“I heard that the Jews and the Rom were not friendly,” Christian said.
“There are legends among our people that we are decedents of the pharaoh’s guards who were drowned when Moses parted the Red Sea,” the Shera Rom answered. “And I suppose that makes us enemies with the Jews, but in my mind that was a long time ago. Now I find that the only people who I fully trust and admire who are not gypsies are Jews. They are loyal and good friends, and sometimes I think that perhaps all of this happened with the Nazis so that we would know each other for who we really are. They, like us, have a history of persecution,” the Shera Rom said, and he gripped his pipe between his thick, calloused thumb and first finger, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. He was a large man with powerful hands that seemed to be inlaid with dirt that washing could never remove. His thick black mustache covered his lips as he spoke, and on his head he wore a black felt hat with a short brim.
Christian nodded his head in understanding and agreement. One of the men handed Christian the bottle once again, and he drank deeply. “So, let me understand this… There are Jews here among you, and the rest of you are all gypsies? Are you from the same tribe or kumpania?” Christian asked.
“No, actually we are gypsies from several different kumpanias. Some of us are Sinti, others Lowari and Kelderari, and there are also some Poles with us. All of us are joined in our desire to see Hitler’s reign of terror end. Each of us came here bringing our own special talents, and together we have been able to fight against incredible odds. So far, we have survived. That is not to say that we have not had a few close encounters, but we are still here and still alive. We move around. It has always been the way of the Rom to keep moving, and it keeps the Germans from finding us. The horses that you were riding belong to the Lowari. They are horse traders; they brought them when they came here. Beautiful animals, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I quite agree. They are.”
The Shera Rom paused for a moment and looked at the faces of each of the men who sat listening to him. “If we work together, we all believe that eventually we will survive this black time in history and come through triumphant. No rulers can be so cruel and last for very long. Eventually the Nazis must be defeated…their power destroyed. It is inevitable.”
All the men cheered, and those holding bottles of liquor lifted them high in the air as they toasted the words that helped them to go on fighting to live another day.
“Stay and work with us; we could use you. You can pass for one of them. That is a good disguise. We have managed to pull off posing as Nazis, but never as well as you could,” Ion told Christian. He was the man who had posed as the Nazi leader during Christian’s rescue. He stood a little over six feet tall, with long, dark hair and burning dark eyes. Easy in his stride, he wore his height well, and Christian could see his strong athletic capabilities in the way that he moved.
Chapter 3
His every instinct told Christian to leave, to free himself while he was still able. The ordeal he’d just endured had made him see the reality, as opposed to the romantic ideal, of heroism. He walked away from the group and stood near a clearing in the trees. He needed a moment to think this through. Could he just abandon this cause? No doubt it would be easier. Perhaps he could leave the country, maybe even go to South America. Then there would be no more risks, no more consequences or dangers to consider. It would be nice to live a quiet life somewhere far away from the plight of the Jews and the gypsies, and everyone else Hitler decided to persecute. Yes, it would be easier, but how could Christian live with himself if he just stepped back and quietly allowed Hitler have his way with the world? Could he just simply accept the fact that he had been one of the lucky ones born Aryan and therefore exempt from the horrors he’d witnessed? And, in reality, could he live with the guilt of allowing others to die without making any effort to stop the murders? Even as a boy, Christian could not bear to see the weak bullied by the strong. When he was a student, just fifteen years-old, he remembered a boy who was not as athletically gifted as he. The teen’s name was Gunter, and he was an overweight, pimple-faced, shy, and easily-intimidated adolescent. One afternoon as Christian had been leaving school, he saw several other boys taunting Gunter and trying to push him down a flight of stairs. Gunter held on to the railing with white knuckles, begging for mercy as the others teased him. Unafraid, Christian had walked over to the group and asked what they were doing. Known for his strength and success as a high-scoring member of the soccer team, the others were afraid to challenge him. When the persecutors saw the look on Christian’s face, they gave up their harassment and left, glad to have avoided the Christian’s anger. Then, walking over to Gunter, Christian had made sure that the boy was unharmed before going on his way. But that seemed so long ago, when Christian still believed in heroes.
Christian’s mind snapped back to the present situation. Still standing away from the crowd, he turned around and studied the men as they sat awaiting his decision, each fighting for their very right to breathe and to walk on the earth. He looked into their haunted and tormented eyes, and he knew that many of them had already endured unspeakable brutality. Perhaps they, too, had been beaten, or worse, had lost loved ones. They all sat looking at him…staring…waiting for his answer. Christian sighed; he knew what he must do.
Slowly he walked back to the circle of men and sat down upon a large rock.
“I will stay and work with you,” Christian said, and drew a deep breath, flinching at the pain it brought to the side of his body. “Is there somewhere I can bathe?” he asked, looking down at his blood- and dirt-stained clothing.
“We are truly honored to have you with us, Christian Stearn! And, of course, you can bathe; we have access to the river. Now, you must be very careful to be sure you are not seen by anyone when you go. It is also very important to follow the rules, so that we do not contaminate our water supply. Ion will show you. At the highest point is where we take our drinking water from, and then after that is the water we use for bathing. Do not wash your clothes there; it is further down the river that we do our laundry,” the Shera Rom instructed. “It has always been this way with the Rom. That is how we stay free of disease.”
