Blooms of Darkness

by Aharon Appelfeld

  When she said, “devoted her whole soul,” Hugo saw his mother as a long, thin bird gliding over the town’s streets, landing here and leaving a parcel of food, landing there and giving a bundle of clothes to a poor woman. His father used to say, “Language is a tool for thought. You have to express yourself clearly and precisely.” “Clarity” and “precision” were key words for him. Hugo’s mother wasn’t precise the way his father was. But every word that came from her mouth quickly became a picture. And that, amazingly, was what happened with Mariana. It’s strange, but a spare way of speaking can also be colorful. This thought flashed through his head.

  But on the days when Mariana is despondent, a cloud covers her face, and she neither asks for nor promises anything. She hands Hugo a cup of milk and immediately throws herself down on the bed and sleeps for hours. Sometimes the sleep soothes her dejection. She gets up another woman, tells him about her dream, and hugs him against her body. Such an hour is an hour of grace, and Hugo knows how to appreciate it.

  But sleep doesn’t usually free Mariana from the bonds of depression. What oppressed her before she went to sleep continues to oppress her. She stamps her feet and breaks bottles, announces that in the coming days she will run away from here. These desperate declarations always sow disquiet in Hugo’s soul, but one smile from her is enough to scatter the clouds of fear—he is immediately certain that Mariana won’t sell him or abandon him.

  Thus the days pass. Sometimes he sees Otto and sometimes Anna. When they are revealed to him, he is so happy that he wants to kiss them hard, the way Mariana kisses him. Once both of them appeared, and Hugo called out in astonishment, “Darlings!” Hearing that strange appellation, they opened their eyes wide but didn’t say a thing.

  Anna told Hugo about her village in the mountains, and Otto disclosed to him that he, too, had found shelter in a village. For a moment it seemed to Hugo that in a short time the war would be over, and everyone would return to where they had come from and to their ordinary lives. But in his heart Hugo knows that what had been would never be again. The time in the ghetto and in hiding is already embossed on his flesh, and the power of the words he would use has faded. Now it isn’t words that speak to him, but silence. This is a difficult language, but as soon as one adopts it, no other language will ever be as effective.

  12

  One night, angry voices are heard from Mariana’s room. Mariana is speaking in German, and the man corrects every mistake. The corrections drive her crazy, and she says angrily, “We’re here to have a good time, not to study grammar.”

  “A loose woman remains a loose woman.”

  “I may be loose, but not for any price.”

  The man responds to that with shouts, insults, and, apparently, a slap in the face. A broken sound comes from Mariana’s throat, but she doesn’t surrender. In the end he threatens to kill her, but Mariana is daring and shouts at him, “You can kill me. I’m not afraid of death.”

  The fight stops all of a sudden, and for a moment it sounds to Hugo as though Mariana is choking and having convulsions. He rises to his feet and presses his ear against the wall. No sound can be heard. The silence grows thicker. Hugo trembles with fear and curls up on his couch again.

  At home, they insisted on proper speech. Only Uncle Sigmund, when he was drunk, would utter a naughty word or a curse. Hugo’s mother would silence him and say, “The boy can hear,” and the boy did indeed listen and wondered about the nature of the dirty words that were forbidden to be used.

  Later, a woman’s voice is heard in Mariana’s room. The woman speaks to Mariana softly. “You mustn’t quarrel with a customer. The customer comes to enjoy himself and relax. He doesn’t like it when you make a comment to him or contradict him.”

  “He corrected every word that came out of my mouth, and I felt like he was whipping me with his tongue.”

  “What do you care? Let him correct you.”

  “What kind of behavior is that, to correct every word you say. It’s worse than a beating. I might be loose, but I’m not a slave.”

  “Our profession, dear, demands a lot of patience of us. Every customer’s got his own quirks. Don’t forget, the whole thing doesn’t last more than an hour, and you get rid of him immediately.”

  “I’m fed up. Let him do what he wants, but not correct my German.”

