The Stolen (13 page)

‘I'm in one piece, thank you, but you're bleeding.' The cut was deep, blood welling up from between the young man's fingers. ‘I should get you to a hospital.'

‘No. No hospital. Anyhow, I've done my duty and now I should leave.'

‘At least tell me your name!'

‘Latcos.'

‘Come into the house, Latcos. I can stop the bleeding.'

‘I shouldn't; I want no trouble.'

‘Trouble, what trouble? Are you the gypsy who's been watching my house?'

‘Rom. I am Kalderash – from Romania. And I haven't been watching the house – I have been protecting it.' He turned to leave but stumbled and Matthias grabbed his arm.

‘Please, let me wash the cut and bandage it. It's the least I can do…'

Moments later Latcos sat perched on one of the high kitchen stools as Matthias carefully stemmed the bleeding, then placed a surgical bandage on it.

‘Are you a doctor?' Latcos asked tentatively, a little intimidated by the surroundings.

Matthias laughed. ‘No, a scientist, but like all Swiss men I had army training – and that includes basic medical training.' He stepped back. ‘That will hold for a while but you really should see a doctor.'

‘Thank you.' Latcos was suddenly very awkward; all he wanted to do was to leave, to be back in an environment he was familiar with. ‘Those men, they weren't after your money, were they?'

‘No. I think they were after information.' Matthias headed towards the drinks cabinet. ‘Whisky? It will take the pain away.'

‘Why not?' Latcos tried smiling, but the luxurious interior of the house intimidated him and the low ceiling made him feel trapped. He tried staring out at the view, imagining he could still feel fresh freezing air under his skin. It helped a bit.

Although the whisky relaxed him, Matthias noticed his hands were still shaking. His attackers had definitely been after the letter – the question was who had sent them and how had they known he even had it? And who was this young gypsy? Could he be connected?

‘I'm intrigued – why would a gypsy think he could protect a villa and me; why would you even bother?'

To his surprise Latcos laughed. ‘I pity you, despite all your riches and success. You are a half-breed, pas Rom; you belong to no clan and you have no real lineage. Also, you have poisoned blood.'

Astonished, Matthias put down his glass, now not even sure he'd heard the gypsy correctly.

Reading his confusion, Latcos repeated, ‘Yes, poisoned blood. But you see, I have pledged to look out for you.'

Matthias, now insulted, stood up and pushed his chair back.

‘I think you should leave now.' His voice was trembling with rage but the young gypsy, shrugging nonchalantly, was already on his feet.

‘You're right. It is better this way, otherwise you could end up riding two horses with one backside,' he told Matthias, with a passion that made Matthias wonder whether the gypsy was in his right mind. ‘If you want to find us we are staying in the Sinti camp by the airport. At least now I can tell my mother Keja that I have met her firstborn.'

‘Firstborn? What are you talking about? Who's Keja?' Matthias demanded, startled how the name resounded in his memory, but from where?

Latcos stopped in his tracks. ‘Keja is our mother. She is dying and she sent me to find you. Now I have, my job's done.' He turned back to the door.

‘Wait! You're telling me we share the same mother? My mother died ten years ago. What is this, some kind of bad joke? It's impossible.'

‘Believe me, that's what I said when I heard the story. I mean, look at you, and look at me – night and day.' Latcos walked back and began helping himself to another whisky. ‘But why should you be interested in the truth? I told my mother: who wants to know his father was a monster?' Latcos lifted the glass. ‘To family.'

Matthias paled. ‘My father is Christoph von Holindt.'

‘You're wrong. Your father was Standartenführer Ulrich Vosshoffner, an SS officer. In 1943 your blood father enslaved my mother, murdered her family and stole their gold, and a family heirloom. You were the result of the repeated rapes he subjected her to.'

Vosshoffner!
Vosshoffner. The name was familiar. In a flash Matthias remembered where he'd seen it, earlier that day, the name of the casting factory in Basel – Vosshoffner. Again he had a sense of vertigo, as if his world had begun to fall away like scaffolding, piece by piece. He buried his face in his hands, forgotten memories now flashing through his brain like strangely edited film footage: a curtain of long black hair, deep brown eyes, being held up to a train window as the station platform pulled away, a low-flying bomber screaming across a blue sky, the red-tipped wings clearly visible, the name ‘Keja' being whispered under the staccato montage.

