The Red Magician

by Lisa Goldstein

  The rabbi lifted the small glass from the table. It was customary for the groom to crush a glass with his foot as a reminder of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. The woman’s cries grew louder. The rabbi leaned on his cane and turned toward the woman’s section, annoyed at the interruption. The glass slipped from the cloth and shattered on the ground.

  A sigh passed through the people of the town like wind. Folks believed that the groom must crush the glass to ensure good luck for the marriage. Talk sprang up suddenly. And still the woman cried, her sobs jagged as the shards of broken glass.

  The rabbi looked through the crowd for her. “Tell me,” he said. “Why have you disturbed the ceremony? What is making you unhappy?”

  The woman had covered her face with her handkerchief and did not realize that the rabbi was talking to her. A sob shuddered through her. She looked up and wiped the tears from her face. “I—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  The rabbi frowned. “Who are you? Why are you crying?”

  “It’s—it’s because of my son, rabbi. I’m the cousin of the groom’s mother. They told me their son was marrying your daughter, and they told me—they said that you—that you could do miracles.” This last was almost a question. “And I meant to ask you later about my son, after the wedding, in a few days—” Sobs took hold of her again, and she bowed her head until they released her.

  “What has happened to your son? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know where he is, if he’s alive or dead. I—my husband and I sent him to Germany, to stay with our relatives, and to study there. And, well, and he hasn’t answered any of our letters, and we haven’t heard from anyone—” She passed her hands across her eyes. “I would have waited until after the wedding, but he—the young bridegroom—he looks so much like our son, and our son would be marrying about now …”

  “And what do you expect me to do?” asked the rabbi.

  “I don’t know. To tell me. To tell me if he is alive or dead.”

  The rabbi sighed. “I can’t do that. I don’t know. Why should he be dead? He is busy studying. He cannot answer your letters.”

  “He is dead.” Kicsi could not see the speaker, who stood with the men on the other side of the courtyard, but she recognized the voice. It was Vörös. She had not known that he was there. “I am sorry,” he said. “All the Jews in Germany are dead, or will be soon.”

  The woman nodded. She did not cry again. She looked as if she had expected Vörös’s answer, as if she could now go on living, no longer so fearfully uncertain.

  The rabbi turned to Vörös. “And who are you? What is your business here?”

  “I am a traveler.”

  “Ah. I’ve heard of you. You call yourself Vörös. You claim to be a magician. They say you destroyed the curse I put on the school.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I say you’re a cheap conjurer and a liar. You have no business here, at the wedding of my daughter. You’re a troublemaker. You had no reason to tell that woman that her son is dead. You know nothing.”

  “I know that we are living in unsafe times. I know that you—all of you—should flee, should go somewhere safe—Palestine, England, America. You should go now. Soon it will not be safe. You will—”

  “Silence!” said the rabbi. Clouds covered the stars and the lights of the candles went out suddenly. The rabbi’s face could be seen dimly, pale as tallow. “What are you thinking of, to talk of these evil omens at my daughter’s wedding? Get out. You are not welcome in this town.”

  A sudden intense light blazed upward. Shadows sprang back to the walls of the synagogue. Some of the people holding the candles dropped them in fear. The candles were lit again. Stars pierced the clouds like sword points.

  “I will leave now,” said Vörös. The townspeople looked at him. The light was not bright, but they stood as though dazzled, blinking like fish on land. “I know what I am saying. Please, all of you. You must leave before it is too late.” The clouds curled back slowly, revealing the stars standing like bright shells on the ocean floor.

  “If I ever see you here again,” said the rabbi, “I will call upon God to strike you dead. Do you understand? You will die, and not by natural means. Your body will wither and your soul will fly forever homeless across the face of the earth. Do you understand?”

  “Sholom aleichem,” said Vörös.

  “The rest of you,” the rabbi said. “Don’t listen to this foolishness. There is no reason to leave the town. I don’t know why this man is trying to frighten you. Nothing will happen to you. Nothing at all.”

