Until the Dawn's Light

29

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.