Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(90)

“Do we chance getting caught?”

“Without a break and gas,” he said over his shoulder, “we’re liable to end up somewhere down the road in a bar ditch.”

On the Fulda River, Kassel’s quaint town square had drawn hundreds to revel in honor of its vineyards’ harvests. Timber-framed shops had set up stalls and tables loaded with oak casks for wine tasting – and samplings of bratwurst, pretzels, and schnitzel. A brass band and accordion provided lively music.

He wedged the motorcycle among parked lorries, carts, bicycles, and automobiles, and she dismounted, barely able to stand. The band’s polka music was loud, and she stretched up to shout at his ear, “Tis me turn to provision for us.”

“Don’t land us in the hoosegow, please.” His face reddened with wind-burn and his hair windblown, he trailed her with an uneasy look.

She sashayed among the stalls. Deftly, from here and there she surreptitiously stashed food into the pockets of his ample jacket she was wearing. Finishing off her plundering, she sidled out of his now heavily laden jacket and her lab one and passed them to him.

“What a scamp you are,” he marveled.

“Fortune favors the bold. Romy Sonnenschein.” She grinned. “Now watch.”

She joined behind a counter a tired-looking, busty young woman in braids. She was dispensing Riesling from a cask spigot into a dimpled dubbeglas, and when Romy reached for another one to fill, the fraulein snapped, “What are you doing? Who are you?”

Romy counterfeited a consoling smile of camaraderie and replied in her best Dutch-German dialect, “I am your relief. You didn’t know?”

The young woman frowned, hesitated, then shrugging plump shoulders, shoved past Romy and out of the stall – at which point Romy began serving the already tipsy customers, among them Duke, who quaffed the wine in one swig.

Five minutes later, she deserted the stall to join him. Dipping fingers between her meager breasts, she waved a small wad of Reichsmarks. “Tips for me excellent service.”

He shook his shaggy head, badly in need of another one of her trimmings. “Virgil could take a lesson from you.”

He led her down the slope toward the river. Here, the boardwalk was deserted but for a couple who, braving the chilly breeze coming off the water, embraced against a dock’s light pole. Upon sight of Romy and Duke, they wandered off to seek out shadows afforded by the nearly bare branches of the river’s trees.

Duke found a spot of cushioning, dry grass for them to sit and, famished, they wordlessly consumed the looted food. Or rather he did. Her consumption was tentative and picky.

Mayhap, it was just the aftermath of stark fear catching up with her. But her stomach was somersaulting, and it was all she could do to keep the food down.

Standing, he swiped his hands on his Levi’s. “Wait here.”

She watched him, hands tucked inside his jeans back pockets, stroll along the dock. Idly, he peered from one side to the other at the watercraft tied to the wharf. Then, abruptly he vanished into the depths of a motorboat. Presently, he reappeared, almost swaggering with the victory of the red petrol can in hand.

While he refilled the motorcycle’s tank, she tried to polish off the jacket’s remnants of her food theft, but even licking her fingers proved nauseating. Shrugging back into her lab coat and his jacket she puzzled over this. Mentally, she began to count back. She barely noticed rustling, shriveled leaves cartwheeling across her brogues. Holy Mother! She was with child!

He rocked the BMW off its stand. “Ready for a night ride?”

Feigning enthusiasm, she drawled, “Yeeee-haw and ride ‘em cowboy.” She swung on back and, as the motorcycle roared off into the western twilight, she held fast, wanting to absorb the feel of him beneath her hands, to impress the memory of him forever in every pore of her body.

The hours raced on, and so did her mind. Joy and despair vied with one another for predominance in her thoughts. What to do? What to do? She could raise the bairn on her own, of course. Was it a girl or a boy? If a girl, she would name the bairn after her own mum. And, if a boy – she would name him Duke, naturally.

She dreaded dawn’s pink light that would bring into sight the border checkpoint of the Teutonic town of Lobberich. On the other side awaited with welcoming arms the Netherlands – and the end of their journey together.

But first there was the German checkpoint to get past.

“Hang on, Sunshine!” he shouted.

She risked a peek around his shoulder. At the motorcycle’s hurtling approach, two Nazi guards hustled from the gatehouse with rifles shoulder leveled. Her arms tightened around him. Then this was it. All her and Duke’s hair-raising escapes – only to die within eyesight of freedom.

With sudden revelation, she gasped – she was the Ace of Spades.

Abruptly, Duke gunned the bike. Her thighs hugged his. Her knotted hands gripped his stomach. The BMW bucked onto its back wheel. The front pawed the air like a rearing stallion. Then, the motorcycle rocketed forward. Cold wind roared past her.

Eyes closed, she waited for the inevitable bullet. When next she peered over her shoulder, soldiers were diving from the BMW’s path.

Suddenly, at that instant, the sun finally set, as if in a great rush, as if it had been waiting for the border crossing to be concluded.

Duke’s exultant laughter rang out. “We did it, Romy!”