Until the Dawn's Light (10 page)

OTTO AWOKE FROM
a bad dream and shouted, “Mama, Mama!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Somebody wanted to catch me.”

“Who, dear?”

“A tall, strong man.”

“It was just a bad dream.”

“Why did he scare me so much?”

“Dreams are frightening.”

“If dreams are nonsense, why are they frightening?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m with you, dear.”

Blanca wrote without letup. She spent most of the night at the desk, struggling with the order of events, the words, and the clarity of the sentences. The fear that soon they would have to leave this protected place gave her no rest. To overcome her fear, she remained wakeful, watching over Otto’s slumber and writing.

They had been here for six weeks now. The garden produced tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and radishes, and there were also beds of lettuce and squash. In addition, the landlady brought them apples and pears from the orchard at her house. Her old age was passing quietly and her face glowed, leaving a pleasant feeling that stayed in the house for hours.

I’m very much afraid that quite soon we’ll lose this hidden Garden of Eden,
Blanca wrote in her notebook,
and we’ll have to set out for a lengthy exile. When did I hear the word “exile” for the first time? The religion teacher, Dr. Kaltbrunner, used to put out his long arm and say, “Were it not for Adam, we would have remained in the Garden of Eden. Because of his sin, we were exiled.” Why did I remember Dr. Kaltbrunner? He used to intimidate the class
. Blanca finished that sentence and lay the pen down on the notebook. She immediately sensed that Otto’s eyes were wide open and that he was observing her.

“Why aren’t you asleep, dear?”

“I’m waiting for the morning.”

“The morning is still far off. Meanwhile you can close your eyes.”

Otto didn’t answer right away. He would absorb a sentence and take it in. That secret internalization usually took long minutes, and sometimes an hour or two. But the response would finally come. He had stopped asking about his father. Every day Blanca supplied his soul with new sights and words to erase his home from his memory. It generally worked. Nevertheless, sometimes someone’s name or a place emerged. Blanca didn’t flinch, but cut off his question and hurried to distract him. Fortunately, Otto didn’t insist. He heard her voice and clung to it. Now, as she looked at him, it seemed to her that he had changed. His face had darkened and his gaze was concentrated. He could count to twenty without making a mistake. At the start of the trip, he had still shouted with Adolf’s frightening voice, but on the train he had already calmed down, his voice was softer, and he stopped throwing things. On the train he learned to touch things gently, to move them carefully, and to observe them.

“When will we go?”

“In a little while, dear.”

Otto noticed that his mother’s behavior had changed; her expression was tense, and she stood at the window for a long time, listening.

“Are you afraid, Mama?”

“No, dear. Why would I be afraid?”

“It seemed to me you were.”

Blanca felt that the place was no longer as quiet as it had been before. Two days earlier, a serious fight had broken out in the neighboring house. People gathered from all around, and there had been a commotion. The following day, gendarmes came and questioned the neighbors. Blanca woke Otto, and while it was still dark they went out to the riverbank.

Blanca felt that she had to leave, but it was hard for her to uproot herself. This bright place had restored so much life to her. In fact, it brought back everything that had died within her. Now the desire burned within her to sit and write extensively. But first she would cling to her mother and father. Those two marvelous souls had ended their short lives in this world as strangers. They didn’t know how to soar up high, but the ground was also hard for them. They circled low, painfully hovering until they ascended to the heights. Now it seemed to her that her mother had disappeared like her father, because the funeral hadn’t left from their home but from the building in the Jewish cemetery where her body had been ritually washed. When they returned home the bed lay unmade, as if her mother were about to come back to it. At the time, death had seemed to Blanca like a yawning abyss, and she had escaped to Adolf, sure that Adolf was the fortified castle over which death had no dominion. One day, even before converting, she had spoken to him about her fear of death. He had listened and said, “Strange what thoughts run around in your brain.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Of whom?”

Adolf was the castle.
But he didn’t know he was the castle,
Blanca said to herself, sure that she would be saved in his presence.

She was sorry that just now, when she had found a tunnel to her old life and the secret things that were being deciphered for her, she had to leave this place and resume her wandering. Who knew what awaited her and whether she would again be able to see what she saw now. Over the past days she had been tense, leaping from topic to topic, trying to manage. But one idea led to another, and things got mixed up. For that reason, she decided that first she had to finish writing the episode of Adolf, for Otto’s sake. So that when the time came, he would know exactly what had happened and how. Until now she had ignored what was expected of her, but yesterday Otto had asked her about death again, and it was clear that the shadow was oppressing him.

