Zabbatini was lying in bed, attached to various tubes and cables. He looked like a dying turtle. A monitor was beeping at regular intervals, and when the Cohns entered the room, he turned his head and smiled weakly.
“Moshe Goldenhirsch,” Grandma said, “I never had the chance to thank you.”
He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh,” he said, “it was nothing.”
“Without this man,” she said, “I would not be alive.” She pointed to Harry and Max. “And neither of you would have been born.”
It sounded almost like a threat to Max. He nodded and said, “Yes, Grandma.”
Zabbatini waved Grandma over to his bed. “Could you . . .” he began, but then he coughed. “Could you fluff my pillows?”
Grandma sighed and reached for his pillows. “Men . . .” she muttered under her breath. She carefully took the pillow out from under Zabbatini’s head, then shook it vigorously. Then she put it back, gently helping him place his head on it. “You would all be lost without us,” she said, but Max could tell she was happy to mother him a little.
She pulled up a chair and sat down beside Zabbatini’s bed. They both looked at each other with utter amazement. He still saw in her the little girl from the train, and she saw the haggard, handsome young man.
“That you’re alive . . .” Zabbatini whispered, sounding awed.
Grandma nodded; then she reached for her handkerchief and sneakily dabbed at a tear. “I didn’t think you made it out of the camps,” she said.
“The act of living,” Zabbatini said, “is in itself the purest prayer.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“My father used to say it,” Zabbatini quietly said.
She gently took his hand. He allowed it.
“Tell me how you got out,” he said.
Grandma took a deep breath and adjusted her glasses. “So I crawled into the suitcase . . .” she began.
“Yes, the suitcase,” Zabbatini said with a smile.
“The path to freedom,” Grandma said.
THE SUITCASE FACTORY
Rosl Feldmann didn’t feel free at all. She had thought that the trunk would open a magic passageway, leading her somewhere with fresh air and sunshine. But instead, she found herself stuck in a cold, dark, stuffy suitcase. It was like being in a coffin. The false bottom was right above her head. The mechanism now became clear to her. She made herself as small as possible. She tried to control her breathing. It was just like playing hide-and-seek. But this was no game. She knew that if she was found, she would pay for it with her life. From outside, she heard agitated voices, barking dogs, chaos. She felt the trunk being lifted and then carried a few steps. She pressed against the sides with her arms and legs, hoping to avoid being bumped around. The trunk was put down hard on the ground, and then nothing happened for a while. She heard voices talking outside.
She heard someone struggling with the lock. She was gripped by sudden panic, and she almost screamed. She pressed her hands over her mouth and bit her tongue so that no sound would escape her lips. Moshe Goldenhirsch had told her to be quiet, no matter what. Then she heard voices again, and then a bang. She flinched at the sound, but at the same moment, she regained control over her body. She forced herself to be still with a willpower she never knew she had. Something collapsed next to the trunk. A person?
Suddenly, the suitcase was opened. The false bottom remained in place, but she could feel the air from outside. A terrifying chill came over her. She squeezed her eyes shut and reminded herself that she was invisible. At least, she hoped she was invisible. And apparently, she was. A few moments later, the trunk was closed again. She slowly exhaled with relief. Then, nothing happened. Someone blew a whistle, and, very slowly, the voices and sounds moved away. It seemed to take forever. Her limbs were stiff. Her arms and legs were starting to tingle. Her back ached. She tried to shut out all feelings. She tried to think of something else—the fairy tales her father used to tell her before bedtime, back in Zirndorf. Stories of evil goblins and friendly dwarves. She had to distract herself, because she knew that any false move carried the risk of being found out. At some point, overcome by fear and exhaustion, she fell asleep. It was a brief respite, a short, thin slumber.
Suddenly, the trunk started moving again. She awoke with a start. She was trying to control her breathing. There was sweat on her forehead, cold and clammy sweat. Her arms and legs were numb by now. The suitcase was pulled along roughly. Then it was lifted onto something, perhaps a pushcart. It was lying sideways now. Rosl felt dizzy and increasingly uncomfortable. She moaned, and immediately regretted it.
The girl didn’t know it, but she was no longer in immediate danger. The SS guards were otherwise occupied by now. The men who were moving the trunk were camp inmates. With a loud squeaking noise, the pushcart began to move. Rosl wondered where her parents were, and if she would ever see them again. The thought drove tears to her eyes, but she forced herself to stay calm and quiet. She had to keep playing hide-and-seek, no matter what!
Soon the suitcase and its precious cargo were lifted once more, and then they came slamming down on the ground. This time, Rosl was prepared and preventively pushed against the movement, making it easier to absorb the blows. She didn’t moan. She didn’t make a sound. Distant voices were audible, if only barely. Again, her eyes closed and an uneasy sleep came over her. She drifted away with a feeling of relief.
She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, but at some point, the aching in her arms and legs got so bad that it woke her up. She heard nothing from outside, and she made a decision. She was sick of this uncomfortable hiding place. Moshe Goldenhirsch had told her to come out only when everything was quiet. Well, now it was quiet. She opted to open the trunk and risk a brief glance. Raising her right hand, she pushed the false bottom up. Then, with her other hand, she reached upward and felt around until she found the release button. She gently pressed it. The trunk clicked and the lid opened slightly. Rosl pushed against the top and peeked outside.
