“Come on!” he called out to Julia.
She understood and followed him. They grabbed the sword and plunged it into the cloth. Using their combined strength, they managed to make a rent in the fabric. Some of the nearby audience members saw their chance. Dozens of hands reached for the opening and pulled it wider. More and more people streamed toward the hole in the tent. Some fell down, others simply trampled over them, while and more people managed to file through.
Moshe and Julia were among them.
From outside the tent, Moshe could hear the screams of those who burned.
They worked feverishly all through the night, forming a human chain from the well to the tent. Moshe handed down buckets of water and poured them onto the flames, but the fire seemed to only grow bigger. Horst managed to evacuate the animals before the firemen finally arrived. When dawn came, the last of the flames had been extinguished.
But there was not much left of the circus.
The tent had burned down completely, the benches and poles were smoldering, but all of the animals and almost all of the performers had survived. Only Hilde, the alcoholic acrobat, had perished. She probably had been too drunk to flee. Nine audience members had burned to death; their charred remains weren’t found until late afternoon. The stiff corpses still had their hands raised, as if to protect themselves. Two children were among the dead.
There was no sign of the Half-Moon Man.
In the early light of morning, Moshe and Julia hastily threw some of their belongings into two suitcases and ran away from it all. The ground was warm. In some places, smoke was still rising. They ran into the woods, clutching each other’s hands, never looking back, driven by guilt and shame and the sheer exuberant joy of having survived.
PUNCH AND JUDY
When Max Cohn got home from school, the Great Zabbatini was gone. Instead there was a middle-aged woman sitting at the kitchen table next to his parents. She was black, and her attire was specifically chosen to put her mostly white clientele at ease. She had perfectly coiffed flat-ironed hair, and she wore a beige pantsuit and a pearl necklace. Max, however, was not at ease.
As soon as he entered the room, their conversation ceased and they all looked at him.
“Hi, buddy,” Dad said tentatively.
Max froze. He knew something was up. Why was Dad here? Who was that woman? “Hi, Dad,” Max said quietly.
“My name is Susan,” said the woman. “It’s nice to meet you.” She extended her hand.
Max didn’t move. His fingers clutched the strap of his backpack tightly.
“Susan is here to help you,” Mom said.
“All of us want to help you,” added Susan.
“Help me how?” Max asked.
Dad cleared his throat and got up. He walked over to Max and went down on his knees. This was one of the things Susan had told him: always speak to kids at their eye level.
“Susan is a psychologist,” Dad explained.
Dr. Susan Anderson nodded. She grinned at Max and also crouched down in front of him. Max was suspicious. He knew all about psychologists. They put other people in madhouses, like Myriam Hyung’s aunt, who had run out into the street one night, dressed only in her underwear, right in the midst of the passing cars. She wasn’t hurt, but it was the beginning of the end for her. A few days later, she was “institutionalized.” Max now had the terrifying thought that he might be next. He could see it: straitjackets, electroshock therapy, disgusting gruel served in wooden bowls. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The strange woman kept talking to him, but Max was barely registering what she said. He looked at her icily. Then the woman turned to his parents with a demonstrative sigh. She went on to explain the concept of a child’s “magical thinking.” Every once in a while, she flashed a smile at Max. He knew it was nonsense.
“Imagine you’re watching a puppet show. Like Punch and Judy,” she said.
Max nodded vaguely.
“There are two boxes,” she continued. “Punch comes onstage.”
Max nodded again. He’d heard of Punch and Judy. When he was very little, his parents had taken him to a marionette theater downtown in a former warehouse underneath the 101 Freeway. Max had found the atmosphere distinctly depressing. He couldn’t understand why grown-ups always brought him to such dreary places. Still, the funny marionettes in their colorful costumes had won him over quickly.
“Punch has a marble,” Susan said. “He puts it into the first box. Then he leaves the stage. Judy comes on, opens the first box, takes out the marble, puts it in the second box and walks off. Punch comes back onstage.”