‘My father is Christoph von Holindt,' he repeated falteringly, as if convincing himself.

Latcos, watching him, softened. ‘I don't know what he is to you, but he is not your blood father,' he repeated quietly.

‘Why should I believe you?'

‘You have a birthmark, small, blue in colour, star-shaped.' Latcos reached out and laid his finger on Matthias's left arm near his armpit.

‘Don't touch me!' The intensity of his outburst shocked even Matthias. This new reality was too confronting, too undermining of all that he thought he was. Ashamed, he turned away. ‘How do I know you didn't raid my medical records for a con, even set up the mugging as a ploy for me to trust you?'

In lieu of an answer Latcos began unbuttoning his own shirt.

‘Look.' He lifted up his left arm to reveal a small bluish birthmark – the mirror of Matthias's own.

‘It's not possible…' Matthias could barely form the words.

‘It must be hard for your world to collapse like a tent, and
I
don't care whether you believe me or not, but it's important for my mother.' Latcos tucked his shirt in. He glanced round the room and begun to hum, unconsciously, almost as if the tune gave him courage. The young gypsy moved towards the mantelpiece on which sat a photograph of Matthias, Marie and Liliane aged about ten. He pointed out the photograph. ‘This is your daughter?'

But it was the tune he had hummed that instantly caught Matthias's attention. He'd recognised it instantly; it was the refrain that had haunted him all his life.

‘That tune! How do you know that tune!'

Astonished at his tone, Latcos backed away. ‘It's an old gypsy lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a baby.'

‘Keja?' Matthias could barely form the words. Now her voice had come back to him, her face leaning over him, as she sang him to sleep. Deeply shocked, he staggered as if he'd been punched in the stomach. But now he understood why he'd spent all those years feeling like an observer not a participant; all the pieces that had never quite fitted were sliding into place and yet he couldn't let go of the two people he'd known as his mother and father. The young gypsy watched impassively.

‘She sang it to you too, no?'

Matthias didn't need to answer.

Latcos reached into his waistcoat pocket and placed an old black-and-white photograph on the kitchen counter. A gypsy girl of about twelve, standing in front of a caravan, she was smiling gaily into the camera; her braided hair had gold coins woven into it, and heavy gold earrings hung from her earlobes. The resemblance between the young girl and Liliane was more than uncanny. It was extraordinary.

‘That is my mother on her wedding day a year before the Nazi killed her family and took the statuette of Sara la Kali that had been in the keeping of my family for centuries. A cousin who survived kept the photograph.'

‘Why did he take the statuette?'

‘Your blood father knew it had powers. We Romanes both fear and worship it; our
familiya
were the custodians, until your father stole it. My uncle was found murdered outside the Holindt showroom a week ago. I believe he might have had information about where the holy relic has ended up.'

‘That was your uncle?'

‘And yours.'

 

Matthias watched the thin shadow of the man who claimed he was his half-brother slip beyond the driveway then disappear down the street. His mind was reeling. As he walked back to the study he thought about Elsa von Holindt, the woman who had claimed she was his mother. She had been a socialite who tolerated her husband's affairs with discreet grace, and despite a physical coldness towards Matthias, it had been she who'd first recognised his talent and encouraged him into science. There was no ambivalence in Matthias's mind; Elsa had loved him in her own awkward way. But then how could she have taken a baby from another woman in such circumstances? Perhaps she thought she was being charitable in adopting a war refugee, but why was there a strong physical resemblance between him and Christoph? And what about this gypsy woman, Keja? Was there some deep abyss within himself he'd been navigating round for all these years? Instinctively he knew this to be so, but it was an almost unbearable truth.

 

Treading carefully on the wooden steps, he climbed up to Liliane's bedroom. To his relief her door opened easily.

