“My husband said I should go to you. Only you.”
“And why me, pray tell?”
“We . . .” She paused, then she swallowed hard. “We have no money,” she finally said and averted her eyes.
“Of course,” said the doctor.
“My husband is a teacher. Truly, we have not much.”
“And what is the name of your husband?”
“Goldenhirsch. Laibl Goldenhirsch.”
The doctor stood there with his mouth open, and for a moment did not move. Then he removed his glasses, wiped them on his nightshirt, and said, “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Rifka had never sat in an automobile before. Had she not been so frantic about her son’s health, she probably would have enjoyed the experience. As it was, it struck her as rather uncomfortable. Her tuches felt every bump of the cobbled street. The motor emitted foul-smelling steam and chugged along slowly. When Dr. Ginsky’s automobile finally reached the tenement building by the Vltava, they had difficulties finding a place to park it. Rifka was convinced that these so-called cars would never catch on.
She proceeded to lead the doctor up the stairs. He was huffing and puffing, and after only one floor, he was out of breath. By the time they reached the door to their apartment, Rifka worried that the doctor’s heart might fail. She knocked and Laibl let them in, holding the sickly child in his arms. Rifka was touched, not just by how weak her boy looked, but also by the obvious tenderness with which Laibl held him. She had never seen her husband so attached to the child. His child, she reminded herself.
Laibl had tears in his eyes. Rifka gently took the baby from him.
Dr. Ginsky entered the room and looked around disdainfully. Then he and Laibl faced each other. Suddenly they both seemed to stand much straighter. Then they saluted.
“At ease,” said Dr. Ginsky.
“Colonel,” said the rabbi.
Much to Rifka’s surprise, the two men embraced. They remained that way much longer than she thought seemly. Something unspoken passed between them.
Then Dr. Ginsky turned to the child. He felt his forehead, looked inside his mouth, and measured his temperature. The baby’s condition was not too serious. A fever due to influenza. Many a child and many a man had succumbed to the Spanish flu after the war. But Moshe was to live. Rifka prepared a hot water bottle while Dr. Ginsky administered medicine to the child. Laibl offered the man a few coins, but the doctor indignantly refused. Soon, the baby fell asleep in his crib.
When Laibl and Dr. Ginsky bade each other farewell, they hugged again, and kissed each other on the cheek, the way men do. But Rifka was not stupid, and from the way they looked at each other, she understood, with perfect clarity, what had gone on between her husband and the doctor.
Laibl held the door open for Dr. Ginsky, and he remained there for a while after the doctor had left, staring into the darkness.
“Laibl?” Rifka then asked.
He slowly turned around. “Yes?”
She looked at him, and all her strength seemed to drain from her body. Her lips were trembling.
“What happened at the front?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Laibl walked over and sat down beside her. He took her hand and they both stared at the coarse wooden floor.
“If you don’t ask me about the front,” Laibl said finally, “then I won’t ask you about the miracle.”
HIS GREATEST TRICKS
When Max Cohn came home from school on Tuesday afternoon, there was a moving van in front of the house. Max was immediately alarmed. A moving van? Already? He went inside. Boxes were everywhere. The furniture was in disarray. Bruno the Bunny sat in his cage in a corner of the living room, looking frazzled. His ears were shaking. The movers were two large men. One of them wore jeans and a Shakira T-shirt; the other—in an apparent nod to tradition—was dressed in denim overalls and a checkered shirt.
“Buenos días,” said the man in the Shakira T-shirt, nodding at him. He was holding a box filled with papers and file folders.
“Hey,” said Max. He noticed that his voice was trembling. “Where are my parents?” he asked.
“¿Qué?” said the man in the Shakira T-shirt.
“Los padres,” said Max. “Mom y Dad.”
The man looked around helplessly and shrugged. Max stared at the box he was holding. Those papers and files probably belonged to Dad. Papers and files were part of his job. Like the Batmobile was for Batman.
