The Red Magician

by Lisa Goldstein

  “Just a minute,” said Kicsi. She was shaking. “Let me sit down. Do you think he saw us?”

  “I don’t think so.” Aladár sat down beside her. “Let’s rest here a while. What did you mean about the names?”

  “Names have power. If he learns their names he can control them,” said Kicsi. “That’s what Vörös told me. Vörös never told me his real name.”

  “What do you think he’ll do next? The rabbi, I mean. Do you think he’ll go to the synagogue?”

  “I guess so. Let’s stay here a while. Until he leaves.”

  “All right. What else did Vörös tell you? Is that where the rabbi gets his power? From names?”

  “From words. Sometimes even from letters. Every Hebrew letter is also a number. And all the letters in a word add up to another number. Some words are equal to each other. Some are worth more than others. It’s all very complicated.” Aladár looked at her in amazement. “Well, actually I didn’t learn that from Vörös. I read it in a book once. The magic is called Kabbalah. I didn’t understand most of it.” She laughed. “I guess I can see now why the rabbi didn’t want us to learn Hebrew in school. It could be dangerous.”

  “And what about Vörös?” said Aladár. “Is that where he gets his power too?”

  “I don’t know,” Kicsi said. “I think so.” She looked around the corner. “The door’s opening. Come on, let’s go.”

  Kicsi and Aladár waited until the rabbi started down the street and then followed him. He came to the synagogue and stopped, listening intently. They quickly hid across the street, behind a clump of trees.

  The rabbi pressed his palms against the synagogue doors and said a few words. He took a key from a ring at his belt and opened the doors slowly.

  At first Kicsi and Aladár could see only darkness inside the synagogue. Then, within the darkness, they made out winking forms of light. “Look,” said Aladár. “The man with a crown.” Golden points of a crown gleamed in the blackness.

  “A woman,” said Kicsi. “With a silver sword.” The fine edge of the sword flashed up out of the darkness like a ribbon of light.

  “Listen,” said Aladár. The dead figures murmured to each other, crowding toward the light.

  The rabbi held up his hand. “Stop,” he said.

  The dead fell silent, watchful, listening.

  “I know your names,” the rabbi said. “I know you all. You are the murdered, the unavenged dead, come from across time. You cannot sleep until you have had your revenge.” One of the dead moaned, a deep chilling sound that Kicsi felt in her bones. “You will not move. You will not move until I have finished!” the rabbi said, and the sound stopped.

  “Old tales say that you appeared before the great catastrophes. But the old tales contain exaggerations, and often lie. I will not believe that we are doomed. But you are here, and I will make my own use of you. I will bind you to the village for my own purposes.”

  The dead flowed to the door, chains and jewels and swords winking out of the darkness.

  “You will not get out,” said the rabbi. “I put a spell on the door, the strongest binding I know. Here in the synagogue I am master. You cannot get out.”

  The dead stopped. The rabbi began to speak, chanting quickly the names of the dead. “And so I bind you,” he said. “Here you will stay until I release you. Sleep now, until I call.”

  The dead melted back into the darkness. The rabbi closed the door and locked it. “That should take care of the traveling man,” he said. “That Vörös.” He walked away quickly, making no sound as he went.

  “Well,” said Aladár. His voice shook a little. “I don’t think I’ll doubt your stories again.”

  “Yes,” said Kicsi. “But what about—what about Vörös? He’ll never be able to come back to the village now.”

  “You’ll find some way to get to him, to warn him in time.”

  “I hope so,” said Kicsi. “I hope I can.”

  “We could go down to the forest,” said Aladár, “and leave him something. A note, maybe. Or something from his knapsack.”

  “Do you think so?” said Kicsi. Her eyes shone. “We could do that tomorrow. Or—no, I have to help my mother around the house tomorrow. I promised her I would. What about the day after?”

  “I’m leaving then,” said Aladár. “In the morning.”

  “So soon?” said Kicsi. “Are you—are you coming back?”

