Until the Dawn's Light

56

FROM THEN ON Blanca traveled without much of a plan. If she chanced upon a wagon, she would pay the driver and hitch a ride. At first the broad fields made her despair, and more than once she was about to return to Struzhincz. I’d be better off dying near Otto and not in a strange land, she said to herself, knowing there was no logic to her words. After a while she overcame that delusion and would repeat to herself, You mustn’t go back. Otto has to get used to living without you.

Along the way she met decent people who helped her and put her up in their homes, and bullies who mistreated her. Against the bullies Blanca struggled with all her might, scratching and cursing. One night she fought off a drunken peasant, biting his arm and hissing at him, “If you touch me, I’ll murder you.” The peasant panicked and let her go.

I have to keep going, she said to herself, and did so. The winter winds dulled her fear and bolstered her courage. She felt strength in her legs. Sometimes she would stop next to a stream, wash her face, and immediately sink down into the grass and fall asleep. Sometimes a sheep or colt would emerge from the undergrowth. In that green wasteland they looked like hunted creatures to her, running away from the arms of the oppressor, as she was. For a moment they would look at each other and try to draw near, but in the end each would go his own way, as though agreeing that they would be better off alone.

Sometimes she would happen upon a Jewish peddler. He would tell her about the surrounding villages, and she would ask him how to reach a Jewish inn. These thin and unpleasant Jews were her friends now, and she trusted them and bought matches and supplies from them. The life she had left behind now seemed to her like the abandoned ruins she encountered on her way: barren and full of damp darkness.

Then a heavy snow began to fall, and Blanca was fortunate enough to find a warm and hospitable Jewish inn.

“My parents were born not far from here, and in their youth they moved to Austria,” she told the owner. “They didn’t observe the tradition, but I read the stories of the Hasidim that were collected by Martin Buber, and I would like to see Hasidim close up.”

The innkeeper smiled. She had never heard of Martin Buber, but as for Hasidim, “All of us here are Hasidim,” she said.

“And where does the Tsadik live?”

“Not far away, in Vizhnitz.”

“I didn’t know I was so close to him.”

The innkeeper didn’t know how to behave with her strange guest. She had seen assimilated Jews in her lifetime, but she had never met an assimilated Jew who traveled to see the Tsadik.

Although Vizhnitz was not far off, the way there was hard and strewn with impediments. Gendarmes lay in wait at every crossroad, and thugs gathered in the entrances of taverns. But Blanca was no longer afraid. A powerful resentment seethed within her and filled her arms with strength. For some reason it seemed to her that if she reached Vizhnitz, the snarl of her life would become untangled and she would be set free.

But Blanca’s strength did not always sustain her. She was raped once, and once she was beaten by an old peasant who suspected that she had stolen eggs from his chicken coop. Her body bruised, her arms scratched, she would sink down into the grass and imagine that Otto was waiting for her by the river. This was a new delusion, and in her darkness she would lie for hours without moving. The Prut River flowed in fierce currents in that area, and its rapids were thrilling. More than once she said to herself, I’ll jump into the water and disappear. But the desire to see Otto again drew her away from that desperate yearning. To Vizhnitz, she would repeat to herself, like a drowning man grasping a log.

Blanca imagined the way to Vizhnitz as a long, illuminated tunnel. At the beginning of it there was a ritual bath where people immersed themselves and were purified. After they were purified, they put on linen garments and advanced to the next stage. At the next stage they sat in a secluded area until their souls were emptied of their dross and they no longer remembered anything. From there the tunnel twisted and turned, but walking in it was not difficult.

One night Blanca found herself standing near a church. It was a village church, and two carved crucifixes stood in the courtyard. At first it seemed like a tranquil place, but then Blanca saw that the figures on the cross were not looking at her with affection. She was about to do what she had been in the habit of doing recently: slipping away. But this time, for some reason, her legs stopped her. She gathered some twigs and, without thinking about it, placed them next to the crucifixes. Then she lit a match and brought it close to the twigs. The twigs caught fire and raised a fine flame. She quickly stretched out her arms and warmed her cold hands.

For a long while Blanca stood and looked at the small fire, which gave off heat and a pleasant scent. The warmth seeped into her limbs, and her fingers and toes thawed out. Now she remembered her friend Sonia clearly, and how she had longed to go to her mother’s hometown. Her strong face would soften when she spoke about Kolomyja, a place where she had never been. A few days ago Blanca had asked one of the peddlers whether Kolomyja was far away. He had given her a long and intricate answer, and then summed it all up by saying, “It’s not far, but you’d be better off not putting yourself in danger during the winter. The winter is a time of troubles, and a person is better off if he sits at home and doesn’t wander on the roads.” Blanca stared at him, trying to absorb the meaning of his words. But the peddler’s tired face expressed only the fatigue of his years. Blanca absorbed that fatigue more than his convoluted explanations.