“There is no death,” Blanca said, surprising him.

“Really?”

“I’ll always be with you, even if I’m not here. You can talk to me the way you’re talking to me now.”

“And is that how you talk to your mama?”

“Yes, exactly that way, my dear.”

THE HOSPITAL’S SITUATION
worsened, and most of the patients were sent home. Blanca was among the last to go. Adolf didn’t greet her gladly and expressed his consternation about her appearance. During the past few weeks she had, indeed, recovered, but her knees were weak and her legs felt unsteady. But she made all his meals on time anyway. Adolf no longer slapped her face, but he still preached to her and criticized the way she roasted meat. Every word that came from his mouth struck her temples, and the fear that had receded throbbed within her once again.

The last few days had been very difficult for Dr. Nussbaum. The maintenance workers, who hadn’t received their salaries, first gathered in the courtyard and then went up to the top floor and overturned tables and cabinets. Dr. Nussbaum pleaded with them to stop.

“Why are you being hard on the patients?” he asked. But his words were in vain.

Dr. Nussbaum had been struggling with the Ministry of Health and the local authorities for years, as well as soliciting donations from wealthy people and persuading the workers to be patient. Usually he had managed to do the impossible. Now he stood in the hospital entrance and with shame escorted out those who were leaving it.

“Come see me soon,” he said to Blanca. She had intended to go to him on Friday, but then she remembered that on Sunday Adolf’s parents and his brothers and sisters would be coming, and there were no refreshments in the house. She immediately rushed to the butcher, and on Sunday at noon she served everyone at the table dumplings filled with meat and sauerkraut. When her mother-in-law asked how she felt, Blanca answered, “Much better.” At the end of the day, her head was spinning and she could barely drag herself to bed.

The next day, when Adolf came home his face was dark and angry. Blanca hurriedly served his meal, and he ate without complaining. Suddenly, without warning, he raised his voice and shouted, “Where are the pickled cucumbers?”

“I didn’t manage to make them yet,” Blanca answered promptly. Adolf rose to his feet, walked over to her, and slapped her. This time the slap wasn’t hard, and she didn’t fall down, but the words that he had kept in during the weeks that she hadn’t been there poured out of him in a frightening torrent.

“All the doctors are Jews. All the illnesses are Jewish, and the lawyers who defend the doctors are Jews. You shouldn’t learn from them. You have to be at home, not there. You get sicker in the hospital. A normal person doesn’t go to the hospital unless they’re amputating his leg. The Jews fill up the hospitals.”

Blanca didn’t open her mouth. In the past, every time she replied, his fury would increase, his face would turn a saffron color, and he would raise his huge, hairy arms. Almost without realizing it, Blanca covered her belly with her hands and hoped for mercy. But Adolf’s mercy wasn’t aroused.

Before Blanca was discharged, Dr. Nussbaum had written Adolf a letter summoning him to his office.

“You must know that we cared for your wife for three weeks,” he said, “to heal the wounds that you inflicted with your own hands. You’re supposed to speak to a woman, not beat her like an animal.” Adolf was about to reply, but seeing the doctor’s angry eyes, he kept his mouth shut. But when he came home, he didn’t hold his tongue: “The Jews won’t give me instructions about when to sleep with my wife.” Blanca was afraid that he would pour his rage out on her, but, fortunately, he hurried off to the tavern that evening, and when he came home, he fell into bed.

Blanca, despite everything, grew stronger. She worked in the house and the garden. Adolf continued to pick on her, but he was careful not to hit her. Her mother-in-law would come to visit her, advising her about what to cook for Adolf and how.

“Adolf likes a hot meal at night,” she would say. “He’s like his father, a hot meal calms him down, and it should be a roast, with potatoes and sauerkraut. Sometimes it would be good to make him squash stuffed with chopped meat.”

Thus the days passed. The sun was apparently good for Blanca, and her face became tan. After two hours of work in the garden, she would make herself a cup of coffee. Her thoughts grew narrower, and all her senses were now given over to the baby in her womb. Sometimes, in the middle of the day, she would suddenly be attacked by a feeling of dread, and she would remember Himmelburg. She would start to get dressed, but fear would paralyze her legs again, and she would stay bound to her place.

