The Trick

by Emanuel Bergmann

  The Baron’s behavior had been growing more erratic in recent days. He drank too much, and whenever he was drunk, he was quick to anger. Maybe it was because Hannover’s nobility ignored him. One day, Moshe saw Julia run past. Her cheek was red and she had tears in her eyes. He went after her.

  “What happened?”

  “Leave me alone,” she whispered.

  Moshe looked around helplessly The Half-Moon Man stood in the tent entrance, his mask sparkling in the light. He put a bottle to his lips and staggered off.

  “Did he . . . ?” Moshe asked.

  “Shut up!” Julia hissed. “It’s none of your business.”

  But it was his business. The Baron had hit Julia, and not for the first time. When Julia finally told Moshe about it, they were lying in a meadow, far away from the circus tent, under a shimmering ceiling of stars. They looked into the endless night sky and began to wonder if a better life was possible, somewhere else. They talked about cities they wanted to visit: Madrid, Rome . . .

  “Paris,” Moshe said.

  Julia stared at him. “I was just about to say that!”

  He nodded. For a moment, he had felt as if he could read her thoughts. Maybe that was love, he thought. To know someone else better than yourself. Deep down, Moshe suspected that Julia’s feelings for him were paper-thin. It was plain to see, in her many careless gestures and words. Her heart wasn’t his, it was hers alone. He felt it, and he suffered. He wished there was a magic spell he could perform to finally and forevermore win her love. But there wasn’t.

  “That’s it,” Julia said. “We’ll get out of here and go to Paris.”

  “I’m not sure . . .” he replied.

  “Why not?”

  First of all, he didn’t speak French. But in addition, it had become increasingly difficult lately to leave Germany. Maybe Berlin was a better option? They quickly agreed. They began to work out a plan. They would take the train from Hannover to Hamburg, then take another train to Berlin. Julia said that she could find them a place to stay, at Danziger Straße. The only issue was money. They had to save money. They had to be frugal, and very careful.

  A few days later, Moshe was on his bicycle, headed back to the Hannover Zoo, where the circus had pitched its tent. He came by the Leine River, which ran through the city, and he saw a group of policemen standing around at the riverbank. There was a Grüne Minna, a police van, parked at the side of the road. A stocky man in a trench coat was wading around the swampy riverbank, cursing under his breath. He pointed in various directions, shouting orders. He was obviously in charge. Maybe he was a police inspector, Moshe thought. The odd scene had piqued his interest. He got off his bike, leaned it against a tree, and watched from a safe distance. This must be a crime scene, he thought. The inspector was grumpy. His officers were pale. As if they had seen something terrible.

  Moshe returned to his bike, deep in thought. But he didn’t get on it, for he had an idea. Crouching next to the tree, he simply waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Minutes later, the inspector and a colleague walked to their car and got in. The other officers got into their own cars and took off.

  Moshe swung himself onto his bicycle and carefully followed the inspector.

  It was good to be out, to feel the chill air against his face. He felt full of possibilities. His plan was insane, but Moshe was free and fearless.

  The inspector’s car stopped in front of a café.

  Quickly, Moshe got off his bike, hid it behind a bush, and entered the café. The inspector was still sitting in his car, talking to his colleague. Moshe found a seat next to an empty table near the door. He quickly arranged two chairs by the table, so that they looked particularly inviting. He took a newspaper off the rack by the door and flipped through it. Thankfully, he had put on a clean suit that day. His face was freshly shaven, and he was wearing a fedora. When he looked up from his newspaper, he saw the police inspector enter the café alone. His colleague drove off in the car.

  The inspector looked around for a place to sit, then saw the empty table next to Moshe and sat down there. He felt Moshe’s gaze on him.

  Moshe averted his eyes and whispered, “Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you, Inspector.”

  “What did you say?” said the man.

  “I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “How did you know that I’m an inspector?”

  “You are, aren’t you?” Moshe said innocently.