  He looked at the small table. There, wrapped in whitest linen, stood the glass, unbroken. Someone must have gotten a new glass, he thought, though he knew that no one had left the courtyard. He felt old suddenly, the way he had felt the night Vörös had stopped the presses, and sagged forward against his cane. He set the glass on the ground, and the groom, trembling, lifted his heel and crushed it.

  “Mazel tov!” said a few of the guests, and—“Mazel tov!”—the cry was taken up by others. Some began to clap hands and dance, slowly at first, but soon faster and faster, as if by movement they could forget what had happened. The violinists played a fast, jagged tune. Kicsi did not stay for the dances or for the procession toward the rabbi’s house and the feast following the wedding. In the confusion she slipped away to follow Vörös.

  “Kicsi!” Erzsébet whispered urgently, “where are you going?” Kicsi shrugged away, moving through the crowd. It was difficult getting to Vörös because he had been with the men and she with the women. Two women blocked her, talking excitedly.

  “Did you see what the rabbi did? The glass was unbroken, as good as new. How did he do it?”

  “Ah, but how did Vörös light the candles again? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  She walked past them, awkward in her sister’s clothes, at last crossing over into the men’s section. No one stopped her. She watched the men’s faces move past her, rising out of the shadows into the candlelight. Vörös was not among them.

  She turned and began to walk away from the synagogue, toward the forest. The streets were deserted, the merry-makers headed in the other direction to the rabbi’s house. She looked back once, as if to get her bearings, and saw, far away, the lights of the revelers, dwarfed by the fierce stars above. Their faint cries were blown back to her. Then she was alone.

  She began to run. Chimneys and doors, trees and stars were whirled about her like parts of a dream. The pale white road carried her on its back like a swift horse, past the houses, past the town. The gravel-paved road turned to a dirt road, and still she ran on, until she came to the old forest. Then she stopped, breathing heavily. Her mouth was very dry.

  She stepped into the forest. The trees were blurred together in the night. They arched high above her, hiding the stars. She could see nothing. She heard leaves rustling softly, endlessly. Slowly she walked forward. A small swift animal ran past her, and she jumped back.

  “Who is it? Is anyone there?”

  “Vörös!” Her eyes began to grow accustomed to the forest, and she saw him ahead, a dark form sitting on the ground among the fallen leaves and twigs. His long legs were drawn up and his head rested on his knees. He looked as though he were crying. No, Kicsi thought. He would not cry.

  A dog, a dark stain against the trees, paced back and forth beside him. As she came farther into the forest the dog drew closer to Vörös, as if protecting him. The dog seemed to stare at her for a long moment, measuring her. Then he turned away.

  Kicsi walked up to Vörös and sat down. He looked up at her. “Is that your dog?” she asked.

  “Him?” said Vörös. “No, he belongs to no one.”

  There was silence. Kicsi moved slightly, rustling the broken twigs underfoot. “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “Try to save all of you from your own folly,” Vörös said. His voice was as bitter as the herbs they ate at Passover.
“Though God knows why I should.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is one thing more I can do,” Vörös said. “I will have to try. Though I will probably fail this time too. I am so tired.”

  “What will—”

  He looked at her directly and she felt warmed, special. “Kicsi. Why aren’t you with the others? You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “I—I wanted to talk to you. I missed you. After you left, after the presses stopped. I wanted to tell you that.”

  “I missed you too, Kicsi. I missed your family. Sometimes I forget what it’s like to have a family, the warmth. I need to visit yours, every once in a while.”

  “Didn’t you—were you an orphan?”

  He was silent. “I want to thank you,” he said at last. “You’ve reminded me of what it is I am trying to save. Would you mind if I gave you a present?”

  “I—Would I mind? No.”

  “Here,” he said. He pulled out a necklace that had lain hidden under his shirt and unlocked the clasp. “Here. Put this on. Perhaps it will protect you. You at least. Who can say? Wear it always.”

  She held out her hand and he gave her the necklace. From one end dangled a six-pointed star. It shone silver with its own light. Slowly she put it on over her head.

