Magic Words

by Gerald Kolpan

  “Thank you, cousin,” Julius said, clapping his hand on Alexander’s shoulder, “but I’ve been away from home too long.”

  “Home! Omaha? What kind of home is it where you are surrounded by meshugenah goyim with guns? Gutenu, Julius! What do you need it for? Prophet John is trustworthy—he can run your business. Stay here and get to know your own kind again. We might even scare up a bride for you someday.”

  Julius shook his head. “No, Alex. I don’t belong here. My real landsmen are back in Nebraska and being treated worse every day, even worse than we were in the old country. The few advocates they have are poor devils like Crook, who only knows their greatness from killing them most of his life. Maybe I can do better. At least I can give them a voice. As for a bride, I don’t think so. The woman I love is, shall we say, out of reach. Besides, you’re in no position to recommend the institution. It’s four in the afternoon—and you’ve only been hitched up since ten. I suppose now you’ll finally show the world that Substitution Trunk?”

  Alexander shook his head. “No, dear Julius, I think not. Yes, it exists thanks to the brilliance of Mr. John Nevil Maskelyne. As he is making money hand over fist with his toilet, he is more than willing to lease it to me—exclusive, of course. But alas, it is not my invention and therefore no longer my dream. I understand he is currently negotiating to sell it to a young man—a rabbi’s boy out on Coney Island, name of Erich Weiss.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Calls himself Whodoonoo or something like that.”

  The big door of the gate slid open. A fat conductor appeared and began to announce the stops.

  Adelaide put her arms around Julius and pressed her wet eyes to his coat.

  “You will give our love to John McGarrigle. And you will promise to be careful. They say there is death a thousand times in your West.”

  Julius shrugged. “There was once. But I think before long the horseless carriages and flying machines I read about will replace the pony and the eagles and hawks. The white man has learned to eat the rattlesnakes. Harder to die in such a place.”

  Julius gave Adelaide one more embrace and then took the hands of his cousin. Alexander kissed Julius on both cheeks and stepped back.

  “Do you remember the day we first came to America?” he asked.

  “The Balaclava, Alex.”

  “It was sometimes all I could do not to throw you overboard. Every day you made a mockery of your gift—fooling this one, tricking that one—seeking revenge from strangers because the gentiles had so hurt you and all our people. I saw you humiliate them by becoming them, watched you deny who you were.”

  Julius looked over at Adelaide. She had begun to weep.

  “But you were changed by America. I don’t know, maybe you didn’t want to become your brother, perhaps it was Prairie Flower or even old McGarrigle. But as an Indian you have become the best Jew I have ever known. Go to your people, kleiner Julius. Help them as no one helped us—and maybe our God and theirs will bless you both.”

  “Chicago Special! Board!”

  Alexander reached behind Julius’ ear. He pulled his hand back quickly, closed it into a fist, then opened it to reveal a silver dollar crowned by an Indian’s head.

  Julius picked up his carpetbag, turned and headed toward the platform. Alexander noticed that the bag was the same one his cousin had carried on the Balaclava. Framed by the entrance, Julius turned and waved. Adelaide and Alexander returned his farewell. They kept looking after him until all the passengers passed through the arch and the gate clanged shut.

  The little house was more than two weeks into construction. Normally, framing a place so small would have taken about half that time, but the white foremen assigned to the job quickly discovered that the Ponca way of looking at progress tended to extend established deadlines.

  It wasn’t that they were lazy. Far from it. It was only that the idea of appointed times and strict rules was alien to them. In their world, when a lodge or tipi needed building, it went up as needed, the various construction chores dictated by who happened to be present. The white tools also were strange: the hammers and saws, the screwdrivers and steel nails. It was days before the Indians were convinced these little iron animals wouldn’t bite them at the first opportunity.

  Through a warren of just-felled trees, Standing Bear sat on a large stump, his head wreathed in smoke. He had never been an impressive man. He lacked the height and ferocity of Chased By Owls or the weighty authority of Voice Like A Drum. But now, Thomas Henry Tibbles thought him smaller still—as shrunken in body as he had become in influence. The white buckskins swam on his arms; and the great necklace of claws appeared almost comical on such an aged brave.

