The Trick

by Emanuel Bergmann

  “I’m sorry,” Rosl mumbled, feeling stupid. She was surprised when the man suddenly rummaged around in his pocket and handed her a piece of paper. It was an advertisement of some kind. A woman in a white dress appeared to be flying in the air. There were big and colorful letters splashed across the picture, but Rosl was too young to be able to read. She murmured a quick thank-you.

  “I’m done,” she declared.

  “That was my life,” the man suddenly said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Rosl asked politely, the way her mama had taught her.

  “The paper. My life. Everything I ever was. And now . . .” He suddenly sounded sad.

  She didn’t know what to respond. Hoping to distract him, she said, “What’s in your suitcase?”

  He managed a smile. “The path to freedom.”

  Rosl pressed her fists against her waist and said, “That’s not true. That would never fit in a suitcase.”

  “It’s magic,” he said. “If you crawl into the suitcase, you can get out of here.”

  She was briefly tempted to believe that.

  “Then why don’t you just do it?” she asked.

  “Because I’m too big. I don’t fit into the trunk.”

  She nodded. That made perfect sense.

  “How about you?” he asked with a smile. “Would you like to get out of here?”

  She thought about it, but then she shook her head. “I can’t,” she replied. “I have to stay here and look after my mama and papa.” She nodded toward the corner where her parents were leaning against the wall of the train, half-asleep, their mouths open like those of fish in a dry tank.

  “And you?” Rosl asked the man. “Where are your parents?”

  “They’re dead,” he replied.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” said the man. “They’re better off. All of us are trapped here, and only the dead are free.”

  “And anyone who fits in your suitcase.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Then he said to her, “Would you like me to set your bear free?”

  She looked at the bear, and then at the man. Finally she nodded. “Yes, please.”

  Rosl knew that this was a very serious moment in her life. She would be separated from her bear, perhaps forever. Her whole life he had been with her, protecting her. And now she would have to get on without him. But it was better that way. She hugged her bear one last time, then handed him to the man.

  “You should kiss him good-bye,” the man said.

  She kissed the bear on his furry forehead. Then she put on a brave face and said, “He says he’s ready now.”

  The man opened the suitcase. As far as Rosl could tell, it was completely empty. All she saw was the lining. She peeked inside. It smelled vaguely of old sweat.

  “There’s no freedom here,” she said.

  “Watch,” the man replied.

  The conversation between the little girl and the man in the cape had attracted the attention of the people around them, who craned their necks to see what was going on. The man gently took her teddy bear and placed it in the suitcase. Then he closed it and began mumbling something. His eyes were shut. Suddenly, they snapped open, as if he were awakening from a trance.

  “Look closely now,” he said.

  When he opened the suitcase, the bear was gone. Rosl didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She had never seen anything like it!

  But then the man suddenly closed his eyes again. He frowned and began mumbling again.

  “What’s wrong?” Rosl asked.

  The man opened his eyes and said, “He wants to be with you.”

  With that, he closed the suitcase, only to open it again, moments later. The bear was back! Rosl squealed with delight. She grabbed her bear and hugged it tightly.

  The man smiled, and this time, the smile had no trace of sadness. “Istgahe Ghatar Kojast!” he said with a slight bow.

  “Istgahe Ghatar Kojast,” Rosl repeated. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s Persian.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  She nodded.

  The man seemed to think for a moment. Then he leaned over and whispered into her ear. “I’ve never told this to anyone before,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “I read it in a dictionary. It means ‘Where is the train station?’ ”

  Rosl laughed. “Istgahe Ghatar Kojast! Istgahe Ghatar Kojast!” she cried out in delight. She looked at the man. He was still smiling. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He was about to introduce himself by his stage name, but then thought better of it.

  “My name is Moshe,” he said. “Moshe Goldenhirsch, from Prague.”

  “My name is Rosl,” she said. “Rosl Feldmann, from Zirndorf.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady.” He bowed deeply and pretended to kiss the back of her hand.

  Rosl giggled and blushed. “I should get back to my parents,” she said.

  Moshe Goldenhirsch nodded.

  Two days later, they arrived at Oświęcim, that godforsaken place the Germans called “Auschwitz.” As the train slowed down, people started peeking anxiously through the small cracks in the boards, trying to gauge what awaited them at their destination.

  In the middle of the crowd, a ragged-looking woman with a bulky overcoat struggled to reach Moshe.

  “Sir!” cried the woman. “You!”

  Moshe looked at her questioningly.

  “Help me, please!” the woman said.

  Moshe gave a sharp, fake laugh. “Help you?” he asked dismissively. “How can I? I can’t even help myself.”

  The rhythmic stomping of the locomotive was putting him on edge. He was in a bad mood. Irritable. He had the distinct feeling that whatever awaited them at the end of their journey, it wouldn’t be good.

  The woman came closer, uncomfortably close. “Save my daughter,” she said imploringly. “I beg you!”

  A little girl was standing behind her. Rosl Feldmann.

  Moshe looked at the woman. “Why, what do I get out of it?” he asked coldly.

