a scream. They stopped and turned back in the direction they had come.
There was no way to tell who had looked up. The people kneeling in prayer were supposed to have had their eyes closed, or at least cast downwards, and the new priest had been facing away from the church, towards Salvo and his father. But everybody had heard the scream, so it was obvious that someone had looked up. And at that moment, when the scream pierced the priest’s prayer, nearly everyone opened their eyes to see what had caused it.
The priest was somewhat irked; he was just getting to the end of the blessing, and now he would have to start over. It was a hot day, the heat all the worse for him in his black robes, and he did not want to spend any more time standing in the sweltering afternoon sun than necessary. He scanned the devotees for the source of the disturbance, and in a split second he came to the realization that the crowd’s attention seemed to be shifting skyward, and the air was filled with more cries. He turned to see what the people were looking at, expecting to see some sort of holy miracle on the summit of his ancient wooden church. Of course these people would receive a miracle fearfully; they were a rural, superstitious bunch, and miracles had historically inspired fear in even the most worldly of souls, but he was not afraid. He would accept this miracle with open arms, and he would help these people see it for what it was. Today was indeed a joyous day.
The new priest had not yet completed his turn when the falling cross landed squarely upon him, striking him on the head. It was doubtful that he ever knew what had delivered the blow, so intent was he upon receiving a miracle. The people on their knees certainly saw it, though, as did Salvo and Miksa. From where they were up the road they saw the priest crumple to the ground like an empty sack; they saw the crowd of people leap to their feet and rush to him. They were too far away to hear either the dull thud of the cross’s impact or the sharp crack that followed as the priest’s skull split in two. Likewise they could not see his blood and brains spill out over the ground, where they softly imbued the parched earth.
Miksa seized his son by the arm and pulled him along. He knew that when the initial shock wore off, the gadje of the church would seek retribution. He knew this as sure as he knew the sun would set that evening, as sure as he knew it would rise the next morning. They would have to leave this town, and fast.
Salvo wrenched his arm free and ran beside his father. He was ashamed to be treated like an errant urchin.
“Why do we always run away when there is trouble?” his brother András had once asked.
“We do not run away,” his father had said. “We leave when it is time, and we go to a better place.” It seemed to Salvo that once again they were on their way to a better place, at a much accelerated rate. Still, he knew better than to argue with his father. He ran as fast as he could, his throat closing from thirst and his chest burning.
“The priest,” S
alvo panted, “he is dead?”
His father didn’t look at him. “Yes.”
The road began to slope upwards before it passed a cluster of tinder-dry brush and turned sharply to the right.
The town where the Ursari family lived was a modest place, home to seven hundred people, mostly Hungarians mixed in with some Romanians and some Slovaks. There were very few Roma. Nearly all were either Christian or Muslim, and there were some Jews as well. The only things that almost everyone had in common were a lack of food and a hatred of gypsies.
A main road ran through the town, which comprised a marketplace, some shops and a tavern. There was a stable on the south side of the street, next to a blacksmith’s. From the main road ran several smaller side streets that were closely crowded with houses, some better kept than others. At the very end of the worst of these side streets stood the two-room house where the Ursari family lived.
It was not much of a house. There was one low, narrow wooden door in the front of the building and one tiny window on the side. The walls were made of rough stones covered with a crude plaster that was chipped and cracked and stained. The roof, constructed of sticks thatched together in a haphazard fashion, gave the house the appearance of sporting a shaggy head of hair.
The inside of the house was nearly always dark. They owned a small kerosene lamp, but there had been no fuel now for nearly five years. Salvo slept in the front room with his brother, András, and his father’s tools, and his parents and the baby slept in the back room. They had lived in this house since just before the war had started; this was by far the longest they had ever stayed in one place.
Directly to the right of the house, a ring of blackened stones enclosed a circle of lightly smoking ash, marking the fire that the family meals were cooked over. The residence had no fireplace, and before the drought, when it had rained, Salvo and his brother had held a sheet rubbed with grease over the fire to keep off the rain while their mother cooked.
Azira Ursari was at this fire, preparing a painfully sparse meal, when she saw her husband and youngest son come running up the street. She instantly knew something was wrong from the way they ran; Miksa would never run like that for any reason other than danger.
At twenty-six, Azira had been married to Miksa nearly half her life. She had bore six children, buried three, and if there was one thing she could recognize with absolute clarity, it was imminent disaster. Remaining calm, so calm that a casual observer might not have noticed this shift in her perception, she straightened the scarf that corralled her inky hair and wiped her hands on a threadbare skirt. She picked up the baby that sat naked at her feet and went into the house to gather up the family’s belongings.
As they reached the house, Salvo caught a glimpse of his mother, disappearing into the darkened doorway. He took in large gasps of air, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His father didn’t even seem winded; save for the sweat on his brow there was little that would indicate how far he had just run. Seeing him, Salvo stood up and ignored his screaming lungs.
Miksa scanned the area, shading his eyes with a hand. “Where’s András?” he asked.
Salvo shrugged. He didn’t know any more than his father.
“Go and find your brother. We have to leave this place.” He headed towards the house.
“Where should I look?”
His father turned, anger in his face. “How do I know? Just go and find him, Salvo, and do it quickly.”
