The Devouring

by G S Eli

  “Yeah, listen to your cousin!” Rosa, Stephan’s soon-to-be wife, shouted from the crowd of spectators, making Stephan blush with embarrassment.

  “Fine!” Stephan snapped. “If you can’t play, then give me the ball back.”

  Mila extended his foot, rolled the ball up over his toes to the top of his arch, and gave it an agile flick into the air. With his knee, he bounced it up to his head, then threw a head-butt and sent the ball flying toward Stephan. His cousin had to duck to keep the ball from slamming into his face. He glared at Mila with annoyance. Mila shot back a sly smile, then continued on his way.

  Mila reached the far side of the field and navigated the bike through the throng of tents and shacks. Screaming with glee, a group of little children dressed in rags rushed past him as they chased one another between the ramshackle dwellings. A narrow walkway crossed his path, and he stopped to let a group of older boys pass. Mila didn’t recognize them. They had a mean look and their conversation was laced with every curse word he knew, and a few he didn’t.

  As they turned a corner, he heard them mutter, “Where’s Simon? We’ve gotta divide up the cash.”

  Their accent was different from the German Rom. They were Romanian, from different families with very different ways of doing things. For a week now, they had been guests in Mila’s camp. They were starting to wear out their welcome, but there was little the leaders of the camp could do. They had to show hospitality to their fellow Rom.

  At last, Mila reached Building B. Just outside, a group of older Rom sat in a circle with an air of dignity and importance. Mila respectfully nodded to the men as he went by. He noticed his uncle Lolo sitting with the older men. “Hey, Uncle Lolo,” Mila said.

  “Mila, I need you to guard that painting tomorrow,” his uncle replied.

  Yoy dale, not this again, Mila thought. By “guard” the painting, Uncle Lolo meant, “wait for a chance to vandalize it.”

  “I might have some things to do tomorrow,” Mila said, trying to think of an excuse. “Aunt Nasta told me to ward off a dream, and as you know that takes a lot of time.”

  “You need to stop encouraging my dear Mamo with that superstitious magic! She’s old and not well! Going senile! Now, what was I saying again?”

  Mila tried not to roll his eyes. “The painting,” he reminded his uncle.

  “Oh yes! Mila, that ugly painting is an insult!” Lolo exclaimed. “They know what it means, but they still put it right in the main train station where we do business!”

  “Is it really that important? I mean, it was painted a long time ago,” Mila said.

  Lolo looked left and right, then leaned in and whispered, “What that painting shows being done to our people … Well, it’s too horrible to say! And that’s not all! Father Leichman told me about the original version of the painting, not the copy in the train station, but the one they’ve got in the museum. It was in the personal collection of Hitler!”

  “You mean the Unholy One,” snapped Merikano, Rosa’s grandfather and a respected elder. The remark was meant to remind Lolo of proper etiquette, for the failed dictator’s name was never to be uttered around the Romani people. Merikano never passed up an opportunity to scold another Rom, a trait Rosa seemed to have inherited.

  “Uncle Lolo, the German politicians don’t care what we Rom think. They won’t take it down,” Mila argued.

  “Now you listen here, Mila,” Lolo said. “Ever since your father disappeared and your mother passed, God rest her soul, my family has looked out for you. We love you, Mila, but lately, every time I ask you to do something for the camp, all I get from you are excuses!”

  That stung. Mila didn’t like being reminded that he was an orphan.

  “Fine, I’ll go,” Mila relented. He could always fake sick tomorrow to get out of it.

  Mila nodded farewell to his uncle, then walked over to the rusted old toolshed and pulled open the makeshift metal door. The shed was just big enough to fit a small collection of tired and battered tools, several barrels of clean water, some broken machinery, and a small gas barrel. Mila held the door with his arm as he pulled the bike into the tiny space. He tapped on the barrel to see if it had any petrol. The sound was hollow. If there was any at all, it was probably just a few drops, just like the twins had warned. Probably not even enough to get it started, thought Mila, assuming lack of petrol is actually the problem. Figuring there was no harm in trying, he used the tube next to the barrel to suck out the last of the fuel. Then, he poured it from his cousins’ red container into the bike’s fuel tank.

