They led him onto the piers toward one of the boats, and dragged him up the gangway. “Where are we going?” Harry shouted, struggling against their grip. His legs skidded on the wood, unable to keep him balanced as the men hauled him forward. Were they going to take him with them? Lock him in the hold? Torture him?
They dragged Harry onto the deck of a small steamship, and a few minutes later, were pulling away from the pier, out onto the Hudson River.
Zoltan stepped forward and leaned in, so close that Harry could see his own reflection in the man’s gray eyes. “I know who you are,” he said coolly. His Hungarian accent was noticeable, but didn’t sound like the other immigrants in Harry’s neighborhood. His voice was more polished, as if he were used to speaking — or maybe commanding — large groups of people. “You’re Weiss’s son. Did he send you to follow us?” Zoltan shook his head. “I expected him to know better.”
“He didn’t send me,” Harry answered. “Please don’t hurt him. I’ll help pay back his debt. I work at a factory, and I’m taking extra shifts —”
Zoltan’s face twitched, and Harry fell silent.
“Too late now,” Zoltan said. “You weren’t supposed to see any of that.”
Harry could feel wind blowing across the deck as the steamship pulled out into the harbor. How long would it be before his parents started to worry? A surge of guilt briefly overwhelmed his fear. He didn’t want to die, but the thought of his parents grieving him was almost worse.
Zoltan turned to address one of the other men. “Istvan, I know I’ve performed strangulation, suffocation, and premature burial, but have I done drowning?” Istvan shook his head. “Really? I can’t believe I have such a hole in my repertoire.” He shot Harry a smile that might have been considered winning had he not been discussing different methods of committing murder. “I have a reputation for a certain level of showmanship.”
Harry felt his heart start to race. They weren’t just trying to scare him. They were really going to do it. He winced as Istvan wrenched his arms behind his back while the third man went to the cabin and pulled out coils of rope.
“Are you sure we don’t want to try my new Winchester rifle?” Istvan asked. “Or perhaps the wakizashi sword I bought off that Japanese merchant?”
Zoltan grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find a way to employ your new toys soon.”
Harry’s stomach twisted, as if someone had already plunged a sword inside him. He imagined his mother’s breakdown as she heard the news. His father’s quiet resignation as the truth sank in and one more thread of his old life unraveled. His siblings would be crushed, but worse, who would even make the money to feed them? And Harry would never take the stage again. Never know the thrill of a perfectly executed illusion, and the cheers of a crowd enjoying being taken in.
He couldn’t let this happen. He had to find a way to escape.
For a moment, Harry considered trying to fight them, but he knew that was pointless. There were three of them and they were all larger than he was. And there was probably more of a crew on the bridge and belowdecks. Harry breathed in and stood up straighter, almost as if he were onstage. A sense of calm and purpose settled over him. He couldn’t overpower them, so he would have to survive some other way.
Feeling almost in a dream, he stepped forward and let them tie him up. As they looped the rope around his arms, he clenched his biceps. Harry had spent years performing as “Prince of the Air,” and there was nothing for building muscle like hanging by your arms. He flexed his muscles as they tightened the ropes and waited for them to move on to his feet before he relaxed them. Once his biceps were no longer clenched, he could feel that the ropes were significantly looser.
The fear and panic coursing through his body gave way to the same anxious energy he felt just before going onstage. But he couldn’t let the men know he had a plan, and he allowed his body to go limp as Istvan carried him toward the rail. Harry’s heart was pounding as he tried to squirm around to look out over the water. They were far from shore, but the lights of Manhattan were still visible.
“You don’t need to do this,” he yelled as they neared the rail. “My father will pay. I’ll pay, too!” He needed to sound like he thought he was about to die. It wasn’t difficult. Harry knew there was a high chance his plan would fail. But he couldn’t dwell on that now.
It was showtime.
Istvan grunted and set him on the deck next to the rail. Harry looked down and grew slightly dizzy as he watched the choppy water splashing against the bottom of the ship about four stories below. “You don’t have to do this!” Harry yelled, feeling a new wave of terror threatening to take over his body. “Please!”
Zoltan gave Harry a push. He teetered for a moment, staring at the dark water below. Then the boat lurched and he lost his balance and plunged overboard.
Harry took in a deep breath before he hit the surface and the icy water closed around him. He wiggled like a dolphin, swimming farther underwater. He needed time to escape before he came up for air.
He writhed and thrashed, using the looseness of the ropes around his arms to his best advantage. The chill of the water clamped down on him and he could hear nothing but a dull roar and the thudding of his own heart. The ropes were cutting at his skin but he barely noticed as he strained to extricate himself.
For a moment, his right wrist seemed trapped in a knotted loop, but with a painful wrench he pulled it out. His hands were free. With his legs still tied, Harry looked up. The lights from the ship filtered through the dark water, and he could just make out the outline of the steamship’s hull.
His lungs were screaming for air, but with a stroke of his arms, Harry dove deeper into the water. He waved his bound legs like a fin. As he reached the ship’s hull, he grabbed on to the barnacles underneath and hauled himself down. If he surfaced too soon, the Vespers would know he’d survived.