  “Yes,” said the inspector. “But how did you know?”

  Moshe seemed to ponder this for a moment, looking at the inspector, examining his face.

  “Your eyes,” Moshe finally said. “It’s in your eyes. You’re a man who seeks justice.”

  The inspector was stunned. “How did you know that?”

  Moshe smiled vaguely and went back to his newspaper. He remembered the Baron’s words: The less you say, the better.

  “Are you a medium?” the inspector asked.

  Moshe shook his head.

  “A spiritualist?”

  “No, nothing of the sort. I’m just a . . .”

  A what? What could he possibly say? The truth? That he was a circus clown dabbling in stage magic and fake premonitions? Out of the question.

  “I’m a student,” he said at last.

  “Oh,” said inspector. “What do you study?”

  “This and that . . .” Moshe replied evasively. “I haven’t really found my footing yet.”

  The inspector nodded. “Yes, I know what that’s like. I was aimless and adrift, just like you, before I joined.”

  Moshe didn’t get around to asking him what he meant by “before I joined,” because the inspector kept pressing him to reveal his “secret.” Moshe didn’t. He played it shy, pretending there was nothing unusual about him, except that he sometimes had “feelings” and “just knew things.”

  “You’re looking for a murderer, aren’t you?” Moshe said innocently.

  “Extraordinary!” proclaimed the inspector. “This is impossible.”

  Moshe held up the paper. “No, I read it in the paper.”

  The headline read: “The BUTCHER Strikes Again!”

  The inspector laughed.

  Then Moshe closed his eyes and held his hands up to his head. “You found something in the river today,” he said breathlessly.

  “That hasn’t made the paper yet,” the inspector said. “It just happened. Just now, today!”

  “As I said . . . sometimes, I have these . . . feelings.” He pretended to concentrate. “You were looking for something . . . something terrible. . . .” He continued to mumble, hoping the inspector would say something to help him along. He didn’t have to wait long. The inspector was no different from other people. He wanted to be deceived.

  “Bones!” the inspector said loudly.

  “Yes!”

  “We found bones! How did you . . . ?” He shook his head. “This is unbelievable!”

  Moshe humbly averted his gaze.

  Then the inspector stood up and held out his hand. “Leitner,” he said. “Inspector Erich Leitner, Hannover Criminal Division. Pleased to meet you.”

  Moshe stood up as well. Only then did he see the NSDAP pin on the man’s lapel.

  He hesitated for only a moment then he took the man’s hand and shook it.

  Half an hour later, they were standing by the Leine River. It was cold and misty. The policemen were gone; only their footprints remained in the mud. The reeds had been trampled. The dreary landscape seemed to exist only in shades of gray. Cranes were flying majestically above, free of sorrow or guilt. Moshe felt a tugging at his heart. He thought of the song “The Eagle and the Lamb.” He wondered if he had sealed his own fate just now, by shaking the inspector’s hand. He wondered if he would soon be led to the slaughter, like his mother.
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br />   “Feel anything yet?” Leitner asked excitedly.

  Moshe felt nothing. “What kind of bones did you find?” he asked with an air of expertise.

  “The bones of children,” the inspector said glumly.

  “That explains it,” said Moshe.

  “Explains what?”

  Moshe stared at the moist, sodden ground. Without looking at the inspector, he said, “The pain.”

  The inspector was deeply impressed. As was Moshe. It was all so effortless. He was giving a world-class performance for an audience of one.

  “Help me,” the inspector said. “Help me find the murderer.”

  Moshe pretended to think about it. Then he nodded.

