‘That café, over there,’ Rajko told Vedel in Romanes. ‘That is where he was.’
‘Why didn’t you take him then?’ Matthias asked. Vedel stared at him. ‘We are nothing in this country – you think they would believe the word of an old gypsy? Others have been seen who were commandants in the camps, now in government positions. The Germans look after their own.’
‘Fear not, now we will look after ours,’ Latcos reassured the others.
Matthias nodded. ‘I’ll go find out when he’s expected. Go back to the car and wait for me. If I’m more than ten minutes, drive around, and try and stay inconspicuous.’
Vedel grabbed Matthias’s arm. ‘Then we get him?’
‘I promise,’ he answered, but the Sinti’s grip tightened. Latcos leaned forward.
‘You can trust the pas Rom.’ The two Rom stared at each other. Finally Vedel let Matthias’s arm go.
A folk song by the Soviet band Pesneri was playing on an ancient juke box in the corner. The café was practically empty except for a couple of older women having coffee in the far corner, their heads bent in a conspiracy of gossip, and a factory worker at the bar – a shift worker, Matthias guessed – still in his stained overalls and cap, smoking with a mid-morning beer in front of him. There was a framed photograph over the bar of Erich Honecker opening what looked like one of the nearby factories, and the obligatory state-approved photograph of Brezhnev next to him. The café owner, an obese man whose stomach seemed to have a personality of its own, stood behind the bar wiping glasses. A bell above the door rang as Matthias entered.
‘Guten Morgen,’ Matthias yelled out cheerfully, playing a naive farmer clumsy in his enthusiasm.
Both the owner and the factory worker looked up at him, while the two women ignored him.
‘Cold morning,’ the owner replied stoically, picking up another dirty glass and trying to wipe it clean with an even dirtier tea towel.
‘Cold enough to freeze the balls off a monk,’ the worker added grimly.
‘Oh, I don’t mind – a cold winter means a wet spring and a wet spring means a good harvest,’ Matthias replied, reciting something he’d learned as a child from one of Christoph’s servants who came from the country.
‘What can I get you, comrade?’ the café owner asked, a little warmer than before.
‘A black coffee and schnapps for my balls,’ Matthias joked, the quip producing a guffaw from the worker and a smile from the owner.
A minute later the glass of schnapps was slammed down in front of him. He held it up.
‘Your good health.’ It was raw, locally brewed and scalding, and brought tears to his eyes. The café owner grinned.
‘Hot enough for you?’
Matthias nodded. ‘Would you like one – on me?’
‘Why not?’ He poured himself a drink then knocked it back.
Matthias leaned forward. ‘Tell me, does a Pieter Schmidt drink here?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Schmidt is a very common name.’
Praying Ulrich had adopted the complete identity of the long-dead watchmaker, Matthias added, ‘Pieter Schmidt, the watchmaker?’
The owner seemed to relax – surmising Matthias must know the man as he knew his profession. ‘Every day at eleven, the same thing – cherry strudel with coffee and crème, which is fine with me. A man who understands routine is more trustworthy than a man with imagination. These days the only thing imagination gets you is arrested. So I keep the cherry strudel on the menu and he keeps eating it. You a relative?’
Matthias stiffened. ‘Why?’
‘You look a little like him.’
‘No, no relative. And I haven’t been here, understand?’ Matthias slipped a fifty-mark note across the glass top of the bar and the owner’s eyes lit up.
‘For the schnapps – keep the change,’ Matthias told him before getting up and leaving.
Outside Latcos and the others stood at the far side of the square. Matthias now had the sense that the reality of his heritage was racing towards him like some unavoidable collision. He had no idea how he would react upon meeting Ulrich Vosshoffner; there was anger but there were also other, more complex emotions at play – curiosity, fear and, more insidiously, there was a dread that he might in some uncontrollable and inherent manner resemble his father in his psychology. I can’t afford even to contemplate such a possibility; I have never met the man – he has had no influence over my upbringing, none whatsoever. He tried convincing himself, but the dread was still there under his growing anxiety. Was Helen really right? Her words floated down with the newly falling snow – Our actions, opinions, even the way we love, shape us as much as our genetics – and he tried to cling onto them as he reached the others clustered round the battered yellow Lada like some outlandish tribe. At least half of him belonged to these people, Matthias reminded himself, and in the next few hours that might be his only salvation.
He checked his watch. ‘We have about fifteen minutes. We will leave Andro here to watch the café – from when Vosshoffner arrives to when he leaves.’ Matthias turned to the young boy, the least conspicuous of his companions, and spoke in German. ‘Andro, you see that telephone over there?’ Matthias pointed to a telephone kiosk outside the post office. ‘I have the number and I will ring you at eleven-fifteen to find out whether Vosshoffner is in the café. Okay?’ Andro nodded solemnly, his eyes bright with excitement. Matthias turned to Vedel. ‘We’ll drive the back road to Vosshoffner’s house; the Lada will be less conspicuous then. Will Rajko be able to show us the way?’