  The woman fell silent. “I have nothing left,” she finally said, her voice cracking. “Nothing I could give you . . .”

  And then she did something that was utterly mortifying. She fell on her knees. Right next to the bucket. She clutched Moshe’s legs and began to sob. “Please save my daughter. . . . Please . . . Your trunk . . .”

  Moshe looked around helplessly. The other passengers made a point not to notice. Everyone’s mind was on their own survival, their own despair. Wherever Moshe looked, he saw nothing but dull eyes, tears, whispered prayers. And the sobbing woman was still clutching his legs. “I have nothing left in this world. Please. Please save my child.”

  Moshe just wanted to get out of this awkward situation. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  The woman began kissing his hand, which was even worse than her tears.

  “Thank you,” she gasped.

  Moshe withdrew his hand. The woman got up and ushered her daughter over.

  “Hello,” Rosl said timidly.

  “Hello, Rosl,” said Moshe. “Your mother says I should try to set you free.”

  The girl shook her head. “I want to stay with Mama.”

  The train suddenly lurched forward. Rosl and her mother almost fell over. Cries were heard all over the compartment. The locomotive was hissing and aching like a dying animal.

  Moshe knew that the doors would open at any moment.

  So he opened the suitcase. “Now or never,” he said.

  “Please, Rosl,” said the mother. “Do it for me.”

  But Rosl slung her skinny arms around her mother’s neck. Tears were streaming do
wn her face. “No!” she cried. “I want to be with you!”

  Moshe noticed a man standing next to them. Probably the father. “Rosl!” he bellowed. “Do what your mother says!”

  “No!” Rosl stamped her foot.

  Suddenly, Rosl’s father slapped her. The girl was astonished. Her cheek turned red. She started sobbing, trying to control her tears and her breathing.

  “Go!” her mother hissed.

  Rosl, frightened and hurt, nodded and complied. She turned around and crawled into the trunk. She had to struggle. She was still clutching her teddy bear.

  Moshe bent down toward her and showed her the button that opened the trunk from the inside. Then he said, “Rosl, listen to me very carefully. Don’t move. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, do not make a sound, and do not come out. You should only come out once everything is quiet.”

  The girl looked at him, frightened. She nodded. Then she looked at her parents, her eyes filling with tears.

  In her father’s face, all traces of rage had vanished. Her mother said, “I love you.”

  Moshe shut the trunk. Not a second too soon. At that moment, the train doors were pushed open. Fresh air blew into the cart. It smelled of ash, and a sweetness that Moshe recognized at once. He heard shouts outside, the barking of dogs. Soldiers started pulling people out of the train. Bit by bit, the cart emptied. Rosl’s parents looked at Moshe one last time; then they stepped outside.

  None of the people in here paid any attention to the girl in the trunk. A few had seen what happened, but what business was it of theirs? An older man, haggard, Orthodox, looked Moshe in the eyes and allowed himself a brief smile and a nod. Moshe breathed a sigh of relief. The audience knew the trick, but wouldn’t betray it. They didn’t want to ruin the show.

  As the cart emptied, Moshe saw that there were bodies lying on the wooden planks, mainly those of old people. They must have died during the journey. All around him, people were simply walking over them.

  Moshe grabbed his trunk and stepped out of the train car. The girl was skinny and didn’t weigh much, but Moshe was weakened. The suitcase felt heavy.

  It was getting dark outside. Possibly an advantage for Rosl. Too much light could ruin any illusion. Moshe stood, along with thousands of other lost souls, on a vast concrete platform. SS guards were marching up and down, pestering the new arrivals. In front of him, he saw dogs, guns, and barbed wire. The guards were herding the men, women, and children into two lines. Moshe understood what that meant. The last few months had taught him how the Nazis operated. He noticed that all those who looked weak, or were either very young or very old, were in one line. The other line contained people who still looked healthy enough to work. That meant they might still have a chance. Moshe put the trunk down so they wouldn’t notice his exhaustion. The SS men were yelling out orders. Moshe saw the girl’s mother, who had already looked alarmingly frail on the journey here, being pulled by a black-gloved guard into the line with the old and the weak. Her husband was just about to follow her, but the guard pushed him back.

  “Not you!” he yelled.

  “Please,” said the girl’s father. “Let me be with my wife.”

  “Not you,” the SS man repeated.

  Very quietly, the man looked the guard in the eyes and said, “Wherever she goes . . . I want to follow her.”

  The SS man averted his eyes and lowered his hand.

  “Thank you,” whispered Rosl’s father. Then he stepped past the guard into the line on the left, where his wife was. She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  Moshe saw the SS man reach for a flask in his uniform pocket and take a deep sip. The look in his eyes seemed haunted, irrational. Then he moved down the line of people to continue the selection. He fought his way forward, yelling, pushing, beating.

  Moshe held his breath when the guard approached him.

  “To the right,” the SS man said. Then he glanced down at the trunk that was standing beside Moshe’s feet. “The luggage goes there,” he said, pointing toward a large collection of bags, purses, and suitcases about fifteen feet away, at the side of the platform. “Make sure to label it, so we can return it to you after.”

