5

A small fine rain had started the morning of Thursday, market day, and had not let up by afternoon. Sarah looked out the windows and stood watching for a moment, then she said, “Let’s go, Kicsi. I don’t think the rain will keep anyone away.”

Sarah picked up her coat and purse. Kicsi put away her schoolbooks and followed Sarah out the door and down toward the crossroads, where the market was set up.

“Now, don’t forget—we’re having company tomorrow. I’ll have to get a large chicken, and—let me see—vegetables—”

Kicsi said nothing. Sarah glanced at her, worried. Kicsi seemed to act much as she always had. She was very often loud and forceful just to make herself heard over the other three children. Sometimes Sarah would hear her say wildly untrue things, and she would have to remind herself that her daughter just wanted to be noticed. Now Sarah sensed that something had happened to Kicsi, that she was troubled and unhappy. More and more Sarah felt that she did not know her daughter at all, and she wondered how much of Kicsi’s unhappiness was because of Vörös. She had talked to Imre, but Imre would only say that Kicsi was growing up. Still, all the while she planned dinner a part of Sarah’s mind was on her daughter.

A large old truck, its once-green paint peeling, shifted noisily into second gear behind them. Sarah and Kicsi moved quickly to the side of the road. The truck rumbled past them, and they followed it to the marketplace.

The driver got out by one of the stalls and opened one of the rusty rear doors. Sarah recognized him as Sholom, the fish peddler. “Hello, Sholom,” she said. “What’s new?”

He shrugged, lifting one of the heavy crates out of the truck. “Nothing new.” He set the crate down by his stall and wiped the rain from his eyes. “Rain’s driven everyone away,” he said.

“And Jancsi? How’s your son?”

Sholom shrugged again. “The same. Me, I sometimes think, if he dies, it will be God’s will. But my wife—she’s frantic. She’s been to see the rabbi every day this week.”

“What does the rabbi say?” said Sarah. Kicsi looked up.

“Nothing. What can he say? He prays for him.”

Sarah sighed. “It’s a terrible thing,” she said. “Well, we’ve got to get going. Come on, Kicsi.”

They moved through the marketplace, stopping to chat and to buy a chicken, eggs, some fresh vegetables. The rain was ending as they passed Sholom’s stall on their way home. Sholom’s wife stood there. “Hello, Perl,” said Sarah.

“Hello,” said Perl. She fidgeted, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. She turned to her husband. “I’ve been to see the rabbi again,” she said.

“Well,” said Sholom. “What does he say?”

“I don’t know,” said Perl. “He seems—I don’t know. Unwilling to talk to me. As though he’s thinking of something else.”

“Ah,” said Sholom. “Thinking of his daughter, I’ll bet.”

“His daughter?” said Perl.

“You remember, at the wedding. That traveling man, the redhead. He said something—I don’t remember what. The rabbi thinks he’s cursed his daughter.”

“Vörös,” said Perl. Her fingers stilled. She stood silently for a moment. “He’s a magician, isn’t he?” She turned to Sarah. “You knew him, didn’t you? He stayed at your house.”

Without thinking, Kicsi put her hand to the star she wore under her dress. Perl’s eyes moved to her, quick as lightning. “What’s that?” she said. “He gave you something? What is it?”

“Show her, Kicsi,” said Sarah. “Maybe your charm can help poor Jancsi.”

Kicsi began to draw out her necklace. She was curiously unwilling. “A charm?” said Perl. “Let me see.”

Kicsi held the star in her hand. It shone with a pale silver light. “Let me see it,” said Perl. She held out her hand impatiently.

“It’s just a necklace,” said Kicsi. “It isn’t magic. It can’t help you.” She let the star fall against her dress.

“Kicsi!” said Sarah. “Don’t be selfish. Show her the charm. How can you refuse to help them?”

“It’s mine,” said Kicsi. “Vörös gave it to me.” Where is he? she wondered, not for the first time. Is he in danger while I stay here, safe and among friends?

Perl reached for the necklace, held it in her hand. “Please!” she said. Without realizing it she began to pull the star toward her. The chain cut deep into Kicsi’s neck. “You have to help us.”

“Wait a minute—you’re hurting me—” said Kicsi.

“Perl, stop that!” said Sholom. “I’m sure she’ll let you borrow the necklace. You have to explain to her—” He could not go on.

“Their son is very sick, Kicsi,” said Sarah. “We’re afraid that—God forbid—he might die.”

“All—all right,” said Kicsi finally. “But you can’t take the necklace. I’ll have to be there when you use it.”

