As the praying continues, soldiers suddenly appear. They open the gate, storm the onlookers, and fire their guns in the air. There is a commotion, and Hugo grips the suitcase and the knapsack and pulls them to the side. The street empties out, and only the elderly priest remains on the sidewalk, praying determinedly.
Then the gate opens again, and women prisoners, wearing brown sackcloth dresses, emerge and are ordered to climb onto the truck. This isn’t easy for them to do, but they help one another. Some of them trip and fall, but in the end they all get on.
Hugo immediately recognizes Mariana and calls out loud, “Mariana.” People gather again and desperately call the names of the women who are standing in the truck, holding on to its bars. The priest waves his cross and raises his voice. “Jesus, save them,” he prays, “they have no help or savior beside you.” Hearing his supplication, everyone begins to pray again. The young soldiers are ill at ease for a moment, but then the order comes to shoot into the crowd. Now the prayers are mingled with sobs of pain. The women grabbing the bars of the truck look stunned by the sobbing and the shooting. Then they raise their arms and shout, “Jesus, we love you, you are the beloved of our heart forever and ever.” The driver starts the truck, and it leaves without delay.
“They were forced. They’re not guilty,” people shout. A few of the wounded lie on the ground, and others kneel and tear up their shirts to bandage them. Because of the wounded, the women prisoners are forgotten for a moment. Then Hugo hears someone say to his friend, “My poor sister, my good sister, she gave everything she had to her family. Now she’s on her way to death.”
“How do you know?”
“Don’t you know? The tribunal sentenced them to death by firing squad.”
64
The people gradually disperse. The wounded, after they are bandaged, sit leaning against a wall. Bewilderment settles in their eyes. Some of them curse, and one woman pounds her head with her fists. As always, after such a horror, there is anger and gnashing of teeth.
A small group of women sit on the ground and keen. “Why did they kill them? What harm did they do? Whom did they injure? They were young and beautiful, and they brought a bit of light into our dark world.” Later they change their tone and address heaven. “God, accept those young souls with love. You are merciful and forgiving, and You know that their souls were innocent and sought goodness. Fate was cruel to them. Now they are on their way to You. Don’t judge them severely, spare them.”
Hugo stays where he is. He feels that the words coming from the mourners’ mouths are powerful and aimed in the right direction. His whole body wants to weep, but his tears are frozen. One of the refugees is watching the women. “They know how to pray,” he says. “They address God the right way. Why are we mute? Why has prayer been taken from our mouths?”
“Are you still asking?” says his friend, who is standing next to him.
“Aren’t I allowed to ask?”
“A question for its own sake is stupid.”
Night falls. Everyone is tired. They sit by the fire and stare into it. No one asks what they are supposed to do or for whom they are supposed to wait to show them the way. Some of the men exchange banknotes and objects that appeared to be luxury items. There is great silence, as after a huge battle.
Hugo goes over to the guard at the gate and asks about the fate of the women who were taken away in the truck.
“What do you want to know?” The guard’s patience has worn out.
“Where are they?”
“You’re better off not knowing.”
“Is it impossible to go to them?”
“You’re apparently dumb,” he says, and turns his back.
Only now does Hugo realize that Mariana knew exactly what was coming. But in the green tranquility that surrounded them, her words had sounded to him like either hallucinations or irrational fears. Once she told him explicitly, “If they kill me, don’t forget me. You’re the only person in the world whom I trust. I buried some of my soul inside you. I don’t want to depart from the world without leaving you something of mine. I have no silver or gold. Take my love and hide it in your heart, and from time to time say to yourself, Once there was Mariana. She was a mortally wounded woman, but she never lost faith in God.”
That evening she went on to say other marvelous things, of which Hugo grasped only a little. Most of them were whispers that were swallowed up inside her. Now her words are returning to him with an intense clarity.
Hugo realizes that the guard at the gate is not only ignoring him, he is also contemptuous of him. Before long, he expresses his revulsion in two words: “Go away.”
Hugo returns to the square, to the refugees. The bonfire burns, and people surround it on all sides. The pot is full of soup, and everyone keeps refilling their bowls. Years of hunger take a while to satisfy. One old man claims that vegetable soup is a good thing for them to eat. The body has to get used to new conditions slowly, and it’s wrong to burden the digestive system with heavy foods. Vegetable soup is the correct food at this time. The others look at him with amazement, as if he were saying things to them that they had never heard.
People approach Hugo and say, “You’re Hugo, right?”
“Right.”
“My name is Tina,” one of them says, “and I am Otto’s aunt.”
“Where is Otto?” Hugo is frightened and rises to his feet. “God knows. I’m waiting for everyone from my family. Where were you?”
“With Mariana.”
“Poor thing. The sentence was horrible.”
“It didn’t apply to Mariana.” The words escape from his mouth.
“I’m glad.”