She was lying curled up under the blanket, the moonlight across her face illuminating the thick black hair falling in waves across the pillow, the deep-set and heavy-lidded eyes, the gentle arc of her nose and her full lips. In deep sleep she looked younger and untroubled. Matthias, careful to avoid the floorboards he knew that creaked, made his way over to her bedside. On the table beside the bed sat a framed photograph of his daughter aged eight, holding hands with her mother. Matthias held the black-and-white photograph of the young gypsy girl against it – the resemblance between the gypsy girl Keja and Liliane was stronger than the resemblance between Liliane and Marie.

Back in his bedroom he lay on the bed and stared at the dancing shadows the branches outside made on his ceiling. The drama of the day made it impossible to relax, but he knew that tomorrow would bring even greater challenges. He would have to go on living an identity that now felt inauthentic.
I am the sum of my actions and that's all that matters,
he tried rationalising, attempting to apply a reductive logic. It was no comfort. Unable to sleep, he checked his watch. It was still office hours in New York. This new revelation had made his mind up – he would break free of the company and of Christoph von Holindt's hold over him.

Lifting the telephone receiver, he called his stockbroker to confirm the arrangement he had made two days before: the sale of all his shares in the Holindt Watch Company at midday the following day.

The wood-panelled banqueting hall of the von Holindt family schloss had a huge table set in the centre of the marbled floor, covered with silverware and the remnants of a four-course feast. Silk banners, brightly coloured and embroidered, of the guilds associated with the watch company hung from the ceiling: the glass-grinders' guild, the cabinet-makers' guild, the goldsmiths' and silversmiths' – a display crowned by the largest banner of all which was of the family crest itself: a knight of the Templar order impaling a serpent. Made especially for the occasion, the family crest sat in the centre with the dates ‘1282–1982' written underneath.

A Strauss concerto played by a string quartet drifted down from the minstrels' gallery, mingling with the low murmurings of the fifty distinguished guests seated round the table. The dessert plates had just been cleared, and a tableau of waiters were busy pouring Château d'Yquem 1962 into crystal wine glasses. The scene was the very epitome of established Swiss wealth.

Christoph presided at the head of the table with Matthias to his left while Liliane sat to the right, the two sharing a joke. They looked like family – but were they? Matthias now wondered. He couldn't help feeling increasingly angry at the deception his childhood had become, angry at Christoph's withdrawal of funding – and at Christoph's fascist past. The young gypsy's revelations echoed and it was taking all of his energy to maintain a façade of pleasantry and charm – the expected behaviour of a son and scion of a dynasty. And as Matthias watched he thought he noticed a subtle change in Liliane's attitude towards her ‘grandfather', a detachment he hadn't seen before, a recklessness to her gestures.

The gravelly drunken voice broke into his reverie. ‘You thinking of remarrying any time soon?' Sitting opposite him was Otto Kuven, a mining magnate whose empire stretched from the coalfields of Norway to those in Spain. Kuven was also one of the major shareholders of the Holindt Watch Company and an outspoken nationalist prone to upsetting the local press. His red hair was peppered with white and his corpulent body seemed to have collapsed with the effect of gravity. He stared drunkenly at Matthias. ‘You should – that daughter of yours, she's a wild card, and Christoph deserves male blood. A grandson, someone solid and
male
to carry the line. It's important, you know. Women don't count.' He leaned even closer and Matthias could smell the rich redcurrant sauce the venison had been served with on his breath. ‘Tradition, heritage… in the end it's all that divides us from the masses.'

Matthias disguised his revulsion with a slight smile, knowing how powerful Kuven was in local politics; one word from him and the lease on your building might mysteriously expire or the bank might unexpectedly change their mind on that loan.

‘Actually, Herr Kuven, I don't think I will be remarrying or having another child any time soon.'

‘What a waste – all that education, all that privilege… Christoph might as well have pissed it all into the lake. Your generation, you haven't had to fight for anything, haven't had to reach into yourself and pull out the core of who you really are then hold up that flag proudly, against the doubters, against the rest of the world! Your father and I' – he gestured in their direction – ‘know. We are heroes, unsung, unloved, who have fought to maintain the national identity of Switzerland, the true identity,' Otto Kuven said harshly, as much to the rest of the table as to Matthias.

