Until the Dawn's Light (7 page)

BLANCA HAD PLANNED
to go to Himmelburg the next day but didn’t. Bad dreams tormented her during the night, and when she woke up it seemed to her that she must stay at home. She made a cup of coffee, heard the train leave, and with every sip of the beverage she knew that a part of her body had stopped pulsing, that from now on she would have to live an amputated life. That feeling traveled down into her legs, and she curled up in the armchair. She sat there, without moving, for a long time.

Later she recovered and went outside. The sky was bright, and the thought that she was still left with a few days to be by herself made her so happy that the memory of her father was effaced. Without locking the door, she headed for the center of town. Not far away students gaily strolled to the high school. It was Wednesday, she recalled. On Wednesdays studies began at ten o’clock, a kind of minor midweek holiday. A distant, hidden holiday feeling returned to her.

The stores downtown were open, and a pleasant morning bustle filled the narrow streets. Blanca liked that hour. In the past, on vacations, she used to go to the store and pull her father into the nearby café, which was called My Corner. They would sit for a while, immersed in conversation. Spending time with her father was an adventure that always thrilled her: a time of dreams and more dreams.

Blanca entered the café. It was old-fashioned, filled with warm, pleasant-looking furniture. The proprietors, a childless couple, had converted to Christianity in their youth, hoping that their life in the city would change for the better and that their business would flourish. But the café didn’t flourish. A few customers, regulars, remained faithful to the place, but the young people took no interest in the old-fashioned, dark atmosphere that prevailed there. Years of disappointment had left their mark on the owners’ faces. They had come to resemble each other, shrunken, and the light in their eyes had dimmed. But they had liked Blanca’s father and greatly honored him, making him coffee very punctiliously. The proprietress, Mrs. Hofmann, used to say, “We’ll hear great things of Blanca.” That pronouncement would bring a thin smile to her father’s lips, because he secretly hoped so, too.

“Where’s Papa? I haven’t seen him in a long time,” asked Mrs. Hofmann.

“He’s in the old age home in Himmelburg.” Blanca didn’t hide the information from them.

“Good God!” said Mrs. Hofmann, covering her face with her hands.

“I would gladly keep him at home, but Adolf won’t allow it.”

“Why? After all, he’s a quiet, pleasant man.”

“Adolf doesn’t like Jews,” said Blanca, shocked at the sentence that had escaped her.

The Hofmanns gave her a frozen look, without adding a word.

Again Blanca stood on the main street. The broad doorway of the locked synagogue was vacant. Grandma Carole would arrive there later. The day before, Blanca had thought of going to her house, to tell her about her father’s sad situation and ask her to remove her curse from him. For some reason she thought that only Grandma Carole had the power to help her. She had lain in bed for a long time, trying to cobble together some words that would soften Grandma Carole’s anger, but in the end Blanca realized her grandmother wouldn’t help her, not because of hostility toward her father, but because of what she, Blanca, had done. It would be better not to go to her.

Blanca knew everyone downtown. Still, it seemed to her that the center of town had changed. Her mother had brought her to kindergarten here and later to elementary school. When she was little, her mother would take her to the town’s seamstress, a Czech woman. Love of humanity dwelled in her face.

“We’re together for such a short time,” she used to say. “It’s a shame to waste that time with misunderstandings and annoyance.” She would take measurements and chat at the same time. She spoke about Prague and the charm of its streets, and she told them a lot about the Jews of Prague. She had worked for a long time—until her late marriage—for Jews.

“The Jews are the leavening in the dough,” she would say. “Without the Jews, the world would be missing a spice.”

Blanca remembered her very clearly. When she was seven, the dressmaker passed away. For some reason her mother took her to the funeral. It was a silent funeral, without tears. Only her mother couldn’t restrain herself and wept.

Blanca raised her eyes and saw the closed synagogue again. Her father hadn’t liked the place and used to say, “The synagogue lacks beauty. Jews don’t pray, they mumble. In church at least there’s good music.” Her mother attended services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. She had brought Blanca to services a few times. The women’s section was roomy and vacant. In a single dark corner a handful of women crowded together, listening to the prayers that rose from the main sanctuary. Blanca was frightened by the place, but she still accompanied her mother.

