The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

  Latcos lifted out one of the gold necklaces and examined it under the candlelight.

  ‘This is Kalderash work, as are the earrings, and the coins would have been Roma. We use this to weave into the girl’s hair when she marries. Our wealth is carried in such coins.’ Matthias handed him another bag and Latcos pulled out a Russian icon. ‘But this icon, this is not Roma.’ Matthias hauled out a larger bag, filled with a collection of gold eight-branched candlesticks, all decorative, some engraved with Hebrew. Latcos held one up. ‘I’ve seen this before; my cousin married a Jew. They light the candles for eight days.’

  Now sweating despite the chilly air, Matthias wiped his forehead and looked at the small candlestick glinting in the light.

  ‘The statuette has to be here, probably buried at the bottom. Latcos, do you know how much all of this is worth? No wonder they went to such trouble to hide it.’ He bent down, reaching into the dark recesses of the safe.

  ‘One more bag and what feels like a few rolled-up scrolls. I think I’m reaching some of the art objects – she has to be among those.’ He pulled out the last cloth bag, which rattled in his hands, and handed it over to Latcos, then bent down again to pull out the next.

  ‘So many…’ Latcos murmured in a shocked voice. Matthias looked over. Lying on the floor beside the young gypsy was the bag, the contents half spilled out on the floor; it was a large pile of human teeth – each one filled with gold.

  ‘I heard stories from Yojo, terrible stories, but to see the evidence…’ Latcos could hardly speak.

  ‘Exactly. It is evidence and we need it to get justice. We’re nearly there, Latcos.’

  Matthias returned to searching. Pulling out one of the rolled-up scrolls, he handed it to Latcos. His fingers fastened round the shape of a small-framed miniature. As he turned to hand it to Latcos, he saw the gypsy staring at the unrolled scroll, which was in fact a small canvas.

  ‘What’s it of?’

  ‘A man in a funny hat.’ Latcos turned the canvas towards him. Matthias recognised the style immediately. ‘My God, a Magritte.’ Matthias’s gut tightened in anticipation. He tried to keep his expression neutral but failed. ‘It’s not possible…’ he murmured.

  ‘So it is worth something?’

  Matthias picked it up and carefully rolled it back up. ‘Probably a forgery, but we’ll find out later.’

  ‘The Nazis stole from everyone, didn’t they? Rich, poor, Jews, gypsies…’

  ‘A lot of the plundered art was laundered through the art galleries here undetected for years. Far easier to hide than gold. I wonder what private collection that was taken from.’

  ‘The safe is almost empty, but where is the statuette?’

  Matthias didn’t answer. Instead, turning his back, he concentrated on searching the rest of the safe, doubts now rattling through him. What if they didn’t have the statuette all along? Was it possible Ulrich had been deliberately setting me on a false path? He reached blindly into the vault. At the very bottom he found a wrapped bundle about fifteen inches in length. As he lifted it out into the light, the cloth fell open and the head of a figurine was revealed. The dramatic face of a young woman, tongue stretched out lewdly, her eyes elongated in the manner of Hindu gods, her painted gaze staring. Her beautiful face appeared to be made of a dark-coloured metal, the rays of a golden halo set behind it. A strange tingling shot through Matthias’s palm as his fingers closed over the head.

  ‘Latcos,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve found her.’

  She stood balanced perfectly on the wide edge of the marble sarcophagus, six inches from outstretched arms to outstretched arms, both feet sunk into a base made of the same material. The curious dark metal was unknown to Matthias, but her arms and legs were inlaid with gold and there was a circle of beaten gold like a halo stretching up behind her head that looked as if it might have been a later addition – an attempt to Christianise the Hindu goddess? Her four arms were held out as if in triumph or celebration. In her top-right hand she held a curved sword, while the lower right hand held a golden cross and what appeared to be a large iron nail – another late addition, Matthias guessed. The upper left hand pointed to the heavens and the lower left hand pointed down to the earth in a posture of submission.

  ‘She is magnificent.’ Again Matthias found himself whispering. He bent down and spoke to the statuette itself. ‘How much have you witnessed? What secrets do you hold?’

  Latcos reached out and touched the engraved third eye on the statuette’s forehead, then muttered in Romane.

  ‘This is a miracle, my brother. My family’s treasure will be restored.’ He turned to Matthias, who now stood next to him, and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘You felt her power, didn’t you, when you touched her face?’

  ‘I felt something.’

  ‘You felt the Spirit. This is why she was stolen from us. This is what the Nazis wanted.’

  Just then Latcos’s knife, resting on the top edge of the coffin, began to move towards the statuette, as if the figure were magnetic.

  ‘I told you she was powerful,’ Latcos said reverently.

  Matthias nodded. ‘Ulrich knew the statuette had power – he just didn’t know how to access it or how he could use it. But he also must have been aware how the capture of it would lead to promotion and favouritism from Hitler.’