At this point, Susan put both hands on his shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes. Max was getting a little creeped out.
“All right, Max. In which of the boxes should Punch look for the marble?’ ”
“In the second one,” Max said. “Duh.”
That must have been the wrong answer, because Susan took her hands off his shoulders and made a sad face. “A big boy like you should know that Punch would be looking in the first box. Because he didn’t see Judy move the marble.” Susan cast a condoling look toward his parents. “It’s unusual for a boy his age,” she said. “Usually, only children on the spectrum choose the second box.”
“Spectrum?” Mom asked in dismay.
“Autism,” Susan replied. “But don’t worry. It’s just—”
Mom interrupted her. “Max!” she said sternly. “Pay attention!”
“But Mom,” grumbled Max, “the marble’s in the second box.”
“But Punch doesn’t know that!” said Susan with forced cheer.
Her patience seemed strained. Max had assumed that psychologists were a little tougher than that.
“As far as Punch knows,” Susan continued, “the marble has to be in the first box.”
“But it’s not!” Max insisted.
Susan gave a tortured smile. “Of course not. But that’s where he should be looking.”
“Why?” Max said.
“Because it makes sense!”
“How does that make sense?” Max said. “The marble isn’t in there!”
“No, but—”
“Punch is a retard,” Max yelled, and then added that he’d never seen a puppet show with such a stupid plot.
His parents looked distraught. This therapy session wasn’t turning out quite as expected.
Susan looked at them. “Most children at Max’s age understand that people can have false beliefs. They know that the marble is in the second box, but they also know that Punch believes it to be in the first one.”
“But it’s not!” Max interjected.
Deborah stood up and walked over to her son. “It’s just an example, honey. Susan is here to help us cope with what’s going on.”
“With the marble?” Max asked.
“With the divorce,” Mom said.
At that point, Max had had enough. “What’s going on,” he shrieked and pointed at Dad, “is that you left Mom and me! That’s what’s going on.”
Mom tried to soothe the waves. She forced herself to smile. “Your dad and I felt it would be good for all of us to get counseling. I know this is tough on you, and we all want to help you.”
Susan was writing down notes on a yellow legal pad. Then she got up, which Max took as a bad sign. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.
“Where is Zabbatini?” he asked.
Deborah and Harry exchanged a furtive glance.
“He’s not around right now,” Mom said vaguely.
“Why not?” Max was dismayed.
“Mom started a fight with him, and he left,” Dad said, a bit sharply.
“Oh, now it’s my fault? He tried to fondle me.”
“You hit him with the frying pan.”
Susan tried to intervene. “Remember what we talked about? Is
lands of calm. Islands of calm.”
At that point, Mom looked at her and called her a name that Max was forbidden to use under penalty of death. Max blushed in shame. Susan blushed, too, but in rage. Dad was grinning. Once more, Max was reminded that for adults, the rules seemed to be different than for normal people.
“Enough!” Susan snapped. Her nostrils appeared to be quivering. “Take a deep breath! Both of you, right now!”
Mom opened her mouth and made a pitiful wheezing sound.
“Now hold your breath and count to ten,” Susan said.
Mom nodded grudgingly and held her breath. She turned bright red. Then, after only a second or two, she opened her mouth again and gasped.
“I told you to quit smoking,” Dad said spitefully.
Susan nodded in agreement. “Smoking decreases your lung capacity.”
“That’s none of your business,” Mom snapped.
Max stomped his foot, shouting, “I want to know where he went!”
Dad shrugged, and Mom said, “I don’t know. He just slammed the door and left. I figured he’d be back soon. I’m sorry, Max.”
Susan chimed in, reprimanding Mom. It was unhealthy, she said, to be too indulgent toward her son. Deborah protested. How could she be too indulgent, when Max said she was much too stern. But Susan argued that in difficult times, children needed discipline and a firm hand. That was the only way to learn how to deal with change.
“Why did you let him leave?” Max said, interrupting the conversation. “Where is he?”
