Blooms of Darkness (9 page)

Sofia was so different from his parents and his friends’ parents, as if she had been born on another continent: she spoke loudly and with broad gestures, and when it seemed to her that people didn’t understand her, she used her large face to imitate her neighbors and suitors. She sang, too, kneeling on the floor and making everyone laugh.

The cold in the closet is unrelenting. Mariana often comes late with Hugo’s cup of milk in the morning, and sometimes she goes into town and forgets him all day long. But sometimes she says, “Come to Mariana, and she’ll hug you, darling,” and so she brings him from the cold darkness to her vibrant breast. In
the hours he spends in her bed, embraced in her long arms, marvelous oblivion envelops him. For whole days he looks forward to those hours. When they come, he is stricken, or paralyzed, and he doesn’t know what to say or do. But this doesn’t happen every day. Most days Mariana is drunk, grumpy, and she falls on her bed in a stupor.

So it is, day after day. There are gloomy days when Hugo sees only the closet walls and Mariana’s faded housedresses hanging on hooks. The narrow cracks in the closet walls reveal only the fence and the gray bushes that have shed all their leaves.
This is a prison
, Hugo says to himself. In prison it’s impossible to read. It’s impossible to do homework. It’s even impossible to play chess. Prison stifles thought and imagination. That realization has come to reside within him over the past few days. Since then he has been afraid that his head will slowly empty. He will no longer think or imagine. One day he will fall over like the tree in the yard of their house did last winter. But when Mariana finally remembers him, opens the closet door, and says, “What’s Mariana’s darling doing?” Hugo’s fears evaporate all at once, and he rises to his feet.

19

One day, when they’re still asleep in the broad bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, Mariana wakes up in a panic.

“It’s very late, my darling,” she cries out. “You have to go into the closet immediately.” When that happens, Hugo feels his body shrink, and he hunches over and walks to the closet without saying anything.

It’s quiet. Not a sound can be heard from Mariana’s room. For a moment it seems that in a little while the door will open, and Mariana will call out, as she sometimes does,
Darling, come to me
.

Hugo listens expectantly.

He soon realizes that Mariana and her partner are pleased with each other, and whispering. From the few words he catches, it’s clear that this time there are no arguments, no accusations, and everything is happening quietly, and with consent.

The thought that Mariana has sent him out of her bed so she can sleep with a grown man suddenly fills Hugo with envy and anger.

He feels so angry and sorry for himself that he falls asleep.

In his dream he sees his mother. She is young and beautiful and dressed in the poplin gown she loved.

“Don’t you love me anymore?” she asks with a provocative smile.

“I?” He is stunned, like someone whose secrets have been bared.

“You prefer Mariana to me,” she says, pretending to be insulted, the way she sometimes did. “I love you very much, Mama.”

“You’re saying that to be polite,” she says, and disappears.

When Hugo wakes from that nightmare, he knows the dream’s meaning. If his mother were near him, he would try to console her. But since she isn’t there, her words remain suspended in the darkness, like an accusation supported by evidence.

In the meantime, the man has been replaced by someone else. Now unpleasant voices come from Mariana’s room. The new man speaks sternly, and Mariana tries in vain to get him to understand her. Again the old accusation: alcohol. The man reminds her that she promised not to drink the last time, too. Once again she has failed to keep her promise. After that the storm calms down.

The first morning lights filter into the closet and fill it with stripes of brightness. In a little while Mariana will bring Hugo a cup of warm milk, he comforts himself. But Mariana, as she sometimes does, forgets him. He’s so thirsty that he calls out in a whisper, “Mariana.” Mariana hears his call, opens the closet door, and bursts in. “You mustn’t call me. I warned you not to call me. Never call me.” Anger floods her face and darkens it.

For a long time Hugo lies curled up in a corner. In the afternoon Mariana stands in the doorway of the closet with a cup of milk. “How does Mariana’s darling feel? How did the night go? Was it cold?” she says, as though nothing has happened.

“I slept.”

“It’s good to sleep. You don’t know how good it is to sleep. I’m going to town to visit my mother. My mother is very sick,
and she’s alone. There’s no one to take care of her. My sister doesn’t bother to come and help her. I won’t be back until evening. I’ll bring you some sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. If anyone knocks on the door, don’t answer.”

