Until the Dawn's Light (5 page)

TWO MONTHS AFTER
her return from the mountains, in mid-July, Blanca’s mother passed away.

“Ida, what has happened to you?” her stunned father cried out.

“Ida will suffer no longer,” said the doctor, in the solemn tones of a priest.

“And what can I do?” her father asked in a subdued voice.

“There’s nothing more to be done,” answered the doctor, sounding pleased that he had an occasion to say that. Blanca’s father ran to Blanca’s house.

Adolf noticed him coming.

“Your father’s running like a madman.”

“Who’s running?” Blanca didn’t catch what he said.

“I already told you.”

“Blanca!” her father called out, and stumbled.

Toward evening a quorum of ten Jewish men came from Himmelburg with a woman to wash the body in ritual preparation for burial and to say prayers. Grandma Carole, who deafened the city with her shouts, now stood as silent as a mountain. The burial society organized the funeral. Its head, a tall, dignified man, sat next to Blanca’s father as though he were his elder brother and spoke to him in a somber manner. Blanca’s father did not weep. But his unshaven face and swollen eyes displayed rigid shock.

“When will the funeral begin?” he roused himself to ask.

“Soon,” said the man.

“And who will say kaddish?”

“You will, sir.”

“Not I!” Blanca’s father said in anguish. “I don’t know it. I’ve forgotten it.”

“I’ll say it in your place,” said the man.

Hearing his answer, her father hung his head, as though relieved.

Not many people came to the cemetery. Three of Ida’s friends came, high school classmates, two neighbors who had converted, and a few people who had known Blanca’s father in his youth. Blanca’s father grasped the arm of the head of the burial society.

“I forgot the kaddish,” he murmured. “I don’t remember anything of it.”

“Not to worry, I’ll say it,” the stranger promised him again.

“I thank you from the depths of my heart,” Blanca’s father mumbled.

Blanca did not approach Grandma Carole. She was afraid her grandmother would slap her. But to everyone’s surprise, her grandmother didn’t grumble, question anything, or interfere. When they lowered the casket into the grave, Blanca hugged her father and sank her face into his chest.

After the service, Grandma Carole rushed away, heading for the open field. Everyone stood still for a moment and watched her go. A few yards away lay the Christian cemetery. Its tall marble monuments gleamed in the sunlight, making the unmistakable point that sometimes death has a finer dwelling than a Jewish graveyard.

Blanca’s father, who had been holding on to the arm of the head of the burial society, finally let it go.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out clearly, “we mustn’t scatter and leave Ida alone here.” He meant to add something but, seeing that everyone had stopped walking and was standing in amazement, he fell silent.

“I will stay here,” he added a moment later. “I’m not afraid.”

“Papa,” Blanca called out, “I won’t let you stay here alone.”

The head of the burial society approached him, hugged him in front of everyone, and said, “We Jews stand by one another.”

The word “Jews,” as it left the tall man’s mouth, startled those in attendance with its simple clarity. Most of them were converts. “Ida couldn’t bear it any longer,” Blanca’s father said, removing his hat.

The tall man, whose heart was touched by Blanca’s father’s distress, said, “You mustn’t fear. Death redeemed her from her sufferings, and we must accept the judgment.”

“True,” said her father, although he was put off by the man’s confident tone.

“Life after death is a life with no suffering. All our sources speak of that explicitly and simply.”

“I didn’t know,” said her father in the voice of a man who has been beaten.

“There is no reason to worry,” the man said in a different tone of voice. “The condition of the Jews in this region isn’t splendid, but we stand by one another. We shall support you. We won’t let you fall.”

DURING THE SEVEN-DAY
mourning period, Blanca’s father sat in the living room with a skullcap on his head, distractedly receiving the few visitors. That quiet man, who had said little over the years, now spoke at length, mainly about his late wife, whose many talents were never properly expressed. He spoke about her musical ear, about her talent for writing, and he showed the visitors the landscapes in the living room, which she had painted when she was in high school. Blanca sat with him all morning, prepared his meals, and at noon she returned to her home. The hours in the company of her grieving father brought her surprising consolation. More than once she was on the verge of telling him about the harsh insults that were her lot at home, but seeing that he was completely immersed in his grief, she didn’t dare. Mourning cut off his ordinary life, a life of sorrow and worry about the coming day, and brought him to a world that was all mercy. Blanca, having no alternative, was forced to take care of all the practical matters: preparing to sell the house, paying his debts. Blanca’s father didn’t realize what distress his daughter was in, and he would say, “You’re still young, and your life lies before you.”

Adolf would return late at night and whip her with his belt. Now he didn’t hit her in anger, but with the intention of hurting her. “We have to uproot all your weaknesses from you and all the bad qualities you inherited from your parents. A woman has to be a woman and not a weakling.” In bed he behaved like an animal, turning her over like a mattress, and afterward he would get out of bed, drink some brandy, and say, “What kind of woman are you? You don’t know how to be a woman.”

“What should I do?” she asked, trembling. All her efforts to please Adolf were in vain. He hit her and cursed her.

