The Book of Blam Page 6

  Suddenly Čutura rose from his bench and positioned himself by Blam’s desk. He stood there calmly, arms at his side, his composure making it clear he would not budge. Rakovsky sensed as much and hesitated for a moment, but then a hoarse sound emerged from his throat: a whimper or muffled cry. He was so much shorter than Čutura that when he got to him, his raised fists barely reached Čutura’s slightly furrowed brow.

  “Don’t do it, Professor Rakovsky,” Čutura said firmly.

  Rakovsky flinched again, his lips curling. Then he turned to Blam, as if to find a way past the obstacle and do what he had set out to do.

  Čutura took a step backward in Blam’s direction.

  “Don’t do it, Professor Rakovsky,” he repeated in the same firm but quiet voice.

  Rakovsky turned to him, his eyes bulging as if he had received an electric shock, his white fists shaking above his head, his mouth twisting, his breath hissing. Then all at once something snapped inside him, and he threw back his head, opened his mouth, and burst into his broken wheeze of a laugh. The class, mute from the suspense, was slow in joining him, but once he lowered his arms, the fearful, obsequious sputter grew into a roar. Rakovsky then executed an about-face and returned straight-backed to the podium. Čutura motioned to Blam to be seated and slipped silently back on to his own bench. The class resumed.

  ČUTURA IS CRUISING the city. He may be wearing a sweaty shirt unbuttoned at the chest, he may be wearing a suit and tie and driving his own car, depending on the position he would have had in postwar society. One thing is certain: he is carrying a list of all the Novi Sad Lajos Kocsises in his pocket, a list consisting of addresses alone, the names being the same. Čutura is gathering new, postwar evidence of diversity beneath apparent uniformity.

  *

  “Does Lajos Kocsis live here?”

  “What do you want him for?”

  “I just want to talk to him. Is he in?”

  “If it’s about money, you might as well leave now. Half of his salary goes to pay off his loans. And the three kids you see here? He’s their sole support.”

  “Are they his?”

  “They’re mine, comrade, and I won’t let anybody take a crumb away from them, understand?”

  “The Kocsis I’m looking for is an old man. I think they gave me the wrong address. How old is your husband?”

  “Who gave you my address anyway?”

  “A common friend. I’m trying to give him money, not take it from him. Is that him in the picture with you and your children?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then I apologize. Please forget I ever came.”

  *

  “Does Lajos Kocsis live here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Are you related?”

  “I’m his mother-in-law.”

  “Can you tell me if he ever lived in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square?”

  “Where? Wait a second. Marta! Marta!”

  “What is it?”

  “This man wants to talk to Laci.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I may be wrong. I’m looking for a Lajos Kocsis who moved to Budapest during the war. Could that be your husband?”

  “My husband was in Budapest during the war. In the army. What do you want from him?”

  “The Kocsis I’m looking for went to Budapest as a civilian with a woman who lived in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square.”

  “What are you talking about? They took him against his will and he came back with his legs cut off. Mother, can’t you see the man is drunk?”

  *

  “Are you Lajos Kocsis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, then I must be wrong. The one I’m looking for is shorter than you and heavier. Maybe younger too.”

  “Cukros?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you looking for the Lajos Kocsis people call Cukros? He’s my nephew.”

  “Did he happen to live in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square during the war?”

  “Yes, yes, I think so. Come in.”

  “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Not at all. I’m all alone here. And bored. It’s so hot this afternoon.”

  “Yes. Now this Kocsis you mention, this . . .”

  “Cukros.”

  “Right. Was he married?”

  “Yes, of course. Three times. His first wife was from Srem. He was in the army, in Mitrovica. Then he got mixed up with somebody else. You know how it is when you’re young. But it didn’t last, and they broke up.”

  “Any children?”

  “With the first wife? I don’t think so. They only had two years together, if I remember correctly.”

  “No, I mean any children at all. And did he spend any time in Budapest?”

