From Ashes Into Light: A Novel

by Gudrun Mouw

  I worry. After all, hadn’t I begged and pleaded to come here? Helping my mother carry groceries home from the store has been my only excursion for a long time.

  Still, the fresh air feels good. I listen to the sound of leaves crunching on the dirt path as we walk up a gradual incline, yet I feel I’m barely touching earth. I tell myself, don’t hurt the ant people, but I don’t know where such a thought came from. I carefully examine the ground at every step.

  We watch at the edge of a tiny valley that is circled by trees on the surrounding slopes. Pink clouds drift above and a growing morning light weaves around us. We step gingerly, as though we stand on the sleeping body of a bewitched demon.

  Shadows lift. Birds squawk, others screech, and tiny beings slither, crawling between grass stems as breezes swish through the branches.

  “A vulture,” papa says softly from behind. I look up at a rose-colored sky and see a large bird circling overhead. “Corpse eating beast.” Papa’s voice sounds almost angry. “And so the Lord of Night comes, even at dawn, to greet us?”

  Mother says, “Such talk. What’s gotten into you, Josef? This isn’t like you.” The bird glides, hardly moving its wings, then turns sharply. I hear a noise: swoosh; the vulture dives.

  “Must be a dead body close by,” papa says.

  I shudder. All at once fear chills my feet, moving up my legs like a block of ice. An evil influence closes in around us. I feel it.

  Mother clutches her shawl. “Hurry. We must get back.”

  * * *

  In October, Eichman orders between one to two thousand Jewish men, especially carpenters and technicians, to be transported from Vienna to Poland. The “evacuees” are promised steady work and decent living conditions. Papa is selected. We try to tell ourselves that because of his special skills he is being given this opportunity, but we aren’t convinced.

  Papa stands by the front door next to his valise. “I’ll reach you through Franz in England.” He doesn’t want anyone to go with him to the station.

  “Don’t go, Josef,” Aunt Lili says.

  “I have no choice.” Papa strokes his beard. “The country is at war. Workmen are needed, so I work. If I refuse to go, they would come and arrest us all.” Mother reluctantly hands him his gray sweater and his coat; she has already said numerous tearful goodbyes, as have the rest of us. He opens the door.

  I hear a strong gale blowing outside, while inside the house falls silent and the silence penetrates like an ache. My ears hurt. I don’t want to hear anything. My throat tightens and I can’t say what I want to say: don’t go. Please, don’t. Don’t.

  “Goodbye,” papa says again to each one in turn. “Ruthi,” he whispers to me, “I need to say this before you hear elsewhere. Your Uncle David killed himself just as have many others. But I urge you, please, stay strong. Don’t give up.”

  He wants to prepare me, I know, in case he doesn’t return. He holds me close and I can only say, “Papa, papa.” A tight knot catches my throat. Before I know what is happening, he walks out the door.

  Mother, auntie, and I stare through the parlor window, watching papa disappear around the corner at the end of the block. We look at each other, eyes glazed with anguish. I run to my cot.

  There, I cry loudly for a long time, yelling “No, no, no!” over and over. No one stops me. I don’t need to restrain myself. Who will refuse me this? No one can deny our common knowledge—this awful thing everyone senses and not enough have dared to express.

  At last, I ask for help from that which cannot be named. “Can you hear me?” I whisper.

  Saqapaya

  Maxiwo leads Hew and me up the mountain. Looped strings dangle from Hew’s belt. He will need them to snare rabbits and other small animals.

  Next to a long skinny extension jutting out from the boulder called Lizard Mouth, Maxiwo stops. He raises his arm; Hew will now go a different path. It is a long way up the mountain before dark and there is no time for lengthy goodbyes. Uncle places a hand on Hew’s shoulder.

  Hew waits for my uncle to speak. Maxiwo looks serious, his eyes squint like two sliver moons. He cautions Hew, “Do not be seen. There are many dangers.” He turns abruptly and continues to climb.