The guy in the overalls approached him, carrying two boxes, also full of papers.
“In the bedroom,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Max demanded, his voice growing shriller.
“We’re getting the boxes out,” said the man in the overalls. He had a thick accent.
“Put them down!” Max demanded. He looked up to see Dad emerge from the bedroom carrying a box as well. His hair was unkempt, he obviously hadn’t shaved, his shirt was buttoned incorrectly, and his eyes had a glazed look. Totally alarming. The only other time Max had been so disturbed by his father’s appearance was when, at age three, he had decided to lick the back porch clean with his tongue. Halfway through, his father had come running out, naked, to snatch him off the porch. There’s nothing creepier than seeing your own father naked. Dad had rushed toward him, his penis dangling back and forth. It was a body part Max had never paid much attention to before. What is that thing? he thought in bewilderment. It can’t be good.
Which is exactly what went through his mind right now:
It can’t be good.
His father looked as if he had woken up from a deep sleep. As if he had gone through life in a haze and only now saw the light.
“Dad!” Max yelled and ran toward him. “There’re movers everywhere!”
Dad took Max outside. He put the box down and they sat on the front steps. The stones were warm from the sun. Max heard the voices of the neighborhood kids playing. In the distance, he could see the cloud-covered peaks of the mountains.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Max and his dad simply sat there and stared off into the distance.
“We talked about this,” Dad finally said.
“About what?”
“About today. About me leaving.”
“You said Thursday.”
“Tuesday,” Dad corrected him. “I said Tuesday.”
Max suddenly felt cold, despite the sun. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Dad was trying to sneak out on him while he was still in school. He was gripped by the fear that he might never see his dad again, that as soon as he walked away, his dad might forget all about him. He wanted to cry, but he fought against it. What would become of him?
“Max,” Dad said. “Nothing’s going to change.”
Max knew this was a lie. One of the bitter lessons of life was that everything changes. Both Spider-Man and Batman had lost their loved ones, causing them to wear spandex outfits and spend their nights fighting crime instead of watching reruns on TV like every other normal person.
Dad moved to hug him, but Max drew away. Then he had an idea: since it was his fault that Dad was leaving, maybe he was also the one who could undo it. He pressed his eyes shut and tried to will Dad to stay. He was sorry about wishing him gone. He would clean the bunny cage every day for the rest of his life.
Dad got up. “I still love you,” he said.
“Dad!” Max said, panicked. “Stay here! I’ll clean the bunny cage. Forever. You’ll never have to do it again, ever!”
“I’m sorry,” Dad said. Apparently, Max’s thought wasn’t powerful enough. Dad tried again to take him in his arms, but Max got frustrated and started punching him. Dad let go. Max ran up the steps to the house. He didn’t get very far. Stumbling over one of the moving boxes, he fell flat on his face. The contents of the box spilled out over the front lawn.
“Max, are you all right?” Dad said.
Max sat up. “I’m fine,” he said, pouting.
His knee was scraped, but he wasn’t paying attention to that. He was staring at something lying on the lawn.
It was a flat, round, black, shiny thing that peeked out of a cardboard cover. Max knew what it was. Dad had told him about it. An item from the stone age, from before he was born. Something called a “record.” He was immediately drawn to the album cover—the photograph of a middle-aged man dressed in a turban and a flowing, silver toga. He had thick, horn-rimmed glasses and seemed to be concentrating really hard on something. In his left hand was a magician’s wand, and in his right hand a cute white bunny. There was something odd about the way he held his left arm, but Max couldn’t tell what it was. Part of the toga was draped over it, covering the arm almost entirely. Never before had Max Cohn seen such splendor. This man, Max knew, was the very epitome of elegance and sophistication. A silver toga! Holy cow! This man was cooler than even James Bond. Feeling like an archaeologist who had discovered a great treasure from a long-vanished civilization, Max removed the black disc entirely from its sleeve. The title was written in bold, yellow letters in the middle of the disc:
ZABBATINI: HIS GREATEST TRICKS
THE EAGLE AND THE LAMB
Moshe Goldenhirsch remained a sickly child. No wonder his mother constantly doted on him, calling him “my little miracle.” It dismayed her greatly that Moshe was always coughing and sniffling. He was always the first to catch a cold and the last to overcome it. Rifka was kept so busy by her son’s health that she neglected her own body. Something was eating her up from the inside, but she was too busy to pay attention to it. She lived only for Moshe.
