The Trick

by Emanuel Bergmann

  Harry seemed embarrassed and looked at the floor. Then he reached into the box. He rummaged around for what seemed like an eternity. At last, he pulled out a key.

  “Good!” Zabbatini said. He was annoyed that Harry had taken so long to decide. Perhaps he was trying to upstage him? That sometimes happened when you allowed civilians on the stage. The moment they looked into the spotlights, they felt the call of stardom. And then they thought they could outfox him. Him! The Great Zabbatini! As if it made the slightest difference which key they chose or which card they pulled from the deck. Zabbatini’s act had been prepared down to the last detail. There was no room for error. Nor for obnoxious know-it-alls who thought they could humiliate him in front of his audience. “Please give me the key, so that I can show the children.”

  Harry handed Zabbatini the key. The magician held it up, marching up and down the stage with the key held high and a grim look on his face. Then he turned to Harry and handed it back.

  “Do not lose it,” Zabbatini said. “You have already lost so much.”

  “Oh, really?” Harry snapped back, putting the key in his jacket pocket. “Says an old geezer who’s sleeping on my sofa!”

  “Wait,” Deborah interjected. “It’s still my sofa. I paid for it when we went to IKEA—”

  Zabbatini clapped his hands loudly. “Silence!” he shouted. “The love works better if you do not fight!”

  Harry rolled his eyes.

  Zabbatini turned toward Deborah. “I want you to think of a city,” he said. “A city that has meaning to you. A city of big meaning, big feeling.”

  “Sure,” Deborah said lightly. “It’s P—”

  “Silence!” Zabbatini shouted and took a step back from her. “No more word! Say nothing!”

  Deborah seemed embarrassed. Her mouth closed.

  “That’s a pretty neat trick,” Harry said appreciatively. “I could never get her to do that.”

  “Be silent!” Zabbatini shouted again. He was sick of it. He had appeared at hundreds of children’s birthday parties, but no one had ever acted as childish as those two adults. “Are you ready?” he asked Deborah.

  “Oh, so now I’m allowed to talk again?” she said.

  “If you must.” Zabbatini said. “But do not tell me the name of the city.” He handed her a notepad and pen. “Write it down. Big letters, so that everyone in the audience can see.”

  Deborah took the pen and wrote something. Just as Zabbatini had anticipated, she pressed down quite hard. That always happened when he said “big letters.” When she was finished, she looked up at Zabbatini.

  He put his hand on his forehead and looked up. His face was strained. He rolled his eyes. His voice became unsteady. “Tear off the paper and show it to the audience. But do not show it to me! And not him either, the schmuck.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Harry indignantly.

  “Nothing,” Zabbatini murmured. “I said nothing.”

  Deborah tore off the page and held it up for the kids to see. Max could make out the word very well: PARIS.

  Max knew that his parents had spent their honeymoon in Paris. In the middle of a sweltering summer, in a “romantic” hotel without air-conditioning. They had schlepped back and forth through the vast city, covered in sweat, from one museum to the next, stopping only to eat overpriced food in lousy bistros. This was where they’d had their first fight as a married couple. Ah, Paris!

  “Did you all see it?” Zabbatini asked the audience.

  “Yes!” the children shouted. They murmured excitedly. Max could feel his heart beating in his chest. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the old magician. Zabbatini no longer seemed like an old, frail man. He was a magus, a high priest, a descendant of the princes of Persia.

  “Can I have the pad?” he asked Deborah. “Keep the sheet.” Zabbatini took the pad away from her and cast an inconspicuous glance at it. Then he put it away. He went to a small filing box for index cards and opened it. Inside were postcards. With a well-rehearsed gesture, Zabbatini took out three postcards and showed them to the audience. Not the fronts, only the backs. Large numbers were written on the back, from one to three.

  Then he put the cards facedown on the table.

  He glared at Harry. A few seconds passed. Zabbatini knew well how dramatically effective silence could be.

  Then he said, “Pick one!”

  Harry nodded. He pointed at card number two.