  The other woman speaks softly, with a country accent. She asks Mariana to go to Madam and apologize. “If you don’t apologize and express remorse, she’ll fire you. It would be a shame to lose a job.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You mustn’t say, ‘I don’t care.’ Anyone who says ‘I don’t care’ is desperate. We believe in God, and we don’t despair easily.”

  “I don’t go to church.” Mariana persists in her rebellion.

  “But you believe in God and in His Messiah.”

  Mariana doesn’t respond. From her silence, it is evident that her obstinacy is softening slightly. In the end, she asks, “What should I say to her?”

  “Tell her, ‘I apologize, and in the future I won’t make comments to customers.’ ”

  “It’s hard for me to get a sentence like that out.”

  “It’s like spitting and going on. Enough.”

  Hugo listens intently and catches every word.

  Hugo understands Ukrainian. He learned the language from their maid, Sofia. Sofia used to say, “If you learn Ukrainian well, I’ll take you to my village. In my village there are lots of animals, and you can play there with the colt and with the calf.” Sofia was always happy, and she used to sing and chatter from morning till the end of her work at night.

  When Hugo began first grade, Sofia said to him, “Too bad you have to go to school every day. School is a prison. I hated school and the teacher. The teacher used to shout at me. She insulted me and called me ‘stupid.’ True, I had trouble with arithmetic, and I wrote with mistakes, but I was a quiet girl. She liked the Jewish children, and she used to say, ‘Take an example from them. Learn how to think from them. Clear the straw out of your heads and put in some thought.’

  “I hope you won’t suffer. I suffered all the years I was in school and I was glad to leave the walls of that prison. Oh, I forgot, dear,” she said, slapping her forehead, “I forgot you were a Jew. Jews don’t have trouble with arithmetic. You’ll raise your hand. You’ll raise your hand all the time. Whoever raises his hand has the right answer.”

  Hugo loved Sofia. She was plump and merry, and she peppered her words with proverbs and sayings. She was pleased with whatever came her way. When his parents weren’t home, she used street language, like “bitch,” whore,” or “son of a bitch.”

  Once he asked his mother, “What’s a whore?”

  “It’s a word we don’t use. It’s a dirty word.”

  But Sofia uses it, he was about to say.

  Every time Hugo heard that word, he would envision Sofia washing her body with a stiff sponge, because anybody who used that word was dirty and had to wash his body very well.

  Now, in the last darkness of the night, Hugo sees Sofia’s whole body, and she, as always, is singing and cursing, and that obscene word is rolling around in her mouth. The familiar, clear vision restores his house to him all at once, and, amazingly, everything is in its place—his father, his mother, the evening, and the violin teacher, who used to close his eyes in protest every time Hugo played out of tune.

  Hugo’s progress in playing was very slow. “You have an excellent ear, and you even practice, but your desire isn’t strong, and without a strong desire, there’s no real progress. Music has to be in your fingers. Fingers that don’t have music sunk into them are blind fingers. They’ll always grope and always make a mistake or play out of tune.”

  Hugo understood what was demanded of him. But he didn’t know exactly what to do. Sometimes he felt that the music really was in his fingers, and with more effort, they would do what they were ordered to. But in his heart he knew that the mountain called “correct playi
ng” was very steep, and it was doubtful that he would be able to climb it.

  Anna was better than he in this, too. She had already performed at the end of the school year, and her future in this field was not in doubt. Hugo would make efforts not to fall behind, but his achievements were mediocre, and in his report card there were no “excellents.”

  Anna had only one competitor for the title of “Outstanding Pupil of the Year”—Franz. Franz was also good in every subject. He solved arithmetic problems easily, wrote fluently, and quoted poems and famous sayings by heart. He was thin, and his hair stood up, which was why they called him “hedgehog.” But don’t worry, there wasn’t a pupil in the class who came up to his ankles. His head was full of dates and the names of cities, national leaders, generals, poets, and inventors. He devoured books and encyclopedias. More than once he shamed the teacher with his knowledge. Once, full of envy, Anna said, “He’s a machine, not a human being.” Franz heard her and retorted, “Anna is knowledgeable up to a certain point.”