“That,” Mom said, “is not our problem. He’s a freeloader.”
“And a fraud,” added Dad.
“You’re just pissed that he never came to your bar mitzvah,” Mom said snidely.
“That’s not true,” Dad hissed, though he blushed. “I don’t care about the stupid bar mitzvah or the stupid magician!”
“You’re acting childish,” Susan interjected. “Your son needs a father figure. He needs you to be in control,” she said to him.
Mom laughed. “Yeah, right,” she said.
“Shut up,” Dad yelled.
“Childish,” Susan said again. “What did I say about acting childish?”
Suddenly, Max turned his eyes toward the picture hanging next to the door. The black silk painting with the clown.
He quickly turned around and ran out of the kitchen. Throwing his backpack on the floor, he opened the front door and ran outside.
“Zabbatini!” he called. “Zabbatini!”
When he looked back over his shoulder, he saw Dad running after him, like a monster in a movie. Monster number two, Mom, was right behind him. Both seemed very, very angry.
“Come back here,” Dad yelled.
But Max wouldn’t dream of it. His bicycle was lying on the front lawn. He stepped up to it, pulled it upright, and swung himself onto the saddle.
Dad was only six feet behind him: “You stay where you are, young man!” he yelled.
Max leaned into the handlebars and lowered his weight onto the pedals. Within seconds, he had a sizable lead. Neither Mom nor Dad was in particularly good shape, despite all the yoga and extramarital sex. On his BMX bike, Max felt like a fish in water, swift and unbeatable. He bounced down the curb and onto the street.
“Max!” Mom called in despair.
Max had a goal in mind: Hollywood Boulevard, cross street Winona. He pedaled so hard that his heart was beating wildly in his chest. The wind ruffled his hair. Soon, he was out of sight.
When Deborah realized that she wasn’t going to catch Max, she stopped, wheezing and out of breath. She ran her hands through her hair. “Not again,” she whispered.
Deborah and Harry got into her Jeep Cherokee and drove through the neighborhood. Thousands of thoughts swirled unbidden though her head. Her shop, for example, was taking up so much of her time. Time she should be spending with Max. She couldn’t balance it all: running a business, getting divorced, seeing after her son. It was too much. And she was neglecting her spirituality. She kept a statue of Buddha in her Jeep Cherokee that she always asked for help in finding parking spots. Even now she found herself asking for help. She hadn’t meditated in, like, forever.
Harry also felt worn out. The office had been hell this morning. Then he’d had to take his mother to a doctor’s appointment. She always wanted to go to the doctor’s. He’d driven her all the way to Pasadena, where her favorite doctor had his practice, an elderly, talkative Israeli with hair growing out of his ears. On the way there, Harry had been forced to listen to a litany of his shortcomings and failures. No sooner had he dropped his mother off at the doctor’s office than he had to drive back for the appointment with the psychiatrist. And now he was sitting in his future ex-wife’s car and once again looking for his missing son. Could things get any worse? he wondered.
Suddenly, Deborah’s face brightened.
“I think I know where he is,” she said.
“Really?” said Harry sarcastically.
“Bongo’s Clown Room.”
“The strip club?”
Deborah nodded and turned the car around. They headed back toward Sunset Boulevard. Along the way, she told Harry about a breakfast conversation with Zabbatini, before the incident with the frying pan. He had mentioned Bongo’s and that he longed to go back there. It was at least a possibility that Max might try to go there.
“We’ll find him,” Harry said to Deborah, and put his hand on hers.
She pulled back. “Don’t touch me,” she said.
