8

Vörös sat with his head in his hand, looking at the wall, saying nothing. Finally Kicsi said, “He can’t really kill you, can he?”

Vörös turned to her and laughed. “Why do you say that? Certainly he can.”

“But—” She remembered another time, long ago, when the rabbi had threatened to kill Vörös. She remembered her fear then, the horrible certainty that Vörös would die. She did not feel afraid now. Perhaps, she thought, too many people had died. Perhaps she would never be afraid of death again. “But he said he would kill you if he saw you in the village.”

“He said that he would kill me if his daughter was harmed.”

“Oh. But he can’t really believe—I mean, it wasn’t you that—”

“No,” said Vörös. “But he thinks it was. His mind has been twisted by the war, and by all the deaths. His village, his congregation, is gone. I’m afraid he sees all his enemies as equals. I am the same as the Germans who killed his daughter, in his eyes.”

“Oh,” Kicsi said again. “But he can’t really harm you, can he? Last time, when he tried, you escaped, remember? Your magic is stronger than his.”

“Kicsi,” said Vörös, “let me tell you something. His magic is stronger than mine and always has been. Last time, when I escaped, it was by luck, and with the aid of a friend.” He looked at the far wall again and said nothing for a long time.

“Well,” said Kicsi, “what will happen now? Are we going to die?”

“We may,” said Vörös. “I am very weary. I have worked the last three years without stopping. I will need my pack to continue.”

“Your pack,” said Kicsi. “I have it. I hid it in the walls—”

“I know,” said Vörös. “I have been back once to find it, but the house was filled with soldiers.”

“Soldiers? In our house?”

“Yes. It was then that I knew that you and your family had been taken. I would have come back sooner but I had pressing errands …”

“Soldiers,” said Kicsi. “In our house. Who lives there now, I wonder?”

“I would like to find out. If I can get back my pack I might be able to stand against the rabbi. Will you come with me, back to your village? It will be painful for you, I know.”

“I have nowhere else to go,” said Kicsi. “I may as well come with you. What do we do now? Do you snap your fingers and we return to the village?”

“Kicsi,” said Vörös. “You have not been listening to me. I have no magic left. We must walk, and ride the trains.”

“No magic?” said Kicsi. “But—what about the trip we just took? Around the world, and to Jerusalem—”

“That was illusion. None of it was real. I put on a show for you, to see if you would come alive again. You did not.” Suddenly Vörös sounded very old. “But illusion will never work against the rabbi. He is too clever for that. So. Do you still want to come with me? I have nothing else to offer you. Very possibly, it will be dangerous.”

“I will come,” Kicsi said. “I am not afraid of death anymore.”

She spent the next few days resting and gathering strength. Vörös went into the town several times for food and supplies. Gradually she was able to eat a whole meal, to walk about the camp. Life seemed unreal without the barking of dogs and the roaring of the furnaces. She felt that she had seen beneath the mask of the world, and she could not quite believe in that mask again.

One day after Vörös came back from the town he said, “It has been eighteen days since I first came to this camp. Eighteen is the number of chai, the Hebrew word for life. It would be good to leave now. Do you think you are ready?”

“Yes.”

Vörös looked at her carefully. “Do not be so willing to throw your life away. The rabbi is after us, as I thought. If you see anything at all unusual, I want you to tell me. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she said again.

Vörös shrugged. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They left the camp quickly, without looking back, and began to walk along the road to the train station. The road was hot and dusty and they rested often. Occasionally they passed soldiers on leave or refugees traveling in groups carrying all their possessions between them. No one stopped to look at them, the tall man in the long black coat and the pale young woman in the new town-bought dress and shoes.

Kicsi thought that none of it could be real—not the people, or the well-kept houses, or the trees and shrubs flowering by the roadside. Sometimes, when she passed a soldier, she marveled that there could be anyone so healthy left in the world. Sometimes she would finger the cloth of her dress, wondering at its newness. She and Vörös did not speak.

The train station was small and very crowded. Soldiers were allowed on the trains first, and several trains passed before Kicsi and Vörös found spaces. As they climbed on board Vörös said, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” said Kicsi.

“Why didn’t you say something to me?”

“I don’t know.”

They sat down next to a soldier. As the train started, Vörös asked him if he could spare some food. He rummaged in his pack and found some chocolate. “Where are you people going?” the soldier asked. Kicsi looked out the window.

