Passersby looked angry, and moved to the other side of the street, resenting the way the bright colors of those long skirts contrasted with the drab, unhappy, overall grayness of their city. The two offending girls pretended not to notice, carrying on with their lighthearted conversation, hoping that some of these angry people might overcome their prejudice, and give them some business. They pretended not to notice the stares, the way people crossed themselves, and they daintily stepped out of the way of those few delightful individuals who felt it necessary to spit at their feet.
“Gypsies,” someone hissed. “Bringing their dirty selves and their witchcraft and whatnot.” All the townspeople seemed to agree, but the two girls were hoping that some of them might be tempted to slip into the small tents they’d set up, to have their fortune told, or to be healed.
The tents were a shade of deepest blue, the closest the Roma girls could bear to get to the drab buildings around them. They could not, try as they would, understand why anyone would want to live in one place their whole lives, and not only that, but one colorless place! It was unthinkable.
A German woman looked around guiltily, hoping no one was near. A man walked by, and she stood casually, fiddling with her purse, trying not to look suspicious. He passed, and she slipped into the blue tent at last, praying that the Gypsies wouldn’t hurt her.
“Hello?” The fortune-teller hadn’t expected anyone for another hour, at least.
“Hello. I was wondering-” The woman seemed uncertain at first, but then, recollecting that Gypsies were inferior to Germans, she drew herself up rather haughtily.
“I want a palm reading.”
The drabardi held in a smile. The way the woman held her hand out made her think of a small child demanding sweets from his mother.
“But of course, madam. If you would sit down, please.” The Roma girl took the proffered hand, and examined the lines, occasionally tracing one. Noticing one line, she chuckled, and looked at the woman’s face.
“How many children do you have, ma’am?”
The woman turned a little pink, but answered “One.”
“God the Almighty plans to bless you with eight more.”
The woman gasped. “Eight? I’m not even married!”
The Roma girl bit her lip to keep from laughing, then glanced at the woman’s face, and remembered that it could have been her sister sitting there, with a baby born out of wedlock, hiding the child from the world.
The woman looked thankful, but forgot to express her gratitude.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside the tent. The fortune-teller froze in fear as she heard the screams of her friend, the drabarni.
“Is that the healer? I’d been planning to go and get something for this nasty little cut, but it looks like I’ll have to see the pharmacist.”
The Roma girl paid no attention to the German woman, but stood still, listening to the harsh voices outside.
Suddenly, hearing a warning cry from her friend in another language, she sprang into action. She gathered the few things she needed – a bracelet, her bag, and the lunch she’d brought – and hurried toward the back of the tent, where there was another exit.
The German woman watched her go, thinking it was a good thing that someone was coming after those dirty Gypsies. Then, she realized that she looked as though she was consorting with the Gypsies, which she certainly was not! She would never set foot near one of their dirty caravans or tents! The woman listened at the front entrance, and deemed it safe to escape, and find her way back to the safety of her home.
A soldier was standing behind the tent. He’d carefully slipped away from the soldiers who were making fun of their captive Gypsy, wishing he’d listened to his mother and stayed out of the army. Upon finding himself confronted with another Gypsy, he nearly cried. He didn’t want this responsibility on his hands. He knew it was his duty to take her to the other soldiers, to make her a captive with her friend – or maybe it was her sister, they certainly looked alike. He realized that if he were a brave soldier, she’d escape, and no one would even know she was there. But he hadn’t been a brave soldier. He’d run away, and now they were both paying the consequences.
The girl looked up at him pathetically, her big green eyes welling up. She couldn’t be more than fifteen years old, he thought, amazed that the world could be so harsh to one so young. Her eyes found his, and she stared, it seemed, straight to his heart, seeing all that was in him. He shuddered, but could not break away from her stare. He saw what she saw: a young boy, eighteen years old, who’d thought he was ready for anything, king of the world, but who was really no more than a child, a child who had no place in the army. Her gaze softened, and it seemed comforting, it told him that after the war, he’d be all right; he could go home and take up a peaceful profession. He almost cried again. How could a girl in such trouble be so kind to the one who was about to be responsible for her death? Her kindness struck him as extraordinary, something that shouldn’t be wasted, something precious.
Wordlessly, he stepped out of her way, and gestured toward the river that ran through the city, right behind them. The girl gave him one look of profound thanks, and dove in noiselessly, swimming away. The soldier slipped quietly back to his comrades, and wondered whether he’d ever again have the courage to do nothing.
Instead of saying "Passersby looked angry..." personally, I would try to show that a bit more rather than just telling us. Something like, "Passersby scowled..." or "Passersby frowned..." Or whatever floats your boat -- I think it's important to start a story off with something super strong, and in my opinion, the word "looked" weakens it a little.
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