She was lying on a large pile of luggage. A mountain of luggage. She had never seen so many bags and suitcases in one place. Each had a name and a few numbers written on it with chalk. She was in a large warehouse of some sort.
What is this place? she thought. It looked like a factory. A suitcase factory.
She could see brick walls and a wooden ceiling. Lights were hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the room. In the middle of it were large tables, with some open suitcases on them.
Rosl heard sounds, and quickly pulled the trunk shut.
She didn’t see the group of inmates enter the warehouse, escorted by two SS men. The inmates began dragging pieces of luggage from the pile toward the tables. The men in uniform watched as the inmates opened the cases and started digging through them. Clothes and personal items were carelessly tossed aside. Money, gold, and jewelry were brought to another man in uniform, who had come in a little later and had taken a seat at a small table. He examined the valuables, noting them in a huge ledger in front of him. The two guards were chatting with each other, even as they kept their eyes on the inmates.
They were standing near Rosl’s trunk. Rosl heard snatches of their conversation, something about the results of a soccer match. She had heard the clattering of the luggage, and she was trying to guess what was happening outside. One thing, however, was clear: she couldn’t risk crawling out, not now. She had to wait. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could endure it.
When the trunk was picked up, her heart started thumping. What will they do to me? she wondered. Will they kill me? Or send me back to my mama and papa? That would be nice, but it seemed unlikely.
They would probably kill her. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what being dead would be like. She had no idea. Maybe it was like sleeping, except that you didn’t wake up again. That wouldn’t be so bad. She’d probably find out soon eno
ugh.
She was carried a few feet and then put back down. And then, a moment later, the latch was opened. Bony fingers reached inside and touched the false bottom. Rosl found herself staring into a haggard face. The man’s eyes widened with surprise. The face was so thin it reminded her of a skull. She felt sorry for the man. She raised one finger up to her lips.
The prisoner reacted quickly. He moved his skinny body slightly in front of the open trunk, to block the view. Then he quickly picked up an old blanket and threw it over her. Rosl understood. She made herself as small as possible and curled herself up into the dirty wool blanket. Suddenly, she heard footsteps.
“What do you have there?” the voice asked.
“Nothing,” the inmate replied with terror in his voice.
“Let me see.”
“Nothing but old clothes.”
After a few seconds of silence, she heard the voice saying, “Get on with your work.”
She could feel the inmate’s hands reach for her, as if she were nothing but a bundle of rags. The man pulled her out of the trunk and placed her on something soft. A pile of clothes. More clothes were thrown on top of her, and soon she was completely covered. She slowly and carefully stretched out her aching limbs, hoping that no one would see her move.
Then she fell asleep again. This time, lying in the midst of all these soft clothes, her sleep was deep and restful.
She felt a movement, and it woke her up. She was still lying in the middle of the pile of clothing, but now she seemed to be on a pushcart. She could hear the wheels squeaking. She could smell fresh air, and she felt the cold night around her. Suddenly, the cart was raised up at one end and the pile slid off. She let out a scream, unable to stop herself, as she felt herself dizzily falling. But she landed softly.
She tried to control her breathing and the wild beating of her heart. She waited a few minutes before digging her way to the top, toward the fresh air.
She was in the middle of a garbage pile, surrounded by clothes, pieces of luggage, shoes, glasses, and personal items, as well as human excrement. The smell was awful. She looked around, but saw no one. As far as she could tell, she was alone in a desert of waste, outside the camp. In the distance, she saw barbed wired fences and spotlights. Then she passed out.
When Rosl Feldmann woke up again, the sun was rising. It was much warmer now, and the sweet sunlight brought hope to her heart. She could see the world again. Then she heard sounds. Someone was rummaging through the garbage. Her heart skipped a beat.
She curled up and dug as deep as she could into the blanket she had been wrapped in, hoping that no one would see her. Suddenly, before she could react, the blanket was torn off her, and she lay shivering and exposed in the glaring light.
It was a man. He was dressed in dirty rags. He flinched back when he saw her. Then, suddenly, he lurched forward and grabbed her. His grip was hard. She couldn’t make out his face; he seemed like a shadow to her. He lifted her up and carried her away.
A short while later, they reached the edge of a forest. He roughly put her down on the ground. Then he crouched in front of her. He said something to her, but she couldn’t understand his language.
She did understand one thing, however: his outstretched hand. She reached for it. He led her into the forest.
They walked like this, hand in hand, for about half an hour. Then they reached a path in the forest, and the man followed it. Soon, they left the woods behind and came upon a small village. It was early morning, and everything here seemed peacefully asleep.
The man had put his smelly cloak over her shoulders. He pulled her close and walked with her toward a small church. Next to the church was a white two-story house. The man knocked at the door. No one answered. He knocked again and again, until, at last, the door opened.