Before Vedel had a chance to translate from the German, Rajko had answered in Romanes.
‘He says he knows the way like the back of his hand. He has dreamed of this day every night for a year.’
Rajko nodded in vigorous agreement, his hand shifting to his belt. Deftly he pulled aside his jacket, revealing the embossed leather sheath in which a small dagger nestled.
Matthias turned to Latcos. ‘He is to stay outside when we confront Ulrich, understand?’ he murmured in French, knowing only Latcos would understand.
‘Oui, we need to keep Vosshoffner alive, at least for a while,’ Latcos said softly.
A Stasi policeman appeared at the corner of the street. Sighting the group, he walked decisively towards them.
‘We need to go,’ Vedel said, and turned to leave with Rajko and Latcos.
Matthias grabbed Latcos’s arm. ‘If you run now it will just attract attention. Just play along, okay?’
As the policeman drew within earshot, Matthias began shoving Latcos around. ‘You lazy vermin!’ he shouted. ‘Back to work!’
The policeman, a youth in his early twenties, reached them.
‘Is everything all right here?’
‘Yes, officer, I was just rounding up these good-for-nothings to take back to my farm.’
The policeman looked sceptically at the three Romanes, particularly at Rajko, then swung back to Matthias.
‘Identification papers, please?’
Matthias shrugged; trying to hide his nervousness he reached deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out the fake identification papers Latcos had purchased for him. The policeman began reading them. Eventually he looked up.
‘So, Stefan Klimmer,’ he began, using the fake name Matthias had been given, ‘can you explain why your workers are here in town and not working in your fields at this time of year? You do realise it is a criminal offence not to be working for the motherland?’
‘Officer, you know how these people are, lazy and criminal. They will wander off given half a chance,’ Matthias said, using the broadest rural German accent he could muster. The officer studied him carefully.
‘Indeed. But I suggest you take them back before the workers come out for lunch; there are some round here who have strong feelings about such… people.’
Matthias swung back round to the four Roma and cuffed Latcos across the side of the head. For a moment it looked as if Latcos was about to punch him.
/> ‘Get a move on!’ Matthias yelled at the four, then began walking out of the square down a small side street, followed by the gypsies, surly and slow-footed.
As soon as they were out of sight of the policeman, Latcos cuffed Matthias back while the others burst into laughter.
‘Filthy gadjo! You’re lucky I didn’t pull a knife on you!’ Latcos swore, grinning.
Matthias rubbed his burning ear. ‘Sorry, but it worked.’
Vedel glanced back at the square. ‘For now, but we should leave by nightfall with or without our “friend”. The Stasi will report our presence at the station; we won’t have long.’
Rajko spoke up, directing his concern to Vedel.
‘He’s worried about Andro – he looks too much like a Rom.’
Matthias took off his scarf and hat with earflaps, then handed them to the youth.
‘Here, put these on.’
Matthias pulled the earflaps down and the scarf up over the lower half of the youth’s face. All that was visible were Andro’s dark eyes.
‘That will have to do.’ Matthias slapped the youth on the back. ‘You okay?’
‘Don’t worry, you can trust Andro,’ the youth replied, his face grim and serious. His grandfather kissed him on both his cheeks, then, lifting up one of his jacket’s sleeves, revealing two watches strapped loosely on his skinny wrist, took one off and handed it to the boy. He pointed to the watch face.
‘My grandfather is making sure I get the timing exactly right,’ Andro explained to the others before strapping the watch on. ‘Truly, Herr Matthias, you can rely on me.’
Matthias checked his own watch. ‘We should go. We only have ten minutes.’
Rajko sat in the front seat of the car, his frame folded into the red vinyl seat, a thick Russian cigarette in one wrinkled hand as he shouted instructions to Vedel, who was busy trying to control the old Lada as it bounced over the pot-holed, cobbled street towards the edge of the hamlet. Matthias and Latcos were in the back; from what the old man had told them, the house was isolated and should not be too difficult to break into, yet as Matthias stared out at the barren fields – a patchwork of snow broken only by the black stalks of last year’s wheat, with a few miserable-looking horses trying to graze – a knot of tension began to build in the pit of his stomach. It was hard to believe that he was actually about to confront his real father – it felt like he was going to encounter a figure from a nightmare that he’d never imagined really existed until then. Again, the enormity of all that had happened over the past weeks hit him. He put his hand against the freezing glass window, as if to remind himself that it was real, and not some parallel reality.
‘Put misfortune in stones and they break,’ Latcos told him softly, then touched his arm, as if he had intuited Matthias’s misgivings. ‘Put misfortune in men, they endure.’
