Wolves of Dacia – Chapter Two – The Harbinger

[Miki Yamuri]

(Wolves of Dacia – Anthony Burns, 2008, all rights reserved)

Chapter Two – The Harbinger

With a heavy bundle of hers and her father’s clothes under one arm and a washboard under the other, Andreea Petrescu staggered to the edge of the stream that ran through the settlement, and was on the point of setting to work when a harsh voice called out from downstream:

“What the hell’s the idea, woman? Can’t you see I’m washing my pots here?”

“It’s a big enough stream for the two of us to use at once, isn’t it?” she sarcastically quipped, realising her mistake but in too ill a humour to admit to it. The pot-washing man, however, did not scruple to point it out:

“Don’t you know anything? I know that you lived a while among gadje, but still … You wash clothes at the lowest point of the stream. You think I want to be cleaning my crockery in your sweat and dirt?”

No more than I want to be cleaning my knickers in your leftovers, I’m sure, she mused resentfully, but gathered up her articles and trudged off downstream regardless. Most of the time, she was tolerably resigned to her menial existence, primarily devoted to the care of an ageing, irascible father who had at least given up trying to marry her off. It took little, however, to revive those old feelings of loss and bitterness, and since her present companion seemed positively intent upon it, Andreea continued downstream until she was at the very outskirts of the settlement, where the stream ran under a small bridge of rough-hewn stone, connecting the road between Brasov and Predeal. The women of the camp rarely ventured this close to the road unaccompanied, so she was not spared disapproving looks, but silent disapproval at a distance was eminently endurable. Actual company was all she was averse to.
As cruel irony would have it, she had only just finished scrubbing one of her father’s shirts when she became aware of a low-pitched drone, distant at first but rapidly increasing. Looking up from her chore, she saw the approaching motorcycle, and her hope that it might drive on by was soon dashed, as it pulled up on the bridge and the rider dismounted, leaving it parked against the parapet. As if this was not perfectly sufficient to darken her mood, she could now see that he was a German army officer, his uniform sporting the detested emblems of the regime that had declared her to be “subhuman”, destroyed her career, and condemned her to a life of disappointed dreams in a community that grudgingly accepted her as one of its own, but never let her forget how she was tainted by association with gadje. Even so, the coldness of her homecoming (except from her poor mother, God rest her) had been preferable to those last few months in Berlin, where being spat upon, pelted with rubbish, and greeted as “gypsy scum” had been increasingly common events.
In those days, the sight of a swastika armband, Nazi party badge, or German eagle would have caused her to cross the road or take refuge in the nearest place of safety without a second thought, but her fear on this occasion was soon quelled by the appearance of the officer: a pale, skinny boy of about twenty, with lank strands of dark hair escaping from under his cap, and wide eyes that managed quite impressively to convey a look of abject panic even from behind his smoked goggles. He might almost have cut a pitiable figure, but for the uniform, which there was no forgiving. The best that might be said of him, thus, was that he was an easy target, and Andreea was in no frame of mind to resist one of those.

“What’s the trouble, lad?” she asked, with muted venom, while conspicuously continuing her washing. “Out of petrol, are we? Here’s an idea: maybe if you were to stick to shooting and lynching us ‘subhumans’ instead of burning us with flamethrowers, you might make a huge saving in fuel.”

Gratifyingly, he winced, and shifted awkwardly during this discourse, but chose not to take the hint of his extreme unwelcomeness to heart.

“You … speak German very well,” he remarked, sounding very faintly regretful at her fluency.

“Thanks. I spent some time in Berlin. It came in handy to know when I was being called ‘whore’ and ‘vermin’, and really handy when those charming Hitler Youth boys were contemplating whether or not to stick a knife in me … as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yes. Well … Now that you mention it … I’ve got rather an urgent message for you.”

Loath as she was to give the little wretch a moment’s respite, there was no mistaking the seriousness of his tone, and it did not take much imagination to put an extremely unpleasant spin on these vague words. Ill-treatment of Roma was nothing new in this neck of the woods, but the last few years had been particularly grim: perhaps the worst they had known since slavery had been abolished. At first, the persecution had been casual, though horrible enough. The fascist Iron Guard, in their early days, were a rather pitiable rag-tag mob of disgruntled peasants and aimless students who were willing to hope that social justice and the meaning to life might be found in religious fanaticism and racial hatred. Unfortunately, being somewhat of a joke had not discouraged them from roaming the countryside, terrorising and occasionally murdering Jews, Roma, and socialists, and the movement had grown, and been assimilated into the government. Then the alliance with Germany had come, and now the Nazis were exporting their own lynch-mobs into Romania: the Waffen-SS, compared to whom the Iron Guard were a gang of school bullies. However little it pleased Andreea to give time of day to a representative of that vile set, his qualifications as a bringer of bad tidings were at least impeccable.
Nor did he disappoint her. His storytelling was nothing to write home about: he mumbled and panicked his way through the narration, and threw in a lot of pointless waffle about forced evacuations, work camps in Transnistria, bombed vehicles, and communist saboteurs, which she barely took in. The relevant part of his story, however, was creditably chilling.

