Blooms of Darkness (10 page)

In the afternoon Victoria brings him soup and meatballs. She looks at him again and asks, “Do you speak Ukrainian?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m glad,” she says, and her face smiles. She immediately adds, “You’re lucky.”

“How?” Hugo asks.

“They’ve already sent away all the Jews, but the Germans aren’t satisfied with that. They’re going from house to house and making careful searches, and every day they find another five, another six. Whoever tries to run away is shot. Also if anyone is caught hiding Jews, they kill him.”

“Will they kill me, too?” He is panicked for a moment.

“You’re not like the Jews. You’re blond and speak Ukrainian like a Ukrainian.”

It’s hard to know what’s going on in Victoria’s head. When she speaks about the Jews, a sort of smile with many meanings spreads across her mouth, as though she were speaking about things one mustn’t talk about.

“The poor Jews, they don’t leave them in peace.” She changes her tone.

“After the war, won’t life again be the way it was?” Hugo wants her to confirm that.

“We’ll probably live without Jews.”

“Won’t they come back to the city?” he asks in surprise.

“That’s God’s will. Who gave you the cross?”

“Mariana.”

“And do you believe in Jesus?”

“Yes,” he says, without removing all the doubt from her heart.

“The Jews don’t believe in Jesus.” She wants to put him to the test.

“I like the cross. Mariana told me it was my charm.” He avoids her direct question.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she says, bowing her head.

Toward evening she brings him sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade and asks, “Do you pray?”

“At night, before closing my eyes, I say, ‘God, watch over me and over my parents and over all those who call Your name and seek Your help.’ ”

“That isn’t a prayer,” she says quickly.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s a request. Prayer has a set wording that we say.”

“I’ll ask Mariana to teach it to me.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“Do you know my mother?” He delays her.

“Certainly I know her. Who doesn’t know Julia? Every poor person in the city goes to her pharmacy. She smiles at them all and is never angry. Usually pharmacists are irritable. They scold you or show you that you’re ignorant. Your mother greets people kindly.”

“Maybe you know where she’s hiding?”

“God knows. It’s dangerous to hide Jews. Whoever hides Jews gets killed.”

“But they’re hiding my mother.”

“I believe so,” she says, and bows her head.

At night, in his dream, Hugo hears a loud noise in Mariana’s room, like somebody drilling. Suddenly the closet door
collapses and in the doorway stand Victoria and two soldiers. Victoria points at his corner and says, “There he is before you. I’m not the one who hid him. Mariana hid him.”

“Where’s Mariana?”

“She’s mourning for her mother.”

“Get to your feet, Jew,” one of the soldiers orders him, and blinds him with his flashlight.

Hugo tries to get up, but his legs are attached to the floor. He tries again and again but doesn’t succeed.

“If you don’t get up, we’ll shoot you.”

“Jesus, save me!” Hugo shouts, and clutches the cross.

Hearing his cry, Victoria smiles and says, “It’s all a pretense.”

“Should we kill him?” the soldier asks her. “Do what you want,” she says, and moves aside. A shot is heard, and Hugo falls into a deep pit. When he wakes up he knows he’s been saved again, and he is glad.

Toward morning Hugo hears voices in Mariana’s room, and fear rivets him to his place. One is the voice of a man complaining that the bathtub isn’t clean and the sheets are dirty. In her defense, the woman claims that it isn’t her room but another woman’s. The conversation, as always, takes place in brusque German.

In the end the voices fall silent, and only grunts can be heard. Hugo doesn’t fall back to sleep. The visions of the night and the first lights of the morning merge, and he’s sad that Mariana is mourning alongside her mother’s coffin. The sorrow gradually melds to the remainder of his fear, and they stay within him, becoming one.

22

It is eleven o’clock, and Victoria is late in coming with the cup of milk. Hugo stands at the cracks in the closet wall and listens intently to the cawing of the crows and the barking of the dogs, which rise from the snowy fields.

