GYPSIES, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Like that purse and suitcase, she had seen a lot of traveling. Her guitar case, Arturo’s, was now in the possession of another Grand Ole Opry auditioning hopeful, going by the name Stanley Davenport had chosen, Minnie Pearl.

  That morning, Romy felt travel weary, soul weary.

  “Sorry to say,” the bespectacled booking agent told her, “but the Royal Navy is requisitioning all its British ships for war conversion. The only ship outbound for Britain is the merchant SS Teviot Bank, due in the day after tomorrow. But leave port it won’t for five more days.”

  “I have to get out now.”

  Because if she did not, she would be tempted to stay, to abandon her dream. How she would survive, once she found her way to one of Galway’s Traveller camps, did not worry her. She had gotten this far, by hook or crook. More often by crook. If she did not qualify as a nurse, she could always hang out a “Psychic” sign again.

  That thought made her think of Old Duke, and her mum and da – and Luca – and her shoulders slumped.

  “Well, you might try the Holland-America line,” the booking agent replied, perusing through eyeglasses propped on the end of his nose, his latest schedule updates. “Tomorrow, it has a Dutch steamship, departing at sunrise and putting into Rotterdam in six days. From there, you could hop the channel to England.”

  “I’ll take a third-class ticket.,” she said promptly.

  “Miss,” he replied, peering over his spectacles at her, his seamed lips curling disdainfully, “The Nieuw-Amsterdam is a cargo vessel, a twelve-passenger freighter. You are already scraping the bot – ”

  “ – scraping only the surface. I’ll buy a berth.”

  She fished through her purse for the precious currency and, as she paid it over, a reporter’s press camera flashed.

  § § §

  ‘Little Ellis Island’.

  ‘The Wall Street of the South’.

  This was Galveston.

  But ‘The Island of Illicit Pleasures’ and ‘The Sin City of The South’ were also Galveston.

  The Island had the greatest concentration of prostitutes in the world. Because of Galveston’s celebrated brothels, nightclubs, and lavish casinos, even the island’s YWCA was full, but the Oleander Hotel, at the corner of Post Office and 25th Street, had a room to let that Romy could afford, just barely.

  Having spent time around Amsterdam’s Red Light District and decadent Weimer Berlin – and given the decrepit hotel’s lurid location in Galveston – she should have expected the same moral decay, which was exactly what she got.

  Still, she was exhausted . . . and she was low on funds. So, when she checked in later that morning and hen scratched her name, she ignored the pot-bellied desk clerk’s lewd ogling and the seedy lobby to climb its rotting staircase.

  Eighteen hours to pass before the freighter’s departure. From down the street came the sound of a police car’s siren, and from the opposite direction she heard a gunshot, as if right out of a Western moving picture. Not even at the S&S had she heard gunshots.

  Well, not until that fatal Fourth of July.

  Unwilling to endure the moans and groans and shouts coming through her room’s rice paper-thin walls, she stowed her suit case under the bed and set off to seek out the solace offered by waves slapping against Galveston’s caramel shoreline.

  She removed her club-heeled shoes and, the pair in one hand and her purse tucked under her arm, she strolled the beach, heading away from the seawall.

  Tiny sand crabs scurried out of the way of her bare feet that scrunched the moist sand between her toes. September’s wind whipped her thin wraparound floral dress. Salt coated her lips and stung her eyes, which was likely the only reason they teared continuously. Overhead, seagulls shrieked, echoing her own inner shrieks.

  She could not remember ever feeling so lonely. There had always been Old Duke to fall back upon in times of trouble. And now, she did not have even his irascible support. She had deserted him on his deathbed. What a shite she was.

  She supposed the desolate feelings she was now experiencing were a result of her time spent at the S&S. Life with Duke and the ranch hands had opened a window of comparison to her life before she had left Germany.

  In all her and Old Duke’s country-to-country wanderings, she had not known that something existed grander than the eye could see or the body could feel. Life before the S&S now seemed monotone, bland, colorless. And life at it had seemed either star-spangled high or heart-shattering low.

  Of course, she had buried some of the past’s more gruesome memories of Sachsenhausen so far below that, like a mob-buried body, one could never dig deep enough to find them.

