Until the Dawn's Light (15 page)

BLANCA REACHED THE
old age home in Blumenthal at six o’clock. It was already dark. Elsa stood at the entrance to the corridor, and when she saw Blanca, she thundered, “I don’t want to see you here!”

Blanca just stood there, motionless. “Grandma Carole died, and there was no one to attend her funeral. Forgive me.”

“And who will take care of these people?” Elsa pointed to the inmates lying in the rooms.

“What could I do?” Blanca replied, her arms upraised.

“You could have come here on time.” Elsa continued to hammer at her.

One of the veteran workers dared to approach Elsa and said, “Forgive her.”

“How can I forgive her?” Elsa addressed the woman angrily.

“Blanca is devoted to the old people, and she doesn’t avoid any task.”

“She was late by six full hours. That’s an unforgivable sin,” Elsa said, and went into her office, leaving Blanca standing outside. Two women who lived in the home and had witnessed the unpleasant scene entered the office and said, “Forgive her.”

That last request was apparently effective. Elsa came out and announced, “This time I’m forgiving you, but I won’t do it again. From now on, you’re on probation.”

Blanca went back to work. She prepared the tables for supper and served meals to the bedridden residents. This was her home now, and she was glad to be in the company of the old people. Some of them were tall and thin, and imbued with an old-fashioned nobility. They observed more than they spoke, with the sharpness of people who had lived fully in the world for many years and seen what they’d seen. Their expressions were clear, quiet, and merciful. In contrast to them were the irritable ones who never stopped complaining about the sons and daughters who had converted and abandoned them. Day and night they rummaged through everything that had happened to them during their lives, casting blame and raising the ghosts of long-departed men and women. Everyone at the home knew everything about them. Because they talked about it so much, their pain was discolored, and all one saw was bitterness and misery.

Blanca was glad to be working and helping people who needed her assistance, and the events of that long and painful day began to fade. One of the bedridden women asked her about Grandma Carole, and Blanca told her.

While the last meals were being served to the people in beds, Elsa burst into the dining room. This time she vented her fury on Fritz, the plumber. That tall, sturdy man didn’t seem surprised. Without raising his head, he asked, “What’s the matter?” The question heightened her rage. Fritz didn’t respond. He just moved to the side, as though he had met up with a mad dog. Fritz was a lazy, drowsy man who did only what was necessary. Elsa had sworn more than once that she would fire him, but she hadn’t carried out her intention. Fritz was strong, and he helped everyone. He picked sick people up in his arms and carried them to the infirmary or the toilet. He loaded onto his back furniture, valises, sacks of flour, and whatever else needed carrying. He was no longer young, but his strength had not waned. When Elsa would explode, he would stop what he was doing, and after she wore herself out with shouting, he would go back to his room, lie down on the bed, and doze off.

That night Blanca told Sonia about Grandma Carole’s death. Sonia asked for details, and Blanca said simply, “Grandma Carole was not a woman of this world. It was hard to get near her, because she was like a pillar of fire.”

“What do you mean, Blanca?” Sonia tried to understand.

“She defended the faith of her ancestors with her body.”

“Did you ever speak with her?”

“I couldn’t speak with her. How could I speak with her?”

“I’ve never met Jews like that.”

Blanca noticed that Sonia’s body didn’t suit her face. Her body was sturdy like a peasant woman’s, but her face was long and thin, and when she paid close attention to something, it appeared even narrower.

The conversation with Sonia unexpectedly clarified something for Blanca: her mother’s religious beliefs. For years Blanca had been sure that her mother, like her father, was distant from her tribe and its beliefs. Only now did she grasp clearly that her mother had kept a hidden connection with the faith of her ancestors. She refrained from showing her feelings only because of her husband, whom she loved. Once, when Blanca’s father was complaining about the store, about his partner, and about the debts into which he had sunk, her mother said, “There is a God in heaven, and He watches over all of His creatures.” Upon hearing those words, her father buried his face in his hands.

“Where did you get that strange belief?” he asked.

“It’s my faith,” she said, without raising her voice.

“That was your ancestors’ belief, not yours.” Blanca’s father tried to correct her.

“Mine, too, if I may.”

Hearing her last words, Blanca’s father raised his head and said, “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

Blanca’s mother responded to that with a restrained smile, and the conversation ceased.