Vörös gave him the name of Kicsi’s village.

“I’ve heard of it,” the soldier said, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement. “I talked to someone who was in the fighting there, if it’s the place I’m thinking of. A strange town. Odd things happening there, especially at night.”

Vörös leaned forward. “What things?” he said.

“I can’t remember. He was glad to leave—I can remember that.” The soldier looked at Vörös with a new curiosity. “Why do you want to go there?”

“I left something of mine there,” Vörös said. “Before the war. I’d like to see if it’s still there.”

“It’d better be something important,” said the soldier. “You wouldn’t catch me going to that town. I still remember the way this fellow looked. And what he said—that the lamps aren’t lit at night. And something about—about wolves.…” He looked at Vörös as if asking him a question.

Vörös shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

The train stopped nearly an hour later. “Come,” Vörös said to Kicsi. “We change trains here.” He nodded to the soldier as they left the train.

Another train was pulling out of the station as they descended. A voice over the public address system called out destinations, arrivals, train numbers. Vörös took Kicsi’s hand and led her to a row of benches. “Sit there for a minute,” he said. “I have to see about tickets.”

She sat on the hard wooden bench and looked around her. The station was not out in the open like the last one, but enclosed inside a large building. Voices and the sounds of trains starting and stopping echoed off the distant walls and ceiling. People walked by her, talking in half a dozen languages, hurrying to catch their trains.

Vörös came back. “Our train leaves in another hour,” he said. “We won’t have any problems getting on. Everyone wants to go west, and not east.” Suddenly he stopped and stood up.

“It is them, it is!” Kicsi heard someone say. People were running toward them, hugging Kicsi, holding her as though afraid to let her go. Someone was crying.

Kicsi stepped back. Tibor and Ilona stood before her. She felt confused. Would the dead start coming to life now? Or was this another illusion? “Hello,” she said slowly.

“Kicsi!” said Ilona. “Are you all right? How are you? Where have you been?”

“I—I’m fine,” said Kicsi. She backed away. There were too many people around her; she was not used to talking.

“Vörös, what’s wrong with her?” said Tibor. “Doesn’t she recognize us?”

“She recognizes you,” said Vörös. “Come, we’re very hungry. Let’s find some food, and I’ll tell you about it.”

They made their way to a small market near the station. “We met someone who said he had seen you at the camp after you were liberated,” Ilona said to Kicsi as Vörös picked out fruit, cheese, bread, “so we knew you were still alive. Tibor and I met at a Red Cross station—we had been in the same camp for a while but had never seen each other. We decided we had to find you. We’ve been in the station two days, trying to get to where the man said he saw you. There just aren’t any tickets. We slept on the benches—that’s why our clothes are so dirty.” Ilona had stopped crying. She took a deep breath and went on. “The Red Cross says—they say everyone else died. In the family, I mean. The Red Cross has lists, you know.” She stopped and looked at Kicsi carefully. “Are you all right?”

They sat down by the station and began to eat. “I’m all right,” said Kicsi. “A little tired.”

“Did you know someone named Aladár?” said Vörös. “She thinks he is dead.”

“Ali,” said Ilona. “Yes, he is. We just found out. What—what can we do for her?”

“I don’t know,” said Vörös, biting into an apple. “What did you have in mind when you searched for her?”

“We—Tibor and I—we were going to go to a Displaced Persons camp. And then, well, they send people away, to different countries. America, Canada. I don’t know. It sounded good to us. Do you think she would like to come with us?”

“I don’t know,” said Vörös. “Why not ask her?”

“Oh—oh, of course,” said Ilona. “I don’t know why—Kicsi, what do you think? Do you think you would like to come with us?”

“No,” said Kicsi.

“No?” said Tibor. “But why not? Where are you going?”

“Back to the village,” said Kicsi. “With Vörös.”

“Kicsi, that was before you had somewhere else to go,” said Vörös.

“Back to the village?” said Ilona, interrupting. “But why?”

“I have to go with Vörös,” said Kicsi. “He has something to do there.”

“No, you are not coming with me,” said Vörös. “I only took you with me because you had no place else to go. It’s too dangerous. You are going with your family.”

“No,” said Kicsi. “I am not.”

“Why—why do you want to go with him?” Ilona asked, but Kicsi did not look up from her food.

