Friday, September 15, 1939
  “Stay here and watch this scum. I’ll search their wagons. If anyone tries to run, don’t hesitate—shoot.”
Karl Rahn glared at his subordinate to drive his point home, then walked to the rear of the oldest of the three gypsy wagons, pulled open the leather-hinged door and peered in. He involuntarily jerked his head back, momentarily overpowered by the fumes radiating from a pile of dirty and moth-eaten blankets. A meaty odor wafted by; he immediately spied its source—a sausage with several hacked off thick slices that lay along a greasy board. A trace smell of rancid animal fat also flowed in and out, radiating from an oil lamp that hung on a wire attached to the ceiling.He stepped inside and looked around. He pulled on a pair of kidskin driving gloves and began to flip through the blankets. When he reached the bottom, he discovered a small collection of clean shirts rolled into a ball. Aha. He grabbed the shirts, walked outside and used them to brush off his black leather trench coat, obsessively, as if he were trying to expunge some invisible contamination he had acquired while in the wagon.
  “Clean, almost new clothes, Schneider. Odd, wouldn’t you say? Left here, no doubt, by that traitor who took off through the woods when we pulled up. Did you see him?”
  Schneider nodded.
  “I’m sure I recognized him,” Rahn said. “He’s a full-blooded German, can you believe it? Why he wants to help these enemies of the state is beyond me. Strains reason, if you ask me.”
In actuality, neither the gypsies nor the fleeing man had committed any actual crime—Rahn knew that. But simple association with this visible defilement of the Reich had just augmented the fugitive’s criminal record, at lease in Rahn’s mind. He would be able to put another entry in the man’s file. A few more entries and it would be thick enough to bring him in. And then… Rahn smiled at the thought of the special “interrogation” that would follow.
He examined the second wagon—nothing of interest. The third contained a blend of objects similar to the previous two, along with an assortment of toys—crude dolls, miniature wagons, and one exquisitely carved wooden horse. He held the horse in his hand for a moment, studied the excellent replication of equine musculature. The wood was unvarnished and already dirty from play by a child. But it could be cleaned and sanded as smooth as silk and finished with linseed oil.
He stepped back outside. “Look at this horse, Schneider. A masterpiece, eh? The way these wagons are built, it couldn’t have been made by one of these creatures. What do you make of that?”
   “Probably stolen.”
   “Excellent, Schneider. Maybe there’s hope for you yet. Watch them while I put this in the car.”
   Almost casually, Rahn walked back to his car. He had parked it some thirty feet away, as if allowing the gleaming machine to come too close to the cluster of shabby wagons would somehow adulterate it. His 1938 BMW Type 327 convertible looked like a racing car with its sleek low lines, its shimmering navy blue and burgundy finish and its tan canvas top. Rahn had never seen another like it and if he ever did—well, there were always methods available to a Gestapo chief. He would simply arrest the owner on one pretext or another and impound the car. No one in his district would be allowed to own a match of the item he loved more than anything else—more than his friends, more than his family. People—they were so messy, so unpredictable. But the car—well, it simply had never disappointed him.
   He carefully placed the wooden horse in the trunk of the car and walked back to the center of the semicircle of wagons. For Rahn, although they occupied only an abandoned patch of land off a remote dirt road, their encampment represented an encroachment of the worst kind, a violation of his personal fiefdom. He felt no differently than if he had found a rat running loose in his house. Catch it. Kill it. Simple.
   “You look nervous, Schneider. You think they’re going to jump you, take your gun? Don’t worry. They’re as passive as…as those chrysanthemums your wife planted in your front yard.”
   “It’s not the people that bother me, it’s that bear.” He nodded toward a scruffy looking bear held on a leash by one of the gypsies. “What if they let it loose, make it attack?”
   “Feeling timid, Schneider?” He patted Schneider’s cheek. “You’ve nothing to fear. They only use the poor creature to put on their pathetic little shows in tiny villages in the countryside and swindle the residents out of their money. It won’t bite you.”
Although he would never tell Schneider, he didn’t like the bear either. He didn’t like anything that had the least chance of dominating him. He studied it carefully. It looked old and in poor condition, its fur rough with matted sections standing out in hunks. And it wore a leather muzzle and seemed indifferent to the flies buzzing around its face. But its paws hid long pointed claws, he knew that for certain. And it was huge. Dangerous.