  Aha, Zabbatini thought. Why am I not surprised? Normally, people chose number one. A number one is more magical than a number two. But no, not Harry, the nonconformist. No wonder she left him. But the expression on Zabbatini’s face didn’t change. He was a seasoned pro.

  “Number two!” he proclaimed. “Very well! Take the card, look at it, and show it to the audience.”

  Harry did. He gasped when he saw the picture. Deborah looked at him, concerned. His hand trembled a bit as he held the card up for all to see.

  The audience saw a picture of the Eiffel Tower, and the word PARIS.

  The children inhaled sharply, then burst into applause. Max was louder than the rest. The adults, too, were surprised, especially Deborah. She seemed shocked.

  “I want to know the guy’s name!” Grandma said.

  Zabbatini ignored her and bowed slightly. Then he pretended to have an idea. “The love goes both directions, no?” he said. He nodded and turned to Harry. “If the divine Deborah loves you truly, she can also read your thoughts. She can feel your very substance. Your galemi.”

  “His what?” Deborah asked with a trace of suspicion in her voice. She wasn’t sure that galemi wasn’t a dirty word.

  “Your eyes beheld my unformed substance,” Zabbatini said. “All the days ordained for me were written in your book before they came to be.”

  That went over pretty good. The kids clapped. Deborah still looked at Harry, frowning. Max, however, was beaming.

  Zabbatini led Deborah to the small table at the back of the stage. She now stood directly across from Harry. Only two feet or so separated them. The tension between them was palpable. Zabbatini put the postcards away and laid three identical-looking wooden boxes on the table.

  “In one of the boxes is the item that belongs to the man.” Zabbatini indicated Harry. “Pick the right one!”

  Deborah pointed at box number one.

  “Very well!” Zabbatini said loudly and clapped his hands. “You’re excluding this one, are you not? This is not it, no?” He pushed the box aside, unopened. “Only two are left.”

  Deborah nodded uncertainly. Fifty-fifty.

  Deborah pointed at box number two.

  Zabbatini pushed that box aside as well. He didn’t have to say anything. The audience understood. Only box number three was left.

  Both Deborah and Zabbatini stared at it.

  In a deep voice, the magician said, “So this is it. The box you chose.”

  Deborah didn’t move. She was tense.

  “Open the box!” Zabbatini yelled.

  Deborah flinched and clumsily opened it. With shaking hands, she took out Harry’s cell phone and showed it to the kids.

  Applause. Max’s hands hurt from all the clapping. He was completely enchanted by what he saw.

  But it wasn’t over yet. Zabbatini pulled a deck of tarot cards from his sleeve, making it appear out of thin air. The children whispered loudly. He had bought this deck years ago in Brooklyn. The drawings were in the art-nouveau style. He showed some of the cards to the audience: the devil, the sun, the fool, the wheel of fortune, and so on. Then he put the deck facedown on the table.

  He launched into a monologue about the magical power of tarot cards. Ancient wisdom, knowledge of the future, glimpses into the hearts of men, blah blah blah. As he spoke, he walked around the table a few times, putting his hand on the cards here and there. His speech was a bit long-winded, bu
t effective nonetheless.

  “I want you to both pull a card together at the same time,” he said to Deborah and Harry. “The card will tell us if there is still the love.” Then, menacingly, he added, “Or not.”

  Deborah and Harry exchanged a nervous glance.

  “Together, please,” Zabbatini said. “At the same time. Both of you.”

  Deborah reached for one of the cards. Harry followed her gesture and touched the other corner.

  “Turn over the card!” Zabbatini demanded. “And hold it high.”

  Together, they held up the card, revealing the image of two lovers in an intimate embrace.

  The figures on the card were both naked, but their genitals were discreetly obscured by the woman’s flowing hair. The show was supposed to be PG, after all. Despite that, the woman on the card had abnormally large breasts. It was the reason Zabbatini had bought the deck.

  “The lovers,” Zabbatini said.

  The audience erupted. Max fought against tears of joy.

  Zabbatini raised his hands to calm the waves. “One thing still,” he said. “The key!” With measured steps he walked toward Harry. “Do you have it?”

