AbrakaPOW

by Isaiah Campbell

  She hurried over to grab the flashlight and decided to get better acquainted with the generally terrifying arena she was in. She was fully prepared for rattlesnakes or possums or some other vermin to jump out at her. Because she had a ferret, she was immune to surprise animal attacks.

  She was glad to know she was the only thing alive down there. She did see what appeared to be a rat skeleton over in the corner, but it was unquestionably dead, as most skeletons are. She decided to leave it until she could sneak it into her room without her mother seeing. You never knew when you could use a skeleton in a magic show, and she’d rather have it and not need it.

  It was when she turned her attention to the walls that she realized Major Larousse should probably put a lock on the cellar door. The house they were moving into had been vacant for a little over six months, and it appeared that someone had taken the liberty of stowing away down in the cellar during that time. They had also taken it upon themselves to decorate the walls with either chalk or white paint. If you could call what they did decoration.

  There were the usual profanities strewn about. She was used to those. And there were the strange pictures of people doing strange things. She was, well, not used to those, but she wasn’t shocked by them. When you’ve been raised around GIs, you learn to expect a new level of immaturity from people.

  What she wasn’t expecting, however, were the incantations. Poorly spelled, granted, but she recognized them as lines from occultist rituals, dark spells, phrases used to summon the devil himself. They were scrawled across the concrete, framed by pentagrams, bull horns, and other odd symbols that she barely recognized. Which either meant that their cellar had been the location for some crazy pagan religious festival . . . or it meant something far more unsettling.

  Somebody else out there was interested in magic. And, considering every last piece of that graffiti was almost an exact copy (sans the poor spelling) of Secrets of Dark Magic: How to Weave the Occult into Your Magic Show (a book her grandmother had made her burn when she’d found it on Max’s shelf), she was fairly certain she was in for some steep competition.

  Max cracked her knuckles and hurried back up the stairs.

  Chapter Three

  Max sat in the fluffy green chair outside her dad’s office, a picnic basket filling the seat next to her. She was waiting for her mother, who had just run back home to get salt. They were going to have dinner with Major Larousse. He’d said he could come home for dinner, but Mrs. Larousse refused, because this would not be their first dinner together in the new house. The first dinner would officially take place after every box was unpacked, every shelf in the pantry was fully stocked, and every conversation regarding placement of furniture or location of plugs had been exhausted.

  So they would eat an impromptu picnic in the major’s office. Which was quite alright for Max. She didn’t much enjoy eating dinner alone with her mother, since they’d done their fair share of that while Major Larousse was off in Morocco. Besides, sitting in that house was merely a reminder that her life was a half-baked, wispy version of itself, and that someone else out there was working on their own brand of magic. She’d much rather be biding her time in his office.

  Except he was in a meeting. Which meant she was biding her time in the fluffy green chair in the hall.

  At the far end of the hall, a man in a gray uniform swept the floor, head down, swinging the broom back and forth like a pendulum keeping time in a clock. The gray uniform was drab and unassuming, the activity dull and calming, and all of it together served as a screaming siren that this man was not a GI, but rather a far more sinister character. A Nazi prisoner.

  Max tried to ignore the annoying shiver that crept up her spine. Her dad had threatened her life if she treated the prisoners as though they were freaks or outsiders. But they were freaks and outsiders, so this task was very difficult. No amount of smoke or mirrors could change the fact that she was less than fifteen feet away from a sworn enemy of the United States. And of all of humanity, really.

  She shook her head, pulled out her deck of cards, and started working on the FLOATING CARD TRICK again, moving to the rhythm of the broom tapping the chairs. Without the judgmental glare of Houdini, maybe she could actually plow through the kinks in the routine.

  She felt like she was really getting somewhere (probably not ferret-approval level, but at least good enough to mesmerize those GIs from earlier) when she noticed that the sound of sweeping had stopped.

  She glanced down the hall to see where the Nazi had gone.