  “Of course,” said Aladár. “Why—did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Everyone’s always leaving,” said Kicsi. “Vörös, and now you …”

  “I’m not a traveling magician,” said Aladár. “I’ll be back.”

  “All right,” said Kicsi. “Next year?”

  “Next year,” said Aladár solemnly, a promise.

  “I’ll meet you at Erzsi’s house before you leave,” said Kicsi. “We can say good-bye then.”

  “No,” said Aladár. “Let’s say good-bye now. It’ll be harder in front of so many people.”

  “Now?” said Kicsi. “I guess so. All right.”

  “Good-bye, then,” said Aladár. He looked around carefully to make sure no one was watching and then kissed her quickly.

  “Good-bye …” she said, wonderingly. He hurried away toward Erzsébet’s house before she could say anything else. He did not look back.

  Then all that was left to her was to count the days until the next Passover. She grew taller and leaner, and began to walk slower than she used to, as though she were going somewhere important but was in no hurry to get there. She did her schoolwork and housework quickly and well, and no one suspected that she was miles away from the small village.

  One evening shortly after Aladár left she came downstairs to say good night to her parents. They were listening to the radio and had not heard her. Imre turned to Sarah and said, “I don’t know.”

  “Is it bad? Should we try to leave? Remember what Vörös said—” said Sarah.

  “Vörös? He’s been gone nearly a year. And I still don’t know about that man—a part of me says not to trust him, but all the while I know I would give him whatever he asked for—my house and my honor …” His voice trailed off. He looked at a spot on the far wall. “But no, I don’t think we should leave. Where would we go? At least here we have the printing company, and our neighbors …. Surely they can’t do anything against so many of us.”

  Kicsi moved suddenly. “Kicsi!” said Sarah. The parents looked at each other and then looked quickly away. “I didn’t see you there. Did you come to say good night?”

  “Yes,” said Kicsi, wondering what it was that they didn’t want to talk about in front of her. “Good night.” Then she said suddenly, “Have you ever had a dream about a man with no teeth?”

  “A man with no teeth?” said Sarah, laughing. “No, Kicsi, why do you ask?”

  “I do sometimes. Last night. And Vörös did.”

  This time Imre and Sarah could not look at each other. The silence in the room lengthened like shadows. “Well, good night,” Kicsi said again, and she turned and ran upstairs.

  “Vörös again,” said Imre. “I wonder just what it is that man knew. And if he knew that we were in danger, why on earth did he leave us?”

  Summer passed, and autumn. Kicsi returned often to the forest, watching the trees grow and fade with the seasons, watching the new seedlings bind over the scars from the fire. One day when she came home from the forest she saw a letter on the dining room table. It was addressed to her, from Aladár. She tore it open.

  It was very short. Aladár was well and getting along in his studies. At the bottom he had written, “I look forward to seeing you again.” She reread the letter, then took it to her room. She read it every day after that, until the places where it was folded began to tear.

  The snows that year came early, and with them bitter cold. Coming home from school one day Kicsi saw her father and István, standing and talking with a man who had his back to her. She ran to greet her father, her breath p
uffing in the cold, but stopped when she recognized the other man. It was the rabbi.

  “Hello, Kicsi,” said Imre. “Come here and we’ll walk home together.”

  Kicsi came reluctantly. The rabbi nodded at her, but said nothing. His gray eyes were light, almost transparent. “I have wonderful news,” he said to Imre and István. “My daughter is going to have a child.”

  “Mazel tov!” said Imre.

  “Yes, I’m very grateful,” said the rabbi. “I feared for her life, you know, after the—after the wedding. And then I began to fear that she would never have a child. But that traveler, that Vörös, apparently he was not as clever as he appeared to be. Because my child is well, despite his words.”

  “Well, then,” said István. “Do you think Vörös will return?”

  “I don’t have any idea. I don’t dictate his comings and goings. You, Imre—you were friendly with him at one time—if you see him, tell him he may return, if he chooses.”

