Until the Dawn's Light (2 page)

DAY BY DAY
the light grew stronger, and red poppies covered the riverbank. The sight of the flowers reminded Blanca of summer vacations when she was Otto’s age and her parents were young. Even then the fear of death would assail her in the middle of the day. She kept this a secret and told no one. Sometimes, before going to sleep, she would ask her mother not to put out the light. Her mother, a thin and fragile woman, used to whisper, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, dear; darkness isn’t anything, just a color. At your age it’s not fitting to sleep with the light on.”

In time Blanca confessed: “I’m afraid.”

“These are just momentary fears, dear. They’ll pass very quickly.”

Later, the fear of death left her, but another fear came to dwell in its place, a fear of people. Blanca would hide in the closet or under her bed, and Johanna, the housekeeper, would get down on her knees and whisper, “Where’s my squirrel, where’s my sweet child?” Hearing her whisper, Blanca would chuckle and emerge from her hiding place.

Then Blanca’s mother fell ill. She was just thirty-five, and Blanca was still a young girl. For years they dragged her from sanitarium to sanitarium, from doctor to doctor. She would return from those trips wan and pale, her eyes sunken into their sockets, an involuntary smile trembling on her lips. Blanca wasn’t allowed to go into her room. She would stand in the doorway and stare at her.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Her mother would address her as though she were no longer in this world.

“Fine, Mama.”

“And how’s school?”

“I got ‘Excellent’ on my arithmetic homework.”

Upon hearing those words, her mother would close her eyes and spread her hands on the white sheet.

After a while Blanca’s mother no longer returned home, except for short intervals. During vacations, Blanca and her father used to go to the mountains to visit her. Those hasty visits, once in the winter and once in the summer, were seared in her memory with burning clarity. In the summer, her father would rent a room near the sanitarium, and they would visit her mother together twice a day. On warm days, her mother would get out of bed, and they would sit in the garden. Blanca noticed that the flower beds were well tended and the grass was trimmed. Sometimes Blanca would show her mother her notebooks. They were neat, and the teacher’s “Excellent” sparkled in them.

Blanca’s father was a tall, thin man of few words. He would answer all of Blanca’s questions distractedly. “True, you’re right,” he would say. He made his living from a stationery store, which he and a cousin ran as partners. The cousin, Dachs, a fun-loving bachelor, was his total opposite. Whenever they were together, they quarreled. More than once they were about to sell the store and dissolve the partnership, but at the last minute they would make up, and everything reverted to the old order. So it was for years. Blanca’s father hated the store, and his face expressed that hatred. With every passing year his face grew more wizened.

Grandma Carole didn’t like Blanca’s father. She used to say that all the evils that had befallen her daughter were only because of him. Once, when Blanca was five, Grandma Carole spoke harshly to him about his squandered inheritance and about the way he neglected the store and didn’t support his family. Blanca’s father sat in an armchair and didn’t utter a word as Grandma Carole stood there and listed transgression after transgression. Finally he rose to his feet and, shouting louder than she had ever heard anyone shout, said, “Get out of here, you witch!” Grandma Carole responded in an even more terrifying way: she stretched out her neck and screamed, “Here’s my throat. Cut it!”

For a long time after that episode, Blanca was not at ease in her father’s company. Her mother tried to make her forget that dreadful episode, saying that it was only a momentary outburst. Papa was a good man, she said, one who liked people, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“MAMA!” OTTO CRIED OUT.

“What, dear?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“So old?”

Blanca laughed, hugged him, and kissed his head.

They’d been living in this enchanted dwelling for a week now. The low ceiling was held up by thick wooden beams. The windows in the rooms were long and narrow, except for the kitchen window; it was broad and protruded outward, bringing the garden and the river inside. During the long afternoon hours, Blanca sat in the kitchen and happily surveyed all the silent things surrounding her. When she stood up, she felt heavy, and her legs wouldn’t take her far.

At that hour Otto would be bent over his treasures, moving them from place to place. Every day he brought pebbles, dry branches, and shells home from the river. He would place them in baskets that were scattered about the house. Later, he would gather them around him. Blanca didn’t disturb him. She let him immerse himself in his magic. Sometimes he would get tired in the middle of some enchantment, sink down, and go to sleep. When the darkness fell, she would pick him up in her arms and lay him on the broad bed.