  THE BURGLAR

  There seemed to be no end to the humiliations the Great Zabbatini was forced to endure. The kid had put out a few flattened cardboard boxes and old blankets in the garage for him. It was apparently important that Max’s mother remained unaware of Zabbatini’s presence. So this was what he was reduced to! Hiding in a cluttered garage like a stray dog! Unbelievable! He was an artist of worldwide renown, appearing in the finest cabarets of Berlin, then New York, Atlantic City, the whole West Coast. In Las Vegas, they had given him a private suite in one of the finest mob-owned hotels on the Strip. And now? Zabbatini tossed about, but he couldn’t find a comfortable position on the cold concrete floor. At his age! Others spent their golden years in the lap of luxury, sleeping in feathered beds, eating the finest food, pinching the cheeks of grandkids and the asses of nurses. He didn’t deserve to be in this dark, dusty place full of boxes and discarded furniture. That was how he felt, discarded. A cold wind blew in through the crack underneath the garage door.

  He wondered if there were rats in the garage. Why not? It could always get worse, couldn’t it? And it did. He saw no rats, at least there was that, but he had to pee. Zabbatini sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. There was no point, he knew, in delaying the inevitable. His bladder was not his friend of late; it had become unreliable. He laboriously lifted himself up and opened the door leading to the house. He shuffled into the bathroom next to the master bedroom, lifted the toilet seat, and relieved himself. When he was finished, he flushed and turned around. He saw a laundry basket standing in the corner, filled with clothes, the lid open. On top of the pile, he saw a pink lace slip. What have we here? he thought. He picked it up, pressed it against his face, and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, he was adrift in memories. The scent brought him back in time, to a small attic room in Berlin. When he opened his eyes again, he no longer saw the blue-and-pink-tiled bathroom, but the tiny, ramshackle garret. He saw Julia looking at him, seeing only him and nothing else, smiling for him, for him alone, her blond hair tousled, her green-gray eyes catching tiny sparks of sunlight, and her smile lighting up his heart. She took his hand into hers, her fingers so much smaller, so much more delicate, and she whispered a beautiful lie into his ear:

  “I love you.”

  The memory was so strong, so powerful, that he forgot all else. And why not? He had nothing to look forward to. Friends and foes alike, they were all dead. He was the last survivor, the lone relic of a long-lost era. The train of life was slowly chugging toward its final destination, and the other passengers had already left. All that remained was the past. It was his refuge, his constant companion and constant torment.

  Ever since Harry had moved out, Deborah had difficulties sleeping. A recurring dream troubled her: she was sitting alone in a boat at dusk, in the middle of a lake. There was no sound and no sign of life around her, everything was perfectly still. She felt completely abandoned, and her boat was adrift, she had no power over it, the course could not be changed. As it floated by the shore, which was overgrown with wild plants, she saw the crumbling ruins of a long-lost civilization. There were square-hewn stones, fallen columns, and collapsed arches. Remnants of a once-great architecture, now abandoned to the wilderness. Deborah would reach out in an attempt to pull herself ashore, but whenever she did, there was a gust of wind, or a surging current, and she would be cast back toward the center of the lake, further adrift, more alone than ever.

  Suddenly, she woke up. There was a noise coming from the hallway. She listened intently. There it was again. She couldn’t place it. Was it Max? She looked around. He was lying next to her, snoring slightly. He, too, had been having difficulties sleeping lately and would sometimes come shuffling into her bedroom to snuggle up with her.

  She heard a light rain, softly drumming against her window. Then the toilet flushed. Deborah shot up in bed. Suddenly, she was afraid. Was there a burglar? What else could it be? Maybe raccoons? Raccoons were always going through her trash at night. But they certainly didn’t flush toilets. She peeked through the half-open door.

  There was light and movement coming from the bathroom.

  She groped blindly around in the dark until she found her cell phone, and dialed 911. A female voice answered.

  “There’s someone in my house,” Deborah whispered.

  The woman on the other end of the line asked for her name and address. Deborah gave her the information and impressed upon her that there was probably a burglar. Maybe even a rapist? She’d heard all kinds of stories. The operator asked her to remain calm and not do anything. Officers were on their way.

  “Remain calm?” Deborah hissed indignantly. “There’s someone in my house!”