As he passed the keel, the ship’s paddle swung into motion. Harry felt a moment of panic as it started to drag him backward. With a kick of his legs and rapid pulling of his arms, he moved away. His lungs were burning and he felt his head pounding as he strained for the surface.
Finally, he broke the water and gasped. Air flooded into his lungs. In his ears, his ragged breathing sounded incredibly loud, but luckily the noise of the steam engine and paddles seemed to be drowning it out.
He could hear Zoltan and his companions talking on the other side of the boat, and as his air returned, he smiled with satisfaction.
Harry clung to the hull of the ship as it began to gain speed and pull out of the harbor. Holding on with one hand, he used the other to untie his feet. The wet ropes seemed to stick to each other, but he finally got them untangled and let them sink into the water.
“He’s not coming back up,” Harry heard Istvan’s voice carrying from the other side of the ship. “Looks like he’s too small and skinny to float. I win. You owe me ten dollars, Bjorn.”
“The ship started moving. We weren’t close enough to see,” Bjorn protested. “If I toss some dynamite in and blast-fish him out, would that count?”
“Enough,” Zoltan cut in sharply. “We didn’t come to America just to dispose of nosy children. It’s time to get to work.” He paused. “We’ll finish this conversation below deck.”
Even though he was clinging to the boat, Harry continued to tread water. In the freezing water, it was important to keep moving to stave off hypothermia.
As the steamship moved past Governor’s Island, they passed a garbage scow headed back toward the city. Harry pushed off and set out with vigorous strokes. He latched on to the scow as it chugged past and hauled himself on board. The captain of the tugboat might see him, but Harry hardly cared. He was out of the freezing water, and would be back in the city within minutes.
And if he’d planned correctly, Zoltan and his crew would think he was dead — which mea
nt he was safe, for now. As he stripped off his soaked clothing and huddled down, Harry watched the steamship glide out into the bay until it disappeared into the night, leaving only the trails of its smokestacks.
“What were you thinking?” Harry’s father demanded. “You were very nearly killed! Zoltan is a murderer. The Vespers use him for their most dangerous missions — they only sent him to collect my debt because he was in New York on other business.”
It had been late when Harry returned, but his parents had been waiting for him. Early dawn light was coming through the parlor windows, and Harry could hear the city around them starting to wake up. His father’s face was white from his illness, and he had an extra blanket draped over his legs.
“Who are the Vespers?” Harry asked, too tired from the events of the night to try to defend himself. “What do they want with our family?”
Harry’s father sighed, and paused for a moment. Finally, he looked up, fixing Harry with a sad stare. “You’re too young to remember this, but life wasn’t easy in Hungary, especially for Jews. I spent many years trying to arrange for us to come to America, but when the paperwork finally came through, we still didn’t have enough money for the passage. I took a loan from the Vespers in order to buy a ticket for myself, and to leave behind enough money for you, your mother, and your four brothers to come over.”
His father turned to his mother, who nodded silently, urging Mayer Samuel to continue. “It was foolish,” he admitted. “At the time, I didn’t know much about the Vespers. I understood that they had some sort of vendetta against the Cahills, but they were the only people in Budapest willing to lend that kind of money without any sort of collateral.” He closed his eyes, as if recalling memories stored deep within his mind. “And now I know why. The Vespers are a worldwide network of criminals, and I should have never gotten involved with them.”
“Why didn’t you pay them back?” Harry asked.
His father shook his head. “I did. I tried. But they kept raising the interest until the payments became impossible.” He gestured toward their sparsely furnished living room. “We’ve given them all we have.”
“That’s why we’ve been so demanding with you and your brothers,” his mother added sadly. “We had no choice but to save up to try to pay them. We knew they would find us eventually.”
Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So they were the ones who broke into our house?” His father nodded. “We have to do something,” Harry insisted. “I’ll go to the police.”
“You will do no such thing,” Mayer Samuel commanded, his voice regaining some of its old authority. “The Vespers control every major crime ring in the city. There’s no knowing what sort of influence they have with the police. You’ll only make things worse.”
A surge of hot rage welled up from somewhere deep inside him. “Well, I have to do something. I’m not going to stand by while they threaten our family.”
“Harry,” his father said, fixing his son with a stare that made it clear he’d heard what happened at the tie factory. “All you need to focus on is finding employment. Go do your shows this weekend to bring in a little money, and then find a real job next week. I’m sorry. I wish things were different.”
“What will happen to you?” Harry demanded. “Won’t the Vespers come back?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Mayer Samuel said. “We’ll scrape together as much money as we can before they come back next week. But the most important thing is that you stay out of sight. The Vespers can’t know that you survived. Not after what you saw down by the docks.”
“Father, what if I —”
“No.” His father’s voice became stronger for a moment, almost as if he were his old self. “I may not be around much longer. This was my mistake, and you have to let me handle it.” Harry could see the thinness in his father’s pale cheeks in a new light. Mayer Samuel was wasting away, and the man who used to pick up Harry and spin him around, letting him pretend to be an acrobat, was never coming back.
