“Not you.” Then elsewhere: “Thanks.” And off we continued, entering a building with the warm whoosh of a door. A buttery smell intensified as we moved over carpet. In a second room, we sloped downward, then he guided me to scuttle sideways and sit on a cushioned chair.

“Ta-da,” he said from an adjacent seat. “Merry early Christmas.” As I lowered my hands, he beamed above his scarf, cheeks pinkish from the cold, anticipating my reaction.

A picture show. Not a cheap nickelodeon, but the Monarch. I’d seen photos of the place—the nicest cinema in town. Other kids had boasted about sneaking in through an alley door and up to the balcony to catch Charlie Chaplin flicks. And even a real talkie. Sometimes they goaded Arie to join, but he never agreed, saying it was no different from stealing.

“But, Arie…won’t your folks mind?” I didn’t mean to be a square; I just couldn’t afford to jeopardize my standing.

“Pops said it was okay if I saved up. Special occasion and all that.”

I knew he’d been picking up jobs around town, more odds and ends than usual, yet not the driving reason why. “I had no inkling…”

“Don’t worry.” He smiled a bit. “Only had to rob a couple banks.”

In all seriousness, earning extra funds was a challenge even before the Depression. I should have told him how impressed I’d been, let alone for getting his parents’ permission on the splurge. But I was too distracted by the enormous screen, its decor of burgundy curtains, the rows and rows of velvety chairs—the exit doors in front and back.

Then the wall sconces dimmed. I reached for Arie’s hand on the armrest, a reflex, just as a white beam shot through the air. From a clicking projector high in the back, an introduction flickered across the screen. A background tune played.

HOUDINI

IN

‘THE GRIM GAME’

I gasped and pointed. “Arie, look.”

He gave me a knowing smirk.

My mind swirled with questions—wondering how he’d heard about the show, and what it was about, and did he already know if it was marvelous—but they never left my mouth. From the first reel to the next, every scene featuring the great Harry Houdini held me captive. The man was debonair in his suit, with slicked dark hair parted down the middle, identical to the photograph from his book—except a photo come to life. There were no voices, only typed words for dialogue, but it didn’t matter. I was riveted, literally on the edge of my seat.

Working as a newspaper reporter, his character was jailed for a murder he didn’t commit. When he broke out of his cell, it was to track down the true killers. Finishing the job required a series of astonishing escapes from chains, handcuffs, and a straitjacket, culminating with a spectacular aircraft collision.