HOUDINI UNBOUND: BACK-STORY

Back cover: Fidel Sclavo

This extract is being published on Yom Kippur, a sad and holy day in the Jewish calendar. Harry Houdini, the rabbi's son, was not particularly observant, but was nevertheless proud of his Jewish heritage. He wrote feelingly about the 1903 murderous riot against Jews - "pogrom" - in Kishinev, Russia. Houdini's 1903 tour of Russia forms the basis of our historical novel, HOUDINI UNBOUND, forthcoming in November.

The atmosphere of terror, suicide bombing and political upheaval was very similar to today.

In our story, Harry and his assistant, Franz Kukol, befriend a Jewish craftsman named Samuel Saltzman, who makes him tools that help in his escapes. 

"You loved your Uncle Sholem very much," Kukol observed.  "To take this much risk...."  

"Yes," Samuel said.  "I loved him.  And I owe him.  It was he who took the risk when he saved me from the pogroms.  And I failed to save him."

"Pogroms?  He saved you?" Kukol asked slowly.  "I don't follow....  There was more than one...?"

"Oh, yes," Samuel said sadly.  "You see.  Even you.  You're a well-educated European and you don't know that it has happened not just in Kishinev, but all over Russia, now and before.  It happened in Kiev, my birthplace, in 1881, when I was six years old.  My entire life, and the life of all Russia, changed in a single moment.  It all started with an Easter cake...."

The Easter cake had been tall and rounded, crowned with white icing, paper flowers and the letters XB written in a mosaic of candied fruits.  It was cradled in the arms of a squat Polish Catholic named Grinevitski, as he stood near the banks of the Catherine Canal in St. Petersburg, waiting to assassinate the Tsar.

After six previous attempts,  Grinevitski's gang of suicide bombers had created such a panic in St. Petersburg that no one would attend the opera unless they were certain the Tsar, Alexander II, would not be there.  

As Grinevitski shivered with cake in hand, Alexander II was returning to the Winter Palace from the Sunday military parade at St. Michael's Riding School.  As a security precaution, precisely to confuse any terrorist ambushes, his convoy of carriages unexpectedly changed routes and proceeded slowly along the Catherine Canal instead of taking the direct route back to the Palace.  However, anticipating such a tactic, the terrorists had posted a backup bomber right there -- namely, Grinevitski.  Before the Cossack guards could react, Grinevitski approached on foot and handed his Easter cake to Alexander. The Tsar tapped the XB, standing for Christos Voskres, “Christ is Risen,” and, making the sign of the cross, said, in the manner of all Russians at Easter: 

“Thank God. Voistinu Voskres! Truly He is Risen!”

“Don’t thank God yet,” said Grinevitski. The cake exploded, killing the assassin and destroying Alexander’s legs. Blue smoke was still dispersing slowly over the icy canal when the Tsar died in his palace an hour later, gushing blood.  His thirteen-year old grandson, who would eventually become Tsar Nicholas II, watched in helpless horror.

Following the assassination, more than two hundred fifty brutal mob attacks broke out in small villages and large cities throughout Russia.  These murderous “pogroms” were mostly directed at Jews, "in populist revenge out of love for the Tsar," according to a sermon condoning them, delivered by the leader of the Orthodox Church.  But the attacks continued even after the minister of police, Count V.K. von Plehve, captured, tortured and executed Grinevitski's gang. The terrorists turned out to be not Jews, but militant Catholics who believed Alexander had failed to defend the Christian holy shrines in Jerusalem against Muslim infidels.

As tensions mounted in Kiev, Samuel explained, his parents had sent him away for his own safety, to the ancient town of Kishinev.  There, he lived with and soon apprenticed to great-uncle Sholem, a craftsman with circular horn-rimmed spectacles, a skull-capped bald head and a silky white beard. By the time Samuel was sixteen he was tall, slender, strong and an expert artisan himself. Like many in the new generation of craftsmen, he was also decidedly modern --  blond hair trimmed short, no beard, and far more interested in current affairs than in the ancient wanderings and sufferings of his forefathers. Thus, young Samuel deeply loved and respected Sholem, but frequently argued with him about everything from God downward.

“Great-Uncle, where was God when the mob attacked Kiev and killed my parents?  Where is God right now?”

“Right now, God is in Kyzyl-Kum, building double stepladders with happiness fastened to the top, for the righteous to ascend to Heaven," Sholem replied solemnly, removing his glasses and looking Samuel straight in the eye.  "About Kiev, Samuel, you’re sending the question to the wrong address. You have to ask the mobsters why they attacked. Not God. You have to ask von Plehve why his police did nothing to stop them. God already did His part -- He gave them all the ability to tell right from wrong." Sholem put down his spectacles and his miniature screwdriver and clasped Samuel by the shoulder. "You see, Samuel, I don’t follow the Jewish way because it brings me close to God.  I follow it because it helps me live.”