“What do you want from me?”

“To be a woman and not a Jewess.”

“I’m not a Jewess anymore.”

“One baptism’s not enough, apparently.”

She would cry, and her weeping drove him crazy. He would throw a tantrum and curse her and her ancestors, who didn’t know how to live right, bound up with money and flawed in character.

On Sundays his brothers and friends would fill the house; they would guzzle and gobble and finally sing and dance in the yard until late at night. The next day she would get up early to make Adolf his morning coffee. After he left the house, dizziness would assail her, and she would sink to the floor, ravaged.

When she could no longer keep it all in, she told something of it to her father.

“Everything isn’t going so well at home.”

“Why not?” her father asked, with a kind of obtuse surprise.

“Adolf isn’t the way he was.”

“Everything will work out. You mustn’t worry,” her father replied superficially.

Blanca’s father’s debts proved to be many. The head of the Himmelburg burial society did keep his promise, and every week he brought some food and a bit of money, but where would her father live after the house was sold? That was now Blanca’s concern. True, there was an old age home in nearby Himmelburg, but it was small and fully occupied, and old people were on a waiting list to be accepted there.

Her father didn’t seem concerned. Day after day he was inundated with fantasies, and they bore him from place to place. Once, he said, “I have to get to Vienna and try to get a scholarship. All the grades in my matriculation certificate were excellent.”

“And what will you study?”

“What do you mean? Mathematics!”

Hearing those words, Blanca would freeze. Now she was no longer in doubt: her father had departed along with her mother, and what remained of him was just embers. More and more he talked about his high school days, when he had studied with Ida. He had been regarded as a genius, and everyone expected great things of him. More and more he blamed his parents for not helping him study in Vienna. He even mentioned Grandma Carole several times, always with harsh anger. Ida was the only one of whom he spoke gently, as though she were still with him.

But there were also moments of clarity. The clouds of fantasy in which he had entrenched himself would disperse, and he saw what he didn’t want to see: his misery. Then he would suddenly say, “Blanca, I’m hopeless. I have to get out of here as soon as possible. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Why are you hurting me, Papa?”

These, of course, were merely flashes. The clouds would surround him once more, and his face would darken or suddenly change and become awkwardly merry. Adolf’s opinion was uncompromising. “We have to bring him to the old age home in Himmelburg and give the institution no alternative. Don’t worry, they won’t dare contradict me.”

She tried to stop him. “Not yet,” she said.

“You’re too preoccupied with him,” he declared.

The next day they went. Her father didn’t object. A simple, awkward smile sat on his face, as though he knew that he would not escape from Adolf’s grasp. The train trip took about an hour, and they reached the old age home before lunch. The manager, not a young woman, explained to them that the place was full beyond capacity and that even the corridors were taken. Adolf was determined to leave her father there, no matter what.

The elderly manager listened and repeated her arguments. She showed him the corridor, crammed with beds. “There’s no room, good people,” she said, spreading her arms.

“If there are twenty beds, one can be added,” Adolf argued with force.

In the end, when she proved to him how wrong he was, Adolf didn’t restrain himself. He pounded on the table and said, “The Jews have to take him in. If they don’t take him in, this building will go up in flames. You can’t talk to Jews in any other language.”

The manager turned pale, asked for consideration, and finally raised her hands and said, “What can I do?”

Thus was Blanca’s father abandoned. He stood there, stunned. Then he hugged Blanca and said, “Go home, child. Everything is all right.” Blanca promised to bring him more clothing and his shaving kit.

“Don’t forget to bring the chess set.”

Adolf rushed Blanca out. Her father suddenly raised his right hand and called out loud, “Be well, children, and take care of yourselves.”

RIGHT AFTER THAT,
Blanca sold the house and paid the debts, and there was some cash left over to give to her father. She was glad she managed to finish that matter. She left for Himmelburg on the morning train to tell her father about the sale. She found him sitting in bed, wearing striped pajamas. A strange merriness glowed in his eyes. Hearing her words, he said, “How is Mama? Do we have to bring her to a rest home again?”

“No.”

“Thank God.”

Then, with no transition, he asked her to bring him his mathematics books because he wanted to freshen his knowledge. About the place itself he said nothing.

It was her father, but he was not really himself. His cheeks were red, and a kind of childish astonishment lit up his face. The things that perturbed him at home still perturbed him here, but now he added, “No matter.”

“How is Grandma Carole?”

“She’s quite fine,” Blanca answered.

“She’s always fine,” her father said mischievously.

The director told her the absolute truth. He wasn’t living in reality, and he had to be treated like a child. The old age home couldn’t bear the expense of taking care of him.

Hearing her words, Blanca buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

“What can I do?” she cried. “I have nothing of my own, and my husband won’t let me work outside of the house.”

The elderly director, seeing her youth and distress, exerted no more pressure on her.

“Don’t abandon your father,” she said. “Come to visit him often.”

“Of course I’ll come. I have no one else in the world beside him.”