One morning Blanca overcame her fears and took the first train to Himmelburg. Since her last visit, the old age home had changed beyond recognition. The director had passed away, and Theresa had been appointed temporarily in her place. Theresa came out to greet Blanca and hugged her, and she immediately began telling her about her trials and the troubles of the home. In Blanca’s father’s bed there now slept a man whose sightless eyes were sunk deeply in their sockets; an involuntary smile fluttered on his lips. Theresa served Blanca a bowl of soup and asked her whether she had been to Blumenthal yet. Blanca told her that she had been in the hospital for the past month, and that upon going home she had found a neglected house and an angry husband.

“You still must go to Blumenthal. The old age home there is roomy and rich, and they’ll greet you with open arms.”

“And who’ll take care of the baby?” Blanca wondered.

“A housekeeper. She’ll give your husband some of her favors, and he’ll be quieter and won’t hit you as much. Your husband needs a beast of the field.”

“How do you know that?” Blanca’s eyes widened in surprise, as though Theresa had discovered a hidden secret.

“From my body, my dear. First my father beat me, then my husband. If you love life, you’ll run away from there while your soul is still in you. If you don’t, you’ll be worn out and sick by the age of thirty. Spare yourself and get away from your house.”

“I’m afraid.”

“You mustn’t be afraid. You have to say to yourself, ‘There are more important things than fear, and I’ll go to Blumenthal no matter what.’ ”

“Thank you, Theresa.”

“Why thank me? We’re sisters in suffering.”

CELIA CAME TO
visit Blanca the next morning, bringing Martin Buber’s anthology of Ba’al Shem Tov stories. Blanca was glad to see her and hugged her. Now she noticed: Celia’s face was pale and gaunt, but no fear was evident in it. Her long nun’s habit suited her height.

“My dear,” Blanca said, “I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

They had studied together as far back as elementary school, but during all those long years they had never conversed as friends. Perhaps it was because Celia had been born Christian and wore a small wooden cross around her neck. Celia sat in the armchair where Blanca’s mother-in-law usually sat. Blanca was about to say,
Why don’t you sit in the armchair opposite? It’s more comfortable
. But she realized that was foolish. A quiet glow burned in Celia’s wide, dark eyes. She was evidently at peace with herself and had no need for any unnecessary gestures.

“How’s your father?” Blanca asked.

“I just saw him. Everyone is picking on him, and I’m afraid for his health.”

“He drew me up out of a deep pit,” Blanca said, removing the scarf from her head.

Then Celia said, “Martin Buber’s anthology has precious elixirs in it. When I was younger, I was sure that the Jews had no true faith. Grandpa used to say, ‘In the church, there’s music, and in the synagogue, people sweat.’ ”

“Are the stories about the Ba’al Shem Tov also about the faith of the Jews?” Blanca asked.

“Yes, so Martin Buber says.”

“And do you think their faith is beautiful?”

“Very much so.”

“Strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“After all, we’re Christians, aren’t we?”

“Contradictions don’t put me off,” said Celia.

Only now did Blanca sense how shallow her thinking had grown. In high school, under the tutelage of her teachers Weiss and Klein, the world had seemed like a work in progress that was striving to improve, to become clearer, more comprehensive, either plumbing the depths of the soul or ascending to the realm of the gods.

“What’s become of me?” Blanca asked herself out loud. “I’m no longer what I was.”

“I don’t understand,” Celia said.

“He says I inherited the faults of my mother and father, and Grandma Carole’s craziness.”

“And how do you answer him?”

“What can I say?”

Blanca walked Celia to the station. Celia spoke with longing about their distant and forgotten ancestors and about how much Buber’s anthologies had helped her understand them. For only in Stillstein had she come to fully realize that her Jewish forebears, who were originally from Bukovina and had moved to Himmelburg at the end of the last century, were truly the flesh of her flesh. They were devoted people who worshipped God in simplicity, and if it hadn’t been for certain disasters, their children would be worshipping God with the same simplicity.

“Are we still connected to them?” Blanca asked.

Blanca hadn’t understood her friend’s words, but she sensed that Celia, who had by now been living in the distant mountains of Stillstein for a year, had seen visions that had entirely changed her way of thinking. She was now connected with her ancestors, with nothing separating her.

“Take me with you, Celia.” The words tumbled from Blanca’s mouth.

“Don’t be afraid. We’re not alone. We have good and faithful ancestors who always dwell within us.”

Blanca raised her eyes, and a chill raced down her spine.