by G S Eli
“I have no evidence, only this,” said Jolly. “I saw Simon and Mila earlier today, next to the painting, looking at two Americans. When I asked Simon what they were doing, he told me Simon and Mila planned to rob the Americans later that day.”
The statement drew grumbles and whispers from around the room.
“This is nonsense,” yelled Uncle Lolo. “Mila, is there any truth to this? What is Jolly talking about?”
Mila paused, racking his brain. Romani rules and traditions were complicated, and at age seventeen, he was no expert. But one thing he knew very well: above all, he must show respect. “If you will permit me to speak freely, Uncle Merikano?” Mila asked, following the custom that all baro were to be addressed as “uncle” even if they were unrelated.
The baro extended an arm, the hand toward Mila with its palm up, in a gesture which meant, “You are not worthy of even a word of permission from me. But go ahead if you must.”
Mila took a deep breath, knowing that his whole life might very well depend on what he said next.
“Uncle Lolo, Uncle Merikano, everyone: Jolly is a good and honest person, but he is mistaken. Simon wanted me to work for him. That is why Jolly saw us talking and that is why Simon lied about me, because it’s what he wanted to be true, but I never stole with him, nor would I.” He looked into Merikano’s eyes. “Dao solakh kow dell,” he said, the words meaning that he was giving a solemn oath before God. “I will never become a thief like Simon!”
The whole room seemed impressed. Nasta nodded with approval from the kitchen. Then, as everyone considered Mila’s words a Bzzzt! Bzzzt! sound disturbed the quiet. Mila looked down at his jacket pocket as everyone else stared on. He reached inside and pulled out the iPhone. As he did, a wad of cash fell out, scattering on the floor. He saw a new text on the screen from “Uncle John” reading “Please stop trying to ditch Deborah. She is there for your protection. and her services do not come cheap.”
For a moment, everyone was silent. Then they began to whisper and murmur, until at last Merikano cried out, “He lies! That’s one of those new American phones!”
The crowd gasped.
“Where did you get all that money?” asked Uncle Lolo.
Mila’s cheeks grew hot, and his stomach churned. He rushed to explain. “Well … l … she was taking a picture of the painting. Um… you see, we got trapped in a tunnel. Simon and his gang were coming. We had to run!” Mila said nervously trying to explain the whole evening in one breath. He realized that everything he said made him sound more guilty.
“Wait, Mila. Who had to run? What tunnel?” asked Uncle Lolo.
Feeling scared and overwhelmed, Mila scanned the room. He could see the disappointment in the eyes of Aunt Nasta, Stephan, and the rest of his family.
“I realize this looks bad, but I’m innocent. I swear!” Mila pleaded.
Uncle Lolo replied, “Yes, Mila, this looks really bad. I think Jolly is the only one telling the truth here.”
“He gave a false oath before God!” Merikano yelled.
Mila again looked over at Aunt Nasta for guidance. She gave him a nod as if to say, “Be strong.”
Father Leichman noticed the exchange. “Mila, calm down for a moment, and tell us what happened,” Father Leichman said. “Start with the painting.”
“I think we’ve heard enough,” Merikano said. “We’ve brought enough trouble to the camp. We should decide whether we are going to send Mila back to Romania with Simon and his gang.” Merikano’s statement brought an immediate uproar from the entire room. Half the kris was advocating for Mila, and the other half for the safety of the camp, but all Mila could hear was the pounding of his heart.
Suddenly, Father Leichman took the tip of his cane and banged it on the table in front of him as if it were a gavel. “Silence. SILENCE!” he exclaimed. The room went quiet.
“Before I give my counsel, I would like to remind you that decisions made in fear are seldom good ones,” Father Leichman proclaimed, turning toward Merikano. “Brother Merikano, I realize that you are fearful for the camp’s safety, and I must admit, we are wearing out our welcome with the authorities. Not to mention the greedy owners of the rubber factory who desperately want possession of these buildings. I truly believe that the inspector will only grant me this last favor. Any more malicious activity from this camp will surely get the community evicted.”