  “Vörös!” said Imre. “No one in the village seems to be able to talk about anything else, even though he’s been gone for over a year. Sometimes I think you’re right—he’s not as clever as he seems. Why should he come back now? We’re getting along here without him.” Imre sighed. “But other times—I just wish I knew.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be coming back,” said the rabbi. “The village is as peaceful as it’s ever been. For a long time now I’ve felt that I would like to go on a long trip—see what my colleagues are doing in the outside world. I think I will start soon, after the snow melts. And as for my daughter, doctor”—he nodded toward István—“I will leave her in your competent hands.” He nodded to Imre and walked away, his feet making no sound in the snow.

  And then, almost before Kicsi expected it, Passover came around once again. Since of the sisters only she and Ilona were left at home, she was allowed her first new dress. Almost breathless, she took off her school clothes and put them away. As she turned toward the bed where she had laid the new dress, she saw something gleam in the corner of her eye. She walked over to the mirror. It was her star, glowing a pale silver.

  Vörös! She had almost forgotten him. Though everyone in the village seemed to be worried about something, the danger he had spoken of had not come to pass. She felt almost a little guilty, to think that she had forgotten the man she had once loved, the man who carried magic with him as he moved through the world, and she felt sad, too, to think that she had nearly grown up—stories of faraway places could no longer move her as they once had.

  Then she put on the dress, slowly, carefully. She would see Aladár again tonight!

  Kicsi went downstairs. Sarah was setting out the Passover dishes. She had invited Erzsébet’s family to dinner, in part to get to know Aladár better, since Kicsi had spent so much time with him last year. Magda was celebrating with her husband’s family.

  Someone knocked on the front door. “Kicsi!” called Sarah. “Get the door, will you please? I’m busy here.”

  Kicsi opened the door. Erzsébet, her brother, and her parents came in; last of all came Aladár. Kicsi looked at him and could not speak. He looked so fine in his new suit. He was taller than she remembered. They could not embrace with everyone around them. He smiled at her and shrugged, as if to say it couldn’t be helped.

  The candles flickered in the wind. Kicsi closed the door.

  “Good God, but it’s dark out there!” István said to Imre, who had just come into the room. His family seated themselves on the couch.

  “The lamplighter’s gone,” said Imre, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs.

  “Gone?” said István. “Where to?”

  Imre shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “And he’s not the only one. The shoemaker left yesterday.”

  “Where do they all go?”

  “Who knows? They think they’ll be safe somewhere else.”

  “The rabbi’s gone,” said István.

  “The rabbi?” said Imre. “He’s on vacation. He’ll be coming back.”

  “Of course. Of course he will. Still, the rabbi’s a strange man. He knows what he wants, and he’s used to getting it. Remember the time he cursed the school—” István stopped. He had never before mentioned the curse to Imre; István had been one of the men who had ostracized Imre and his family when Imre had continued to send his children to the school.

  Imre shrugged. His paralyzed hand lay heavily in his lap. He did not hold a grudge against anyone. “But he wouldn’t leave his wife and daughter, if he thinks that there’s any danger. And with his daughter pregnant—”

  “No,” said István. “No, of course you’re right.”

  Sarah came into the room. “Shall we go sit down?” she asked.

  6

  Kicsi sat across from Aladár; between them was a silver candelabrum. Next to her Erzsébet talked of school and other friends. Imre, at the head of the table, began the tale of Passover—“We were slaves in the land of Egypt,” he said—as he did every year. But it seemed to her that she could only see Aladár, dimly, through the points of light that separated them like a flickering bead curtain.

  As Imre ended, she got up and helped Sarah carry the food from the kitchen. She carried a platter full of chicken past Aladár. “How have you been?” she asked. “How’s college?”

  “I’ve been fine,” he said. “College is wonderful. I think—I’ve been thinking about becoming an engineer.”

