Until the Dawn's Light

22

WHEN BLANCA RETURNED to the old age home, it was already evening. In answer to her question about whether her father had come back, one of the inmates answered loudly, “Erwin didn’t return.”

Blanca went over to her father’s bed and made it. Contact with the blankets reminded her of her mother’s dried-out face. During the last months of her life, a heartbreaking spirituality radiated from her.

“Don’t worry about me,” she kept saying. “I’m absolutely fine.” She apparently felt the end coming and tried to cover her weakness with her last remaining strength. During her final days, she was alert, remembered many details, and wasn’t confused about dates. She resembled someone preparing for a long journey, unafraid for her own body.

One of the workers roused Blanca from her memories.

“Come, Blanca, and eat something,” she said. “We have a summer squash quiche. You’ll like it.”

“Thank you. I must go.”

“Where?”

“I have to get home. I live far away.”

“Happiness doesn’t await you at home,” said the woman with a simple directness.

“How do you know?” Blanca wondered.

“From my body,” said the woman.

Blanca lowered her eyes. The woman took her by the arm and led her to the kitchen. The kitchen was in disarray. A blackened pot stood on the sooty stove, and it was clear that the pot had belonged to that stove for many years. The woman sat Blanca down at a table, served her a bowl of soup, and said, “Eat this first. It will warm you up.”

Blanca realized that no one had served her with such attention since her mother’s death. She raised her eyes and looked closely at the unfamiliar woman. She was short and full-figured, and her head was planted on her shoulders as if she had no neck. She wore a stained blue shirt, and it was evident that she was hardworking and liked to serve people the food she had cooked.

Unaware of what she was doing, Blanca rolled up her sleeve and said, “I have a wound that won’t heal. Perhaps you have a bandage.”

“I certainly do,” the woman said and hurried to the first-aid cupboard. When she returned, she fell to her knees and cleaned the wound with a cloth.

“That’s an ugly wound,” she said. “Who hit you?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I used to be beaten sometimes, too. Now he’s sick,” she said, revealing a mouth in which only a few teeth were left.

“You, too?” Blanca looked up, suddenly recognizing in her a sister in suffering.

“Indeed.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I tried to stay far from home.”

“And when would you return home?”

“Only once a week, to give him the money. Here no one does you any harm. You sleep comfortably.”

“How many years have you been working here?”

“It’s been twenty years now.”

“And he always hit you?”

“Always.”

When Blanca finished the soup, the woman served her a portion of the squash quiche and said, “You’ll like this.”

Blanca was hungry, and the hunger made her forget the turmoil of the day. A half-remembered warmth enveloped her.

“You have to find yourself work in an old age home, far from the house. You’re still young, and you mustn’t give in.”

“Thank you,” said Blanca, feeling that the woman was speaking with a guileless heart.

“If you feel like having a fellow at night, you’ll find one here, too. A man for one night will always spoil you. I’m speaking the truth. I’m no liar.”

Blanca chuckled.

“Why are you laughing?”

“There’s truth to what you say.”

“In the old age home you’re like a princess. The old people are good-hearted, and if they have a penny, they’ll give it to you. They aren’t stingy.”

“Thanks,” Blanca said, and tears welled up in her eyes.

“You mustn’t be stupid.”

Blanca bit her lip and brushed away her tears. “Can I get a job here?” she asked.

“Here they’ve run out of money. They haven’t paid us our salaries for the past few months. But in Blumenthal, which is nearby, there’s a nice, well-organized old age home. Much nicer than this one. The old people are wealthy, and they shove banknotes into your hand every time you approach their beds. You’re still young. You should go to Blumenthal.”

“You’re kind to me. What’s your name?”

“My name is Theresa.”

“Mine is Blanca.”

“Women suffer everywhere. Why didn’t you marry a Jew?”

Theresa’s comment surprised her.

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t cry over spilt milk,” Theresa said, and gave her another serving of squash.

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Blanca said, rising from her chair. “Now I have to go home. My husband is coming back from an occupational training course, and if I don’t make him a good meal, he’ll hit me.”

“They always go off to training courses,” said Theresa, laughing.

“Why are you laughing?”

“That’s what they call their bashes. My husband also used to say he was going to a training course. They come back fired up like randy horses.”

“What do they do there?”

“They get drunk and screw peasant women.”

“And that’s what they call a training course arranged by the factory?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

Theresa dear, I now have no one at all in the world, Blanca was about to say. I’ll stay here. I’ll wait for my father to come back. I’m afraid to go home.

Theresa seemed to guess Blanca’s thoughts. “You have to go home now,” she said. “Prepare the house as if nothing has happened, and the first chance you get, go to Blumenthal. The old age home in Blumenthal is splendid.”

“And he’ll let me go?”

“If you bring home money, he’ll let you. They desire money more than women. The main thing is not to be afraid. Those who are afraid are punished doubly. You have to say to yourself, Nothing will frighten me anymore. If I have to die, I’ll die, but I won’t be afraid. Fear, my dear, is our ruin. Fear is our enemy. The moment you free yourself from fear, you’ll be a new person, you’ll be free and your movements will be free. You’ll walk in the street with your back straight.”

“Thank you, Theresa.”

“Don’t thank me. Do what I told you to do.”

“And that will take away my fear?”

“Without a doubt.”

Blanca took Theresa’s words in like the soup she had served her earlier. Her entire body was filled with the events of the day. It was already dark, and she went to the station like someone whose fears had been drugged.