3

“Where have you been?” said Sarah. Then, seeing Vörös, she stopped. “Oh. Sholom aleichem. I’ll set another plate. Magda! Where are the girls?”

“Aleichem sholom,” said Vörös. “I hope I’m not disturbing you or your family.”

“No, not at all,” said Sarah. Her eyes shifted warily from Vörös to Kicsi, as though she suspected him of some diabolical conjuring trick that had substituted this demon in place of her daughter. “Magda, set another place, would you? Vörös has come back.”

“Vörös!” Magda said. “Hello.”

Vörös nodded to her.

“Vörös!” The cousin came downstairs. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight like newly minted coins. “They’ve been talking of nothing else here since you’ve gone. Is it true—did you really—” He paused as they all sat down to dinner. “Tell me—that day you stopped the printing presses. How did you do that? Was it—magic?” His tone was slightly mocking, as if he were reminding everyone that he knew more about the world than they did, as if he were daring Vörös to try to fool him as he had fooled the others.

Kicsi wondered why Imre did not forbid the cousin to ask those questions. She remembered vividly when Imre had refused to let her talk to Vörös and suspected that the cousin was allowed more freedom only because he was older. Later she realized that Imre had not stopped the conversation because he, too, was curious.

“The presses? I think they stopped by themselves. Didn’t they?”

“Where did you go that night?” Tibor asked. “Why didn’t you say good-bye to us?”

“I had important business. I’m sorry I couldn’t have waited to thank you for your hospitality. And Arpad—is he well?”

“He’s fine,” said Kicsi. “How did you do that this afternoon?”

“The juggling? It’s easy. I’ll teach you.”

“Juggling!” said Tibor. “I didn’t know you could juggle.”

Vörös started to say something, but Kicsi continued without hearing him. “No, not the juggling,” she said implacably. “You talked to me. In my mind. How did you do that?”

There was silence for a long moment. The cousin, fascinated, had forgotten to eat. Finally Imre said, “Now, Kicsi, our guest is tired. You can talk to him some other time.”

“He talked to me,” she said. “In my mind.” She turned to him. “Are you a magician?” she asked. Her voice was sharp with challenge. She felt betrayed by him. He should have been happier to see her. He should have told her more.

Vörös tasted his soup. He looked up at Kicsi and nodded slightly. “I know a few tricks,” he said.

There was a long silence. Finally Imre said, “What’s the news from the outside world?”

Vörös looked at him levelly. “Not good, my friend. Can you—Are you prepared to leave this place? There are things moving in the outside world that I do not think your village can stand against.”

“To leave?” said Imre. “Leave where? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Vörös. “I’m sure. I’m sorry.”

Imre shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve lived in this village for a long time. I would like to talk to the rabbi first.”

Vörös nodded gravely. The talk turned to the rabbi, his daughter’s wedding, the news from Budapest. After dinner Tibor asked to see Vörös juggle, and Vörös got out his pack.

Kicsi leaned forward to examine the balls. They were the same bright colors as she remembered. “Where did you get these?” she asked.

“Istanbul,” said Vörös.

“Oh,” said Kicsi. All her hostility melted away like ghosts in the sunlight. “Oh. Istanbul.”

Imre looked at Vörös sharply. Vörös’s warning had troubled him more than he had shown. Now he felt another worry for his youngest daughter. The old magic had returned.

Vörös hurried through his tricks as if aware of the tension in the room. The family watched him, fascinated. For Kicsi it was as fresh as if she were seeing him juggle for the first time. Even Imre looked interested, and rubbed his useless left arm as though it too would soon move in time to the balls.

“Where are you staying?” Imre asked when he had finished.

“In the forest.”

“The forest?” said Imre. “For God’s sake, why? I insist—you must be our guest.”

“No,” said Vörös. “I can’t. You already have a guest.” He nodded to the cousin. “Thank you. I’ll be going now.”

“Please,” said the cousin. “I’d be quite happy sleeping in the living room.”

