Otto raised his eyes and said, “I’ll read them as soon as I’m big.”
Blanca kissed his forehead. “I’m very proud of you,” she said.
They arrived in Czernowitz. Blanca had planned to look for a kindergarten for Otto, but she immediately realized that their name would betray him. Not only that, Czernowitz was a big city, and gendarmes swarmed over every corner. Better to go farther, to a more modest place.
The posters stood out on the walls. She had never before seen her name in such big printed letters, and she was momentarily filled with a fear that was mingled with a malicious pleasure. Everybody’s looking for me, she thought, and I’m here, in the very heart of the city, next to police headquarters.
Now she remembered that she had heard about Czernowitz for the first time from her mother. As a little girl, Blanca’s mother had passed through Czernowitz with her family on her way from Galicia to Austria. The city had been etched in her mother’s memory because of the splendid stores and the cafés known for their fine strawberry tortes. Blanca wanted very much to spend at least an hour in the place where her mother had walked, to stroll with Otto along Herrengasse, which was famous for its charm, but her fear was stronger than her desire.
“We won’t visit this busy city,” she said to Otto, and they quickly boarded a train for the provinces.
“What’s your name, dear?” They were alone in the car, and Blanca surprised Otto with this question as soon as the train departed.
“Otto Hammer. Why are you asking?”
“That’s a mistake. That was your name when you were little. Now that you’re big, you’ll have a grown-up name.”
“When will I get the new name?”
“Right away. I’ll tell you your new name right away: Otto Guttmann. Do you hear?”
“Will that be my new name?” Otto asked, smiling.
“Yes. You have reached the age of four and a quarter. When a child reaches the age of four and a quarter, his mother gives him a new name, and he immediately forgets his old name. What’s your name, dear?”
“My name is Otto Guttmann.”
“Correct. You have to practice saying it to yourself from now on: My name is Otto Guttmann. Everything that used to be is as if it never was.”
The end of the summer was brightly colored, and more than once Blanca said to herself, We’ll get off here, we’ll burrow into the thick shrubs and live in nature. But every time she grabbed Otto’s hand to get off, she was deterred. At one station she yielded to temptation, and they did get out. Except for a small kiosk and a few drunkards gathered around it, there was nothing. They drank lemonade, bought a basket of plums, and without delay boarded the next train.
Otto slept, and Blanca was glad of it. It seemed to her that as long as he was asleep, she was protected. The trains in this region were slow and neglected. More than once the train stopped and stood in place for an hour or two. The conductors got off and sat by the kiosk, drinking lemonade and smoking with pleasure, as though time meant nothing. But in fact, that relaxation frightened Blanca. It was as though the tiger were about to leap out of the thicket. While the train was speeding along, Otto’s sleep was pure and quiet. But when the train stopped and the conductors got off, Otto’s face filled with curiosity, and he started to pester her with questions. So that he would stop asking, Blanca told him stories. At first she had wanted to tell him a little about what she had written in the notebook, but she understood right away that Otto might get confused and mix up Adolf’s family with hers. It would be better for his life to begin, for the moment, alongside the Dessel River and on the trains, and no earlier.
“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 forgot the jolting journey, and she clung to those vanished places as if she had never left them.