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I grew up like this, on the road I was born, in a caravan pulled by horses. They're all dead, my brothers, my parents. All that I knew.
The trailer suddenly filled the windshield. The Gypsy Magda tromped on the brake. A hand shot out to brace against the roof, and the scarves tumbled down to her shoulder. And in the glare of the Airstream, Harold saw numbers tattooed along her arm.
It was the Nazis his father had gone to fight in Europe. It was the Nazis who had killed him.
The Nazis, you know them?
You! What happens to you is nothing. Nothing! I would like so much to be you. Young, smart, free. You have everything, and still you don't know how lucky you are. You don't even imagine.
And the soldiers found you?
For speaking, yes. For waiting, no. If you were there alone, without your friends, what would you have done?
You said you were proud of me.
Harold didn't answer. The Airstream was a dot in the windshield, and then it was gone. The blackness overwhelmed him, and the Gypsy disappeared.
I smell death ahead,
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