  “Oh, he’s been everywhere. Even America.”

  “For how long?”

  “He was there for a good ten years, I think.”

  “When was that?”

  “I can’t give you the exact date. He went as a bricklayer, but then the war broke out and he couldn’t get back. His second wife was from there.”

  “So he wasn’t here during the war.”

  “No, I told you. He couldn’t get back. The borders were closed.”

  “Well, then I am wrong. He’s not the Kocsis I’m looking for. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to rush off. We were having a good talk. I used to be a teacher; I’m used to talking to people. If you’re interested in other Kocsises, I can tell you that our family came here from Hungary, from Hortobágy. I went to Hungary once, and while I was there I thought I’d go to our village, Korpány. My grandfather used to tell us about it. Anyway, I get there and what do I find but seven families with the name Kocsis! Let me show you the picture we took. Just one second. I live alone and things aren’t as orderly as they might be.”

  *

  “Some other time, perhaps. I have to be going. Believe me, I have to go. Goodbye.”

  *

  “I’m looking for Lajos Kocsis.”

  “You are? What for? Who are you?”

  “An old friend. Is he in?”

  “So you don’t know!”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Oh God! He’s dead. Papa’s dead. He died not three weeks ago. His heart. After six days in the hospital. We hoped it would help, but no. If only I’d kept him here at home. . .”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But maybe your father isn’t the Kocsis I’m looking for. Did he spend any time in Budapest?”

  “Quite a bit. My sister lives there with her husband.”

  “No, I mean any extended time. During the war.”

  “No, we spent the war in Serbia, in Kraljevo. My mother was killed in the station bombing there.”

  “Then he’s not the one. I’m very sorry.”

  *

  “I’m looking for Lajos Kocsis.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “How should I know? I don’t ask him where he goes.”

  “Are you his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your husband ever live in Vojvoda Šupljikac Square?”

  “What square?”

  “Vojvoda Šupljikac. In the center of town. There was a widow living there with her lame daughter. Did your husband ever stay with them?”

  “What business is it of yours? Who are you anyway? Why are you cross-examining me?”

  “So it is him. Sorry, ma’am, I just needed to know if he was the Kocsis I was looking for. He moved to Budapest during the war, didn’t he? And then came back. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. And if it’s his floozy who’s sent you, you can nab him whenever you like. I don’t care.”

  “I’m not going to ‘nab’ him. I just wanted to know where he lives.”

  *

  “See that house over there, little boy?”

 
“Yes.”

  “Well, there’s a man living there whose name is Lajos Kocsis. Know who I mean?”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Lajos Kocsis. An old man. Know him?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you do. You play here, don’t you? The old man in that yellow house.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “There, you see? Now, where do you think he is?”

  “You mean now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know where he is now, but I know he went to the bar.”

  “What bar?”

  “Two streets down, on the corner.”

  “You saw him go in?”

  “He’s there all the time. Every day.”

  “Show me where it is, and I’ll give you money for an ice cream.”

  *

  “This is it, eh? Then lean your bike against the wall and peek in and tell me if the old man’s there. Don’t go in; just peek through the door. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  *

  “Well, is he there?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Where’s he sitting? Where in the room? Left? Right? Front? Back?”

  “He’s not sitting; he’s standing.”

  “I see. At the bar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he the only one there?”

  “No, there’s some others too.”

  “Look, give me your hand and we’ll go in together. Right. Now tell me which one he is. The one with the cap on?”

  “No.”

  “What about the one next to him? Yes, yes, he’s the one. Gray hair, hunched back, faded green shirt. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go. I’ll walk you to the corner. Here’s the money I promised. But don’t tell a soul. I want this to be our secret, and if you keep it, I’ll come back every once in a while for a chat. And each time I’ll give you money for an ice cream.”

