The Snow Gypsy(59)

“Okay.” He bent over to fasten the buckle that held the panniers in place on the mule’s back. “Actually, it might be interesting for you to meet Maria—she used to supply the partisans with food.”

“Would she talk to me?” Rose frowned. “No one else around here seems to want to discuss what went on during the war.”

“Well, it’s a tricky subject. But Maria’s not like other people—she’s a force of nature. She’s not afraid of anyone.” He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “She has friends in high places.”

Rose tried hard to suppress the surge of hope his words had set off. But it wasn’t easy.

“See you in the morning, then.” His lips parted, revealing perfect white teeth. Unusual for a Gypsy. The combination of tobacco smoke and a nomadic lifestyle tended to make the men’s mouths their least attractive feature.

“Yes.” Rose smiled back. “See you in the morning.”





Chapter 22

Zoltan was waiting for Rose a few yards from the school gate when she dropped Nieve off the next day. He tipped his hat to them as they came up the track.

“Who’s that?” Nieve whispered.

“It’s the man I was telling you about—the one who has the sick mule.”

“It doesn’t look very sick to me.”

“He’s got two, that’s why!” Rose ruffled Nieve’s hair.

“Are you both going to ride on that one?” The child gave her a mischievous look.

“Nieve! He’s brought it for me to ride—though I’m perfectly capable of walking up the mountain.” Rose shooed her off to join her classmates.

When she reached Zoltan, Gunesh was already there, jumping up and licking his face.

“Get down, Gunesh!” She grabbed the dog’s collar.

“It’s all right,” Zoltan said. “He’s a fine animal, isn’t he?” He cocked his head toward the school. “And your little girl is very pretty.”

“Thank you.” Rose turned to stroke the mule, unable to meet his eye. “Her name is Nieve.”

“As in the Spanish for snow?”

“Yes. It was snowing when she was born.” To change the subject, she asked him where he’d learned to speak English.

“From the soldiers who liberated the camp I was in.”

Rose’s hand stopped halfway down the mule’s neck. “You were in one of the death camps?”

“Yes.” His eyes went to his feet. “I was in a place called Mauthausen. In Austria.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to . . .”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He cupped his hands, making a step to help her to climb onto the mule’s back. “I try not to think about it.”

“I can understand that.” She settled herself into the saddle. “Two of my relatives died in concentration camps.”

He looked up at her, blinking as the sun caught his eyes.

“They were Jews living in Paris.”

“That’s terrible. I . . .” He trailed off, looking away.

Rose wondered if, like Jean Beau-Marie, he had lost family members in the camp. Perhaps, like Jean, he wished he had died alongside them. Clearly it was a part of his life he didn’t want to revisit. His awkward silence made her change the subject. “This is a very beautiful part of Spain, isn’t it?” she said. “I love all the rivers and wildflowers.”

“You’ve come at the best time.” He took the reins and began leading the mule up the track. “It’s hard to believe now how cold it was in March—much colder than anywhere else I’ve lived. I was snowed in for a whole week.”

“How did you survive?”

“On chestnuts.” He made a wry face. “Luckily I had plenty of firewood—the partisans had left a stack of logs behind. Otherwise I might have frozen to death up there.” With his free hand he pointed to the rugged peak of the mountain silhouetted against the sky. “It’s higher than the highest peaks of the Pyrenees. Have you heard the name of it?”

Rose shook her head.

“The local people call it the Mulhacén—after the last Moorish ruler of Granada. They say he asked to be buried up there.” He looked over his shoulder at the land falling away behind them. “Not a bad place to spend eternity, is it?”

It was just a throwaway remark, but for Rose it conjured an image of Nathan lying alone and abandoned. She drew in a breath and expelled it slowly, trying to dispel the dark thoughts that crowded in. Zoltan was right. If her worst fears were confirmed, she must console herself with the fact that this wild, beautiful landscape was exactly what her brother would have chosen as a final resting place.

She twisted around in the saddle, following Zoltan’s gaze. She could see the river gorge and the tiny houses hugging the bank. Beyond them, to the east, was another, lower mountain range. The shadows the sun cast on its spurs and ravines gave it the look of crumpled curtains.

“Oh! I can see the sea!” Rose shaded her eyes with her hand.

“Can you see a dark smudge above the blue?”

“What is it?”

“It’s Africa: Morocco. The Rif Mountains.”