Blooms of Darkness

by Aharon Appelfeld

“You mustn’t speak in generalizations,” his mother answered softly.

  Ever since Hugo could remember, he had tried to take sentences apart and understand words. Those efforts brought him no joy. His father encouraged him to think in an orderly way. His mother, by contrast, taught him to blend into whatever was happening and not to ask unnecessary questions, because not every question has an answer. You have to greet people warmly and not seek a reward for every deed.

  “Hugo, you have to be generous. A generous person isn’t miserable.” That was his mother’s great rule, and she lived by it. In the pharmacy, poor people received medicine without paying, but his mother wasn’t satisfied with that. She helped poor people on her own. She would visit them in their homes and bring them a hot meal or some cash. To Mariana she used to bring fresh food and warm clothing.

  Not only poor people came to the pharmacy, but also the mentally ill, petty thieves, and even criminals. The pharmacy had been surrounded more than once by policemen and detectives. Hugo’s parents were united in the opinion that if a person comes for medicine, you shouldn’t examine him too closely. Several times they had been accused of helping lawbreakers. His mother kept saying, “We aren’t saints, but we can’t ignore people in need.”

  9

  Hugo wraps himself in the sheepskins, and it seems to him that he will fall asleep right away. But that good sleep, which he already felt at his fingertips, withdraws and leaves him awake in the empty, silent space. Again he sees the way he got here. His mother is carrying the suitcase in one hand and the knapsack in the other. The knapsack is heavy, and it is too hard for Hugo to carry it.

  Another life, he says to himself, and doesn’t know what he is saying.

  After they took his tonsils out, he hadn’t known what was taken from his body and how many days he would have to suffer from pain. The people around him, two nurses and a doctor, looked to him like severe and cruel creatures. His mother and father stood behind them helplessly. They looked at him with eyes full of mercy, as though saying to Hugo, You aren’t alone. We’ll protect you with all our strength. In a little while the medical team will leave you, and you’ll come back to us. We know, it’s not an easy experience, but in a few days it will all pass, and you’ll be with us, as always.

  Hugo sees his parents very clearly. The distant past that hides within him removes its veils and stands before him, face-to-face. He is sad that he has been separated from his loving parents and that he has to lie under the cold and stinking sheepskins.

  While he is sunk in that frightening vision, Hugo hears a voice in Mariana’s room. It is the voice of a man who isn’t satisfied and who expresses his dissatisfaction with blunt words. The man speaks in German, but a German different from his. Hugo doesn’t understand most of the words. At first it amuses him to eavesdrop, but as the disagreements grow stronger, a clear threat is heard in the man’s voice.

  Mariana, whose voice he definitely recognized, tries to mollify the man, but he sticks to his opinion. In the end Mariana says a few things that make him laugh. The differences of opinion die down, and there are whispers that Hugo can barely catch.

  Sleep has been stolen from him. He is awake, with an alertness that grows steadily sharper. Sounds of scraping come from Mariana’s room, as though they are trying to move a heavy piece of furniture. The sounds of movement intensify, and it is clear that the words have stopped and only the unseen movements are doing what they are doing.

  Then he hears Mariana say, “If I’m not what you want, you can pick another woman. I’m not the only girl in this house.” Hugo doesn’t catch the man’s answer. They argue, but there isn’t any anger. In the end he hears the man say, “You know very well what my conditions are.”

  “I try, but I don’t always manage.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “I’ve always drunk, and you just started complaining recently.”

  “Because you overdo it. A drunken woman is a damaged woman.”

  “You’re wrong. A drunken woman is a woman liberated from all restraints, who knows how to love right.”

  “I don’t like it when people mix things up. Drinking is one thing and love is another.”

  “And I actually think that it’s a good idea to mix them. Love without a drink is dull love, full of inhibitions and tasteless.”

  “I understand you,” he says, but it is clear that he doesn’t agree with her.

  “What can you do? That’s how I am. It’s clear I won’t change.”