The director also told Blanca that most of the residents were abandoned. The children had converted to Christianity and denied their old parents. The financial condition of the institution was precarious, and were it not for bequests from some of those who died, the place would have been closed long ago. Blanca promised to come and help, and the elderly director hugged her, saying, “You’re a loyal daughter, and the Jewish spark is not extinguished in your heart.”

“That’s my grip on this world, believe me,” Blanca said with emotion.

“There are so few of us, and we are worn so thin,” said the director, and it was clear that the burden on her shoulders was too heavy to bear.

From then on, Blanca’s days were oppressive and disheartening.

“Let me see Papa,” Blanca would beg. “I’ll come back in the afternoon.” But Adolf refused.

“You have to cut yourself off from them.”

“But he’s my father.”

“I said what I said.”

It was power and dread bound up together. Blanca was so weak that everything Adolf said or did seemed correct to her. At night she would wake up and ask, “Where am I?” She was gradually disintegrating.

Again help came to her from heaven. Adolf went off for a week of occupational training in the Tyrolean Mountains, and Blanca rushed out that very morning. This time, too, she found her father sitting on the bed. His face had grown thin, and a strange spirituality glowed in it.

At first he didn’t recognize her. But then he did, and called out, “Look, it’s my Blanca. It’s my daughter.” Not a minute passed before he rose from his bed and asked, “How’s Mama? How does she feel?”

“Fine,” Blanca replied.

“And we won’t have to take her to a rest home?”

“No.”

“Thank God.”

Then it was as if all his words had faded away. Blanca didn’t know what to say, either, so she was silent. The man lying next to him asked, “Who’s that pretty girl?”

“My daughter, Blanca.”

“She looks a lot like you.”

“She’s my only daughter, and I have no other children.”

“I have three sons, but they don’t come to visit me.”

“Where do they live?”

“Not far from here.”

Blanca hadn’t forgotten about her father’s request. She brought a package of mathematics books. Although the books had turned yellow with the years, they excited her father.

“I’ll start right away,” he said in his former tone of voice.

Blanca gathered the clothes that were stuffed into the cupboard and went out to wash them. The laundry, a broad, half-dark room with green stains on its walls, gave off a heavy odor of dampness and mildew. The sink, the washboard, and the water in the tubs evoked images of her childhood and of Johanna, their cleaning woman, who had left the house about two years before her mother’s death because her father could no longer pay her. She was a devout Christian, and her long, narrow room was full of sacred images and the fragrance of incense. While Blanca was still a child, Johanna used to place her on her knees, remove the image of Jesus from the wall, and say, “This is Jesus. He is the savior of the world, and we pray to him morning and night.” This made a great impression on Blanca, and she kept that secret in her heart, without revealing a hint of it to her parents.

When Blanca was in high school, already full of knowledge, excelling in the exact sciences, enthusiastic about Rousseau and Marx, and positive that religion would ultimately disappear from the world, she continued to visit Johanna in her room and talk to her. Once Johanna told her, in the tones of a person firm in her faith, “Whoever refuses to acknowledge our Redeemer will not be saved.”

Blanca wanted to laugh. But seeing the devotion in Johanna’s face, she controlled herself and asked, “And the Jews won’t be saved?”

“No, to my regret.”

“Why not, Johanna?”

“Because they refuse to accept His mercy.”

Back then Johanna’s beliefs had sounded old-fashioned and unfounded. Blanca was confident that those superstitions would ultimately fade away, and that the doctrines of Rousseau and Marx would fill everyone’s heart.

Before an hour had gone by, Blanca had washed everything, and then went out to hang the laundry on the clotheslines. Contact with those familiar shirts, which Johanna and, later, Blanca’s mother used to wash on the rear balcony, reminded her of her mother’s slow, tormented death. A few days before she died, Blanca’s mother had said to Blanca, “Take care of Papa. Life hasn’t been kind to him.”

“Mama, why are you worried?” Blanca had said.

When she returned to the corridor, she found her father immersed in the effort to solve a mathematical problem. He was on his knees next to a small trunk, with the books scattered on his bed. For Blanca this was a sight from earlier times, when she herself had studied mathematics.

“Papa,” she said as she approached him.

“What’s the matter, dear?” He raised his face to her.

“Are the problems hard?”

“Not especially.”

“I have to go home, Papa.”

“Go in peace, dear,” he said distractedly.

“I’ll come back soon,” she said, and kissed his forehead.

“Very good,” he replied, and sank into his notebook.

It was very painful to Blanca that her good father, whom she wanted to sit next to and tell about all the humiliations and fears that had been her lot during the past months, that her good, sensitive father had departed from the world. What remained of him was a high school boy, all of whose grades were excellent. Now the boy was burrowing into mathematics books to show everyone that he was better than Lutzky and Levi, the two Jewish boys in his class who were his competitors. Lutzky and Levi had become industrialists. They had conquered the Austrian market and expanded across the provinces as far as distant Bukovina. And he had remained stuck in his stationery store with his cousin Dachs.