  He stood in front of her. Watching her. His piercing blue eyes didn’t blink. His mustache fluttered as he breathed, and it was the only movement he made. He stood there, holding the broom, looming over her like a colossus. Staring down at the deck of cards in her hands.

  Her throat felt tight as she froze in his gaze.

  Like a cobra breaking free from a trance, he moved toward her and she screamed.

  He bent down and picked up the cards she hadn’t realized she’d dropped and handed them to her. Then he spun around and began to sweep again. “Apologies, fräulein.”

  The door to the office flew open and Major Larousse rushed out. “Max, was that you? Is everything okay?” He rubbed his hip to alleviate the stiffness.

  “Yeah,” she said after a moment of collecting herself and making sure she hadn’t peed on the fluffy green chair. “I’m just getting tired of waiting. Are you almost done?”

  Major Larousse sighed and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “These boys are awfully long-winded. It’s as if Hitler never let them talk before, so now they have to voice their opinions about everything.”

  Behind him, another man in a gray prison uniform came to the door. He was handsome enough that he could probably be a big star in the movies, but his accent was heavy enough to remind everyone that he’d much rather drop bombs on Hollywood than work there. “Major? Shall we resume? We are almost finished discussing the menu for dinner this week.”

  Major Larousse winked at her and straightened up. “Yes, Blaz, I’m coming. But I’m not budging on the meatloaf. You’ll just have to get over your distaste for ketchup.”

  They went back into his office and closed the door.

  Max glanced at the floor where the prisoner who was meeting with the major had stood. There was dirt scattered all around it. That’s weird, I didn’t see that earlier.

  Before she could ponder this any further, the man with the broom hurried over and swept up the dirt. Then he turned and watched her again as she resumed practicing with the deck of cards. She counted to five and then looked him squarely in the eyes. He flinched and hurried back to the other end of the hallway. She felt a silent moment of victory, as though she’d just driven the Nazis out of Libya herself.

  After a few more minutes, Mrs. Larousse finally returned carrying salt, pepper, and three more bottles of Coca-Cola.

  “Are we staying with Dad for a while?” Max asked.

  “I took one more look at those boxes and decided to wave the white flag. We’ll attack them again in the morning.” She took the cards from Max and put them back in their box. “Is your father still in his meeting?”

  Max nodded. “The Kraut doesn’t like meatloaf.”

  “Well, if he keeps me from my dinner, I won’t like him.” She stood, adjusted her skirt, and went over to rap solidly on the office door. After a moment, Major Larousse opened it.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Major, I’m here to tell you that Sergeant and Private Larousse are famished.”

  Major Larousse glanced behind him. Blaz crossed his arms and shot him a stern look. Major Larousse returned the look like a tennis player returning a poorly delivered serve. Blaz’s shoulders sank.

  “Yes,” Major Larousse said. “We mustn’t let the hardworking American Magician and her mother starve for the sake of Finicky Fritz and his friends.”

  Blaz nodded, then averted his eyes as he passed Max and her mom on his way out the door and down the hall.
Max glanced at the ground behind him, where a trail of dirt followed his footsteps. The man with the broom swept it up and shot her a reprimanding glare. She promptly returned it, though not as effectively as the major. The man fought a smirk and returned to his work.

  “I have told you not to speak to them, haven’t I?” Major Larousse said to her as she walked past him into his office.

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said. “I’m not to interact with the Nazis for fear that I’ll mistreat them.”

  He chuckled and tousled her hair. “Exactly. No sawing them in half, my dear.”

  “Because then we’d be stuck with two Nazis.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the sweeping man watching her out of the corner of his. Those shivers threatened to creep up her spine again. She forced them away with a magical curse. She’d learned a long time ago that her instincts were very susceptible to the mechanisms of illusions. So, even though there was no true magic to the curse, her body was unaware and hurried to follow her command lest she transform herself into a toad.

