Once, since he was not entirely without practical concerns in this world, he told a visiting parish clerk that he wanted little Maria to be able to remain in the house, so after his death it should be sold to the mother at a modest price. “After all,” he said with emphasis, “you can’t take your money to heaven.” And he thought to himself: “I can do what I want with my money.” So he made a curious decision. He signed over his savings to the little one. But his savings were equal to the sale price of the house, so that Julia both bought her inheritance and received it as a gift. Surely this somehow reflected his feelings for her. When his decision became known, there was much talk of it in the village. Some people laughed, others didn’t know what to think anymore. But in the house the day passed almost monotonously, like a day in the life of a tree, an unchanging day. The necessary things were done, one after the other, and already it seemed that nothing was changing anymore. Except that one human sun was slowly, slowly setting, and the child was growing into a person, and already the world in which she lived, in which she formed her thoughts, was in her eyes. She sat for half a day at a time beside the old grandfather, as if she felt that if she didn’t now, soon she wouldn’t be able to do so at all. And a young lamb that had almost died of loneliness came along, too, softly bleating to him in its melancholy. But the old man was almost like Abraham, who could no longer tell Isaac from Jacob, when the one creature stood to his right, the other to his left. Yet he could feel Juliette’s strong arms, strengthened by the even strain of work, he felt those arms, and gladly allowed them to lead him back into his house.
One morning, oh, it was still early, he saw the spires of St. Mary’s cathedral. And the road that led there was a high road, a road through the clouds. He followed this road with his words. Julia sat at the edge of his bed with tears in her eyes. She saw his spirit leave his body, and she was powerless to find even a single word to hold it back. Because we must know that death is always right.
She saw at once what she had dimly felt before, that now that he was gone, she was back on that bench beside the country road again, and people were passing by, sizing her up. But she sensed that Joe, the old man, was not among them this time, and that she had only learned these things now in order that she should suffer all the more. For just as nature forces a one-armed man to use his mouth and his right hand in place of the left, to use his whole body in place of this one missing hand, so that now, instead of just one hand, suddenly he is expected to have ten at any moment; just as it was for him, so it was for her as well. So it was for her as welclass="underline" “Why didn’t you properly train your soul, so that it could live within your body as a useful, functional thing; can’t you hold yourself together? Don’t you think someone could find a use for you? Oh, I can still use you as a scarecrow, if nothing else. Sure, you’re good enough for that. .” And tears ran down Julia’s cheeks, unabating. Now she was lonely, in the worst of ways, as we are when someone has passed on. And the child brought in peppermint from the garden, as if she could sense her mother’s powerlessness. The dying man came ever closer to his cathedral. He rang with his hands, as if imitating the bells. Finally the church took him in. And soon he looked just like that sarcophagus, stretched out long and covered over by the night of eternal sleep.
The child went away. But outside she picked flowers, and when she thought she had enough, she sat down on a rock, surrounded by her flowers and leaves, and waited as only children can wait. Evening came, dusk fell, the evening star rose over the house of this good shepherd of men, and the child fell asleep, and if Julia hadn’t known that her child came to this spot, she would not have easily found her.
Candles stood in their candlesticks, and a Sunday sense of order filled every corner of the little house. The child slept by herself in the small adjacent room, and the next morning she ran in between unfamiliar people, hardly even recognizing her own home. A wake like that is a serious thing. We never forget it as long as we live. And that is good. Those who have not seen death up close are only halfway human, because death, too, is a part of life. First, fresh sheets were put on the bed, as if a new guest were coming, then water was fetched from the well, and vinegar, and a burial gown from the cabinet; stiff and dreadful in its way. Then the body was washed. Like the forest floor after heavy downpours, the veins lay exposed, and the bones were pushing out, rising up, as it were, to form the one image that persists in death. To a person like Julia, this most human of all things seemed the most inhuman; it required an immense effort for her to perform this duty. She was not lacking in love, she had tended his sickbed for years without a second thought, but this sight pushed her pain beyond its limits. And one must be fully drawn into this life, to be able to wash and clothe an old man like that for the grave. The farm girls took turns praying by the coffin, while the others stayed beneath the crucifix in the corner of the room, singing hymns. These sounds continued throughout the hours of day and night, until it was time for the body to be taken away. There was life in the house, but on tiptoes, with a lowered head. There were more people there than could fit into the house, and yet they didn’t even fill the space. Everyone withdrew to his own spot as much as he could. And the ties that they had to one another were meant not for them, but for the dead man. They all offered Julia their hands. But even the day after the funeral they were less forthcoming with their greetings, and by the third day she had been forgotten. And it wasn’t just that she was a stranger, or that they looked down on her on account of her child. No, in this region in particular, people lived in desperation, like iron glowing in the blacksmith’s tongs, and no one had much time or inclination to speak or think of others. But no, it was because everyone felt that she was not human. If she had been in harmony with the world, or even only with herself, she would have enjoyed the friendship of the neighbors. But as things stood, what was alone within her was alone outside, as well.
