Until the Dawn's Light

12

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.”