Until the Dawn's Light_ A Novel - Aharon Appelfeld [75]
“Otto,” she said.
“What, Mama?”
“Don’t worry. The train will start moving soon.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Then why does your face look worried?”
“I remembered the banks of the Dessel.”
“That’s a marvelous place, and we have to remember it forever. What do you see now?”
“The red fish.”
“True, the water was very clear, and we could see the fish, but the plants were also beautiful. Everything was beautiful. So why are you worried?”
“Will we go back there?”
“One day, I suppose.”
“I’d like to go back there.”
In her heart she was glad that the new sights were gradually adhering to his soul and that she wouldn’t have to fool him or lie.
“Otto,” she said.
“What, Mama?”
“Will you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For all the crimes that I committed.”
“What are crimes?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
54
“STRUZHINCZ!” THE CONDUCTOR announced. The sound penetrated Blanca’s sleep, and it woke her. She immediately gripped Otto’s hand and said, “We’re getting off.”
“Where?” asked Otto, still tangled in sleep.
“This is it,” she said, without knowing what she was saying.
Here, too, Blanca saw two big posters glued to a wall, each proclaiming the name and description of the murderer. This time the letters were in red, making them stand out even more. Blanca looked at them, lowered her eyes, and slipped out of the station.
Cold evening light illuminated the street and the low houses. Her eyes immediately picked out a sign: SALZBURG HOTEL. Nearby there was another sign: VIENNA HOTEL. The buildings looked as though they housed well-run hotels. But in a hotel they write down your address and ask questions. Then, in an alley not far away, Blanca saw a modest sign: FAMILY PENSION, PERSONAL SERVICE, REASONABLE PRICES. The alley pleased her. The people walked slowly, the calm of the evening permeating their gait. A familiar but forgotten tranquillity flowed from the open windows.
“It’s good that we came here,” she said.
“Mama,” Otto called out, confused from the long journey.
“What, dear?”
“I’d like to eat something good.”
“In a little while they’ll serve us dinner,” she said, picturing in her mind a set table. It turned out to be a Jewish-owned pension. Blanca remembered the little Jewish sanitariums in the mountains where her mother had been hospitalized. The owners had been gentle people, somewhat similar to their patients.
“My name is Blanca Guttmann, and this is my son, Otto Guttmann,” Blanca said, introducing herself.
“Did you come from Czernowitz?”
“Yes, we did.”
“How long will you be here, if I may ask?”
“A month, maybe longer.” Blanca spoke in relaxed tones to avoid raising questions.
“My name is Tina Tauber,” said the landlady. “My German isn’t perfect, but my husband studied it in high school, and he speaks without mistakes. He corrects my errors, but without much success. What can I do? I was born in a village where we spoke Yiddish.”
The woman was about forty, and it was evident that contact with strangers embarrassed her. Her husband, who came to help, did indeed speak a fine German. He showed them their room and said, “Come downstairs with me, and we’ll serve you dinner. You’re surely hungry. What’s your name, little boy?”
Blanca intervened and said, “Otto is big already. Otto is four. In a little while he’ll attend kindergarten.”
After many days of displacement, fear, and depression, the dining room seemed like a quiet return to a familiar place. The meal included vegetables, cheese and sour cream, and thick coffee. The fragrance of the coffee reminded Blanca of the shaded country cafés where she had sat with her parents. For a moment she