Later Vörös turned to Ilona and said softly, “It will be a very dangerous journey. She thinks she will die if she goes. She does not think it is fair that Aladár should die and she should live. I think she wants to do something heroic, like Aladár.”

“Oh,” said Ilona. “Well, she’s not going with you. She’s coming with us.”

“I would hope so,” said Vörös. “But she is very stubborn. If she goes with you she may find some way to kill herself. Perhaps I should take her with me, as I originally planned. I will try to keep her safe.”

“If she goes with you,” said Ilona, “then I am coming too.”

“Ilona,” said Vörös. “You don’t know what you are saying. Someone is trying to kill me. He will kill you too, if you get in his way. And you will only make it more dangerous for me, if you come along. I will be responsible for your safety as well as for Kicsi’s.”

“We’re the last of the family,” said Ilona. “We’re responsible for each other. And—well—you don’t know what it’s like, being alone, thinking you’re the last one alive of all your family.” Vörös said nothing. “I can’t leave my sister now that I’ve found her. I’m coming along. It’s settled.”

“What’s settled?” said Tibor.

“I’m going back to the village with Vörös and Kicsi,” said Ilona. She looked at her sister. Kicsi did not seem to have heard anything.

“This is crazy!” said Tibor. “You can’t be serious. Vörös said that it would be dangerous, isn’t that right?” Vörös nodded slightly. “This is insane. We are the only ones left of our family and you want to get yourselves killed.”

“Listen to him, Ilona,” said Vörös. “Please.”

“And what if something happens to Kicsi when I’m gone?” said Ilona.

“All right,” said Tibor. “All right. I can’t believe that you would willingly go into danger like this, but I am part of the family too. I’ll have to go with you.”

“Listen to me, all of you,” said Vörös. His voice was very quiet. “A man is following me. He is trying to kill me. I have to get back to the village without him seeing me. How safe do you think I’d be traveling with a group of young people who seem to think that this whole thing is a family picnic?”

“But that’s just it,” said Ilona. “He probably thinks you’re traveling alone. He’ll never think to look for you in a group of people.”

Vörös laughed suddenly. “You know, you might be right. My only hope lies in doing something he would not expect.”

“Then we can come?” said Ilona.

“I don’t know. I can’t very well throw you off the train. I might have known you’d be as stubborn as your sister.” Then he became serious. “But listen to me. I wasn’t joking about the danger. You will see things—well, things you will not understand. Are you still willing to come along?”

“Yes,” said Ilona, and Tibor shrugged.

“I have no choice, do I?” he said finally.

“All right, then,” said Vörös. “Let’s find a place to stay for the night.”

They found lodgings at a small place near the station. Ilona and Kicsi took the bed and Tibor stretched out on the floor. Vörös leaned against the wall near the door.

Kicsi did not sleep well. Several times during the night she was startled awake by a dream or a noise. Each time she woke she saw Vörös sitting by the door, his eyes open. Once she thought she heard wolves howling in the distance. Vörös nodded at her, quietly, and she turned over and went to sleep.

“I don’t like it,” Vörös said in the morning. “I think he’s found us.”

“He’s here?” said Tibor. “What can we do?”

“We can leave as quickly as possible,” said Vörös.

After breakfast they boarded the train. At first Ilona and Tibor watched silently as the miles of fields and forests passed by on either side of them, or talked in low voices among themselves, or shared a loaf of bread between them. Once Ilona turned to Kicsi and said, “Are you looking forward to going back to the village?”

“I don’t know,” said Kicsi.

Later Ilona said to her, “Was it bad where you were?”

“As bad as any other place, I guess,” said Kicsi, and turned away.

After a few hours Tibor stood and began to walk to the end of the car.

“Where are you going?” said Vörös.

“I thought I’d look around a bit,” said Tibor. “See what the other cars are like.”

“No,” said Vörös.

“Why—why not?”

“As long as we travel together I want everyone to stay with me,” said Vörös. “I am responsible for all of us.”

“Oh, but—” said Tibor. “Do you think he’s on the train? I mean, wouldn’t you have seen him get on?”

“Maybe,” said Vörös. “Maybe not.”

“You mean—he might be in disguise?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh,” said Tibor. He sat back down next to Ilona. “I was prepared for danger,” he said to her, “but I don’t know how much more of this boredom I can take.” She laughed.

“Who is this man we’re supposed to avoid, anyway?” said Tibor. “And what has Vörös done to him that he wants to kill him?”

