Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(8)
Lucky Irina.
§ § §
The situation was not only bleak but, also, Kafkaesque. Strongly surreal was Gideon Goldman’s predicament, with the cigarette smoke floating ethereally between him and the evil power sitting across the desk from him.
Nevertheless, Gideon presented the unflappable image of Gunter Wagner, Esquire, as he lounged on the hard, wooden-back chair, one arm hooked over the top railing. His cigarette dangled from between elegant fingers that swept the air in a negligible gesture. Still, his dueling scar tingled with the rush of adrenaline. How in the hell had he let Irina finagle him into helping the Resistance?
“True, Herr Colonel, I was in Warsaw at the time of the shooting, but my fiancée and I – ”
“Irina Klockner?”
“Ya. We were enjoying a little romantic getaway.” He winked with a smile of bonhomie. “Spent mostly in bed.”
Almost certainly Irina had been caught in the SS roundup of the Gypsies. He knew he could count on her to keep a zippered lip when she was interrogated. And interrogated she assuredly would be.
“Gunter Wagner,” the eyepatched officer murmured as he perused the papers before him. “It would seem you are well known in Berlin’s social and political circles for your linguistic brilliance in your defense strategies.”
He struck a modest pose. “All in the course of an attorney’s day.”
“What is not well known,” the Colonel went on in his monotone, “in fact, what is little known, is that you are a Jew.”
Gideon never missed a beat. “Correction, Colonel Klauffen. A Mischling of 2nd degree, personally reviewed and reclassified as Aryanized by Chancellor Hitler himself.”
Actually, Gideon had been reclassified as "Aryan" after paying an undisclosed fortune to the Nazi party, but he banked on the use of the Führer’s name to spring him out of Sachsenhausen before the Colonel could investigate any further. The moment Gideon had spotted the Gestapo going through his luggage in his train compartment, he had known he was going to need the skills of his silver tongue more than ever.
“So, I would suggest, Herr Colonel, that you arrange for my immediate release – or else you arrange for your transfer to the SS’s work detail. Because you’ll be either heaving a shovel or heaving your last breath.”
The officer flexed his knuckles, as if to keep from slamming flat Gideon’s aristocratic nose. But the Colonel spoke in a quietly controlled manner. “Of course, Herr Wagner. Yours and Fraulein Klockner’s release will be arranged at once. Our mistake.”
No mistake. What’s more, the Gestapo would be dogging like a pack of wolves his and Irina’s every step until the exact moment it had enough documented information to assure they either never saw daylight again or their ashes rained down from incinerator chimneys on Germany’s good Aryan citizens.
The game was ended. Gideon had only one thought as he made his way toward the Main Gate Tower, with its 8 mm machine gun – and that was to dodge the SS tails by ditching the train back to Marzahn at the Berlin stop, midway between, and from there sprinting posthaste for temporary asylum at the American Jewish Joint Distribution Center.
Well, that wasn’t the only thought. Another thought, that of strangulation, flexed his own knuckles at what he spotted just beyond the guard house – the emaciated Gypsy girl. She was wearing Irina’s white woolen coat, beret, and lace-up heels.
What in God’s good name had the Gypsy and her thieving cutthroats done with Irina?
Coming abreast of the girl, he gripped her elbow. “Don’t tell me,” he snarled, out of earshot of the guards. “You are my dearly beloved Irina.”
“Oh, ye are psychic, too?”
An Irish brogue as thick as butter replacing her German speech – what was this? Tugging his hat brim low, he hustled her along the pavement that paralleled the side track to the waiting train. Its steam hissed like his every gritted word. “I want a straight answer, or you will find yourself back inside Sachsenhausen. Now, where is Irina?”
A pearl drop earring wagged with her shaking head. “I have no idea.”
He stopped and spun her to face him. “I mean it. There is nothing I find redeeming about you – you, whoever you are – and I would be most delighted to turn you over to the SS as an imposter.”
“Romy’s me name. Romy Sonnenschein.”
Her smirk infuriated him. “Well, aren’t you a little ray of sunshine.” He was losing precious time. Without appearing to be in a hurry, he propelled the execrable piece of humanity toward the nearest coach.
At the flash of the prison passes, the conductor waved them aboard. The Nazis, Gideon ruminated ruefully, could have been courteous enough to have returned his fine leather valise. That ostentation of affluence, like his Meisterstück, had cost him more meals than he could afford to go without.
He shoved the girl onto a bench seat and slid in next to her. Grabbing her hand, he gripped its short fingers hard enough to snap them. “Do you need a memory refresher? Where is Irina?”
“Owww!” She tugged loose her hand. “I told ye. I dunna know where she is. The last time I saw yuir Irina, she was sprawled in a dead faint on the floor of our vardo.”
“Oh, yes, that ghastly painted wagon.”
She started to sputter, but his focus was diverted just beyond her shoulder. Out the window on the steam-fogged platform, two men were sprinting toward the train. Their suit jacket’s flapped back to reveal their suspenders and their holstered handguns. Oy vey!