  But those nights in the haven of big Duke’s arms, those days spent joshing with the ranch hands, tending to their needs, had made her feel a part of a family, a clan . . . had made her feel valued. Needed. Wanted.

  Well, Duke might not want her, but he needed her. Alas, he did not realize that and probably never would. The cowpunching fool.

  And as for ambitious Gideon, well, he had his own dreams, and he was the kind of man to make them come true. If she wanted to ride on his coattails, she would be better off. But he deserved his chance at grabbing the golden ring without an encumbering Gypsy tart.

  She had been given her chance at the golden ring – and aye, she was a fool for turning her back on the Grand Ole Opry. But it was like she had to recover a part of herself left in the past before she could go forward.

  Come twilight, she turned her steps back to the seawall. Tourists were still riding its Ferris Wheel and roller coaster, and partygoers were headed out on its lengthy pier to the Hollywood Dinner Club, elegant with its crystal chandeliers, massive dance floor, and even air conditioning, the only nightclub with one – and the only nightclub in the nation with a remote radio broadcast.

  That evening, the marquee announced Guy Lombardo would be broadcasting his dance music. She stood outside and watched the patrons shoulder past her. She would have been tempted to enter, as well, but she did not even have the cover charge . . . and, too, watching the famous bandleader at the microphone would only remind her of that on which she was turning her back.

  Fame and fortune.

  After all her years in the limelight, some limelight shadier than others, her spirit yearned for the solace of solitude. Mayhap not solitude, but the sheltering of the soul.

  She turned from the pier and traced her steps back to the seawall, where she purchased a chili dog. She gobbled it childlike on the board walk and salivated with each piquant, messy bite.

  Reluctantly, toward midnight, she returned to the Oleander Hotel. Pulling the bare bulb’s chain in the center of her room, she watched the roaches scatter. She could only give thinks to whatever gods may be for her reservation on the British ship that sailed on the morrow.

  Yet, one roach remained.

  Moe’s gargoyle face looked almost cherubic. The clever bastard perched in the corner’s shadows on the room’s single rickety chair. His short legs dangled from its soiled sateen seat. He held up a folded newspaper. “Those reporters, they just won’t leave you alone, will they?”

  She did not need to look to know what he was talking about. Obviously, the photo the reporter had snapped earlier that morning at the Cunard White Star office had made the evening newspaper, and Moe had hotfooted it down from Austin.

  Her shoulders slumped. It seemed ill luck followed her footsteps. “How did ye find me?”

  He grinned. “Well, whores do tend to congregate like birds of a feather.”

  Her neck muscles knotted spastically. She wanted nothing more than to smack his self-confident smirk with her purse. She heaved a sigh. “What do ye want this time, Moe?”

  “I want to make sure you are not heading back to Germany.”

  She gawked. “Are ye crazy? No. Tis for Ireland I am heading.”

  “Don’t fuck with me. Your destination is the Rotterdam port of call.”

  “Why ever would I go back to Germany?�
�

  Yet, though her roots might be sunk deep in Irish soil, a nagging voice in that wee hour of the morning called her to her ken, to that Germanic blood and soil of her father, blut und boden.

  From between the folds of the newspaper, Moe extracted a pistol. “Oh, you won’t go back, I assure you.”

  The sound of its firing was muted by the usual nocturnal noises of that Island of Illicit Pleasures.

  § CHAPTER TWENTY §

  The B’nai Israel Temple, an ornate white synagogue, was famed throughout Galveston for its imposing Victorian architecture. However, Rabbi Hickman’s office on the third floor was not much larger than a janitor’s closet. The room smelled of carnations.

  Receiver in one hand, the Rabbi spoke to one contact after another while he scribbled notes on his desktop calendar pad. “Yes. When? Nothing else? All right. Thank you.” And then he would put through another call.

  Duke sat in front of the modest desk. The austere room felt cramped, what with the bookshelves and the desk. He needed more space to stretch out his stovepipe legs. Between them, he held his straw Stetson, his fingers twirling its scruffy brim impatiently.

  Next to him, Goldman, one knee draped over the other, puffed agitatedly on a Lucky Strike. Every so often, he would flick an ash into his trouser cuff.