  Harry nodded. Zabbatini glowered at him. Clumsily, Harry began digging around in his pocket. He pulled out the key, and it dropped to the floor.

  Max yelped and leapt to his feet.

  “It’s all right!” Harry said, trying to placate his son. Max stood there, breathing heavily, looking accusingly at his father. Harry went down on his knees and felt around the stage until he finally found the key. He held it up triumphantly. Then he walked toward Deborah with it. She stood there, frozen like a statue.

  His hand approached the chain around her neck.

  “Well? Does it fit?” Zabbatini asked.

  “Hang on . . .” Harry mumbled. He gently reached for the lock. He put the key in and turned it. It made a slight clicking noise.

  The lock opened.

  “Eternaaal loooove!” Zabbatini yelled and waved his arms around.

  Max stood there cheering loudly. Most of the kids leapt off their chairs and applauded.

  “Those two people,” Zabbatini said, “are destined for each other. Their souls are forever intertwined. Even if in life they should become apart, they will still be always one. Their love is eternal. It is predestined in the book of days. They belong to each other, since the dawn of time.”

  As a final flourish, he pulled a rose from his sleeve and handed it to Harry. Harry gave it to Deborah, who was fighting against tears.

  Max couldn’t believe it! It worked! It really worked! He hopped up and down, applauding all the time.

  Then he heard someone clearing her throat impatiently.

  “What’s your name?” Grandma asked sternly. “I want to know!” She was not used to being ignored.

  Zabbatini sighed and bowed. “I am the Great Zabbatini.”

  “Nonsense!” Grandma said. “I meant your real name.”

  Zabbatini smiled vaguely. He had no intention of telling her. Onstage, he was the Great Zabbatini, and no one else. He bowed and spread his arms. Then he loudly proclaimed, “Istgahe Ghatar Kojast!”

  Suddenly, there was a noise from the audience. A loud yelp and a clattering. All eyes turned toward Grandma. She had risen from her chair and knocked it over.

  Rosl Cohn stood there pale as a sheet. She was gasping, her mouth opening and closing. She held out her hand and pointed at the old magician. “Where is the train station?” she said.

  Zabbatini suddenly froze and stared at her with astonishment.

  “Du bist es!” she went on. “It’s you!”

  He blinked at her a few times, utterly puzzled. He didn’t move.

  “Goldenhirsch,” Grandma said. “You’re Moshe Goldenhirsch!”

  Grandma slowly approached to get a better look at him. Max looked back and forth between Zabbatini and his grandmother, wondering what was going on.

  “Du bist es!” Grandma said again. “Ist das zu fassen?” She was almost at the stage now, looking entirely amazed. “Ich bin’s! Das Mädchen aus dem Zug! The girl from the train!”

  All color drained from Zabbatini’s face. He placed both his hands over his heart and emitted a pained gargling sound. Then he sank to the floor.

  Max stared at him, alarmed. Mom and Dad simply stood onstage, looking dumbfounded.

  “Helft mir!” Zabbatini gasped. His eyes were bulging and his hands were clasping his chest, digging into the cloth of his white robe, like the gnarly feet of a bird clutching a tree branch.

  “Ich sterb!” he said. “Mir tut’s so vay! I’m dying!”

  Grandma reached him and knelt down next to him. Max’s parents suddenly came alive, as if a spell had been broken. Deborah pointed at her purse on the chair in the back of the room. “My phone! Call 911!”

  Harry took out his cell phone and started dialing.

  Max stumbled onto the stage. He reached Zabbatini, whose face had turned into a white mask of pain. His eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed Max’s hand.

  “Hold my hand,” he whispered. “I’m scared.”

  He knew that this was it. The final curtain.

  “The ambulance is on its way,” Dad said.

  Grandma was holding Zabbatini’s head in her lap. He turned to look at her, ever so slightly.

  “Rosl. Du bist es,” he said.

  Grandma was suddenly struggling against tears. She stared at the old man and nodded.

  “A miracle . . .” Zabbatini said in a whisper.

