Harry shrugged. Raskol crossed his arms.
'In 1589, Denmark introduced the death penalty for gypsy ringleaders,' he said. 'Fifty years later the Swedes decided all male gypsies should be hanged. In Moravia they cut the left ear off gypsy women, in Bohemia the right. The Archbishop of Mainz proclaimed that all gypsies should be executed without a conviction as their way of life was outlawed. In 1725, a law was passed in Prussia that all gypsies over eighteen should be executed without a trial, but later this law was repealed-the age limit was put down to fourteen. Four of my father's brothers died in captivity. Only one of them during the War. Shall I continue?'
Harry shook his head.
'But even that is a closed circle,' Raskol said. 'The reason we are persecuted and we survive is the same. We are-and want to be-different. Just as we are kept out in the cold, gadjos cannot enter our community. The gypsy is the mysterious, menacing stranger you know nothing about, but about whom there are all sorts of rumours. People of many generations believed gypsies were cannibals. Where I grew up-in Balteni, outside Bucharest-they claimed we were the descendants of Cain and doomed to eternal perdition. Our gadjo neighbours gave us money to stay away.'
Raskol's eyes flitted across the windowless walls.
'My father was a smith, but there was no work in Romania. We had to move out to the rubbish dump outside the town where the Kalderash gypsies were living. In Albania my father had been the bulibas, the local gypsy leader and arbitrator, but among the Kalderash he was just an unemployed smith.'
Raskol heaved a deep sigh.
'I'll never forget the expression in his eyes when he led home a small, tame brown bear. He had bought it with his last money from a group of Ursari. "It can dance," my father said. The communists paid to see a dancing bear. It made them feel better about themselves. Stefan, my brother, tried to feed the bear, but it wouldn't eat, and my mother asked if it was sick. He answered that they had walked all the way from Bucharest and just needed to rest. The bear died four days later.'
Raskol closed his eyes and smiled that doleful smile of his. 'The same autumn Stefan and I ran away. Two mouths fewer to feed. We went north.'
'How old were you?'
'I was eight, he was twelve. The plan was to get to West Germany. At that time they were letting in refugees from all over the world and feeding them. I suppose it was their way of compensating. Stefan thought that the younger we were, the better our chances of getting in. But we were stopped on the Polish border. We arrived in Warsaw where we slept under a bridge with a blanket each, in the enclosed area by Wschodnia, the eastern railway terminal. We knew we would be able to find a schlepper-a people smuggler. After several days' searching we found a Romany speaker who called himself a border guide and promised to get us into West Germany. We didn't have the money to pay, but he said there were ways and means; he knew some men who paid well for good-looking young gypsy boys. I didn't know what he was talking about, but obviously Stefan did. He took the guide to the side and they discussed in loud voices as the guide pointed to me. Stefan shook his head repeatedly and in the end the guide threw out his arms and gave in. Stefan asked me to wait until he came back in a car. I did as he said, but the hours passed. It was night and I lay down and slept. For the first two nights under the bridge I had been awoken by the screeching brakes of the goods wagons, but my young ears quickly learned that those were not the sounds I should be on my guard against. So I slept and didn't wake until I heard stealthy footsteps in the middle of the night. It was Stefan. He crept under his blanket and pressed up against the wet wall. I could hear him crying, but I squeezed my eyes shut and made no movements. Soon I could hear the trains again.' Raskol raised his head. 'Do you like trains, Spiuni?'
Harry nodded.
'The guide came back the next day. He needed more money. Stefan went off in the car again. Four days later I awoke at the crack of dawn and saw Stefan. He must have been up all night. He lay as he usually did with his eyes half open and I could see his breath hanging in the frosty early-morning air. There was blood on his scalp and one lip was swollen. I picked up my blanket and went to the main station where a family of Kalderash gypsies had settled outside the toilets, waiting to travel westwards. I talked to the oldest of the boys. He told me that the man we thought was a schlepper was a local pimp who frequented the station area; he had offered his father thirty zloty for the two youngest boys. I showed the boy my blanket. It was thick and in good condition, stolen from a washing line in Lublin. He liked it. It would soon be December. I asked to see his knife. It was inside his shirt.'
'How did you know he had a knife?'
'All gypsies have knives. To eat with. Even members of the same family don't share cutlery-they can catch marime, an infection. But he made a good deal. His knife was small and blunt. Fortunately, I was able to get it sharpened at the smith's in the railway workshop.'
Raskol ran the long pointed nail on the little finger of his right hand across the bridge of his nose.
'That night, after Stefan had got into the car, I asked the pimp if he had a customer for me, too. He grinned and said I should wait. When he came back, I stood in the shadow under the bridge watching the trains moving in and out of the station area. "Come here, Sinti," he shouted. "I've got a good customer. A rich Party man. Come now, we haven't got much time!" I answered: "We have to wait for the Krakow train." He came over to me and grabbed my arm. "You've got to come now, do you understand?" I was no higher than his chest. "There it is," I said, pointing. He let me go and looked up. A procession of black steel wagons rolled past our pale faces as we stared up. Then the moment I was waiting for arrived. The screeching of steel against steel as the brakes bit. That drowned everything.'
Harry squinted, as if to make it easier to see if Raskol was lying.
'As the last wagons rolled slowly by I saw a woman's face staring at me from one of the windows. She looked like a ghost. Like my mother. I raised the bloodstained knife and showed her. And do you know what, Spiuni? That's the only time in my life when I have felt complete happiness.' Raskol closed his eyes as if to relive the moment. 'Koke per koke. A head for a head. That is the Albanian expression for blood vengeance. It's the best and the most dangerous intoxicant God gave to humanity.'
'What happened afterwards?'
Raskol opened his eyes again. 'Do you know what baxt is, Spiuni?'
'No idea.'
'Fate. Hell and karma. It's what governs our lives. When I took the pimp's wallet, there were three thousand zloty in it. Stefan returned and we carried the body across the rails and dumped it in one of the eastbound goods wagons. Then we went north. Two weeks later we sneaked onto a boat from Gdansk to Gothenburg. From there we went to Oslo and a field in Tшyen where there were four caravans, three occupied by gypsies. The fourth was old and abandoned, with a broken axle. That was our home for five years. That Christmas Eve, we celebrated my ninth birthday there, with biscuits and a glass of milk under the one blanket we had left. On Christmas Day we broke into our first kiosk, and we knew we had come to the right place.' Raskol beamed. 'It was like taking candy from a baby.'