“Thank you,” said Perl softly. She dropped her hand.

“But anyway, it won’t work,” said Kicsi. “It’s just a necklace.”

“Kicsi!” said Sarah. “Don’t say such things. You don’t know.”

“Be at our house tomorrow, after school,” said Perl. “Please.”

“We will,” said Sarah. She embraced Perl awkwardly, holding bags full of food.

They walked along the gravel roads toward home. “Kicsi!” someone called. Kicsi turned. It was Erzsébet, with her mother and someone she did not know.

Sarah and Kicsi slowed. “Hello,” said Erzsébet. “This is my cousin, Aladár.” She turned to the young man beside her. “Ali, this is my best friend, Kicsi.”

“Hello,” said Aladár. His voice was pleasant. “What just happened with you and that woman?” He laughed. “She looked like she wanted your head.”

Kicsi laughed. “She almost did.”

“Ali’s going to go to college soon,” said Erzsébet. “Tell her about it, Ali. What you told me.”

Aladár looked at Kicsi, and, quite suddenly, they both decided not to answer Erzsébet.

“She wanted my necklace,” said Kicsi.

“Your necklace?”

“Yes,” said Kicsi. “See?” She showed him the star. In the afternoon shadows it shone like a seashell.

“Where did you get that?” said Aladár.

“From Vörös.”

“The magician?” said Aladár. Erzsébet shrugged and moved ahead to join her mother and Sarah. Aladár and Kicsi fell behind. “Erzsi told me.”

“About Vörös?” Aladár nodded. “They thought it was a magic charm. They wanted to use it to cure their son, Jancsi. He’s very sick. But I don’t think it’s a charm at all. I didn’t want to give it to them. I thought I was just being selfish—that’s what my mother thought, too—but now I don’t think so. I think I knew, somehow, that my necklace won’t help. I don’t want to raise their hopes. Do you know what I mean?”

Aladár nodded. “But you could have been more tactful.”

“I know. I have problems with tact. Everyone tells me. I don’t know what I could have done though.”

“Did you know Vörös?”

“I guess so. As much as anyone here knew him.”

“Were you there—at the wedding, I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Did you—Say—” He broke off, became thoughtful. Then he said, “Did he teach you anything? You know—sorcery?”

“He showed me how to make a golem once.”

“A golem! How?”

She stopped. She had not meant to say that. It was her secret, all that was left to her of Vörös except the star. “I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, come on! A golem! Did it really move? How did it work?” His friendly round face shone with curiosity.

“I can’t tell you. I don’t want to.”

“I don’t believe you. You made it all up.”

“No, I didn’t! I just don’t want to tell you. It was between Vörös and me. No one else knows.” Except the rabbi, she thought. “I can’t tell you.”

“Oh,” he said. His brown eyes gleamed. “Well, think about it—”

“Ali!” said Erzsébet. “Ali, we’re home! Come on!”

“Think about it and maybe you can tell me tomorrow. Oh, no.” He stopped, stricken. “No, I leave tomorrow—”

“Ali!”

“Just a minute! Let me think. Passover. I’ll be back for Passover, at Erzsi’s house. Tell me then.”

“I can’t—”

“Good-bye!” he called, and followed Erzsébet. Kicsi watched him go.

The next day Kicsi went with Sarah to Sholom’s house.

“Hello,” said Perl, subdued now by the nearness of death. “Please, please come in.” Sholom stood by the door, smiling shyly. He shrugged. He did not have words for this situation.

“This way,” Perl went on. “Over here. Here’s his room.”

They followed her. János lay on his bed, asleep. His face was furrowed with pain.

“What—what do we do now?” said Kicsi. She was whispering.

“I’m not really sure,” said Perl. “Maybe—maybe take out the necklace and hold it over him.”

Kicsi undid the clasp. With a sudden movement she lifted the sleeping boy’s pillow and placed the star underneath. János moaned softly.

“There. Let him sleep on that overnight,” she said.

“I don’t—I don’t know what to say,” Sholom said suddenly. “Thank you. Thank you very much. You are—I think you are some sort of witch yourself. Look at her eyes,” he said to Sarah. “She has been touched by magic.” He stopped, embarrassed at having said so much. “Do you think—do you think it will work?”

“I don’t know,” said Kicsi. “Gut Shabbos.”

“Gut Shabbos,” said Sholom. They left him looking at the child.

Sarah had invited Erzsébet and her family to the Sabbath dinner. As they sat down, Erzsébet said, “What did you think of my cousin?”

“Aladár?” said Kicsi. “He seemed very nice. He’s going to school now, isn’t he?”

