Echoes (20 page)

Beata sat riveted as she listened to the prayers, and prayed with them. According to Jewish tradition, Monika had to be buried within a day, and was. Beata followed them to the cemetery, and stood far away from them. They didn't even know she was there. She was like a ghost, watching them, as they each poured a shovel of dirt onto her mother's coffin after they lowered it into the ground. After they left, she went and kneeled beside the grave, and put a small pebble beside it, as a gesture of respect, according to tradition. She didn't know what she was saying, until she heard herself saying the Our Father. She knew her mother wouldn't mind. She stayed for a long time, and then she went home, feeling dead inside. As dead as her father said she was.

Amadea looked at her sadly when she got home, and put her arms around her. “I'm sorry, Mama.” She had told the girls the night before, and they had cried. In their own way, they each loved their grandmother, although they had always had conflicted feelings, particularly Amadea, about the way their grandparents had treated their mother for marrying their father. It seemed wrong to them, and Beata agreed that it was. But she loved her mother anyway. And even her father. They were her parents.

Beata went to her room early that night, and lay on her bed, thinking back to all that had happened, and her early days with Antoine. It was a lot to think about, and absorb, a lifetime that had been worthwhile, though hard. She had paid a high price for love. Losing her mother reminded her that she had no one left now but her daughters. Her father had made that clear. Her whole life was them. She had no life of her own.

It was a month later in June when Amadea took her breath away, yet again. She heard the news as one more death blow to her heart. In some ways, it was like losing her mother, except that at least Amadea would be alive.

“I am going into the convent, Mama,” Amadea said quietly, on her last day of school. Nothing had prepared Beata for the announcement her elder daughter made. She looked at her as though she had been shot, but Amadea's eyes were steady and calm. She had been waiting to announce this decision for months, and had grown more certain every day. There had been nothing hasty or frivolous about the choice she'd made.

“You're not,” Beata said, as though there was no question of it. None. To her own ears, she sounded like her father, but she was not going to let this happen. Even Antoine wouldn't have wanted that, and he was a devoted Catholic. “I won't let you do that.”

“You can't stop me.” Amadea sounded like an adult for the first time. Her voice was solid, like rock. She had agonized too much over the decision to feel any uncertainty at all now. She was absolutely certain she had a vocation, and no one could shake her faith, not even the mother she loved. This was not a pitched battle to go to university. This was a grown woman who knew what she wanted, and was going to do it. Beata was frightened at the tone of Amadea's voice, as much as by the look in her eyes.

“Your father wouldn't want that,” she reasoned, hoping to sway Amadea, by evoking her father's name. It didn't work.

“You don't know that. You gave up everything to marry him, because you believed in what you were doing. I believe in this. I have a vocation.” She said it as though speaking of the Holy Grail. In truth, she had found all she wanted and needed. After talking to her priest for months, she was sure beyond a doubt, and it was written all over her.

“Oh my God.” Beata sat down heavily and stared at her daughter. “You're too young to know that. You're bored, and you think it sounds romantic.” Beata also knew that Edith Stein had become her role model, and she had been in a convent for two years.

“You don't know what you're saying,” Amadea said calmly. “I'm going into the Carmelites. I've already talked to them. You can't stop me, Mama.” She repeated what she had said in the beginning. She didn't sound like a petulant child, but a woman with a holy purpose.

“That's a cloistered order. You will live like a prisoner for the rest of your life, shut away from the world. You're a beautiful young girl, you should have a husband and babies.”

“I want to be a nun,” she said clearly. Beata shuddered. Fortunately, Daphne was at a friend's, so she didn't hear them.

“You're doing it because Edith Stein did. She was a forty-two-year-old woman when she went in. She'd had a life. She knew what she was doing. You don't. You're too young to make this decision.”

“I'll have plenty of time to find out,” Amadea said sensibly. “It takes eight years before you take final vows.” She knew all about it. “Mama, it's the life I want.” Her eyes never left her mother's, and were filled with quiet determination, which terrified Beata.

“Why?
Why?”
Beata wailed, with tears running down her face. “You're beautiful and young, you have your whole life ahead of you. Why would you do that?”

“I want to serve God, and this is the best way I know how. I think this is what He wants. I want to be the bride of Christ, just the way you loved Papa. This is who I want. You're religious, Mama. You go to church. How can you not understand?” Amadea looked hurt that her mother was so unhappy about it, and something in her eyes reminded Beata of her own mother, when she told her about Antoine. Her mother had felt betrayed. And now so did Beata. It made her feel like her father, rigid and unyielding, and she didn't want to be that. But she didn't want her daughter going into the convent either. To Beata, it seemed abnormal.

