The Wind and the Rain Read online

  “Are you ready, Ana?” Gunari pokes my arm and startles me. I laugh and nod at him.

  We exit the basilica and Janko is stood waiting for us. Janko smiles at us both and raises an arm to usher us to where we need to go next.

  “This is the Doge’s Palace now on your left Ana,” Janko’s guided tour has restarted, “Venice was an independent republic and the Doge was the big boss. Hundreds of years ago they had a great trading empire and they had one of the most powerful navies in the world. Eventually, the Turks took most of their possessions away and the city became part of the Habsburg empire who also ruled where you’re from Ana,”

  We turn the corner and I can see an island in front with a church on it. Janko once again reads my mind:

  “That is San Giorgio Maggione over there, it was founded as a monastery. That was over a thousand years ago too. A lot of famous people have been there since that time like Barbarossa and Cosimo de’ Medici. A couple of hundred years ago the monks were expelled and it became a military base,”

  “There’s a lot of history in Venice,” I say, impressed by his knowledge.

  “That is true. Venice is a crossroads of cultures. East would meet West thanks to its trade links. However, it’s not all beauty here. In 1692 the government here offered an amnesty to galley slaves to hunt gypsies. To hunt! Can you believe that?”

  I stare at Janko to see if he is joking but I can tell from his face that he is telling the truth. He raises an eyebrow at me and I don't know how to respond. Janko sets off again and Gunari and I follow him.

  We stop around the back of the Doge’s Palace and loads of people are gathered looking at a small bridge traversing a canal. One end goes through the palace and the other end into the building opposite.

  “Why is everyone looking at the bridge?” I ask. It’s only a small bridge and doesn’t look very special.

  “It’s one of the most famous bridges in the world even if it’s quite small,” Janko replies, “It is the Bridge of Sighs,”

  “That’s an odd name. Why is it called that?”

  “They would take prisoners from the palace over the bridge to the prison cells. There are a couple of little windows you can see there. The prisoners would be able to gaze out at the beautiful city one last time and that would be it - thus the Bridge of Sighs.

  “You know about a lot of things Janko,”

  “I’d hope so at my age. You can’t have enough knowledge, princess,”

  “Yes, I suppose,” An odd form of compassion for the prisoners touches my thoughts. I bet some of them will have been innocent and then had their liberty taken away. No more freedom for those people. What about me, will I ever be truly free?

  “Ultimately, they were on a path from the palace to the prison,” It’s Gunari who is speaking now, “They saw the lagoon but they would never see it up close again. That was their fate. All of us are on a journey Ana, yours is now different from what you thought it would be last week,”

  “I have to admit to being very scared,” I reply, Gunari can be so heavy sometimes, the whole world seems to be weighing me down. I prefer not being so honest with people I’ve only recently met but I can’t help myself.

  “Don’t be scared Ana, ‘For He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways’”

  “Are you saying you and Janko are angels?” I ask in a manner somewhere between incredulity and silliness.

  “Something like that Ana,” Janko says, “And you’re our little angel-in-training,”

  “Time for some food now, I think,” Gunari adds, “We can tell you a little bit more about God’s plan for you,”

  Dusk has enveloped the city by the time our starters arrived, I chose vegetable soup to warm me up as it has gotten a little chilly. We are sat outside at a restaurant on a large rectangular piazza. The blockiness of the low rise buildings that surround the square reminds me a little of back home. Janko informs me this is the Campo Santa Margherita.

  “Our people came originally from India fifteen hundred years ago,” Janko says, prodding his antipasti elements around his plate with his fork, “Did you know that Ana?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,”

  “There are many myths about our people, and many of them come from us. In the end, we are travelling people. We don’t write down our history and we love a tall tale. Nothing bonds people more than good conversation.

  “Being Roma is difficult in the modern world with its borders and ideologies. We have passed from land to land over the last thousand years, we are people of the earth and we have every right to roam over this planet.”

  “I live in a house, my family don’t travel around the place. Although my dad drove a bus,” I say, I’m not sure where Janko is going with this.

  “Humans don’t like people who don’t look or act in the same way as themselves. That is the history of our species. Violently suppressing the lifestyles of others. It is a stain on humanity. Our people have probably been more discriminated against than any other in history. This isn’t to debase the suffering of other people but ultimately part of our identity is in resisting this prejudice. To be Romani is to know suffering, to know what is like to be on the bottom rung of every society we appear in,”

  “Why though, I’ve never hurt anyone, all I wanted was to attend university. It’s not a crime,” The tears are welling again which is annoying. I cannot face crying again. I only want to eat my soup.

  “No it’s not a crime,” Janko is as serious as I’ve seen him, “It’s disgusting and you have our full sympathy. Gunari and I have a deep aversion towards people who pick on the vulnerable. Denying an education and a chance of betterment to a young girl by abhorrent politicians and cynical bureaucrats is wrong. You are not alone, in Austria last year a mayor of a small town incited locals to burn down a stall selling vegetables by the side of the road run by a Roma family,”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “The owner of the grocery store in the town centre was the brother of the mayor. The family stall was taking business away from the grocers. Rather than compete for business legally by selling better produce or lowering prices or however business people act in civilised places they hatched a plan to simply set fire to the Roma family’s stall.”