“They were getting ready when I left Brasov,” he explained, becoming more coherent yet even more agitated as his tale drew to its conclusion. “For all I know, they may already have started out. There’s no time to lose. Everyone here needs to flee into the mountains, and hide out in the woods and valleys. It’s the only way. Please, you’ve got to tell them.”

“But … the mountains?” she replied, wishing she could find some reasonable cause to doubt his claims. “We’re Roma, but we’ve been settled here for years, and there are many children, and old people … We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“If you don’t go, you’ll all be dead by sundown. Please trust me.”

“Trust you?” she sneered, unable to restrain her contempt at the very notion. “You? I can’t even begin to imagine why one of your lot would want to warn us, unless maybe you’re just trying to scare us all away into the mountains, and save a few bullets while we freeze and starve to death.”

“If you believe we’re that determined to kill you,” he answered, a tinge of affront mingling with his shame, as he climbed back on his motorcycle, “then I guess you don’t really have much to lose, do you? Just as long as you know: if they’re not already on their way here, they’ll be setting out any time … and if they see me, or hear that I spoke to you, my life isn’t going to be worth spit, so good day to you … Good luck.”

Whereupon he resumed his journey, the motorcycle ascending the mountain pass and soon lost to sight behind the trees and steep meanderings of the valley. Its engine was audible for some time still, not that Andreea stayed to listen. She did not even stay to gather up her bundle of clothes.

************

“Andreea’s a fine girl, Serghei,” said Mihai, taking a hearty swig from his battered tin mug. “She makes a fine pot of coffee, too.”

“Aye,” agreed Serghei, listlessly, before taking a deep drag on his wooden pipe. “There’s that to be grateful for.”

“Sure. You’ll find someone for her eventually,” said Stefan, tapping the ashes from his pipe into his now-empty mug. “She clever, right enough. Not a bad looker, either.”

“What do you mean ‘not bad’?” asked Serghei, vehemently. “Damn your eyes … She’s beautiful, just like her mother was, God rest her. You just tell me wherever else you saw hair or eyes like that.”

“Nowhere, I’m sure,” said Mihai, diplomatically. “She could be the Queen of Sheba. Hell, she’d be fighting off the lads with a big stick if it wasn’t for … well …”

“If she wasn’t too clever for her own good, you mean?” asked Serghei, bitterly. Mihai shifted uncomfortably, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but found himself unequal to denying this statement. “That’s what you meant. What you all think. Maybe you’re right,” whereupon he took another drag and sank back into his rickety wooden chair, and into a melancholy silence.

“Well now, I wouldn’t have put it quite so strong” said Mihai, semi-committally. “Getting her a schooling wasn’t such a bad idea. Doesn’t hurt to have someone in the family who can read and write gadje, and knows some languages, and since old Father Vadim, God rest him, was good enough to come here and teach her, rather than having her go to a gadje school and end up learning their ways,” at which thought he paused for a disapproving shudder and another swig of strong, nerve-steadying coffee. “Anyway, there was no harm in that, but why you then let him talk you into sending her to live in Berlin and study in a gadje university … I just don’t know, mate. You must have known that would come to no good.”

“He insisted on paying her fees, and board, and everything, and her mother was all for it,” replied Serghei, morosely, “and they were both telling me how she was so talented, and deserved better than … this. They had a point,” he conceded, casting a look around the immaculately clean yet mean, shabby, and draughty interior of his single-roomed shack.

“Well, seeing as how this is all I’ve ever known,” said Stefan, severely, “you’ll have to pardon me if I can’t thank them for that lovely sentiment. And what good’s it done her, I’d like to know? All she’s had from it’s a taste of easy living.”

“I’d hardly call it that,” protested Serghei, “and besides, she was doing well, and if those bastards hadn’t kicked her out-”

“That’s just how it goes, if you put your trust in gadje.”