“To college.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen, I think.”

“Well,” said Kicsi. “I’m fourteen.” Suddenly she remembered the rabbi speaking to Vörös: “… and I sense that you are old, older than you look.”

“You are not—you’re thirteen, same as I am.”

“I’m almost fourteen.”

“Oh,” said Erzsébet, laughing. “Almost fourteen.”

They began to laugh and could not stop. “Did you like him?” said Erzsébet.

“Yes,” said Kicsi. She hoped Erzsébet would say more about him. It was much easier for her to talk about Aladár than it was to talk about Vörös. She wondered how old Vörös really was and why she had never told anyone about him and the rabbi. Magicians, she decided, deal too much in secrecy and silence. She would have no more secrets. “Yes, I like him very much. When will he come back? He said something …”

“Next Passover,” said Erzsébet, eating her chicken. “He’ll be spending Passover with us, because his parents live so far from the college. I think he likes you too.”

The days passed slowly. Kicsi thought of Vörös and the rabbi. She thought of how she would tell Aladár about the golem. She rehearsed the story to herself, often, as she walked to and from school.

The first snow came and with it the news that Magda was going to marry and live with her husband in a nearby village. The wedding was large, and the villagers attended mostly, Kicsi thought, because of the family’s connection with magic. But nothing happened at the wedding—the glass remained unbroken until the groom broke it himself.

Sholom’s son János died in the middle of winter. Kicsi could not say why she went to the funeral, but she felt that she had to. The ground in the graveyard had frozen, and the iron shovels of the grave diggers bent before they broke through. Afterward Sholom came up to her and thanked her, haltingly, for coming. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said, over and over. Silver tears shone in his eyes. “Thank you. You did what you could. It wasn’t your fault.”

Days passed. Houses stood free of the snow, emerging as slowly after the winter as the new leaves on the trees. Rain came and washed the snow down the streets. With the spring came Passover. Kicsi began to watch the roads.

Her first surprise came when he drove up in a car. She knew very few people who owned cars, or drove in them. Some students passing through let him off at Erzsébet’s house, honking the horn loudly. Erzsébet’s family ran outside, gathering around him.

Her second surprise was that he remembered her. “Kicsi!” he said when he saw her standing by the house. She had followed the car to Erzsébet’s house. “Hello! Have you decided to tell me that story yet?” Erzsébet’s family surrounded him, hugging him, taking his luggage. They pulled him into the house.

“Yes!” she called after him as he waved to her. He was laughing, protesting feebly against Erzsébet’s parents. “Tomorrow!”

He was waiting for her in front of Erzsébet’s house the next day. They walked to the forest and she showed him the clay the golem had been made of and the charred wood where the forest had caught fire. Clumps of mushrooms grew where the trees had stood.

“Are you sure—I don’t mean to doubt your sanity, really—but are you sure you saw what you think you did?” said Aladár. “It’s a little hard to believe.”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Kicsi, plucking at the mushrooms. “I still have his knapsack. There wasn’t time for him to take it when he left.”

“His knapsack? So he intends to come back.”

“I hope so,” said Kicsi, standing. “Come on home with me. I’ll show you where I keep it.”

When they reached the house Kicsi led him to the corridor near the pantry. She pulled loose a few bricks and reached inside the wall. “No one knows it’s here,” she said, taking out the sack. The gray cat came alongside them, sniffing at the hole in the wall. “Look.”

Aladár opened the sack, looked carefully at the charms and herbs. His fingers came finally to the small pouch at the bottom. “I wonder what’s in here,” he said.

“Don’t—”

He started to take out the pouch. His face went blank, and very white. He replaced the pouch slowly. “I don’t think I’ll try that again,” he said, trying to laugh.

“No,” said Kicsi.

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“No,” she said. “I can’t take it out either.”

“Well then,” he said. “Maybe everything you’ve told me is true.”

“Of course—” she said, but broke off when she saw his smile.

“I know,” he said.

“It’s funny,” she said. “You’re the first person I’ve told. I didn’t think anyone would believe me, but somehow I knew you would. I knew you wouldn’t laugh.”

“You didn’t want to tell me, either,” said Aladár. “I think you enjoyed keeping your secret.”

“I learned that from Vörös. He was very secretive. Or maybe”—she frowned as a new thought came to her—“maybe I just never knew the right questions to ask. Magicians,” she went on—and felt gratified to see that Aladár’s eyes were wide with interest—“magicians, you know, never say much about themselves. It’s too dangerous.”

“And are you like that? Are you secretive?”