  “So what happened, did they do it?” I say and Janko grimly smiles. I glance at Gunari but he is watching people walk past the restaurant, or at least pretending to watch them.

  “Of course they did. They planted stories in the press about the food making people ill and that they were overcharging non-Roma. It was lies. The mayor eventually gathered four men and they travelled to the stand one night and burnt it down. They treated them as people would handle a wasps’ nest in the garden that needed exterminating.

  “The morning after, the owner - a man and wife called Tomáš and Cecilia - saw what had happened. Everything was burnt to a crisp. That was it, their little chance of providing a good living for their children was destroyed by callous bigots.”

  “They should be punished,” I say, my voice rising and making me angrier than I am about my situation, “It’s awful. They can’t get away with it,”

  “They didn’t,” Gunari interjects.

  “Why, what happened? Did the police get involved?”

  “Of course not,” Gunari replied, “One of the men who burned down the stall was actually a policeman. Instead, Janko and myself paid the mayor a visit after a brief arsonistic stop-over at his brother’s grocers shop. We sneaked into his house when his family was out, found him in his study drinking scotch. We confronted him, his face was a picture. I pulled a knife out of his my pocket and held it to his throat,”

  Janko added:

  “And I calmly informed him about the unfortunate accident that had befallen his idiot brother’s shop. I also informed him that if we ever hear of any discrimination in this town towards a single member of the Romani community then we will be forced to murder him. And his brother. And potentially anyone else directly
connected to the abuse of our people,”

  For the millionth time in the last forty-eight hours, my world begins to shift on its axis. God knows what angle my poor brain is at now.

  “You two,” I say, “You....what...you burned down the shop and attacked the mayor?”

  “Yes,” Gunari replies, “It was the least we could do,”

  “Very proportionate, I would say,” Janko adds.

  “I can’t…” there’s nothing I can say. Nothing quite seems real now.

  “Do you think we are in the wrong Ana?” Janko has laid his hand on to my wrist, holding my soup spoon.

  “What can I say? If I say no, will you throw me into one of the rivers here?”

  “Oh Ana,” Janko lets out a belly laugh, “Of course not. And they are canals, not rivers,”

  “We know this is a shock,” Gunari says, “Ultimately, you need to know who we are and we don’t want to lead you on,”

  “You’re vigilantes, like Mad Max?”

  “Roma people don’t hold power in any of the countries we reside in, Ana,” Janko says, “Our people are not police chiefs or mayors. You’ll find no Roma judges or prime ministers. We aren’t newspaper editors or television news reporters. We don’t possess an army of thousands or a navy full of gunboats.”

  “So what are you? Are you terrorists like those guys who hijack planes?”

  “We never attack innocent people. Ever,”

  “How do you know? That vegetable seller may have made the whole story up. Have you considered that?”

  “Of course we considered that on our way to see the family,” Gunari this time is speaking, “Then we met a man with his livelihood ripped away from him, his wife barely in control of her body, repeatedly having fits and three innocent children caught in the middle,”

  “Don’t make me sound like I’m such an awful person for asking,” my voice this time does raise towards a shout, “You know exactly what I’m saying,”

  “We know Ana,” Janko replies, “We wouldn’t insult your intelligence. The fact is, we can’t afford to make mistakes. That would undermine the work we do. There aren’t many of us Ana.”

  “Who do you work for?” I say.

  “We work for ourselves, and for you, and for all the Roma in the world. We don’t have a manager or a sergeant or a capo. For centuries there has been an organisation that has stood up for the rights of our brethren. Fighting back when we can; to impart justice on those who oppress us,”

  “I’ve never heard of this so-called organisation,” This must be some sort of Western European practical joke.

  “You’re still a child Ana, in the grand scheme of things,” Janko says, “As you age, the community would have made you aware of our work. You wouldn’t have been told much at first, only that if there was ever a grave inequity committed against you, then potentially we could help.”

  “Ana,” Gunari looks at me, and I can see actual tears in his eyes. Upsetting me appears to have actually upset this brutish man, “We took you from your home because we want you to join us, to be part of our organisation. We know it’s not the life you hoped for, but it’s better than the life you would have had in a Yugoslav institution,”

  “You want me to join you? I don’t even know the name of this outfit,” I say, dropping my spoon in the soup with a satisfying splosh.

  “We don’t have a name - our enemies have called us many names but they usually end up calling us bandits or worse. Our philosophy is to strike as stealthily as the wind and wash away their filthy sins like the rain cleans the streets of blood,”

  “The wind and the rain…” I say and I have to confess the name does sound rather compelling, “Restoring the natural order,”

  “Exactly,” Janko says.

  “Are you completely sure you’ve picked up the right person?”

  O Fortuna

  Thursday, 19 December 1985

  I slam the telephone receiver down. The cheap plastic base cracks from the impact. My hands are shaking. It is not due to my failing body on this occasion but from rage.

