Until the Dawn's Light

by Aharon Appelfeld

  Otto was very weak and barely opened his eyes. Dr. Nussbaum came to see him several times a day. Blanca didn’t move from his bedside. Now she remembered her mother and said to Otto, “If you swallow the pill, you’ll feel a lot better. There’s nothing easier than swallowing a pill.” Those soft words rang in her ears with pure clarity.

  Meanwhile, Celia returned from the mountains. Her face was round and transparent, and filled with wonder. Her simple nun’s habit made her look taller. She spoke softly and listened intently. Sometimes she asked a question.

  “I’m bound in fetters, and I don’t have the strength to loosen them,” Blanca said to her.

  “What do you mean, Blanca?”

  “I’m living in a prison, and I stopped counting the days that I’ve been in captivity. Every day closes in on me more. I had a good friend in Blumenthal, but she went to the east. I would gladly have gone to the Carpathians, but I’m married and I have a child.”

  Celia’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  “I can tell you that ever since Grandma Carole died, I’ve felt a strong attraction for the Carpathians. Maybe the mountains will give my soul back to me. I feel that the soul within me has fled.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to come with me to the mountains of Stillstein?”

  “Churches don’t love me,” Blanca replied.

  After parting from Celia, Blanca sat in the hospital corridor, and to her surprise she felt that a hint of strength still fluttered within her. She rose to her feet and approached Otto’s bed. His sleep was quiet now. That night he felt better, and the next day he opened his eyes.

  48

  ONLY NOW DID Blanca see how much the malady had changed Otto. He had grown taller. His face glowed, and the words in his mouth were clearer.

  “The disease has passed,” Blanca told him, “and in a little while we’ll go home.”

  “I want to be with you.”

  “I’ll always be with you,” she said and kissed his forehead.

  Otto knew more than she imagined. He knew, for example, that the job in Blumenthal had been exhausting and that Elsa had mistreated her, that Kirtzl wasn’t his aunt, that Grandma and Grandpa came every Sunday, drank cognac, and grumbled. He’d evidently taken in a lot during his few years. Blanca was astonished by the abundance of words he’d collected.

  “I’m afraid of Kirtzl,” he told her.

  “Why?”

  “She walks around the house without any clothes on.”

  “She’s apparently used to that.” Blanca tried to distract him.

  Otto’s recovery breathed a new energy into Blanca. She was hungry and ate whatever was served, and at night she sat and talked with Christina. Her life, which had seemed as though poised on the edge of a steep slope, now seemed to have been given a reprieve. An old, youthful strength coursed through her legs. In her heart she knew that hard days were in store for her, but fear didn’t deter her. At night, lying on the mat next to Otto’s bed, she would wander off to faraway lands with him, sailing on boats and struggling through flowing currents.

  Blanca didn’t imagine how close at hand the solution was.

  Before she left the hospital, Dr. Nussbaum told her, “Otto has recovered, but he needs to be watched over. Don’t put him in the care of that peasant woman. If there’s any need for my intervention, notify me right away.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You have to be a brave woman.”

  “I promise,” Blanca said, and she was glad that those words had emerged clearly from her mouth.

  When Blanca returned home she found Kirtzl sitting in the armchair, dressed in a housecoat. Her full face had gotten even fuller. Your job is over, she wanted to say. You have to go back to your village, and I’ll stay with Otto. Otto is recovering, and I have to watch over his recovery.

  Kirtzl seemed to guess her thoughts. She rose to her feet, and with a peasant’s cunning she said, “Welcome. Otto, why don’t you say hello to me?”

  “Hello.”

  “Is that all?”

  Blanca didn’t know what to say and sat down. The confidence she had felt earlier evaporated. Once again iron walls surrounded her, stifling her into muteness. Dear God, she said to herself, I went to grade school and after that to the municipal high school. Why can’t I say a single sentence?

  “Are you going back to work?” Kirtzl asked after a silent pause.

  “No. They fired me.”

  “And what do you plan to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you looking for another job?”

  “I’m not looking. I don’t have to look,” said Blanca, and her fingers trembled. Kirtzl apparently sensed her anger. She turned around, went into the bedroom to get dressed, and when she came back out she said, “I’m going home. The food for Adolf is ready in the pantry. I’ll come back next Monday.”

  The heavy smell of butter stood in the air. Blanca remembered that when she was in elementary school, the country girls used to spread butter on their hair. She had suffered from the smell but never complained about it.

  When Adolf came home, he said, “You have to find work right away.”

  “I’ll go and look,” she replied, to avoid contradicting him.

  “On Monday, first thing.”

  I have to suffer a little more, she said to herself, without knowing what she was saying. Only at night, in her sleep, did the meaning become a bit clearer. In her dream she saw Grandma Carole brandishing a long knife like a sword and calling out loud, “Arise, sleeping fathers, from your slumber, arise and save me from the apostates. I declare war and await you. Only with you can I defeat that great camp. Come, together let us break through the locked doors of the synagogue, so that the God of Israel will be revealed in all His splendor.”

