“Uncle Otto, whom you’re named after, was an excellent student at the university.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died.” She didn’t conceal it now.
“And we’ll meet him in the world of sleep?”
“Correct.”
Several times Otto had asked about death, and Blanca had avoided answering in detail. Once she said, “Death is a long sleep.” Otto accepted her words and didn’t bother her about the matter again.
Meanwhile, they pushed on, changing trains, and if they saw a pleasant village, they would stop there, rent a room or a house, bathe, rest, and set out again the next day.
After they had left the flat plains and proceeded up the mountains, Otto slept a lot. When he awoke, Blanca would tell him about the marvels of the east, about her friend Sonia, and about the Carpathians. Otto asked many questions, and Blanca described everything she knew at length and everything her imagination had embroidered.
“And we won’t go to church anymore?”
“No.”
Once she scolded him for asking about church and said, “The churches are crude, and our feet won’t enter them.” But about the little wooden synagogues, which she had encountered in Martin Buber’s book, she told him a great deal. For some reason Otto pictured the Jews of the Carpathians in his imagination as hardworking dwarfs. Blanca corrected him and said, “They’re the same height as everyone else. Maybe a little shorter, but not dwarfs by any means.”
“Why did they look like dwarfs to me?”
“That’s my fault. I didn’t describe them properly.”
They traveled farther and farther. What was left of the summer still gilded the landscape here and there. Though the grain had been harvested, apples ripened in orchards, and on the slopes the plum trees bent under the weight of their fruit. Blanca had a great desire to get off at one of the deserted stations and absorb some of the silence, but when she saw how pleased Otto was in his sleep, she gave up the idea.
Suddenly Otto woke up and said, “I’m afraid.”
“Of what, dear?”
“I fell into a deep pit.”
“It just seems that way to you. It was a dream. The train is moving along very nicely. We’ve already gone quite a distance, and in a little while we’ll reach the station. At the station we’ll buy fruit and lemonade.”
Blanca suddenly knew that her life in this world would be very short and that she had to take care of Otto. During the weeks that they had spent in the house near the Dessel River, thoughts of death disturbed her. Now she sensed that the danger was once more at hand. And she wasn’t mistaken: there, in the small station in the town of Schlossberg, Blanca saw the notice hanging on the wall.
“Wanted throughout the empire,” it read, “a woman named Blanca Hammer, who brutally murdered her husband, Adolf Hammer. The woman, of average height, thin, with dark gray eyes, ran away with her son, Otto. Anyone who has seen her or knows of her whereabouts is requested to inform the nearest police station immediately. The emperor’s police will be grateful to him for his good citizenship. We are commanded to extirpate evil from among us.”
Blanca’s face darkened. That which her heart had told her was written on the wall.
“Give Mama your hand,” she said to Otto. “We’re leaving for the east immediately.”
“Is it far from here?”
“No.”
“Can we ride a boat on the river?”
“Certainly.”
“And are there small horses?”
“I suppose so.”
“Why are you in a hurry, Mama?”
“I’m not in a hurry, dear.”
Good God, Blanca said to herself. Otto doesn’t know what’s in store for his mother. They hang murderers two hours before sunrise, in the dark, without ceremony and without mercy.
53
ONCE AGAIN THE trains bore them from place to place. At the larger villages, the train would stop, take on masses of peasants, and rush off. From the train windows Blanca saw the WANTED posters on the walls, and she was sure that her life was in greater and greater danger with every passing hour.
“Otto.”
“What?”
“You have to be strong.”
“I am strong.”
Blanca knew that the moment they caught her she would be separated from Otto. They would send him back to his aunts, and they would try her and send her to the gallows. His aunts would drill into him, morning, noon, and night, that his mother was a murderer and that his memory of her must be erased. Otto would refuse to believe them at first, but in time he would be convinced. The police would read the notebooks. They would present them as evidence at the trial, they would eventually be buried in an archive, and no one would remember her anymore. Suddenly she felt sad for herself and for her life, which had gone awry.
“When you grow up, don’t forget the notebooks. I’m leaving them in your backpack,” Blanca said, knowing there was no logic to her words.
Otto raised his eyes and said, “I’ll read them as soon as I’m big.”
Blanca kissed his forehead. “I’m very proud of you,” she said.
They arrived in Czernowitz. Blanca had planned to look for a kindergarten for Otto, but she immediately realized that their name would betray him. Not only that, Czernowitz was a big city, and gendarmes swarmed over every corner. Better to go farther, to a more modest place.
The posters stood out on the walls. She had never before seen her name in such big printed letters, and she was momentarily filled with a fear that was mingled with a malicious pleasure. Everybody’s looking for me, she thought, and I’m here, in the very heart of the city, next to police headquarters.
Now she remembered that she had heard about Czernowitz for the first time from her mother. As a little girl, Blanca’s mother had passed through Czernowitz with her family on her way from Galicia to Austria. The city had been etched in her mother’s memory because of the splendid stores and the cafés known for their fine strawberry tortes. Blanca wanted very much to spend at least an hour in the place where her mother had walked, to stroll with Otto along Herrengasse, which was famous for its charm, but her fear was stronger than her desire.