“I don’t know,” said Ilona. “I think Kicsi knows, though. Those two have always had their secrets. But I wouldn’t try asking her.”

“No.”

In the evening they came to another small town. They left the train and walked through the town, coming finally to a narrow side street and a small inn serving dinner. They were greeted at the door by a small fat man, a Czech.

“Well, what can I do for you?” said the man. “Food and then a room, is that it, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Vörös.

“Very good, very good,” said the man, hurrying to the table to seat Kicsi and Ilona. “Just sit over here and I’ll be right back.”

“Vörös,” Tibor said as he sat down. “How much longer before we get to the village?”

“That depends,” said Vörös. “I think there’s a stretch of railway around here that’s been bombed, and if it is we’ll have to take a longer way. We may even have to walk for a few miles.”

“And if the railways have been fixed?”

“If the railways have been fixed, and if the man who is hunting me does not find me, we will be in the village in a few days.”

“Good,” said Tibor. “What’s it like now, the village?”

“Changed,” said Vörös. “Like every other town in Europe.” The fat man came back and poured each of them a glass of wine. Vörös took a sip and went on. “There are parts of the village you would not recognize. And there are places that have been changed only slightly. Those will be the hardest for you to bear, I think.”

“What do you mean?” said Ilona. “Which places?”

But Vörös was not listening. His eyes had narrowed and he was watching carefully some people who had just come through the door.

Tibor and Ilona looked at the door. Imre and Sarah stood there, their arms outstretched. Imre held his left arm awkwardly, as he had always done.

“Mother!” said Ilona joyfully. She and Tibor stood, pushing back their chairs.

“No!” said Vörös. He waited a moment, then said a short word sharp as a blade and threw his wineglass at the two by the door. The glass passed through them and shattered against the wall. Someone screamed. Wine trickled slowly to the floor. Imre and Sarah wavered, then vanished as slowly as smoke.

The other patrons turned to look at Vörös, or at the wineglass, or to talk loudly among themselves. The small fat man hurried toward Vörös. “I’m sorry,” said Vörös. “I will pay for the damages. Do you need help cleaning up?”

“I don’t—What happened? Who were those people? I thought—I thought I saw them disappear …”

Vörös shrugged and said nothing.

“Why did you have to throw your glass at them?” the man said.

Ilona began to cry. She cried as she had always done, with her hands over her mouth instead of her eyes, as though it was her mouth that would give her away. “I didn’t know,” she said finally. The fat man looked around the table, shrugged, and went to clear away the broken glass. “I thought—I thought I could survive anything, because—because of what I’d been through. But I didn’t know it would be like this. I know you warned us, but I thought—I don’t know—” She began to cry again. “Who is he? Who do you know that would do—would do—something like that?”

“You know him,” said Vörös. “The rabbi.”

“The rabbi?” said Tibor. He held on to his wineglass to steady his hands. “He wouldn’t—I know him. He taught me my bar mitzvah lesson. And he prayed for my father—” He stopped.

“Try not to think about it,” said Vörös.

Tibor nodded.

“It’s true, then,” said Ilona. “You can work magic. And so can the rabbi. I always thought that Kicsi was imagining things …” She looked at her sister, who sat staring straight ahead as though nothing had happened. “But why? Why is he after you?”

Vörös told her. “But he knows now that I am traveling with you. He must know or he would not have called up that illusion. I don’t know what he hoped to do. Maybe he just wanted to frighten you away. Maybe he wanted you to follow the illusion and so get to me through you. I don’t know. As I said, he is not in his right mind.”

Ilona let out a shaky breath. “You were right,” she said. “We are a danger to you. Especially now that he knows we are here. I guess—I guess we should go back. Back to the DP camp. What do you think, Tibor?”

“I don’t know,” said Tibor. “I still can’t believe it. That the rabbi … How did he survive the war?”

“In the shape of a wolf,” said Vörös.

“In the shape of—” said Tibor. He laughed softly. “It sounds so reasonable when you say it. I can almost believe it. Did you know he was going to do … what he did?”

“I knew he was going to do something,” said Vörös. “He is a master of illusion. Do you remember when I first saw you, at the train station?” Tibor nodded. “I hesitated before going up to you because I feared that you might be an illusion.”

The fat man brought them trays of hot meat and vegetables. He served them silently. The other patrons had gone back to their dinners.

After a little while Vörös said, “What do you plan to do now?”