“Nooo,” she said slowly. The cat curled itself up by the knapsack. “No, not usually. I think—somehow—that Vörös bound me to silence.”

“Well, then,” said Aladár. “Tell me about yourself. You know, when Erzsi told me that she had a friend named Little One I expected—I don’t know—I expected you to be very small, maybe a dwarf.” He laughed. “But you’re almost as tall as your sisters.”

“I know. They’ve always called me that, though. I’ve always been the smallest one in the family.”

“Doesn’t it ever bother you?”

“No, not that. That doesn’t bother me. It’s—being the youngest, and having to wear all the old hand-me-downs, and being forgotten, and having my parents call me by someone else’s name …”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Aladár. “I’m an only child.”

“An only—” Kicsi stopped. “I can’t imagine that. It sounds wonderful.”

“Really? And I thought your family was wonderful. There’s always someone around to talk to—”

“Too many people, usually. There’s never any privacy. I’m surprised no one’s interrupted us yet.”

“There’s too much privacy in my family. My parents are very—distant. I can’t talk to them. Finally I decided I just had to go away, go to college.”

“What’s it like, college? What do you study? Do you—”

“Kicsi!” someone called.

“See what I mean?” said Kicsi. She folded the knapsack and put it back in the wall. The cat walked disdainfully away. “There’s always something.”

“Well,” said Aladár. “You’d better go, I guess. I hope—can I see you again tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kicsi. She took a deep breath. No more secrets, she thought. “I like you,” she said.

“I like you too,” said Aladár. “Good-bye.”

But the next day she woke to loud and piercing screams. She heard Imre’s voice in the living room, and then, from the next room, the sounds of Tibor getting dressed.

“What is it?” said Ilona sleepily. She had always been a heavy sleeper. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Kicsi said. “Come on, get dressed. There’s something going on.”

“All right. All right, in a minute. You go on.”

She dressed quickly and followed Imre, Sarah, and Tibor outside. The town was dark and still, but the dawn was coming soon. Soft circles of lamplight fell against the graveled streets. Up ahead Kicsi saw the lamplighter, following the crowd to the synagogue.

“It’s locked,” said someone.

“What’s going on?”

“Get the sexton, he has the keys.”

Through the crowd Kicsi caught sight of Aladár, standing near the synagogue with Erzsébet’s family. She ran to him.

“Does this happen a lot in your village?” Aladár said. “Golems and demons and rabbi’s curses—It’s crazy.” He shook his head. “This doesn’t happen where I come from.” He broke off as the rabbi ran up the street, followed by the sexton. “He runs fast for such an old man, doesn’t he?” Aladár whispered.

“Shhh,” said Kicsi. “It’s just someone locked in the building.” She hoped fiercely that it was, that it wasn’t what she had thought at first. That it wasn’t Vörös, or Vörös’s soul.

The screams from the synagogue were louder now. Like most of the townspeople, Kicsi had not had time to put on heavy clothes and shoes; she stood shivering in the cold as the sexton opened the old synagogue doors.

A man with thin arms and legs and a rounded belly came to the door. A few of the townspeople began to laugh, or to turn away.

“Who’s that?” Aladár whispered.

“That’s the village no-good,” said Kicsi.

“What? Who?”

“Wait a minute,” said Kicsi. “I think he’s trying to tell us something.”

The no-good opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then: “Dead,” he whispered.

“What?” said the sexton impatiently. He held the other man by the arm and pulled him out of the building, then locked the doors. “You shouldn’t have been in there,” he said. “What happened? Did you get locked in?”

“Dead,” the man repeated. “I was in there with them all night, all the dead ones. All of them dead.”

“Who are, uncle?” said someone in the crowd.

“All of them,” said the no-good. “A—a man on a horse. A tall man. And someone with a candle, and someone with a sword. And there was a man, a man with a crown, and—and lights in his eyes. And a woman with water streaming through her hair, and her eyes—no, I won’t say what her eyes were like. But she looked at me, I’ll say that much.” He backed against the doors and nearly collapsed against them. His next words were so low they could barely be heard. “That’s when I started to scream.”

László, an old man, spat on the ground three times. “An omen,” Sholom said, his voice low with fear.

The no-good’s teeth were chattering and he could not say another word. “Come on,” the sexton said, not unkindly. “I’ll take you home. You could do with some food. Let’s go.”

“What do you make of that?” said Imre.

“He’s always been slightly crazy,” said István, Erzsébet’s father. He was a heavyset man with a red face. “I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“But not like this,” said Imre. “Hungry, sometimes, and dirty, yes, but he’s never seen ghosts. Someone with a candle … I wonder what it means.”

