All of Celia’s movements were familiar to Blanca, even the tilt of her neck, but she still wasn’t the Celia she had once been. The Stillstein Mountains had changed her through and through. Celia spoke about her distant ancestors like someone who knew what she was talking about. She pronounced the names of their villages in Galicia and Bukovina as if she had just come back from visiting them the day before.
“You haven’t shown Otto to me,” said Celia. “How is he doing?”
Christina brought him in, and Celia said, “He looks like a darling baby.”
“My husband and mother-in-law aren’t pleased by his development.”
“Blanca, my dear, we mustn’t consider other people’s opinions. You have to go your own way.”
“If only I knew the way,” replied Blanca.
The hospital’s situation deteriorated. Dr. Nussbaum was working day and night. He grew so tired that he would collapse on a couch in his office in the middle of the day and fall asleep. The rich people who had promised to support the institution reneged on their promises. Dr. Nussbaum had already sent seven memorandums to the Ministry of Health, and what the municipality sent wasn’t enough even for medicines. In his soul, Dr. Nussbaum knew that he would have no alternative but to send his patients home and close the gates of the institution, but he kept postponing the closure. His voice had changed over the past few days. He walked through the corridor with vigorous steps, shouting, “The rich have luxurious and roomy hospitals, and a well-trained medical staff. But what will become of the public hospitals? What will the poor and oppressed people do? Where will they go?” His speech was frightening, because he spoke to the bare walls.
The thought that one day Blanca would journey to the famous Carpathian Mountains and bathe in the Prut River took shape within her while she was ill, and now it was very clear. She imagined her life in the Carpathians as a simple life, a country life, with hours of prayer that would divide the day into three sections. On holidays everyone would put on white clothes and go to pray in small wooden synagogues. The disciples of the Ba’al Shem Tov’s disciples still prayed in those small synagogues. They had reached a ripe old age and dozed during most of the day. But in the summer, in the drowsy hours of the afternoon, they sat in the doorways of the houses of study and greeted those who arrived with a blessing.
Blanca was sorry that her mother had told her so little about her childhood in the Carpathians. Her family had left the mountains when she was five, but she had retained some images of it in her heart. Blanca’s father, on the other hand, had harbored resentment against his parents because of their poverty and because they had made it impossible for him to study at the university, and so for him everything there had sunk into an abyss.
“Thank you, Celia.”
“What are you thanking me for?”
“For the anthology by Martin Buber.”
Upon hearing Martin Buber’s name, Celia inclined her head, as she undoubtedly did in the convent in Stillstein.
33
AT THE END of that week the gates of the hospital were closed, and Blanca started for home. She knew that strewn in every corner would be beer bottles and butcher’s waxed paper in which sausages had been wrapped, and that the kitchen sink would be full of dishes. She knew, but even so, she didn’t feel miserable that morning. The sun shone warmly, and Otto made her happy with every one of his gestures. In My Corner she was greeted with cheers. They served her coffee and poppy seed cake, and everyone made a fuss over Otto and agreed that he looked like Blanca.
When she got home, Blanca found the house as she had imagined it. She began at once to wash the dishes, pick up the papers, and empty the ashtrays. Otto fell asleep, and Blanca kept going to his bed to watch him as he slept.
After cleaning the house, she took Otto to her breast and then they went back to town to buy food for dinner. It was eleven o’clock, and Blanca hurried to return home. Near the butcher’s shop, she looked up and to her surprise saw Grandma Carole. This time her grandmother wasn’t standing and shouting; she was just sitting on the steps of the closed synagogue, curled up in a corner. Without thinking, Blanca rushed to the gate.
“Hello, Grandma Carole,” she said. “I’m Blanca. Do you remember me?”
“Who?” she said, startled.
“Your granddaughter, Blanca.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I wanted to tell you that I had a son, and his name is Otto.”
“Who are you?”
“Blanca.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Grandma.”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember me?”
Her sightless eyes began to blink nervously.
“What do you want from me?” she said.
“I wanted to beg your pardon.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m Blanca, your daughter Ida’s girl.”
“Don’t bother me,” Grandma Carole said, and she made a gesture of rejection with her right hand. Blanca recognized that gesture and recoiled.
Blanca knew that Grandma Carole wasn’t rebuffing her in anger. Her memory had faded, and she simply didn’t remember Blanca any longer, just as she had probably forgotten her two other granddaughters who now lived in faraway Leipzig. But she was still angry.
When Adolf came home, he said, “You’ve come back, I see.” It was evident that he wanted to say more, but the essence was conveyed in that sentence.
“I feel better,” Blanca said. For a moment they both looked at Otto while he slept. He was relaxed, and his face, lit by the sun, seemed content.
Blanca rushed to serve Adolf his dinner, and while doing so she told him that Dr. Nussbaum was in despair. The wealthy people who had said they would provide assistance hadn’t kept their promise.
“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked without raising his head.
“What will the poor people do who need help? Whom will they go to? To whom will they turn?”
“Who told them to be poor?”
Blanca fell silent. She was familiar with those coarse pronouncements of his, but now they scraped her flesh with an iron brush.
After dinner, Adolf went to the tavern and Blanca remained where she was. The long day had left her hollow. It took her a while to find the words within her. Adolf hates me, she said to herself, because I’m thin and weak, and because my parents were Jews. Apparently my conversion to Christianity changed nothing. And now I’m even thinner. I weigh less than one hundred and ten pounds. What must I do in order to change? I have to eat more and work in the garden, but I’m very weak, and it’s hard for me to stand on my feet.
Adolf returned from the tavern very late.
“Where are you?” he shouted from the doorway. Blanca, awakened by his loud voice, hurried over to him and helped him over to the bed. He immediately fell down onto it, and Blanca took off his shoes and covered him with a blanket.
That Sunday Otto’s baptism ceremony was held, and everyone wore festive clothes. After the baptism, the priest spoke about love and compassion, and to Blanca it seemed that he was talking to Adolf, asking him to behave like a Christian toward her. The little church was full of people and the fragrance of incense. Blanca made a great effort to remain on her feet, but toward the end of the ceremony she stumbled. Adolf picked her up and reprimanded her for not being careful.
“I’m sorry,” Blanca said, standing up again. Then her mother-in-law passed Otto back to her, and Blanca looked at him and hugged him to her breast.