AbrakaPOW

by Isaiah Campbell

  “Whoa, good point,” Shoji said. “That’s like taking milk from a cat and expecting it to purr.”

  Max could feel the glow of her idea begin to hide behind the clouds Felix was creating. And yet, she knew he was correct. “Okay, then what do we do?”

  “You do the opposite, right?” Shoji said. “You start making women appear left and right. Multiplying like the loaves and fishes or whatever that story is.”

  That made Felix chuckle. “No, I don’t think that would be well received.”

  “Then what? Be the thirteenth magician to die doing the BULLET CATCH TRICK?” Max asked, beginning to panic. She was losing her finale, losing her amazing show, going to get in a thousand tons of trouble with her mother, and she was suddenly realizing how close she’d been to death at the hands of those Nazis. Her pulse raced, her throat felt lumpy—

  Felix looked in her eyes, and somehow it made it all go away.

  “More than entertainment, more than the company of a woman, what do these men want most? What do they crave from their core?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Better dinners, right?”

  “Freedom,” Shoji said, looking at Felix’s face as though he was reading a decoded message. “They all want to be free.”

  Felix nodded. “If you make a prisoner disappear, they will declare you the greatest magician who ever lived.”

  Max liked the sound of that. There was only one problem.

  “Yes, but if I make a prisoner disappear, my father will probably kill me. And lose his job for having me do the show in the first place. Even though it’s a trick, the army doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “So you bring him back,” Shoji said. “No, heck, you disappear after him, like you’re going to get him, and then you return him to camp safe and sound.”

  This was beginning to turn into an even better trick than she’d imagined. Still, erst denken, dann handeln. Think, then act. “Okay, but doesn’t that again put me in a place where the audience hates me?”

  “Not if, by even letting the prisoner free for a few moments, you were performing the greatest act of mercy,” Felix said.

  “You really think they’d buy that?” she asked.

  “The lies we believe are the ones we either hope or fear are true,” he said. “Tell the audience the story of the poor prisoner, who simply wants to see his beloved’s face one more time. To give her a letter with their most precious memories. To kiss her sweet forehead and tell her he has not forgotten.”

  “And should her name be Josephine?” Max asked, reminding the man that she was not so easily fooled.

  Felix coughed and his voice became gruff. “That is a good name, yes.” He cleared his throat. “I will draw your blueprint.” He poked Shoji in the chest. “And you will be my eyes overseeing the construction.”

  Shoji grinned. “Wow, I already got promoted to foreman? Thanks.”

  Felix looked around the corner. “Now, you must both go find the guards. But do not tell them what happened with Blaz and the others. Your audience already thinks lowly enough of you. No need to make your job more difficult.”

  Max thanked him and they hurried off to find Gil and the other guard. And, while they were enduring the teasing at the hands of those two grown men escorting them back to Major Larousse’s office, Max let her mind wander and began to dream of her show. Or, more specifically, she began to dream of the applause.

  Even though she knew such dreams were filled with danger for a magician. It was worth it.

  She hoped.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Loyalty is overrated, except for when it is exactly what you hope it will be.”

  —Max’s diary, Wednesday, March 15, 1944

  Lunch at school the next day was not nearly as communal and jolly as it had been the previous time. For one thing, it was apparently Eric’s day to attend class, which meant he had plenty of fodder to claim he was more intelligent than the rest of the group. Then there was the fact that it had rained uncharacteristically the night before, so the grass was wet and they had to eat standing up.

  Oh, and there was also the little matter of informing the group that Max had neglected a small bit of information when she had corralled them to assist her in the big magic show. Which, really, who cared what the demographic of the audience would be, anyway? Wasn’t it enough to know that they’d all be up onstage, receiving the applause and adoration of hundreds of people?

  No, actually, it was not enough. At least, not for Lola and Eric.

  “No way,” Lola said, setting her fork down in her plate of peas, which she balanced in her hand as they stood in a circle. “There’s no way we’re doing anything to make the Nazis happy.”