The crowd began to break apart. László hurried past. “It’s an omen, that’s what it means,” he said. “A death in the village. Sholom was right.”

István shrugged. “Uncle’s got a good meal and a place to sleep nights,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any more to it than that.”

“You don’t think it was any kind of warning?” said Imre.

“Warning? I don’t think so. The rabbi would know. He—” István looked around. “Strange,” he said. “He was here, wasn’t he? I wonder where he went.”

Ilona joined them, her face flushed with sleep. “What do you think?” she said to Kicsi. “Is he crazy or did he really see—”

“I don’t know,” said Kicsi. “Erzsébet’s father thinks he’s crazy.”

“What about the rabbi?” said Aladár.

“The rabbi? I don’t know. What does he say?”

“He doesn’t,” said Aladár. “He’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” said Ilona. “When?”

“He hasn’t disappeared,” said Kicsi. “He’s just gone home.”

“Probably back to sleep,” said Ilona. “That’s what I’d do. I’ll see you later.” She hurried away.

“He disappeared,” said Aladár again. “I saw him looking inside the synagogue, and when I looked again he was gone.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Kicsi.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t mean anything?” said Aladár. “You know what he can do. And what about the dead in the synagogue? What is he doing?”

“I don’t know.” Kicsi shook her head. “Why would he disappear? It doesn’t make sense.”

“He knows something,” said Aladár. He stopped. They had reached Erzsébet’s house. “We have to follow him. Watch him.”

“We do? Why?”

“You did it before, didn’t you?”

“I—Yes, I did, but that was different. That was because of Vörös. I don’t want to follow the rabbi. He’s—he’s dangerous. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll do it alone, then,” said Aladár. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“No. All right. I’ll do it if you want,” said Kicsi slowly. “I have to go home. I didn’t even have breakfast yet. I’ll see you later.”

“All right,” said Aladár. “Good-bye. And thanks!”

He was waiting for her when she left the house nearly an hour later. “Where do we start?” he asked, coming to meet her. “His house or the synagogue?”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Kicsi. “What if he just went home without anyone noticing? Wouldn’t we look silly?”

“He didn’t,” said Aladár. “You know he didn’t. Kicsi.” He looked at her seriously. “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid?” she said. “Well, yes. I am. You haven’t seen him when he does magic. You think it’s all a game.”

“It’s all right,” said Aladár. “I’m afraid too. Where do you want to start?”

“The—the synagogue, I guess.”

“You’d better show me the way, then.”

They set off together. The day was hot for early spring. Yellow daffodils grew by the side of the road. They saw no one as they passed Sholom’s house and the graveyard, and came at last to the synagogue. Kicsi thought of the time the glass had shattered in the courtyard, thought of Vörös’s warning, and she shivered against the heat.

“It’s locked,” said Aladár, trying the door. “He’s not here.”

They stood a while, looking at the heavy doors.

“Listen,” said Kicsi. “Do you hear anything?”

“What?”

“A—murmuring sound. Like a crowd of people far away.”

“It’s the wind,” Aladár said. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” said Kicsi. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To his house. I don’t think—I don’t think that we’re safe here. That we’re safe alone.”

“All right,” said Aladár.

He followed her along the winding road back to the rabbi’s house. Suddenly she stopped. “Look,” she said.

Through a window at the side of the house they could see the rabbi. He was bent over his desk, looking through a book with a cracked leather binding. Piles of old books were stacked to either side of him. As they watched, he put on his glasses and bent closer to the book.

“You were right,” said Aladár, whispering. “He’s just studying.”

“No,” said Kicsi. “Can you see the books? Careful! What language are they in? Is it—Hebrew?”

“I can’t—wait. Wait a minute.” Aladár moved forward slowly, until he was almost at the windowsill. “I don’t know,” he said, coming back to her. “I think so.”

“He’s learning their names,” said Kicsi.

“What?”

“Shhh. The dead. He has to learn their names to have power over them.”

The rabbi looked up at his desk. The sun outside the window threw the shadow of his glasses onto his face, so that for a moment he looked like a demon with huge staring eyes. Kicsi and Aladár stood still, rapt with fear.

“Come on,” Aladár said urgently, taking her arm. “Let’s go. Pretend we were just passing by.”

Kicsi began to move. She glanced at Aladár, who still held her arm. Had he said that he was frightened too? He didn’t seem to be afraid.

They turned the corner, still walking slowly. “That was close,” said Aladár. “What do you mean? Why does he have to learn their names?”

“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 puffing 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.