  Duke could have used a cheroot – or, better, a whiskey.

  At last, the rabbi replaced the receiver, glanced at his notes, and then slowly looked from Duke to Goldman and back to Duke. “Well, neither a Romy Sonnenschein, nor a Romy Sunshine, is on any passenger list – ocean liners or airplanes – bound for the British Isles for the next two weeks.”

  He paused, and Duke didn’t like the grim look of Harold’s expression. With gnarled knuckles, the rabbi drummed a riff on his desktop. Then, in a hushed voice, he said, “However, a source reports the county morgue picked up in the red-light district a body of one of our sponsored Jewish refugees.”

  Duke’s stomach cratered and his heart stonewalled. With utter desolation, he heard the finality of Harold’s statement and simply stared dry-eyed at his now crushed Stetson. “Is it . . . ” His tongue couldn’t get out her name.

  Goldman’s cigarette had dropped onto the hardwood floor. “ . . . Romy?”

  Hickman fingered his gray beard. “My source did not know. Let me put in a call to the morgue.”

  While the rabbi rang through yet another call, Goldman collected his cigarette to puff relentlessly again, and Duke spun his Stetson, straightening its dented brim with each revolution. Both men were inordinately preoccupied with mundane tasks. But for Duke, this was no mundane moment that seemed to stretch eternally. His heart felt as heavy as an iceberg.

  “Wendell, this is Rabbi Hickman. Can you provide the identity of the victim’s body collected at the Oleander this morning?” Once more, while waiting, he tattooed his gnarled knuckles on his desktop. “Umm-hmm. Right.”

  When he finished the call, he placed his palms on his desk and, with a sighed exhalation said, “The victim is Moishe Klein– or Morris Keller, if you will.”

  Duke’s and Goldman’s simultaneous exhalations were much more audible, more like out-of-control gorilla grunts.

  Immediately, Goldman jumped ahead and asked, “Do we know if the room was in Romy’s name?”

  The pious rabbi’s response was a wry smile. “We’re talking a racketeers’ paradise. Names are never asked for. Only money.”

  “If Romy murdered him, then she is on the run,” Goldman said. “But I cannot see her running back into the fray.”

  “She would snag the first boat out,” Duke muttered, thinking rapidly, “bound for as close as she could get to Ireland.” His youthful years aboard the tramp steamer were unwillingly recalled. He had thought life with his old man had been punishing. “Tankers? Barges? Cargo ships? Unlikely, maybe, but could you try them, Harold?”

  The rabbi tugged at his short beard, giving it some thought. “I’ll put in a call to a friend at the Port Authorities.” A few minutes later, he replaced the receiver and said, “Bingo. You were right, Duke. She shipped out this morning on a freighter bound for Rotterdam.”

  “But, of course.” Goldman said, nodding, as if it all made sense. “Across the channel from the British Isles.”

  Harold propped his elbows on the desktop and stared over his interlocked hands with a reassuring smile. “Our Romy Sonnenschein appears to be one of those blessed souls who are resourceful and resilient. I think our concerns about her are needless.” He eyed Duke. “Unless, you feel differently, son.”

  Son. All his childhood, Duke had yearned to hear those words spoken with that warm resonance from his father. But, at least, he was hearing it from the rabbi. Duke leaned forward. “Can you wrangle a flight to Rotterdam for me, Harold – at a bedrock fare?”

  “Count me in,” Goldman said.

  The rabbi smiled benevolently. “Well, now, flying free beats bedrock for you two, I would say – and I do have contacts at Ellington Air Force Base in Houston.”

  Duke wondered if he would ever get shed of the smooth and smarmy Germany attorney. Hell, Goldman by right of time might lay claim to Romy’s affections, but, by God, Duke laid claim to her passion. And he knew he was the better man.

  Or, at least, Charlotte did. The sweet image of her, peering at him over her eyeglasses, nettled him, and he knew the day was coming when he would have to stop straddling the fence. Other tried and true men were waiting in line to ply their suit.

  Well, first things first.

  § § §

  Quaint Dutch streets beneath Vermeer-like skies.

