Blooms of Darkness

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.”

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.