Matthias looked at the passing landscape. There was a narrow path – a poor excuse for a pavement – running alongside the road. Fringed with iced-over bushes it was little more than a muddy track and yet they had passed three people trudging along it, bundled up in headscarves, long woollen coats and gloves. There had been a man, an older man, tall – it could have been Ulrich Vosshoffner or it could have been a stranger, Matthias could no longer tell.
‘What if we pass his car? What if he sees us?’
‘So he sees a beaten-up Lada with four gypsies in it – he wouldn’t look twice.’
‘What if today he changes his mind about going to town?’
‘Matthias, he won’t change his mind. He is your father. A man like that lives by the clock, it makes him feel in control.’ Latcos leaned towards him so that the others couldn’t hear. ‘Stay strong, my brother, we are almost there.’
Rajko interrupted them, yelling excitedly. They’d missed a turn-off he’d evidently wanted Vedel to take. Vedel slammed on the brakes and Matthias and Latcos were thrown forward as the car slewed to a halt then accelerated backwards, before making a sharp right down a narrow lane flanked by chestnut trees. Vedel pulled over and turned back to Matthias and Latcos.
‘We park nearby and hide the car. Rajko tells me the house is at the end of the drive.’
They parked the Lada off the road behind a small outcrop of trees further down from Schmidt’s house, leaving the furious Rajko in the car after making him reluctantly promise not to leave under any circumstances. The other three started towards the house – clearly visible beyond a field – careful to go along the muddied fence to avoid leaving their footprints in the snow.
Behind the house a small concreted-over patio led off a glassed-in sun porch that looked as if it had been a recent renovation. An upturned wheelbarrow sat in the middle of the patio, while a rusting plough leaned up against the wall. The house, once the gatehouse of a far grander property, was run-down, almost derelict. Latcos and Vedel, crouching down, scouted round the sides of the building, checking for occupants, while Matthias pressed his face against the window of the porch, trying to peer in.
Inside he saw an old plastic chair and a small Formica table, a newspaper and an ashtray still sitting on top. It was almost like looking into an old theatre set suspended in time – the chair worn and expectant. It felt as if someone had just left the room. The others returned five minutes later.
‘No one home,’ Vedel told Matthias.
‘Seems the old fascist lives alone,’ Latcos said as they made their way over to the back door. ‘And not much security, trusting idiot.’
‘I suspect he felt safe living out here – the nearest house must be over a quarter of a mile away,’ Matthias said, glancing in through the window nearest the back door. ‘Look, the key is in the lock.’
Producing a long piece of shaped wire from his breast pocket, Vedel said, ‘Here, let me have the honour – I’m good at this.’ He pulled out a small square of flat, hard plastic then slipped it under the door beneath the lock. In three minutes he had the key in his hand, having pushed it out of the lock to fall onto the plastic which he’d pulled back under the door.
‘Good at it? I’d say professional,’ Latcos said.
‘A man’s got to eat.’ Vedel shrugged and held the key up. ‘Latcos – it was your family…’
Latcos went to take the key but Matthias stayed his hand. ‘It was my family too.’ He took it from Vedel’s hand and put it into the lock then turned it, and began pushing against the door.
‘It’s heavier than —’ he was saying when Latcos pulled him back.
‘Look out!’ A metal weight crashed down just inside. Matthias pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped gingerly in, the others following. An eight-pound kettle ball lay on the floor. Propped up over the door, just waiting for someone to open it, it would have killed Matthias if he’d been under it.
They stepped further into the conservatory. There was a set of homemade wooden shelves against one wall with a radio and several old magazines stacked on top. Vedel went over and switched it on – Radio Luxembourg, a banned station in the DDR, immediately sounded out in the small space.
‘So he’s still interested in the West,’ Matthias noted.
Vedel switched the radio off then held up one of the magazines: it was a Playboy dating from 1970. ‘Not just the West, it seems. He’s pretty confident he won’t be raided – it’s a month in the slammer just for listening. Probably has an arrangement with the local Stasi – a lot of the SS became party officials at the end of the war, so he would have contacts.’
They ventured into the next room: a small kitchen with a basic gas stove in the corner, a sack of old potatoes beside it and a string of onions and garlic hanging over the stove. There was an old fridge with a single jar of sour pickles inside. Again, the room was almost devoid of furniture except for one utilitarian fold-out table that had a bowl with a couple of withered apples sitting in it. There were no pictures or anything of a personal nature on the shelves or walls.
‘What should we be looking for?’ Latcos asked.
‘Files, of
ficial-looking documents, bank statements, that kind of thing…’
The kitchen led onto a larger room that seemed to be a study. A sofa sat opposite an open hearth – the charred remains of a fire still in the fireplace. There was a rocking chair to one side of it and in a corner a black-and-white television, standard Soviet issue with its outdated, almost sci-fi design, the antenna piercing the space above it like an alien spacecraft.
The Stolen Page 26