‘Never a truer word spoken,' said Mies Goepfert, a cadaverous man who Matthias knew distantly, as he was on the university board and instrumental in assigning research grants. Nodding, Otto lifted another glass of wine to his lips.

Thomas Mueller reached over and gently took the glass away from him. ‘Careful, Otto, we don't want to make a declaration we might regret tomorrow morning. Apologies, Herr Kuven can't hold his drink like he used to.'

‘Of course I fucking can!' Otto objected, slurring, and held up his glass to Christoph. ‘Damn fine wine!' he bellowed.

Christoph gave a little tolerant smile back.

‘As long as you're not driving yourself home in that Lotus of yours,' Chief Inspector Engels quipped, patting Otto's hand. ‘I can't promise to get you out of yet another speeding ticket,' he joked. Fastidiously neat, the chief inspector was the kind of man whose vanity kept him slim. With thinning blond hair and a beak-like nose, Engels was obsequious to the wealthy men around him but imperious with the waiters. It was hard to imagine how he dealt with the straight-talking, graceless Detective Klauser, Matthias concluded; the two men were polar opposites in both manner and personality.

He glanced down the table. Flanking them on either side, in an order that reflected both commercial and personal proximity to Christoph, were some of the most prominent businessmen of the canton. Matthias recognised several CEOs, two chairmen of major banks, a few government officials including the Bürgermeister and a couple of local celebrities as well as Christoph's elderly sister-in-law and a distant relative from France. The one person who was conspicuously absent was the second-largest shareholder in the Holindt Watch Company, Wim Jollak, Christoph's nemesis. Christoph had fallen out with the young entrepreneur a few months earlier over his radical ideas for restructuring the company.

The quartet finished playing and from across the room Bertholt signalled to Matthias that he should begin the speeches. Matthias got up and tapped his wine glass with his knife. The babble of voices ceased and he forced himself to smile at the expectant faces.

‘It is with great pride that I sit at this table today, great pride at not only being able to celebrate my father's eightieth birthday with him, but also great pride at being part of this extraordinary dynasty.' He found himself mouthing the words like an actor when he felt like announcing the truth – but what exactly was that? He glanced over at Christoph, who held his gaze like an innocent man, an elderly adoring father beaming back at his son. ‘All of you here are aware of the illustrious history of the Holindt Watch Company. Of how the Holindt family are descended from Templar knights who fled persecution in France in the fourteenth century. Of how the actual watch company was founded in 1282 by Manfried von Holindt, how within fifteen years Holindt was the official watchmaker for the Habsburg court with patrons throughout the empire. Strong leadership has been an integral part of its success – especially the leadership of my dear father during the last war.' Matthias stumbled slightly over the last word as he became aware of Liliane's gaze. She lifted her glass with a sardonic wave, but he ignored the gesture. ‘And so it is with great honour that I ask you to raise your glasses in a toast to both Christoph von Holindt and the Holindt Watch Company –
Herzlichen Glückwunsch
!'

There was a tinkle of glass as the guests raised their glasses in unison and turned towards Christoph.

‘
Herzlichen Glückwunsch!
' the guests echoed, as Christoph half-rose from his chair to take a small bow then collapsed back into it. The only person not to toast was Liliane.

Christoph reached over and squeezed Matthias's hand in gratitude. Finding it difficult to look him in the eye without betraying the turmoil he felt, Matthias looked down. Despite his bravado the aging aristocrat appeared fragile, his shrunken body swamped by the dress suit he was wearing, his hands trembling. As Bertholt hurried to his side and began helping Christoph to his feet Matthias took the opportunity to check his watch – the US market was due to open in ten minutes, the sale would be over five minutes after that, it would take the market another five to react, and another five for Christoph's broker to ring the chateau. Matthias steeled himself as Christoph cleared his throat, and the diners fell silent.

‘Thank you, Matthias – kind and generous praise indeed, and thank you to my lovely granddaughter Liliane and all my other relatives here tonight. One of the great beliefs of the founder of the company, Manfried von Holindt' – he pointed to the portrait hanging at the far wall of an elderly man in dour Lutheran clothes who seemed to stare disapprovingly at the festivities – ‘was the strength of family, of keeping the craft within the close circle of family.'