“I thought we might—I mean—” Tibor stopped, put his head in his hands. “Ohhhh,” he said, a long whispery sigh that shuddered with every heartbeat. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. What can we do?”

Vörös looked at him carefully. “Tibor,” he said. “Your father was a very wise man. But you cannot acquire his wisdom by pretending to have it already.”

Tibor nodded slowly. “Can I think about it?” he said. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

The fat man came to their table and began to clear it away. Without looking at them he said, “You cannot stay here tonight. I’m sorry. The other patrons think that you’re—well, that you’re sorcerers.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Tibor. “Do we look like sorcerers to you?” He made a gesture that took in everyone at the table, daring the fat man to look at Kicsi, who was staring blindly in front of her, at Ilona, her eyes still red from crying, at Vörös.

“Tibor,” said Vörös gently. Then to the fat man he said, “That’s all right. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man. He bowed as he took the dishes away.

“Where will we go?” said Ilona. “It’s too late to find another place—”

“Where?” said Vörös. “To the forest.”

They finished the wine and left the lighted inn. The road was very dark and the stars were cold and far away, comfortless. Kicsi felt small and lost, like a ghost walking among ghosts. Somewhere, she knew, a fifth ghost waited without pity, waited to kill them all. It did not seem important.

They entered the forest one at a time, walking slowly. Vörös gathered together some logs and twigs and started a fire. They arranged themselves in front of it and went to sleep.

That night the howling of wolves was closer than before. Kicsi woke once to see Vörös sitting in front of the fire, feeding it twigs and bits of leaves. Tiny sparks cracked out of the fire’s heart and reflected in his eyes, gold within blue. She lay down and went back to sleep.

They woke the next morning and stretched, easing the soreness out of their joints. Tibor walked over to Vörös.

“I’ve talked it over with Ilona,” Tibor said. “We’ve decided—well, we want to go back. To the DP camp in Italy. We’re no good to you here. We’d like Kicsi to come with us, of course, but we don’t think she would.”

“No,” said Vörös. “She wouldn’t.” They both looked at Kicsi, who sat staring into the dying fire. The forest was very quiet.

“Well,” said Tibor. “You’ll take care of her, won’t you? And when this whole thing is over, will you bring her back to us?”

“I’ll try,” said Vörös.

“You know,” said Tibor, “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking—they weren’t dreams, they were very real—I kept seeing the way our parents looked. And I kept wondering what he would try to do next. What if the next illusion is—is Aladár?”

“I know,” said Vörös. “I’ve thought of that myself. I don’t know.”

They left the forest and came, tired and hungry, to the train station. Vörös bought a few loaves of bread for the trip and gave one each to Ilona and Tibor. People who had been at the inn the night before avoided them, and once they heard the word sorcerer.

“Good-bye,” said Ilona. She embraced Kicsi and whispered to her, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

“I’m sure,” said Kicsi.

“Be careful,” said Ilona. She stepped back and smoothed her sister’s hair. “Come back to us.”

Kicsi said nothing.

“Good-bye,” said Tibor, and they turned to board their train.

The train Vörös and Kicsi were to take came soon afterward. They boarded and sat down, not speaking. The train pulled away from the station. Vörös, sitting near the window, watched the fields of grain pass.

Suddenly he turned to Kicsi. “I would like to tell you a story,” he said. “Would you like to hear it?”

Kicsi shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“All right,” said Vörös. “This time it will be a true story. You will know that it is true because you are in it—part of it. It is the story of a part of my life. You know—I have told you—that it is dangerous for me to speak of myself, that words are weapons and it is safest to say nothing at all. But I feel I must tell you this—that I must explain.”

Kicsi nodded once, slightly.

“The story starts before I met you and your family. You see, it was given to me to see the future—not all the future, but that part of it that would happen during the war. Night and day I saw before me smoke and furnaces and barbed wire. Night and day I heard the cries of those who were beaten and starved and tortured. I knew that I was given this sight so that I could help as many as I could. But, you see, no one else saw the things I did. No one else had my urgency. And I did not know when these things would take place—if they were in the past or in the future or only in my imagination. I think I went a little crazy, like your rabbi is now. ‘You must leave!’ I said to everyone I met. ‘Death is coming!’ And they all looked at me as though I had lost my wits. They could not see death. They did not understand why I acted the way I did.

