Blooms of Darkness

38

Thus the days pass. Hugo celebrates his twelfth birthday with Mariana. She takes a few swallows from the bottle and announces, “Today you’ve finally reached maturity. Today you’re a man. But not like all other men. You, unlike them, will be a gentleman — generous and loyal to all those who love you. Remember, nature gave you the right height, a charming appearance, and a sensitive heart. Life, I feel, won’t be hard on you anymore. You like to observe, to think, to imagine. Without a doubt you’ll be an artist. It’s right for an artist to be handsome. One day Mariana will appear in your imagination, and you’ll want to paint her. You know her body and her soul. Don’t paint her as a miserable woman. I don’t want to be fixed in your memory in the image of a wretched woman. Remember, Mariana struggles like a lioness every night with wild men. Engrave Mariana in your memory as a fighting woman. Do you promise me?”

In recent days Hugo has felt an agitation in his body, and when Mariana hugs him, the pleasure grows stronger. It seems to Hugo that this is a feeling it’s forbidden to express openly, but when he is lying in Mariana’s embrace in bed, he allows himself to kiss her neck.

“What’s happening to me?” The words slip out of his mouth.

“You’ve matured, and you’re a man. In a little while you’ll understand some of the secrets of life.”

Hugo has noticed that Mariana looks at him now with a certain smile, and every time he draws near her, she opens her arms and encircles him.

The days of mourning for Paula do not pass easily. In the corridor and in their rooms they speak about Paula’s mother, who wanted to have Paula buried next to her daughter, and about Paula’s former husband, who got so drunk that he scratched his face and shouted, “I’m a scoundrel. I’m worthless. I’m the worst of the worst. I had a gift from heaven and I didn’t know how to keep it. In hell they’ll roast me. I deserve it, and you shouldn’t feel sorry for me.”

But more than anything, they speak about Paula’s funeral. Observing her friends who came to see her off to the world of truth, the priest raised his voice and called out, “Wanton women, return to your Father who is in heaven. God knows man’s soul and his frivolous mind. God, unlike human beings, forgives. Return to Him this very day.”

Paula’s death leaves an impression that doesn’t fade. The women mention things in her name, speak about her devotion to her mother, and constantly talk about her mortal illness. Hugo hears it all, and the cemetery appears before his eyes with its many crosses, the shouts of grief ringing in his ears.

One night Hugo dreams about his last birthday party at home. He sees Anna and Otto, his mother, who with the last remnant of her strength had tried to make the guests happy, and the guest with the accordion who had worn a heavy coat and had tried to coax music out of the reluctant instrument. The guests hadn’t sat down, as was customary, but stood, with cups of tea in their hands. His mother went from person to person and apologized. At that moment it hadn’t seemed like a birthday party, but like a silent assembly where everyone expected everyone else to open his mouth with ancient words of prayer. No one came forward, and no one prayed. The guests looked at one another, wondering whether they would see each other again.

The cold rouses Hugo from his dream. It’s quiet. From Mariana’s room friendly murmurs are heard. This time he isn’t envious or angry. His sorrow at having been taken away from his home and his parents is stronger than envy and rasps him inside. Only after he rises to his feet and stands next to the cracks in the wall do the tears flood his eyes.

Mariana doesn’t like it when he cries. She once criticized him about it. “A man doesn’t cry,” she said. “Only children and women cry.” Since then he has stopped crying, but sometimes the tears overwhelm him.

Toward morning Hugo hears one of the women tell the guard, “Last night they caught a lot of Jews. They found them in a cellar and ordered them to crawl on the road. Anyone who didn’t crawl right was shot.”

“We thought there were no more Jews left,” says the guard noncommitally.

“There are a lot. They’re hiding.”

“Nothing can help them.”

“People fight for their lives as long as their soul is in them.”

“The Jews love life too much,” the guard says in a flat, metallic voice.