So I was more than a little glad to get away from that place. I was even more happy when we moved on and headed to other parts of the country where we met some Romani (gypsies as most people call them) who knew Uncle Nate. They seemed quite delighted to see him, especially some of the really older members of the group. They had to be in their eighties or even nineties. When Uncle Nate introduced me to them I noticed one of the old men had numbers tattooed on his forearm. After visiting Dachau I knew only too well what that meant. I gave the man an extra hug after taking his hand.
Even though we didn't speak the same language he seemed to understand. Uncle Nate told me afterwards the fellow had noticed my eyes staring at the brand on his arm.
That was a few days ago. Today we arrived in a little known town. Uncle Nate had stocked up on blood and was sticking around with us in the daytime. It was cloudy and overcast so I knew he'd be okay, especially after all the blood he took in. Still, something seemed off about him.
He insisted on wandering out in the nearby countryside on his own. Only Mom and I wouldn't hear of it and joined him anyway. Even she could tell something wasn't right. So we drove a couple of miles out of town and then pulled over to where a large open field stood.