68

At dawn I finished the last sentences, and a fatigue that was more like paralysis gripped me. The first light was still wrapped in darkness. I opened the window and put out my hand to touch the silent coolness.

Suddenly, the melody that had drawn my fingers over the white pages returned to me, and I knew that the gate that had blocked my way had burst open. From now on, I would be quarrying.

I heard Mother’s voice.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You did what Father wanted to. But what a price you paid!”

“How do you know, Mother?”

“I was with you in all your pain, and what I didn’t know, I asked Dr. Winter.”

“I feel much better. I can even go out by myself.”

“May God help you.”

I was surprised by those words, but I understood that they weren’t hers but those of her father and had come down to her.

Mother, I was about to say.

She looked at me in amazement.

“You’re allowed to be happy,” she said.

“Mother,” I said, “when I think of the path that lies before me, I want to fall to my knees and ask for grace and mercy.”

“What path are you talking about?” she wondered.

“I just broke through the gate, and what was revealed to me is beyond my strength.”

“Now I’m permitted to disclose to you that Father was certain you would do this.”

“I pray with all my heart that I’ll be as dedicated as Father was.”

“My dear, you’ve already shown your devotion.”

That was Mother, her voice and her concern, but not in her usual clothing. She was wearing white, like a nurse. Suddenly, the operating room—the one I’d been taken to seven times—appeared before my eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Mother said. “I’ll be with you wherever you go.”

“And where’s Father?”

“Father has not yet returned from the camps. The moment he does so, I’ll tell him about your breakthrough. He’ll be happy. A father doesn’t envy his son. I have no doubt that he’ll tell you things that will help you.”

I once again saw the opening of the tunnel. I knew I was at the beginning of the path, and from here on, I must dig.

Mother appeared to be alarmed by my fear.

“You’ll do the best you can,” she said. “A person isn’t required to do anything that is beyond his abilities. You began to study Hebrew in Naples, you kept on learning in the orchard and during night training, and after you were wounded, you sat and copied from the Bible. The work in the field and the copying forged your tools, and with such marvelous tools in hand, I have no doubt that God will help you.”

“Mother,” I said, “where did you acquire that language?”

“I must tell you that in my world everything has changed. The old is no longer old, and what is new sometimes looks out of date to me. I now pronounce with ease words that I heard in my youth, and my usual way of speaking has broken down.”

Bless me, Mother? I think of asking her. Mother apparently expected that request.

“I’ll ask my ancestors to bless you,” she said.

“Don’t you want to bless me?”

“In my childhood I knew the prayers and blessings, but over the years I lost them. I can only ask my ancestors to bless you. I’ll hug you, and that will be my blessing.”