Christian looked at Ion, trying to remember the policy of the camp.
Ion stood up and smiled, “Come, I’ll help you. It really isn’t all that complicated. These are gypsy rules; they keep us healthy. If we follow them, we don’t end up drinking dirty water,” Ion said patting Christian’s back and smiling at him. “You’ll get used to it; it’s actually quite easy.”
As they walked out together, the two men were of the same height and build, one dark and one light. Except for their coloring, they could have been brothers, and in fact…perhaps they were…at least in spirit.
“After you clean up, I think it best that you meet with Melvin. He is a Jewish doctor, a brilliant man. We have been fortunate that he has joined our group. From the way that you’re walking, my friend, it seems to me that you are feeling some pain in your side. Not that I have any medical background, but my guess would be possible broken ribs. And don’t take offence, but your color is a bit off. Is it difficult to for you to breathe?” Ion asked.
“Yes, and you’re right. I do have a severe pain in my side,” Christian answered.
“We’ll have Melvin look at it. You wish to clean up first?”
“I do, thank you.”
Chapter 4
When Christian returned from the river, clean and fresh, he felt tired, but renewed.
Dr. Melvin was waiting to take him into his tent. The doctor requested that Christian remove his shirt. Melvin was a short, slender man, with hair the color of just ripening tomatoes and a clear, bone-china complexion speckled with tiny brown freckles. He began to examine Christian. As he pressed carefully in several places on Christian’s upper abdomen, the doctor was able to determine the cause of the pain. To be sure, he asked Christian to breathe deeply. When Melvin saw him wince, the doctor felt sure that Chris
tian had fractured at least one rib.
“I’m afraid you have a fracture. It seems as if one, or possibly two of your ribs are broken. I will tape them, and they should heal on their own. The healing will take about three to four weeks. During this period, try not to overexert yourself. Don’t lift anything heavy, and if you can, relax and allow your body to repair itself. I will be available to you whenever you need me. Come to see me if your shortness of breath does not improve. The first two weeks will be the hardest. You should start to feel better by then. Now, if the pain gets worse at any time, you must let me know. Understood?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, and thank you.” Watching as Melvin carefully taped his torso, Christian was soothed by the gentleness of the doctor’s well-trained hands. Unable to determine his age because he looked so young, Christian wondered if he was a real medical doctor. His self-assurance gave the impression that he had practiced medicine for years, contrasting with his youthful appearance.
“May I ask you a question?” Christian said.
“Of course,” Melvin smiled, awaiting Christian’s inquiry.
“How old are you?”
“Oh, you wonder how I am a medical doctor…of course. I can’t blame you. I’m only twenty-four, but I graduated high school at twelve. I’m supposed to be some kind of genius…or so they tell me,” Melvin said, shrugging his shoulders as he went back to taping the wounded area. “Right now, I am just lucky to be alive. So many of my friends and fellow doctors are gone now – dead; murdered at Auschwitz. The Germans not only destroyed many wonderful human beings, but they lost so much great talent in the process. Their hatred has made them foolhardy, and that will lead to their eventual demise, I believe,” Melvin said.
Christian nodded.
Melvin went on, “My entire family is missing. We are Jews. I don’t know if they are alive or dead. The Resistance helped me escape when the SS was liquidating the Warsaw ghetto.”
“I have heard a great deal about the Warsaw ghetto. So I assume that was where you were taken?” Christian asked.
“Yes, my family, also: my parents and my two younger sisters. I went back for them the day after I arrived here at the gypsy camp, but when I returned to the ghetto, they had already been sent away on the train. I think that they were transported to Auschwitz.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps you will find them again after the war is over.”
“Perhaps… Perhaps… One must never give up hope.” He smiled at Christian, but his eyes were glossed over with unshed tears.
That night Christian was presented with a feast. He followed the unusual dining rules by watching the others and imitating what they did. Everyone squatted around a large camp fire and ate with their fingers, rather than using utensils.
A young Romany boy of about seventeen cracked a smile as he watched Christian, who looked rather confused by the strange table manners. He walked over to squat beside Christian. “It has always been the way of the Rom to eat with our hands. The others learned it from us.”
“Where do you get all of this food? Everyone else is starving,” Christian said.
Laughing at Christian’s question, Ion told him, “We’re gypsies; we know how to survive in the forest. Our ancestors have been doing it for years. But,” Ion said with a wink, “We are smart, too; we also figured out how to register in several different cities for ration cards, so we have plenty of them. We mostly use the ration cards to bargain with the gage for things that we need, like ammunition and guns. But it is becoming dangerous to go into the cities to get the cards. We’ve gotten word that the Germans are arresting people as they claim their rations. So, now we have found new ways to acquire the money for weapons.”
Christian was impressed with the resourcefulness of this group of partisans. The food was good and plentiful, and he was hungry. Christian ate until he felt like he might burst. Then, exhausted from his day, and ready for sleep, Christian took the blanket that Ion offered.