Mariana brings Hugo a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade.

“Have a pleasant time, my darling,” she says. And without another word, she locks the door and goes on her way.

20

Hugo remains standing in Mariana’s bedroom. Three months have passed since his mother left him here. Everything has changed in his life. How much it has changed, he doesn’t know. Hugo’s heart torments him because he hasn’t kept his promises to his mother. He doesn’t read, he doesn’t write, and he doesn’t do arithmetic problems.

While he’s standing there, Hugo realizes that the room hasn’t changed since he first arrived: the same pink slipcovers, the same vases with paper roses stuck in them, the same dresser with its drawers full of little bottles, cotton, and sponges. But that afternoon the room looks to him like the clinic where he was brought to get injections. Anna had a sweet little dog, and Hugo liked to play with him whenever he went to visit her. One morning word spread that Luzzi had rabies. All the children who had played with him or touched him were brought to the clinic.

Some of the children, seeing the hypodermics and hearing the patients cry, slipped out of their parents’ grasp and fled. The startled parents tried to catch them, but the children were quicker. They escaped to the cellar and hid there. But their hiding didn’t last long. The tall and cunning hospital watchmen closed the doors to the cellar and went from room to room,
trapping them. The sight of the children being led back to the clinic stayed in Hugo’s mind for many days.

Later, Hugo sits on the floor and begins a chess game. Everything he used to like to do at home is hard for him to do here. Even to open a book is a task beyond his powers. He thinks a lot. Memory keeps bringing up his classmates, his teachers. But to take out a notebook and write isn’t in his power.

Hugo is sorry that Anna and Otto have changed so much. Every time he thinks about that change, a chill grips his arms and legs. Thinking about all the delicate embroidery that was spun between him and Anna, between him and Otto—the visits to their houses, the trips and the long conversations about themselves and about what was going on around them—the thought makes him so sad that he chokes. To prevent them from disappearing from his memory, he brings them back up in his mind and says to them,
True, you’ve changed, but in my head you live as you were. I’m not willing to give up even a single feature of your faces, and for that reason, as long as you’re in my memory, your disappearance is only partial, and to a large degree abolished
.

Suddenly, illuminated by the cold afternoon lights, the path Hugo had taken every day to school arises in his memory. It began on the long, shady boulevard with the chestnut trees, and it branched off among narrow, twisting alleys perfumed with the smells of coffee and fresh cakes. In the morning the taverns were closed, and the smell of beer and urine rose from the dark corners.

Sometimes he would stop at a bakery and buy a cheese pastry. The fresh, crisp taste stayed with him until he arrived at the school’s front steps. The way to and from school is now imprinted in Hugo’s mind with sharp clarity.

He usually walked back home with Anna and Otto, and
sometimes Erwin would also join them. Erwin was Hugo’s height, and it was hard to know whether he was happy or sad. A restrained look of surprise was usually spread across his face, and he hardly spoke. The other children didn’t like him, and sometimes they picked on him. But Hugo had a feeling that Erwin held a secret within him. Hugo expected that one day Erwin would reveal his secret. Then it would be known to everyone that he wasn’t an indifferent creature, limited or lacking in feelings. Once, Hugo discussed this with Anna. Anna didn’t think there was any secret in Erwin. She believed he had closed himself off because he had trouble with mathematics and had a feeling of inferiority. A feeling of inferiority wasn’t a secret. Anna was smart. She knew how to express her thoughts like an adult.

Once, when they were on their way home from school, Hugo carelessly asked Erwin, “What do your parents do?”

“I don’t have any parents,” Erwin answered softly.

“Where are they?” asked Hugo, stupidly.

“They died,” Erwin said.

For many days Hugo regretted his questions; he felt as though he had been stricken. After that, he was careful not to be in Erwin’s company, and if he found himself with Erwin, he spoke little or not at all.

Hugo refused to think about what had happened to Erwin in the ghetto. One night they sealed off the orphanage on all sides, took the orphans out of their beds, and loaded them onto trucks while they were still in their pajamas. The orphans wept and cried out for help, but no one did anything. Anyone who opened a window or went outside would be shot. The shouts and weeping pierced the empty streets, and they could be heard even after the trucks had driven away and disappeared from view.

