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He knows nothing.” But deep inside he knew that though Ginzburg was crazy, it was untrue that he knew nothing. Orf considered what to do with the Jew. He didn’t want to turn him over to the Polish police, who might start asking questions and discover something disgraceful. He decided instead to personally escort Ginzburg out of the building through the back entrance. It was suppertime and chances were that he wouldn’t run into anyone on the way. He lifted Ginzburgup and supported him till he could stand on his feet. This took quite a while, and the touch of the Jew was almost unbearable. Ginzburg’s pain was so tangible it overflowed into Orf’s body. He felt weak and lost. When Ginzburg’s legs were steadier, Orf began leading him to the door. He had to hold him up as they walked through the corridor, and he prayed he wouldn’t run into anybody. His prayers were not answered, however: someone approached in the corridor, a short, stocky man. They met in the light of the yellow lamp with the wire netting. Praise be to God, thought Orf, the man was a Polish civilian. The corridor was too narrow for all three to pass, and the man made way, taking a good, long look at them, which was enough for him to figure out what had taken place. That is, in retrospect Orf was convinced that one look was enough for the little blue-eyed Pole to figure out what had taken place. The man hurried after them and cleared his throat politely. Orf, supporting Ginzburg’s weight, turned to him angrily. The man hurried to say, “Pardon, my name is Otto Brig, and I have a permit here to remove Jewish prisoners.” Orf didn’t miss his chance. “Take him!” he almost shrieked. “Get him out of here!” But as Orf watched Otto walk away supporting the bleeding wreck by the waist, he sensed with anguish that perhaps he hadn’t understood what had happened in the interrogation room at all, that perhaps the terrible Jew had, in some strange and unintelligible way, uttered man’s deepest truth.

HAROTIAN

Foe of the tyranny of sensory perception. A magician by trade.

Harotian was born in the small Armenian village of Faradian in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. His wonder-working power was discovered quite by chance: The Children of the Heart, who in 1885 flew to Armenia in the time machine to save the town of Faradian from the marauding Turkish Army, had hidden in a cave, surrounded by a battalion of cruel Turks. So ends Chapter 9 of the story. A week later, Wasserman delivered the sequel, Chapter 10, to Zalmanson, wherein the Children of the Heart make a last-minute escape through the back of the cave and are saved. This was Wasserman’s usual way of rescuing the band from the predicaments into which he put them. The new chapter was already on its way to the printers, and Zalmanson and Wasserman had a friendly chat in the office before departing each forhis home. A short while later, at around midnight, Zalmanson came banging on Wasserman’s door, nearly waking the dead with his screams. Wasserman (in neatly pressed striped pajamas, soft slippers, his thin hair tousled, looking highly alarmed) carefully opened the door and absorbed the brunt of Zalmanson’s fury: a shocking error had been committed, it seems. At home in bed, Zalmanson had suddenly recalled that in an earlier chapter Wasserman distinctly mentions that Otto inspected the cave and found no second opening! Wasserman shuddered. Zalmanson stood in the doorway wearing a coat over his red silk pajamas, shrieking almost effeminately, “Ac-cu-racy, Wasserman, ac-cu-ra-cy!” They ran back to the editorial office together and stopped the press. Wasserman was frightened and confused. A table was cleared for him next to the machine, and the printers, whose work had stopped, stood watching. He knew he would not be able to write a single word. He needed at least a week to “ripen.” The room was full of smoke and the suffocating smell of ink. The printers looked dirty to him, hostile and violent. Zalmanson sat opposite him, drumming nervously on the table. And Wasserman understood exactly how the band felt, trapped inside the cave. He groaned in despair. His spectacles were covered with steam. He knew that only a MIRACLE [q.v.] could save him now. And so Harotian came into the series, issuing from the following sentence: “‘Hark,’ whispered Otto into the ears of his frightened companions, ‘is that the bleating of a babe, or a wee tot of the village?’” Zalmanson pointed out maliciously, though not unjustly, that if Otto could miss the child on his earlier search of the cave, there might have been a hidden tunnel, too, but this was no time for arguments. Moments later, while Turkish sabers flashed at the mouth of the cave, a flight of mysterious white eagles burst forth, bearing the small Armenian boy of magical power high over the heads of the Turks, who prostrated themselves on the ground crying “Allah! Allah!” Chapter 10 was received with such wild acclaim that Zalmanson gave Wasserman a 25 percent pay raise, though the expression on his face deprived Wasserman of any pleasure. After that, Harotian never departed from the Children of the Heart, and joined in all their adventures, performing wondrous feats of magic and trilling melodies on his little flute that “wrenched tears from the eyes of the basest villains.” When the Children of the Heart disbanded (their last adventure was written in 1925), Harotian traveled around the world and prospered. He performed with all themajor circuses as a clown and magician, and appeared with Barnum & Bailey for five years running. He never learned how to read or write, but his experience with people gave him worldly wisdom. Perhaps this is why he was willing to perform only the banal side of magic, the familiar tricks of all magicians, for the public. He learned some