  “Don’t do anything,” said the operator.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Deborah said, and hung up. She was furious now. All fear, all nervousness was gone. This was not unusual for her. She had always been prickly. When she was a young girl, one of the bigger kids in school had tried to take her lunch pail from her and she’d gotten so upset that she started attacking the boy, even though he was much stronger than she was. She had punched him in the nose, and he started bleeding. In the end, she and the boy were hauled into the principal’s office and the boy was punished with detention, but the case against her was dismissed for lack of evidence. No one believed that such a small girl could hurt a much stronger boy. When Deborah got mad, it canceled out all other thoughts, including those of her own safety. She went to the hall closet and armed herself with a broom; then she got a can of Mace, which she always carried in her purse.

  I’ll show you! she thought. Then, with steely determination, she sneaked down the hallway.

  The bathroom door was half-open. Raising the broom with her right hand, she held the Mace in her left and got ready to attack. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for a second, then kicked the bathroom door wide open and lunged into the room, holding the broom before her like a lance. The moment she saw the old man sitting on the edge of the bathtub, she brought the broomstick down on his head, then sprayed a load of Mace at his face.

  The man yelped in pain and fell backward into the empty tub. He lay there like a turtle on its back, his spindly arms and legs stretched out, gasping loudly as he rubbed his eyes. It would take a few minutes for the pain to subside. Mace was pretty strong stuff, that much she knew.

  “Who are you?” Deborah demanded.

  The old man moaned. Tears of pain ran down his face and he was shaking. His mouth was opening and closing, but he couldn’t get a word out. Deborah could see that he was holding something in his left hand, which, she noted, was oddly disfigured. The thing he was holding was her lace slip.

  “What are you doing with my slip, you pervert?” she asked. “How did you get in here?”

  Zabbatini blinked, still fighting against his tears. Then he looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights. When the pain in his eyes and head started to recede, he began to realize how awkward the situation was. It didn’t help that, from the moment he saw that angry beast with the broom, he was immensely attracted to her. And that fire in her eyes!

  He moaned again—this time, it was a minor improvisation on his part—then he lifted himself up, s
o that he was now sitting in the tub. As if he were taking a bath. He reached into his pocket and removed a small pill bottle. He took out one of the pills—for his heart—and swallowed it dry. Deborah saw that he feebly tried to hold her slip behind his back. His other hand was rubbing his nearly bald head.

  “And a lovely evening to you,” he said quietly, and with an odd accent.

  “What,” growled Deborah, “are you doing here?”

  “You hurt me,” he said accusingly.

  “Oh, it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more. I’m not through with you. Who are you?”

  Zabbatini gave a slight bow. “They call me the Great Zabbatini,” he said. “My kindest felicitations to you, too, young lady.” He spread out his arms and gave her a look that had served him well over the course of his career, an innocent look that seemed to say, Would I lie to you?

  “What are you doing with my slip?”

  Zabbatini held out both hands. They were empty.

  “Slip?” he asked innocently. “What slip?” Then, with a theatrical gesture, he pulled up the short sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt. “You see? Nothing hidden there.”

  Deborah was surprised. She could have sworn the old man had her slip. She had seen it, moments ago! Now all she could see were few faded numbers on his forearm, the remnants of a tattoo.

  She knew what that meant.

  “What are you doing in my bathroom, in the middle of the night?”

  “Well . . .” Zabbatini began. He smiled helplessly. What was he going to say? That he had been kicked out of his old-age home? Deborah was still holding the broom in a rather threatening manner. His next words would be crucial.

  “In each of our lives,” he said, “there are moments that transform us.” His accent was becoming thicker. He tried to climb out of the bathtub. Everything hurt. “This, young lady,” he continued, “is such a moment.” He managed to hoist one leg over the rim of the tub. “I am here,” he declared grandiosely, “to transform your life.”

  “No tricks,” said Deborah with a dangerous growl. “The cops are on their way.”