  A skinny inmate in an ill-fitting uniform handed Moshe a piece of chalk. Moshe wrote “Zabbatini” on the trunk. He wrote with a flourish, as if giving an autograph.

  “Zabbatini?” the SS man asked. “What kind of name is that?”

  “I’m Persian,” Moshe said.

  “You’re a Jew.”

  “I’m of Persian descent,” Moshe insisted. “The Persians are Aryans.”

  “You’re a Jew,” said the SS man. “A piece of shit is what you are, remember that.”

  Moshe nodded.

  “Say it,” the guard insisted.

  “I’m a piece of shit,” Moshe said.

  “You have no right to live.”

  “I have no right to live.”

  “Very good,” said the guard, like a proud teacher who’d just taught his student something useful. Then he nodded and the inmate took the trunk from him. He wanted to put it with the rest of the luggage, but it was heavier than he had expected, and his legs nearly gave out. He moaned.

  Moshe looked around. He could see the girl’s parents anxiously watching from the left line. The guard noticed that the prisoner was struggling with the trunk.

  “What’s in the suitcase?” he suddenly bellowed.

  “Nothing,” Moshe said. “They took everything from me. It’s an old model, they’re heavy.”

  The SS man peered at him, unconvinced. “Open it!” he instructed the inmate.

  Moshe prayed that the Conradi-Horster’s mechanism would not fail him. He forced himself not to look at the girl’s parents.

  The inmate was struggling with the lock. His fingers were stiff from the cold.

  “Open it!” said the SS man with a dangerous tone of annoyance in his voice.

  “Yes,” said the inmate. He was shivering with fear now as he kept struggling with the lock. And still the trunk wouldn’t open.

  Growing tired of this sorry spectacle, the SS man drew his gun and shot the inmate in the head. The bang was barely audible over the noise on the platform. A fine spray of blood and yellow tissue blew out of the hole in the man’s skull. He crumpled to the ground, his head an open wound. Blood stuck to the trunk.

  The SS man walked toward it and pulled it open.

  Moshe closed his eyes.

  Oh God, he thought. Oh God. Please, God.

  His heart was pounding. If the girl was found, they would both be dead.

  Then he opened his eyes again.

  The SS man was peering into the suitcase. It was dark, and the man was a little drunk, which was good. The guard shook his head.

  “Empty,” he said. He sounded a tad disappointed.

  He waved another two inmates over, who picked up the body of their dead comrade and put it onto a handcart with corpses. The guard carelessly closed the trunk and pushed Moshe forward.

  Only then did Moshe dare look at the girl’s parents. For a brief moment, he could see the relief in their eyes.

  The SS man blew into a whistle. Selection was over. The new arrivals were now neatly lined up in two columns. They started marching. Moshe could see the girl’s parents holding hands, then they vanished around a corner.

  Before Moshe left the ramp, he cast one last glance at the trunk. It stood unnoticed among the rest of the luggage.

  THE LIVING

  The door to the operating room opened, and Dr. Arakelian came out. She quickly glanced at a clipboard she had with her; then she looked up.

  The Cohns were staring at her. Except for Grandma, who was snoring, her head leaning against the wall. Dad was lying on one of the benches, and Mom was holding Max’s hand.

  Fifteen minutes ago, mother and
son had finally, and for the first time, talked about the argument that had led to Max’s escape through the window. About all the nasty things they had said. Up until that point, they had both avoided the subject. Deborah had taken her son into her arms and whispered, “I’m sorry about what I said the other night.”

  And Max had pressed against her and said, “I’m sorry, too.”

  Dad looked on, annoyed at the display of family closeness that was happening without him. He tried to move closer to Mom, but she squirmed away.

  Dr. Arakelian cleared her throat.

  “Are you his family?” she asked.

  Max and Mom exchanged nervous glances.

  “No,” Mom finally admitted. “Not as such. He’s more of a houseguest. He has no living relatives.”

  “I see,” Dr. Arakelian replied.

  “Is he okay?” Max asked.

  Dr. Arakelian shrugged. “We’re not sure. He’s fine for now, he’s stabilized, but his condition could worsen. We’re putting him in intensive care. At his age . . .”

  “Can we see him?” Deborah asked.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Dr. Arakelian. “He needs rest.”

  “Rest?” Grandma said. She had just woken up. “What are you talking about, rest? He’s done nothing but lie around.” She got up and reached for her purse. “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Intensive care, where is that?” Mom asked.

  Dr. Arakelian pointed to an elevator. “Second floor. But visiting hours are over. The man needs rest.”

  “Nonsense,” Grandma said. “He’ll be delighted to see me.”

  “The last time he saw you,” Dad carefully interjected, “he had a heart attack.”

  After some back-and-forth, Dr. Arakelian relented and agreed to a five-minute visit. Even a hardened physician was no match for Grandma’s iron will. She said that the patient should not get upset under any circumstances. But she understood that it might do Zabbatini good to not feel abandoned at a time such as this.

  The elevator brought them to the second floor. When the doors opened, the Cohns stepped out into a light-green corridor with Monet prints in gilded frames. Dr. Arakelian showed them to Zabbatini’s room.