“Harry.” His mother couldn’t quite look him in the eye. “Please do as he says. You can’t come back home until the Vespers return to Europe. Zoltan hates to be crossed, and he hates to make a mistake. If they see you, they will kill you . . . and then punish the rest of our family as well. Do you understand?”
Harry gulped. “I won’t let them find me. I’ll stay with Jacob until they leave. And once they’re gone . . . I’ll do my part to take care of the family. I swear it.”
Harry offered the deck, and the girl pulled the top card off as instructed. The audience watched intently.
“It’s the five of hearts. That was my card,” she announced. “But what happened to . . .”
“I suppose it was on top of the deck all along,” Harry joked. “Perhaps you simply imagined putting it in your pocket.”
His brush with death had left him jittery, and up until the moment he stepped onstage his hands had been shaking. But by the time he started his first trick in each show, the usual calm settled over him. In the low light of the stage, he morphed into the King of Cards.
She checked her pocket. “It’s gone!” she squealed. The audience cheered. Harry bowed, made a few cards appear and disappear, and stepped into the tiny backstage to a final round of applause. He sat down heavily on the small wooden stool. The “backstage” was little more than a heavy piece of black fabric blocking an area of a few square feet from view. There was nothing back here but the chair, a few rags, a flask of water, and an old drum. He sat back and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. It was his fifteenth show that Saturday, and there was time left for another two. It took about ten minutes for the old crowd to leave and the new one to assemble. Every audience had a different feel, and Harry would often change the order of his tricks to keep the crowd engaged.
Harry had snuck out to Coney Island early that morning, desperately hoping to escape notice. New York was an enormous city and the chance of him running into Zoltan or one of the other Vespers was tiny, but Harry’s heart still leaped every time he saw a man with black hair.
He could hear Thaddeus outside his tent, urging fairgoers to see the amazing magician inside. From the way he spoke, it sounded like “the King of Cards” was capable of truly incredible feats. Harry just hoped that he was capable of the incredible feat of getting paid for his day’s work.
Although it was a grueling life, realizing that this was his last weekend of shows reminded Harry how much Coney Island felt like home. There were the circuses with high-flying acrobats and majestic lions. The ringmasters would bark out commands, drawing hundreds of eyes to every new spectacle. There were magicians who had devices that let them saw their assistants in half and make them disappear.
Harry knew how it was all done, of course, but he still let himself go along for the ride, clapping and hooting with the rest of the crowd as the assistants reappeared in the audience, unharmed. There was even a drama to the concessions sellers, who hawked their treats with booming voices and made cotton candy sound like a piece of cloud stolen from heaven. How could he leave it all behind?
When the audience was inside and settled, Harry picked up a mallet and beat a drum four times. He didn’t have anyone to pull open a curtain, lower the lights, or play music for him, so this was the only way to make his entrance appropriately dramatic — or, at least, get the audience somewhat quiet for his entrance. He played one final drumroll and leaped onto the stage to a smattering of applause.
He started facing away from the audience. He stretched out his arms, and then, with a flourish, a fan of cards appeared in each hand. There was slightly more applause, and a boy hooted. Harry smiled to himself, gathering his confidence. The audience was his to win. With a deft move, he made the decks vanish again. He spun to face the crowd, and it felt like his stomach did a backflip.
He was there. In the front row.
Zoltan was relaxed in his seat, using a toothpick to remove dirt from under his fingernails. He glanced up at Harry, giving him the same expectant look as the rest of the audience. He was flanked by his two companions, Istvan and Bjorn.
The sight of the three men sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. What were they doing just sitting there?
With nowhere to run, Harry had no choice but to start the show. Perhaps, if he could buy himself enough time, he’d come up with a plan. His mind raced as coins appeared and disappeared, handkerchiefs changed color, and cards obeyed his every command. Zoltan laughed at the appropriate moments, applauded for each successful trick, and was generally a perfect audience member.
He shouldn’t have stayed in the city. He shouldn’t even have gone back home. The only way to convince the Vespers he was dead would have been to disappear completely. Would they take it out on his family? Harry could imagine Zoltan and his companions walking up the stairs of the Weisses’ house again, this time with murder on their minds.
But it was too late for recriminations now. Harry let the audience’s applause build his confidence as he surprised a man by handing him the watch that had been on his wrist until a few minutes earlier.
Harry extended the show, buying himself time with elaborate stories and extra illusions. After the fourth card trick in a row, he could see a few audience members in the back begin filing out. If he didn’t act soon, they would all leave, and he would be alone with the Vespers.
As soon as he’d made the decision, Harry felt his muscles relax. It was time to perform, and he was ready. Harry produced a new deck of cards and stepped off of the stage.
“Sir, would you please shuffle this deck for me?” he said, offering the cards to Zoltan, coming within an arm’s length of the man who had tried to kill him. A part of Harry was screaming for him to make a run for it, but he buried it away.
It was showtime.
“Of course,” Zoltan replied amiably, mixing the deck with the practiced ease of a gambler. Harry might have worried that the Vesper could stack the deck, but at this point he didn’t care.
The Houdini Escape Page 3