“No,” said Vörös again. “I’m comfortable in the forest. Thank you so much for the meal, and for your kind faces. Good evening.” He opened the door and stepped out into the night. One of the dogs melted out of the darkness and followed at his heels. Imre tried to contain his feeling of relief.

The next day, after she had come home from school, Kicsi saw Ilona’s dress laid out on her bed. “Mother says you’re to wear that to the wedding,” said Ilona when she returned from her bath. She started to dress.

“I hate it,” said Kicsi. “You’re too fat. All your dresses are too loose on me.”

“I am not too fat,” said Ilona, standing by the mirror and breathing out.

“Why don’t I ever get my own dresses?” said Kicsi, but it was an old complaint, and the family had learned to ignore it years ago as they had learned to ignore the background noise of the printing presses. She walked out the door toward the bathroom, trailing the dress behind her.

Later, washed and dressed, Kicsi sat on the bed and arranged and rearranged the cards. She felt uncomfortable in the new dress. The wedding would not start until evening. It was hoped that if the wedding were held under the night sky the children of the bride and groom would be as numerous as the stars in the heavens. Ilona came in the room as Kicsi was staring at the back of a card, willing it to reveal itself to her. Kicsi grabbed for the cards, but it was too late—Ilona had seen them already.

“Whatever are those?” Ilona said.

“Here,” Kicsi said, holding the deck out to her clumsily. “Pick a card. Please.”

“Why should I?”

“Don’t ask questions, just do it.” Kicsi felt an urgency sharp as hunger well up within her. “Please.”

“A card. All right.” Ilona took a card. “Like this?”

“Yes. Don’t let me see it. All right.”

“Now what?”

“Now I tell you what card you took.”

“Do I get to look at it?”

“Well, of course,” said Kicsi. “How else am I going to read your mind?”

“Read my—Oh.” Ilona glanced at the card. “All right.”

“All right,” said Kicsi. “It’s—ten of hearts?”

“No.”

“No? Wait, let me do it one more time. It’s—Is it—”

“This is stupid,” said Ilona. The card fluttered to the floor like a wounded white bird. “Really. I think you’d have better things to do with your time. We’re leaving soon.” She left the room.

Kicsi reached slowly for the card. She remembered a time when she could tell Ilona everything, when they had stayed up talking and giggling until Sarah had had to come and tell them to go to sleep. Now she wondered what had happened, when she had stopped talking to her sister. Perhaps it had been when Vörös came. She felt for pockets for the cards, found none, and started downstairs.

It was dark when the family arrived at the courtyard of the synagogue. The clouds had gone, and the stars in the sky were as fiery as the eyes of angels. Several people carried candles and helped the guests to their places, the men to one side and the women to the other. They heard murmurs as they passed—surprise that the rabbi had invited Imre and his family. Kicsi found Erzsébet, and they stood together, not talking, as the ceremony started.

Three violinists started to play. The rabbi’s wife and daughter began to walk to the wedding canopy. The daughter wore a long white gown. She moved carefully through the crowd; she could not see through her heavy veil.

Kicsi soon lost sight of them. She moved through the crowd until she could see the canopy. It was supported by four poles and made of white silk and elaborately embroidered with flowers and birds.

The groom and his parents followed the bride to the canopy. The groom and bride had never met. Years ago, and following months of negotiations, the rabbi had agreed to betroth his daughter to the son of a family from a nearby town. The two now stood beneath the canopy, before a small table covered with a white cloth. On the table stood a decanter of wine, two goblets, and a delicate glass wrapped in white linen.

The music stopped and the rabbi began to speak. Kicsi grew bored, shifting from one foot to the other. The bride and groom drank wine from the goblets, the bride lifting her veil to reach the cup. As the groom placed the ring on the bride’s finger, a woman nearby began to cry softly.

Kicsi looked around. A short round woman was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. Her soft blond wig had been pushed to one side. She took a deep breath, held it, and began, helplessly, to cry again.

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.