Two older women came. They both received a stipend from the church, and they wanted to rent the room that now stood empty. They were not good souls. They had none of the old man’s caring qualities. But Julia took them in. She had her own plan for them. She took them on as tenants, putting the house at their disposal, and keeping only a small profit in return. Then she tailored little skirts for the child — far from being too small, these skirts seemed meant to fit for several years to come — and she cleaned some things for herself.
How quickly poverty can be prepared to travel. Two little bundles, and the few Sunday clothes that are worn for the trip, and there’s nothing left to be forgotten. It only takes a single glance to survey everything in the house, to see where it stands and how it stands. The flowers with their colorful eyes in their pitiful little beds in the garden are the only things that might try to hold one back. For who knows, when harshness and denial hold sway, if the flowers will not be the first target for hatred.
But there are some farewells that brook no opposition. After discussing a few details, and pointing out this and that, they left the house. Little Maria moved through the unfamiliar world as if she were made of glass, and her mother seemed to have nearly forgotten the little market town that she had walked through years before, and the bench where she had rested. It was spring again, the air seemed to race through the world with a joyful breath, like a frisky horse. It did not hurt the tall fir trees, it caused no pain to the little flowers or the poor people. On the contrary, everything was waking up. It was the right day for a resolution, it was the newly opened page of a book of legends that had yet to be written. Little Maria could easily walk in and disappear among the letters and their meanings. First they went into the church, where the silver bell that rang for mass could take its measure against the silver voice of this child. For she didn’t know yet that the church is a quiet place. For Julia, this church was like an antechamber to the cloister where she planned to house her child for several years. She went out to a little door and rang for the prefect. Simple words are quickly understood. They were brief, just as their farewell had to be, a bit poorer now, for she had left behind what little money she still had. Everything happened so quickly, it was as if the little one had only looked around. And her mother was gone. And everything looked as if it were carved on an old wooden panel. There was the dormitory, and there was a school. And somewhere else there was a garden, and at another end was the refectory. And the church was everywhere, even in the dormitory. But no matter where she waited, her mother was nowhere to be found. But Maria was a child accustomed to her fate. She felt that her mother had done this herself, and so she didn’t cry. Indeed, after a time she would not even have thought about her mother, she would have become a tiny nun. But the sisters consoled her, and in their minds they cried her unwept tears. She soon learned to read and write, learned the words of conversation and the words of prayer. And she learned to sing and to do needlework in linen, and to keep a room or a house in order and well fed. She would surely have become a lay sister, if the nuns had not made a special place for her mother in her thoughts. And since they taught her not to forget her mother, she did not forget. That was her nature. She had become a pillar of obedience and proper upbringing. She was a small miracle. Like a saint in a coffin. But despite this lifelessness, which she had also inherited, there was a power within her: she embodied the spirit of her golden background, the church. And she had to sense this in spite of her great innocence, otherwise she wouldn’t have been the way she was. The prefect smiled each time she saw her, though she was otherwise a serious woman. And outside, her mother might not have been living as she should, she might have forgotten the little holy cross that God had bestowed upon her. Or she might not have known God, might never have given thanks to him, until the end of her life. But the nuns never spoke of that. Least of all to the child. And that was good. For what can we know. A soul’s desperation is often a struggle with death. While we are far off, lost in speculation, the trunk tears itself out of the earth by its own roots. Ah God, such a poor person! For he doesn’t die as soon as he is uprooted. He goes through the world bearing this mark, and he knows that he is not at home anywhere. Though he has committed no murder, still he is Cain.