  Standing Bear greeted Tibbles with a nod of his head.

  “The Speaker. Has he arrived?”

  “I received a cable from him when I was in Omaha last night,” Tibbles said. “He should be here soon. He asked that I tell Standing Bear that all of the rites regarding his mission had been carried out correctly and with great respect.”

  The chief frowned. “That is good.”

  “It looks like it is going to be a fine house for you,” Tibbles said, gesturing toward the structure.

  Standing Bear was silent for a long time. The wreath of smoke around him dissipated and he tapped his pipe on the side of the stump.

  “I have often said that I would like to have what the white man has. To live in a house such as he has, with a pump for water and a fireplace for warmth—to have my children and my people learn his language and know the many things that he knows. You have written these words in your newspaper, and the other newspapers have also carried these words. And now it seems I will get my wish.”

  “That is fine,” Tibbles said.

  “It is. But it is a white wish. To have a white wish come true is only fine when it is no longer possible to be an Indian. I may keep my buckskins and my Indian face. I may pray to the gods that have helped and protected me throughout my life. But while I live in my fine white house, where will those gods live? Where are their houses? They lived in flowers and in elk and buffalo. But if there are no flowers, there can be no flower spirit. And if there are no buffalo, there can be no buffalo spirit. I suppose now I will need some new gods. Maybe a spirit of the fireplace or one that provides for a kitchen table. Or perhaps such functions can be assigned to the Man Nailed To A Tree. They tell me he hears all prayers.”

  “Perhaps Standing Bear will discover that with peace, there will be a way to return to the old ways.”

  Standing Bear smiled. “We have seen what your people do to those who prefer the old ways. When my great friend Three Stars failed to find Geronimo, he was called back here. They sent General Miles—Apache Killer—to Arizona and Mexico to find him. He went and Geronimo surrendered. Apache Killer returned here to find Chased By Owls. Chased By Owls would not surrender. He said the Ponca had no word for surrender. I think now that word is written.”

  As Standing Bear and Tibbles gazed at the house, a brave working on the roof began to cheer and shout. Throwing down his hammer, he leapt to the ground and ran in the direction of the river. In seconds, all the Indians on the site joined him; they threw down saws and tossed tiles in the air. Soon, the frame was empty save for the two white foremen who stood bewildered inside its wooden skeleton.

  Standing Bear and Tibbles followed the braves. When they reached the Niobrara, they saw what looked like a parade coming toward them.

  At its center was a large truck-wagon drawn by four matched blacks, their breath visible in the crisp air. Holding the reins was a small man in buckskins smoking a white man’s pipe, a red and white blanket wrapped around him. Next to him sat an older white man with long gray hair and a beard. On either side of the wagon rode braves armed with bows and rifles, bandoleros crisscrossing their chests in the Mexican style. All around them now, the workmen were celebrating, leaping and crying and shouting prayers. The small man pulled up on the team and saluted in greeting. T
hen he leaped from the seat into the arms of the chief.

  “Father,” he said, “it is good to be with you.”

  Standing Bear clapped Julius Meyer on the back and shook the hand of Prophet John. They both embraced Tibbles, who laughed in relief at the sight of them.

  Standing Bear raised his hand and the entire party fell silent. The Indians bowed their heads. As Tibbles removed his broad-brimmed Stetson, the old chief jumped up onto the wagon and looked into its wide bed.

  Its bottom was covered in plain gray blankets. Carefully placed atop them was an oblong shape, perhaps five feet from end to end. It was wrapped in a magnificent robe, tanned to a rich gray-brown and painted with six rows of mounted warriors. These were drawn in simple outlines—as if to better see their souls—and their horses were rendered in red and green and gold. The robe was bisected by four holy sun symbols: black and white concentric circles quartered by a yellow cross with a red bull’s-eye dead center of each. Standing Bear ran his hands over the buffalo hide. Long ago, this robe had been his, a relic of a time when it was still possible to be an Indian.

