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Authors: Rolf Bauerdick
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foresters wrapped his frozen body in sheepskins and took him to the Apoldasch forge where the young blacksmith
Emil Simenov was working at the time, before getting married and taking over the smithy in Baia Luna. The grumpy Simenov was known to be no great friend of the Gypsies’. But actually, he was
no great friend of anybody’s. Whenever the men in Grandfather’s tavern reproached the gruff fellow for his sour mood and lack of human kindness, Simenov would always answer, “And
who was it who saved the Black blabbermouth in ’35? You or me? He was a block of ice when they carried him into my forge, and if I hadn’t put Dimitru Carolea Gabor next to the fire he
never would have thawed out. And who loaned the Black a warm shirt, overalls, and hobnail boots and never got them back? Me or you? With my own hands I schlepped that miserable weakling back to
Baia Luna, him and his idiotic little bottles. Those Blacks are nothing but trouble.”
When Emil Simenov saw the three Brancusi brothers nodding in agreement, he cooled off and shut up again.
Johannes Baptiste scheduled the joint burial of my grandmother Agneta and Dimitru’s father Laszlo for the forenoon of December 22. As far back as anyone can remember, that burial in the
year 1935 was the biggest in the history of the village. Dozens of delegations arrived from Bessarabia and the Bukovina, from the Banat and Walachia, from Dobruja and even the distant Budapest to
pay their last respects.
At the wake following the interment there were so many mourners to serve that the Gabor tribe ran up debts for years to come and had to sell all their gold jewelry and horses. No one in Baia
Luna would fail to be at the cemetery, and the brass band from Apoldasch played so soulfully that the mourners’ breath stood still and their tears froze to icy pearls. The villagers certainly
felt sympathy for Laszlo the Gypsy, but more for my grandfather and the half orphans Antonia and Nicolai. In acknowledgment of their part in the death of the young mother, even the wholesaler Hossu
brothers from Kronauburg showed up. They promised Grandfather to replace the wares swept away by the Tirnava for free, and they kept their word.
On the day before the double burial, Johannes Baptiste had seen to it that there wouldn’t be a scandal. While inspecting Cemetery Hill he saw that the hired grave diggers had already
finished a hole in the ground. Then he heard quiet voices coming from beyond the cemetery wall. The organist Marku Konstantin and the sacristan Knaup were sinking a hole in the frozen ground with
pickaxes and shovels while Konstantin’s sister-in-law Kora looked on.
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked the priest.
“This hole’s for the Gypsy,” answered Julius Knaup. “He’s not baptized.”
The Benedictine flushed with righteous anger. Not even for a second had it ever occurred to Father Johannes to wonder whether Laszlo Gabor had a baptismal certificate. Nor would the thought ever
have crossed his mind to scrape a hole for the upright Gypsy in unconsecrated ground.
“You have five minutes,” he thundered, “exactly five minutes. If not, I’m going to pray every morning, noon, and night that your dirty souls will be crawling through the
filth of hell to the end of time.”
Two minutes later, as Grandfather loved to relate with a grin, the hole was filled.
As far as I know, Laszlo Carolea was the first of the Gabor tribe whose mortal remains found their rest in consecrated ground. Full of gratitude, the Gypsies went en masse to the priest’s
house after the burial of their
bulibasha
and insisted that each one get to kiss the blessed hand of the man of God. Then, led by Dimitru, they asked to receive the sacrament of baptism,
and their request was granted. Without protest, Dimitru allowed Pater Johannes, with both hands, to push his bushy head three times—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost—into the holy water of the
Emil Simenov was working at the time, before getting married and taking over the smithy in Baia Luna. The grumpy Simenov was known to be no great friend of the Gypsies’. But actually, he was
no great friend of anybody’s. Whenever the men in Grandfather’s tavern reproached the gruff fellow for his sour mood and lack of human kindness, Simenov would always answer, “And
who was it who saved the Black blabbermouth in ’35? You or me? He was a block of ice when they carried him into my forge, and if I hadn’t put Dimitru Carolea Gabor next to the fire he
never would have thawed out. And who loaned the Black a warm shirt, overalls, and hobnail boots and never got them back? Me or you? With my own hands I schlepped that miserable weakling back to
Baia Luna, him and his idiotic little bottles. Those Blacks are nothing but trouble.”
When Emil Simenov saw the three Brancusi brothers nodding in agreement, he cooled off and shut up again.
Johannes Baptiste scheduled the joint burial of my grandmother Agneta and Dimitru’s father Laszlo for the forenoon of December 22. As far back as anyone can remember, that burial in the
year 1935 was the biggest in the history of the village. Dozens of delegations arrived from Bessarabia and the Bukovina, from the Banat and Walachia, from Dobruja and even the distant Budapest to
pay their last respects.
At the wake following the interment there were so many mourners to serve that the Gabor tribe ran up debts for years to come and had to sell all their gold jewelry and horses. No one in Baia
Luna would fail to be at the cemetery, and the brass band from Apoldasch played so soulfully that the mourners’ breath stood still and their tears froze to icy pearls. The villagers certainly
felt sympathy for Laszlo the Gypsy, but more for my grandfather and the half orphans Antonia and Nicolai. In acknowledgment of their part in the death of the young mother, even the wholesaler Hossu
brothers from Kronauburg showed up. They promised Grandfather to replace the wares swept away by the Tirnava for free, and they kept their word.
On the day before the double burial, Johannes Baptiste had seen to it that there wouldn’t be a scandal. While inspecting Cemetery Hill he saw that the hired grave diggers had already
finished a hole in the ground. Then he heard quiet voices coming from beyond the cemetery wall. The organist Marku Konstantin and the sacristan Knaup were sinking a hole in the frozen ground with
pickaxes and shovels while Konstantin’s sister-in-law Kora looked on.
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked the priest.
“This hole’s for the Gypsy,” answered Julius Knaup. “He’s not baptized.”
The Benedictine flushed with righteous anger. Not even for a second had it ever occurred to Father Johannes to wonder whether Laszlo Gabor had a baptismal certificate. Nor would the thought ever
have crossed his mind to scrape a hole for the upright Gypsy in unconsecrated ground.
“You have five minutes,” he thundered, “exactly five minutes. If not, I’m going to pray every morning, noon, and night that your dirty souls will be crawling through the
filth of hell to the end of time.”
Two minutes later, as Grandfather loved to relate with a grin, the hole was filled.
As far as I know, Laszlo Carolea was the first of the Gabor tribe whose mortal remains found their rest in consecrated ground. Full of gratitude, the Gypsies went en masse to the priest’s
house after the burial of their
bulibasha
and insisted that each one get to kiss the blessed hand of the man of God. Then, led by Dimitru, they asked to receive the sacrament of baptism,
and their request was granted. Without protest, Dimitru allowed Pater Johannes, with both hands, to push his bushy head three times—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost—into the holy water of the
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