WORLD-FAMOUS IN BERLIN
After a long and arduous journey, Moshe and Julia arrived in Berlin at the Anhalter Bahnhof station. The train ride had been a completely new experience for Moshe. He had looked out of the window with obvious delight, watching the world go by outside. Both of them were relieved to leave behind Hannover, the Half-Moon Man, and the charred remains of the Zauber-Zirkus. Moshe was thinking of the long nights he had spent in the morgue. Now, he would never have to look at dead children again. He had worked hard for his money, and now, he and Julia were ready to start their new life. As the train slowly rolled into the gigantic city, Moshe pressed his nose against the window like a child. The train came to a jerking halt and smoke from the locomotive obscured his view. The passengers got up and moved their bags and suitcases toward the exits. Moshe held Julia’s hand. He felt reborn.
They got off the train and looked around. Making their way through the crowd, they passed a small kiosk and Moshe got a glimpse of the front page of Der Stürmer, the propaganda mouthpiece of the Nazi Party.
“Wait!” he said to Julia.
The headline read: “Butcher Caught!” Moshe reached for the newspaper and opened it. On page two was a picture of Inspector Leitner, shaking the hand of the gauleiter of Lower Saxony, the Nazi governor of the region. Both men were posing awkwardly and grinning into the camera. Moshe paid the woman at the kiosk a few coins and took the paper.
“What’s this?” said Julia with a trace of impatience in her voice.
“Here,” said Moshe, handing her the paper. The article said that the so-called Butcher had turned out to be an inconspicuous scrap dealer named Klaus K. According to Der Stürmer, a “suspected Communist and Israelite.” Of course! Klaus K. had confessed to the crimes, and would no doubt be executed swiftly.
Moshe folded the newspaper and put it in his coat pocket. Then he reached for Julia’s hand.
They took the tram to Danziger Straße, where Julia’s friend Dagmar lived. Moshe was astonished at Berlin. He had never seen a city so vast. It was much larger than his native Prague, with swarms of people, carriages, horses, and automobiles. It was like a giant asphalt wasteland. There were electric streetlights, neon signs, and advertising billboards everywhere. The crowds were huge. People were packed onto double-decker buses, going up and down the congested, tree-lined promenades. There
was a constant urban symphony of car horns, shouts, and whinnies.
At Danziger Straße, they entered an apartment building and trudged up the stairs. On the fourth floor, Julia rang the doorbell. The door opened and a stout young woman with short, dark, wavy hair stood before them.
“I don’t believe it!” she called out.
The girls hugged and giggled joyfully. Dagmar was obviously happy to see Julia, but less so to meet Moshe. She looked him up and down before she deigned to shake his hand.
But she agreed to let Julia and her companion use the attic room above the apartment. She didn’t seem all too pleased about it. She was sharing the apartment with her parents, who would not be informed about her visitors. “Only a few days,” she said sternly.
Their new home was a tiny, dusty attic chamber with a mattress and a view over the roof across the courtyard. For Moshe, it was paradise. They used the money he’d made in Hannover to buy clothes, pots, and pans, as well as a small gas cooker for making coffee. They kept their milk on the windowsill. It was always cold outside.
Every day, Moshe went to the kiosk at the corner and bought the daily papers. He was riveted by the trial of Klaus K. Justice was swift. After a relatively brief trial, he was convicted and beheaded, and parents all over Lower Saxony could once again sleep peacefully. His skull was donated to the University of Göttingen, where students were allowed to study its cranial structures for indications of degeneracy. For the Nazi Party, the whole affair was a colossal propaganda victory. Der Stürmer, the party organ, wrote: “This, ladies and gentlemen, is JUSTICE in our New Germany. Criminals, Communists, and Jews: BEWARE!”
In one of the articles, Moshe was stunned to discover the following quote by Leitner:
“I doubt we would have made such a swift arrest if it hadn’t been for the help of a renowned Persian psychic named Zabbatini. The general populace might scoff at such methods, but the authorities felt we should not be above pursuing any and every lead possible. Zabbatini provided us with uncannily accurate information as to the killer’s identity. He had repeatedly warned us of his ‘dark presence’ and that the killer was closer than we thought. In light of the revelation that the murderer had actually worked with our department as an informer, Zabbatini’s predictions turned out to be amazingly accurate.”
The Trick Page 17