Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(15)
A couple of times later, on those closely escorted trips between Sachsenhausen barracks and its experiment lab, she had seen the dwarf with Klauffen and his dogs.
Moishe Klein a collaborator with the Nazis?
She could call Moishe out. But, no. In America, it would be her word, a Gypsy’s, against his, a volunteer agent working benevolently in behalf of Berlin’s American Jewish Joint Distribution Center.
Besides, better to lay low than call attention to herself. Yet, Holy Mother, it seemed she invariably did so. Called attention to herself.
The best she could hope for was that Moishe’s recall was faulty, which was likely in this case, since his memory of her, if it existed, would have been of long ago and only in association with her twin brother, the SS doctors’ prime lab experiment samples – two of Dr. Mengele’s many twins who had seen unspeakable horror.
Perfectly creased new felt hat in hand, Gunter crossed the short concrete expanse and met her with that perpetual smirk. “Well, my beloved, better late than – ”
“ – than pregnant,” she retorted with false bravado.
The politician, Johnson, slapped his trousered thigh with his big hat and emitted a guffaw of laughter.
But the fine hairs on her skin stood on ends, like antennae, perceiving yet another menace beyond the realm of these four men.
“Under the auspices of the National Youth Association, the three of you will be relocated to the Austin area,” the rabbi was saying. “Miss Klockner, you’ll be working for the rancher, Duke McClellan.”
“Come,” Senator Johnson said, cupping her elbow and steering her to the row of nearest seats, a few feet away. “Let’s introduce you to your sponsor. Your life will be in his hands”
The last held the lighthearted, folksy tone of a jest, but her instincts warned differently. Duke? She shivered. Not a good omen. Not with Old Duke most likely counting worms. Not that she was superstitious.
The sinewy, sun-weathered man with the black broom of a mustache took his time rising to his full height, made even more extraordinary by scuffed boots. His holey jeans were so old, they shined.
Nevertheless, his stature exuded confidence – and a strength bent on outlasting whatever or whoever opposed him. His blue eyes burned hotter than a solar flare. Clearly, he was not happy about this. She would have to tread carefully.
He tipped his sweat-stained cowboy hat that must have once been black, in deference, however briefly, to the female species in his presence. “Ma’am.” He shoved lengthy fingers through unruly hair, the burnt brown of a lightning-struck oak, that was matted to his pale forehead by the hat’s sweat band.
“Now you three understand,” Congressman Johnson was confiding, “what Operation Texas is doing – hiding you Jews in our government NYA’s program – is not officially condoned by the Feds and could get me in a shitload of legal trouble, not to mention sending you back to Germany if word of this gets around.”
The cowboy settled back his hat to shadow irregular, saturnine features made somehow and impossibly attractive. “Harold,” he told the rabbi, “this is not what I had in mind – dodging the law.”
“Think of it this way,” the congressman said with a clap on the rancher’s back, “we are helping Jews dodge the bullet.”
Her sponsor’s flinty eyes were uncompromising sparks. The iron-set of his jaw proclaimed he was not going to give her a chance.
“Now, Duke, you know you need a cook,” the rabbi rebuked. “As a cook, Miss Klockner here will fit your needs admirably.”
“A cook?” she squeaked.
“You’re really thinking, Harold, this . . . this . . . ” the cowboy’s hand gestured dismissively at her, “ . . . could cook for seven men?” His voice was the low rumbling sound of a funeral caisson. Her funeral.
“Seven – seventy,” she beamed, “does not matter. Even those Frenchie chefs have not seen the likes of my cooking.”
Black eyebrows lowered over heavily-lidded eyes that could melt a polar ice cap. He was not amused by her play to the gallery. Squint lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes suggested he was well beyond youth’s callowness, and his mannerisms suggested a rugged stubbornness that time would not tame.
And if she knew anything, she knew mannerisms. Survival meant the ability to read latent intentions that other people’s bodies telegraphed. Obviously, the man ruled his passions stringently. Self-contained and strong willed, aye, that he was. She would have her hands full convincing him he needed her.
“You, Mr. Klein,” the rabbi continued serenely, ignoring the cowboy’s scowling challenge, “will continue to work with our American Jewish Joint Committee in Austin. They could use your knowledge and expertise of Europe’s Jewish communities.”
The dwarf rubbed his paws expectantly. “About finances, Rabbi?”
“Of course, each of you will receive a salary. A small one, albeit. And, of course, you will be provided with food and shelter. Mrs. Lavinia Spiegel, the chairwoman of Austin’s Jewish Relief Volunteer Program, is our coordinator.”
“And as for you, Wagner,” Johnson said, “I have arranged a position with my Austin office’s Archives Department, beginning tomorrow.”
“It requires a vast amount of clerical work,” the rabbi told Gunter, “and Congressman Johnson thinks it will suit your legal background admirably.”