  “An engineer?” said István, helping himself to salad. “I thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

  “I did, but—”

  “Kicsi!” Sarah called from the kitchen. Kicsi sighed. Maybe she would get to talk to Aladár some other time.

  Sarah had worked all day on the meal. There were many courses, and all of them were praised. As the meal ended, Imre continued with the Passover services. He nodded to István to open the door, as the custom was, to let in those who were hungry, or those who had no place to go on this night.

  The candles had burned low. Aladár caught Kicsi’s eye and whispered, “Have you seen Vörös? Did he come back?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I didn’t really think he would.”

  István went to the front door and opened it. The night was very cold, and the sky was black and hard, starless. The streets were empty. István shivered. No one in the dining room could see him. Apologetically, he began to close the door.

  Someone knocked. “Who is it?” Imre called from the dining room.

  “I don’t know,” said István. His face was bloodless and his hands shook. Cautiously, he opened the door.

  A man in a uniform stood there. “Hello,” he said in accented Hungarian. “Are you the master of the house?”

  “Nooo …” said István. He shook his head suddenly and said briskly, “Come this way.” He led the man into the dining room.

  Imre stood up. “Yes?” he said. “What do you want?”

  The man looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. “You are ordered to report to the brick factory near the railroad tracks next Wednesday,” he said. “Twenty-six April, nineteen forty-four.”

  “Me?” said Imre. “I—I am ordered—”

  “No,” said the man in uniform. He looked around the table. “All of you. All the Jews in the village.” He smiled suddenly. He had no teeth.

  Kicsi cried out. The man in uniform ignored her.

  “You—By what right—You cannot—” said Imre. He sat down slowly.

  “Why, yes, we can,” the man said. He looked at Imre as if he thought Imre were slow-witted. “Of course we can. Look here. We have our orders.” He showed Imre the piece of paper he carried.

  The paper was in German; it meant nothing to Imre. He waved it away. “What about—well, the printing press. The house, and—and—things,” he finished. He shrugged, one shoulder higher than the other because of his paralyzed arm. He was almost apologetic.

  “I really don’t know,” said the man. “I suppose we will take possession of it as soon
as you leave.”

  “And if we refuse to go?” said Aladár.

  “Ali!” said Erzsébet.

  “You won’t be allowed to escape, I can tell you that,” said the man. “It will be easier for you if you just do as we say.

  “Next Wednesday,” he added unnecessarily, as he turned to go. It was only then that they all saw the gun he carried under his belt.

  “What—what in God’s name will we do?” Sarah whispered when the soldier had left.

  “What can we do?” said Imre. “We’ll have to go. Of course we’ll have to go.” He spoke tonelessly. “What can they do to us?”

  Kicsi had never seen her stubborn father at such a loss, had never seen him apologize when not in the wrong. She turned to him, to plead with him to be strong. Blackness seemed to be filling her world, shutting out the lights between her and Aladár, filling the spaces behind her eyes.

  Erzsébet’s family went home early. There was no singing after the meal as there would have been in other years, no conversation as they went out into the streets that wound away like black rivers under the sky. “What can they do to us?” said everyone, and they shrugged and turned to go.

  By Wednesday they were still saying it; it had become a password. No one knew how much they were allowed to take with them, so Sarah packed clothes for all of them. Before she left she watered the plants and fed the cat; then she started to cry.

  “Come with me, my heart,” Imre said to her, and put his arm softly around her shoulders.

  Kicsi and Aladár walked hand in hand, not speaking, to the factory. A guard at the factory separated them. The men were to go to one building and the women to another.

  “Good-bye,” said Aladár. “I know I’ll see you again. Don’t worry.”

  “I won’t,” said Kicsi, though she had none of his confidence. “Good-bye.”

  They kissed and separated. Kicsi saw the guard as she turned to join Sarah and Ilona. There was something in his face that might have been kindness, or pity. As she looked at him he turned away, embarrassed. So, Kicsi thought, they are not all like the man we saw last week, the man with no teeth. She shivered, and hurried toward her mother.