“Soon I’ll be leaving Austria to the Austrians and traveling to the Carpathians,” Sonia said.

“What will I do without you?”

“I’m sure you’ll get there, too.”

“I don’t see how.”

“I already see you there.”

Thus the days passed. During breaks between shifts, Blanca would tell Otto what she was thinking. She was sure not only that Otto could hear her from afar, but also that he could understand her. Once one of the residents approached her and asked in surprise, “Blanca, are you praying? I didn’t know you were so religious.”

“I’m not praying. I was just mumbling something, apparently. Sorry.”

There was an extremely aged woman named Tsirl in the home. Like Blanca’s mother, she had been born in Zelishtshik and remembered Ida Beck’s family and its ancestry, and she told Blanca that Ida was a descendant of the legendary Rabbi Nachman of Horodenka. Just the mention of his name brought blessings.

“I didn’t know,” said Blanca.

“It was no accident that my daughter hospitalized me in this place, and no accident that you came to work here. There is a reason for everything, my child.”

“What was so special about that rabbi?”

“He wasn’t a rabbi, dear. He was Rabbi Nachman of Horodenka.”

“Do you remember Grandma Carole?”

“Certainly I remember her. She was many years younger than I.”

“She passed away yesterday.”

“May her memory be blessed. In the world of truth, they will receive her well,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Tsirl dozed most of the day, but when she opened her eyes, her gaze was clear and she remembered everything very well.

The next day she told Blanca, “It’s hard for me to die in a foreign place. If I were in Zelishtshik, I would have been gathered to my ancestors long ago. This alien place is delaying death, and a person lives a long life for no purpose.”

THE WINTER WAS
long and harsh, and Blanca would return home leaden and dejected. Kirtzl had taken over the house. The cheap perfume that she used filled the rooms and smothered them. On every wall she had hung an icon. It was clear: Kirtzl was no longer Blanca’s helper; she did Adolf’s bidding. With every passing week, Otto was more and more neglected. His rear end was chapped, and an unpleasant odor wafted from him.

It was now Kirtzl’s house, not Blanca’s. Sometimes Kirtzl would ask her, “How is it there?” to emphasize that Blanca belonged to the old age home in Blumenthal and not to this house. Blanca suffered but didn’t complain. In Otto’s company she was full of joy and contentment. She would wash him and rub his sores with salve, and then she would sit with him and show him the big letters in the children’s book she had received as a gift from one of the residents of the home. When Otto would cry, Blanca would promise that the day was not far off when she would no longer go out to work.

Adolf’s behavior became more brutal. In the past, when he took her wages he would leave her with money for the train fare and a little pocket change. Now he gave her only her train fare, and he would always say the same thing: “They’re exploiting you and not paying you properly.”

“What can I do?” She would stand before him as though paralyzed.

“Demand more.”

Otto would awaken at night and burst into tears, and Blanca would rush over to soothe him. One Sunday she secretly brought him to Dr. Nussbaum. Dr. Nussbaum quickly determined that the child was neglected. Blanca told him she was working away from home and saw Otto only on weekends.

Dr. Nussbaum had changed a lot since Blanca last saw him. The battle he was waging against the municipality and against the health authorities in Vienna had left its mark on his face. His fingers trembled. There was now some hope that the gates of the hospital would soon be opened, but not all its departments. Meanwhile he continued treating patients in his home and courtyard, and if he was summoned at night, he didn’t refuse.

“How is Celia?” Blanca asked.

“She’s in seclusion. That is her path now. What can I do?” When he spoke about his daughter, the physician’s authority evaporated from his face.

The Sunday parties continued as usual. Blanca would do the cooking on Saturday night, rise early for church, and then quickly prepare herself to receive guests. She was anxious because her in-laws spoke about Otto as a weak-bodied child, doubting that he would be able to meet the demands of life. To strengthen him Blanca fed him chopped liver that she brought from the old age home.

“Otto must be strong,” she said. “Here you have to be strong. You have to eat a lot and stand powerfully on your own two feet. Grandpa Erwin and Grandma Ida would have taken care of you differently, but they’re no longer with us. What can I do? Don’t cry. People who cry are weak. And you’re not weak. You’re as strong as a lion cub, and no one will dare to touch you.”

Adolf would return home late at night half drunk and shout, “Why’s he crying? Shut him up!” His threatening voice was very frightening, and Otto would quiet down. Adolf would then collapse on the bed and fall asleep.