“Anyway, that’s why I began to make mistakes. The first was when I talked of death at the wedding of the rabbi’s daughter. When that woman began to cry I knew that her son was dead. I could see him as the flames took him, could see him clearer than I could see the wedding canopy in front of me. But I should not have said so at the wedding. I was driven by what I saw.

“I made my second mistake shortly after that, in the forest. I should not have shown the rabbi the word I had written on the golem’s forehead. Had I been thinking clearly I would have known that. But I saw the man with no teeth in front of me, and I could not tell when he would come. I only knew that the village must be protected from him.”

Vörös paused for a moment, then continued. “For this mistake I paid with the life of one of my closest friends. He was a magician too, Akan was. We had traveled much together, studying ancient tapestries and pieces of parchment, looking in far-off cities for books of old spells, buying dusty amulets in remote bazaars. He was a subtle magician, and his knowledge was great. I should be dead by now, but for him.”

“I know what you mean,” said Kicsi. “There must have been something that I could have done to save Ali. There must have been some way that I could have died in his place.”

“No, that is not what I mean,” said Vörös. His voice cut into her skin, and she flinched. “I mean that the past is over, and to sit and talk about what might have happened is useless. Less than useless. A man is dead because of what I did—I must accept that and go on.”

“No,” said Kicsi. “I don’t think I’ll ever accept Ali’s death. Ali’s and all the rest of them. Why am I alive when they are dead? I’m not worthy. I’m not as good as Ali was, or my mother, or—or anyone that died.”

Vörös looked out of the window for a long time. Then he said, “You still want to die, don’t you?”

Kicsi said nothing.

“I won’t let you die, you know,” said Vörös. “The sages say that he who saves a life, it is as though he saved the entire world. How can you throw away your life, your world?”

Kicsi turned to look at him. “I can,” she said quietly. They said nothing else for the rest of the trip.

The next few days passed very much like that one. Lulled by the train’s rhythm, they slept or stared out the window, saying nothing. At night they would find lodgings, or buy food and continue on to the next station. The bombed stretch of track had been repaired, and they passed it without incident.

One day Kicsi turned from the window and saw at the end of the car a ripple of color, silver and black. “Oh,” she said, without meaning to, and stood to see where it had gone.

“What is it, Kicsi?” said Vörös.

“I thought I saw—well, I can’t see it anymore. I must have imagined it.” She sat down.

“What did you think you saw?”

“Some colors—silver, mostly. Like a piece of silk. I saw a wolf in a zoo once, in Budapest, that was that color.”

“Just stay there,” said Vörös. “Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He walked to the end of the car and looked around carefully. After a while he came back.

“Did you see anything?” said Kicsi.

“No,” said Vörös. “It worries me. Tell me again what you saw.”

“I—I’m not really sure. It could have been a wolf’s tail. But I could have imagined it. I think I was almost asleep.”

“I don’t think you imagined it,” Vörös said.

“Do you think it was the rabbi?”

“Yes,” said Vörös. “I do.” He looked around the car, frowning slightly. Kicsi shrugged. If the rabbi had followed them, there was nothing she could do. She leaned back and went to sleep.

She woke slowly. Someone was saying something over and over, in a tone of great urgency. “Papers,” he said. “Can I see your papers please?”

She opened her eyes, stretched. A young man in uniform stood before them. “We are crossing the border now,” he said. “Can I see your papers please?”

“Of course,” said Vörös, patting the pockets of his coat. Kicsi relaxed. She had seen him work this slight bit of magic before, at the last border.

“Papers,” the man said again. “Can I see your papers please?” He smiled. He had no teeth.

Kicsi moved back. The man’s smile grew wider. Everything real and solid fell away into the growing darkness of his mouth. The windows of the train turned black and melted toward each other, eating away the light. Over the noise of the train she heard a roaring, crackling sound, like the last fire of the world.

Vörös shouted words into the din. The walls of the train returned for a moment, then flickered out. Someone else was shouting too, but he stood in the darkness and Kicsi could not hear him. Then both voices were drowned in noise. The darkness grew quickly, like a fire spreading through a dry forest.

Vörös shouted again. The train built itself around them again, gray and unreal. Pieces of the world outside the windows broke through the blackness—a tree, a hill, patches of blue sky. Then the other voice spoke, slow and sure. Darkness crept out of the corners of the train, slower this time, but without stopping. A web of cracks ran from shadow to shadow and widened. A rift appeared at their feet.