  Just as he was finishing, he heard violent shouting from outside the shed. That’s not cheering from the football match, he thought, alarmed. He peered out of the cracked window to see what was going on.

  “Psst!” came a whispered voice from somewhere inside the shed. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here!”

  Mila spun around. It was his friend, Simon, one of the Romanian Rom, squatting behind a stack of water barrels.

  The twenty-something-year-old boy was shivering in his ragged brown jacket.

  “What’s the matter?” Mila asked.

  “The gendarya are coming for me.”

  “The police?” asked Mila. “Why?”

  “I don’t know! I was working at the Metro station, and they freaked out!”

  Mila heard police sirens coming from the front of the camp. He glanced out the window again and saw an officer approach Uncle Lolo. Mila could hear their voices from inside the shed.

  “What can I do for you tonight, Officer Belz?” Lolo asked the officer, whom he knew far too well.

  “Lolo, I don’t want any Gypsy games,” Belz snapped. He spoke in a loud, authoritative voice. Mila figured he was in charge. “There is a criminal delinquent hiding here. We know this! He assaulted and robbed an elderly woman, hit her so hard she needed to go to the hospital!” The rest of the Rom soon crowded around to see what the panic was all about.

  “You attacked a woman? Put her in the hospital?” Mila asked Simon, shocked by what the officer was saying.

  “No!” Simon insisted. “He’s lying. I just did some pickpocketing. And I stole a few of the new iPhones and a little cash. I didn’t hurt anybody. I swear!” Simon said frantically.

  “Oh man, Simon, this is not Romania. You got the whole camp in trouble,” Mila said. He peeked out the window again. About a dozen police were marching through the camp.

  “Are you in charge here?” another officer said to Uncle Lolo in German. “We know he is here. His name is Simon.”

  “There is no Simon here,” Uncle Lolo said to the officer. “And these people don’t speak German. You’re wasting your time.” Uncle Lolo turned away from the officers. “Pretend you don’t speak German!” he shouted to the Rom, speaking in Romanes, so the police couldn’t understand.

  “OK, that’s it! Search the entire camp!” ordered the lead officer.

  The police charged through the camp. They knocked on roofs with their batons and kicked in doors as Roma, mostly women and children, scampered about in fear and confusion. A few tried to distract the rampaging cops, shouting nonsense and waving their arms frantically.

  “Stephan! Find Father Leichman!” shouted Uncle Lolo.

  The ruckus in the camp was in full force. Mila knew it was only a matter of time before they found Simon hiding in the shed.

  “What are we going to do?” implored Simon.

  Mila didn’t know what to say. He looked out the window again. The officer in charge was staring straight back at him.

  “Who’s that hiding over there?” he shouted, pointing with his baton. He pulled out a whistle and blew. An ear-piercing screech filled the air, signaling the other policemen to come. That was Uncle Lolo’s cue to try his last resort. He gripped his chest, groaned in pain, and collapsed to the ground. The officer panicked, thinking he’d given the man a heart attac
k.

  With the camp in a state of chaos and confusion, Mila hopped on the bike. “Get on!” he urged Simon. He put the key in the ignition and turned it slowly. He stepped on the kick-starter of the old motorbike and closed his eyes to pray again. This time, the prayer had to work. “I believe,” he confessed.

  He stepped down hard, and the engine sputtered to life. He revved it to keep it from dying.

  Mila was thrilled that his bike was finally running, but there was no time for him to appreciate the moment. An officer was opening the shed door. “Hold on!” Mila warned. He let go of the brake, and the bike peeled out, breaking the door and knocking over the police officer.

  Mila raced across the football field, trying desperately not to hit any of the Rom that were in his way. By the time he made it off the field, he heard a siren close at his back. One of the police cars was in pursuit.

  Mila could feel the car gaining on him quickly. It pulled up on his left to block him from escaping toward the dirt lot in front of Building A, which led to the road. If he veered left to try for the lot, he was afraid the car might ram him. He jammed the throttle, trying to get out ahead of the cop car.

