Aharon Appelfeld - Until the Dawn's Light

“You still must go to Blumenthal. The old age home there is roomy and rich, and they’ll greet you with open arms.”

“And who’ll take care of the baby?” Blanca wondered.

“A housekeeper. She’ll give your husband some of her favors, and he’ll be quieter and won’t hit you as much. Your husband needs a beast of the field.”

“How do you know that?” Blanca’s eyes widened in surprise, as though Theresa had discovered a hidden secret.

“From my body, my dear. First my father beat me, then my husband. If you love life, you’ll run away from there while your soul is still in you. If you don’t, you’ll be worn out and sick by the age of thirty. Spare yourself and get away from your house.”

“I’m afraid.”

“You mustn’t be afraid. You have to say to yourself, ‘There are more important things than fear, and I’ll go to Blumenthal no matter what.’ ”

“Thank you, Theresa.”

“Why thank me? We’re sisters in suffering.”

CELIA CAME TO visit Blanca the next morning, bringing Martin Buber’s anthology of Ba’al Shem Tov stories. Blanca was glad to see her and hugged her. Now she noticed: Celia’s face was pale and gaunt, but no fear was evident in it. Her long nun’s habit suited her height.

“My dear,” Blanca said, “I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

They had studied together as far back as elementary school, but during all those long years they had never conversed as friends. Perhaps it was because Celia had been born Christian and wore a small wooden cross around her neck. Celia sat in the armchair where Blanca’s mother-in-law usually sat. Blanca was about to say, Why don’t you sit in the armchair opposite? It’s more comfortable . But she realized that was foolish. A quiet glow burned in Celia’s wide, dark eyes. She was evidently at peace with herself and had no need for any unnecessary gestures.

“How’s your father?” Blanca asked.

“I just saw him. Everyone is picking on him, and I’m afraid for his health.”

“He drew me up out of a deep pit,” Blanca said, removing the scarf from her head.

Then Celia said, “Martin Buber’s anthology has precious elixirs in it. When I was younger, I was sure that the Jews had no true faith. Grandpa used to say, ‘In the church, there’s music, and in the synagogue, people sweat.’ ”

“Are the stories about the Ba’al Shem Tov also about the faith of the Jews?” Blanca asked.

“Yes, so Martin Buber says.”

“And do you think their faith is beautiful?”

“Very much so.”

“Strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“After all, we’re Christians, aren’t we?”

“Contradictions don’t put me off,” said Celia.

Only now did Blanca sense how shallow her thinking had grown. In high school, under the tutelage of her teachers Weiss and Klein, the world had seemed like a work in progress that was striving to improve, to become clearer, more comprehensive, either plumbing the depths of the soul or ascending to the realm of the gods.

“What’s become of me?” Blanca asked herself out loud. “I’m no longer what I was.”

“I don’t understand,” Celia said.

“He says I inherited the faults of my mother and father, and Grandma Carole’s craziness.”

“And how do you answer him?”

“What can I say?”

Blanca walked Celia to the station. Celia spoke with longing about their distant and forgotten ancestors and about how much Buber’s anthologies had helped her understand them. For only in Stillstein had she come to fully realize that her Jewish forebears, who were originally from Bukovina and had moved to Himmelburg at the end of the last century, were truly the flesh of her flesh. They were devoted people who worshipped God in simplicity, and if it hadn’t been for certain disasters, their children would be worshipping God with the same simplicity.

“Are we still connected to them?” Blanca asked.

Blanca hadn’t understood her friend’s words, but she sensed that Celia, who had by now been living in the distant mountains of Stillstein for a year, had seen visions that had entirely changed her way of thinking. She was now connected with her ancestors, with nothing separating her.

“Take me with you, Celia.” The words tumbled from Blanca’s mouth.

“Don’t be afraid. We’re not alone. We have good and faithful ancestors who always dwell within us.”

Blanca raised her eyes, and a chill raced down her spine.

ON FEBRUARY 16, 1908, after a long and difficult labor, a son was born to Blanca. At first she wanted to call him Erwin, after her missing father, but Adolf refused. He agreed to the name Otto, after her mother’s brother, who had died young, in the middle of his university studies. Dr. Nussbaum extended her stay in the hospital, and Blanca nursed the infant morning, noon, and night, until she became weak from lack of sleep and, under doctor’s orders, stopped nursing. Adolf heard about it and was angry, but he made no comment. She had noticed: in the hospital he controlled himself and didn’t raise his voice. Dr. Nussbaum’s efforts to restore the hospital to full capacity had failed. Just two wards were occupied. The others were deserted. Day and night, patients pounded on the doors, but he was unable to help them. The maintenance staff refused to work, and, lacking help, Dr. Nussbaum put on overalls and went to clean the toilets and add coal to the boilers to heat water for the laundry. The patients, most of them aged, complained a lot about their pains, about their children who had abandoned them, and about their old age. Dr. Nussbaum loved those old people. He went from bed to bed to examine them, and to tell a joke and make them laugh. Some of the old people spoke Yiddish, and Dr. Nussbaum, to make them happy, told them that he was born in the provinces, in a small town called Zhadova. His family had spoken Yiddish at home, and he was still fond of the language. The old folks forgot their age and their pains for the moment, and they told him what weighed on their hearts. Dr. Nussbaum listened and said, “May God have mercy,” and that of course made them laugh heartily.

Blanca slept most of the day, but when she opened her eyes and saw Christina, the will to live returned to her, and she wanted to get to her feet and approach the window. Christina was devoted to her patients, never leaving them day or night. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when a patient burst into tears, Christina would immediately rush to his bed, give him something to drink, and calm him down. Now that the staff numbered only two, she never took off her uniform. If I possessed a love of humanity like Christina’s , Blanca thought, I wouldn’t have married; I would, instead, have worked in the public hospital. But I was weak, given over to myself and my own happiness .

Adolf and his two sisters visited her. After that noisy visit, it was hard for Blanca to keep her eyes open. Drowsiness enveloped her like a blanket, and as she felt herself succumbing to it, she remembered exactly what Adolf’s sisters had said to her and how they had looked at her. A great scream, like the sound of a falling tree, rose up out of her throat.

Christina held her hand.

“Now you look better,” she said.

My life is shattered to splinters, Blanca wanted to say, and it can be repaired only by labor and devotion. Otto will belong to his father, and I’ll go to work in a hospital or an old age home .

Later Dr. Nussbaum came and sat beside her. Now he was not only a physician. He was the hospital, in the figure of a single person. The pharmacist refused to provide medicines on credit, so Dr. Nussbaum paid him out of his own pocket. He took the trash down to the inner courtyard. When Blanca saw Dr. Nussbaum at work, she overcame her drowsiness and opened her eyes, marveling at every step he took.