Until the Dawn's Light Hardcover - 2011

Excerpt

  1
 
They moved from train to train, sped past little stations, stopped at level crossings, and set out again with a rush across broad, flat expanses. It all transpired quickly and with frightening precision, as though they were no longer their own masters but in the hands of the railways, which treated them mercifully and moved them from place to place, almost without pain.
 
Otto was already four, and his mother regarded him as a big boy. She spoke to him and explained things to him that he certainly couldn’t understand. Her long and convoluted sentences perplexed him, but Blanca was sure he grasped her intention, and she would go on and burden him with more words. True, Otto asked pertinent questions, not because he understood what was happening, but because he was frightfully logical. Blanca, who was proud of his consistent thinking, was afraid now that he would trip her up. To distract him, she told him about things that never were, toyed with his limited memory, and promised him that before long they would get to a magical place.
 
“Where are we going, Mama?” he kept asking.
 
“To the north.”
 
“Is it far from here?”
 
“Not very.”
 
“Is the north in the country or in the city?”
 
“The north is up above, my dear.”
 
In her heart she knew she mustn’t lie; the boy was sensitive to contradictions. Still, she deceived him, distracted him, and concealed information. Even worse: she made him promises she couldn’t keep. Thus she became the accomplice of the speeding trains: together they confused him.
 
After a week of displacements, Otto stopped pestering her. He slept and barely poked his head out of his coat. Blanca was upset: perhaps his dreams were showing him what she wanted to keep from his sight. She thought that despite her efforts he had figured something out, and that the dream would turn his guess into a certainty—­the thought disturbed her. She buried her face in her hands, the way her mother had done when headaches assailed her.
 
Otto sank ever deeper into sleep, and his face was relaxed. What she would do, and where the trains would lead them, Blanca still didn’t know. The summer light was full. The sky was blue, and the fields were yellow and spread out over the low hills. The bright view brought to mind the long vacations she had taken with her parents. They were so far away now, it was as if those vacations had never taken place.
 
When Otto woke from his sleep he was pale, and he immediately started vomiting. In his infancy he used to vomit, but since then he hadn’t complained about stomachaches or vomited. Now he shuddered in her arms as if fleeing from a nightmare.
 
“We’ll get off here,” said Blanca, and they got off right away.
 
It was a small village, with wooden houses scattered amid ­greenery.
 
“This is it,” she said, as if they had reached a safe haven.
 
“And there’s a river here, Mama.” Otto opened his eyes wide.
 
“I assume so, dear,” she guessed, not knowing if she was right. Not far from the station the famous Dessel River flowed energetically. Its clear, gushing waters were well-known.
 
“Mama!” Otto shouted in astonishment.
 
“What?”
 
“Let’s go rowing on the river.”
 
The word “river,” which Otto pronounced very sweetly, moved her, and she hugged him and kissed him on the forehead. A house for rent was easily found, a little wooden house overlooking the river, wrapped in vines and willows, far from the main road. Inside, darkness reigned, and dried herbs perfumed the air. The landlady, a pleasant-­looking elderly woman, said, “Enjoy yourselves. This was my house once. Since my husband’s death, I’ve been living with my daughter.”
 
“When did your husband die?” Blanca asked.
 
“Two years ago. At the end of June it will be two years.”
 
“I’m sorry.”
 
“That’s how it is. What can I do?”
 
After showing them the secrets of the house, the old woman asked, “And where are you from?”
 
“From Vienna,” Blanca lied.
 
“God Almighty,” said the woman. “All during my youth I wanted to go to Vienna.”
 
“And you never got there?”
 
“Just once, for an operation.”
 
“Happiness doesn’t dwell where we imagine it.” Blanca repeated what her mother used to say.
 
“How true,” said the old woman, and she turned to go. She had cultivated a vegetable garden next to the house, and she placed it, too, at her tenants’ disposal.
 
“You can pick to your heart’s content.”
 
“Thank you,” said Blanca. She was so moved that she hugged the old woman.
 