  It was no use. The car’s engine was too powerful. He couldn’t outrun it. Mila looked down at his fuel gauge. It was pegged on EMPTY, and a red light was flashing. Just as he was about to give up, Mila spotted a huge dirt pile in the far-right corner of the camp. At the top of the pile was the road.

  Mila yanked the bike right and opened the throttle. He wove through tents and horrified onlookers toward the mountain of dirt. It was way too steep. He probably wasn’t going to make it. He knew that. But he had to try. He wasn’t going to let those dirty cops have their way with Simon. Not without a fight, anyway.

  The pile loomed over him as the bike’s front tires hit its base. The impact rocked the bike, throwing Mila and Simon from the seat. Mila held tight to the handlebars, and Simon held on to Mila. The two of them hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity. Mila heard the sirens racing up behind. The cop car would slam into them any second.

  Then, Mila found himself back on the seat, Simon still holding on as the bike fishtailed wildly, spinning out in the dirt. Finally, the wheels found traction, and they rocketed up the pile. The police car tried to follow, but the slope was too steep. The car slammed into the dirt, spitting great clouds of dust back at the stunned Rom.

  Mila and Simon hadn’t made it more than a mile down the road before the engine started to sputter. Soon after, it died. Mila hopped off and began to push as Simon walked cheerfully beside.

  “Woo! We made it!” Simon cheered. “That was a rush! Can’t wait to tell the guys about this one!”

  “You’re welcome,” Mila snapped.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Simon replied.

  Thick clouds began to gather overhead, and the wind picked up. The damp, chill air meant only one thing: a storm was coming.

  A few minutes later, they arrived at the gas station. It sat adjacent to a bar. Mila smiled at the familiar sign: a huge, foaming mug of beer, outlined in bright neon with the word Schmidt’s below. The owner had worked out a deal with the Rom. They were welcome in the bar as long as they didn’t bother the other customers. No stealing, no begging, and no fortune-telling. On Friday nights, Schmidt’s would even pay a few Rom to sing, dance, and play Gypsy music for the customers. Mila’s singing was always a hit, especially with the girls.

  He snapped back to the present as he dragged the bike up to the pump. He reached into his pockets and turned them inside out, looking for even a euro or two. All he found was the little foil package Nasta had given him.

  “Goddammit!” Mila shouted, staring at the useless charm.

  “Here,” said Simon. He opened his coat and pulled out an ugly tan purse, the kind only an old lady would carry. He reached inside and pulled out a wad of euros and offered them to Mila. As he did, Mila spotted blood on the boy’s knuckles.

  “Wait, you’re bleeding,” Mila pointed out, bewildered. Simon said nothing, using his jacket sleeve to wipe the blood clean. “You really did beat up an old lady?” Mila asked, puzzled.

  “Yeah. So what? The stupid old gadji wouldn’t let go of the purse,” Simon said.

  “It’s wrong! It’s … it’s a sin!” Mila said, upset and filled with guilt for having helped Simon escape.

  “Is that what Father Leichman’s been teaching you?” Simon asked. “Open your eyes, Mila! That priest is no saint, trust me. It’s not a sin for Rom to steal. Don’t you know the legend of the Fourth Nail?”

  Of course, Mila knew. Every Gypsy knew the legend. It had been told and retold among the Rom since before anyone could remember. As the story goes, when Christ was crucified, the Romans had a Gypsy blacksmith forge four nails, one for each palm, one for his feet, and a fourth to pierce his heart. The Gypsy had mercy on Jesus and stole the fourth nail. So, even as he suffered on the cross, Jesus blessed the Gypsies forever, giving them the right to steal from the gadje for all time.

  “That story’s bullshit,” Mila said. “It’s not in the Bible or nothing.”

  “How do you know? You ain’t never read it,” Simon countered.

  Mila glared at Simon’s outstretched hand, filled with crumpled bills.