  49

  ON MONDAY BLANCA left the house. As she got ready to go, Otto wrapped himself around her legs, encircling her with his arms and not letting her move. Blanca promised him that this time she’d come back soon. At that, he let her go and said, “You promise, but you don’t keep your promises.”

  “This time I’ll keep it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I swear.”

  Blanca was so moved by Otto’s words that she made her way to My Corner at a quick pace. Upon entering My Corner, she stopped and looked around. This was her town, the streets where she had spent her childhood and youth. Now everything was wrapped in an alien mist. She felt like a prisoner who had received a short leave and didn’t know what to do with it.

  In My Corner she was greeted with pleasure, and they rushed to serve her a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. She had planned to ask whether anyone knew of a goldsmith or a jewelry store where she could sell a jewel, but she checked herself.

  While Blanca was busy with her thoughts, a short young man approached her. He stood next to her table, his head bent, and for a moment she didn’t recognize him. But as soon as she did, she cried out, “Ernst!”

  Ernst Schimmer was her great competitor in elementary school and later in high school. He, too, excelled in mathematics and Latin, but he had some sort of inhibition that blocked him and overshadowed his obvious talent. All of his excellent grades always had an annoying “minus” attached to them. The mathematics and Latin teachers liked him and encouraged him, and there were days when he displayed wonders at the blackboard, but then that hidden flaw would appear and spoil the effect. Blanca didn’t like Ernst and ignored him. From an early age a bitterness showed itself on his lips, the sign of a person dissatisfied with himself. He suffered in class, especially from Adolf. Adolf used to call him a Jewish slug.

  Blanca overcame her muteness. “How are you, Ernst?”

  “I came to visit my hometown.”

  “And where do you live now?”

  “In Salzburg.”

  Fortune had not smiled upon Ernst, either, it seemed. He had studied at the university f
or a year, but his parents couldn’t afford to support him, and he was forced to go out and work. He worked in a children’s clothing store in Heimland for a year, but then both of his parents died and he moved to Salzburg. There he was a cashier in a department store. Blanca looked at him and said, “You haven’t changed.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I live and breathe.” The voice of past days returned to her.

  “May I join you for a cup of coffee?” Ernst said, sitting down beside her.

  No, Ernst hadn’t changed. The wrinkles of bitterness had indeed become somewhat deeper, but there was no alteration in his appearance. He spoke as he used to, emphasizing, for some reason, the word “future,” a word his parents had apparently used frequently. His parents had been known in the town as hardworking people whom fortune had not favored.

  “You haven’t converted, have you?” Blanca asked.

  “No.”

  “Like everybody else, I did.”

  “My parents didn’t push me into that, and I myself never felt the need to do it.”

  “You did right. A person should be loyal to his sentiments,” Blanca said, feeling that those words hadn’t come out of her own mouth.

  “Who knows?” he replied, like someone who has already been burned.

  After a pause he added, “When we were children, we competed with each other. People used to say, two competitive Jews. You were better, I must admit.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You were more open. Your response to a math problem was spontaneous. You immediately saw the possibilities, and sometimes all the possibilities.”

  “But you were more thorough.”

  “Maybe. But I was immersed in unnecessary details.”

  “Strange, we never talked about it then.” For a moment she wanted to stop the stream of words.

  “You were brilliant, and I was sure that I couldn’t catch up with you. Your quickness, your agility, proved to me every day that I was on a lower level.”

  It was the same Ernst, with the same inhibitions coming out of hiding. Blanca wanted to contradict him but didn’t know how. Once again muteness seized her.

  “I have to go back,” Ernst said, rising to his feet. She even remembered his way of standing up now. The journey from his seat to the blackboard was an obstacle course for him. On the way his momentum would dwindle, and he would reach the blackboard without any strength, immediately declaring, “I was mistaken. I had an idea, but it turned out to be useless. Excuse me.” Because of those apologies, he aroused mockery. In her heart, even Blanca was contemptuous of that weakness of his.

  “How long were you here for?” Once again she overcame her muteness.

  “Just a few hours. I felt a kind of urge to come, so I did. I took a walk around all the familiar places, but I didn’t meet anyone I knew. You’re the only one. I didn’t want to go inside the high school. That wasn’t a place that was pleasant for me.”

  “And how was your parents’ house?”

  “Still standing. I sold it very cheaply at the time.”

  “Ernst, forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “I didn’t know how to appreciate your abilities, and that greatly troubles me. In many areas, you were better than I was.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not saying it to flatter you.”

  “I know. But the truth mustn’t be ignored.”

  “In any event, pardon me, if it’s not hard for you.”

  “For what, Blanca?”

  “For the bad things I did to you.”

  “You never did anything bad to me. You were the model I was aspiring to.”

  “I ignored you.”

  “Rightly.”

  “Ernst,” she said, not knowing what she intended to say.

  “See you soon,” he said, and hurried to escape the place.

  “Ernst!” she called, stretching out her arms to stop him. But Ernst was already outside, directing his steps toward the train. Blanca didn’t move. She didn’t remember what she had said or what Ernst had told her. It seemed to her that the injustice that had been done to him years ago was now demanding recompense. True, Adolf had been much harder on Ernst than she had been: once he had beaten Ernst till he bled. When the vice-principal had asked Adolf why he had done it, Adolf replied, “He annoys me. His very existence is annoying.” The vice-principal had indeed scolded him, but not very severely.