  Chapter Six

  THE BLAM FAMILY tree can be traced back a century and a half to 1812, when a group of approximately four hundred refugees from Alsace, the survivors of a pogrom occasioned by the proclamation of the Edict of Tolerance, headed south to Switzerland. The group included a tanner by the name of Nachmia and his wife, their six children, and his wife’s father. Her father and their youngest child, Noema, died of hunger and cold on the way and were buried in two neighboring ravines on two successive days. Switzerland proved inhospitable in another respect: its Calvinist pastors forbade their flocks to have dealings with the refugees or even let them into their villages. Then a landlord in the town of Turs, which had its own Jewish colony of twenty-six families, allowed the refugees to settle there, though they had to live outside its borders and pay a head tax of one thaler a year. Since the earlier Jewish settlers were not required to pay tribute, the newcomers tried to deceive the landlord by mixing with them, which led to conflicts and reprisals.

  Nachmia had hoped to work at his trade, but, lacking access to running water, he was unable to do so. Consequently, as soon as he had put up a hut for his family, he and his elder son, David, who was twelve, loaded their cart—which had brought them from Alsace—with what half-decent clothes they had left plus two goat hides Nachmia had rescued from his workshop as it burned. They hitched themselves to the cart and peddled the goods in villages along the main road. Nachmia’s intention was to make enough money to buy merchandise in the city and thus develop a basis for trade.

  Unfortunately, the mountainous land they crossed was sparsely populated and what peasants did live there were poor, so all they got for their wares was food—cheese and smoked meat. Still, they continued on their way, until they happened upon a band of Jewish smugglers selling supplies to both French and German troops across the German-Swiss border and were able to get a good price for the food. That led father and son to alter their plans, and for the next two years they traveled back and forth between borderland and hinterland with cartloads of food and alcohol. Then, in the third year, the entire family, which had increased by one member, crossed over into Germany.

  Thanks to his close ties among the smugglers there, Nachmia started working as a middleman himself, and soon he was doing well enough to build a house. But in 1815 a group of Italian mercenaries who refused to pay picked a quarrel with him, stabbed him and David to death, threw them into a pond, and made off with their wares.

  After finding and burying her husband and son, Nachmia’s wife, Sarah, sold their house and moved deeper into Germany for security. Her second son, Moise, worked as a hired hand and, having proved strong and industrious, was made steward by a local landlord. He took a wife, fathered a son and two daughters, married off his two sisters, found employment for his brothers on the estate, and buried his mother when her time came. But in 1848 the peasants rose up in rebellion and burned down both the mansion of the landlord (who had escaped to the town) and the house of his steward. The frenzied mob murdered Moise, raped his daughters, and tossed them all into the fire. Nor were his two brothers spared. Only his wife, Rebekka, and his son, Eleasar, who had fled to the woods during the fire, survived.

  Rebekka and Eleasar found shelter with a kind miller in town, but since the riots in Baden continued, they decided to join Rebekka’s brother David, who was moving with his family to the eastern part of Germany, where, rumor had it, things were calmer. But Rebekka died en route, and David and Eleasar, who found pogroms raging all over Germany, headed south to Austria and from there to Moravia and Brno, where they found a fairly large Jewish community. David set Eleasar up as an apprentice to a kosher butcher and then traveled on with his family in the direction of Galicia, never to be heard from again.

  Eleasar soon learned his trade and the ritual laws that went with it, married the butcher’s daughter, and took over the business when the butcher died. As a result of the law of 1879, he became the first of his line to have a surname: Blahm. He fathered three children: two sons and a daughter. His daughter married a man from the village; Blahm made the older son, Samuel, his assistant and apprenticed the younger son, Jufka, to a tailor.

  After Eleasar’s death, Samuel took over the business and Jufka moved north to the town of Ostrava, where, caring little for the not particularly remunerative tailor’s trade, he took a lame but well-to-do bride and opened a tavern. He was soon left a widower with a son and daughter. He married the daughter to a businessman by the name of Josef Ehrlich, who took her and her dowry to Vienna to open a shop. Samuel kept his son, Jakob, at home to help him in the tavern.