  “We’re not making the Nazis happy,” Shoji said, accompanied by a spray of crumbs. His solution for having to stand while eating was to stuff all of his tuna salad cracker sandwiches into his mouth at once. “We’re putting on a show that just happens to be for the Nazis.”

  “That’s a stupid word argument and you know it,” Lola said.

  “Technically, all arguments are word arguments,” Eric said. He had opted to drink his beef stew out of his thermos because it was the best way to avoid looking like an idiot, in his opinion. “What you’re saying is that he’s just making a semantical argument.” He pointed at Shoji. “Which you are, by the way. Just arguing semantics. And I don’t like it. I’m anti-semantic.” He grinned at his own joke and took another swig of his stew.

  “I didn’t know you hated Jewish people,” Carl said.

  Eric sighed. “I don’t, that’s the joke. See, hating Jewish people is ‘anti-Semitic.’ I was saying I hate arguments over words. So I’m ‘anti-semantic.’ ’Cause, as we learned in class today, ‘semantics’ is the meaning of a word. Get it?”

  Carl rolled his eyes. “Now who’s arguing about semantics?”

  Max and Shoji laughed. Eric did as well, though much more halfheartedly.

  Lola did not.

  “I’m not doing it,” she said, her fork still prostrate on her plate. “This whole thing is turning into something I don’t want to be a part of. At first we were just pranking Judy a little. Now we’re doing a favor for the Nazis? What’s next? Selling secrets to the Nips?” She winced. “Sorry, Shoji.”

  He stopped midchew. “Why, did you say something?”

  “She said ‘Nips,’” Eric said.

  “Say what?” Shoji turned his ear toward Eric.

  “‘Nips.’ She said ‘Nips.’” This time Eric was louder.

  “I still can’t understand you,” Shoji said.

  “‘Nips,’” Eric yelled. “You know, ‘Japanese’?”

  “Oh, Japanese, got it, now I heard you.” Shoji resumed demolishing the food in his mouth, smiling at his moral conquest.

  “Anyway, honestly, we aren’t doing a favor for the Nazis,” Max said. “And it’s not just semantics, or whatever you call it. We’re doing this for the army. They have to keep the prisoners busy and happy, or else they might get restless.”

  “Good,” Lola said. “Let them be restless. In fact, if we could make them hate their lives and wish they were dead, that would be the best thing ever. I don’t want them happy, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Eric said. “It’s like we’re trying to benefit all the wrong people. What’s in this for us? How does this help us destroy Judy? It’s all wrong.”

  “Not really what I was trying to say,” Lola said. “But at least you agree with me, so I’ll take it.”

  Carl cleared his throat louder than necessary. “Speaking of Judy,” he said and nodded toward the school.

  Judy, Natalie, and Margaret were walking toward them, arms linked, smiles plastered on their faces.

  Max groaned. “Now is not the time.” She bit a chunk out of the drumstick in her hand, dropped it into her lunch sack, and went to meet the Mesquite Tree Girls. The Gremlins followed her.

  “Poor Max,” Judy said. “I didn’t realize
when we stopped inviting you to eat with us that you’d have to join the freak show to find food.”

  “Are you saying we’re the foragers?” Eric yelled from behind Carl. “’Cause . . . ’cause that would make you the fat women who stay back at the caves and feed the babies.”

  “What?” Judy asked.

  “Don’t mind him, he went to class today,” Max said. “What do you want?”

  Judy shot a glance back at Eric, who smiled at her and then at everyone else so it wouldn’t seem as though he was smiling at her.

  “I want to bury the hatchet,” Judy said.

  “Where do I file my suggestion of where to bury it?” Max asked.

  “Oh, you,” Judy said with a forced laugh. “Anyway, I realized last night that part of the problem is that you, as a very talented magician, need an agent.”

  Max raised her eyebrows. “An agent?”