Matthias looked at his plate. Half of him wanted to walk out; the other half desperately wanted to believe in the charade, in the man he'd known as a loving father. It was hard to envisage him as a Nazi supporter; it was also unimaginable that he could not be his father. The agitation he felt was almost unbearable. To distract himself he began to play with a fine silver spoon. Oblivious, Christoph continued, his booming voice belying his shrunken frame.

‘And so again I thank you, Matthias, and one fact will always remain indisputable: you are my son. My heir.'

In the short silence that followed Matthias realised, to his dismay, that he had bent the spoon. Thomas, sensing his discomfort, reached over and laid his hand on Matthias's while Christoph went on, gathering momentum.

‘As for my leadership during those dark years of the war, that was merely a matter of economising and holding on…' A smattering of applause was broken only by the sound of a chair scraping back as Liliane got up.

‘What economising?' Her furious voice silenced the room instantly. ‘This company survived through collaboration with the Nazis! Admit it, Opa, you did business with Hitler's regime!'

And, as she flung her arm up in a parody of the Nazi salute, the hall seemed to hold its breath. The slim, rebellious figure of the girl with her arm held high, silhouetted against the fireplace.

‘Liliane!' Shocked, Matthias leaped to his feet, while Christoph seemed to falter.

‘What? What do you accuse me of? I saved the company! I made you!' Christoph shouted at the girl, who dropped her arm, but remained defiant. Around the table Matthias was aware of the reaction of the other guests: the sneering Otto Kuven, who looked for a moment as if he might leap to his feet and salute back; Thomas stiffening in his seat, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight; Engels looking ready to arrest Liliane; the waiters glancing at Bertholt for instructions. Then, in the awkward silence that followed, Otto began to laugh, his loud guffaws echoing round the hall as the other diners looked on, appalled.

A waiter stepped forward and tried to wrestle Liliane from the table while Bertholt rushed to Christoph's aid. The octogenarian brushed him away as he seemed to gather composure, almost as if he suddenly remembered where he was. ‘Besides, Liliane, if that was the case the company would have done a lot better,' Christoph joked, a thin attempt to cover his mortification. Around him a few of the guests broke into nervous laughter. Meanwhile Thomas hurried over to the physicist and his daughter.

‘Matthias, perhaps Liliane could do with some air.'

‘That's right – shut me up, Uncle Thomas!'

‘I'm sorry, Liliane, you're being irrational and dramatic. Understandably you're a little hysterical.'

‘What, because my grandfather is a Nazi?' Her voice was getting louder.

‘Matthias, please…' Thomas's anxious face left Matthias little option and he ushered his daughter out of the hall.

Liliane was in tears. ‘It's true and you know it, Papa! He's an old fascist! He's betrayed all that I believe in. You know I'm right. You've seen the evidence yourself.'

‘What evidence?'

‘The book, the clock book, the one the detective brought round. How could he do it?'

‘Keep your voice down. I'm going to get Opa's driver to take you home.'

‘That's right, silence the truth-speaker. Why should you be different…' Liliane's voice cracked with emotion, Matthias pulled her towards him.

‘Liliane, we
are
different, you and I,' he whispered into her hair. ‘I'm just trying to protect you. There are a lot of powerful men in there, dangerous men. Christoph is just one of them. You have to be very careful; we both do.' She stared up at him, her eyes wide. ‘For now we play along, but it won't always be like this. I love you, but there's a time and a place.'

 

 

Sitting in a police car hidden behind a large bank of fir trees the young police lieutenant nudged Klauser, who had tipped himself back in the passenger seat and was snoring with a copy of
Neue Zürcher Zeitung
folded over his face. Klauser woke with a snort and a start; he'd been dreaming about catching fish that flew in the sky with a butterfly net. For a moment he gazed blankly into the clusters of snow-laden branches pushing up against the car window and wondered whether he was still dreaming.

‘Here comes the druggie daughter, sent home early.' Timo's gruff voice brought him back to reality. A limousine turned the corner and glided past. Klauser snatched the binoculars from the lieutenant and peered through them. Liliane, her face a pale oval framed by the side window, looked visibly distressed.