The Extra by Kathryn Lasky Page A

words sounded empty to her.
    No one was in the latrines when she walked in. Tears slipped down her cheeks. “He only wanted his mother. Just his mother,” she whispered, then thought how Otto was right. They were living in a waking nightmare. Lilo slipped her hand into her pocket and touched the three chocolates, none of which she had unwrapped. There was the one from the first day of shooting. Then the one Tante Leni had given them when she had explained the scenes, and then the “bonus” one she gave each “urchin” for being such “wonderful, marvelous little actresses” as they mooned over her when she was dressing for her performance. She took them from her pocket and threw them down the hole of the latrine.
    “Tell it again,” Django asked.
    He, Lilo, Rosa, Unku, and Blanca were up in the hayloft, talking softly.
    “I was coming back from the latrines by way of the water barrels,” Lilo whispered. “The guards had gathered there to have a smoke and talk. There is a perfect place to hide to hear them. The bad guard —”
    “That’s Gunther,” Django interrupted. Lilo sensed that he was just slightly jealous of the information she had discovered. Django liked to think of himself as the only one who could ferret out such vital intelligence, as he called it. Lilo had once referred to him as a “gatherer,” which he deeply resented. “I don’t gather. It sounds like I’m picking flowers in a garden. I run information. I am a runner.”
    Lilo continued: “Not ten minutes ago, I came across some astounding intelligence and I shall repeat it exactly as I heard it. The shooting will shut down here by the middle of the month and then the entire production will be moved to Babelsberg.”
    “Babelsberg?” Rosa, Unku, and Blanca said.
    “Yeah, I have no idea where that is,” Lilo replied
    “Ha!” Django said. “I know exactly where it is.” He looked quite pleased with himself. He could now resume his position as chief know-it-all.
    “Where?” Blanca asked.
    “Berlin.”
    “Berlin!” the three girls gasped. Berlin was the most important city, the most sophisticated city, in all of Europe.
    “But is Babelsberg a city, too?” Lilo asked. As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. The question made her sound ridiculously ignorant.
    “No,” Django replied. “Babelsberg is simply the most important film studio in all of Europe. It is actually located just outside Berlin, in Potsdam. It makes sense, of course.” Django was now speaking in his most authoritative voice. “You see, they have state-of-the art sound studios and can re-create scenes, especially the interior ones, all inside, protected from the weather.” He paused dramatically. “Now, here’s the problem.” He held up a finger to command absolute attention. “We are not the only Gypsies available in Berlin. As you know, I am a veteran of the Marzahn camp, which is almost next door. They have a thousand Gypsies on tap there.”
    The girls groaned softly. “Wait!” Lilo said, her eyes brightening. “Look, we’ve only had a few weeks of shooting, but if they want to use us”— she held her hands out to indicate Rosa and Blanca —“for the street urchins, they can’t just put in anybody. It will look funny in the film. I bet you anything that’s where they sent Otto already — to Babelsberg.”
    Nobody met her eyes. Finally Django spoke: “You do have a point. They’ll need street urchins in Babelsberg. They haven’t finished with all the town scenes yet, according to the script. They have to match the shots. I think it’s called continuity. Same props, same extras. Did they do a lot of close-ups of you when you were peeking in the caravan, watching her get dressed?”
    “Yes,” the girls all answered. They were getting up to leave. Rosa yawned. “You know,” she said, still yawning, “I had to keep reaching out, at least ten, twelve times, to touch the castanets she was going to dance with. They shot it