Blanca added some more twigs, and the fire flared up again. Now the heat spread, and vapor rose from her damp clothes. For the first time after many days of wandering, a vision of Otto appeared before her. First it seemed to her that he was standing and looking out the window of the orphanage, as he used to do, but a second glance showed her that he had been forgotten on the balcony. He was asking for help, and no one was answering him. Blanca was so alarmed by the clarity of this vision that she didn’t notice that the flames had spread to the figures on the crucifixes and had taken hold of them. With a quick movement she was about to remove the kerchief from her head and put out the fire, but her hands froze and she didn’t do anything. The flames twisted up and embraced the crucifixes, quickly spread to the railing in front of the church, and from there climbed up to the doorpost and enveloped the beams. Blanca stepped back and then turned to go away. The night was dark and quiet, and the burning church lit up the sky. Only later, when the fire was already at its full strength, were the peasants called to help put it out.

“Fire has come down from heaven!” they shouted with dread. They tried to put out the fire, but it was too late.

That night Blanca found an abandoned barn and slept restfully there. When she awoke the next morning and remembered that she had set fire to the church, she wasn’t frightened. It seemed to her that she had done an important thing and that from now on the roads would be open before her. Spite mingled with pleasure washed over her.

After another few days of wandering, Blanca set fire to another small church. Once again she gathered twigs and arranged them. The bonfire burned and warmed her hands. Then she watched as the fire spread and took hold of the church walls. This time the act of burning was accompanied not only by malicious pleasure but also by a kind of satisfaction; she had managed to deceive her pursuers, and from now on they would be busy putting out fires and not chasing after her.

And so Blanca continued to wander on that high plateau. The population was sparse, and only rarely would an abandoned horse or a lost cow emerge from the underbrush. Every time the desire to burn down a church arose in her, she would go and look for one. If she saw a church by daylight, she would say to herself, Tonight I’ll burn it down. Now she did it without resentment or pleasure, but like a person obsessed.

Blanca met a Jewish peddler on the road, and in return for a gold ring she received from him a pair of galoshes and a long winter coat. The peddler was pleased, and so was Blanca. To his question about what a young Jewish woman was doing in these empty places, she hurriedly explained to him that she intended to get to Vizhnitz.

“If that’s the case,” he said, “you should take the King’s Highway. The King’s Highway is less dangerous.”

He was wasting his words. Blanca was no longer frightened. Every church that she burned down boosted her courage. She stood up to the peasants, calling them wild men and worthless, and she looked at them with venom. If her expressions weren’t effective, she would threaten them: If you come near me, I’ll choke you. To herself she said: If I overcome my fear of people, I won’t fear death. I did what I did and had to do. From now on let God do His will. Otto won’t judge his mother harshly.

In her sleep, Blanca would see her mother and father; they were young, and their faces were full of youthful wonder. Their closeness to each other always seemed marvelous to her, and now she felt this even more strongly. Blanca believed that she would be reunited with them soon and that then the darkness would vanish. This brightened her spirits even more than the churches she burned down.

Between one rainstorm and the next Blanca would go down to the river, wash her feet, and wrap them in rags. Since she had bought the galoshes from the peddler, her sores had healed somewhat. If she came upon a church on her way, she would burn it down at night. She did it with diligence and attention, as though she were lighting the lanterns of Heimland.

Many sights were effaced from her memory, but not that of the church on Sundays: her father-in-law, her mother-in-law, and Adolf, and the kneeling and the pain that it caused her. On those crowded Sundays in the church and at the gatherings after it, parts of her soul would freeze. Now she felt that everything that had been paralyzed within her was throbbing with life again. I did succeed at one thing, she would console herself. I excised Adolf from Otto’s soul. If God helps me, his memory will be wiped out of the child’s mind forever.

Sometimes Blanca would enter a tavern, have a few drinks, and be thankful that the light of her eyes had not dimmed, that she could still walk on her two feet and make her way to Vizhnitz. It pained her that her father, whom she loved so much, had cut himself off from the tradition of his fathers and had no faith at all. Her life now, in these green hills where the houses were few and far between, seemed like just a link in a chain of events, each existing on its own but still joined together. Dr. Nussbaum and Celia, Theresa and Sonia — I’ll take them with me everywhere, she kept repeating to herself. Death isn’t darkness if you take your dear ones with you. It’s just a change in place. Innocence, simplicity, and devotion are great principles. So it is written in Buber’s book, The Hidden Light. I will behave according to these principles until I reach the gates of light.

Then the snowstorms began. Hunger and cold tormented her, but Blanca was cautious. Now she avoided entering taverns or the little railway stations that were scattered along her way. Posters about the murderess were pasted on every public building — even on abandoned public buildings. Sometimes from a distance she would see a squad of gendarmes searching the area or sitting on a hill, watching. In her heart she knew whom they were looking for.

Blanca wanted to stay alive and go back to see Otto. The thought that perhaps one day she would be pardoned and go back to Struzhincz, and that Otto would stretch out his little arms and call out “Mama!”—that thought was stronger than hunger, and it dragged her legs from hill to hill.

Finally she had no choice. The cold gripped her fingers and spread throughout her whole body. The pain was great. Blanca entered a tavern, removed her wet coat and galoshes, and stood next to the stove. She ordered a brandy and a sandwich. The bartender prepared them for her. She sipped the drink and bit into the sandwich. The brandy was strong, and she ordered another, and then a third.