Salvo nodded and jogged down the street. On the next street over lived a girl that András was fond of. Maybe he was there, Salvo thought. Of course, he could be almost anywhere. András was a fantastic wanderer, a true Rom. You never knew where he would go, and neither did he. He could be ten miles from here or he could be right behind you. There was no way to tell.
There were, however, places that he most definitely would not be. That was how it was in this town when you were a Rom. Some places you went and many you simply did not. The Roma lived on one of two streets, an unstated rule that was known by all, whether Roma or gadje. Similarly, there were stores and market stalls that Roma went to and those that they did not. No one seemed to know who had instituted these rules, and no one much cared. Most Roma didn’t want to associate with gadje any more than most gadje wanted to associate with Roma. It was very much a mutual feeling.
There were exceptions. Salvo himself had no particular misgivings towards gadje, other than a healthy measure of wariness when dealing with them. His mother’s sister had even married a gadjo, a Hungarian, and they now lived quite happily in Budapest. Salvo had visited them before the war, and he remembered his aunt and uncle as kind people. He also remembered the old priest, who was a good man, but he was a priest and thus subject to different conditions than an ordinary gadjo.
He continued his jog down the road and turned onto the street of the girl who András liked to visit, but when he got there all he saw was an old woman attempting to milk a goat that was little more than skin over bones. Salvo went further down the street, hoping to stumble upon him, until he reached the end of the road, at the foot of mountains, where there was a withered bit of forest few ventured very far into. He backtracked up the street and onto the main road. He ran for a short distance and turned onto a street where no Roma lived, but where there was a man who often bought goods of dubious origin, a man that the Ursari family and András in particular often had dealings with. The man’s shop was closed up, however, and there was no sign of his brother.
There was a place back on the main road where Roma went to drink gritty coffee and smoke acrid cigarettes, and it occurred to Salvo that his brother might very well be there. He was beginning to worry that he had been gone from the house for too long. He wondered how long it had been since he had started his search. Perhaps half an hour? Maybe longer? He had no way to tell. Salvo was still contemplating how much time had elapsed when he stopped dead in his tracks. Coming down the main road like a legion of ants was a mob of gadje, brandishing clubs and sticks and various other weapons. Some, the ones who had been soldiers, even had rifles. They were shouting, swearing, and they were moving fast.
Salvo ducked into the stable beside the blacksmith’s, moving rapidly towards the rear of one of the horse stalls. He didn’t see the smith and didn’t know if the smith had seen him. He edged in beside a sable mare, putting his head up against the horse’s flank, smelling the horse smell and speaking softly to the animal. As the throng grew closer the horse became agitated, shaking its head and snorting and stamping a poorly shod hoof against hard-packed earth. Salvo was afraid that the horse would crush him against the side of the stall, or catch him with one of those steel-clad hooves, and he realized that if he were to be discovered hiding here, it would be assumed that he was attempting to steal the horse. He cursed himself for not having taken the time to find a better hiding spot.
As the mob passed the stables he knew that he had made the right decision. He heard the words gypsy and revenge stand out among the furious drone, and he knew that if he had seen the mob, it was at least possible that someone in the mob had seen him. He was only one pair of eyes and there were many contained within the crowd.
Just when he thought that the raven horse was about to squeeze out what little breath was left in him, and just when he was sure that someone would discover him, the mob had passed. He could hear it moving down the street in the direction he had come.
Salvo waited until he was sure the mob was well away before emerging from the horse stall. He thanked the horse for not crushing him, the sound of his voice soothing the frightened animal. The street outside was quiet and deserted. It was hard to tell if the people who were supposed to be there were hiding from the mob or if they had left to join it. Either way, there was no one on the street but himself. He stayed to the side of it, ready to conceal himself if he encountered anyone he shouldn’t, but he went all the way to the last place he thought his brother might be without seeing a single person.
/> The café was empty but it was not locked up, and there were tin cups of coffee sitting on some of the tables. The coffee was still warm. In the corner, a lit cigarette lay on the floor, its wispy smoke wafting upwards. The people who had been there had clearly left very recently, and they had left in a hurry. It suddenly dawned on Salvo where the mob had been heading. His chest clenched, and he turned and ran as fast as he could in the direction of his house.
Miksa Ursari had gone into the house as soon as Salvo left. Azira was in the back room assembling clothing and other necessities, and Miksa began to collect his tools. He put them into a brightly coloured trunk, its corners battered and caved in by rough travel. Azira came into the front room and looked at him questioningly. As quickly as he could, he explained to her the church and the steeple and the cross falling on the priest. She did not interrupt him even once, and when he was finished she placed one hand lightly on her stomach and pointed at the door with the other.
“Go warn the others,” she said.
“There is no time.”
“Yes. These gadje will go for any Roma who are left.”
Miksa swallowed. She was right. Their anger was about more than a dead priest.
“Go. You must. I will do what must be done here.”
Miksa nodded in agreement. “Salvo has gone to find András. He should be back soon.” He stood and ducked through the narrow doorway into the blinding light.
The first place Miksa ran to was the Romany café. There were about ten men there, and he told them what had happened and advised them to leave this town until things settled down. No one needed to be told twice; this was not the first time such a thing had happened.
Avoiding the main street, Miksa ran to the road where Salvo had first gone. There was no time to go to each house, so he went up and down the road yelling as loud as he could, “The gadje are out for blood. Everyone should go away from here.” There was no way to tell how many people heard him, but some did. They came into the street and saw that it was him, and they went back inside their houses to gather their things.
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