The winter is now at its height. It now seems as if Hugo has been separated from his mother for a long time, a time crammed with events he doesn’t understand. His dreams remain clear, but not with a clarity you can touch. They are accompanied by a strange geometrical dimension. At first that seemed like a prank to him, but soon he realized that the forms were indeed repeated. His mother, for example, wore a triangular hat. He was surprised by that form, but he thought only of a general statement: “People aren’t shaped in geometrical forms. The dreams have become confused for me.”

But his memory is clear and palpable. In the winter, over Christmas vacation, Hugo’s family used to travel to the Carpathian Mountains. That was a joy unlike any other joy. His parents skied with elegant grace. His father was faster, but his mother didn’t lag far behind. Hugo learned the sport without difficulty. At the age of nine he already skied easily, without stumbling.

Hugo had always loved trips. It was too bad that his parents
didn’t have time to take long vacations. During vacations, the daily routine changed according to the weather. There was no sign of haste or rush. Every morning, the peasant woman from whom they rented the cabin would bring them a pitcher of milk, a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a packet of golden butter. They were vegetarians, and the peasant woman found it hard to absorb that. She repeatedly expressed surprise. “Why abstain from salt pork or a little beef?” When his mother told her, “Vegetables and dairy products are enough for us,” the peasant woman would make a strange gesture with her head, as if to say,
Even so, without meat a person isn’t satisfied
.

During winter vacation his father appeared at his full height. When he spoke with people back home, he usually stooped. For that reason he sometimes seemed to be the same height as Hugo’s mother. During winter vacation, it became clear to everyone that he was a head taller.

Winter vacation was always accompanied by a feeling of soaring—perhaps because of the splendor of the snow, or the long and bright nights. They would drink punch and read until late at night. They spoke little, but sometimes his mother would recall memories from her student days at the university.

The cabin, the horse and sleigh that were at their disposal, the blankets they wrapped themselves in while riding, the thermos bottles and sandwiches, the little bells that hung around the horse’s neck—all that earthiness seemed marvelous to Hugo. All fears were erased. Just he and his parents, just he soaring on skis over the glowing snow. School, tests, obligations, and frictions were all erased, as if they had never existed, and Hugo and his parents were what they wanted to be: lovers of nature and lovers of books.

The vacation would end abruptly. At night his mother would pack the suitcases and at first light they would mount the sleigh and go to the railroad station. That cold sundering, which took place early in the morning, would make Hugo
shudder and cry. His mother would say, “You mustn’t cry about transitory things. Mama and Papa would also like to stay here longer, but it’s impossible to close the pharmacy for longer than a week.”

Suddenly, that bright life is revealed to him in the closet, appearing before his eyes as it did while it was actually happening.

At noon the door to Mariana’s room is opened cautiously, and then the closet door. Victoria tells Hugo right away that soldiers are making house-to-house searches. He must lie still and not make a sound.

“Here are sandwiches and milk. If the searches stop, I’ll bring you something else at night, but don’t expect me.”

“What should I do?”

“Nothing. Lie down as if you didn’t exist.”

“And if they break in?”

“Don’t worry, we won’t let them,” she says, and shuts the closet door.

Victoria’s words don’t calm Hugo. He lies on his couch as though paralyzed. All the captivating visions that had raised his spirits just a short time ago have vanished. The thought that in a moment soldiers will break in, arrest him, and bring him to the police station fills him with dread and weakens his knees.

That evening the twilight is long between the cracks in the closet wall, and it gets dark slowly. There are no noises, and for a moment it seems to him that the night will pass without an incursion from outside. Everything will be accomplished quietly, with whispers and grunts. But that’s only an illusion. As the night begins, the pounding of hammers is heard, as is the noise of furniture being moved. The commotion continues for a long time. Suddenly, with no warning, as though to contradict everything that was threatening him, an accordion breaks
into song. A saxophone joins in immediately. Hugo is astonished. Now Victoria’s sowing of fear sounds like an empty threat.

For a long time Hugo lies still and listens. The merry music grows louder and louder, feet stamp, voices shout. Above the din, women’s laughter is heard. It sounds as though someone was tickling them. This mysterious place, which encloses him on all sides, suddenly seems like Mr. Herzig’s banquet hall, where weddings and parties were held, and where Uncle Sigmund had been married.