   “All right, Schneider, this is how you handle this kind of situation. Watch!” He took a few steps forward. “Your identification papers, all of them. I want to see them. Now! Schnell!”
The adults, most of them trembling, fumbled through their clothing. The children hid behind their parents, tugging on their mothers’ dresses.
   Rahn walked from person to person and silently assembled the papers into a small stack. All the members of the family were instantly cooperative—except one: the old woman who held the leash attached to the bear’s muzzle.
She apparently held some special position in the group. She wore, unlike her plainly attired relatives, a dress that contained a mix of colors—red, yellow, white. It fit tightly across her thin midsection and extended to her ankles. Her feet were bare. She stood with one hand on her hip, her furrowed and creased face now superimposed with defiance.
Rahn approached her and said in a quieter voice, “Do you know who I am? I am the Gestapo District Leader—for all of Heidelberg and its surroundings.”
   She responded with an even more intense glare.
   “Woman, listen to me. If you do not cooperate with me, I will take you into those woods over there, where my comrade and I will shoot you. Then I will shoot your children. I will shoot your children’s children. I will report that you attacked us. Because of the danger you represent to my region, there will be no questions asked. In fact, I will probably win a citation.”
He paused, looked down, and forced his voice into an even softer tone, as if he were speaking to his five-year old daughter. “I should probably do that now—but I am a reasonable man, some would even say compassionate. So—if you cooperate with me, you will soon be able to continue your wanderings through the Reich.”
   Her face remained locked in its grimace. Then, without warning, she spat at him, spraying his face and leather jacket.
Rahn did not even flinch. He had expected something like this. He was even pleased. Now for his report, he could catalog a direct act of hostility which would give him wider latitude as he made his plans for this group.
   He pulled a folded handkerchief from his suit jacket underneath the leather coat, wiped his face, and put the handkerchief back. When his hand returned, it held his Luger Parabellum pistol, well serviced, well oiled. And well worn. He pulled back the slide to chamber a 9mm cartridge and then let it snap forward. Lifting the pistol slowly, he pointed it directly at the bridge of the gypsy woman’s nose.
   I could kill her now, he thought. But no. There might be questions. Later, perhaps, when no one is around.
He lowered the pistol deliberately, and drew it to his right so that it aimed directly at the bear’s head. Rahn slowly surveyed each horrified face that watched him, as he communicated without words, with only the stare of his steel-blue eyes, this could be you, this is what happens to those who remain defiant. The gun remained unmoved, still pointing at the bear.
   He waited, scanned their faces…
   Then, he pulled the trigger.
   At the hammering crack of the pistol the entire group, including Schneider, gasped and jumped. Several of the women screamed. Pieces of bone and fur flew in every direction as the bear collapsed into a brown heap.
   Rahn swung the pistol back to the woman.
   “I want your papers. Now!”
   One of the older men in the group moved hurriedly to the woman’s side and spoke to her in a language Rahn couldn’t understand. Contempt still in her face, but with a tightness of fear around her eyes, she reached inside her dress and retrieved her identification papers.
   Rahn added them to his stack and turned to Schneider, who looked as shaken as the gypsies.
   “Look at this, Schneider. Here is a new lesson for you. Do you notice anything unusual about these papers?”
   “Nothing in particular—except they are printed on brown paper instead of white.”
   “Exactly. This is excellent luck for us. Brown means that Reichsfuehrer Himmler’s Research Center for Population Biology has determined that these creatures are not even partly human. They are no more human than that bear. Do you know what that means? We can do with them virtually as we please. If their papers had been gray, or even brown with blue stripes, that would have meant that these people were racially mixed, a little bit German. Then our hands would have been tied. But pure brown… Ahh.”
   Schneider turned away, visibly disturbed by Rahn’s words. Rahn didn’t miss the expression.
   “Schneider, you’re lucky you’re working with a senior agent as patient as I am. You’ve got to learn that such a negative attitude will completely destroy your career. But,” Rahn continued, his mood enhanced by the act of killing something, even if it had only been an animal, “I will forget about this for today. Now let’s get this little piece of the Gypsy Menace back to the station.” He laughed quietly. “They certainly have provided us with a full morning’s work. ”