  For an impromptu, we-haven’t-a-thing-ready-to-cook-in-our-newly-inhabited-house picnic, Mrs. Larousse had really done a bang-up job. Turkey legs, ham salad sandwiches, deviled eggs, and pickled beets spread across Major Larousse’s desk like a king’s banquet, and there was a bottle of Coca-Cola with a straw for each of them to quench their inevitable thirst after such salty dishes.

  While they worked to clean the gobbler meat off the bones, Major Larousse would periodically begin glancing through papers on his desk or making notes for himself on the yellow legal pad beside his telephone. Mrs. Larousse, every time, would kick him and give the subtle eye glance that parents believe children do not understand, reminding him that his offspring was in need of his attention. Finally, he let out a sigh. “Karly, I’m sorry, but there’s just so much to do.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Though I have a feeling you’re also wrong.”

  The major turned to Max and cleared his throat. “Hey, kiddo, why don’t you run over to the PX and see if they’ll give you some licorice on my credit?”

  “With the Gestapo running free out there?” her mother protested.

  “I’ve got guards at every corner with rifles, and they all came out of Basic just itching to shoot at a Nazi,” he said. “Trust me, she’ll be fine. We need to talk.”

  Max groaned. Nothing boggled her mind more than the incessant need of adults to protect their children from hearing grown-up conversations. It wasn’t as though she didn’t already know what they were talking about. She’d read the letters from the colonel, explaining to the major that they’d just had to send a large group of Austrian “anti-Nazi” prisoners to other camps because they were being bullied by the German soldiers who were ardent Nazi loyalists, a group that called themselves “The Black Hand.” She’d also seen his notebook, in which he outlined how the guards ought to deal with anyone attempting to escape. And she’d overheard him on the phone, explaining his view that if they treated the prisoners with civility and respect, he believed they’d return the favor.

  She had a feeling that wasn’t working as well as he’d hoped.

  She stood up from her chair. “Fine. Where’s the PX?”

  “At the end of this road. If you get lost, just ask any GI and they’ll help you out.” He winked at her, just like he used to, but it was more like looking at a photo of a wink than experiencing one in real life. “And stay away from the prisoners’ hutment. I’m trying to make them feel safe around here.”

  As she walked out the door, she could hear her mother’s reprimanding voice, “You need to focus on your family when we’re eating.”

  “There’s just so much to do here, Karly. These people need me.”

  “You have a daughter who needs you too. And she’s been missing you for a very long time.”

  Max hurried to get away. Listening to them felt a little like a frog watching himself being dissected. Sick and wrong.

  It was dusk when she stepped out of the building onto the patch of dirt called Camp Barkeley. She looked around for a bit, trying to see if there was anything about this particular base that was different from every other base she’d ever visited, since it was a prison camp, after all. It didn’t take long for her to decide that, no, this was a plain Jane military camp, the only distinguishing feature being that this was in the desolate wasteland of west Texas, and thus it was dryer, dustier, and hotter than the other camps she’d visited.

  Because the whole place felt so familiar to her, she didn’t bother looking at the signs or asking for directions to the PX. She headed in the direction she assumed it would be and occupied her brainpower with unkinking the steps of that darn card trick. Why was it so difficult for her to perfect? She blamed Texas, an act she had already done a lot and would do many more times over the next few years.

  But, as so often happens, it was when she was most sure of her directions that she got the most lost. She meandered along the dusty roads, turning down alleyways that seemed familiar, absentmindedly selecting directions at crossroads, and scuttling along sidewalks that gave no promise of taking her to her destination. And thus, thirty minutes later, when the last rays of the sun had vanished from the sky, she was still walking through the buildings, completely lost but doggedly determined to find her own way.

  That is, she was determined all the way up until the moment she overheard a conversation taking place just around the corner ahead of her. A conversation entirely in German.

  It was then that she noticed the buildings around here were all a little less inviting. A little more restrained. More hopeless and distraught.