After a while the synagogue was closed because there was no longer a congregation. The tall, empty building stood out even more in its barrenness. If it had sunk, everyone would have been relieved, but a solid building like that never sinks by itself. Over the years it became a temple for a single worshipper of God: Grandma Carole.

When Blanca was a little girl, Judaism had appeared to her as a kind of severe disease, accompanied by fever and vomiting. Once she had spoke about this to her mother, who had replied with a sentence that was deeply engraved in her memory.

“I don’t make a business out of my Judaism,” she had said, “but I’m not ashamed of it, either.” That was before tuberculosis had attacked her. When she was ill and lying in a rest home, she had said something to Blanca by chance: “Jews suffer everywhere.”

“Why, Mama?”

“Because they’re sensitive.”

“More sensitive than other people?” Blanca had challenged her.

“No. Just weaker.”

“Strange,” Blanca had said.

“What’s so strange?” her mother had asked.

“That Jews are weaker.”

“That’s how things are.”

Blanca remembered that conversation with great clarity, perhaps because it had taken place in the evening. Her father was sitting in the armchair, and her mother had spoken slowly, as though counting her words.

AS BLANCA WAS
returning home toward evening, from a distance she saw a man standing in front of her door and knocking on it. First it seemed to her that it was Karl, the church beadle, who used to make the rounds before the holidays, soliciting contributions for the church. When she drew nearer, he looked to her like Dachs, her father’s former partner. But when she was only a few feet away from her house, she saw in amazement that it was her father.

“Papa!” she called out loud.

“I came back,” said her father. A frightened and perplexed look had hardened on his long, narrow face.

“What’s the matter?” Something of his frozen voice clung to her.

“I missed home,” he said, smiling.

Now she saw: he was thin, and his posture was stooped. It was as if he had left his earthly existence in Himmelburg and had brought here only his trembling soul.

Blanca hugged him and gathered him to her heart. “How good it is that you’ve come back,” she said.

“I didn’t know what to do,” said her father, covering his mouth with his right hand.

“Let’s go to My Corner.”

“We’ll sit in your house. Why go so far?” he said, as though seeking cover.

“Everything is neglected in the house. And there isn’t anybody in My Corner at this hour.”

They set off for the center of town and Blanca did most of the talking, telling him about everything that had happened to her since the morning. Her father wasn’t distracted. He listened attentively, as though she were telling him secrets. When they reached the center of town, it was already three o’clock. The sun flooded the shop windows with cool light. Her father raised his eyes, as though looking away from a terrible dream, and said, “I’m so glad I came back. It’s good to return to your native city.”

Blanca was alarmed by that sentence.

“I have no special sentiments for this city,” she said. “There are more important things than the city you live in.”

“What are they?” He surprised her.

“A good feeling, for example,” she said, and she was pleased that she hadn’t been tripped up in an idle statement.

“True, the evening light is always joyful,” he said, pausing, as though he weren’t sure of what he’d said.

“I feel no sentiments for this city. I would gladly travel to another place.”

“Where?” he asked with his old curiosity.

“To Vienna, for example.”

“I,” he said, returning to his former ways, “find our city very pleasant.”

This was not the ill and confused father whom Blanca and Adolf had put into the old age home but, rather, the father from her childhood. He had always dreamed. Her mother loved him because he was a dreamer, and when he failed—he mainly failed—she would support him with her fragile body and envelop him with soft speech, with good food, with a new coat that she had bought him. Or she would take him out for a long walk. She was his great admirer, and she believed in his hidden talents, which would someday be discovered.

“So, where shall we sit, Papa?”

This time her father preferred Amnon & Tamar to My Corner. They sat in the place where they always sat, near the window, across from the acacia tree, whose leaves had fallen, revealing its sturdy trunk. They ordered coffee and cheesecake, and the waiter, who had known them for many years, said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, sir. How are you?”

“Everything’s as it should be.”

“Thank God,” said the waiter, withdrawing to the counter.