It was a peasant tavern, and long tables filled the dim room. A few drunkards sat in the back of the room, cursing the empire and the kaiser. The proprietor’s warnings, that for curses like that people were sent to prison, were to no avail. The clamorous argument didn’t scare Blanca. The brandy set her head spinning, and before her eyes she saw the churches she had set on fire. They had burned for hours and lit up the night. She was sure that what she had done had paved her way to Vizhnitz, which had until then been blocked. Blanca approached the tavern owner, and to her surprise he spoke German. He told her right away that he had served in the Austrian army and that he had been stationed in Salzburg for years. Blanca told him that she intended to go to Vizhnitz. Her ancestors had gone on pilgrimages there, to ask the Tsadik for help.

“You don’t look Jewish,” he said, trying to flatter her.

“No?”

“The Jewish women in this region are suspicious and speak bad German.”

“All of them?”

“Most.”

“I don’t know how to pray, but I want to learn.”

“The young Jews are moving away from the worship of God, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re right, it seems to me.”

“A person with no God is a frightening creature,” he said, twisting his lips.

“A person can’t always find the path to God.” Blanca tried to defend the accused.

“That’s their parents’ fault. The Jews are the captives of their children.”

“You know Jews very well, I see.” The irony of the old days came back to her.

“We know them very well.” He spoke in the plural.

Strangely, that long conversation calmed her. It seemed to her that she had more time at her disposal, that she didn’t have to hurry. Better to wait, to warm up, and to doze off a little.

At that moment the front door opened and two gendarmes walked in. They took off their hats and stepped up to the bar. Blanca opened her eyes and observed them with curiosity. The gendarmes were not young, and they sipped their drinks with enjoyment. They asked the tavern owner a few questions, and he explained to them at length that this time of year there were few customers, mostly poor people whose debts filled his books. They vomited and dirtied the floor, he said, and at night he was forced to drag them outside with his own hands.

“Don’t you have any help?” the gendarmes asked in surprise.

“My late wife used to help me, but since she passed away, I do all the chores myself.”

“Everybody has their own troubles.” The gendarmes’ sympathy was skin-deep.

Blanca was more and more fascinated by their conversation. As it happened, the gendarmes were Austrian. They had been sent there to advise the local police force. The tavern owner told them what he had just told Blanca, that in his youth he had served as a soldier in Salzburg, and that those had been the best years of his life. They spoke about the infantry and the artillery, recalling the camps and the well-known officers. They raised their glasses and cursed the winter that was seeping into their bones.

While the gendarmes were talking, Blanca realized they were speaking in the singsong accent of her hometown. That sound, so familiar, stunned her, and without hesitation she approached them.

“Is it not true that my ears have taken in the voices of Heimland?” she said.

“True, madam,” answered the older gendarme.

“How long have you been here?”

“It’s been a month already.”

“I’ve been here longer. What’s going on in my hometown?”

“Everything is as it was.”

“It’s good to see familiar people. Our accent gives us away immediately, does it not? Don’t you miss home, too?”

“A little. What are you doing here?”

“I’m making my way to the Holy Rabbi of Vizhnitz. My parents of blessed memory were born in this region, and I’m following in their footsteps, to get the Holy Rabbi’s blessing.”

“Strange.”

“Why strange?”

“In these times no one goes to holy men anymore.”

“They are exalted men, sir. Have you never heard the name of Martin Buber?”

“No.”

“He wrote a wonderful book about the faith of the Tsadiks.”

The eyes of one of the gendarmes lit up.

“What’s your name, if I may ask?”

“My name is Blanca Guttmann, and my father had a stationery store in Heimland.”

“And you studied in the municipal high school?”

“Correct, sir.”

“When, then, did you leave Heimland?”

“Right after my father’s disappearance. My father lived during the last year of his life, or rather the last months of his life, in the old age home in Himmelburg, and he suddenly disappeared. God knows where he disappeared to. Since then I’ve been looking for him.”

“How are you looking for him?”

“I go from place to place.”

“And meanwhile you set churches on fire?”

“No, sir. That’s strictly forbidden.”

“I was suspicious of the innocent, apparently.”

“I’m going straight to Vizhnitz from here. Maybe the Holy Rabbi will find the solution to his disappearance.”

“Well, Stephan,” the gendarme said, turning to his comrade, who had been standing silently at his side, “the fox has forgotten his tail.”

Blanca didn’t move or react to his words. She appeared to be caught up in the man’s charm. The many drinks she had downed no longer made her dizzy. She stood on her two feet and placed her trust in those two gendarmes, who reminded her of the two old janitors in her high school. And when they placed handcuffs on her wrists and brought her to the police station, she neither complained nor pleaded.

“I used to go to My Corner with my father almost every week” was all that she said. “It’s an excellent café, and its cheesecake is worthy of every praise. If there’s one thing I miss now, it’s a cup of coffee and their cheesecake. That’s all, nothing more.”