Blanca’s anxieties no longer gave her rest. She worked many night shifts, and in return Elsa would free her for a few hours during the day. She would rush to catch the noon train and come back by the evening train. Once Adolf caught her and said, “What are you doing here in the middle of the week?”

“I came to see Otto.”

“What for?”

Otto’s features, as though in spite, became more delicate. A quiet intelligence glowed in his eyes. It was as if he understood that the people surrounding him were putting him to a hard test. When Blanca appeared, he would stretch out his arms, hug her around the neck, and cling to her. Blanca kept promising him that his suffering would not last long, that soon they would set out on a long journey. In the few hours that she was with him every week, she taught him new words. Otto would look at her lips and try to imitate the sounds.

Parting from Otto on Monday mornings was agonizing. If it weren’t for the two shots of brandy that Blanca had in the buffet car, the pain would have been constant. But by the time she returned to the old age home, the pain, roused from its slumber, would torture her again. Finally, though, her work wiped that pain away, too. After a day of labor, she would lay her head on the pillow, her thoughts scattered to the winds.

Meanwhile, Sonia also got into trouble. One of the janitors informed on her for making soup for two old people in the middle of the night. Sonia confessed, and Elsa decided to adopt a new method of punishment: to deduct from her wages. Sonia responded with fury and threatened to complain to the old age home’s board of trustees. Upon hearing her threats, Elsa dismissed her on the spot.

The residents repeatedly asked Elsa to forgive her, but Elsa stuck to her guns.

“If everybody in the old age home does whatever he feels like,” she said, “anarchy will reign here, not order.” “Order”—that was the ideal for whose sake she tormented both the workers and the residents. She never tired of proclaiming, “There will be order here. This is not some Jewish market.”

True, the old age home didn’t look Jewish from close up. The old people didn’t sit in the lobby or in front of the entrance to the building. Flowers and houseplants were placed in every corner. In that matter, as in others, there were disagreements among the residents. Some of them claimed that Elsa had turned the place into a grim Protestant temple, or into a prison where they punished old people for being old. Others argued that strict discipline was better than Jewish commotion. Elsa was strong in her resolve to dismiss Sonia, but in the end, because of the residents’ pleas, she forgave her. She informed her that from now on she was working there on probation. Any infraction, even a small one, would result in her immediate dismissal. Elsa used to punish the residents in similar fashion. For example, anyone who didn’t dress neatly or who neglected to tidy the area around his bed wasn’t taken on the weekly excursion to the river.

“We’re Jews, not Germans,” one of the residents stated, daring to raise his voice.

“Order is the honor of life,” replied Elsa. “Without order, there is no honor. Jews are negligent about order and discipline, and that’s to their discredit.”

“To hell with discipline.”

“Not here.”

Despite everything, there were little pleasures. When the tale-bearing janitors were soundly asleep, Blanca and Sonia would take out the pot of compote and serve anyone who was hungry.

THUS PASSED THE WINTER.
In the spring Sonia got into another fight with Elsa and she was fired, just as Elsa had threatened. Sonia stuck to her guns and didn’t mince words.

“This isn’t a home for people,” she said, “it’s a prison. I’m going to walk through the streets of Blumenthal and tell everyone that there’s a jail in the middle of their city where they torture old people.” Before she left, she addressed the residents.

“People are born in the image of God,” she said, “and they have to preserve His image.” She was about to say more, but the two janitors took hold of her and dragged her outside. Even after she was outside, she didn’t hold her tongue.

“A jailer, not a woman!” she shouted. “That’s what she is.”

In the evening Blanca sneaked out to the Lilac Café, where she used to sit between shifts. Sonia was waiting for her. It was the Sonia she knew so well, but somehow different. A storm raged in her eyes, and every gesture throbbed with anger. Sonia told Blanca that she intended to leave for Galicia on the very next train. She spoke about Galicia with fervor, like someone speaking about his beloved native city.

They sipped brandy and drank coffee, and Sonia talked about outer freedom and inner freedom, and about the obligation to destroy institutions like Elsa’s old age home, to set the tormented old people free. Blanca was alarmed. Sonia’s face was firm with the resolve of believers who had removed all fear from their hearts. Blanca tried to get her to delay her departure, but Sonia said that Austria was a prison and that she must reach Kolomyja as soon as possible to purify herself from this contamination.