Blanca’s father didn’t say a single word about Himmelburg. He spoke about a few efforts he had made in the past to extricate himself from the difficulty of earning a living. Once he had even gone to Vienna, where he had been offered the management of a small bookstore. The offer fell through because the salary they offered him would barely cover his rent. Her mother was prepared to do any kind of work to pull him out of that swamp, but her father wouldn’t agree, and the idea was shelved.

He went on for a bit, and Blanca said, “Let’s take a walk in the direction of the station.”

“I don’t want to go back to Himmelburg. That place depresses me.”

“Where will we sleep?” Blanca spoke in the plural.

“I,” he said in a voice that froze her, “am returning to my home.”

“Papa.”

“What’s the matter?”

“We don’t have a home. We sold the house. Don’t you remember?”

“We sold our house?”

“Yes, Papa. We had debts.”

“I don’t want to go back to Himmelburg. That dark place depresses me.” He spoke the way he had sometimes spoken when her mother was alive.

“I’d invite you to stay with us, but my house, Papa, is completely full. Adolf’s sister and her three children live with us,” she lied.

“Don’t you have a bed for me?”

“Everything is dirty, crowded, and noisy.” She spoke hurriedly.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

“Let’s take a walk. Don’t you want to take a walk?”

Now she tried to entertain him, to distract him and lead him indirectly back to the railway station. Amazingly, she managed. She told him that after Adolf’s sister left the house and returned to her own home, she intended to enroll in a course in bookkeeping.

“But you wanted to study at the university, didn’t you?”

“Later, Papa.”

“And what does Adolf say?”

“He’s very encouraging.”

“I’m glad. Your happiness is very precious to me. I never managed to accomplish anything.”

Now he spoke about himself again, about his partner, Dachs, and about his classmates who were weak students and became successful industrialists.

“How can you explain that, Papa?”

“Abstract thought isn’t good for commerce.” Again he surprised her with a clear and accurate insight.

“And what’s needed for success?”

“A certain kind of coarseness of mind.”

Now she was alarmed by the clarity of his thought.

They reached the station on time. Blanca had intended to join him, to stay overnight in Himmelburg and return the following day, but her father said quietly, in his customary tone of voice, “Why displace yourself at night? Sleep in your own bed, and come to visit me tomorrow.”

“Still, I want to join you.”

“There’s no need, dear.”

Now he no longer tarried but walked up the steps into the railroad car and sat at the window. The car was empty, and Blanca managed to see him in profile. Then the train began to move, and Blanca waved good-bye with both hands.

Surprisingly, her father opened the window and called out, “Thank you very much, Blanca. It was a wonderful day.”

The train quickly moved off into the distance, and Blanca’s face flooded with tears.

THE NEXT MORNING,
the postman woke Blanca and handed her a telegram.

“Your father disappeared last night,” it read. “Police and citizens searching for him. Come at once.” At first it seemed as though the old postman had risen up out of her nightmares, but she saw her error immediately. He was Richard, the postman she had known since her childhood. At one time he delivered the mail in the center of town. Later he was transferred to the outlying areas.

“Papa’s disappeared,” Blanca said, hardly knowing what she was saying.

The postman’s jaw dropped. “Where was he?” he asked.

“He was here. I accompanied him to the Himmelburg train. He was pleased. We had spent time together downtown.”

“Why did he go to Himmelburg?”

“He’s living in the old age home.”

“All kinds of strange things happen in old age homes,” said the elderly man. He closed his bag and stood where he was.

“What can I do?” Blanca asked distractedly. Now she saw her father’s face clearly in the train window. Before getting on the train, he had spoken quietly and cogently, as though he understood that there was no way out and that he had to go back.

It was ten o’clock, and a pure autumn sun stood in the sky.

“Blanca,” said the postman in a fatherly voice. “Get dressed. The train leaves in an hour.”

“Yes,” she said, as though he had woken her up again.

“People don’t get lost.” He used a peasant proverb to calm her fears and then went on his way.

Blanca dressed quickly and hurried to the station. There was no one there, and the young conductor made a joke at her expense. He heaped compliments on her and then casually mentioned that he had seen Adolf in the bar at the training center the day before.

“How is he?” Blanca asked.

“Don’t worry. There are plenty of girls there.”