  She was roaming through the prisoners’ hutment.

  Oh dear, now the turkey leg was not agreeing with her. Her stomach cramped and she stopped walking.

  “Was war für das Abendessen?” one of the prisoners around the corner said.

  “Braten und Kartoffeln,” the other man said.

  Grandma Schauder, a German immigrant from the first World War, had taught her to speak German quite well. Unfortunately, Max’s brain was refusing to translate anything other than her churning stomach, and thus she was forced to assume they were discussing how much they’d like to stumble upon an American girl as lost as an Eskimo in the desert. She froze.

  “Ich bin froh, dass ich krank war.”

  “Ich wünschte, ich hätte vor dem Abendessen krank gewesen,” the first man said. “Stattdessen bin ich jetzt krank.” Both men laughed.

  Max could feel her pulse beating in her neck. She slowly backed away from the corner and into the looming shadow she hoped would hide her until she found her way back to the free part of camp.

  Unfortunately, someone was standing behind her.

  “Lost, fräulein?” the man who had been sweeping the hallway asked. He was covered in the darkness, but his eyes still tore right through her. He was eating a banana, which somehow made him look even more sinister.

  She opened her mouth to try to respond, but her stomach was cramping so much, she couldn’t move past the pain to form any words.

  He took a step closer to her.

  She pushed the banana into his chest and ran back down the road as fast as she could.

  When she ran through another unlit section, she collided with someone else. This time she screamed. Then she realized it was a good old American GI.

  “Hey, it’s the Amazing Molly!” the GI said. It took her a second in the dark to realize that it was Gil, all decked out in his guard gear. She glanced at the rifle hanging from his shoulder and finally began to grow calm.

  “It’s Max, actually,” she said.

  “You lost?” he asked with a maniacal grin.

  “No, not at all. I was exploring.” She adjusted her skirt around her waist. “But, since it is dark now, would you mind escorting me to the PX? I’m in need of some licorice. And perhaps another soda.”

  He gave her a mock salute and offered her his arm.

  She blanched at
first, but then remembered the banana-eating Nazi lurking in the shadows somewhere. She put her hand on the crook of his elbow and walked with him down the street in the only direction she hadn’t tried all evening. He whistled “American Patrol” while they strolled, and she tried not to stare down every shadow along their path.

  She didn’t succeed very well.

  Chapter Four

  “We don’t make friends for our own sakes, we make friends for our mothers’. I don’t really know why our mothers make friends. Probably for our grandmothers. Yes, that has to be it. Friendship is a tool of motherhood to keep children occupied and out of their mothers’ hair. Invented by Eve, I imagine.”

  —Max’s diary, Thursday, March 9, 1944

  Don’t mess with your hair,” Mrs. Larousse said on the sidewalk outside of the school. She fidgeted with the blue ribbon that held Max’s ponytail in place. “And don’t lose that.” She tapped the letter of introduction pinned to Max’s blouse.

  “I’ve been to school before,” Max said. “In Brooklyn, so I’m probably five times better at it than these cowboys.”

  Mrs. Larousse swatted Max on top of the head with her handbag. “Enough of that, missy. People around here already believe you think you’re better than them. You don’t need to prove them right.”

  “Well, they are right, I do think that.”

  “Of course you do. But you can’t let them know.” Mrs. Larousse licked a hanky to wipe a smudge of jam off Max’s face. “And, please, try to fit in. Maybe wait a week before you start making things disappear out of your classmates lunch boxes.”

  “I think you underestimate how much people like magicians,” Max said. Her mother was not amused, so Max sighed. “Fine, I promise I’ll be boring and average and try to fit in.”

  Mrs. Larousse kissed her forehead. “At least for a week.”

  When the principal escorted Max to her classroom, she regretted agreeing to her mother’s demands. Even just a week of “fitting in” with these boring children would set her back intellectually at least three years. She’d have to double her homework load to make up the deficit.