  “Here, like this.” He showed her how the clasp worked. “Like this. Why are you crying? Kicsi?”

  “Because—because you are leaving us again. You’re giving me something to make me feel better about it, but you’re going to leave, and this time you won’t be back.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not going to leave. I’m right here. I’ll be here for quite a while.”

  “But—you aren’t afraid? The rabbi says he will kill you, and your soul—”

  “Will fly homeless across the earth. I know. I don’t care. I’ve been traveling homeless for a long time. It shouldn’t matter if I do it when I’m dead. Besides,” Vörös said, “I don’t believe he can kill me.”

  Kicsi looked up and sniffed softly. She fingered the chain at her neck. “You’ll have to tell Father where I got this. Where does it come from?”

  “Palestine. It’s very old.”

  “Oh,” she said, holding the star. Then: “What did you mean by saving us? Saving us from what?”

  “From a man—I see him in my dreams sometimes—”

  “A man with no teeth,” Kicsi said.

  Vörös looked up at her, surprised. “You’ve seen him too?”

  “Once. I saw him in my dream, once. I forgot about it until now. Who is he? He—is he—will he hurt us?”

  Vörös shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “God knows. I cannot see all possibilities. It may be as the rabbi says. Nothing at all may happen.”

  Kicsi felt suddenly cold, alone. Her familiar world was ending, torn into pieces around her. Vörös put his arm around her and held her silently for a few minutes.

  “You’d better go now,” he said finally. “Your parents will be worrying about you. I don’t want to be responsible for you, along with everything else.”

  She stood up and brushed the dirt and leaves off her dress. “Good-bye,” she said. She held the star in her hand one last time. “And thank you. Thank you very much.” She tucked the necklace inside the dress, thinking, I’ll have enough explaining to do without that. Then she left the forest. The dog saw her go and made a questioning noise deep in its throat.

  She walked back slowly. All the houses along the gravel-paved road were dark—all except the rabbi’s house, which grew brighter and louder as she drew near it. She opened the door and let herself in.

  People were leaving, calling out, “Good-bye! Mazel tov!” She edged past them, down the entrance hall, and into the large dining room. The feast was nearly over. A few of the candles set along the tables had gone out, and the rest flickered as the door was opened and closed. Servants were just beginning to clear away the empty plates and cups that lay strewn across the tables like drunks. Several men danced in a circle near the center of the room to a lively tune played by the violinists. Another man sat on the floor and watched them, his hand beating tiredly to the music. Kicsi looked around for her parents.

  “Kicsi!” whispered Erzsébet. “Where have you been? What’s happened to you? You’ve got dirt on your dress.”

  “Please be quiet,” said Kicsi. “Where are my parents? Are they worried about me?”

  “Over there, with your cousin,” said Erzsébet. “I think they thought you were with me the whole evening.”

  “Good,” said Kicsi. “Do you think there’s any food left?”

  “Kicsi!” said Imre. “We’ve leaving now.”

  “Tell me later what happened, all right?” Erzsébet whispered.

  “What happened?” said Kicsi. She yawned. “Nothing. I went for a walk, that’s all. Good night.”

  She followed her family out the door. Her eyes closed on the way home and Imre had to carry her the rest of the way. The night wove itself into her dreams.

  4

  Kicsi did not go back to the forest right away. For her it was enough to know that Vörös would be there, that at any time she could go to visit him. She carried the knowledge with her like a secret, like the star she wore near her heart. Meanwhile she talked to no one about Vörös, and the villagers thought that he had gone.

  When she did return, a few weeks later, she could not find him. The red and orange leaves had fallen, covering the ground with silent, unmoving fire. The forest was quieter now, whispering softly and slowly like old people remembering their youth. Branches had fallen across the paths or lay snagged in the trees like ancient spiderwebs. For a moment Kicsi feared that Vörös had gone deeper into the forest to where she could not follow him, or that he had left the village. Then from somewhere a dog howled.