For the first time in her life, she felt disgust.

There was no commotion in the old age home. It was twelve thirty, and the inmates were lying in bed. Her father’s bed was unmade, and it was evident to Blanca as she approached that many hands had disturbed it.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Last night your father disappeared,” said the man in the neighboring bed, and he sat up.

“Where did he disappear to?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Strange,” she said, and she knew that wasn’t the appropriate word.

“Are they unkind to the inmates here?” she asked.

“No, never,” said the old man, smiling. He quickly added, “We don’t bother anyone, and no one bothers us.”

From the director, Blanca learned that her father’s footprints led to the nearby grove. The janitor and two cleaning women immediately went out to look for him. The police had arrived, and they, too, were looking. The weather was fair, and that would help them locate him. The director sounded satisfied, as if she had succeeded in doing what was necessary at that time.

“Do a lot of people go to the woods?” Blanca asked cautiously.

“Not many, but every year one or two of the inmates disappear. In the end we find them.” She tried to soothe Blanca.

“I’ll go and have a look myself,” Blanca said, and she went out into the rear courtyard. The broad, empty courtyard was illuminated by a dull noon light. The gate was open, and it seemed as if it had been that way for years. It was decorated with metal ornaments and had evidently known better days.

No one was to be seen in the nearby grove. There was just a cold, motionless silence. The idea that her father had left his bed at night and gone out into these woods began to seem more concrete to her. Now she remembered that he would occasionally get angry, and harsh words would escape from his mouth. Usually it was because of something connected to the store, the source of his torments. Once, in a terrible moment of anger, he came up close to his partner, Dachs, and shouted, “Monster!” But his greatest hatred was for Grandma Carole. She was the thorn in his flesh. Because of Blanca’s grandmother, he didn’t even go to synagogue on Yom Kippur. He attended funerals bareheaded, and he signed a petition demanding the closing of the kosher butcher because Jewish ritual slaughter was cruel. This soft-spoken, courteous man, whom everyone liked, would be filled with fury every time anyone mentioned Grandma Carole’s name. Once he had gone too far. “All my misfortunes have befallen me because of her,” he said. Now his angry face was turned toward his daughter. Blanca returned to the old age home.

The old people gathered around her and asked whether there was any news. Blanca told them she was considering going to the police and asking them to deploy as many men as possible in the area. The nights were cold, and her father wasn’t dressed properly. The old people agreed with her.

Meanwhile, lunch was being served, and Blanca was offered a bowl of soup. She sipped the hot liquid and told everyone about the mailman who had awakened her that morning. She recounted this dispassionately, as though what had happened to her was only a nightmare. Now that it had passed, she could tell others about it.

The old people stared at her. “What can we do?” they asked.

“I won’t give the police any respite.” Blanca spoke in a voice not her own.

The kitchen worker brought her a second course as well. Now most of the old people were sitting in the dining room, eating and drinking from ornate ceramic mugs that didn’t look as though they belonged to the place. Blanca repeated that she intended to go to the police, ask for an interview with the chief inspector, and explain the urgency of the matter to him. The nights were cold and dark, and a person who had lost his way was liable to fall into a pit. One of the old men made a dismissive gesture with his hand and looked at her skeptically, as if to say,
They won’t do a thing, I know
.

Suddenly these strangers surrounding her had become the only close relatives Blanca had in the world, and for a moment she thought about telling them everything that had happened to her since she had married Adolf.

“Why did he go back to Heimland?” one of the old men asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“He missed his home,” she said, and was appalled by the words that had left her mouth.

“He shouldn’t have gone back. If you are doomed to be in an old age home, you should just stay there, without moving. No one will have mercy on you.”

Blanca was about to reply that her father had in fact gone to ask for shelter in her home, but that she was afraid of Adolf. Adolf couldn’t stand her father. He used to call him a weakling, subject to moods, someone who didn’t know how to work. She wanted to tell them that she was afraid to bring her father into her home, fearing that Adolf would beat her for it, for he would beat her mercilessly. She intended to say all that, but she didn’t have the courage to do so. She just repeated that she was going to go to the police and ask them to send out more men that night, because the nights were very cold and dark.