  Stiffly and slowly, he made his way down from the wagon. Tibbles thought he had aged ten years in the few seconds it took to inspect his daughter’s corpse. Then he gestured toward a young boy.

  “Bring the women.”

  The boy raced toward the large tipi that held Standing Bear’s two remaining wives, their sisters and daughters and their few small children.

  “I reckon we’re about to have a funeral,” the prophet said.

  “Reckon?” Tibbles said. “I’d think that a great clairvoyant like you would know at least that much of the future.”

  The Prophet smiled. “No more visions for me, Tommy boy. I haven’t had a decent visitation nor seizure since merry old England. Sure, I can still predict sun or clouds from a Sunday ’til the week’s middle; but anything more momentous, well, no longer at your service. I suppose I needed the world I used to live in to have ’em. But in a world with no wonders, it’s hard to be magic.”

  “You sound like the chief. He just told me pretty well the same thing.”

  McGarrigle nodded. “Well, maybe I’m more magic than I think, if I can see into the brain of ol’ Ponca Kingy. Still, I’ve often said if it weren’t for the honor, I’d just as soon not fall down, foam at the mouth, and shiver like Saint Vitus. It’s a hell of a strain on a man. A hell of a strain.”

  “Did you two ever find Bear Shield?”

  “We looked. Went straight to the spot where they planted him, but all we found was snow. The dirt ’round his pit had been rolled out smooth as grandma’s piecrust. Figure they must have put him somewhere on a flood plain and the good ol’ Wakanda decided he needed baptizin’—washed him clean away to where some fishes or beavers had him for supper. Either way, he’s with the ancestors and little Flower—or at least he will be once we’re done with her today.”

  “I heard Lady-Jane fought like a man at Chadron; dead, too.”

  “Only heard she was hit. Dead? Can’t say. I know one thing for sure, though, Tommy boy. For the sake of anybody she calls an enemy, I hope so.”

  A contingent of men emerged from one of the work tipis dressed in the best they had. Carefully, they lifted Prairie Flower from the wagon box and bore her to a bare tree near a rise. The men danced and prayed, the women wept and keened. Watching the ceremony, Prophet John shook his head. He could remember when a funeral was an event—even among a tribe as small as the Ponca. The entire village would be present and honored guests from allied tribes would come bearing gifts for both the living and dead. Now there was only this handful to see the young spirit into the next world.

  The men carrying Prairie Flower placed her among the branches of the little tree.

  “My daughter, thanks be to god, has returned to the Niobrara,” Standing Bear said. “She has been too long in strange earth. Therefore, she shall remain above ground for a time so that she may look out upon the trees and plains and the river and know that she is home with us. We pray today also for Bear Shield, whom god has decided to hide from us. I thank the Wakanda for all he has done and ask only that the price my children paid buys peace.”

  As always, Standing Bear gestured toward Julius when interpretation was needed; after all, the gray man and the three white supervisors had attended the rites and shown proper respect. It would have been impolite not to translate his words for them.

  But Julius could only look at his father. Inside him, no words came. None in English; nor in Ponca or Dakota or Lakota; none in Yiddish or Russian or French or German; none in Polish or Spanish or Ukrainian. Standing Bear gestured again, but Julius only stared at the little tree embracing the body of his betrothed.

  Then he saw the women. As they cried and moaned, they rocked back and forth, seeming to bow and bow again to the only power that could end their pain. Soon, Julius found that he too was bending at the waist, swaying and weeping. Perhaps it was only the chill of the day that caused him to pull his blanket up over his head; but if he could have seen himself, he would have marveled at how much he resembled the old men of Bromberg: the saints and zealots who bowed over and over, pulling at their beards and covering their eyes beneath the eastern wall of the great synagogue.

  And then, as automatically as he had begun to daven, he chanted; the words seeming to be spoken in the only language he had ever learned.

  Yis-ga-dal v’yis-ka-dash sh’mei ra-ba,

  b’al-ma di-v’ra chi-ru-sei, v’yam-lich mal-chu-sei

  b’chai-yei-chon uv’yo-mei-chon …

  May his great Name be exalted and sanctified,

  In the world He created as he willed.