  “How could you do that? How could you hit an old woman? And on top of that, you’re bringing heat on the camp when you steal. See what happened tonight? They’ve been trying to evict us for years, you know!”

  “I like you, Mila. That’s why I’m sharing my earnings with you.”

  “Get outta here, Simon. I don’t want that blood money.” Mila dismissed Simon with a wave of the hand and grabbed hold of his bike.

  “You think you’re better than me? You’re still a Gypsy,” Simon pointed out. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Just because being a Gypsy sucks doesn’t mean you have to be a jerk!” Mila retorted.

  “What!?” Simon shouted. “Being a Gypsy doesn’t suck. It’s the best thing ever! We’re free to do what we want, and we’ve always got family around to get us out of trouble.”

  Mila paused to ponder Simon’s philosophy.

  “Mila, listen, the gazhe will always treat us like thieves,” Simon put in. “It don’t matter if you steal or not. As long as you’re Gypsy, they’ll treat you like dirt. You might as well just steal and enjoy the easy money.”

  With that, he dropped a 20-euro bill at Mila’s feet and headed off toward the bar.

  Great, Mila thought, he’ll probably get us all banned from Schmidt’s on top of everything else!

  Mila glanced at the money on the ground, then at his bike. He thought of the long road he’d have to walk, pushing his bike the entire way, if he didn’t fuel it up.

  The chukrayi was still in his hands. He looked down at the small bundle of shiny foil wrapped with a red ribbon and stared at it for a minute. Words echoed in his head—first, Simon’s declaration: We’re free to do what we want. Then came Nasta’s words: You’re special, Mila. Gypsies are special.

  They sounded like insults now, mockery, a big, sick joke. What’s so special about being a Gypsy? Mila wondered. I’m a Gypsy, and I have nothing. I don’t even have parents. I’m not special. I’m alone, and instead of money to fill up my bike, all I’ve got is some ridiculous voodoo trinket. Simon was right. This is preposterous!

  He reluctantly picked up the money and stared at it. Then he looked at the chukrayi in his other hand. The wind blew harder. In the distance, storm clouds gathered over Berlin. Finally, Mila tossed the chukrayi over the field of tangled brush beside the gas station. To his surprise, the wind caught the little packet. It flew high into the air.

  Lightning flashed. For an instant, the foil shined bright as a star. Then, thunder rumbled as it disappeared into the shadows.

  III

  The Prophecy

  “We’re all going to die!” a cowardl
y teenage boy screamed as the jumbo jet violently plummeted toward Earth. A few seconds earlier, lightning had struck. Now the plane was dropping in a terrifying nosedive.

  A highlight reel of Casey Richards’ short seventeen years of life flashed before her eyes. All she could hear above the ringing in her ears was the eerie wail of the plane’s engine and the screams of her fellow passengers, confirming that she was not imagining things. It was all very real and happening too fast. One minute, she had been sitting in her first-class window seat, quietly drawing in a leather sketchbook, and the next minute both her sketchbook and glasses went flying as a deafening BOOM! rocked the cabin. She shut her eyes tight and clutched the armrests of her seat, praying for her life.

  Just as all hope felt lost, the plane began to level out, the powerful jet fighting through the wind and clouds and rain like it was in a battle. Casey felt every bump and thud as the pilot struggled for control of the huge airplane. She felt hard pressure on her head and gut as the craft worked desperately to regain altitude. Before she got a chance to process what had happened, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. The lighting storm caused an electrical surge, which disabled the autopilot. Our apologies for the inconvenience. There is no harm to the airplane, and we are now in full control. We just received permission to climb above the storm for the rest of the flight to Austria.” He repeated the message in German.

  Casey realized she had been holding her breath throughout the horrifying ordeal. She exhaled with relief and glanced over at her classmates from Charlton Heights Preparatory School, most of whom were now cheering for joy. Many of the students were hugging each other, grateful for the pilot’s expert skill. A few others were upset, angry with the pilot and crew for allowing such a frightening incident to occur.

  “My dad is going to sue this airline,” said Vivian Levine, the school’s self-proclaimed mean girl.