“The rich seem to live just fine, without the Jewish way,” Samuel said.

“The rich think they own the world because they have all the money. We're here to show them what we can do with poverty!”  Samuel had to laugh, though it was a joke he had heard many times before. 

"But you know," Sholem said, "if you save your money, little by little eventually it plugs the hole in your pocket. So come with me to meet the nephew of a cousin of a friend. He's arriving on the train from Rostov, with some diamonds for sale. We'll take a look."  

They walked to the railroad station.  On the way they passed rickety wooden dwellings with cows and chickens in the yards, public bathhouses where musicians and matchmakers sat in front plying their trades, and more than sixty tiny synagogues, which doubled as rest stops for elderly Jewish foot peddlers hauling heavy sacks on their backs.

The train, officially known as "The Southern Rocket," was nicknamed variously "The Loafer," "The Slowpoke," or "The Dawdler." It arrived two hours late; one man got off. Samuel thought he was the ugliest man he had ever seen, who was wearing beautiful, exquisitely tailored clothes.

“Evno Fischelevich,” Uncle Sholem cried. “Thank God you’re in one piece.”

“Ah, Sholem Voronovsky, hello there, peace be with you,” the man replied, in a deep, bold voice. They shook hands and clapped each other on the back. Several years older than Samuel, the stranger spoke with charisma, an air of knowing authority that retouched his ugliness, rendering it almost attractive. 

“This is my great-nephew Samuel Saltzman,” Sholem said.  “Evno Fischelevich Azev, all the way from Rostov-on-the-Don.”

Samuel took Azev’s hand, which felt soft and slouchy.

“Ah, Saltzman?  Any relation to Alexander, the artist?”

“Not that I know of,” answered Samuel.

“Ah, he illustrated a couple of stories I wrote in the newspapers,” Azev said proudly.  

Uncle Sholem inquired about the trip, while Samuel goggled speechlessly at this beautifully-dressed salmon-lipped pig who wrote for the newspapers.

“You really have to be careful on these trains,” Azev replied to Sholem. “The police are so corrupt….   They’re the ones you have to watch out for, forget about the pickpockets, cardsharps and hustlers. And when you’re carrying diamonds, it all goes double.” He spat as they left the platform and walked toward the station’s small cafe.

“Yes, your diamonds,” said Sholem. “Where’s your case?”

“I don’t carry a case any more. I used to until I learned my lesson.”

“You keep them in your pocket?” Uncle Sholem asked incredulously.

“No, someplace better.” Azev scanned the station to make sure they were unobserved. He quickly turned out the waistband of his impeccably-fitting trousers and revealed a cleverly concealed inner pouch, sewn in and closed with a drawstring. He flipped it back almost before it had registered on Samuel’s eyes.

“Ah, my father opened a tailor shop, you recall, when we moved to Rostov,” he said. “He made this for me.”

“So, he’s doing well?” Sholem inquired.

“Well enough, thank God. He's managed to send me, my brother and even my sister to the Russian gymnasium. So I’ve learned to speak and write Russian like a native. I’ve actually read Gogol and Pushkin! It was good for me, but it made me angry. Why should I be able to go just because my father makes an extra dress for the mayor’s wife? It’s criminal! And I say that as one who has benefited from it!”

“What can we do about that?" piped Samuel. "It’s the way of life, isn’t it?”

He regarded Samuel with small, crafty eyes. “Ah, yes, that’s the pity. Corruption is the way of life. But there is something we can do. We can fight!”

Uncle Sholem gave Azev a warning look. “Don’t start with politics already,” he cried. “For God’s sake, he’s just a boy. So, back to business. What do you mean you learned your lesson with the attaché case? You’re the first diamond dealer I’ve ever seen who didn’t carry one.” 

“Well, if you lived in a civilized place like Rostov instead of this godforsaken spot you’d already know the answer. It was so remarkable I wrote it up for the Yiddish newspapers.”  

Sholem shook his head. "Did not see it," he said, as he signaled the waiter for tea.

Azev's large hands traced a shape in the air like a rectangular box.  

“Ah, so, I used to travel with a beautiful case made out of morocco leather. The case was sometimes worth more than the diamonds inside.

“One day I hear about a man in Kiev who is marrying off his daughter and I think, aha, this is a job for Azev the diamond trader. I fill my fine leather case with the best, most expensive samples I can find, and I take the train to Kiev.