When Rosl looked up, she saw a black shape looming in the doorway. The man and the black shape exchanged a few hurried words in their odd language. Then Rosl was pushed into the house, and the door closed behind her. The man was gone. Rosl looked at the black shape. It looked like a ghost, wrapped entirely in black cloth. Rosl’s gaze went up and down, and then she noticed a pair of feet sticking out from under the dark clothing. She saw leather shoes. Women’s shoes.
The ghost began talking to her, but she couldn’t understand a single word. When the black shape bent down, Rosl was finally able to make out a human face. It was an old woman. There was a kind glimmer in her eyes, and she wore a crucifix around her neck. She smiled at Rosl, and Rosl smiled back.
THE FINAL CURTAIN
Grandma paused for a moment and glanced around the hospital room. Her family and the old magician were looking at her.
Zabbatini nodded. “She was a nun?”
“Yes,” Grandma said. “There was a monastery in the village. The ragpicker had found me in the trash and brought me there. The nuns hid me until the war was over. They taught me Polish, and they taught me about their faith.”
She looked at Zabbatini. The man to whom Rosl Cohn, née Feldmann, owed her survival looked exhausted. He leaned back in his hospital bed.
“What happened to my mama and papa?” she asked him, and her voice was suddenly that of a child again.
Zabbatini shook his head slowly. “They were in the left line,” he said.
She nodded, knowing what that meant.
“The last I saw, they were being marched off.” He looked at Rosl. “They were holding hands.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
And then, in a barely perceptible whisper, she said, “Thank you. You saved me.”
Zabbatini smiled.
“No,” he said. “You saved me.”
It was after midnight when they left the hospital. They drove in Deborah’s Jeep Cherokee to Mickey’s Pizza Palace, so that Dad could pick up his car, which he had left there. Then they said good-bye. Harry brought his mother back to Encino. Deborah and Max went home.
“Do I have to go to school on Monday?” Max said. It couldn’t hurt to ask.
“Yes,” Mom said with a sharp edge to her voice. “You do.”
“But why?” Max said.
“So that you learn something useful.” And under her breath, she added, “So you don’t grow up to be a magician.”
When Max saw the empty guest room at home, he felt a tinge of sadness. He hoped the old man would recover soon.
But now it was late. Mom tucked Max in and gave him a good-night kiss. “Happy birthday,” she said, and turned off the light.
Max fell asleep at once.
When Max went to school on Monday, he felt like the star witness in a mob trial. Suddenly, he was all the rage. Joey Shapiro couldn’t wait to hear what had happened with Zabbatini. This was, without a doubt, the coolest birthday party he had ever been to.
Max told him how he got to ride in the ambulance, how he was privy to Zabbatini’s fight for life in the operating room. He painted a vivid picture.
“Then what happened?” Joey asked.
“We visited him in his room.”
Max told the story of how Zabbatini had saved his grandma’s life. Joey was deeply impressed.
During lunch break, Myriam Hyung and about a dozen other kids surrounded him. Max Cohn was a star. At least for one day.
After school, Dad picked him up. They went to Baja Fresh, and Max ordered a cheese quesadilla. Dad took out a pen and paper from his briefcase.
“What are you doing?” Max asked.
“I’m making a list,” Dad said.
“Of what?”
“Of all the people who wouldn’t be alive if Zabbatini hadn’t done what he did.”
Besides Max and his dad, there were Grandma, Uncle Bernie, and Max’s cousins Esther, Mike, and Lucas.
Dad whistled and leaned back in his plastic chair. “Seven people,” he said. “Wow.” He gazed at his son.
<
br /> Max shrugged as he ate a slice of avocado. It was not necessarily a good thing that his stupid cousins were on the list.
“None of us would have ever been born,” Dad said. “He stared out the window over Los Feliz Boulevard, with its traffic and cars, and watched the stark clear light of the midday sun reflecting on the windshields outside.
Max was sitting in front of the TV, playing a video game, when the call from the hospital came. Mom picked up the phone. She had come back from a meeting at her attorney’s office, unusually tense even by her standards, and had started frantically cleaning the house, a sure sign that she was agitated and uncertain.
The divorce papers were lying on her desk, unsigned as of yet. Deborah felt conflicted. She was unwilling to forgive Harry’s affair with the yoga instructor. But she also knew that Max needed his father more than ever. And last Saturday, he had been there for his son, no question about it. She was wondering if their marriage could possibly survive. But the trust between him and her had been irrevocably broken. She needed more time.
“Good news,” her attorney had said when he called her that morning. “The judge approved the divorce. I have the papers right here. Now you both need to sign. And then it’s over.”
And then it’s over.
When Deborah hung up the phone, she was deep in thought.
That afternoon, she had driven to Woodland Hills, to Mr. Gutierrez’s office. When she came in, Harry was already there. He looked pale.
“Let’s roll,” Mr. Gutierrez said cheerfully, and clapped his hands.
“Great,” Harry said, without much enthusiasm.
Deborah just nodded.
Mr. Gutierrez laid out the papers and held out a pen.
“Who wants to go first?” he asked.
Harry and Deborah looked at each other. Neither of them made a move.
Mr. Gutierrez frowned.
After some awkward stammering, it was decided that Deborah should take the divorce papers with her. She could read them through carefully at home, sign them, and then send them back.
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