He was often quiet and withdrawn. Much like his father, Rifka often thought. Moshe would spend hours on the banks of the Vltava River, sitting in the sun, skipping stones or simply lying in the grass staring at clouds that in his daydreams took on the shapes of castles and knights. Because he was young, time had no meaning for him. His life had not yet assumed a shape, and he had no fear in his heart, not yet. The world outside was gray and dreary, but his inner world was magnificent. A line in the wall became a road, on which his namesake Moses led the Israelites to freedom; the breath of a horse in the cold winter night became a dragon’s fire. Days would go by without his uttering a single word to his parents. This was not for lack of love, not at all; it was simply that he was far away, even when he was sitting at the kitchen table with them. Moshe stared into oblivion, his movements became slow and mechanical, and he drifted off. “I’ve lost you,” his mother would say with a sad smile.
When Moshe was eight years old, he and his father came home one evening to find Rifka leaning over the old stove, as if exhausted. Clay shards were on the floor; potatoes were scattered. She was breathing heavily, and there was sweat on her face.
“Are you all right?” Laibl asked, concerned.
She nodded. “I’m fine,” she said. “All is well.” She took a deep breath, then bent down to pick up the shards.
Moshe eyed her suspiciously. He knew she was lying, he could feel it. All was not well. The world had cracks: there were things that were hidden from sight and truths that were unspoken. He looked to his father for comfort. Laibl gazed at his wife, who seemed to be in great pain. He held out his hand to help her, but she swatted it away angrily.
“Maybe,” Laibl said helplessly, “you should see a doctor?”
“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Rifka replied with some sarcasm.
Moshe knew that Dr. Ginsky had saved his own life, soon after he was born. Since then, he had become the family physician, and Laibl had started to complain of many ailments, which required him to visit the doctor frequently.
Rifka took a broom and swept the remaining shards into a dustpan. They sat down to a dinner of steamed potatoes and cottage cheese with fresh herbs. Moshe observed his mother and was inexplicably scared. She had seemed to him a much larger woman, but in the last few months she had grown disturbingly thin.
Rifka was shivering.
“Is everything all right?” Laibl asked.
Rifka stifled a sob and shook her head. Laibl pushed the chair away so forcefully that it fell over. He rushed over to his wife’s side and held her tightly. Moshe thought it must hurt to be held like this. But Rifka did not resist. Laibl led her to the bed and helped her lie down.
“Oh God,” Rifka cried out.
“What’s the matter?” Laibl asked.
“Nothing,” Rifka said, and suppressed a moan. It looked as if she was fighting a battle inside her body.
“Moshe!” said Laibl. “Fetch Doctor Ginsky.”
“No!” Rifka said with surprising sharpness.
She threw her arms around her husband and pulled him close to her. Her face was covered in sweat.
“Do you remember,” she whispered, “when you asked me to marry you?”
He nodded. “In a field. You were lying in a field. Like you are now.”
“Do you still love me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
And she believed him.
When winter came, her health deteriorated rapidly. She grew weaker and weaker, and her once-full body seemed to vanish. She had difficulties getting up in the morning. Often, she was nauseous, and would throw up in a metal bucket that Moshe had placed by the bed. When she was done, Moshe would carry the bucket down to the river, empty it out, and wash it carefully. Initially, he did this once or twice a day, but then he ran to the water more and more frequently. He didn’t complain. He wished he could do more, he wished he had magic powers to heal his mother. But nothing he did made her better. And the worse she got, the angrier she became. Feeling the end drawing near, she resented her husband and son for living. As the days grew shorter, so did her own remaining time. She would stare blankly out the window, her mind clouded. Her son would live to see another spring. But she would not.