  Though he is tired, Hugo catches the whole conversation. The words “drunk” and “brandy” are no strangers to him. His uncle Sigmund, his mother’s brother, was addicted to brandy, and in Hugo’s house that subject was constantly discussed. Hugo loved his uncle even when he was drunk. When he came to their house drunk, his mother kept Hugo out of the living room and ordered him to go up to his room. Uncle Sigmund was a happy drunk. He would joke about his drunkenness and make everyone laugh. Only Hugo’s mother wouldn’t laugh. Sigmund’s drunkenness made her sad, and sometimes she would cry.

  Meanwhile, Hugo falls asleep.

  In his dream he is with his parents, and they are swimming in the Prut River. Suddenly Uncle Sigmund appears, and he is drunk and dirty. His mother, in her despair, tries to hide the shameful sight from Hugo. Because her hands can’t do it, she throws a big bath towel over his head, and it covers him completely. Hugo is suffocating and tries to throw the towel off, but his mother tightens it with both hands and refuses to heed his shout. Then her hands weaken, and Hugo falls into the waters of the Prut, which suddenly change color and become black and sticky.

  His mother grabs him with both hands and picks him up, shouting, “The boy has drowned, the boy has drowned, help!” Because of the suffocation, or perhaps because of the scream, Hugo wakes from the nightmare.

  The first morning light filters into the closet. From Mariana’s room merry voices can now be heard, as if Mariana and a man were rolling around in the bed, throwing pillows at each other. Clearly this isn’t the same man who grumbled before. This is a cheerful man, who is amusing Mariana.

  “You’re funny,” she keeps saying.

  “I don’t mean to make you laugh.”

  “But you do make me laugh. You’re good to me.”

  “I’m going to eat some of you.”

  “And I’ll eat some of you, too.”

  The laughter grows stronger, and it is obvious they are happy with each other.

  Later he hears the man’s voice. “It’s late. I have to go.”

  “And when will you come back?” she asks right away.

  “I don’t know. My unit is going north.”

  “If you come back here, don’t forget me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I was good to you, right?”

  “Excellent.”

  After a short silence the man says, “They’re probably sending my unit to the front.”

  “I hope not,” says Mariana.

  “Pray for me that I won’t be wounded. Better to die than be wounded. A wounded man is as good as dead. I’ve taken care of a lot of wounded men.”

  “I’ll pray, I promise you.”

  “Do you go to church?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “My whole name is Johann Sebastian. My parents named me after the famous composer. They hoped I would become a musician.”

  “I’ll pray, I promise.”

  “Is that a strange request?”

  “No, why?”

  “I’ve seen too many wounded men in the past two years.”

  “Don’t be scared, dear.”

  “I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of being wounded.” He leaves, and Mariana leaves right after him. The silence returns.

  Hugo lays his head on the sheepskins and says to himself, Strange things happen here. I don’t understand a thing. He closes his eyes, and again Uncle Sigmund appears to him. Because of his alcoholism, Uncle Sigmund never finished his medical studies. He kept
promising his sister that he would soon dry out and return to them. That went on for years.

  Not only was his drinking shameful. Sometimes he would bring a woman with him, usually from the lower classes, who was also addicted to drink. She would cling to him, hugging and kissing him in front of everybody and declaring, “Sigmund is a prince. Sigmund is a king.” Seeing such a woman, Hugo’s mother’s eyes would turn saffron yellow. His father was less sensitive, and during Uncle Sigmund’s strange appearances, he would sit and talk with him, sometimes for hours, about medicine and literature. Hugo didn’t understand a thing from those conversations, but he enjoyed watching the men. Even then he would say to himself, Everything I see, I’ll lock up in my heart. The thought that life passes by and that the dead will not come back to life pained him even then.

  10

  Hugo has apparently been forgotten, because it is ten o’clock before Mariana stands at the closet door with a cup of milk in her hand.

  “How’s Mariana’s sweet little puppy?”

  “He’s okay.” Hugo is drawn into her way of speaking.