“Amen to that,” agreed Mihai, having polished off his coffee and now filling his pipe. “They did her a favour, really. I mean, even if they’d let her stay and get this fancy doctorate, or whatever it was-”

“Biology degree. Plants and animals and stuff,” interrupted Serghei. “Guess that’s what comes of being the daughter of a drabarni. This place used to be stacked up to the rafters with healing herbs, roots, dried berries, and the like. Till Mihaela passed on, that is, and then I didn’t clean them out for ages. Didn’t want the place feeling too empty … but Andreea talked me into it eventually.”

“Then I’m glad she’s a help to you, mate, because if she’d got that precious degree, you don’t honestly think the gadje would have accepted her as one of their own, do you? Maybe they’d have accepted her as a trained animal. They’ve always treated us like cattle, haven’t they? That or vermin. We’ve always looked out for our own. That’s the way it’s going to be, and I only hope she realises … What the devil?” he exclaimed, as the door swung open with such force that it was almost torn from its worn leather hinges, and Nicoleta, Mihai’s fifteen year-old daughter, burst into the room, her face aglow with pure adrenaline. “Something the matter with your hand, young lady?” he asked, witheringly. “I wouldn’t have thought knocking a door would be all that … What’s the trouble?” he asked, now urgently, having taken in her expression and the sounds of frenzied activity coming through the open door.

“Andreea said … to tell you,” she answered, in the spaces between hyperventilating, “that we’re being attacked … Germans coming … SS … any time soon … we must-”

“Get your mother, child, and take her into the woods,” interrupted Mihai, who had leapt into an instinctive poise of attention that would have made any drill sergeant proud. “Deep into the woods. Take the horse. Go, Nicoleta.”

“Yes … all of us going … to the woods … not without you.”

“Not without me either, beg pardon,” declared Stefan, bolting out of the door and lightly shoving Nicoleta aside.

“I’ll be with you soon,” replied Mihai, with a faint scowl at his departing friend. “I have to talk to Cristian, first.”

“I assure you, he won’t be in the mood,” said Andreea, appearing at the doorway with an impressively assured demeanour, though not lacking in urgency. “Our Rom Baro is helping to move the sick and elderly. I’d be helping him, only he reminded me that I should look to my own household.”

“Damn your eyes,” fumed Serghei, taking another stress-relieving pull on his pipe. “I may be coming on for sixty, but I’m not a bloody inval-” at which a rather ill-timed coughing fit attracted an infuriating number of pitying looks in his direction.

“If you didn’t spend so many evenings just smoking that lung-rot,” suggested Andreea, “then maybe … but seeing as how we’re only taking the bare essentials, at least we’ll have the comfort of knowing that it won’t be the tobacco that kills you.”

************

The town of Predeal, nestling daringly among some of Transylvania’s highest peaks, did full justice and more to Colonel’s Dragomir’s impressive description. What he had not prepared Johann for was the cold. A defiant veneer of snow covered the ground, fir trees, and roofs in spite of spring being well advanced, and the wind sliced through his uniform jacket like a platoon of battle-hungry resistance fighters with combat knives. To make matters worse, when he enquired at the monastery for Brother Shandor, it turned out that the good anchorite had long since renounced the company of his brethren, and had taken to living in a hermitage situated in the woods, about a mile out of town and totally inaccessible by any vehicles.
In spite of his unprepossessing appearance (the monks, on the whole, not being wildly sympathetic with the Fuhrer’s master-plans), they took enough pity on Johann to lend him a coat and a staff, but he missed his motorcycle most painfully as he trudged along the narrow path they had shown him. The sky was darkening by now, and the path was so narrow, ill-maintained, and obscured by the snow that the danger of losing it was all too apparent. His boots were soon full of chilly water, courtesy of the hundredth or so snow-filled pothole into which he had trodden. Nonetheless, onward he squelched, alternately cursing Colonel Dragomir and Brother Shandor, and casting nervous glances all around, hoping that he might see the hermitage and hoping even harder that he might not see the source of the occasional lupine howls that he could hear, thankfully at some distance.
His hope was not much restored when he heard the click of a bolt-action rifle being cocked behind him. Slowly, he turned around, and found himself facing a curious figure who could only have been Brother Shandor. He was certainly wearing monastic robes, at any rate. They were long, thick, grey, and dirty, and thus coordinated perfectly with his hair and beard. What little of his face could be seen through all of this wild growth was pale, with pronounced bones, but any impression of frailty this might have conveyed was belied by the deer carcass slung across his back, which he carried without any obvious exertion. His eyes, small and dark, glared intently along the length of the gun-barrel, which was trained right between Johann’s eyes. As he was less than confident that this startling apparition had any intention of greeting him with words, when a simple hole in the head might suffice, Johann decided to seize the initiative.