“Well, I tell you, you can say what you like about rich men, Jew and Gentile alike, but as far as I’m concerned they can all drop dead from the bedinka! This fellow is a perfect example – he looks at every piece, he raves over each one, he turns each facet to the light, he goes 'shayn' and 'such a bren,' but, at the end of the day he buys – exactly nothing.  

“What can I do? I hail a droshky to head back to the station.  Maybe I can make a sale in Odessa, or Nikolayev. Why waste more time with this yentzer!?

“Just as I’m about to get in the droshky I hear someone shout,‘Hey, Mister. You forgot your case.’

“I nearly dropped dead! My beautiful morocco case, filled with diamonds -- I couldn’t believe I had lost it, but sure enough this young man runs up to the droshky and hands it to me.

“I almost break down crying with gratitude. ‘Young man, may God grant you health, wealth and happiness! Thank you, thank you, thank you until the end of time!’

“’Don’t mention it,’ he says modestly.

“’How can I not mention it?’ I wail. ‘You are an angel. You saved my livelihood, my life. You’ve done a great, great deed. No reward is high enough. Please, just tell me what you want and I will do anything I possibly can for you.’ I reach into my pocket to give him all the money I have on me.

“’Well, if it’s really such a good deed, as you say, why should I demean it by selling it for money?’ he says, with the logic of a Rambam.

“When I heard that, I took the young man in my arms and gave him a powerful hug and kisses on both cheeks. ‘God Himself will hear those words and reward you,’ I said sincerely. ‘But please at least come with me now and let me buy you something to eat and a glass of wine.’

“He agreed, so we got into the carriage and instead of going to the railroad station we went to the best restaurant in Kiev. We took a private booth and I ordered an outstanding dinner for my companion and myself, not forgetting a bottle of fine French wine. We began to talk and I developed even more admiration for my new friend. He was a delightful companion, as well as modest, intelligent and extremely good looking, with especially dark and liquid eyes. We ate and drank to our hearts’ content. Not that we were drunk, mind you. But I was feeling no pain when I again told the boy how I owed him, how he saved me from the diamond dealer’s dread – being accused of pocketing merchandise and claiming the samples were stolen! ‘God bless you for protecting me from my creditors,’ I cried, and urged him to have one more drink before I had to take off. He took the drink, I paid the bill and turned to wish the dear boy one last goodbye for saving my sample case – But where’s the boy? And where’s the case? When I turned around, I found only empty space!

“I went crazy! I ran into the street and screamed so loud half the Kiev police force came out to investigate. I promised them a fat reward and spent the rest of the day visiting every rat hole, every den of scalawags in that large and corrupt city. Nothing. No sign of my former friend nor my case.

“I was just debating whether to hang myself or drown myself when I received a message from one of the police stations. I hurried over and nearly plotzed again when I saw my erstwhile friend there, in handcuffs, with my case – still filled with all the diamonds! He looked perfectly serene. 

“’Please, please,’ I begged him, with tears in my eyes, ‘help me to understand what you did. Why run after me to return my case, then, the minute I turn my back, you steal it!?’

“He looks at me with those big brown eyes and says, calm as you please, ‘What does one thing have to do with the other? A good deed is a good deed. But stealing is my profession! I have children to feed! I just need more practice on my getaways.’

“From that moment on,” said Azev, “to protect myself against good deeds, I’ve carried my merchandise right here.” Reaching into his secret pocket he withdrew a handful of jewelry. “Did you ever even dream of a set of diamond earrings as beautiful as these…?”

Half an hour later, as they haggled over diamonds, an elderly clerk from the station’s telegraph office shuffled into the cafe.

“Mr. Azev. Telegram for passenger Azev.”

Azev seemed startled. “Ah, over here.” He took the telegram, tore it open, and blanched. 

“Bad news?” Uncle Sholem inquired.

“Ah, yes, it would seem so. Thank God you’re here, Sholem. Everyone here knows you, you can vouch for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is from my father. The police in Rostov are making inquiries about me. It seems they, ah, disagree with some of my political writings, and they are looking for me. I believe the thing to do is to get out of Russia for a while. But I’ll need a passport. And I can’t go back to Rostov – they’ll catch me and lock me up. I wonder if you can go with me to the local prefecture and co-sign my application for a passport to Germany?”

Samuel stared in disbelief. “You mean they’ll arrest you just for writing stories in the newspapers?”

“Sadly, this is true,” Uncle Sholem confirmed.

“Of course, I won’t have the ‘oof’ to pay for a passport,” Azev said sadly. “Unless you buy some diamonds….” 

Two hours later, eight hundred rubles richer, Azev got a brand-new passport and took the next train from Kishinev to Karlsruhe, in Germany. 

***