He then turned to face Mila. “Mila, I realize that your lack of having parents has steered you in the wrong direction. I’m hearing that you have been disobedient to Uncle Lolo, spending all your time dilly-dallying with a toy motorbike instead of helping out at the camp. And now you’re accused of bringing havoc to the entire community.” Leichman paused, as if to let the words sink in. “However, I also know that you are a pious boy and would never take the Lord’s name in vain by swearing a false oath. Mila, my son, please explain.”
Mila took another deep breath. “The American girl took pictures of the painting so she could make a copy of it. I didn’t want her to do that, so I took the phone,” Mila explained. “But it wasn’t for Simon or anything, I even protected her and her friend from Simon.”
The kris looked skeptical.
“Please go on,” said Father Leichman. “How is it that you protected them?”
Mila took a deep breath and began explaining what had transpired earlier that day. As he recounted the unusual turn of events, he found it difficult to believe his own words. Still, he continued, despite knowing that it would be impossible for anyone to believe this ridiculous story. Still, Father Leichman seemed to be listening with great interest, even asking questions that would allude to Mila’s innocence, which gave Mila some comfort and confidence.
“May we see these pictures?” asked Father Leichman
“Umm, I deleted them …” Mila explained.
Merikano got ready to shout something, but Father Leichman, without even looking, held up a finger for him to be patient.
“Mila, when you saw her taking these pictures, what did you feel?” the priest asked.
Everyone in the room seemed confused by this question. They looked at each other, whispering about what it could mean. All except for Nasta, she locked eyes with Mila, shaking her head frantically. Mila could not understand why.
“I felt … the presence of evil,” he explained. “And later when I looked at the pictures, it was even worse. There was one of the scepter in the queen’s hand. It almost hurt to look at it.”
Aunt Nasta covered her mouth with her hands as if Mila had made a grave mistake. Everyone else just seemed confused.
Again, the room was silent. Awaiting his sentence, Mila felt his body trembling in fear.
“I believe him,” the holy man replied. “It is obvious that he has been infected with old superstitions. Someone has been teaching this poor boy divinations. The Bible warns not to practice divination or seek omens. Many in this community have embraced this wisdom, but it seems a few still cling to ancient madness. As we see, this devilry has tricked Mila into committing a sin.”
People cast furtive glances around the room. Aunt Nasta scowled at the priest. Merikano moved to take a vote, but again was interrupted by Father Leichman. At this point, Mila figured it could go either way.
“I suggest Mila perform a penance,” Father Leichman said. “If Mila promises that he can return the phone to the rightful owners, donate the money, sell his bike to help pay for the repairs to the camp, and come to church every Sunday to help me with the sermons, then perhaps we can put this mess behind us. Mila, would you agree to these terms?”
Mila thought about his precious bike and all the time he spent rebuilding it, but the prospect of being deported to Romania was too frightening to bear. Reluctantly, he agreed.
Merikano immediately chimed in. “Great. Let’s all vote on whether Mila should be punished or deported. Those in favor for depor
ting Mila to Romania say aye.” A few scattered voices said “aye.” Merikano continued. “All those in favor of Mila being punished and staying with the camp say aye.” Simultaneously, the rest of the room said “Aye.” Mila let out his breath in relief.
“Mila, you have been judged by the kris,” Father Leichman said. “You must serve your penance. We will start by returning the phone to its owner. Do you have any idea where these American tourists are staying?”
“I have no idea where they are staying, and I believe they are leaving for Austria tomorrow afternoon.”
“Then you have until tomorrow to find them and return the phone, or there will be further consequences,” Father Leichman ordered.
VIII
Holy Cross
Lightning crackled in the sky above the chapel of Holy Cross Church, revealing storm clouds gathering around the building’s Gothic steeple. Inside, all was dark but for a handful of newly-lit candles on the main altar, their dim light reaching just to the first few pews. Above the altar and down the sides of the sanctuary shined the deep colors of spectacular stained-glass windows.