  “Soon Mariana is going to tidy up the room and you can move over into it. Mariana won’t sleep this morning. She has to go to town and buy some things for herself. You can amuse yourself quietly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why do you say thank you for everything? Mariana’s not used to being thanked. You only have to say thank you for big things.”

  Like what? he wants to ask, but he doesn’t ask.

  Hugo drinks the warm milk, and he feels that every sip eases the thirst that has tortured him since he woke up. Meanwhile, Mariana tidies her room, puts on makeup, changes her blouse, and when she comes back to him, she is already different: her face is open. The smile of a contented woman lights it.

  “Sweet puppy, Mariana’s locking the door. If somebody knocks, don’t answer.”

  Mariana’s way of referring to herself in the third person amuses his ear for a moment. He has never heard anyone talk about himself that way. Mariana repeats her instruction: “If someone knocks on the door, don’t answer. You mustn’t make a mistake, do you hear?”

  Sometimes Mariana talks to him in German—faulty German, a little like children’s speech. Several times he wants to correct her mistakes, but in his heart he knows that Mariana won’t like that.

  Before going out, she says to him, “If you’re hungry, eat the sandwiches that are on the dresser. They’re tasty.” And without another word, she leaves and locks the room.

  Hugo stands in place without moving, and for a moment it seems to him that his previous life has sunk into the world of dreams, that it is far away and unattainable. Now reality is the closet, Mariana’s room, and Mariana herself.

  That thought seeps into him, and sharp longings flood him. Self-pity quickly follows.

  Soon Hugo collapses and bursts into tears. The crying fills him, and he feels the cold walls of loneliness. He whimpers for a long time, and in the end the weeping becomes the broken whine of a dog thrown out of a warm house into a kennel.

  Hugo cries so much that he falls into an exhausted sleep on the floor and notices nothing. Not even Mariana’s arrival wakes him. Only when she touches him with her foot does he rouse and realize he has slept.

  “My puppy took a nap.”

  “I slept,” he says.

  “Now we’ll bring you hot soup. Why didn’t you eat the sandwiches?”

  “I was asleep,” he repeats, trying to recover his wits.

  “Did anyone knock on the door?”

  “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Darling, you were sleeping like a log,” she says, and chuckles.

  Mariana immediately leaves and returns with soup and two meatballs. Hugo sits on the floor and eats. Mariana sits on the bed and observes him.

  “How old are you, darling?” she asks, apparently forgetting that she has already asked him that.

  “I’m eleven. A little while ago I had a birthday.”

  “You look older than your age.”

  “When will Mama come and visit me?” The question escapes his mouth.

  “Outdoors is very dangerous for Jews. She’s better off sitting inside.”

  “I’m protected, right?” he asks.

  “You’re in Mariana’s house. It’s a bit strange, but you’ll get used to it. If somebody asks you whose you are, tell them out loud, ‘I’m Mariana’s.’ Do you hear?”

  That instruction astounds him again, but he doesn’t open his mouth.

  “I’ve thought about it a lot. You’ll have to improve your Ukrainian. You look a lot like Mariana. Your hair is dark blond, and your nose is small. If you improve your Ukrainian, they won’t identify you. We’ll do everything slowly. You don’t do things like that hastily,” she states without explaining.

  Mariana remains seated on the bed, following his movements. It’s hard to know what she’s looking for in him. Hugo feels pressured. He finishes the meal quickly and hands the bowl to Mariana.

  “Mariana’s tired. Now she’ll sleep for an hour or two. And you, darling, you’ll go back to your kennel.”

  Hugo gets up and goes to the closet. He has acquired a hunched-over way of moving here—the way animals hang their heads when they are ordered to leave the house.

  Hugo takes the chess set out of the knapsack. He arranges the pieces and starts to play right away. The game goes well. He remembers his father’s warnings about the opening. A small mistake in the opening, and the game is lost. As he plays, his father appears. He looks like a man who has stayed in a mildewed hideout for many days. His face is pale, yellowish, and a tired gaze emanates from his eye sockets.

  “Where were you, Papa?” Hugo raises his eyes from the board.