“Come, follow me, I have an extra eiderdown that you can use. Have you ever slept outside?”
The pink and white embroidered eiderdown was fluffy and soft. Immediately upon laying down, hidden by the thick protective shrubbery of the forest and watched over by the twinkling silver stars above, Christian fell into a deep, satisfying slumber.
It was not until late morning that he was awakened by the barking of one of the yellow dogs that had been chasing a bird. Rolling over in the comfort of his blanket, Christian realized that he had not slept so well in a long time. In the morning sun, everything looked different, and he sat up taking in the entire campsite. Men of all shapes and sizes sprawled about, talking quietly. Christian rose and stretched his long, muscular legs. Then he walked over to the group, where he found Ion sitting with his back against an elm tree.
“How’d you sleep?’ Ion asked.
“Quite well, thank you. I didn’t even realize just how tired I was.”
Ion nodded, “I heard from Melvin that you have fractured ribs. How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad. I still have some sensitivity, but am happy to be here with all of you, and to be alive. The ribs will heal…thanks to you, my friend,” Christian said.
Overtaken with emotion, Ion hugged his new companion. “I’m glad that we could be there for you.”
“So am I… So am I.”
A man waved to them from across an open field. Then he began to walk towards Ion and Christian. When he arrived, Ion introduced him, “This is Shmul; he is a friend from the Jewish resistance. He had a big part in the organization of the uprising in the ghetto. When it was over, he escaped into the forest, and that’s where we met him. You will come to see that he is very smart,” Ion said.
A stocky, solidly-built man, not too tall, with dark, unruly curls exploding around his head and a thick black beard, extended his hand, smiling a broken-toothed smile. Christian reached out and shook the man’s hand, introducing himself.
“We live here in the forest, but we move frequently to keep the hounds at bay,” Shmul said.
“You are a member of the Resistance?”
“I’m a Jew. I have to be a member of the Resistance. It’s either that or be a lamb led to the slaughter. I chose the former,” With a laugh, Shmul motioned for Christian to sit on a large rock as he sat on another across from him. “In my old life, I was a professor. I lived a quiet life in Warsaw. I was married and blessed with two children, a boy and a girl. When they threw us into the ghetto like dogs, I still didn’t believe that anyone was capable of what I had heard they were doing…committing genocide, so I kept quiet and waited, hoping for the best. In those days I was not a fighter; I was a learned man who knew nothing of fighting. New people were brought into the ghetto every day, and with them came plenty of unsavory news. Finally, there was no way to avoid the inevitable. The Nazis planned to kill us all. Either we would put up a fight or they would send us to death camps…so I helped to organize the Resistance.” Shmul walked over to a large kettle where a strong coffee brewed. He poured himself a cup of the steaming liquid and then continued to tell his story, “My wife and children were killed in the struggle, may they rest in peace, but at least they did not go to the camps. At least they were not subject to torture. I don’t know why I should have been chosen to survive. But here I am…and so I must assume that I am meant to avenge their deaths, or at least to do what I can to stop the murders from continuing.” He bowed his head for a moment, and Christian thought that he might cry, but when he looked up the anger and resolve in his eyes told a different story. “But my question is…why are you here, Christian?”
“I was in the Resistance because I wanted to see an end to the Reich and all it was doing to my country. I could not in good conscience sit by and watch while people were being murdered,” Christian said.
“Would you like something to eat?” Ion walked over, carrying a loaf of bread and a hunk of white cheese. He sat down beside Christian and divided up the food.
The three
men sat eating quietly. Christian marveled at the soft dough and crispy crust of the bread, and savored the sharp and pungent flavor of the cheese. Feeling his lips purse with the tang of the cheese, he reached for a wine bottle that stood between the men. The liquid ran cool and sweet, like a mountain stream, down his still-parched throat.
As he passed the bottle to Ion, Christian happened to look up and gaze across the field. It was there that he saw the girl again, the one they called Nadya. She wore a sunshine-yellow dress that had a full skirt with gold trim, and a yellow silk headpiece intertwined with wildflowers. He noticed that she gathered something in her skirts. Ion saw Christian watching his sister and said, “Nadya gathers firewood for us every morning, and then we dry it out so that we can cook tonight.”
Christian nodded, but still did not take his eyes from the girl. So graceful was she that it seemed as if she were dancing a ballet rather than picking up branches as she moved across the open field. She was stunning, with slender arms lightly kissed by the sun, and hair that fell about her shoulders in a mass of thick black curls. Her breasts were full and sensuous, as were her garnet lips. A heavyset male child followed behind her. The boy moved slowly as he gathered a single branch at a time, handing them to Nadya.
Ion glanced over at Christian. He was impressed with the man’s courage. For a gage, he seemed a good man, a strong man. Ion had learned over the course of time that, contrary to the tales he’d heard in his youth, all gage were not bad or untrustworthy. It had taken this banding together with other freedom fighters against a common enemy to teach him that very valuable lesson. A smile came over his face when he thought of all the good and true friends he’d made right here at this little campsite in the woods.
The Heart Of A Gypsy Page 3