  So the competition went. Not even the war and the ghetto halted it. Franz made sure that Anna got word of his achievements. Anna examined every one of them, and in the end she said, “In French, I have no competitor.”

  From the dark corner of the closet, Hugo’s earlier life suddenly seems like petty busyness. His mother used to say, “Why compete? Why degrade yourself? What good are competition and envy? Let everyone make an accounting with himself, and that’s enough.” Back then he didn’t understand the meaning of “make an accounting with himself,” but now he pretty much understands: I have to immerse myself in listening and observing and to write down everything my eyes see and my ears hear. Many secrets surround me. I must write down every secret. In saying this, it was as if light flooded the dark closet, and Hugo knows that his mother, who pulled him out of the sewer and restored him to life, has done it again.

  13

  All night long Hugo trembles with excitement. The thought that from now on he will record precisely everything that his eyes and ears absorb, and that at the end of the war he will have five full notebooks, fires his imagination. His handwriting is usually clear, and with a certain effort he can improve it.

  His mother had a notebook bound in suede in which she used to record the events of the day—about the family, about pharmacists and the pharmacy, and of course about help to those in need. Sometimes she would sit and read out loud from the notebook. It was hard for Hugo to imagine his father sitting and writing in a notebook.

  Only at the chess board did Hugo’s father’s heart open, but not excessively. His mother would say, “Hans’s thoughts are orderly, the papers are in place, and every day he knows what is in stock and how much. What would I do without him? He saves me and redeems me.” Hugo’s father’s response usually took the form of “You’re exaggerating.”

  Some people loved and admired Hugo’s mother. Others honored his father and would order a prescription only from him. As for help for the poor, there were no differences of opinion between them about this, or about Uncle Sigmund. His mother loved her brother because he was her admired big brother. His father loved him because he was his absolute opposite. He would stand in wonderment at the flow of Uncle Sigmund’s language and his ability to entertain people. Unlike his mother, his father never tried to persuade him to stop drinking brandy.

  When Uncle Sigmund wasn’t drunk, Hugo was allowed to listen to the conversation and even to ask him a question or two. Hugo’s questions amused Sigmund. Sigmund claimed that the Jews were a strange nation, that they had hooked noses and dreadful ears, and he would immediately point at his nose and ears, make his eyes bulge, and say, “Look at Sigmund. You can say whatever you want about him, but handsome he’s not. From that point of view, he is an outstanding representative of his tribe.” Hugo’s mother didn’t agree with her brother. If it weren’t for the brandy, women would stand in line to ask for his hand. He was tall and handsome, and German poems and proverbs flowed from his mouth. He even knew Ukrainian folk songs by heart. When he wanted to shock or impress people, he would speak in Latin. Hugo’s mother was proud of him, and at the same time ashamed of him. He had been the family’s hope. Everyone used to say, “Sigmund is meant for greatness. You’ll hear of him.”

  The hopes had not lasted long. Even while he was a student, his eye was on drink. At that time, brandy added charm to his charm, but as he grew older and drank more and more, his looks deteriorated. People kept their distance from him, and he plunged into his fantasies.

  Uncle Sigmund was seized and deported along with Hugo’s father. Now Hugo saw him at his full height. A broad, mischievous smile filled his large face. He was telling jokes and singing, and every time he used a dirty word, Hugo’s mother would silence him.

  Most of the images that Hugo brought with him to the closet have evaporated from his mind, but not the figure of Uncle Sigmund. Day by day it grows larger. His mother kept saying, “It isn’t Sigmund, but what remains of him. If he stopped drinking, he would be what he once was. His place is at the university and not in a tavern.”