  “Sure, somebody to spread the word that you’re colossal, stupendous, one might even go so far as to say, you’re mediocre.” Judy glanced at Natalie and Margaret, and they both started laughing. Built-in audience, Max thought.

  “That line’s from Yankee Doodle Daffy,” Max said. “I saw it seven times last year.”

  “It is from Yankee Doodle Daffy, you’re right,” Judy said. “But I’m the first person to apply it to you. Not the last, though, if I have anything to do with it.”

  Max gave a patronizing smile. “No, thanks. I’m not interested.”

  Judy pouted. “Aw, but I already got you a show.”

  “You did?” Now Max was intrigued. “Where?”

  “See girls, I told you, any dog can be trained if you buy the right treats,” Judy said to her cronies. “Yes, I got you a show. My birthday party.”

  “Your . . . birthday party?”

  “Yes indeed,” Judy said. “My mother wanted to hire a clown, like she has every single other year, but I said, ‘No, mother, I think it’s time I grew up a little and had a magician. We can consider it charity.’”

  “Charity?” Max could feel her blood bubbling.

  “Exactly. And so she agreed. I mean, we are still bringing out the clown as backup, but I’ll bet we aren’t going to need him. He can just go on after you to make sure everybody enjoys themselves.”

  Max weighed the consequences of breaking Judy’s nose and couldn’t, in that moment, find a downside. Then she felt a hand on her back.

  “She can’t do it,” Lola said. “She already has a show booked. On base. We’re going to be performing on base.”

  Judy forced her smile to stay frozen. “But you don’t know the date of my party yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s going to be performing on base. In the spotlight. First girl from Abilene, actually. That trumps a birthday party seven days a week. We don’t have to ever do your party.”

  “We?” Judy’s teeth were clenched. “All of you?”

  Max glanced at Lola.

  Lola nodded. “Yeah. All of us.”

  “And you should come,” Eric said. “We’re going to be onstage. It’s going to be neat.”

  Finally, Judy’s smile fell. “I wouldn’t come watch you idiots be thrown off a cliff. No, actually, that I would come to see.” She spun around and marched away. Natalie gave Max an apologetic look, but followed in Judy’s footsteps with Margaret in tow.

  “Man, have I mentioned how much I hate her?” Eric asked.

  “Yeah, you hate her guts,” Carl said. “That’s why you want to make sure she comes to the show.”

  “To gloat over her, obviously,” Eric snapped.

  Max ignored them. She couldn’t believe Lola had changed her mind. “So you’re going to help?”

  “Yeah,” Lola said as she resumed eating her peas. “I guess I’d forgotten my priorities. But, I swear, if Hitler wins the war ’cause of this magic show, I will never let you hear the end of it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Felix talked to Shoji about the blueprint for thirty minutes today while I did both of our homework. If this is what it’s like having help, then I’d much rather be helpless. Well, not helpless, but . . . you know what I mean.”

  —Max’s dairy, Friday, March 17, 1944

  Max almost slept through her first west Texas thunderstorm. She barely woke for a moment at the beginning of it when Houdini, after a particularly loud thunderclap, fled from his cage and curled up on her chest to find safety from the giant angry bunnies banging trash cans outside. However, since he was asleep in four seconds, she joined him and probably wouldn’t have remembered the incident at all in the morning.

  If only the storm cellar door wasn’t so incredibly heavy.

  When it crashed closed, she jumped out of bed and Houdini dove under the dresser to escape the oncoming rabbit horde.

  At first she assumed it had been thunder that woke her. But, after listening to the unique timbre of Texas thunder, she knew it wasn’t God’s hand that had made the noise. She peeked out her window and, illuminated by lightning, could see the cinderblock dangling from the wire, swinging ever so slightly.

  Maybe it was the wind, she thought. Maybe Texas wind can open and close those cellar doors.

  She had almost convinced herself of this when she saw, or at least thought she saw, a shadowy figure jump over the fence and out of their yard. It was difficult to be certain when you only had brief moments of illumination.

