Blooms of Darkness by Jeffrey M. Green, Aharon Appelfeld Page A

knew that the mountain called “correct playing” was very steep, and it was doubtful that he would be able to climb it.
    Anna was better than he in this, too. She had already performed at the end of the school year, and her future in this field was not in doubt. Hugo would make efforts not to fall behind, but his achievements were mediocre, and in his report card there were no “excellents.”
    Anna had only one competitor for the title of “Outstanding Pupil of the Year”—Franz. Franz was also good in every subject. He solved arithmetic problems easily, wrote fluently, and quoted poems and famous sayings by heart. He was thin, and his hair stood up, which was why they called him “hedgehog.” But don’t worry, there wasn’t a pupil in the class who came up to his ankles. His head was full of dates and the names of cities, national leaders, generals, poets, and inventors. He devoured books and encyclopedias. More than once he shamed the teacher with his knowledge. Once, full of envy, Anna said, “He’s a machine, not a human being.” Franz heard her and retorted, “Anna is knowledgeable up to a certain point.”
    So the competition went. Not even the war and the ghettohalted it. Franz made sure that Anna got word of his achievements. Anna examined every one of them, and in the end she said, “In French, I have no competitor.”
    From the dark corner of the closet, Hugo’s earlier life suddenly seems like petty busyness. His mother used to say, “Why compete? Why degrade yourself? What good are competition and envy? Let everyone make an accounting with himself, and that’s enough.” Back then he didn’t understand the meaning of “make an accounting with himself,” but now he pretty much understands: I have to immerse myself in listening and observing and to write down everything my eyes see and my ears hear. Many secrets surround me. I must write down every secret . In saying this, it was as if light flooded the dark closet, and Hugo knows that his mother, who pulled him out of the sewer and restored him to life, has done it again.

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    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 bigbrother. 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