Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

For that we took revenge on an innocent party — as always happens when taking revenge — namely Blanche. Only later did we realize this, and understand at the same time that our revenge was just, at least in the poetic, fairy-tale sense of childhood, because she had functioned as the messenger of the destruction of this poetry.

During these weeks two exciting events occurred, subsequently telescoped in memory in an odd and unsettling way due both to the turbulent events that followed and to our later illness. The first involved Herr Adamowski’s second visit; this time he was received by Aunt Paulette alone, that is to say accompanied only by Aunt Elvira. Our mother, whose relationship to her sister had become strained after the awful scene with Tanya, had excused herself with an obvious pretext and arranged an outing for us children, which ended up being canceled because of an unusually violent storm. The intense tropical downpour made such a spectacle that we completely forgot our disappointment at the missed excursion, and when it started to clear up after two hours of pouring rain we ran into the garden to see the damage that had been done. The drains were all stopped up; the water was foaming past the sandstone plinth of the lance-leaf fence like a wild brook and had formed a small lake on the lawn in front of our house. Keeping our feet dry required all our skill and attention, so that we didn’t notice what was happening around us, and didn’t look up until we heard a high-pitched woman’s laugh. Then we saw Herr Adamowski trying to navigate around the deepest puddles and streams, awkwardly on account of his deformity, while underneath the arc of water still cascading from the eaves of the dvornik ’s hut was Frau Lyubanarov, leaning against the wall as usual, laughing out loud as she watched Herr Adamowski.

He appeared not to take offense at her rather tactless amusement, but merely trudged ahead, rocking from side to side, swinging his cork-soled boot into one puddle after the next. When he came close to where she was standing he stopped, leaning with his hand against the wall. She studied him with her golden, goatlike eyes.

“Well, old goat-hoof,” she said in a guttural voice. “New paths to travel?”

“Your lack of shame is magnificent,” he said. “You know that your blouse is wet and wrapped on you like a skin — that you can see right through? And you’re not wearing anything underneath.”

“That’s why I’m standing here. I like it when people see me.”

“I know. And who do you think will see you here?”

“Whoever comes by. I’m not picky — that’s something you should know as well.”

“And you never get enough?”

“Do you ever get enough?”

He bared his saw-teeth. “I never get enough from you.”

“And from that fool who poisons herself and stumbles through the streets like a drunk woman — what about her?”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Come on, let’s not pretend. You know as well as I do who I mean. I’m talking about my little sister, the fine lady. The major’s wife, who’s so far gone as to sell herself to you for a little pack of powder. Who’s finally landed completely in the mud. How is she in bed? As good as I am? I can do it even when I’m drunk — but her? It’s only you men who can’t when you’re plastered.”

“They ought to tie you to a stake and burn you. If you had lived a hundred years ago they would have done it, too.” He shoved his face right next to hers. “Where’d you come up with that?” he asked.

She gave a dark and throaty laugh. They stood there and looked at each other, face-to-face.

And suddenly the golden rain tree beside her parted, and a figure burst out and headed straight for Frau Lyubanarov.

It was the Widow Morar. As she later told us, she was on her way to us, and had arrived at the open gate just as the two had begun their conversation.

Like a fury she went after Frau Lyubanarov, screaming: “She’s lying, the tramp, she doesn’t know a thing — she doesn’t know anything and pretends to know everything in order to coax it out and then broadcast it to all her studs and stallions, so that the filth will lust after her. You don’t know a thing, you cesspit, who’ll open your legs for any Gypsy’s slime. In the mud, you say, you who are nothing but mud yourself. If it’s mud you want, then I’ll give it to you! Mud to mud!”

She clawed at the gurgling runoff and scraped up a handful of earth and gravel and leaf mold and hurled it at Frau Lyubanarov’s head. We heard it rattle and slap against the dvornik ’s hut. Frau Lyubanarov had shielded her face with her hand, but a stream of dirty water came flowing out of her hair onto her forehead. Before her opponent could reach into the gutter a second time, she shot forward and threw herself on the other woman. In the process she knocked Herr Adamowski’s arm off the wall he had been leaning against and sent him tumbling. The two women grabbed each other by the hair, tangling themselves into a knot; they clawed each other to shreds and bit each other with a venomous rage, such as we had never seen before and thank goodness never would see again. Howling, shrieking, and screeching like cats, the two women rolled over each other on the ground until the coachman, who had heard the noise, came running up and tried to separate them the way you would separate fighting dogs, with a bucket of water. But that didn’t help; they only became more and more entangled. Shaggy locks of hair clogged their mouths, bloody welts marked their faces, and their eyes rolled back into their heads out of pain and rage. All the household servants came running outside; the women’s fingers had to be pried apart, their feet had to be held so that they wouldn’t keep striking blindly at the other, and they were lifted or dragged away, Frau Lyubanarov returning to the dvornik ’s hut, Widow Morar into the street. Their screaming and howling brought the entire neighborhood out of their houses.

Our mother and Aunt Elvira, who had also come outside, chased us back into the house. For the first time in our life Mama lost her composure in front of us; she shooed us in and threatened us with terrible punishments, even spankings, all because we had been involuntary witnesses of the horrible scene. We were locked in our rooms, had to eat supper late, and by ourselves, and were immediately sent to bed. The storm at home raged for days, bringing with it the dreaded arguments between our parents, behind closed doors that were suddenly opened and slammed shut. Our aunts looked at us as if we were to blame for everything that had happened. Uncle Sergei deliberately stayed out of the house as much as possible. Only Herr Tarangolian, who once again stopped by for some black coffee, treated us with the same affectionate and attentive politeness as always, and invited us, as compensation for the outing that had been canceled on that ill-starred day, to a long ride in his carriage, which was a great treat for us, especially as it was crowned by a lavish visit to the Kucharczyk Café and Confectionary.

We were the only ones who knew of the conversation between the two furies that had set off the fight, and we kept that to ourselves.

The second incident I have to report before I go on to events that also affected other people was so cruel it made the first one pale by comparison. It was not quite as violent, to be sure, but the pain was greater for having been inflicted on us in a blindly unfeeling and incomprehensible act of stupidity.

Clearly the preceding episode took its toll on us, though it would take a far greater shock before an actual illness manifested itself. Meanwhile it was only thanks to our school that we were able to withstand the psychological burden as well as the physical stress: there our friendship with Blanche Schlesinger and the irrepressible vitality of Solly Brill allowed us to escape the chaos at home completely for part of the day, and we felt liberated and very happy.