  ‘But then he stole it for himself.’

  ‘Whatever the statuette is made of, it emits some kind of powerful magnetic field. I can’t really explain it but that’s probably why there’s been such a lot of mythology around it. But this is something based on more than just superstition; this is based on science.’

  ‘What about the other valuables?’

  ‘They will be traceable. There are records of stolen artworks.’

  ‘Not of the statuette or any of the Kalderash gold. We do not keep records. It would be our word against theirs and I know who will be believed.’

  ‘The statuette and the Kalderash coins and jewellery you take back to the community. The rest we will use as evidence to prosecute.’

  Latcos turned back to the statuette.

  ‘I have never seen her before, only heard the stories Yojo used to tell about her. How his father, my grandfather, taught him that it was our family’s duty to protect her and if she was to be taken or lost it would lead to great hardship, and then the war came and everyone was scattered.’

  ‘Now she’s almost home.’ Matthias was interrupted by the sound of a truck driving past the church. He checked his watch. ‘It’s one in the morning. We have to get out of here.’

  Half an hour later they had packed all of the objects and the bags into Matthias’s canvas holdall and relocked the safe and closed the lid of the coffin. The area looked intact and as serene as it had when they first discovered the tomb. After wiping down any evidence of footprints around the sarcophagus, Matthias stepped back and surveyed the scene.

  ‘That’ll buy us a few days, but that’s all we are going to need,’ he told Latcos, smiling.

  Fifteen minutes later, as Matthias drove through the empty streets, Latcos leaned back and closed his eyes and murmured something.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Matthias asked.

  ‘Talking to my uncle and my grandfather, telling them that finally I have our Madonna,’ he explained.

  Matthias grinned. ‘Please send them my regards.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t need to do that; you have their blessings already.’

  Matthias turned into Rämistrasse. A taxi was driving home revellers, the occasional rubbish-collection van, a student on a bicycle cycling furiously against the wind, his face wrapped up in a scarf. Matthias accelerated past the university buildings; every instinct in him wanted to turn towards the laboratory, and yet he knew he should drive Latcos and the statuette back to the camp.

  ‘I have a last favour to ask of you,’ he finally said.

  The young gypsy, startled by Matthias’s grave tone, glanced over. ‘For you, anything, my brother. It is you
we should be thankful to.’

  ‘Latcos, I want to borrow the statuette just for a few more hours, to conduct some tests on the metal at my laboratory. I promise I will return her safely.’

  Latcos studied the profile that was similar in some ways to his own but in other ways so different. What choice did he have but to trust him?

  ‘On your life?’

  ‘On my life.’

  ‘One day she will be yours, but one day only,’ he answered slowly.

  ‘Thank you for your trust. I am honoured.’

  They arrived at the street the laboratory was on and Matthias turned into it. ‘Latcos, who do you think the statuette is of?’

  ‘My mother always told me it was of the Madonna, our lady of light.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The statue has four arms, not two. Did Keja ever talk about it possibly being another goddess? A far older one?’

  ‘No, she just described it as being the great “lady”. The queen of the soul. I always assumed she meant the Madonna.’

  ‘I believe the statue might be far, far older than you can imagine and of another goddess – an Indian one. Your family would have kept her from the time they first started travelling.’

  ‘You mean she has always been with us?’

  ‘From the very beginning.’

  ‘From the puro cheeros, the old time, from the Baro Tem – the land of five rivers?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘No wonder she was stolen from us, and no wonder my uncle was determined to find her and bring her back. But now she is home. She will be safe with you in your laboratory?’

  ‘I promise I will bring her to you when I’ve finished.’

  ‘Whatever you do to her, you must not desecrate her. This is a holy object, far more powerful than any other statuette.’

  ‘I think you might be right,’ Matthias said carefully.

  ‘Great power demands great respect. Yojo always told me the Madonna was capable of great love and great destruction.’ He suddenly smiled at Matthias. ‘Like all women,’ he joked. ‘Be careful, my brother.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Matthias, his hands covered by thin rubber gloves, carefully placed the statuette on the laboratory bench. The whole building was eerily empty, devoid of both the laboratory assistants and general staff. The caretaker would not be back in the building until eight a.m., which gave him just enough time, but he’d still brought the statuette in through a fire exit, determined to avoid the security cameras and any possible awkward questions later.

  Sheer excitement and adrenalin had infused his body with a tension that made him feel wide-awake despite the fact he hadn’t slept for over twenty hours. He looked over at the statuette, the sheer power of her presence belying her scale. She seemed to stare back at him, a mocking half-smile playing across her full lips, her four arms sculpted with such fluidity they gave the illusion that she was beckoning him seductively into a fatal embrace. But it was the surface of the iron ore she was made from that intrigued him the most and as he stared at the curious dark-grey surface speckled with tiny diamond-like flecks that caught the light, a ripple seemed to pass through the statue in a wave. For a moment Matthias thought he was imagining things.

