Last night I dreamed: Mama, Papa, and I have returned to Baden, near Vienna. Incredibly, everything is the same. The tall conductor wears a cap with a blue visor and stands on the station platform; the blond girl is at her window in the kiosk, ready to serve lemonade. But what makes me happiest is the carriage driver, standing in his usual spot, wearing his faded uniform. When he sees us, he claps his hands with excitement, for we had managed to do the impossible. Papa greets him with a wave. The carriage driver runs toward us, picks up our two suitcases as if they weighed nothing, and puts them in the back of the carriage.
The town seems the same as ever, peaceful and pleasant, showing no signs of shock or upheaval. The people walk at their usual relaxed pace. For a moment I wonder if they don’t know what I know. Mama looks around and says, “It’s good we came back.” Papa doesn’t react to that remark. He looks around suspiciously, checking every corner, a thin smile trembling on his lips.
The owner of the pension is a refined Czech gentleman who for some unknown reason had settled in this area and built a perfect guesthouse. We love him and his little hotel: here you soak up health and relaxation to last an entire year.
“Where were you? We were worried about you,” the owner asks Papa.
“Far away, not worth discussing.”
“We were worried about you,” he repeats.
“Better we shouldn’t talk. The less said the better,” Papa says, regaining his familiar voice.
“Your room is ready for you,” says the owner, shifting his tone.
Two porters we don’t know grab the suitcases and fly up the stairs.
Our old room, number 25, is also unchanged. Everything is in its place: the tidy beds, the night tables and lamps, the desk where Mama loved writing long letters to her mother and sister. The full morning light peeks through the blinds the way I remember.
“Breakfast, children!” Papa says in a hearty voice. He shows no signs of our long night of travel. Mama, on the other hand, looks pale and pained: better I should get into bed, stretch my legs, and rest a bit, she says. Papa dismisses her request and insists: we have to eat breakfast.
The headwaiter recognizes us and greets us happily. We see at once that a table by the window has been reserved for us.
“We were worried about you,” says the headwaiter in his fatherly voice.
Papa and Mama eat fried eggs, and I have a soft-boiled egg in a cup. The fresh, golden rolls are in the wicker basket, the cream is in the porcelain pitcher, the cherry jam is in the long-necked jar that I like, and the waiter is standing with the coffeepot in his hand.
“Good that we came on time,” Papa says, pleased that life here is unchanged.
Papa is pleased, but the secret we carry remains hidden. Each of us has a secret, but we cannot talk about it. Not among ourselves or with those around us. They apparently guess that we carry a secret, but they don’t dare ask.
For our breakfast dessert we are served forest berries in cream, a delicacy I adore. Papa lights a cigarette. I love the tiny gestures involved in lighting a cigarette, and the smell of the tobacco and the bluish smoke that rises. A cigarette after a meal is a type of dessert permitted only to grown-ups. The children watch with an eye to the future.
Time for bed, say Mama’s eyes; I’m falling over. Papa shoots her a skeptical look, as if to say, The weather outside is wonderful; it’s a glorious morning. How can we pass up a little walk in the Hapsburg Park?
You’re right, dear, but what can I do. I’m tired and my whole body aches. I can barely move, Mama replies wordlessly.
“Try just a little spin, and then we’ll have a nap. You can sleep as long as you like; no one will disturb you.” Papa’s voice is gentle and filled with goodwill. Mama tries to stand up but can do so only with Papa’s help.
In the doorway Mama says weakly, “Don’t forget, dear; I underwent a difficult operation, and every little move hurts me.”
“I know, my dear; I just wanted you to see, if only for a minute, the Hapsburg Park in full bloom.”
The hotel owner, observing our dilemma, comes over and says, “How can I help you this morning?”
“We’re going for a moment to the Hapsburg Park. We love the park in the morning. My wife doesn’t feel well today, but I’m sure she’ll be better in a day or two,” Papa says apologetically.
Mama sits on a bench, her weakness apparent even while she is seated. Papa sits beside her, marveling at the colorful flowers but saying nothing.
Only after a few minutes does he say, without looking at us, “How wonderful; nothing has changed here.” It’s hard to assess the tone of his voice; is it wonder or irony?
“Right,” says Mama. She has no strength to utter more than this word.
Several couples walk past us. I remember them from previous vacations, but I don’t recall their names. They are caught up in themselves and ignore us.
“It’s strange,” says Papa.
“What’s strange?” asks Mama.
“It’s hard to say the flowers have changed—of course they haven’t changed, and neither have the trees. But why do I feel that these aren’t the trees that I knew?”
“You’re imagining it,” Mama says, in her voice from before the surgery.
Mama’s strength is ebbing. She wants to go to bed and rest her head on the pillow. The chambermaid, Louise, greets us at the door to our room. She recognizes us right away, hugs my mother, and says with excitement, “Where were you? Where’d you disappear to? I was worried about you. I was used to seeing you every year, and suddenly you disappeared. I haven’t seen you for a few years.” Her voice chokes and tears flow from her eyes.
“Dear, dear Louise, there is so much to tell but not now; I can barely stand on my feet. After I rest, we’ll talk. We’ll talk for a long time.”
“Come in. If I had known you were coming, I’d have brought more flowers from the garden. Flowers always make the heart happy.” Louise used to say that a lot, as I recall.
“I won’t disturb you; go rest,” she says and retreats to the corridor.
“Louise hasn’t changed,” Papa says.
Papa takes off Mama’s shoes. Only now do I see how pale she really is. The paleness has worsened since I left them at the train station. Papa lays Mama down on the bed, and suddenly, like a magician, he reveals the huge bandage, tied with laces, that covers Mama. He loosens the laces, removes the bandage carefully and expertly, and right away I see the yellow-red stains. Papa quickly lifts Mama up and puts a new bandage underneath her, folds it like a diaper, ties the laces, and says, “I tried hard not to hurt you.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Mama says, almost silently.
It’s now clear to me that these big bandages have enabled Papa to save Mama. I always knew Papa was talented in many areas, but I didn’t imagine that he was also an excellent medic. I keep watching him. Some of his old movements are gone, replaced by new ones, unfamiliar to me.
Having finished the job, Papa stands by the window and doesn’t budge. I fear he will turn to me and ask where I’ve been ever since I left them at the railroad station.
Papa doesn’t ask. He’s planted by the window. My fear keeps growing, and finally I can’t hold back. “Where were you, Papa?” I ask.
“Why do you ask?” He answers with a question, surprising me.
“I’m curious.”
He apparently doesn’t approve of the word “curious.” He purses his lips and says, “Why do you use the word ‘curious’? Don’t you know it’s not used anymore?”
“What should I say, Papa?”
“Whatever you want, just don’t use the word ‘curious.’ ”
This remark seems odd to me. Are there words that must not be used? If a word helps us understand something, why not use it?
Because of Papa’s puzzling remark, I don’t ask anything else. Papa suddenly seems weighed down with sorrow. I sit on the chair and my eyes close of their own accord.