  “Albert, Albert, everything will be fine,” Paul had told me, minimising his grandson’s actions while I struggled to maintain my composure. I have a tendency to avoid anger as much as possible, I do not believe anger is a productive emotion but today I cannot banish it.

  My word, Paul angered me on that telephone call. He probably won’t realise the extent he has riled me. Understanding the emotions of other people is not one of his skills.

  His grandson’s behaviour defies rational explanation. What a stupid, stupid boy. And Paul himself isn’t much better off on the intelligence front. What brains they possess could together fill one normal person’s head with ample room to spare. I’m not sure if Paul is stupid or deliberately disingenuous. He pretends to be dimmer than he actually is while conversely not being half as clever as he believes he is.

  I despise the Christmas period enough without receiving vexatious telephone calls from old acquaintances. Never have I succumbed to the juvenile antics of decorating my home with trees or other ridiculous paraphernalia. I used to be astonished at normally right-thinking men tarting up their houses like an Italian bordello every December.

  Eventually, I realised that people will fight to maintain these pitiable traditions. It can be very difficult to sever individuals from their religious or cultural habits. I learned to accept what I could change and not worry about the things I couldn’t. The top brass was obsessed with the reclamation of the festival because of the Jews. I was never swayed by their hysterical claims about the Jews being responsible for breaking the world-liberator on the cross. I simply could not understand the irrational preoccupation with Christmastime.

  For myself, the easiest thing to do was simply to avoid all contact with people for about three weeks and stay at home with enough scotch to keep a whole infantry division on the move for a year. From the first of January onwards, I could then deal with people shorn of their superstitions and forced familiarity.

  I must confess that the only thing I miss at this time of the year is the snow. Whatever stresses I carry, I could always alleviate them by virtue of a brisk walk through the wintry streets of Rothenburg or Bamberg. In my opinion, there is nothing that makes me feel more German than admiring the snow-covered roofs on the perfectly proportioned houses, smoke billowing out of the chimneys. An image from a tin of biscuits doesn’t do it justice. There is nothing like the real thing.

  In my eyes, it is the pinnacle of civilisation - the German people’s mastery of nature allied with our craftsmanship and community. I cherished those moments when I would take a walk in the snowy streets and return home and head to my study. The fire would be raging with flames so captivating you almost wanted to touch them. I would attain a pure joy simply by sitting in my reading chair in front of the fire, playing some Gramophone recordings by Schumann and allowing the warmth to embrace me I was never a fan of Wagner like a lot of my friends. Too much bombast in place of melody for my tastes. Happiness is sipping a fine scotch as the Piano Concerto engulfs you.

  Nowadays, I am increasingly afflicted by waves of melancholy that can last for days. My appetite disappears and my consumption of scotch increases. Melancholia must be one of the symptoms of old age to go with the constant aches in my knee joints. Oh, how I wish I was in my little apartment in Bamberg with the view of the old town hall and the river.

  But I’m not in Bamberg. Where I am now, all I see is grey clouds and miserable rain. I walk on the streets and hear people moaning in their grating, discordant language. My arms are tingling again, this infernal wet weather is going to be the death of me.

  I must have been standing for a good ten minutes following the phone call from Paul. He has an answer for everything, the fat Labertasche, I have so little respect for him and his idiot children. I want to pick up the telephone receiver to slam it back down again but I refrain from permitting myself to do this. I will not allow the anger to poison my system.

>   I need to sit down so I grab the decanter next to the telephone which is only a quarter-full and sit in my chair by the window. Thankfully, a glass tumbler is also on the table resting on today’s copy of Die Welt. I take the top off the decanter and I pour a solid measure of Chivas Regal into the glass. It’s strange, pouring a drink is one of the few things that makes the shakes in my hand disappear. The shakes have worsened over the last couple of years and the doctors here don’t have any answers. They prefer taking money from rich housewives and prescribing happy pills rather than investigating my problems.

  Even by the window, there isn’t enough light to read despite it being midday. I am loathed to switch on the light at this time of day. I would like to take a walk but I’m still tired from trudging to the news-stand an hour ago. That phone call has irked me, the sheer brainless idiocy of that boy Horst. I won’t be able to calm down for the rest of the day, I am sure of it.

  It’s funny the way these matters resurface after so much time. All the things that are happening now in Germany are barely in my mind at all. My thoughts of my homeland are mainly taken up with remembrances of the past, of my glory days in my twenties. The days when people respected me for my achievements and my knowledge. The times when hundreds of people would follow my instructions and address me in the correct manner.

  Snap out of it Albert! I can now add nostalgic musings to my melancholy. What a feeble excuse of a man I have become. An old man hiding in a nondescript place wallowing in memories from decades long past. Melancholy and nostalgia, the Phobos and Deimos of the elderly man.

  As I have withdrawn from life it could be said that I have empowered Paul to take charge. Paul is not a man of ideas or instruction. Maybe it is time for me to become a man of action again. To enforce my will on the weak-minded fools obsessed by jocularity and laziness. One last comeback like Dietrich von Bern? I chuckle at the thought and down my drink.