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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.
  • Yes
  • 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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