The Red Magician (11 page)

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.

The warehouse was large and dark and drafty. It seemed full of hundreds and hundreds of women. They stood nervously in groups, or sat against piles of bricks, or lay wearily on the floor. Their voices echoed off the walls. Some carried small children. Kicsi finally saw Sarah, standing with a group of people talking to the rabbi's daughter. She slipped next to her and hung on to her dress like a young child. “Kicsi,” said Sarah, smiling at her.

“When will you have the child?” said someone.

“Another month or so,” said the rabbi's daughter. “I don't know—there aren't any doctors here, are there? If István were here—but he isn't, is he?” She looked around the warehouse vaguely, but did not seem disappointed not to find him. “Something will turn up, I guess. I hope they'll give me enough to feed the baby.”

But night came on and no one showed up with food. Some of the women complained, calling out that they were hungry. Guards came in with guns and singled out the ones who had been the loudest. These were shoved roughly out the door and on to cattle cars waiting on the railroad tracks. Everyone else quieted that night and went to sleep—on the cold, damp brick floors—hungry.

The next day they were each given a slice of bread. More cars came and more of the women were led away. Those who stayed quiet in the hopes of being ignored were disappointed; women were chosen at random. One, a small girl with long brown hair, was dragged screaming to the tracks. A guard clenched her hair and carried her along as if she were a dog.

Days went by. More cars came up to the warehouse, and more women were taken away. They were hungry all the time, but nearly everyone shared their food with the rabbi's daughter. She had sunk within herself, down to a universe that contained only her and the unborn baby. Her cheeks were hollow and her skin was white as paper.

One day Ilona said to Kicsi, “Have you heard about Aladár?”

“Ali!” said Kicsi. “No, what happened?”

“He tried to escape. Last night.”

“Tried? Did he—what did they do to him?” They were whispering. They all whispered to hoard their strength.

“They caught him. And—and they sent him away, this morning.”

“And—and what? Is that all they did?” Ilona was concealing something.

“No,” she said slowly. “They beat him first. His face was bloody. He could barely move.”

“How do you know?” said Kicsi. “Did you see him?”

“Someone had seen him. She told me.”

“Oh! Oh, Ali …” Kicsi sat down. She could not think. There was a buzzing in her ears all the time now. She was very hungry. “He said he'd see me again …”

“He will,” said Ilona. She repeated the old question. “What can they do to us?” The question seemed to mock her.

The next morning the guard pointed to Kicsi. “You,” he said. “And you, and you, and you.” Sarah and the rabbi's daughter and Ilona. They were taken outside.

Bright spots multiplied in front of Kicsi's eyes. The sun seemed to slide in every direction. It was a relief to get outside, after so many days in the warehouse, but she was quickly taken into one of the cattle cars.

The car smelled of straw and cows and human sweat. More and more people were crowded into the car; soon everyone was crying out that there was no room, and still more people joined them. Kicsi found herself in a corner, next to the rabbi's daughter. At first they had tried to clear some room for the pregnant woman, but the space they had made was quickly filled.

The train began to move. Someone bumped into Kicsi, cried out, and was stilled. The car grew hotter. There was no food, and no one had eaten since the day before. The passengers huddled together, moaning softly. Kicsi dozed off, woke, dozed, and woke. Asleep or awake, the rhythm of the train on the tracks stitched itself into her mind.

The train stopped. The doors were opened, and the passengers looked up, blinking in the light. Someone stood up.

“Don't,” said the guard at the door. He held up his rifle, ill at ease. The woman sat back down. The guard passed in a pail of water, locked the doors, and left. The train started up again.

The water was passed around. Everyone drank thirstily, and the pail was passed around again, but there was nothing left when it reached Kicsi the second time.

The days blended into one another. Sometimes once a day, sometimes every few hours, the doors would open and more water would be passed in. Through a crack in the door the passengers could see that they were moving past endless fields. Towns rose up before them like islands and were passed by.

Once the train stopped and the doors did not open. The passengers waited an endless time, sitting still, watching the door. Those who were sleeping stirred and woke. The car grew unbearably hot. A woman near Kicsi fainted, and someone Kicsi could not see was sick. The smell of vomit filled the car.

“Where are they taking us?” called someone desperately, and another voice answered, “They are taking us to die.” The rabbi's daughter, shocked out of her apathy, began to scream, and soon she was joined by hundreds and hundreds of voices, some screaming, some crying frantically. The sounds echoed off the iron walls of the car.

“Quiet!” someone said, banging her hand against the side of the car. “We are not going to die. Don't be ridiculous. Why should they kill us? Lie down and save your strength. Go to sleep.”

A few people quieted, and more followed. Soon only a handful were left, moaning softly and rocking back and forth in their small spaces. Then the train began to move again.

A few days later the train stopped and the doors were flung open. They had arrived at evening, and they strained to see against the setting sun. A cloud of smoke filled the sky, burning against the sunset like a wall of red flame. They heard dogs barking, and men firing rifles, and far off, the sound of people screaming.

Then the dogs were upon them, forcing families apart, herding everyone in one direction. Guards shouted in German. The prisoners could see where they were going now—toward a squat row of buildings punctuated by watchtowers and by tall chimneys spouting flame. Enormous strands of barbed wire wound along the tops of fences and around the buildings.

The prisoners were forced through the entrance, a huge empty hallway crowded with people. Kicsi saw with horror what seemed to her to be a living skeleton, a man made of bone and shadows. What have they done to him? she thought. Someone nudged her and said, “We'll all look like that soon.”

“Strip,” said a woman in uniform, and, dazed, they all bent to remove their clothing. “Shoes go in that pile over there, clothes over here. Any possessions you brought with you go over there. Jewelry in this pile. Come on, hurry up! What are you waiting for?”

A pile of dull gold and silver, of winking rubies and sapphires and emeralds, lay jumbled together on the floor. A rope of pearls wound around them, grinning up at Kicsi like a skull's teeth.

Kicsi's hand went to her throat, to the clasp of the necklace she always wore. Rapidly she undid the clasp, slid the star into the palm of her left hand, and held her hand loosely at her side, as if she were concealing nothing. Vörös! she thought, and was surprised to realize that she had not thought of him before. You were right. Oh, why didn't we listen to you? There was danger to the village, terrible danger. You made the golem to save us, to destroy the man with no teeth. You told me that maybe I could be saved. Maybe, if I have the necklace.