The east window was supposed to be the most beautiful of all. Stretching sixty feet from floor to ceiling, it depicted a number of well-known biblical scenes in jewel-like tones. The topmost arch was a massive image of Christ dragging the cross through the crowds in Jerusalem on his final journey to the crucifixion.
The east wall was famous for having miraculously survived the war. Bombs had leveled the rest of the church, but the east wall had remained intact, with only minor damage to the stained glass. To many Catholic Berliners, this was as a true act of God. Now bathed in the feeble candlelight, otherwise cloaked in shadow, the wall looked menacing rather than uplifting.
Father Leichman lit the last of a host of candles on the massive altar. His beloved German shepherd, Drago, wandered the aisles. Normally pets weren’t allowed in the church, but the priest could do as he wished.
At the first pew, the dog sniffed the sleeve of a kneeling visitor. The stern figure spoke to him in greeting, and Drago cautiously wagged his tail once or twice. The man was dressed in a black trench coat, opened to reveal a dark-blue suit with gray pinstripes. Perhaps in his late seventies, he wore his gray hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Two men in matching black trench coats stood still as statues, one at each end of the pew, with their feet shoulder-width apart and their hands clasped behind their backs: they were clearly bodyguards.
The guard on the inner aisle moved as little as possible to let Leichman pass. The cleric gave his dog a quick scratch behind the ears and stood before his visitor. “Victor Strauss,” the priest said. “It’s been a long time.”
“Eighteen years,” Victor Strauss replied.
Leichman reached into his pocket and drew out a ring. It was engraved with a strange symbol: something like a swastika, but with the bars curved inward on themselves, creating a circular pattern. He placed the ring on his finger. He offered his hand to Strauss, who kissed the ring quickly, automatically. It was a ritual he’d performed many times before, albeit not in recent years.
Strauss slid across the pew’s dark, polished wood, making room for Father Leichman. The priest’s feeble bones seemed to grind together as he slowly took a seat. His visitor didn’t look at him but instead stared straight ahead at the huge stained-glass window. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the windows’ many colors in a bright array. The rain’s pitter-patter increased to a downpour. Sheets of water began to run down the colored glass.
“Why am I here?” Strauss queried Leichman.
“I think you know,” the priest replied. “There is but a single reason for me to call you after almost twenty years and insist you come directly to Berlin.”
Strauss took a deep breath. “I flew here from Brussels in a storm. I thought someone was dying!” He checked his watch as if to remind himself of the unbelievably early hour. “Are you telling me this is about the talisman? It’s not here. It’s probably gone for good, destroyed in the bombing or melted down for scrap by some ignorant Gypsy!”
“No, it is here,” the priest insisted.
Strauss sighed. “I feel sorry for you, old man. Your mind is starting to go.”
Leichman scowled with rage. He seized Strauss by the collar, forcing his attention. “Do not mock me, Strauss!” he shouted, his voice surprisingly strong for someone so frail.
The security guards immediately assumed an aggressive stance. They moved closer, but Strauss raised a hand and shooed them away. His demeanor calm and sympathetic, Strauss stood up. He put his hands on the cleric’s shoulders and gently held him at arm’s length. He looked into Leichman’s eyes. “Father, my friends in the Communist government searched high and low. We had unlimited access to the bunker. Don’t you think we would have found it?”
“I know why it is you failed. It doesn’t matter. Listen to that rain outside—it’s a deluge! And can’t you hear how the wind howls? Like an enraged beast! It’s almost a hurricane!” Leichman said fearfully.
“Oh, Father! Big storms like this happen all the time. It’s just global warming. Don’t you read the papers?” Strauss joked.
The priest raised his index finger. “I warned you not to mock me,” he scolded.
The clergyman’s statement changed Strauss’s demeanor. He adjusted his suit, nervously smoothing out imaginary wrinkles.
