Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(43)
The clicking of jars and cans and the labored hum of the refrigerator made for domestic sounds, but the silence between Duke and her was unbearable. Even Ulysses, tail between his legs, slunk back into the parlor.
“Did Bud get to practice tennis?” she ventured.
“Yeah,” he gritted, not even bothering to glance at her.
At that, she slammed down the sack of sugar. “Ye dunna have to treat me like I got no feelings, Duke McClellan. Just because I’ve the radio turned up loudly.”
He braced his saucer-sized palms on the counter. Too long, he stared at one of its cracked, colorful tiles. Then, “You’re right, Romy. It’s just that I’ve grown used to living alone.”
She wasn’t going to let him off that easily. “Canna ye not admit ye might be a wee bit interested in meself?”
With that, he spun on her, gripping her upper arms. The air was suddenly hot-wire charged. “Yes. But then living in close quarters as we are, I’d be interested in a gun moll. So, if you want, we can get it on right here.”
He released her right arm to sweep the sack of sugar from the counter top. The sack hit the floor with a thud, and she saw the precious sugar spill like sand onto the flagstone. Her startled gaze swung back to his – explosive with pure, intense desire.
“We can fuck like rabbits, Sunshine. Is that what you want?”
That word, fuck, coming from him, shocked her. She might not be good enough for his taste, but the vertical length of bulge, stretching tightly the metal riveted crotch of his Levi’s, betrayed that he was having a hell of a time tamping down his rutting urge.
Nervous, she feigned a smile. “What I want is for ye to help me clean up the sugar, if ye please – and then help me with me reading and writing after dinner.”
His head fell back, and mirthless laughter rumbled from deep in his chest. “If that doesn’t beat all, no interest – and coming from the runt of the litter.”
§ § §
Straddling the kitchen stool for height, Romy was having a devil of a time placing a call through Mamie, the switchboard operator, to reach Gideon at his Capitol office.
“Gideon Goldman,” crackled his cognac-warm voice over the line.
“Uhh, Gideon, tis Romy.” This talking into a wooden box was so nonsensical. She needed to see a person. See the light come or go in their eyes, watch the play of their brows, and observe both the shift of their lips and the color that might flood their neck and cheeks.
“Romy?” Gideon’s silk-smooth voice tightened ever so slightly with tension. “Is everything all right?”
She twined the short cord around her short forefinger. “Aye. No deportation looming . . . yet.”
A pause, and then, “Yes?”
She could hear his puzzlement. “Ummm, the S&S is having Christmas dinner, and . . . well, you being a Jew, I thought you might be alone on this Christian holiday.”
“Is this an invitation?”
“Yuirself and me might not be bosom buddies, Gideon, maybe more like foxhole buddies, but aye. Tis an invitation.”
She felt an affinity for the knave. They shared a fearsome past, t’was true. But it was more than that. In a sense, she supposed they were essentially alike, always looking for an angle. Just one of life’s little ironies.
And, as for the present, she had been thinking how his sophistication could ease the tension between herself and Duke. But now it did not seem like such a grand idea. Especially since she had yet to advise Duke of her invitation.
“Most likely, though, you don’t have transportation,” she backpedaled, “so maybe at another – ”
“I’ll be there.”
§ § §
He was Jewish. Worse, he was deformed. At least, according to the mediocre standards of the rest of the world.
Those attributes most certainly did not endear him to Nazi Germany.
Nor did they endear him to the WASP’s ruling class of the United States. He had spent an abbreviated year in Dallas through an international exchange program for gifted scholars in finance and business. His scholarship had not been renewed. Excuses had been given, but he knew why. His kind was not acceptable to the elite White Anglo Saxon Protestants.
Nevertheless, he knew how to prove himself indispensable. Had he not fed the Nazi’s information machine, while keeping his own Jewish hide intact?
Had he not diverted the almighty American dollar, specified for Berlin’s American Jewish Joint Distribution office, supposedly to furniture requisitions and sundry running expenditures, without leaving a paper trail?
He could not go back. Go back to the Nazi ideology of a superior race of the tall, fair, and strapping Nordic individuals of Aryan stock. And, especially, not when in Germany and even here in America Nazi adherents would quite eagerly take him out upon learning of his double-dealing.
He could only go forward. And forward meant not suffering any foolish folks to stand in the way of a better life for himself.
§ CHAPTER ELEVEN §
Christmas Day. At that moment, Berlin’s Spandau district would be lit with fairy lights. Its Christmas market would feature Scandinavian flame-salmon, Ukrainian Christmas tree decorations, and the obligatory mulled wine. Snowflakes as big as a vase doily could be lacing the frosty air.
Outside Berlin, years before the Nazis had come into power, swarthy gypsy men had stamped and clapped, while raven-eyed women swirled their long, brilliantly-colored, flounced skirts and danced around caravan fires in honor of the birth of Jesus.