It was summer, and the sunset glowed until late at night. Sometimes, for reasons that Blanca didn’t understand, Otto would put aside his magical toys and come to sit at her side. Blanca would split open a watermelon or rinse a plate of cherries, and they would eat them together. The evening light would crown his forehead and eyes. His questions were many, little expressions of astonishment.

“Why did the Jews kill Jesus?” he asked one evening, surprising her.

“Who told you that nonsense?” The question made Blanca jump up.

“Aunt Brunhilde.”

“It’s absolute nonsense. As for Aunt Brunhilde, she’s a bitter, fanatical woman who thinks that anything that isn’t Christian is worthless. Fanaticism is despicable, and we must always condemn it. Everyone should live according to his own faith, and nobody should criticize someone else’s life. You understand me, dear, right?”

Blanca didn’t usually raise her voice. Her patience with Otto was limitless. She listened to his questions attentively and only made comments that would enlarge his mind. But this time his question annoyed her. Otto was surprised by her reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and hung his head.

“Forgive me, dear,” Blanca said. “But there are things that one mustn’t pass over in silence. What Aunt Brunhilde told you is a lie, and we can’t keep quiet about it. You can forgive a little lie, but you have to raise your voice and protest against a big lie. We can’t be afraid. Truth comes before fear. Do you understand me?”

Otto didn’t understand her torrent of words and didn’t know what to say.

The days were transparent, like the waters of the Dessel, and Blanca’s short life now seemed long to her, having been joined to another, unfamiliar life. Sometimes it seemed to her that she had always been drawn to this place, and now that she had finally arrived, she would not soon leave.

“You know, dear, that your mother is a Jewish woman,” said Blanca, and immediately felt that a boulder had been rolled off her heart.

“That’s very surprising, Mama.”

“Why?”

“I thought Jews were different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Blanca sat in the armchair, and Otto sat opposite her in the rocking chair. He sat straight, and his eyes were full of wonder.

“Are you sorry?” she said.

“I don’t want to think about it,” he said, and looked right into her eyes.

The evening darkness slowly descended, the heat dissipated, and a moist breeze rose from the water. It seemed to Blanca that she had not done well to reveal the secret to him, and she was about to say,
I was only joking
, but she realized that what was done could not be undone.

Later, they strolled along the riverbank. The water was already dark, but it looked calm. After a summer day full of activity, tranquillity settled on the bushes and the wild grass. Blanca and Otto walked silently. Blanca wanted to say something, but the words slipped away from her. Tension gripped her neck and stomach. Later, when they sat on the mat and Blanca cut a watermelon into cubes, she still didn’t know what to say. Finally, she spoke.

“Otto.”

“What, Mama?”

“Nothing.”

Thus the day fell away. The darkness was thick, and it seeped into the house through the narrow windows.

BLANCA HAD CONVERTED
to Christianity and married hastily, to avoid watching her mother’s prolonged death from up close. Somehow she believed that with this act her fear of death would be lifted from her heart and her mother would be saved. And indeed, that was what seemed to happen: her mother recovered and rose from her sickbed. Her father rented a carriage, and together they all rode to Saint Paul’s Church. Blanca’s conversion ceremony was long, full of music and prayer. Her parents sat at her side and smiled throughout the service. Although her parents seemed to be content, repressed dread, which hadn’t perturbed Blanca for years, returned to her with great force. She trembled as she stood in the church, and she couldn’t stop, even after the ceremony was finished and her mother hugged and kissed her. In addition to her parents, some of her school friends had come, too. It seemed to Blanca that she had found the examination difficult, and that there were two questions she hadn’t answered correctly. She grasped her mother’s hand, as she had done as child when sudden darkness fell upon the house.

A week after her conversion, Blanca married Adolf. Her mother wore makeup and a flowered dress, and she served cakes to the guests. Her father looked young in his white suit, and he chatted happily with everyone, as though he’d been saved from a bad business deal. The wedding lasted for many hours. Adolf’s brothers and sisters drank, sang, and danced. At first Blanca danced, too, but after a few rounds she felt dizzy and sat down next to her mother. This was the kind of wedding she hadn’t seen before: vulgar and merry. She watched the dancers as though it weren’t her wedding but one she’d been invited to. Her father, who had had a few drinks, felt dizzy, too, and sat down next to his wife. His long face turned gloomy. But Blanca’s mother didn’t stop smiling, as though she were constantly seeing new marvels.

