Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(46)



“Like Pilate, I have already washed my hands,” came an amused voice behind her.

She turned to find Gideon standing in the kitchen’s parlor doorway. She had not really expected him to come and, inexplicably, felt a gladness of heart.

Slightly to one side of him and behind, posed a dark-haired, attractive woman. Possessing intelligent eyes, she wore a white tailored blouse and gray suit that enhanced her olive skin tone.

“Meet my friend Miriam Müller, a professor of Germanic Studies at the University of Texas,” Gideon told those already assembled in the kitchen. “She volunteered to drive me out to the S&S.”

“I hope you do not mind,” Miriam said with a polite smile set on a firm mouth. She stepped forward and slipped her hand in Gideon’s. “I am new to UT’s faculty, and both of us were left adrift.”

“Of course, not,” Romy said and scrambled to place another setting at the already crowded table. “Tis glad we are that the both of ye could come.”

The standing ranch hands were casting sheep eyes at yet another female in their midst and by turns nodded their enthusiastic greetings.

“Take off your hat,” Romy nudged Glen, who promptly capped it on the wall peg.

“I brought a bottle of wine,” Gideon added, holding it aloft. “Alas, not a bottle of Germany’s fine Riesling.”

Wine glasses were nowhere to be had, and she trotted out additional water-spotted, mismatched ones and parceled a meager amount of the Riesling into each.

By that time, Duke, along with Sally and her father, joined them. Romy hastened to introduce Gideon and Miriam before Duke could turn his inquiring frown upon her presumptuousness to issue an invitation on her own.

He tipped the brim of his hat in deference to Miriam. “Welcome to the S&S,” he said with a cordial smile that never once, Romy noted, had he accorded herself. He and her father hooked their hats onto free wall pegs, and Duke pulled out a chair for Sally.

“Thanks for having us, Duke,” her father said in a voice rusted by age, his long, graying mustache drooping with the loose flesh of his jowls.

As everyone seated themselves, Romy set the last steaming platter on the table.

“Ejoli,” Arturo said, “thees smells delicioso!”

“Smells like mah mammy’s cooking,” Micah mumbled, which, coming from a man who rarely spoke, she construed as a compliment.

Her blaa, the tender dollops of baked salted dough and butter, vanished immediately. Her Christmas cooking turned out to be a success, with nothing over-heated or undercooked. Mayhap, she could still convince Duke to keep her on as the S&S cook – beyond the year’s contract. At least, until she stashed away enough for life in Ireland.

But, of course, Duke’s decision might, also, depend on whom he took to wife.

The topics of conversation ranged from the mediocre, Skinny Henry’s enthusiasm over Chicago cardinals, redbirds or whatever they were – to the horrific, Miriam’s introducing the heart-wrenching subject of the recent Krystallnacht.

Six weeks earlier, on November 9th, Nazis had attacked Jewish businesses throughout Germany. At the end of it all, thousands of Jewish businesses had been looted and tens of thousands of Jews arrested.

The discussion revived memories that chilled Romy, and she quickly interjected, “Scalloped potatoes, anyone?”

But Gideon wouldn’t leave it alone. Eyes as ice gray as Nordic fjords machine-gunned one person to the next around the long table. “I know you think it cannot happen here. But it can. To use your baseball vernacular, if people everywhere want to live safely, America has got to step up to the plate.”

She was not certain what the word ‘vernacular’ meant, but what the hell had happened to the convivial guest she had expected in Gideon?

His long legs stretched out to one side, Duke hooked an arm over his chair’s spindly ear. Surprisingly, he appeared at ease with the conversation. Mayhap, the wine had taken the edge off him. “You sound like Roosevelt stumping for office, Goldman.”

“If not Roosevelt, then who will take a stand?” Miriam asked, her expressive dark eyes challenging. “Will it take a Jewish U.S. president to say enough of these atrocities? And do you seriously think Americans are ready for a Jewish President?”

“No more than they are ready for a Catholic President,” Duke said amiably. “But the day could come.”

Romy noted he had said ‘they are ready’ rather than ‘we are ready.’ He was not one to be corralled with the others.

Gideon, his dueling scar a vivid lightning strike, eyed her accusingly, as if he expected her to speak up against Nazism, but why? Some Americans might take a stand in behalf of the Jews, but Gypsies – never would they.

Before the conversation could lapse into a discordant political note, she said, “Arturo, play yuir guitar for us, will ye? Christmas songs?”

While he retrieved his guitar from the bunkhouse, she cleared the table and dribbled out the last of the wine, then broke out Sam’s tequila.

The ranch hands joked among themselves, and Miriam and Sally discussed the latest in hosiery, the sheer nylons. With Micah listening avidly, Sally’s father shared the ballyhoo over the recent world heavyweight boxing championship title won by Joe Louis, of poor negro roots, over the German Max Schmeling, with ties to Hitler.

Meanwhile, Romy sliced her Christmas carrot cake, made with stubby carrots she had gleaned from the kitchen garden. She could feel Duke’s gunsight narrowed on her. Had she gone too far in inviting Gideon?

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