Thus the dizziness was halted for a moment. They got up early, ate breakfast, and went down to the river. The river, they found, actually didn’t rush. It flowed, slow and clear, and carp swam lazily at the bottom, as though to avoid the danger awaiting them up above. Blanca and Otto swam together for hours, sometimes until sunset. Blanca, finding she could easily buy dairy products from the neighbors, filled the pantry with good food, and at night they would split open a watermelon, sitting and chatting until Otto collapsed on the mat and fell asleep.
 
But, finally, the blow fell.
 
“Mama!”
 
“What?”
 
“Where’s Papa?”
 
True, she had expected it, but her tongue cleaved to her palate. Why are you pestering me? she almost said. But she quickly recovered and murmured, “He’ll surely come.”
 
“Here?”
 
“I’m doubtful that he’ll come here, though.”
 
“What’s ‘doubtful’?”
 
“It’s a promise, dear.”
 
Otto’s sensitivity to words always scared her. Other children, she had noticed, also asked the meaning of a word, but Otto’s questions had the sharpness of a razor.
 
“Nobody knows what those darling creatures are capable of.” She remembered her grandmother Carole saying that.
 
Three weeks ago, or, more precisely, seventeen days ago, Blanca had fled with Otto. Since then: running, yearning, and frightening joy. She didn’t reveal a thing to him. During the last nights at home, before going to sleep, she had promised him that soon they would cruise down rivers, climb high mountains, and buy ice cream at stands. Night after night, she would secretly share her fantasies with him. With Adolf she had behaved differently, obeying him like a beast, and when he came home from work in the evening, she would serve him his supper without a word. The obedience made no impression on him. If something didn’t please him, he’d throw it away. Blanca didn’t ask questions or argue. She kept repeating to herself that there were things it was worth bearing shame for.

Media reviews

“Appelfeld, Israel’s greatest living writer, retains his capacity for wonder. . . . [And] this capacity for wonder, for the openness to enchantment within the world, is a gift.”
—Leslie Epstein, Tablet
 
“Appelfeld’s new book possesses all the ferocious agony of his other works, perhaps even more so. "  
 —Elaine Margolin, The Jerusalem Post
 
“Throughout his impressive oeuvre, one senses that Appelfeld is not mining his imagination to concoct tragic stories—rather, he is simply retelling the story of his life as a child survivor of the Holocaust.”
—Shoshana Olidort, The Forward

“In Appelfeld’s characteristic manner—that is, with a deftness that allows single words to suggest volumes of emotional complication—he draws us into this young mother’s story. . . . Through one woman’s isolation, struggle and eventual release—cataclysmic though it turns out to be—we feel the losses of an entire nation, and the terrible costs of its triumphs.  [A] remarkable novel . . . masterly and finely wrought.”
—Julie Orringer, The New York Times Book Review

"Tragic heroine Blanca will remind readers of Hardy’s luckless Tess, for Blanca’s essential decency and self-sacrificing attempts to do right end, fatefully and inexorably, in suffering. . . . As she tries to outrun her past, Blanca faithfully records her own history and surveys the loss of faith among Austrian Jews; with this, the story of one woman’s misfortune takes on the magnitude of history. . . . Compelling.”
—Publishers Weekly
 
“Distinguished fiction by one of Israel’s most prominent novelists. . . . A beautiful and affecting novel, Tolstoyan in its compassion for humanity.”
—Kirkus Reviews
 
“An affecting tale [and a] graceful narrative.”
—Booklist
 
“A worthy addition to the oeuvre of an acknowledged master of the plight of Europe’s Jews before and during the Holocaust. Appelfeld makes every word count as he hauntingly depicts the tragedy of the human condition.”
—Library Journal

Citations

• Booklist, 09/01/2011, Page 56
• Kirkus Best Books, 11/15/2011, Page 2065
• Kirkus Reviews, 08/15/2011, Page 0
• Library Journal, 08/01/2011, Page 79
• New York Times Book Review, 10/16/2011, Page 24
• New Yorker (The), 10/31/2011, Page 99
• Publishers Weekly, 08/22/2011, Page 0