  I look over my shoulder at the boulder where Hew stands. He pretends to hide. I smile; we wave to each other and I have a strange feeling. I think, when will we see each other? Will we be separated in the future? I shiver and turn to wave once again, then climb fast to catch up.

  Following behind Uncle, I settle into a steady pace and forget my concerns as I take in the strong fragrance of black and purple sage and mugwort. A patch of momoy grows along the path. Its white trumpet-shaped flowers bring memories of vivid dreams; prickly green fruit balls warn of poison.

  After we have climbed a good while we reach Great Toad, a boulder whose eyes are created by red indentations along the head of a squatting shaped rock. Maxiwo halts. “Oh great protector,” he says in the presence of the red, orange, and white sandstone monolith, “we enter your realm in peace. May we cause no harm.” My uncle’s words penetrate. Great Toad, double the size of a man, sits on a silver, moss-dotted rock and does not move, but a white aura rings the boulder as the horizon glows with light.

  Maxiwo hums and the light expands. Uncle seems satisfied, releasing his breath slowly through pursed lips as if he were about to whistle. He continues up the mountain.

  I step around the boulder on a narrow trail between sage, manzanita and scrub oak. We have entered a holy region where only Maxiwo, of all our people, knows his way. Scratching sounds come from hidden parts of the brush. We move cautiously. We are very far from the middle world of our village. I reassure myself that, though we travel close to the upper world, Uncle knows the secrets of this place.

  I memorize the spot between three rectangular rocks where the camas flower grows. Maybe someday Uncle will send me on this journey by myself. I stop, twist off a madrone branch thick with fruit, and hang it on my belt. I pluck a few of the berries directly from the tree and chew as I walk.

  The path, at times barely visible, is also steep and arduous. After a long while Thunder Eagle turns and looks at me. The white paint on his taut skin glistens. His wide nostrils flare and then his head tilts as if he is listening downhill. He looks as hard-edged and fierce as the south side of the mountain. He raises his hand, signaling quiet.

  I stand still. I listen and hear a rumbling sound, deep inside the mountain’s body. I also hear crackling noises as though crazed bears, their noses bitten by bees, were crashing through the forest. Fear rises along my bare back with a persistent chill. I finger my bear charm inside the pouch hanging from my belt, and this gives me courage. Recently, I met Bear.

  It was a young bear with very shiny, dark fur. How easy and relaxed his movements were. He rounded a corner and looked surprised to see me. I stood in a clearing and began to chant a loud song. The bear listened for a while to my rhythmical sounds. Leaning forward, my shoulders lifted high, I threw my elbows wide and clapped with force. The bear rotated his well-fed body on all fours, made an abrupt turn, and headed back into the chaparral. However, at this moment, I am not able to match what I hear with the thing I am not seeing, and find myself somewhat less confident.

  The white bands painted around Maxiwo’s chest expand. His knees bend slightly. His toes grip the earth. Perhaps Uncle is able to hear through the soles of his feet. Maxiwo nods. Does he recognize the sounds? Vertical lines below his sharp cheekbones deepen.

  Uncle signals me to continue. His white legs and arm rings flash in the sun. We walk closer together now without speaking. In time, we come near the cave where I first met my dream helpers. At last the long, dry walk is over. I am relieved.

  A breeze washes my face, chest, arms, and legs, easing the heat of the sun. I have been happier here in ways than I have been anywhere else. I touch the springy moss on the boulder below the cave. The moss is dry, almost prickly, but in the month when the rains come down, the moss will come bac
k to life.

  I follow Uncle down to the stream where we drink. I gather firewood. Maxiwo, next to the water, rolls mugwort leaves between his fingers and smears the medicine on his arms and face. He motions me to do the same, pointing uphill to a long-stemmed patch of plants to my left. Mugwort draws out poison and makes way for helpful dreams. Uncle keeps some in a pouch for smoking.

  On my way back to the cave, I see my Uncle gathering pepper nuts for roasting. He also picks wild cherry. I remember we will not eat meat here because we have promised the king of the animals, the Great Toad.