  Kicsi returned the way she had come, following the sound. The howl came again, closer this time. She saw Vörös and the black dog off in the distance, sitting on a small red hill overlooking the forest, and she ran toward them.

  “Hello,” she said, sitting beside Vörös. Then, quickly, before he could ask her to leave: “What are you doing?”

  “Looking at the earth,” said Vörös. “There’s fine clay here. Your village has good bones. What brings you out here?”

  “I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Another question!” Vörös said, laughing.

  “Yes,” she said. “I wanted to ask—There’s a hole in our roof. Did you—I mean, did the rabbi—Do you have anything to do with that?”

  “A hole in your roof?”

  “Yes. They’re fixing it today. That’s why I remembered it.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. What would I want with a hole in your roof? Perhaps a tree—”

  “There wasn’t any tree nearby,” said Kicsi. “I think the rabbi did it.”

  “The rabbi?” said Vörös gravely. He picked up a stick and turned it over and over without seeing it. “It could be. It could be. But, Kicsi, that’s all over now. The curse is gone. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about!” she said, suddenly angry. “He says he will kill you!”

  “I told you,” said Vörös. “I don’t think that he can.”

  “You don’t know him,” said Kicsi. “He’s—he’s—If he wants to kill you, he can do it.”

  “Ah,” said Vörös. “But he does not know me either.”

  Kicsi sighed. “You haven’t grown up here. You don’t know. Once, János, the old shoemaker—he disappeared for a while. And his wife went to the rabbi to get him back. And the next day—it was terrible. He came back, bleeding and limping. I heard someone tell my parents that a wolf had chased him back from the next town.” Vörös looked at her. He was smiling slightly. “All right, so you don’t believe me! You think you’ve seen wonderful things in your travels, but the rabbi—he really can work miracles. He really does. My father—once he needed an operation—”

  “I believe you,” sa
id Vörös.

  “You—you do?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re not afraid? Why not?”

  “I think I can protect myself. I will need time, though, and quiet.”

  “What will you do?”

  “For the moment, nothing. Hush.” He sat a while, studying the ground between his knees.

  “Vörös?” said Kicsi a while later.

  “Hmmm? Yes?”

  “Why don’t you ever answer my questions?”

  Vörös laughed. He turned her head so that she faced him and looked into her eyes. “A magician’s business is with words. He may use other things to help him along—amulets and so forth—but it is within words that the power lies. To choose the wrong words may mean death. And so magicians learn, from the first, to use as few words as possible, to answer as few questions as we can. And that,” he said, smiling softly, “may be the longest answer I’ve ever given you. Now let me be. I must study the land a while longer.”

  After a long while he stood up. The dog looked up at him.

  Vörös began to pace. Then, as though he had come to a decision, he walked a large circle around Kicsi and the spot where he had been sitting. “What do you think?” he said to the dog.

  The dog nodded once.

  “Good,” said Vörös. “Now, Kicsi, once I begin, you may not leave the circle. Do you understand?”

  “Did you just talk to the dog? Can he understand you?”

  Vörös sighed. “Yes, I did, and yes, he can. If you have to be home, if you have something to do or somewhere to go, you must leave now. If you stay, you cannot leave the circle once I’ve begun.”

  “All—all right.” She meant to ask him what he planned to do, but something stopped her.

  “Good. Now then.” He paced the circle again, speaking a few words. Kicsi could tell that they were Hebrew, but the accent was harsher, more angular, than the one she was used to. A thin white line, pale as a scar, sprang up along the ground where he had walked, fencing them in. He returned to the center. The dog continued to prowl the outer edge of the circle.

  Vörös sat down. He placed his hands on the ground and began to sing softly, tunelessly. Nothing happened for a long time and Kicsi started to stand up. The air was hot and still. A few grains of sand blew noiselessly along the ground. More joined them, and still more, and suddenly Kicsi saw that they were all moving toward the center of the circle, toward Vörös. She sat back down and put her hand out. There was no breeze. Sand hit her hand sharply, biting like bitter cold, and she pulled her hand back. Vörös continued to sing.