“We won’t visit this busy city,” she said to Otto, and they quickly boarded a train for the provinces.
“What’s your name, dear?” They were alone in the car, and Blanca surprised Otto with this question as soon as the train departed.
“Otto Hammer. Why are you asking?”
“That’s a mistake. That was your name when you were little. Now that you’re big, you’ll have a grown-up name.”
“When will I get the new name?”
“Right away. I’ll tell you your new name right away: Otto Guttmann. Do you hear?”
“Will that be my new name?” Otto asked, smiling.
“Yes. You have reached the age of four and a quarter. When a child reaches the age of four and a quarter, his mother gives him a new name, and he immediately forgets his old name. What’s your name, dear?”
“My name is Otto Guttmann.”
“Correct. You have to practice saying it to yourself from now on: My name is Otto Guttmann. Everything that used to be is as if it never was.”
The end of the summer was brightly colored, and more than once Blanca said to herself, We’ll get off here, we’ll burrow into the thick shrubs and live in nature. But every time she grabbed Otto’s hand to get off, she was deterred. At one station she yielded to temptation, and they did get out. Except for a small kiosk and a few drunkards gathered around it, there was nothing. They drank lemonade, bought a basket of plums, and without delay boarded the next train.
Otto slept, and Blanca was glad of it. It seemed to her that as long as he was asleep, she was protected. The trains in this region were slow and neglected. More than once the train stopped and stood in place for an hour or two. The conductors got off and sat by the kiosk, drinking l
emonade and smoking with pleasure, as though time meant nothing. But in fact, that relaxation frightened Blanca. It was as though the tiger were about to leap out of the thicket. While the train was speeding along, Otto’s sleep was pure and quiet. But when the train stopped and the conductors got off, Otto’s face filled with curiosity, and he started to pester her with questions. So that he would stop asking, Blanca told him stories. At first she had wanted to tell him a little about what she had written in the notebook, but she understood right away that Otto might get confused and mix up Adolf’s family with hers. It would be better for his life to begin, for the moment, alongside the Dessel River and on the trains, and no earlier.
“Otto,” she said.
“What, Mama?”
“Don’t worry. The train will start moving soon.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Then why does your face look worried?”
“I remembered the banks of the Dessel.”
“That’s a marvelous place, and we have to remember it forever. What do you see now?”
“The red fish.”
“True, the water was very clear, and we could see the fish, but the plants were also beautiful. Everything was beautiful. So why are you worried?”
“Will we go back there?”
“One day, I suppose.”
“I’d like to go back there.”
In her heart she was glad that the new sights were gradually adhering to his soul and that she wouldn’t have to fool him or lie.
“Otto,” she said.
“What, Mama?”
“Will you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For all the crimes that I committed.”
“What are crimes?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
54
“STRUZHINCZ!” THE CONDUCTOR announced. The sound penetrated Blanca’s sleep, and it woke her. She immediately gripped Otto’s hand and said, “We’re getting off.”
“Where?” asked Otto, still tangled in sleep.
“This is it,” she said, without knowing what she was saying.
Here, too, Blanca saw two big posters glued to a wall, each proclaiming the name and description of the murderer. This time the letters were in red, making them stand out even more. Blanca looked at them, lowered her eyes, and slipped out of the station.
Cold evening light illuminated the street and the low houses. Her eyes immediately picked out a sign: SALZBURG HOTEL. Nearby there was another sign: VIENNA HOTEL. The buildings looked as though they housed well-run hotels. But in a hotel they write down your address and ask questions. Then, in an alley not far away, Blanca saw a modest sign: FAMILY PENSION, PERSONAL SERVICE, REASONABLE PRICES. The alley pleased her. The people walked slowly, the calm of the evening permeating their gait. A familiar but forgotten tranquillity flowed from the open windows.
“It’s good that we came here,” she said.
“Mama,” Otto called out, confused from the long journey.
“What, dear?”
“I’d like to eat something good.”
“In a little while they’ll serve us dinner,” she said, picturing in her mind a set table. It turned out to be a Jewish-owned pension. Blanca remembered the little Jewish sanitariums in the mountains where her mother had been hospitalized. The owners had been gentle people, somewhat similar to their patients.
“My name is Blanca Guttmann, and this is my son, Otto Guttmann,” Blanca said, introducing herself.
“Did you come from Czernowitz?”
“Yes, we did.”
“How long will you be here, if I may ask?”
“A month, maybe longer.” Blanca spoke in relaxed tones to avoid raising questions.
“My name is Tina Tauber,” said the landlady. “My German isn’t perfect, but my husband studied it in high school, and he speaks without mistakes. He corrects my errors, but without much success. What can I do? I was born in a village where we spoke Yiddish.”
The woman was about forty, and it was evident that contact with strangers embarrassed her. Her husband, who came to help, did indeed speak a fine German. He showed them their room and said, “Come downstairs with me, and we’ll serve you dinner. You’re surely hungry. What’s your name, little boy?”