  Indeed, Uncle Sigmund was a favorite customer in the tavern, where he frittered away most of the allowance his family gave him. Toward the end of the month, he would ask his friends for loans. He begged at his acquaintances’ doors and caused great pain to Hugo’s mother. Every time she would hand him a banknote or two and beg him not to ask for loans from strangers.

  When Uncle Sigmund came into the house, Hugo’s father would put on a special face to greet the amiable guest. Sometimes, when Sigmund was reciting a poem, he would forget a line. Hugo’s father would come to his assistance and immediately blush. His father blushed whenever he was forced to point out an error or exaggeration made by his partner in conversation. But now Hugo sees them together. Now his father doesn’t admire his brother-in-law. Rather, the brother-in-law admires his father’s silence.

  During the night, clear and focused visions come to Hugo, and he doesn’t close his eyes. He waits for the morning so he can open the notebook and write down the day’s events, as he promised his mother. It seems to him that the writing will come easily.

  The morning light filters into the closet, drop by drop, and the darkness remains untouched. The hours pass slowly, and hunger oppresses him. This time, too, Mariana is late in coming, and all his attention is focused on his distress, wiping away the clear visions that had moved him during the night.

  It isn’t until eleven that Mariana, her face rumpled, appears in a nightgown and hands Hugo a cup of milk.

  “I fell deeply asleep, darling,” she says. “You’re probably thirsty and hungry. What have I done, dear?”

  “I was thinking about my house.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “A little.”

  “I would take you out, but everything is dangerous. Soldiers are looking from house to house, and informers are swarming in every corner. You have to be patient.”

  “When will the war be over?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Mama told me that the war would end soon.”

  “She’s suffering, too. It’s not easy for her, either. The peasants are afraid to hide Jews in their houses, and the few who do are living in great fear. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Why are they punishing the Jews?” he asks, and he immediately regrets his question.

  “The Jews are different. They were always different. I like them. But most people don’t like them.”

  “Because they ask when they shouldn’t?”

  “Why did you think of that?”

  “Mama told me not to ask questions but to listen, and I’m always breaking that rule.”

  “You can ask as much as you want, sweetie,” Mariana says, and hugs him. “I like it when you ask me. When you ask me, I see your father and mother. Your mother was my angel. Your father is a handsome man. What luck your mother has, to have a man like that. I was born without luck.”

  Hugo listens and senses that en
vy has sneaked into her voice.

  A few days earlier he heard Mariana conversing with one of her friends. “I miss the Jewish men,” she said suddenly. “They were good and gentle. Contact with them was mild and correct. Do you agree?”

  “I completely agree.”

  “And they always bring you a box of candy or silk stockings, and they always kiss you as if you were their faithful girlfriend. They never hurt you. Do you agree?”

  “Absolutely.”

  For a moment it seemed to Hugo that he understood what they were talking about. Mariana’s speech was different from anything he had heard at home. She spoke about her body. Rather, she spoke about the fear that her body would betray her.

  “Honey, soon we’re going to have to take a bath. The time has come, right?”

  “Where?”

  “I have a secret bathtub. We’ll talk about it soon,” she says, and winks.

  14

  Every few days Mariana forgets about Hugo, and this time she has forgotten about him for many hours. At twelve o’clock she stands at the closet doorway, dressed in a pink nightgown, and looks at him guiltily, saying, “What’s my darling puppy doing? I neglected him. All morning long he’s had nothing to eat, and he’s certainly hungry and thirsty. It’s all my fault. I slept too much.”

  She quickly hurries to bring him a cup of milk and a slice of bread spread with butter. The warm milk is quickly swallowed.

  “Have you been awake for many hours? What were you thinking about?”

  “I was thinking about my uncle Sigmund.” Hugo doesn’t hide it from her.

  “Poor guy, a good man.”

  “Did you know him?” Hugo allows himself to ask.

  “Since my childhood. He was handsome, and a genius, too. Your mother was sure he’d become a professor at the university, but he became enslaved to drink and destroyed his life. Too bad about him. He was a good uncle, right?”