The Extra by Kathryn Lasky Page B

a newspaper headline. He was trying to sound out the first word in the headline. He couldn’t do it and threw the paper down on the floor of the bus. He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t read — to a Gypsy, no less. He saved face by pretending when I pointed to a name.”
    “But Django, her name isn’t on the list, and what if they discover this when we get there? We’ll all be in trouble.”
    “Don’t worry. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And her name will be on the list by tomorrow. I guarantee it. There’s more to worry about with Unku. Believe me.”
    “Yes,” Lilo said softly. Unku sat a few rows ahead. Lilo could see her bald spot quite clearly. Her eyes fastened on it.
What an ogre this Leni Riefenstahl is. How low will she stoop?
    Twenty minutes later, the bus rolled up and stopped in front of the fake village of Roccabruna.
    “Good heavens,” Bluma gasped. “They built a whole village for this movie.”
    “Yes. I told you.”
    “But I never imagined.”
    “Well, some of the buildings are just fronts. You know, flats, like on a stage.”
    “If only it were all just a stage.” Bluma sighed and stepped off the bus. She didn’t have to explain. Lilo instantly understood. Yes, how lovely if Buchenwald had been just a stage or Rossauer Lände and wherever they had taken her father.
    They hadn’t walked far from the bus when Lilo spotted the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life standing by the tavern. He was tall and lean, deeply tanned with wavy blond hair, and even from where she stood, she could see that his eyes matched the sky. A bit of golden hair curled out from the deep V of his shepherd’s shirt. She felt herself blush. How stupid of her. He could be a Nazi.
Could be? Probably is,
she thought.
And most likely if he sees me, he thinks of vermin. Dirty Gypsy girl.
    “Your typical Spaniard, right?” Django whispered in Lilo’s ear.
    “Huh?”
    “Pedro. Franz Eichberger.”
    “Pedro? The shepherd? That’s him? You gotta be crazy.”
    “No, not me. Fräulein Riefenstahl. She’s crazy for him.”
    Franz Eichberger strode around the set like a golden god who had just descended from the loftiest peaks of Mount Olympus. His teeth sparkled, his eyes twinkled, and his hair shimmered like curly licks of yellow flame. Lilo thought he was so beautiful that it almost hurt to look at him, like looking directly at the sun on the brightest day — one needed dark glasses.
    “My God, he’s handsome. Hard to believe he’s mortal. Does he eat? Talk?” Lilo asked Rosa, who was standing next to Django.
    “Does he take a crap?” Django laughed and looked at the two awestruck girls.
    “Don’t!” Lilo jabbed him with her elbow but couldn’t help laughing. “But look at him. He’s at least twenty years younger than Fräulein Riefenstahl.”
    “Almost. She’s forty. He’s twenty-three,” Django said.
    “How do you know that?” Rosa asked.
    “I picked up the newspaper the bus driver threw away. It was a local paper and had stuff about shooting the movie here.”
    “What else did you learn about him?”
    “He’s a ski instructor. You know, like so many shepherds, they teach skiing on the side. Very popular profession. She discovered him on the slopes of St. Anton.”
    “No! Don’t kid with me.”
    “I’m not. He was actually on active military duty. He was a ski instructor for the
Wehrmacht
in the Alps.”
    “The Nazi army?” Lilo sighed.
    “That
Wehrmacht
— what else? The ski division. It’s just being formed really, the
Skijäger.
They’re being trained to use skis for movement during the winter, especially if action opens up on the eastern front.”
    “You mean Russia?” Lilo asked.
    “Yes, now, which would you rather do if you were a man — ski to Russia in the dead of winter or be in the sack with Leni Riefenstahl?”
    “Ski to Russia! Safer, I think,” she said, and walked away to the area that had been roped off for them. The Gypsy extras