  Jakob grew up motherless but pampered and soon proved to be a good-for-nothing, playing cards and billiards with the customers instead of waiting on them. He married a girl from a distant Slovak village (no one in Ostrava would have him for a son-in-law) and fathered two sons, Heinrich and Wilhelm. Since Jakob led a dissolute life, his father-in-law gave him the following ultimatum: either he moved in with his in-laws and lived an honest life or his wife and sons would leave him. Jakob decided to make the move and began helping his father-in-law in the shop, but continued to gamble and carouse. He died at the age of thirty-two, falling from a bridge into a ravine while drunk.

  Heinrich and Wilhelm were brought up by their widowed mother and their grandfather. Heinrich was kept at home to work in the shop, while Wilhelm was sent to the Pressburg Gymnasium. After five years Wilhelm quit school and found work on a newspaper, delivering messages at first, then canvassing for classified ads. Two years later he decided to try his luck in Budapest, attracted by the city’s colorful newspapers that had come his way. He was determined to become a real newspaperman. But when Budapest proved the last place for him to realize his dream, he moved on, first to Szeged, then to Novi Sad, where he at last landed a job on a local paper. He lost it with the fall of Austria-Hungary, but soon after—thanks to his knowledge of Czech and Slovak, which contact with the local population gradually developed into Serbian—he managed to become a reporter for the new Serbian
daily Glasnik (The Herald), which later turned into Naše novine (Our News). Wilhelm Blahm had become Vilim Blam.

  The family into which Blanka Blam, née Levi, was born came to Novi Sad from the opposite direction, from the south, from Serbia. Her great-great-grandfather, Meir, a livestock merchant, left Smederevo in 1820 (the town was no longer safe after the Turks departed) and moved up the Danube to Petrovaradin with his wife and two sons. He failed to gain admittance to the town, and when he tried to ply his trade outside the moat surrounding it, he was informed that non-Christians were forbidden, under pain of exile, to deal in livestock. As a result, he opened a tavern in a mud hut and lent officers and their men money at interest. When the authorities learned of his usurious activities, they sent him packing and set the tavern on fire. Meir and his family headed for Erdut, but on their way they were attacked and robbed by a band of highwaymen. Meir was killed.

  Meir’s widow, Mariam, found shelter with the Jews of Erdut and worked as a servant in their houses. Soon after their arrival, her elder son, Gerson, set out into the world as a peddler and never returned; her younger son, Isaak, thanks to the connections of some Erdut Jews, went to work for a Novi Sad shopkeeper by the name of Adam Hirschl. Isaak took a wife in Novi Sad and brought his elderly mother to live with him. He tried to open his own shop, but the municipal authorities turned down his request, so he moved to the village of Rumenka. There his wife bore him a son and a daughter. During the Revolution of 1848 the rebels robbed him of everything he owned and the Austrian troops, called in to take revenge on the rebels, burned his house to the ground. Mariam died, and Isaak fled with his family to Kać, where he too died four years later, never having recovered from the loss.

  His widow, Rava, supported herself as a greengrocer until she married off her daughter and went to live with her. Her son, Nathan, married into money and opened a tavern. Nathan had six children: two daughters and four sons. Three of the sons found employment in shops in the vicinity, and the fourth, Avram, became the municipal inspector of scales.

  Avram married and fathered two children: Karl and Blanka. He wanted them to have an education, and when he learned that the Jewish community of Novi Sad was looking for a business manager, he applied for the position and accepted the offer of a monthly salary. Karl enrolled at the gymnasium but died young of tuberculosis; Blanka attended the local secular school. When Avram unexpectedly died—of tuberculosis as well—his widow, Regina, moved back to Kać, where she lived with her sister and helped run her shop. Blanka stayed on in Novi Sad with her mother’s relatives. It was there that she met and married Vilim Blam.