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?”