  “Don’t ask,” he answers, having forgotten, apparently, that he is speaking with his son and not with an adult. “You’re very pale, Papa.”

  His father bows his head and says, “For many days I was in a closed place.”

  “Will I become as pale as you?” Hugo’s question is not slow in coming.

  “You, dear, won’t stay in the closet for a long time. Mama and I will come and get you immediately at the end of the war. You must be patient,” he says, and withdraws into the darkness.

  “Papa,” Hugo calls out.

  His call remains unanswered.

  Later Hugo’s father appears to him again, and Hugo holds a long, silent conversation with him. Hugo tells him that he is now under Mariana’s protection. Mariana is very busy and hardly sees him. But the meals she serves him are tasty. Life is a riddle, and every day the riddle gets bigger. Sometimes Mariana seems like a magician and sometimes she sounds like the owner of a restaurant. People visit her in her room, but the meetings aren’t always pleasant. Hearing that information, Hugo’s father smiles and says, “Mariana is Mariana. You, in any event, must be careful.”

  “Of what?”

  “You’ll see for yourself.”

  That was his father’s way of talking. Always a single word or a short sentence. He always mixed reservations into his speech.

  One morning Hugo dares to ask Mariana, “What is the name of this place?”

  “The Residence,” she answers clearly.

  “I never heard that name before.”

  “You’ll hear it, don’t worry,” she says, and smiles.

  11

  The days pass, and autumn makes its mark on everything Hugo’s eyes take in. Clouds descend from the sky and spread out over the meadows. Wrapped in the last darkness of the night, children saunter to school. Here and there is a wagon laden with beams, a peasant carrying a long scythe on his shoulder.

  Hugo stops counting the days. If he read or did arithmetic problems, as he’d promised his mother, his days would have been clear of twinges of conscience. He has not yet opened a book or notebook. Everything that was in his house, in school, in their yard, or in the playground now seems detached from his life.

  He is heedful of what Mariana says, dependent
on her daily schedule, on her occupations and moods. When her mood is foul, her face changes. She mutters, curses, tears papers, and breaks bottles. He prefers her drunkenness. In her drunkenness she is merry, speaks about herself a lot in the third person, and kisses him hard.

  Every day Hugo promises himself he will read tomorrow, do arithmetic problems, and write in his journal. He promises but doesn’t keep the promise. He doesn’t even manage to finish a single game of chess. All his attention is given over to Mariana.

  He looks forward to her arrival, and when she is late, he worries. Sometimes it seems to him that she is standing outside and guarding him, but sometimes he has the feeling that she doesn’t care about him. She is totally occupied with herself, with her dresses, her makeup, and her perfumes. “Mariana is cursed. Everybody sucks her blood and nobody gives her anything.” That’s what she mumbles when she is angry or in a bad mood. Hugo feels guilty and wants to go to her and tell her, I don’t want anything, it’s enough for me that you’re with me.

  Once she said to him, “Don’t be afraid. Mariana is guarding you like a lioness. If anyone tries to touch you, I’ll rip him to shreds. I swore to your mother that I would watch over you like a hawk, and I’ll do it. Julia is dearer to me than my sister.”

  “Do they want to catch me?” Hugo couldn’t keep from asking.

  “Certainly. They’re going from house to house and looking for Jews. But you have nothing to fear. You’re mine. You look like me, right?”

  Her words, meant to calm him down, sowed disquiet in him. He immediately saw many soldiers before his eyes, swarming over the houses and dragging out the people who were in hiding.

  “Will they look here, too?” Hugo asked cautiously.

  “They wouldn’t dare look in my room and in my closet.”

  Mariana’s speech is simple and unadorned. But every word of hers quickly becomes a picture that stays with him for a whole day, sometimes for two days.

  “It’s hard for me to understand why they’re persecuting the Jews,” she said once. “There are good people among them, not to mention your mother, Julia, who devoted her whole soul to humanity. Not a week passed that she didn’t bring me fruit and vegetables.”