After a pause she adds, “I’m desperate to know what happened to my family. The news is confusing and contradictory. People here told me that they saw Otto’s mother. But others say that she wasn’t his mother, only a woman who looked like her. I’ve decided to wait. I won’t move from here. We mustn’t lose hope. There’s no reason to live without hope. As long as we live, we have to hope. That’s how God created us, whether we like it or not.” She speaks in a torrent, as though she were reading or reciting. It’s clear she isn’t in control of what comes out of her mouth. The words pour out in a flood. “I won’t go away from here. No power can move me. I’ll wait here until the last moments of my life.” She puts her hand on her mouth, but that gesture doesn’t stop the flow of words. In the end she says to him, “Excuse me. Now I must be by myself.” She turns away and is swallowed up in the darkness.
65
That night Hugo sleeps deeply. Scenes from his home and images that had just now passed before him creep into his dreams. In that mix Mariana stands out—not only her statuesque body but also the things that she says. She speaks about God and about the need to be close to Him. The refugees look at her and don’t believe their ears. Her blowsy appearance contrasts with her pious words. Most of the refugees don’t recognize her, but those who do say, with a smile, “If Mariana is talking about God, that’s a sign that the Messiah is about to come.” That, of course, is a barbed comment. Mariana simply amuses them.
Then she addresses them with a theatrical gesture and says, “You all know Hugo. But you only think that you know him. This is a different Hugo. What he managed to learn since I took him in cannot be measured. I planted everything that I had in his soul. I presume that certain people will have reservations about some of the things I taught him, but don’t worry, I equipped him with a lot of faith. Now he knows that God dwells everywhere. That should be no small thing in your eyes. Opposition to the existence of God is so strong that even a little faith costs people a lot. That’s why I said that Hugo has changed not only externally. He is going to surprise you.”
Hugo wakes from his dream. The refugees lie curled up in their coats. It doesn’t appear as though they have heard Mariana’s words. Maybe they heard and now are waiting for her second appearance.
Hugo rises to his feet and sees for the first time that this
part of the city has not changed at all: it is filled with two-story buildings. Families live on the upper story, and stores and workshops are on the ground floor. Jews did not live here. The stores and workshops are not yet open, and the tranquility of early morning still rests upon the houses. It’s evident that the Ukrainians have not been driven out of their homes; even during the war they kept up their daily routines. There are no architectural treasures or notable buildings in this neighborhood. Everything here says: a house is simply a house, divided correctly and open to the garden. Decorations and ironwork are for the rich. Hugo absorbed an appreciation for that sort of simplicity in the past, and he remembers it.
Later new refugees arrive. Hugo vaguely remembers some of them but most are strangers to him. Perhaps because of their extreme emaciation, it is obvious that something within them has died. And the part that is left can’t explain what has happened to them.
“We’ve changed,” one of the new arrivals jokes.
“So it appears,” responds his friend.
In addition to the pot of soup and the sandwiches, someone put up a new stand, where they serve drinks and hand out cigarettes. The German army left behind storehouses full of supplies, and the refugees arrive with full sacks. A woman with unkempt hair, wearing a military coat whose buttons have been torn off, prepares a pot of coffee and speaks to the refugees as if they were her brothers and sisters, and as if they had just awakened from a troubled sleep. “Drink, children, drink,” she says to them softly. “I’ve prepared excellent coffee for you. There are goods in abundance. I’ll cook whatever you want.” She has apparently had a few drinks, and she is in an exalted mood. The refugees approach her, and she pours generously for them and blesses them. It’s evident that she wants to give them something of her own to make them happy. The people are embarrassed by such a display of devotion.
Hugo observes the new refugees. They resemble his parents, but some are older. It’s hard to know what they have undergone. Their gray faces are expressionless. They barely speak.
Later Hugo says to himself, I’ll go and see the city. This was what he would sometimes say to himself after he had finished his homework and light still flickered in the windows. He liked that hour. Toward evening the city used to take on a new life. The sound of music playing could be heard from open windows, and people sat in coffeehouses, enjoying themselves and releasing the tension from a day of labor. Sometimes Hugo would meet Anna or Otto, and they would go into a coffeehouse and order ice cream. There was ice cream in almost every good coffeehouse, but the Alaska Café was famous for theirs.
At one of those relaxed meetings, Anna told Hugo that she intended to become an author. Her piano playing had indeed improved, but she couldn’t stand the thought of the exhausting practice sessions and all the performances she would have to give over the years. Anna was outstanding in all subjects, but her compositions were famous throughout the school. They were read out loud not only in her class but in other classes as well. Everybody praised her rich vocabulary, her powers of description, her subtle humor, and of course her abundance of ideas.
“How to you intend to become an author?” Hugo asked her cautiously.
“I’m reading the classics.”
“Flaubert?”
“Among others.”
At that time Hugo was reading Jules Verne and Karl May, but Anna had other ideas.
It now seems to Hugo that everything that happened to him since leaving his home was a personal trial over which he had no control. His real life is being lived now, in this city. Here he knows every corner, every bend in the road, the broad avenues along which the trams travel.