Blanca intervened and said, “Otto is big already. Otto is four. In a little while he’ll attend kindergarten.”
After many days of displacement, fear, and depression, the dining room seemed like a quiet return to a familiar place. The meal included vegetables, cheese and sour cream, and thick coffee. The fragrance of the coffee reminded Blanca of the shaded country cafés where she had sat with her parents. For a moment she forgot the jolting journey, and she clung to those vanished places as if she had never left them.
“You’ve come on vacation?” Mrs. Tauber asked cautiously.
“Yes, indeed. We need it, like one needs air to breathe.”
“During this time of year it’s very quiet here,” Mrs. Tauber said calmly.
“Thank you,” said Blanca.
“I haven’t done anything for you yet.” The woman spoke the way they did in the country.
That night Blanca slept without bad dreams. In her sleep she saw Otto, tall and thin like her uncle Otto, whom her mother had loved and loved to talk about. When Blanca awoke, it was already late. Otto was still sleeping, curled up next to her. They’re looking for me in railroad stations, she thought, but I’m here with Otto and no one will discover me because this place is out of the way and hidden. Now the room revealed itself to her: tall, narrow windows, two old-fashioned dressers, an armchair, and two wicker chairs. In the corner was a desk.
“We’re lazy. It’s nine o’clock,” she said as soon as Otto woke up.
“Where are we going?” he asked as if he were on a train.
“We’re not leaving. We’re here.”
“Is there a river?”
“I suppose so, but it’s autumn now, and the water is cold.”
“What will we do?”
“We’ll read and play and do a lot of other things.”
Mrs. Tauber greeted them with a “Good morning” and said, “Make yourselves at home. Here’s what I can offer you for breakfast. Everything is hot and fresh.”
They ate and drank. Otto was impressed by the polished copper pots on the stove, from which you could easily remove omelets and cheese dumplings dipped in strawberry jam. Blanca sipped the thick coffee, which seeped into her like a restorative potion.
She remembered what she had practiced with Otto, and drilled it into him again. “Otto is four and a quarter. Otto is big now. His name is Otto Guttmann, and in a little while he’ll go to kindergarten.”
Otto raised his eyes and stared at her as though he had caught his mother doing something foolish.
After breakfast Otto said, “Mama, let’s go out for a walk.” Blanca was somewhat apprehensive about the new place, but she overcame her misgivings and said, “We’ll go out right away and see what there is here.”
First they strolled down the main avenue and then they sat in a little café and ordered ice cream. There was a toy store near the café, and Blanca bought Otto a basket full of toys. Otto was pleased and expressed his joy by clapping his hands.
Then they sat in a public park, and Otto played. The park was clean, and Blanca knelt down and played with him.
“I have a lot of toys!” he cried out, confused because so many toys had suddenly come to him.
After a while Blanca said, “Today we’ll buy new clothes, too. It’s already autumn, and you have no warm clothing.”
“And boots, too?”
“Boots, too, like grown-ups wear.”
And so they did. By the afternoon, Otto was equipped for the winter. When they returned, Mrs. Tauber was pleased to see them and said, “You’ve come just in time. Lunch is ready.”
For lunch she served them borscht with sour cr
eam and stuffed eggplant.
“We have no fish today,” she apologized.
“That’s all right,” said Blanca. “Otto will be going to kindergarten soon. I’m sure they have fish there.”
The landlady stared at her and said nothing.
After lunch, Otto busied himself with his new toys, and Blanca lay down on the bed and observed him. She felt that a part of her had been left behind in the enchanted cabin on the banks of the Dessel and that from now on she would have to live without some vital organs. My life has to contract, she said to herself, and the more it contracts, the better it will be. An old sadness, one that had gnawed at her years ago in high school, arose within her. In a short while these eyes of mine will see no more. This room and its modest furniture won’t remember that I was here and watched Otto play. And Otto, too, will be so immersed in his own life that he won’t remember these magical moments.
“Otto,” she blurted out.
“What, Mama?”
“You have to be strong.”
“I’m strong.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” she said, and was sorry she had said it.
Indeed, Otto sank deeper and deeper into his new toys. The evening light streamed through the tall windows and shone dimly on the floor. Blanca felt that she had distanced herself very far from her life, that she was exposed and without wings to shelter her. In her second-to-last year of high school they had read The Brothers Karamazov and discussed it. They had spoken about the soul and about its darkness, about good and evil, and about murder, which was forbidden in any event. About God, for some reason, they had not spoken. One of the girls, not one of the outstanding students, had surprised everyone by speaking explicitly about God, and the literature teacher, a pleasant, enlightened man, had made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, as if to say, Why drag our feet into intangible things? They won’t be of any use to us. Let’s talk about visible and palpable things. There, at least, we’re on firm footing. The girl, whose name Blanca didn’t remember now, bowed her head, and her face flushed as if she had been slapped. The unfortunate girl’s face now appeared clearly before her, as though the insult had just been hurled at her.
Until the Dawn's Light Page 18
