Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(61)
Prior to the concert, a grand banquet was to be served at Saengerrunde Hall – known also as Scholz’s Garten, the oldest continually operated tavern in Texas.
Hot-air balloon ascensions, marching bands, and military drill teams, plus bowling and other games and amusements were scheduled around the garden’s bubbling spring.
Gideon pulled out his brass pocket watch. He sorely missed his Meisterstück. Gone – thanks to Romy’s derring-do. Twenty minutes of six.
Where the hell was she?
And where was Irina? Had she successfully evaded the SS?
“Do not worry yourself so,” Miriam said. “Romy Sonnenschein is a grown girl and can take care of herself, I assure you. You preoccupy yourself far too much with the refugee.” Reassuringly, she patted his sleeve, her forearm linked with his as they strolled Scholz’s gardens.
Miriam, of course, was right. Why should he be so preoccupied with the Gypsy scammer? True, Romy was out of the ordinary. But were not all con artists? He should know.
He and Miriam wandered beyond the bubbling spring and fountains to the menagerie with bears, deer, alligators and parrots. The two outdoor stages for concerts and plays were in sight just beyond, and the picnic tables, positioned beneath shade trees, were already packed.
Long lines had formed at the two buffet tables. Scholz’s was legendary for its roast beef, jellied fish, herring salad, chili, and every other kind of dish imaginable – plus its desserts. Today, all for .75 cents.
He staked out one of the last vacant tables. “Wait here,” he told Miriam, “and I will get us beer and a platter of food.”
She gave him a heartwarming smile. “I’ll be waiting for you, as always, Gideon.”
He was one lucky man. Miriam was giving and reassuring and dependable. As organized as she was, she was on top of everything. Better than any military commander. Not a needy woman, like Lavinia had been, Miriam provided a loving touch. Best, she had his back.
By contrast, Romy possessed none of those attributes. Where the hell was she? He had put his professional reputation on the line to finalize this gig for the Gypsy scamp.
“There ye be,” came Romy’s voice, a genie summoned by rubbing a lamp. And having her back was the towering McClellan.
Gideon nodded up at him, then barked at Romy, “You have five minutes to check in at Stage Two!”
She flashed him that megawatt grin. “Got it, Gideon Goldman.” And then she and the tall Texan were swallowed up by the influx of the evening’s spectators.
He was chagrinned by her lackadaisical approach to life, but should he have expected anything different?
However, her performance that evening was anything but lackadaisical. Passionate, powerful, vibrant. Delivered with unimaginable fire and vitality.
Now he could understand why Romani were celebrated for their musical heritage. They had influenced jazz, bolero, flamenco music, even classical composers like Franz Liszt. Most likely, the next day the Austin Daily Statesman would dutifully report on Romy Sonnenschein’s great technique, flair, and progression of her performance.
What a loss; they would know nothing about the wild, vagabond spirit behind it all.
§ § §
Romy finished her performance with her signature song, “Lost in Your Smile”, to thunderous applause.
Stashing Arturo’s borrowed guitar in its banged-up case – she really needed to save enough money to buy her own guitar – her cheap jewelry tinkled out her fraud. Gypsies loved opulence. And she flaunted it, because that was what was expected of her.
She groped her way offstage, behind the curtains. But where she would have descended the three-step staircase, Moe blocked her way. Was it fate that he invariably turned up at the gateway between heaven and hell? As below, so above?
Stubby arms folded across his barrel chest, he said, “Well, now, why did I not receive a gold-scripted invitation to your performance tonight?”
Her grip on the case handle tightened. She drew a steadying breath. “Moe, I told ye I canna help ye. Ye have more ready access to him than I do, what with your Jewish Relief work here in Austin.”
His mouth, large in proportion to the rest of his body, stretched like a rubber band about to snap close. “It’s not about helping me. It’s about helping yourself. A kapo at Sachsenhausen has suddenly recalled where he saw you before.”
She refused to let him see her quake. “Tis sure I am his memory was joggled by yuir miserable self.”
His rubber-band mouth stretched wider. “Now that Colonel Klauffen knows you are alive, he would naturally be interested in your brother – and you – again. You know, interrogations, examinations, inquisitions, those kinds of things.”
Her skin shriveled. German spy rings were known to be operating in the States, and the radio had recently announced German saboteurs had been apprehended before they could explode a bomb on Niagara Falls.
Her Gypsy folk lived according to the unwritten rules of the road. Knew to avoid rats. Knew to wash your hand before you ate. Knew not to take the last piece of pie. Knew that pearls and gold must be real.
Her clan knew the law of the land. Knew not to make eye contact with the Nazis. Knew that the wealthy made the laws. Knew that those laws did not protect people like her, living in poverty.
Her clan also knew that bride kidnapping, whether in Ireland or Czechoslovakia, was a good way to avoid a bride price. Knew that virginity was essential to an unmarried woman.