  By the time we finish eating, there is a dark violet cast on the bank across the stream. We sit in front of a fire at the cave entrance. I ask, “Why did you ask me to stop earlier before we reached the cave, Uncle?”

  “First you must tell me, Saqapaya, what did you hear?”

  “I heard sounds moving low in the mountain’s belly.”

  “And who made these sounds?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did the mountain welcome the sounds you heard?”

  “The mountain was quiet above, but I was afraid about what was happening below.”

  “Yes. Good. I wanted you to listen carefully. The sounds were from the invaders. As you know, they are coming in great numbers. They bring their weapons, diseases, and a hatred for our ways. Such men are like the most dangerous ahashoosh. You were right to feel afraid. Remember your momoy dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those times have come. It is urgent we prepare. Now, let’s look through the darkness. Do you see a helper?”

  I close my eyes. I see a feather lying on the ground next to me. I open my eyes to see if the vision is real. “Yes,” I say, picking up a brightly colored feather that lay at my side. The feather is the color of fire and Uncle takes it without a word. He pushes the feather into the yucca fiber that holds my hair. There are two hawk feathers secured there already.

  “It is yours,” he says. “In your dreams you have seen the future and how this bird helper has a special vision that can help protect you. It will be difficult. Remember this: things follow a cycle, like the seasons. There are old, repeating patterns as well as new patterns. We must watch, listen, and learn.” Uncle pauses.

  Two yellow eyes gleam on the other side of the fire. I know it is Coyote. He does not seem to be afraid of the fire, but he also does not come any closer. Xuxaw’s eyes glitter. He trots sideways along the fire, tilting his head towards Maxiwo.

  Uncle speaks with a low, musical voice. “What do you have to say, Xuxaw?” Coyote raises his nose and sniffs at something rising up from the bottom of the mountain. Coyote’s high-pitched tones sing:

  I will always be! Many more will disappear. Waters will turn murky. Air may be heavy and sour, but I will always be!

  “Yes, you see it too,” Maxiwo replies. Xuxaw leaves, his long tail waving behind him. Fire crackles and an owl who-whoos down from a high branch. A star falls. Chill descends, gripping my shoulders, and I shiver. Uncle gets up, brings a gray robe from a lidded basket he has stored in the cave, and wraps it around me.

  “Be warmed by this wolf,” he says, “may he grant you courage. Let him eat your fear. Let us sleep now. Tomorrow, there is much to do.”

  Ruth

  Esther Gutherz has never liked the idea of going to England, since she and her husband’s brother, Franz, do not get along. She is afraid to reside in a land where she cannot speak the language.

  “I would go with you in a minute, Esther,” Aunt Lili says, “but I’d have to sell the house for practically nothing. I don’t think they will kick me out, since the house belonged to my dear husband who died while still in diplomatic service to the country and, as you know, he wasn’t Jewish, so that may make a difference. And I’m still able to help people. Who thought it would come to this? So many have lost their jobs, their homes. At least you and Ruth have a place to go. Thousands want to get out, yet there’s no place willing to take them.”

  Mother tries to close our suitcase. She doesn’t say what Papa had told us, more than once: “Why don’t we see what is really going on, instead of thinking somehow it will all blow over?” As much as mother has rearranged things, smoothed, and tucked, the suitcase will not lock.

  She mutters, “There’s never enough room.”

  “I don’t need the English book,” I say. I don’t even care if we go or not. Nothing can bring back what we have lost. I long to hear papa’s voice and yearn to see his face, his eyes. Oh, papa, where are you? It seems the world is suffering from a horrible sickness.

  I remember someone once showing papa a headline in one of the German newspapers. I had a terrible feeling after I read that headline. I could hardly believe the hatred in it. There’s no hope, I feared, in such a world.

  In the afternoon my mother returns from the emigration office. She leans inside the doorframe to the kitchen and refuses her sister-in-law’s suggestion to sit. Tears trickle down my mother’s cheeks. I can’t bear to watch. I look at the floor, not knowing what else to do.

