Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(89)



He set off at a trot among the spindly trees lining Williamstrasse, one of the main roads leading into the outskirts of Brandenburg. “I’m counting on the city’s scents and distractions confusing our trackers.”

He didn’t add what Romy knew he and she were both thinking – the real danger being that radio communications could have already alerted a Brandenburg patrol.

Low-slung branches and humped-up roots slowed his long strides. The wet leather of his boots complained audibly at each step. However, his breathing was barely snagged.

With its Gothic red-brick buildings and medieval town wall, Old Town Brandenburg was also home to the Euthanasia Centre, where the Nazis were killing people with mental diseases, including children, and – under any other circumstances – was one of the last places she would want to be.

In normal situations. But life in Germany was not normal, and today . . . .

Fortunately, not far outside the town wall, its ancient watchtower contrasting severely with modern trolley tracks, resided a decrepit biergarten. At that early hour, little more than a scattering of townspeople were strolling about, and only a few delivery trucks were making their stops.

The outdoor wooden tables were as yet unoccupied, and he parked her on one of the dew-damp benches. A late autumn haze blanketed the ground with a morning mist. “Stay put, Cinderella. I’ll return with slippers for your tootsies and a coach for us both.”

“The Brothers Grimm’s Cinderella was not a lass to mess around with, Duke. If ye abandon me here, I swear I shall put a gypsy curse on yuirself.”

Faint lines of fatigue edged his mouth and eyes. Surprising, because it seemed he had no weaknesses, and worse, no need for something outside himself. “You already have,” he said morosely.

He headed back toward the thoroughfare. She called out, “And a bagel or two if you could filch them would benefit me stomach.” Which was topsy-turvy these days.

In his absence, she fretted for him. Given his height, he would be as conspicuous as if he had been wearing the Jew’s Star of David blue armband. Worse, he didn’t speak German and, if questioned, might lapse into his childhood stuttering. No, he would never let down that guard, no matter what.

Still, at any moment, she expected to hear police whistles, shrill sirens, or gnashing dogs. But, nay, just an occasional honking of a car horn. And then came a persistent beeping toot.

She glanced back toward the street and saw Duke’s lanky body astride a motorbike, his long legs outstretched, scruffy cowboy boots balancing on the brick pavers. A laugh bubbled out of her. Only Duke. Sweet Baby Jesus, he was one damned good looking laddie.

Up she sprang and, ignoring tender feet, sprinted across the biergarten’s gravel and turf. She flung herself onto the seat behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Far better than any pumpkin coach!” she chuckled at his ear.

“Cinderella’s slippers are in the saddlebag.”

“You know, Duke, for a mere gadje, ye are fast becoming a skillful, thieving Gypsy.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, and his disreputable mustache curved with his grin. “I am not sure if that is a compliment or not.”

That disarming and infectious smile! “Common thieves don’t even come close.”

Balancing precariously on the back, she fished inside the saddlebag to find a pair of boy’s size brogues, which, to her amazement, fit perfectly. It was as if he knew her so well, knew her better than she knew herself – and that was a threatening. She could easily lose herself, her identity, in loving him – and become vulnerable again.

Her stomach was growling. “And the bagels?” she demanded.

“Right now, Sunshine, I’m a little short on change – and time.” He shot the motorcycle out onto the boulevard and into the morning’s increasing traffic.

With danger lurking at almost every corner in the form of a Mauser-toting Nazi soldier, she was surprised at the exhilaration coursing through her.

Once through Brandenburg and out onto the open road, the motorcycle swept through river valleys and undulating countryside. Beneath her hands, she could feel adrenaline pulsating through his stomach muscles.

Never had she felt more alive.

That zinging feeling lasted for quite some time, well past midday, when they crested a hill and came upon a lumbering military truck convoy, transporting infantry toward the Netherland’s border. Red swastika armbands circled the sleeves of young, fresh-faced soldiers. Abruptly her heart throttled into high gear. Her stomach seized up, threatening to overspill in another bout of heaving.

He went to pass, and she yelled into the frigid wind, “Your brain is knackered, Duke McClellan!”

He ignored her and sped by the olive-drab trucks. A sweep of his hand in the air could have passed for a friendly wave or an impudent obscene hand gesture. “‘Fortune favors the bold,’” he yelled over his shoulder. “Virgil.”

Late afternoon and a road sign indicating Kassel fifteen kilometers ahead signaled they were probably only halfway to Rotterdam. Her teeth felt as if they were vibrating, her lips were chapped, her hands were frozen nubs, and her arse had gone fookin’ numb.

Toward sunset, as if he sensed her waning stamina, he steered the motorcycle off the beaten path into a picturesque vintners’ village celebrating Octoberfest with an open-air wine festival. “Time for replenishing our BMW’s tank,” he announced.

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