Almost without realizing it, Hugo grips the suitcase and the knapsack and sets out. He advances slowly, as though he fears encountering a sight that will surprise him, but there is nothing surprising in what is revealed to him. Everything happens at a slow pace. Old people sit in the doorways of their houses, and wagons full of wood roll lazily down the street. That relaxed atmosphere, which Hugo remembers from his childhood and which now appears before his eyes, confirms his belief that what happened to him when he left his home was only a personal trial. Now he is emerging from the tunnel, and he walks on stable ground. Here nothing has changed. His fear that the city had been destroyed by bombing or looted by the German and Russian armies was for naught.
Hugo carefully examines everything that he comes across: nothing has changed, everything is as it was. There is Cyril’s ice-cream stand. It’s open, and Cyril stands inside, carefully dressed, as always. There is nothing exceptional in his demeanor. On the contrary, he looks at ease, and confident that customers will soon arrive.
Hugo sits on a bench on Acacia Avenue, the most modest of the city’s avenues. He has a good view of the city, from the poplars alongside the river to the stores and coffeehouses. He used to sit here with Anna. Once he sat here with Franz, who tried to prove to him, with long and complex words, that science was advancing by leaps and bounds, and that everything that seemed stable and well grounded today would be thought of as childish in ten years. Franz was a genius. Conversation with him was always tiring and dizzying.
Forgotten images appear before him, among them images from school. Not everything was enjoyable there. After school, bullies used to pick on the few Jews who attended, and some of the teachers embarrassed the Jewish pupils who didn’t come up to Anna’s or Franz’s level. But most days things proceeded without disturbance. Hugo is sorry that the war cut him off from his parents and from school; now he would have to start everything all over again. He stands up with the intention of going to the school, but the impulse that gets him up also keeps him in his place. He is afraid to advance, afraid that things will appear that he hadn’t imagined.
66
Hugo overcomes his apprehension and sets off. On Acacia Avenue stands the tavern where Uncle Sigmund used to spend days and nights. Sometimes, as he walked by, Hugo would see him arguing with someone or sunk in thought. Hugo would stand there, hoping Sigmund would notice him. That never happened. Near the bar is a cheap café where Frieda always used to sit. He would meet her there occasionally. Unlike Uncle Sigmund, she would notice him promptly, hug and kiss him, and tell him that she was his mother’s first cousin. She intended to visit the family, she would say, even if she wasn’t invited.
His feet move slowly, as though unsure of their direction. Everything is familiar to him and has hardly changed. Here and there a tree has been uprooted and a sapling has been planted in its place. Some of the stores are open and some are shuttered. Near the tavern where Uncle Sigmund used to sit, there had been a dry goods store owned by a religious Jew. His mother sometimes went in to buy mill ends for her needy people. It was a gloomy kingdom, full of tunnels and many shelves of cloth. Little children with earlocks and ritual fringes raced around the aisles. The owner of the shop, a pleasant man, adorned with earlocks and a beard, would serve the customers patiently and spice his words with proverbs and jokes, all in German mixed with Yiddish, which his mother understood well. Hugo, who had been raised on the purity of the German language, found it hard to understand. Now he envisions the interior of the shop, as though it were illuminated, even though the shop itself is shuttered.
In Uncle Sigmund’s tavern people sit as always. The proprietor, whom Hugo recognizes immediately, is standing in the middle of the room and giving a speech full of self-importance, and everyone laughs. How strange, Hugo says to himself, everything here is unchanged, only Uncle Sigmund is missing.
He puts the suitcase and the knapsack down on the ground. Momentarily freed of his burden, Hugo does notice some changes: the homes of the Jews who had lived above the shops have been taken by Ukrainians. At the windows and on the balconies stand women and children, chatting and laughing. A different wind blows in the air. Hugo tries to identify it but doesn’t succeed.
When he would walk along these streets with his mother, people greeted her, blessed her, and sometimes asked her for advice about some medica
l issue. In that respect, Hugo was more like his father. He wasn’t involved in school matters, and, like his father, he preferred being by himself.
Now he wanders in the city of his birth like a person who has returned to it after many years. No one recognizes him, and no one greets him upon his return. Cold surrounds him on every side and makes him shiver. He grips the suitcase and the knapsack and resumes walking.
The school stands where it always has been. Classes aren’t being held in it, but the main entrance is open, and near the broad stairway stands, as always, Big Ivan, the all-powerful janitor of the school.
“Hello, Mr. Ivan.” Hugo addresses him as everyone always did.
“Who are you?” Ivan fixes him with his gaze.
“My name is Hugo Mansfeld. Don’t you remember me?”
“I see that the Jews are coming back,” he says. It’s hard to know what he means by that.
“I’m going home to see whether my parents have returned. When does school start?”
“I’m the janitor, not the government. The government announces the opening of the school.”
“I’m glad to see you,” says Hugo, and indeed he is glad to find a familiar soul.
The janitor smiles and says, “Rumors circulated here that the Jews had been killed. False rumors, it turns out. Where were you?”
“I was hiding.”
“I’m glad.”
Ivan’s wife appears in the entrance, and he quickly announces to her, “The Jews are coming back.”
“Who said so?”
“Here’s Hugo. Don’t you remember him? He really got taller.”
Blooms of Darkness Page 21