• • •

Thus Hugo sits on the floor and dreams about his friends and his school. The chess pieces are arranged on the board, but apart from the opening, he hasn’t made a move.

Mariana arrives toward evening and asks, “What did Mariana’s shut-in puppy do?” The smell of brandy wafts about her mouth, but she isn’t angry. She hugs and kisses Hugo, saying, “You’re better than all of them. What did you do today?”

“Nothing.”

“Why didn’t you eat the sandwiches?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

Every time Mariana comes back from town, Hugo wants to ask her,
Did you meet Mama? Did you meet Papa?
But he remembers that Mariana doesn’t like him to ask about his parents. Only when she’s in a good mood, she’s willing to say, “I didn’t meet them. I didn’t hear from them.” Once, in a moment of anger, she said, “I’ve already told you. They’ll only come at the end of the war. The Jews are shut in and locked up in hiding places.”

Then she tells him, “My mother is very sick. I don’t have any more money for the doctors and medicines,” and she bursts into tears. When Mariana cries, her face changes and becomes a child’s face. This time she isn’t angry at the bastards but at her sister, who lives right near her mother but doesn’t take the trouble to go to her and bring her bread or fruit. She ignores her completely. The doctor who came to see Mariana’s mother told her they had to buy medicine immediately, because without it she would expire in a few days.

Now Mariana is about to sell the jewelry she received from Hugo’s mother. The jewelry is beautiful and very valuable, but it’s doubtful that she can sell it for its full value. “They’re all cheats,” she says, and there’s no one she can trust.

After a short pause, she adds, “My mother is still angry at me. She’s sure I’m neglecting her. What can I do? I work all night long to bring her food and firewood. A week ago I
bought her fruit. What more can I do? I’m willing to sell the jewelry if the medicines will save her. I don’t want my mother to be angry at me.”

“Your mother knows you love her.”

“How do you know?”

“Mothers have a special feeling for their children.”

“In my childhood she used to beat me a lot, but in recent years, since my father died, she’s calmed down. She suffered a lot all those years.”

“Everyone has his own portion.” Hugo recalls that sentence.

“You’re smart, darling. All the Jewish children are smart. But you surpass even them. It’s good that God sent you to me. What do you say? Should I sell the jewelry?”

“If that will save your mother, you should sell it.”

“You’re right, sweetie. You’re the only one I can depend on.”

21

That night no sound is heard from Mariana’s room. She is alone, and her sleep is punctuated by sudden snorts and mutterings that sound like stifled speech. Hugo expects her to call him to her, but she is immersed in deep slumber.

In the last darkness of the night they wake her. Hugo hears Mariana get dressed and hurry out. When she returns, it is already daylight. She bursts into tears. Hugo has heard her cry more than once, but this time it’s a different sort of crying, a choked weeping that comes up from within her in heaves.

Mariana goes out and returns several times. Finally, she stands in the closet’s doorway with a short woman and says, “Last night my mother died. I have to set out right away. Victoria will watch over you. She’s a woman who can keep a secret. She’s our cook, and I’m sure you won’t go hungry.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll watch over you,” says Victoria in a heavy, foreign accent.

Hugo doesn’t know what to say, so he says, “Thank you.”

Now he sees Victoria from close up: short, plump, older than Mariana. Her flushed face expresses tense surprise, as if Hugo were different from what she imagined. Mariana repeats, “Hugo is a good boy. Watch over him.”

After the door is locked, a curtain falls over his eyes, and he
doesn’t see a thing. Just yesterday it seemed as if Mariana loved him, and it would not be long before he slept with her again. Now she is gone and has left this miserable creature in her place. Sorrow chokes Hugo’s throat, and it is clear to him that until her return he will know no peace. He rises to his feet and stands next to the boards of the closet. If it weren’t for the slivers of light that filtered through the cracks, the darkness and the cold would devour him in one gulp.
Mama
, he wants to call out, but he immediately grasps that his mother is far from him, and, like him, she is imprisoned in a closet. His father is even farther away. He no longer appears even in Hugo’s dreams.