“Brother Shandor?” No reaction. “I have a message for you.” No reaction. “Colonel Dragomir sent me.” A reaction, but not a very promising one: his tangled eyebrows lowered slightly, and the rifle twitched as his grip on it became tenser. Suspecting the nature of his mistake, Johann hastily changed his tack: “When I say ‘message’, I do in fact mean just a message. I don’t mean I’ve been sent to threaten you, honest to God. Look; I’ve got it right here,” he declared, fumbling at his pockets with numb, aching fingers, hoping that if he could just give the envelope to Brother Shandor he might take it and order him to clear off. Admittedly, the colonel’s orders had been for him to stay and make sure that the message was read, but under present circumstances Johann was very willing to believe that an early departure would not be held against him if it was forced at gunpoint, and please, God, let it be so, he thought.

“You look chilled to the bones, boy,” said the anchorite, in a harsh but not unkind tone, at which Johann ceased his ineffectual, frostbitten gropings. “You’d better come along with me. A good fire and some brandy should set you to rights.”

“Brandy?” asked Johann, out of surprise rather than aversion. “I thought you holy men take a vow-”

“Of poverty, yes, but I reckon that my situation amply fulfils that. In any case, if I should get drunk out here, who am I likely to hurt save myself?”

Well … me, thought Johann, but did not feel up to expressing it. Grateful though he was that the threat level seemed to have receded, that gun was still pointed squarely at his head.

“That’s settled, then,” declared Shandor. “Before we go, there’s just one little thing: your pistol. Take it out slowly, and then take out the magazine. Throw them down in front of you.” His voice was not threatening, as such, but definitely suggestive that it was not about to brook any nonsense, so Johann complied. He had no difficulty in obeying the instruction to take out his Luger slowly: his hands were so numb that the corpse of Billy the Kid might have stood a fair chance against him in a gunfight. When, finally and painfully, he had extracted the magazine, he threw both gun and ammo into the snow before him, as directed. “Good. Now, turn around and walk ten paces.” Again, he complied, and heard Brother Shandor advancing behind him, and picking up the dismantled Luger. As soon as this little formality was taken care of, Shandor’s demeanour became markedly less hostile, though Johann would not have gone so far as to call it friendly. Nevertheless, he relinquished his deadly aim, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and led the way along the path, making occasional enquiries after Johann’s well-being and even offering to assist him over the rougher patches of terrain.
The hermitage, at which they presently arrived, was a small stone affair with a roof of crudely-cut slates, a wooden outhouse, and tiny windows, commanding cheerless views of dense forest from all sides. Thankfully, it did also have a smoking chimney. Once inside, Johann saw that the interior décor was almost as rough, sparse, and functional as the exterior, with the addition of a few old books, candles, and a small shrine with painted icons of saints and a plaster statue of Christ. The fireplace was all that he had much time for, however, and he soon found himself seated before it, a chipped mug of plum brandy between his gradually-thawing hands, and his wet boots and socks drying out by the stone hearth. Brother Shandor sat some distance apart from him, reading Colonel Dragomir’s message in silence and casting him ominous but inscrutable glances through the narrow margin between the top of the page and his extensive eyebrows. When he had finished, he moved over to the fireplace and handed Johann the second page of the colonel’s letter.

“I believe that bit’s for you,” he gravely announced, before repairing to the cupboard in which he kept the brandy. Bearing in mind the conspiratorial manner in which Colonel Dragomir had given him this assignment, Johann was not overly surprised to find that it had a hidden clause, and felt little upon commencing to read but weariness, and the vague hope that this evening’s ordeals would not stretch on ad infinitum. By the time he had finished the letter, his apathy had vanished, driven out by the competing forces of curiosity and fear.

To Lt. von Ritter,

I apologise for having been unable to disclose the full details of your mission beforehand, but security has to be preserved in all our interests. Brother Shandor, as you may have realised, is not what he seems: an “undercover operative”, if you will, and you will consider yourself under his orders for the present. He will guide you in the next stage of your mission, and do not trouble him with questions. You will know more in due time, but for now let it suffice you to know that the operation you are now involved in could well ensure not only the outcome of this war, but peace for all future generations, and the preservation of all we hold most dear. We shall meet again before long. Until then, I remain

Your friend,
Col. S Dragomir (BA, MA, PhD, DD, Viscount).