  He peeled off a glove and touched one of the outstretched hands cautiously. He felt the slight tingling again, like a small electric shock.

  ‘Sky metal,’ he told himself, remembering how Latcos had described the ore, ‘metal that fell from the sky, holy iron.’ But what exactly was it? It didn’t look like any of the known alloys or base metals he’d worked with before. As he bent down he noticed for the first time tiny letters inscribed along the inside of one of her arms. He lifted a magnifying glass and peered through it. To his untutored eye it looked like Sanskrit. It was as if the goddess herself were trying to speak to him. He was gripped with a strong anticipation, as if he were about to experience a great historical moment. He needed a witness, someone he could trust who could be an objective bystander, someone who would be able to hear the goddess’s words.

  ‘Definitely Sanskrit,’ Helen whispered, awestruck, her face inches from the head of the statuette, ‘but I think what is just as significant is that it’s inscribed on her sword arm, the death blow.’ She stood up. ‘It’s a warning, Matthias – you shouldn’t dismantle or destroy her.’

  ‘I don’t intend to, just explore what she’s actually made of. The metal alloy is extraordinary – if it is indeed metal. I’ve never seen anything like it before, not in my entire career. I’m going to see how other materials react to the metal. I’ve noticed when I touch it, it seems to emit an electrical current. I have a hunch about the original material – for a start it has some interesting magnetic qualities – but there’s a lot to achieve in five hours.’

  ‘Okay, be it on your head if you unleash anything, but before you begin you need to know about the history. She can be read like a map of the migration of the Roma people. The statuette itself is a traditional depiction of Kali standing over Shiva, her husband. The later additions look as if they were made to accommodate shifting religious alliances adopted during the Roma’s long odyssey – and we’re talking centuries here. The original feature is the traditional sword Kali always holds in her top-right hand, but she’s missing the spear she traditionally holds in her lower right hand. That’s been replaced by a late Christian addition of the cross and nail. On the left side there would have been a severed head held high in her top-left hand and a dish collecting the dripping blood held beneath in her lower left hand, representational of the great battle in which she slew the demon Raktabija. She is also missing her garland of skulls and skirt of dismembered arms.’

  ‘But she is the goddess of destruction?’

  ‘So the Judeo-Christian perspective would have us believe, but the depiction is metaphoric, not literal. Her appearance should only be terrifying to those who have not evolved spiritually through true Hindu practice, who are still bound to a terror of mortality. The idea being that an evolved individual who practises a freeing of the ego would not find Kali terrifying. Remember, the goddess is not just associated with battlefields and burial grounds, she is also Mother Kali, who represents the time before creation and the time after the end of creation.’

  ‘But you’re suggesting that the Roma have altered her to be more acceptable to their current Christianity?’

  ‘Not just Christian.’

  Helen pointed to the gold inlay on the ankles and wrists of the statuette.

  ‘These look Persian or Arabic and the halo is a far later addition – maybe eighteenth or nineteenth century, no doubt added to fit into the Kalderash’s current association with the Ukrainian Orthodox church. But what’s most fascinating is the addition of the cross and the nail.

  ‘One of the pervading beliefs some of the Roma themselves subscribe to is the idea that they originated in Palestine and that during the time of the crucifixion Roman soldiers approached various blacksmiths asking them to make the nails to fasten Jesus to the cross. One by one they refused, until the Romans approached a gypsy blacksmith who agreed to make seven long nails and they were used in the crucifixion. In revenge God was meant to have cursed the gypsies to wander the Earth for ever.’ She looked up to catch Matthias looking at her, amazed.

  ‘It’s total nonsense of course. But the Sanskrit… that’s been written on her since she was made; that’s the ancient message in the bottle. We’d be fools not to heed it.’

  ‘How long would it take you to translate it?’

  ‘A day, perhaps, if I’m lucky.’

  ‘Helen, there isn’t the time. We will just have to risk the wrath of the gods. ’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘No. It needs to be returned to the family as soon as possible.’

  Matthias studied the statuette, swept back to the images from his early childhood he’d only recently recalled, images he’d assumed had simply been nightmare
s, born from his imagination. The sound of a young woman crying and pleading, being pressed into the broad arms of a woman whose blonde hair fell in a plait down one side. Waking in the swaying carriage of a train, an acrid smell of burning. Keja had been forced to give up her own son; if she understood the statue as being the image of a mother carrying the cross her son was crucified on, and the nails that were driven through his feet and hands, it would have particular poignancy for her.

  ‘Think about Keja, my real mother, and what it must have cost her to give me up, then to announce my existence to the community so many years later – at the risk of expulsion and condemnation. The return of this’ – he indicated the statuette – ‘will be healing. I swore I would hand her back unharmed. Forgive me?’