“That is no earthly weather out there. It is more,” Leichman insisted. “I know it. I feel it in my heart. The talisman has been found, and its power has been unleashed.”
“And the painting…The Proclamation…I read that it has been recently recovered by Munich Police,” Strauss said uneasily.
“Yes, it has … along with a fortune in artworks that the Nazis stole from the Jews. And they will soon be displaying The Proclamation this week at the Berlinische Galerie. I suppose that’s a coincidence as well?”
“Even if you’re right, we’re too late,” Strauss replied. Pushing past the priest and the security guards, he walked to the front of the church.
Leichman used the pew to pull himself upright. Once on his feet he followed Strauss. “Victor, Victor—what has happened to you? You used to be the most ambitious of all of us. You were so certain of your destiny! You knew you were fated to be the next Master.”
Strauss paused and made a show of admiring the enormous stained-glass window. He watched as the rain outside cascaded down the glass, then spoke forcefully, his back still turned to the priest. “I realized I don’t need it! I own factories in Romania, Hungary, and Germany. I flew here on a private jet, for Christ’s sake! I have real power. Why waste my time playing with ancient mysticism?”
“Be careful how you mock the name of Christ,” Leichman admonished him. “You were always a fool. One of us was meant to be the next Master. It is our destiny! I’m far too old for this. It’s a curse that I’ve lived this long.”
Strauss raised an eyebrow at the old man’s absurdity. He continued to pretend to study the ornate glass. “And what of Paul? Why don’t you ask him to find it?” he suggested.
“I’ve tried every manner of divination and augury to find him: scrying, the cards, the stones, even bibliomancy. Nothing! He is surely dead.”
“How tragic,” Strauss said mockingly, without a hint of remorse.
“Surely you’re not satisfied with a bit of money and some influence,” Leichman argued.
“I’d like more of both,” Strauss admitted, “but I don’t need to rely on some relic to get it.”
“You’re running for office, correct?”
Strauss turned back to the priest. “Yes,” he said. “I’m running for the EU Parliament, and I’m sure to win.”
Leichman looked unimpressed. “I suppose you’ll hold that position for a few years, and if your party wins enough seats in Parliament, you’ll come into some real power just in time for your
eighty-fifth birthday.”
Strauss frowned at the man’s sarcasm. He turned once again to the awe-inspiring stained glass, his eyes drifting to an arresting detail of the crucifixion scene. The figures of a man and three young boys could be seen just faintly in the background. The man pushed a wheelbarrow up a hill as the three little ones trailed behind. Victor wondered who they were supposed to be. There was something conspicuous about their olive skin and jet-black hair.
“Our previous master had no money—and no influence, either. Not at first. We both know what the talisman gave him. If you had it, you could run for chancellor of Germany tomorrow—and win! You could walk into the European Union and have everyone eating out of your hand. It will be much easier now. Today’s politicians are as corrupt as ever, but their minds are so much weaker—” before he could go on, Leichman broke down in a fit of coughing.
Strauss walked back to the pew. Noticing a trail of saliva shining from the priest’s chin, he offered the old man a handkerchief. The priest wiped his face. Like stones, the raindrops continued to pound the chapel’s tiled roof. From nearby came an earsplitting crack of thunder. The wild, distant howls of dogs that sounded like hungry wolves grew louder.
“Do you hear them?” Leichman asked. “The dogs—they were summoned! They are seeking the one who stole our destiny.”
The priest handed back the now-soiled handkerchief to his visitor. As Strauss took it, his eyes were drawn to the old man’s right hand. The flesh was horribly discolored and twisted into grotesque swirls and bulges: ancient burn scars. Leichman had never told Strauss exactly what had happened so many years ago, how his hand had been so badly disfigured. “An accident at the seminary” was the most he would ever say.
“I repeat: if what you say is true, and someone has found the talisman, it is already too late. They own it now. You know this!” Strauss said.
“Do you remember nothing?” Leichman admonished. “A person will not pair with the scepter until they willingly invoke its powers! Until then they can be killed like any ordinary person.”