Aishe befriended a sweet Austrian girl named Kitti, whose family owned a small farm. Aishe wanted nothing more than to learn how to read like Kitti, who always had storybooks with her. Aishe had never seen books up close, for no Rom knew how to read or write. Her people carried their history through songs and the stories the elders told every night around the fire. When Aishe offered Kitti a necklace to teach her to read and speak German, Kitti agreed.
Aishe snuck into her family’s wagon to retrieve it; the necklace she found in Dinka’s chest was one of countless others. She assured herself no one would notice if it went missing. Her grandmother could barely see anymore and there were plenty left.
The girls met almost every day for several winters, and by the end of the past winter, Aishe had mastered the language. She and Kitti had also become friends.
Kitti began to lend her books, which Aishe took special care to hide. If she was ever caught with a book she would be beaten. The Rom were not allowed to pollute their mind with the gadjes’ words.
One day Aishe came home from Kitti’s and found the camp in an uproar. Her father had found the books.
“What are these?” He threw Kitti’s books at her feet and stomped on them. Then he grabbed Aishe by the hair and dragged her to the campfire.
“Papa, no! I’m sorry!”
Enraged, he took a leather cord and whipped her back repeatedly. “You! Are! Not! My! Daughter!” he yelled. With each word he cracked the strap harder.
Deaf to her screams, he reached for the branding iron in the fire.
Her mother grabbed his arm, “Stop! Stop it!”
She barely managed to keep him from maiming their daughter’s face. He took the rod to Aishe’s hand instead and held it until it seared off her skin.
Aishe shrieked and fell back, clutching her hand.
“So you’ll never forget.” He raised the rod, ready to burn her again.
Hysterical, her mother screamed to Aishe’s eldest cousin. “Take her! Niko! Take her!”
By now Simza and all the elders in the camp were yelling the same. Niko picked Aishe up and ran off with her into the forest. They found a faraway place to hide, and Niko brought Aishe water from a nearby stream to soak her hand.
“What were you thinking?” he scoffed. “Reading words. Bringing books here. Everyone knows they’re tainted.”
“They’re not. They’re beautiful.” Aishe wept, cradling her maimed hand. “One day we will have our own books.”
“That’s absurd,” Niko said, turning his back on her.
That evening Simza came to find them. She appeared beside Aishe in the dark and lifted her chin. Aishe stared back at her with tears glistening in her eyes.
“It is done” was all Simza said. Then she led her back to camp.
Her father had gone off to drink away his anger. Aishe lay down in her family’s wagon and let Simza tend her wound with one of her special salves. All the while Simza sang a song Aishe had never heard before, a sad melody about a daughter leaving her family and never seeing them again.
“What is that song, Grandmother?” Aishe whispered.
“One you know well,” Simza said.
Before Aishe could ask Simza to explain, her mother came inside.
Her mother hesitated, something she never did. Aishe had never her seen her look so solemn.
“You must marry,” she finally said.
Aishe could not believe it. “Who?”
“Milosh Badi.”
Tears sprang to Aishe’s eyes. “But Milosh Badi is Grandmother’s age.”
“You will marry him,” her mother said. “You’re sixteen.”
“He’s as old and weathered as a tree!”
“He is a musician,” her mother reminded her. “A good one.”
“He’s ancient!” Aishe began to sob. She could not believe her parents would marry her off to him.
“Milosh Badi will die soon and you will be a widow,” her mother said in her pragmatic way. “Your father has willed it so.”
“He is punishing me for the books.”
“You are never to speak of them or I will disown you myself!” her mother hissed. Then she left.
Aishe curled up on her blanket and felt her grandmother’s frail hand stroke her hair. Simza began to sing the same song again. Aishe closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, but her mind was full of wild thoughts. She must leave. She had to. Like the girl in the song, she would run away and start anew.
Simza was right. Aishe did know the song. She had known it all her life.
*
While everyone slept, Aishe gathered her things with the stealth of a thief. She moved to the edge of the tent and saw that her grandmother was watching her.
Simza sat up with the eeriness of a phantom. Aishe froze, not knowing what to do. Simza had the power to decide her fate. If her grandmother woke her father, no one would be able to spare Aishe from his retribution.
The two women locked eyes. Simza’s held the full weight of the cohalyi that she was. She picked up an object in the darkness and offered it to Aishe.
Through the faint streams of moonlight, Aishe saw that her grandmother was holding out Dinka’s chest.
Aishe took the gift. Then Simza draped two amulets around her neck and placed her favorite seashell in Aishe’s hand as a blessing. She motioned Aishe toward the wagon’s open door with a look that said, Go and live. I will always be with you.
The Hanged Man
Semele knew exactly the year that Simza had described in Dinka’s story. The plague had hit Northern Italy in 1629 and wiped out half of Milan’s population by 1630. Somehow Ionna had foretold those events over a thousand years before. It was just too incredible.
Semele closed her computer. She had been in the Beinecke reading room for hours and her eyes needed a rest. The day was winding down and she couldn’t put off calling her mother any longer. She gathered her things and left the building.
The brisk air hit her when she stepped outside. She buttoned her coat and walked over to Blue State Coffee to get an espresso. Depending on how fast she worked, she might be able to translate several more pages before heading to her mother’s. She wanted to find out what happened to Aishe and the cards.
She knew with striking certainty she needed to figure out how to locate them, and quickly, and she realized there was one person she could call: Sebastian Abbes, a card historian in the Netherlands. She had worked with him earlier in the year while dismantling a collection for a Dutch client who had several valuable decks. If anyone knew about Ionna’s deck, he would.
She checked her watch and quickly calculated the time difference. The Netherlands was six hours ahead. It was evening there now, but Sebastian wouldn’t mind. The man was a night owl and crazy to boot.
She fished her cell phone from her purse and saw she had four missed calls and three voice mails from Bren. She stared at the phone with a sinking heart, unable to listen to the messages and call him back—not yet, not when she didn’t know how to say what needed to be said. It felt like swimming upstream. Instead she sent him a text: At Mom’s dealing with some things. Will call you when I get back. She clicked send, feeling like a jerk, but she had to focus.