  “Ernst,” she said distractedly, trying to stand up.

  The café was now full of retired people and idlers. Blanca knew most of them. One of the storekeepers whom she knew well, though she didn’t remember his name, turned to her and said, “Your grandmother Carole was a brave woman in a generation when the Jews were fleeing from their Judaism like mice. You can be proud of her.”

  “I am proud of her.”

  “She was the only Jewish woman in the city who wasn’t ashamed of her Jewishness, and she denounced the converts to Christianity and those who hid their Judaism.”

  “I know,” said Blanca.

  “That’s not enough,” said the storekeeper, rising to his feet. “You have to identify with her publicly.”

  “But I converted, sir,” Blanca whispered.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll do it. I’ll stand up. Tomorrow. A closed sanctuary is a sign that there is no judgment and no judge.”

  In the café they knew: the man wouldn’t keep his word. He had already made that declaration several times, but this time it had a special sharpness.

  Blanca rose and said, “Pardon me.”

  “I have to beg your pardon,” the storekeeper said. “You’re exempt from that obligation, but I’m not. I owe it to my father and mother. They were simple, proud Jews.”

  After Blanca left the café she wandered through the streets, astonished by the wonders that the morning had brought her. At noon she went back home to see how Otto was doing. Otto was pleased and said, “Mama, you’re beautiful.”

  “You’re more beautiful.”

  “I’m still little.”

  “But you’ll be the biggest.”

  To Kirtzl she said, “I looked for work and didn’t find a thing. I’ll go to Himmelburg; maybe I’ll find something there.”

  “You must find something,” said Kirtzl.

  “True,” said Blanca, and the thought flashed through her mind: I’ll get rid of her, too, one day. This time Otto didn’t wrap himself around her legs. He waved and called out, “Come back soon, Mama.”

  Blanca reached the station at one o’clock. The train to Himmelburg was late, and she sat at the narrow buffet and saw Ernst again. Now she realized that the inhibition dwelt in his neck. Whenever he was called to the blackboard, his head would bend to the right, the words he was saying would be choked off immediately, and he would start to stammer. His stammer, more than the rest of his movements, attracted mockery. He tried to overcome this defect, but it was, apparently, stronger than his will. Now Blanca remembered those moments with blinding clarity.

  50

  THE TRAIN ARRIVED an hour and a half late. Blanca went to the buffet car and ordered a drink. At the counter she met the veteran conductor Brauschwinn, a sturdy man whose bearing had been crushed by the years, but not his spirit. Every year he had accompanied Blanca’s family on their vacation. He had witnessed her mother’s illness, and during the shivah he had come to console her father. Then he had watched her father’s decline, and he had tried to ease his mind with old folk sayings. Blanca had told him about her father’s disappearance.

  Blanca’s parents had liked Brauschwinn. They used to buy their tickets from him and tip him. Brauschwinn would sit and tell them about his troubles with his wife, his sons, and his daughters. He got no joy from any of them—from his wife because she was a nag, from his daughters because they had left the house and moved to the big city, and from his sons because they had no ambition, worke
d like mules, and barely made a living. In his youth he had spent time with Jews in Vienna. He had worked in their stores and in their small textile factories. Had it not been for his wife, who had pulled him to Heimland, he would not have left Vienna. The provinces were a cage that stained a person’s soul, he said repeatedly.

  Brauschwinn loved Jews and didn’t hide his love from anyone. It was a long-standing, devoted, and arbitrary love. The other conductors knew about it and made fun of him, but Brauschwinn wasn’t like other people: if anyone reviled Jews in his presence, he upbraided them, and if the reviler was particularly impertinent, he’d get a slap. Because of his love of the Jews, he was called insulting names, but Brauschwinn didn’t relent. More than once he had stood on the platform and shouted: You’ll be asking their forgiveness soon enough.

  Brauschwinn spoke Yiddish without an accent and knew some prayers. He had absorbed the ways of the traditional Jews who had migrated from Galicia to Vienna, and nothing was lost on him. Blanca’s father used to tease him with questions, but it didn’t faze him. He used to say that there’s unusual beauty even in removing all the unleavened foods before Passover. When he learned that Blanca had converted to Christianity and married Adolf, he expressed his disappointment in a single phrase.

  “Too bad,” he said.

  Brauschwinn was pleased to see Blanca now, and in his joy he called out, “Here’s Blanca. You haven’t changed a bit. Thin as ever.”

  “And how have you been?”

  “Tsoris.” He used the Yiddish word he’d learned from the Galician Jews. Grandma Carole had used that word, but Blanca didn’t remember exactly what it meant.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve been sick.”

  Blanca didn’t ask any more. His face told the whole story, but in his eyes the fire still burned of a man who cherishes precious memories, those of his youth among the Jews of Galicia who had been uprooted from their home ground and exiled to the big city.

  “What came afterward wasn’t life but leftovers,” Brauschwinn had let slip once.

  “What attracted you to those Jews?” Blanca dared to ask him this time.