The Heart Of A Gypsy (3 page)

“Release him and turn him over to us, now!” the SS officer demanded.

Doing as they were instructed, the three ruffians asked if they were to wait there. The Kommandant, who was the obvious leader because he was decorated with the highest number of medals, spoke, “Yes. We will bring him back in a little while for you to continue your efforts. Remain here until further notice.”

Two of the men grabbed Christian’s arms and led him out of the chamber.  Then, closing the door, the leader removed a key from his breast pocket and locked the persecutors inside.  Still holding tight to Christian’s arm, they led him away.

“Come with us. Hurry. We’re the
Sinti
gypsies; we’re part of the Resistance and we’ve come to break you out,” one of the men said.

Christian glanced at the men. They had done an excellent job of disguising themselves as Nazis. So, it was not a dream. The girl who had come to his cell the previous night was real.  She’d told him that he would be rescued, and here was his band of saviors. His heart beat with joy as he walked quickly in step with them.

After surveying the area to be sure they were not being watched, they moved with lightning speed. All six men began running from the building, out a back door, where they found six healthy horses saddled and waiting.

“Can you ride?” the largest man turned to Christian.

“Yes,” Christian answered.

“Good. Then prepare to ride as you have never ridden before. We must escape before they realize what we have done.”

Just then, a flock of large white birds filled the sky, their wings flapping wildly as they flew off toward the west, breaking the silence of the day with their squawking. The leader of the group raised his right hand to the sky and yelled, “’Tis a good omen and an auspicious day!” Then he turned to Christian and smiled.

“Ready yourselves, my friends… Ride with God at your side, and good road to all of you,” the leader yelled as he hollered a loud “Yohaa!” and kicked his horse into a gallop.

C
hapter
2

The horses galloped, falling into formation behind the leader, and off they headed into the forest.  A fog of dust filled the atmosphere as it flew about from beneath the animals’ hoofs.  Once the group reached the thick of the woods, they ducked beneath a canopy of branches to find a small carved-out path. Here they must travel single file. Unless one knew of the small trail, it was so well hidden that it could never be detected. Tree branches brushed against their bodies, scratching their arms, but they did not slow down as they made their way through the brush to their secret hiding place.

Taking a roundabout route to be sure they had not been followed, the group finally arrived at the gypsy camp close to dusk. Several men met them at the clearing and took the horses, who were bathed in sweat. They would tend to the animals, allowing those who had just returned to rest from their mission. The gypsies understood horses. They were
Lowari
, horse traders; they knew how to care for the animals.  First the men gave them water; then they walked the hard-ridden beasts for an hour to cool them down.

Filthy from the jail cell, compounded with the blood of the beating and the dirt from ride of the day, Christian looked unrecognizable to himself when he saw his reflection in a pot of cooking water that stood beside the beginnings of a fire. As he stood gaping at the reflection of the disheveled man he’d become, two of the resistance fighters came over to him. One put his arm about Christian’s shoulder as the two lead him towards the tent of their leader, the
Shera Rom
.    Before they entered the tent, one of the men offered Christian a drink of strong cherry liquor.

“Here… It is a drink of our people. After what you’ve been through, something tells me you could use it.” 

Smiling at him, Christian took the bottle and drank. The liquor, sweet and strong, burned as it rushed down his parched throat, but it also brought a numbing comfort.

The tent was not really a tent at all; it was merely an overhead enclosure, open on all four sides. When he entered, Christian was greeted by a group of young men with dark eyes and hair; most wore thick mustaches.

“Welcome,
bar
; that means brother in Romany. Romany is the language of our people. We have heard of your work,” the young man who had led the group of rescuers said. His face was free of hair, and his features were strong, even and attractive. “This is the
Shera Rom
; he is our leader,” he smiled, indicating an older, swarthy man to Christian.

“Welcome, to our humble camp,” the
Shera Rom
said as he got up to pat Christian’s shoulder. “We have been hearing much about you for some time now, and we know of your work. Word gets around.”  All of the men in the group nodded in agreement. Then the
Shera Rom
continued, “Among our people you are known as the man with the face of a German but the heart of a gyspy! And as I am looking at you here and now, I see that it is true!  Sit, please; we are happy to have you with us.” Lighting his pipe, he indicated a rock near a glowing fire just on the outskirts of the overhead canopy.

“I knew there was a band of gypsies in the forest who were involved in the Resistance.  I have been hearing about you for quite a while. How did you find me?” Christian asked.