  The rain pelted her window and informed her that she would never be able to fall back asleep unless someone went out and investigated the storm cellar. And, since that is what fathers are for, she left the warmth of her covers and stepped out of her room to go wake Major Larousse.

  As she neared his door, she slowly realized this was an entirely terrible idea. Waking the major in the middle of the night would most likely result in yet another body slam, and she might not be so lucky to have a sofa nearby this time. So she decided to wake her mother, but then realized how selfish this was. She realized this because of the volume at which Major Larousse was snoring. He had always snored, as far as she knew, but while he was overseas he’d learned new skills that put train engines to shame. Meanwhile, in his absence, her mother had unlearned how to fall asleep while someone is attempting to burst your eardrums every night. Thus, when they were both able to sleep soundly in the same bed, it was a sacred occasion.

  Max retrieved the flashlight from the kitchen, put on Major Larousse’s field jacket, slipped on his boots, and walked into the yard. It was a tedious affair, because his shoes were far too big for her feet.

  The air outside wasn’t cool, but it was wet and blew against her neck, and so she felt a massive chill grab hold of her bones and refuse to let go. She shivered and blinked away the fat raindrops hitting her face as she sloughed through the mud over to the storm cellar.

  She shone the flashlight on the cement around the door.

  Footprints. Muddy, fresh footprints.

  Bare-feet footprints.

  She shivered again, only this time not because of the wind.

  Lightning flashed and thunder cracked as she set the flashlight on a rock to illuminate the cinderblock. She took hold of the block and pulled her feet off the ground. Slowly, the door creaked open. Once the cinderblock was securely on the ground, she picked up the flashlight again and shone it down into the cellar. The rain in the light beam shimmered as it splashed off the concrete and the rickety stairs.

  She slipped her feet out of the boots. She needed sure footing if she was going to go down into the abyss.

  Was she going to go down there? She stepped back into the boots.

  Of course, if she didn’t go, she’d never sleep. Ever.

  She sighed and stepped out of them again. Gingerly, she inched her toe down to the first step, then put her whole foot on it. She did the same for the next. And the next. Carefully and cautiously, because she was suddenly very aware of how easily her feet could become pincushions for nails, splinters, and various other pointy things.

  Finally, she made it
to the bottom. She even had the strength of mind to avoid the puddle of disgusting water. Or, she would have, except the entire floor was now one giant puddle of ankle-deep water. It appeared that the storm cellar, while quite handy to seek refuge from the winds, was a terrible place to avoid drowning. She moved back up onto the bottom step and shone the light around the room.

  All things seemed in order. The box with the Hummel dolls was still where she’d left it. The plate with the candles was untouched. The walls still had their inappropriate drawings. And the one wall that had been adorned with curses was still—

  Max gasped and moved up another step.

  On the wall, under the bull’s head and the pentagram, was something new. Glistening with fresh paint that dripped with the water to the floor, were two words:

  YIMAKH SHEMAM.

  She almost screamed, but before she could, she had a better reason.

  The cellar door slammed shut above her head.

  “No!” she yelled as she ran up the steps. She got as far as she could and pounded on the underside of the door. It was very splintery, so she used the flashlight to bang on it as hard as she could.

  She hoped and prayed that Major Larousse would choke on some saliva or his own tongue or something and stop snoring long enough for her mother to hear her.

  After three blows against the door, the flashlight flickered and she realized using her only source of light as a door knocker was a bad idea. She set it between her feet and resumed hitting the door with her fist.

  She shifted her weight so she could pound with her other hand, and the step moved under her. She caught herself on the wall, but the flashlight rolled away. She kicked her foot to try to stop it and caught her toe on a nail. She yelled in agony as the flashlight splashed into the water below.

  And then it went out.

  There is no darkness quite like the darkness inside a storm cellar in the middle of the night with the door tightly shut. It is a darkness you can feel, a darkness that seems to inch into your body with each second that passes.