Blooms of Darkness

67

When Hugo reaches the square, it is already night. Near the soup kettle and the food stands that have been set up, pots of coffee steam, and the murmur of people withdrawn into themselves is heard. A tall man wearing old army clothes hands Hugo a sandwich and a cup full of coffee. He does it cautiously and attentively, as though he knows that for hours no liquid has passed Hugo’s lips. Hugo sits at some distance from the bonfire. The sandwich is tasty, and the hot coffee warms him. The sorrow he experienced during the day fades slightly. He’s glad he came back to this place.

A woman approaches. “What’s your name, young man?” she asks.

Hugo looks into her eyes and answers.

“You’re Hans and Julia’s son, right?”

“Right.”

“They were wonderful people. There wasn’t a poor person in the city whom they didn’t give something to in their generosity.” She wants to add something, but her voice is choked. Hugo wants to ask her where they are and when they will be coming here, but seeing that her face has suddenly closed up, he doesn’t.

“Do you have warm clothing?” She changes her tone. “I’ll bring you a coat. It’s cold at night here.” She goes over to the pile of clothes that lie off to the side, fishes out a coat, and hands it to Hugo. “Put it on,” she says. “It’s cold here at night.” Hugo puts on the coat, and to his surprise he immediately feels comfortable.

“Thank you. What’s your name, if I may ask?” The words escape from his mouth.

“My name is Dora. I used to go into the pharmacy sometimes. It was a model pharmacy. Everybody was welcomed with a smile.”

The commotion in the square increases, but it doesn’t become an uproar. It’s evident that people here are careful of one another. The quiet talk reminds Hugo of a house of mourning. When his grandfather Jacob died, many people came to their house and surrounded them with loving silence. Hugo was then five years old. The quiet mourning seeped into him, and for many nights he dreamed about the people who had sat in his home without uttering a word.

“Why are the people so quiet?” he asked his mother then.

“What is there to say?” she replied, and said nothing more.

Hugo looks around him and becomes aware that some of the refugees are keeping a secret. People turn to them and ask them to reveal the secret to them, but for some reason they stubbornly refuse. A sturdy, overwrought woman with wild hair falls on one of the secret-keepers and vehemently demands that he tell her what happened at Camp Thirty-three.

“I don’t know. I was outside of that camp.” The secret-keeper defends himself.

“Your face says that you know exactly what happened, but you’ve decided not to reveal that knowledge.”

“Nobody knows.”

“But you were there, and you know. Why are you denying me and the people like me clear knowledge of what happened?”

“I can’t,” he says, and his voice chokes.

“So you do know.” The woman doesn’t relent. “I felt that you knew. You can’t leave us in a fog forever. Just tell us.”

“I can’t,” says the man, and bursts into tears.

“Why are you torturing him?” A man standing to the side mixes in.

“Because I have to know. My father and my mother, my two brothers, my husband, and my two children were there. Don’t I deserve to know? I have to know.”

“But he already told you that he can’t.” He continues defending the weeping man.

“That’s no answer, it’s concealment. Let him tell me what he knows. I deserve to have him tell me.”

The man’s weeping grows stronger, but the woman doesn’t relent. She seems to believe that the weeping man could bring her dear ones back to life, and for some hidden reason he is refusing to do it.

Finally people separate them.

That night many secrets are revealed, but there is no weeping. The silence grows. The refugees sip mugs of coffee and glasses of brandy and numb the sorrow within them. Hugo feels fear. He’s afraid that Mariana will come and fail to find him near the gate, so he decides to go back and sit there. But at that hour the gate is surrounded by many soldiers. From time to time the gate opens, and an officer announces something. The soldiers are quiet, expressing no resentment.

Later one of the refugees, an unpleasant-looking man, tells Hugo that the field court has been sitting for days, judging collaborators and informers. As for the whores, there’s no doubt, they were condemned and executed that very day.

Hugo hears, curled up in the long coat, and closes his eyes. Before his eyes Mariana rises to her full height, wearing a flowered dress and standing in the doorway of the closet. “Why don’t you read me some poems from the Bible?” she asks. And when she approaches him, Hugo immediately notices a gaping hole in her neck, a hole with no signs of blood. The flesh around it is burned, and it is gray.

Hugo awakens. The bonfire is blazing in full force. The refugees sleep, wrapped in their coats. Potatoes and chunks of meat they laid on the coals have become charred.