  Then he flinched and emitted a sharp cry of pain, and his body went limp. His fingers stopped grasping Max’s hand and sank to the carpeted floor. Max felt a surge of panic. Next to him, the giant animatronic mouse was still waving.

  SCHEHERAZADE’S LAST TALE

  Terezín, also called Theresienstadt, was known as the “city of the Jews.” It was the most beautiful concentration camp the Nazis had to offer, with walls and barracks freshly painted after the recent Red Cross inspection to make sure the Third Reich was treating its Jews no worse than commonly accepted. But as soon as the foreign visitors were gone, Terezín’s true face emerged.

  Moshe arrived after an arduous train journey, and all he wanted was to get some rest. The camp had once been a garrison, very near his native Prague. He and the hundreds of other new arrivals stood in the drizzling rain, uncertain and afraid.

  At first glance, it didn’t seem too bad. The buildings looked nice, the inmates were not too skinny, and there were no outward signs of violence.

  “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” whispered one of the arrivals as they waited on the platform.

  “Maybe,” Moshe echoed, but he was doubtful. All he had to do was look down and peek at his mangled left arm to get a glimpse of the Nazis’ true intentions. Hope was dangerous. An illusion, no different from the ones Moshe had used to earn his daily bread. An illusion that allowed men and women to march to their deaths. And even as they drew their final breath, they would be thinking, Maybe it won’t be so bad.

  To Moshe’s surprise, he was given a warm welcome at Terezín. As he and the others of his “unit” stood on the platform, he saw a tall, handsome man in a freshly pressed uniform stride toward him. After exchanging a few whispered words with some other officers, he turned to Moshe with a broad smile and an outstretched hand.

  “The Great Zabbatini,” said the officer. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Moshe, always the consummate professional, gave a slight bow. “The pleasure is all mine, Commandant,” he said.

  Nudging one of the other officers with his elbow, the man said: “I told you he was a psychic.”

  The other man nodded and rubbed his ribs.

  Then the officer turned to Moshe and said, “How did you know I was the commandant?”

  Moshe hadn’t ac
tually known. He had surmised it from the way the man moved, his self-assuredness. And even if he had been wrong, in his experience, no Nazi would object to being called “Commandant.”

  Moshe simply shrugged and smiled. “Forgive me,” he said. “But the inner workings of my mind are a mystery, even to myself.”

  The inner workings of his mind were actually rather simple: he was so terrified that he thought he might faint. But the camp commander, Siegfried Seidl, was in a cheerful mood. Taking Moshe aside, he proceeded to show him the camp. But the more gentlemanly and gracious he tried to appear, the more uneasy Moshe became. He had learned to be aware of smiling men in uniforms. After so many nights onstage, he had become a hardened performer and knew never to let the audience see his feelings. Also, he suspected that it might be to his advantage to humor the camp commander. Seidl had seen one of Moshe’s performances at the Wintergarten, and had been very impressed. He had since followed the magician’s career closely, being something of an amateur of the art himself, and had been delighted when he learned that Zabbatini was actually a Jew and was to be deported to Terezín—his kingdom. He had called Gestapo headquarters and requested that the artist should not arrive here without his equipment.

  And now it was his turn to impress his idol.

  Seidl was very proud of his camp, like a child showing off his new toy. He explained to Moshe that Terezín had been built by Emperor Joseph II, in 1780, and that it was a completely self-sufficient city-fortress. He showed Moshe the Magdeburg Casern, where the “Judenrat,” the Jewish council, was situated; he showed him the courtyard, the barracks and, as a not-so-subtle warning, the “death chambers” in the catacombs of the fortress, where the “unfortunate few who succumbed to typhoid” were buried in mass graves, thirty-five to a pit.

  Inside an underground tunnel, Seidl and Moshe witnessed a group of haggard-looking inmates pushing a wagon laden with corpses toward a vast open pit. Other prisoners began unloading the wagon, throwing the emaciated bodies into the gaping mouth. A rabbi was standing against the rough stone wall of the underground chamber, mechanically saying Kaddish, rocking back and forth.