“
We had been keeping a watch on you for a while. When you got into trouble on the street yesterday, we knew that from the location where they arrested you chances were good that you would be taken to the Gesia Street prison and…so…we were right. It was Ion’s sister, Nadya, who saw you being arrested. She came to us and told us what happened. None of the men saw it or they would have stepped in to help. Nadya was alone, and even though she had never seen you before, when she described you, we knew who it was they had in custody, because your looks are so distinctive; you look like the perfect German,” the
Shera Rom
said.

“So I have been told, but I am not German. I’m from Norway,” Christian answered, but his mind was on the girl. Now he knew her name. Nadya…. Nadya… He silently repeated the lovely name.

“Yes, we know that also. What we don’t know or understand is why you joined the Resistance. We cannot figure out why you put yourself in such a dangerous predicament.”

“It’s rather hard to explain, but I’ll try. I was in Berlin visiting a good friend, a Jewish bookstore owner,” Christian said as he looked into the eyes of the older man, who studied him intently. “He used to live in Norway, and we grew up together. Now, of course, everyone was aware of the growing anti-Semitism, but I happened to be staying with him on the night of
Kristalnacht
. Things didn’t really get out of control until then. You have heard about this?”

“Vaguely, yes. I am sorry to admit it, but until our own people were dragged into this Nazi horror, we gypsies did not pay much attention to what was happening to the Jews. I see now that it was wrong not to make ourselves aware of the plight of those who suffered. But, you see, it was not our way. The
Rom
, the
Roma
, or the Romany - however you would like to refer to our people…some even call us gypsies…are loners. We had been living our lives as we always had: traveling, and enjoying the earth and its wonderful bounty all summer. Then, in winter, we would set up camp and wait until the weather broke, when we could go forth and begin our journey anew. One evening, a group of men from the SS came to us and told us that we were to spend the winter in the ghetto. We didn’t know what a ghetto was, but he explained that it is a small area of buildings. Apparently, it had been evacuated by the Jews. At that time we had no idea where the Jews had gone or what had happened to them. The SS tried to tell us that this was a favor that they were doing for us, letting us stay in this ghetto. Instead of being outside in our wagons, or
vurduns
, as we call them, they said we would have running water and all of the comforts that could be provided. It would be so much more pleasant than enduring the cold without any heat. The Nazis came to our camps, smiling and ensuring us that they meant us no harm. They said that we are Aryans like them, and not Jews. Gypsies don’t care for having titles. The word Aryan means nothing to us. We are
Rom
, it is as simple as that. And we never had any war with the Jews.  But until the Nazis came into power, we always kept to ourselves. It is part of our culture to not trust the
gage
. By
gage
, we mean anyone who is not of the
Roma
. So, anyway, these Nazi officers who came to our camps set about enticing us with the promise of warm rooms for the winter. Some groups of the Romany decided to put faith in the Germans and follow their plan. Others of us did not trust the
gage
, especially the Nazis. We
Rom
pride ourselves on being good judges of human nature. We observed them as they came to visit our
kumpanias
; a
kumpania
means a group who travel together.  I saw these Nazis as their eyes grew wide while they watched our women dance. They smiled as they listened to our music, but the smiles were only on their lips they never reached as high as their eyes.  And I knew…even then, I knew. They only pretended to be our friends. And so, one night when the Nazis were nowhere in sight, I took my
kumpania
and we moved out to where we would never be found. We hid deep in the forest and waited for to see what was going to be the outcome of all of this. Before we left, I tried to convince other
kumpanias
to join us…not to follow the SS…not to believe them. But some would not listen.  There were those of my own people who were enticed by the idea of a warm place to spend the cold months, but I tried to remind them that we had been making our winter camp for hundreds of years the same way; why chose to change now?  I felt it unwise to follow the Germans and believe their promises.  Even with the cold, our children never became sick as we waited for the return of the summer each year,” the
Shera Rom
said.

Christian watched as the eyes of the
Shera Rom
welled up with tears. Before he could go on, the
Shera Rom
took a deep swig of the cherry liquor. Then he gazed off into the distance and continued his story, “The
Rom
who took the offer from the Germans were caged in the ghetto like animals. They were surrounded by guards with guns and barbed wire, and not permitted to leave. Watching in horror from our hideouts, we witnessed our people being transported out of the ghetto by train. Being the travelers that we are, and accustomed to persecution, we remained hidden, while secretly following the trains. What we found horrified us. Thousands of our people were being taken to concentration camps where they were either worked to death or starved. It was then that our resistance group began to form in a more structured manner. We have since been joined by partisans and Jews, and together we have a common goal, to rid the world of the Third Reich,” the
Shera Rom
said as he lit his pipe and blew out a hefty puff of charcoal smoke.  Then he turned back to look at Christian.

“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?”