Eventually she became so weak that she could no longer get up from her bed. Against her wishes, Laibl called Dr. Ginsky. Rifka eyed him with great suspicion as he entered. The doctor did everything he could to help, but it wasn’t much.
Laibl suffered as well. It was as if he himself were dying, and not Rifka. For many years she had been the center of his existence: she was his heart. Life without her was unthinkable. He became haggard, perhaps out of solidarity with his diminishing spouse. He barely slept. Whenever Rifka coughed, Laibl would leap up, wide awake, and ask her what she needed. He was haunted by guilt. He had not been faithful to his family or his principles. He had sinned in the eyes of the Lord, and now his wife was being taken from him. He spent much of his time praying, but his prayers went unanswered.
Dr. Ginsky came over more frequently, to prescribe different medicines. He was a good doctor: he cared for all his patients, even the ones of the Mosaic tribe, and he understood full well that his contribution to their well-being lay not only in the realm of the body, but also in that of the soul. He talked to Rifka, he told her jokes, he informed her about what was going on outside her four walls: Lenin was dead, Turkey had ended the caliphate, and the Cinema Lucerna was showing a new picture by Lubitsch. The world of the living would go on, with or without Rifka Goldenhirsch. Dr. Ginsky made her laugh in a way that Laibl never had. In the face of death, Rifka became surprisingly fond of her husband’s lover. He took her seriously and told her of the momentous political changes in Europe. He told her of a man called Hitler, who was leading a new movement in Germany, and who promised to wrest Prague away from the Slavs and the Bolsheviks and restore its freedom. Ginsky was quite fond of this odd little fellow, particularly of his views on the Jewish question. This always led to a somewhat awkward silence in the Goldenhirsch household. Dr. Ginsky was convinced that the Jews—with the notable exception of those present—were to blame for the lost war and the end of the monarchy. It was the Jews who h
ad nearly succeeded in poisoning Europe and who were working tirelessly to bring about communism.
Ginsky was an enigma to Rifka, a riddle she would not be able to solve in the little time she had left in this world. He was wise and compassionate, gentle and understanding, an excellent doctor and a good man, and yet, his political views were absurd. Ginsky was kind to her and her family, but unkind to the Jews.
“Forgive me, my dear Mrs. Goldenhirsch,” he said. “I meant no offense.”
“None was taken,” she replied, and smiled demurely, as became a woman on the verge of death.
“But I fear that the Jew . . .” he went on.
And Rifka said, “Spare me, doctor.”
“Present company excluded, of course . . .”
“Of course.”
“But surely you must know that the international Jewry . . .”
Rifka coughed pointedly, and Ginsky took her pulse and her temperature, forgetting all about the international Jewry for the time being. She was constantly amazed at how small and gentle his fingers were. She thought of them caressing her husband.
“Your fever has receded,” he announced, as if expecting applause.
Rifka nodded, and he continued talking about art, music, and the theater, about the world of the goyim. Rifka listened with fascination, grateful that this small, odd man was bringing the world to her just as she was about to leave it. Her husband looked on as they talked, and a hint of jealousy glinted in his eyes.
Young Moshe, meanwhile, was in a state of near panic. The thought of losing his mother was worse than that of his own death. He refused to believe his eyes, and kept telling himself that everything would be all right, that she would recover. Deep down, he knew this was a lie. He could not understand how a good and loving God could take her from him. He offered his own life in her place, he offered himself as a sacrifice, like the ram for Isaac. But God would not listen. God wanted Rifka. All that remained for Laibl and Moshe was a world of despair.
The Trick Page 3