  Auntie, small and thin, always moving, ever efficient, quickly begins to make my mother a cup of tea. She frowns as she scrapes out the last of a tin she had been stretching for months. There won’t be any more, I suddenly recognize. The rations for Jews are much, much worse than for the general population. I take my mother by the arm and help her to a chair. She sinks heavily to the seat and lets her arms fall, as if she doesn’t have the strength to hold them anymore. Her jaw drops. Her cheeks collapse like a falling cake.

  “Some papers are missing,” she says bitterly. “They persist in getting rid of us, so why do they make difficulties? We didn’t lose the papers, but we have to pay again. Why this delay? There is nearly no time left on our passports.”

  Perhaps fate has intervened. Perhaps papa is meant to return to us here. “If we have to stay longer, it might be easier for papa to find us,” I say hopefully.

  “No, my dear, we are past that point. But I still have savings left and my widow’s pension,” my aunt offers.

  Mother shakes her head. “You have your own problems.”

  “No. Josef wished…and I also wish you should both be safe. You’ve already put so much effort into this. I insist.”

  So mother goes off to the same offices, making the rounds once again. New papers are signed and stamped. She fills out additional forms. More money is paid. Everything must be validated and checked by the Gestapo. The papers are promised the day we are supposed to leave.

  * * *

  I am ready. I sit with my hair braided at the kitchen table. I wait with my aunt. I wear the green suit that almost matches my eyes, the one with the white lace collar. It is my best suit, but too tight in the chest, too short in the arms. Mother had kindly put my Martin Buber book in the luggage, but it doesn’t give me comfort.

  I hear the front door slam. My stomach contracts. Mother calls out, even before reaching the kitchen. “The papers aren’t ready!”

  She comes into view. “A mistake,” she says, shaking her head. She stares down at the frayed leather purse she is holding tightly in both hands. She stares and stares, as if the purse contains a solution, but there are no solutions to be found. Fallen out of her bun, hair clings to the sides of her neck.

  “They told me I should have come earlier. The Gestapo said I should have been more careful. Tomorrow, they said, probably tomorrow. Probably? The passports will be worthless tomorrow. I knew this plan would come to no good.” She allows her coat to slip off her shoulders. “Family providers have lost their businesses, their homes; people are arrested for no reason. Husbands and fathers have been taken away from their wives and children.”

  My aunt listens to mother’s litany quietly. What can anyone say? It’s too much. “God help us all,” she whispers, “in such malicious times.”

  “I don’t care.” I yell, “I don’t care!” Rushing out of the kitchen straight to the guest room, I flop on my cot. I wish to invoke papa’s steady presence i
n the room where he spent his last night with us. I don’t want to leave the house where I remember the last touch of his hand.

  Ruth

  Aunt Lili is on a dangerous mission to consult with one of her dead husband’s Aryan relatives. The Richerts have recently sent money from Salzburg, so mother has gone to buy something to eat. I am lying on my cot.

  I have never heard it so quiet, except for the day papa left almost three years ago. Mr. and Mrs. Braun immigrated to Palestine. The attic family found a new hiding place close to the border and is planning an exit to Holland.

  I rest on my cot, thinking aimlessly, because there’s nothing else to do, because I’ve lost the clarity of my childhood. If he were here, papa would be able to help me, I think.

  I consider our situation. Auntie has been forced to sell her house for a pittance, though it is a good, solid house. An insignificant sum will supposedly be paid upon her emigration, and yet there are no emigration permits to be found anywhere in Vienna or elsewhere. We have been given one week to vacate a home my aunt has lived in nearly all her adult life. And the final absurdity: my aunt is required to pay to have the house “cleansed” for “Aryan” occupation!

  I try to push away these reflections, but my mind rides a locomotive. There’s no stopping, no getting off, and all the dispatches bring discouraging news. Every pleasant view moves away from me, constantly, like an unreachable vision. What’s left? What can I do?