When he was drunk, Uncle Sigmund would often present Mr. Herzig’s banquet hall as a prime example. Mr. Herzig’s hall, disgustingly splendid, was the palace of the Jewish petite bourgeoisie. In it they would get engaged, marry, celebrate circumcisions and bar mitzvahs, and of course silver and golden wedding anniversaries. Uncle Sigmund loathed the Jewish petite bourgeoisie ensconced in large houses, in gigantic department stores, in fine restaurants, and in splendid catering halls. In his drunkenness, he would shout, “They’re empty, they’re overblown, they’re golems whose souls have departed.” He was particularly angered by Mr. Herzig’s palace, where the men would compete among themselves as to who could provide the most splendid meals and at whose party they served the fullest plates. His former wife embodied them fully. Uncle Sigmund constantly wondered how he could have been caught in that net. He said repeatedly, “In the world to come, if there is such a thing, they’ll thrash me because I was blind and didn’t see what any sensible person can see. I deserve it. I deserve it.”

The music and debauched laughter last until late at night and then suddenly fall silent, as though the dancers have collapsed.

In the last darkness of the night, Mariana’s door is opened, and then the closet door. Victoria stands in the doorway and immediately tells Hugo, “You’re lucky. All around us they made
careful night searches. Apparently because of the big party that was here, they didn’t come in, but who knows?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Hugo asks with a trembling voice.

“Pray.”

“I don’t know how to pray.”

“Didn’t your parents teach you?”

“No.”

“That’s strange. You didn’t go to synagogue?”

“No.”

“Every hour, say, ‘God Lord, save me from death.’ ”

“Should I kiss the cross?” Hugo asks.

“That’s desirable. In a little while I’ll bring you a cup of milk and some sandwiches. But don’t expect me later today. The soldiers are going from house to house and looking for Jews, and it’s not a good idea to wander around here. Do you understand me?”

“I understand. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, pray to God,” Victoria says, and shuts the closet door.

23

The next morning Victoria again comes late with the cup of milk, and she tell Hugo that searches are still going on in the nearby houses. In one house they found a Jewish family with three children. They arrested the family and the owners of the house who gave them shelter, and all of them were taken to the police station.

Seriousness has clouded Victoria’s eyes, and it’s evident that she has more news, but she keeps it to herself.

“What should I do?”

“I’ve already told you, pray.”

“And if they discover me?”

“You’ll stand up and say you’re Mariana’s son.”

Not noticing what he’s doing, Hugo reaches for the knapsack and removes the Bible from it. In the middle of the book lies an envelope. He quickly opens it and reads:

Dear Hugo
,

I don’t know when and in what circumstances this letter will find you. I imagine that you’re not having an easy time. I want you to know that I had no choice. The peasants who promised to come, didn’t come, and danger was lurking in every corner. It was not with light thoughts that I decided to
place you in the hands of my childhood friend Mariana. She is a good woman, but life has not been kind to her. She is prone to moods, and you have to be considerate of her. If she’s bitter or angry, don’t be annoyed with her and don’t answer anything. Restraint is always desirable. Moods have a way of passing. Also, suffering has a limit, and in the end, we’ll be together again. I think about you all the time. I hope that you have something to eat and that your sleep isn’t disturbed. As for me, I don’t know where I’ll end up. If only I can, I’ll visit you, but don’t expect me. I’m with you all the time, day and night, and if it’s hard for you, think about Papa and me. Your thoughts will join us together. You aren’t alone in the world, dear. Grandpa used to say that parting is an illusion. Thoughts join us even when we are far from one another. Recently I’ve felt that Grandpa is with us, too. He passed away two years before the war. You remember him
.

I’m writing these lines about three hours before our departure. For a moment it seemed to me that I didn’t equip you with enough instructions. Now I see that in fact we’ve discussed everything. I imagine that adaptation isn’t easy for you. I have one request of you: don’t despair. Despair is surrender. I believed and still believe in optimism even in these dark hours. That’s how I am. You know me, and apparently I’ll stay like that
.