  Rotterdam had not changed that much since those months, years before, when Romy and Old Duke had encamped there with other Romani. Nestled in a lovely riverside setting with a lively cultural life, the city was Europe’s largest port, known as the Gateway to the World.

  Not only was it the Gateway to the World, it was also the world’s largest spy center because of its Dutch neutrality and its strategic location, situated as it was with Great-Britain and Germany on either side of it. German secret agents operating from Rotterdam competed with Britain’s M16, which had established its main European office on Rotterdam’s de Boompjes.

  For her, the Netherlands might mean the netherworld. Nazi scientists would dearly love to have access to her Gypsy genetics in order to complete their medical experimentations with her and her twin, but she felt safe enough if she stayed this side of the Grebbe Line, the latest of the Dutch Water Lines built to inundate the borders against attack by the Netherland’s Nazi neighbor.

  She had debarked too late to catch the morning’s Rotterdam ferry to England’s Port of Harwich, giving her yet another day to while away. It was Sunday, and the Mauritshuis Museum would be closed. It had been at the art museum, a twenty-minute train ride to The Hague, that she had seen Vermeer’s “Girl With a Pearl Earring.”

  A few questions, and Romy got directions to the nearest zigeuner, a gypsy caravan site only a few miles out of town, and within walking distance. Mayhap, with a thimble of luck, she could find a Romani’s spare straw mattress upon which to spend the night.

  The day was overcast and misty with occasional sprinkles. By the time she reached the encampment, the rain was falling steadily. And she, crikey, without an umbrella!

  She should not have been surprised to find the place overrun with Gypsy refugees from Poland and Germany, but she was surprised to find someone from her past among them.

  At the sound of her name yelled out, she turned from the main path through the muddy encampment to watch Giorgio slosh in the muck toward her. He wore raggedy trousers and a dirty, voluminous-sleeved shirt with no other protection against the chilly rain.

  Her former betrothed was thinner than she remembered and had the harrowed look of one facing an executioner’s block, but his swarthy face was still handsome despite its gauntness. His raven’s hair fell lankly upon bony shoulders. He yanked out the hand-rolled brown cigarette that drooped from the corner of h
is mouth, bracketed by crater-deep lines. “I can’t believe it’s you, Romy!”

  She threw her arms around him. “Giorgio!” He was not as tall as Duke, but then few were. “What devilry brings ye to Rotterdam?”

  He stepped away. “The filthy Nazis, but, of course. After the SS raided our camp at Marzahn, I stayed just one step ahead of them, always on the run – until I met Zelda. In her family’s barn, where I was hiding.”

  His grimace gave way to his old swaggering smile, and he flicked away his cigarette. He took her hand, drawing her along with him toward one of the dilapidated vardos. “But naturally she found pleasure with the tumble in the hay I gave her. We are married, and I am a proud papa now.”

  The information so easily shared brought Romy low. Not because of jealousy. She had gotten over her first love, Giorgio, at the first sight of Duke. Nay, she was feeling low because Giorgio’s marriage and fatherhood emphasized how barren her own life was.

  But then, so was her womb.

  Yet again, she saw herself on the outside, without family. Alone, once more.

  “And what ill luck brings you to our zigeuner?”

  “Oh, nay – not ill luck but good luck. Tis on me way to Ireland, I am.”

  The vardo reeked of stale sweat, soiled diapers, and briny fish. The carcasses of violins – and their scrolls, strings, and bows – littered the place. Giorgio’s family had long traded in violins and made and repaired them.

  Zelda was not the wife she would have expected someone like Giorgio to marry. Quiet, heavy jowled, and haggard, she had a big-boned frame that still carried the extra weight of pregnancy in her breasts and stomach. At the introduction, she nodded in greeting.

  Wrapped in a maroon shawl, she remained standing as Giorgio indicated Romy was to sit in one of the vardo’s twin hard-back chairs while he took the other and lit another cigarette. He sat sidewise to the table, with one arm propped on its top.

  “And this is Nuri, our daughter,” he said, sweeping with his cigarette toward the infant, cradled in what looked to be a dresser drawer. “She was born on our way here – at Hannover, where Zelda and I both married and baptized Nuri – before traveling on. And you, where have you been hiding yourself since that Nazi raid?”