  May He give reign to His kingship,

  In your lifetimes and in your days.

  42

  JULIUS MEYER LOOKED THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW OF HIS second-floor apartment and took a deep and happy breath. He was sure he had never seen a more glorious day; but then he had always loved May in Omaha. The snow and cold had gone, but it remained cool enough to wear one of his hand-tailored suits.

  He picked his bowler off its hook by the door and descended the narrow steps onto Twelfth Street. Outside, the sun was warm and the air bracing. The flower boxes in the windows were alive with crocus and star of Bethlehem.

  Over forty years, Omaha had become a busy place, and Julius smiled at the bustle. The electric tramcars were filled with people en route to work and school. There were still plenty of horses about—Julius knew most of their names—but in the past year more and more of Mr. Ford’s monstrosities had begun filling the streets. Many of his old friends were appalled. The machines threw up dust, they said, and frightened the milk from their cows. Besides, what use was a contraption that wouldn’t run in the Nebraska muddy seasons? Julius viewed the motorcars in a somewhat different light. He was general agent for the Provident Life Assurance Society now; and anything that cost a man $850.00 was damn well worth insuring.

  He turned at Farnam Street and walked through the doors of Max Meyer & Co. Unlike the city, the store had changed little in the years since its founding. It carried more merchandise—more exotic cigarettes and cigars, and now books as well as eastern magazines—but the display cases and shelves, the floorboards and signs were where they had always been.

  Max himself had changed in that he was himself, only more so. Never a happy or talkative soul, he had become further withdrawn after the huge fire that destroyed his big department store in 1889. He was nearly wiped out in the Panic of ’93, and when the ensuing depression shuttered the Indian Wigwam, the little cigar store was all he had left. The shop’s receipts were insufficient to earn both brothers a living, so Julius had turned to the Provident. With his connections to all of the city’s business and cultural elites and his status as a man of respect and reputation, he was soon writing more business than any other agent between Ohio and California.

  Julius didn’t expect a greeting from Max, and he was not disappointed; his brother looked up fro
m his newspaper only long enough to ascertain that whoever had entered didn’t intend to rob the place. Julius went to the cigar rack, picked out a ten-cent panatela, and brought it to the counter.

  “Lovely day today, mein brudder,” Julius said. “You really should try to get outside.”

  Max grunted, took a dime from Julius, and dropped it in the cash box.

  Knowing this was all the conversation he could expect, Julius saluted his brother with the cigar and turned to leave.

  “Kleiner,” Max said in Yiddish, “this came for you this morning.”

  “Here? If they wanted to send me a letter, why didn’t they just mail it to the office?”

  “Business ain’t so bad I’m already a fortune teller,” Max said. “All I know is the little Stebbins kid ran in here and said a man gave him a dime he should deliver this. When I asked him what man, he just said ‘big’ and ran out.”

  Julius took the envelope. It was of standard, inexpensive business grade stock. The paper inside matched. It read:

  May 8, 1909

  Dear Mr. Julius Meyer,

  I am new to the state and will be engaged in some business here—cattle and sheep, mostly.

  I have been told that you are the man to see on all matters pertaining to business in Omaha and for that matter, all of Nebraska.

  My affairs will require not only your wise counsel, but a considerable investment on my part in life, health, livestock and vehicle insurance for myself, my family and my employees.

  It being a fine day, I ask that you meet me near the fountain in Hanscom Park at noontime. I sincerely hope that this rendezvous will produce results mutually beneficial.

  Very truly yours,

  I. M. Gael

  “Well, this is welcome. I’ve been a little lazy of late. Perhaps my sloth is being rewarded.”

  “You used to work for me, remember?” Max said without humor. “If lazy was rewarded, you’d be president.”

  Julius walked out into the sunshine and checked his watch: 10:30—plenty of time for a late breakfast. He crossed the street to the building that had once been The Big Cheese; it was now the home of a spotless new Harvey House, one of many that the ambitious Fred Harvey Company was building across the West.