“Very beautiful,” she said, as tears flowed from her eyes.

Right after the wedding, her mother’s health deteriorated again. She stumbled several times, and headaches constantly plagued her. Blanca came to visit her every day. At first Adolf would join her, but after a while he stopped.

“A patient needs rest,” he would say, “and you shouldn’t disturb her too much.” His words sounded clear and convincing. It seemed to Blanca, too, that she should visit less often.

Despite the depressions that sometimes afflicted her, Blanca was happy. She and Adolf lived outside the city, in a small house surrounded by open fields and the sky.

Blanca’s house wasn’t far from where Grandma Carole lived. Blanca would give her grandmother’s house a wide berth, but, as though in spite, her grandmother ran into her. The blind woman used to trudge through the streets, appearing in places where one wouldn’t expect to find her, her head stretched forward, her sealed eyelids twitching and tense. When she sensed that Blanca was near, she would immediately stop and proclaim, “Woe to the converts to Christianity who have forgotten their ancestry and their good fathers, who have exchanged a great faith for belief in wood and stones.”

Blanca’s mother’s illness became more severe, and Blanca avoided visiting her in the afternoon so she wouldn’t meet Grandma Carole. Her grandmother didn’t hold her tongue, even at her sick daughter’s bedside.

“Everybody’s converting.” Blanca’s mother tried to defend her daughter.

“It’s a foul deed.” The answer came quickly.

“Even respectable Jews are converting today.”

“We don’t live by their word.”

Around that time, the town’s rabbi died, and because there were no longer any worshippers, they closed the synagogue. At the rabbi’s funeral several wealthy merchants vowed to preserve the house of prayer, but after a while they changed their minds and agreed that it would be best to send the Torah scrolls and the curtain that hung in front of the Holy Ark to Vienna and to close the place. As it happened, the synagogue refused to be ignored. It stood at the edge of the market square, and Grandma Carole would go there every day, stand in front of the closed doors, and proclaim, “Woe to the Jews who have abandoned their Temple. God in heaven will not forgive them, and when the time comes, He will pass judgment on them.” The town’s Jews dreaded her, and they all awaited her death. But Grandma Carole showed no signs of weakness. On the contrary, ever since she’d gone blind, her voice had become clear and cutting, and she phrased her words simply and clearly. Even her curses had a thundering rhythm.

In the end, the police arrested her.

“Woe to the Jews who deny their Father in heaven,” she proclaimed in court. “Those who close a synagogue are closing the gates of prayer.” She named the wealthy merchants who refused to pay the janitor’s wages. “And for that,” she said, “they shall not be absolved. The earth will open its mouth and swallow them like Korach and his followers.” When the judge admonished her, telling her that she had to stay in the house and not wander in the street and insult people, she replied, “There is a height above all height, and only that must we heed.”

The court released her, ordering the family to keep her from roaming the streets. And the next day, she stood in the synagogue doorway again, calling out the names of the town’s Jewish converts to Christianity and wishing that they all would go to hell.

Meanwhile, Blanca’s mother’s illness grew more severe, and the doctors ordered her to return to the mountains. Blanca wanted to travel with her, but Adolf forbade it.

“You’ll end up catching it, too,” he said in a tone of disgust. Blanca was frightened, but she didn’t disobey him. A day before her departure, Blanca’s mother broke down and wept, asking her family for forgiveness for the trouble she was causing. Blanca’s father scolded her in a strange manner, and she stopped crying.

Two weeks later a postcard came.

“The Lauter Rest Home received the veteran patient cordially,” her father wrote. “The patient has recovered from the trip, and now she is resting in her room. The weather is pleasant, and the apple trees are in full bloom.” Blanca reread the postcard several times. The sentence “The Lauter Rest Home received the veteran patient cordially” moved her, and she felt a stabbing in her heart.

Forced by Adolf to neglect her mother, Blanca felt numb inside—heavy, unclean, and weak-kneed. But she still worked day and night to clean the house and put everything in order. She was angry because she had given in to Adolf, and she was overcome with remorse. In the evening, when Adolf returned from work, she didn’t tell him about the postcard. Adolf was hungry, and Blanca served him dish after dish.