Blooms of Darkness

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 envy 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.