Kicsi no longer felt frightened. She knew where she was now. This was the real world that lurked beneath the other one like a skull beneath skin, the world of death. She sat still, waiting for the darkness to take her. Beside her, though she could no longer see him, she heard Vörös speaking slowly, with effort.

The cracks began to close. Something about the secret darkness called to her and she stood up. The floor buckled beneath her. She reached for a rail to hold on to, but the darkness took it first and she jerked her hand away. A small crack opened at her feet and she looked down into it. It widened suddenly as though reaching for her. She prepared to jump.

“No!” said Vörös. “It’s me you want, not her! I can escape your illusion, but she can’t!”

The other voice laughed. “I know. It was only a warning. Here, I take back my illusion.”

The train returned. Around them people were reading, sleeping, talking to each other as though nothing had happened. At the end of the car a man was asking two elderly women for their papers. He had white hair and a bushy mustache.

Kicsi watched the old man warily as he came up to them and asked for their papers. Vörös patted his pockets and the pieces of paper formed beneath his hands, papers that identified them as an importer from Czechoslovakia and his daughter. The old man nodded and continued down the car.

After he had gone Kicsi began to tremble. She realized then that she had been waiting for another illusion like the last one, for another chance at death. She could not sit still. Thoughts chased themselves around and around inside her head. She reached for a newspaper that someone had left behind, but it was in a language she did not understand. The hours passed slowly.

Then she heard someone shout the name of her village, and shout it again, as if the crier wanted to make sure that there had been no mistake. She had known the village was near the border, but she had not realized that they would be coming to it soon. A few people around her stood and reached for their suitcases.

It was evening when the train pulled into the station. At first, as they disembarked, Kicsi thought that nothing was different. But as they walked into the center of the town she could see the small changes. The graveyard was overgrown with weeds, the windows in the synagogue and in some of the houses were smashed. Everything looked older, shabbier.

She was not prepared for the people. At every corner she thought she saw someone she knew—István or Lászó or Sholom. But as she came up to them they always turned into someone else, strangers. Everyone she had known was gone. She felt a terrible weariness.

She sat down on a corner bench. Soldiers were everywhere, laughing, talking, stepping out of houses she had once known. A duck walked down the main street; no one had stayed to care for it. She watched it without curiosity. She was beyond surprises.

Vörös, sitting next to her, said softly, “What do you think?”

She said nothing.

“Kicsi?” said Vörös.

“Go away,” Kicsi said.

“What?” said Vörös.

“You heard me. I said go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know why. You know everything, don’t you? All I want to do is die. That’s all. And you won’t even let me do that.”

“Are you angry because of what happened this afternoon?”

She turned to him suddenly. “Of course I’m angry! It would have been so easy. I could have jumped, and it would have been all over. It would have been so peaceful then.”

“I couldn’t let you die.”

“‘I couldn’t let you die,’” she said, mimicking him. “Tell me, do you ever say anything else? And I suppose you expect me to be grateful. You expect me to thank you.”

“I don’t,” said Vörös, but she did not hear him.

“You know,” she said, “when I was younger I idolized you. You know that, of course. Now I can’t understand why. You don’t mean anything to me anymore. When I woke up, in the camp, I didn’t even remember who you were.”

“That isn’t true,” said Vörös quietly.

“What do you mean, it isn’t true? I didn’t recognize you. I remember that.”

“You didn’t recognize me the second time you saw me,” said Vörös. “But you knew quite well who I was the first time.”

“The—the first time?”

“When you were lying by the road. After they had given up hope. You looked at me and told me who I was.”

“I did?” She frowned. “Something—I remember something now. I was feverish, and I said something silly. I said—wait—” She thought a minute. “I didn’t recognize you at all. I said you were a stranger.”

“That’s right,” said Vörös. He paused, as if he waited for something from her.

And then she knew. He was the stranger, the exile, the one who traveled without a home. She had not known what she asked when she had asked long ago to be taken with him. She had not known how much he had envied her and her family as they sat to dinner, or went to the synagogue, or did a hundred ordinary daily tasks. The recent pain she carried with her—the pain of living without a home, without a family—he had carried for a long time, maybe for all of his life. She felt herself opening to him like a flower—the beginning of spring after a long winter. But she could say only, “I spoke your name there, by the side of the road. Your Hebrew name is Gershon—the stranger.”

Vörös nodded.

Close—very close—a wolf howled.