They sat for a while in silence, and then Blanca saw Sonia to the railroad station. The station was dark and enveloped in a damp fog. The train soon arrived, and Sonia said, “Blanca, you also have to free yourself from the bonds that they put on your hands and feet, and go forth from bondage to freedom, to the place where your ancestors worshipped God.” Fire burned in her face, but her words were serene, rising from a tranquil heart. The train rushed away, and for quite a while Blanca stood where she was in silence. It was hard for her to drag her feet back to the old age home and start the long night shift.

Now the days proceeded heavily, as though stuck in heavy batter. Week after week Blanca would take the train home, sometimes two or three times a week. The nights became a journey of longing for freedom, but with no way out. Kirtzl entrenched herself in the house. Her limbs broadened, and an animal-like satisfaction filled her face. When Blanca asked her why Otto’s skin was so chapped, she answered, “You worry too much. I raised three children, and they’re alive and healthy. Your worries won’t bring him health.”

Adolf would grab Blanca’s wages from her hands and ignore her. She noticed that he also ignored Otto, as though he were a bastard and not his son. Otto grew taller, but his body didn’t fill out. His scrawniness was evident in his exposed ribs and in his face, which became long and thin.

“He has no appetite,” said Kirtzl.

Sometimes in church Adolf would remember Blanca’s presence and stand next to her. In the flat shoes she wore now, she came to just below his shoulder. If he wanted to crush her, he could do it with one shove.

Why am I so frightened?
she kept asking herself. She drank more and more. Drinking filled her with waves of warmth, but not with words.
How strange,
she thought as she spoke to Sonia in her mind.
There are no words in my mouth
.
Once I knew how to talk, how to express things in detail and with precision, but now, when I stand next to Adolf, my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth and I can’t think of a single sentence with which to answer him
.

A change was also taking place in her body. She had already observed that now, when she picked up heavy things, the burden didn’t hurt her. And during that imaginary conversation with Sonia she noticed something else: an arm motion, a reaching upward that didn’t seem to come from within her own body, a gesture that Grandma Carole used to make while she stood at the entrance to the synagogue.

Blanca said to Otto, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll watch over you with all my soul and all my might.” Hearing her voice, Otto opened his eyes wide and laughed, but Blanca was dejected, and in her dejection she began to sob.

On the train one Monday morning Blanca had a few drinks, and she returned to the old age home in a blur. Elsa smelled it on her right away.

“What you do outside isn’t my business,” she said, “but you can’t come here reeking of alcohol. I don’t intend to reprimand you again.”

“I’ll try,” Blanca replied in the tones of a maidservant.

“I’m not talking about trying,” said Elsa.

Now, too, Blanca felt the muteness that blocked her mouth. She rushed to her room, changed clothes, and without delay went to clean the stairs.

The alcohol that Blanca had drunk in the buffet car seeped into her and strengthened her. After cleaning the stairs, she made the beds and mopped the floor. She did all the chores without thinking, and at the end of the day she reported to the dining room and brought trays to those who were eating. The strength of youth, such as she had not even felt in high school, flowed in her arms. One of the old people observed her and said, “What’s happened to you, Blanca?”

“Nothing. Why are you asking, sir?”

“You look different today.”

She soon learned how right the man was. On laundry day she found a diamond ring in one of the smocks. In the past, whenever she had found anything valuable, she quickly returned it to its owner. This time she looked at the ring for a moment and then slipped it into her pocket. After finishing the laundry she thrust the ring into a cleft in the wall.

The theft seemed to have passed unnoticed. But then two weeks later, Mrs. Hubermann discovered that her ring had disappeared, and she burst into tears. All the old people demanded that a worker named Paulina be fired, because stolen jewelry had already been found in her possession. Paulina was summoned to Elsa’s office, and she swore by everything dear to her that she hadn’t stolen a thing. But her oath didn’t help her this time, and she was dismissed. Before leaving, she cursed the residence and the Jews who had plotted against her. The two janitors took hold of her the way they had gripped Sonia and threw her out.

From then on Blanca stole money and jewels, quickly slipping them into her hiding place. Sometimes at night she would go downstairs and fondle them. “I’m not stealing for myself, but for Otto,” she murmured like a slave woman. Contact with the stolen jewels restored to her a moment of joy.