The Snow Gypsy(6)

“Look inside.”

He flicked through one page, then another. “‘For my friend and . . .’ What’s this word?”

“Mentor. It means a special teacher. Someone who guides you.”

“‘For my friend and mentor, Bill Lee.’” His face split into a grin. “Can I keep it?”

“Of course you can!” She grinned back. “It’s a dino.” A gift.

She slipped her arm through his and squeezed it. “The book isn’t the only reason I’ve come.”

It was not the first time she had sought him out in a crisis. It was Bill she had run to during the war when her father had suffered a fatal heart attack in France. She thought she would have died of her sadness if she’d not had her Gypsy friend to talk to. Bill had a deep, heartfelt wisdom that went far beyond the well-meaning platitudes she had encountered in London. It was comfort he had given her then. Now she needed his counsel.

He nodded. Patting her hand, he rose to his feet. “Let me make the tea first.” He lifted the kettle off the fire with a forked stick.

When the tea was brewed and he was back beside her, she drew in a long breath. “My mother passed away last autumn.”

She felt his hand on hers, warm and rough with calluses.

“She never really got over losing Dad. And Nathan.” She paused, unable to look at Bill, afraid that if she did, the dam of grief would burst. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about: Nathan. You see, when she was alive, Mum wouldn’t hear of me going to look for him. Even when the war ended, she begged me not to go. But now she’s . . .” Rose lifted the teacup to her mouth in a vain attempt to swallow down the lump in her throat.

“You believe he’s still living?” Bill’s voice was matter of fact. There was no hint of incredulity. Neither was there any trace of false optimism.

“I know it’s not likely—but I keep hoping. Today is his birthday. He’s—I mean he would be—thirty-three.”

Bill nodded. “A day like that is bound to be hard. You’ve grieved for your parents, but you haven’t allowed yourself to grieve for him.”

“How can I when I don’t know for certain that he’s . . .” She couldn’t say the word.

“A body doesn’t have to leave this world to stir up those feelings.” He bent to gather a handful of wood shavings. The fire hissed and spat as they landed in the flames. “Grief is living with someone who’s not there, who’s gone out of your life for one reason or another.”

She nodded slowly, slipping her hand inside her pocket. “This is the last letter he sent. It’s dated March 1938. He says the war is going badly and he and some of his friends are planning to escape to France. But he’d met a girl in Spain—he doesn’t say her name—and she was expecting his baby. Listen to this bit . . .” She screwed up her eyes, struggling to make out the words in the dying light.

I know it’s not what Mum and Dad would have wanted, but the war makes you live every day as if it’s your last. I’d like to marry her—but they murdered the priest last summer. Even if they hadn’t, he would never have sanctioned a Jew marrying a Catholic.

I wish I could tell you her name, but that could put her in danger. All I can say is that I love her very much. We might not have a lifetime to live together, might not have what people are always supposed to have. Living as I do now, I must concentrate it all into the short time that I can have it.

There are Gypsy men fighting alongside us, and they have a different view of death than the rest of us. Their attitude is a calm acceptance. They say simply, “We all must die—no one knows the hour or the trouble and pains we may have to bear before our days are ended. Give thanks to God that we are alive this day and free to breathe the sweet air and hear the brown bird in the tree.”

“Gypsy men?” Bill peered over her shoulder at the letter. “Things must have been terrible bad for our folk to fight along gawjes.”

Rose nodded. War was an alien concept to people like Bill. Gypsies couldn’t understand why anyone would sacrifice themselves over the possession of a piece of land or a dispute over who ruled over it.

“Where was he living when he wrote this letter? Could you go there? Is it safe now?”

“That’s the trouble,” Rose replied. “I don’t have much idea of the location. He said it was south of a city called Granada, in the mountains. The only clue I have is something he said about a village nearby. He was explaining how he met the girl he fell in love with.” She scanned the letter until she found the paragraph she was looking for.

We went to buy tobacco one night at a village farther down the mountain. The weather was hot and we were thirsty, so we stopped at a fountain set in the wall of the main street. There’s a legend attached to the place: the local people say anyone who drinks the water will find a sweetheart before the next sunrise. We laughed about it while we drank. But the strange thing was, I met my girl that same evening.

“It’s not much to go on, is it?” Rose folded the letter and slipped it back into her pocket. Bill was staring into the fire, a look of concentration on his face, as if the answer might be found in the poppy glow of the embers.

“Is it a big place, Spain?”

“Very big. Much bigger than England. At least three times the size, I’d say. I found Granada on a map. There are hundreds of miles of mountains to the south. I wouldn’t know where to start.”