“I admire you for your devotion,” Beata said quietly, “but it's a hard life. I want something better than that for you. A man to take care of you, children who love you.” And then she thought of Daphne. “What will your sister and I do without you?” She was devastated at the prospect.

“I will pray for you. That's far better than anything I could do here. I will be of much greater use praying for the world than watching the terrible things people do to destroy each other, man's terrible unkindness to their fellow man.” Amadea was deeply upset by the current injustices to the Jews, and had been since they began. It went against everything she believed, and she had strong beliefs. Beata loved her for it. But not this. Not this terrible waste of her daughter becoming a nun, locked away in a convent like a prisoner. “Will you think about it, Mama? Please? It's all I want … You can't stop me, but I want you to give me your blessing.” It was exactly what she had asked her parents for when she married Antoine. Now Amadea was asking her blessing to follow Christ. It was a terrible decision for Beata. “I love you,” Amadea said softly and put her arms around her as Beata sighed through her tears.

“How did this happen? When did you make this decision?”

“I talked to Ella's sister about it before she did it. I always thought I had a vocation, but I wasn't sure. I talked to our priest about it for months. Now I know it's right for me, Mama. I'm sure.” She looked beautiful as she said it, which tugged at Beata's heart more than ever.

“Why? How can you be sure?”

“I just am. I feel so certain about it.” As her mother looked at her, she saw eyes full of peace. Like a young saint. But Beata could not bring herself to be happy about it. It seemed a terrible waste, and a tragedy to her. To Amadea, it was a gift. The only one she wanted, along with her mother's blessing.

“When do you want to do this?” Beata hoped there would be time to dissuade her. Like maybe a year.

“I'm going in next week. There's no reason for me to wait any longer. I finished school.” She had been waiting for that to tell her mother, but now it was happening very quickly.

“Does Daphne know about this?” Beata asked, and Amadea shook her head. Daphne was only ten, but the girls were close.

“I wanted to tell you first. I was hoping you could be happy for me, after you got used to the idea.” It was so exactly what she had gone through with her parents over Antoine. Even the words they were using were the same, except that she was not threatening her daughter. She was begging her to rethink it, which was what her own mother had done too. They thought the road she had chosen was too hard, which was precisely what Beata thought of her daughter. It was the echo of the past again. History repeating itself. The unbroken chain of repetition.

Beata lay awake in her bed all that night, hearing the echoes of her past, reliving all the terrible arguments with her parents, knowing she was right, the agonizing day when she left the house, and going to him in Switzerland finally, and how perfect it had been. For her. That was the point. The only correct argument. That each person had to follow their own destiny, whatever that was. For her, it had been Antoine. Perhaps for Amadea, it was the Church. And why had they named her that, as though by some terrible intuition? Loved of God. Beata wished that He didn't love her quite so much that He had called her, but perhaps He had. Who was she to know? Who was she to judge? What right did she have to try to change her daugh-ter's destiny and make decisions for her? She had no more right to do that than her father. Perhaps love meant sacrificing what you wanted for them, in order to let them follow their dream. And as morning came, Beata knew that she had no right to stop Amadea if that was what she wanted. If it wasn't right, she would have to find that out for herself. At least she had eight years to do it. She could always change her mind, although Beata knew she wouldn't. Her parents had probably hoped that she would leave Antoine too. But they had been so happy. He was her destiny. Just as this was Amadea's. Beata had never expected to have a daughter who was a nun, nor had Antoine. But she had the feeling that he would have let her do it too. What right did they have not to?

She looked ravaged when she went to Amadea's room before breakfast. Amadea could see in her mother's face, even before Beata spoke, that she had won, and held her breath as she waited to hear it.

“I won't stop you. I want you to be happy,” Beata said, looking heartbroken, but with eyes filled with love. “I won't do to you what my parents did to me. You have my blessing, because I love you and I want your happiness, whatever that is to you.” It was the ultimate gift to her, and the ultimate sacrifice to herself, which was what she thought parenting should be about. That was the hard part. The important things were never easy. That was what made them important.

“Thank you, Mama… thank you… thank you!” Amadea's eyes were filled with light, as she hugged her mother. She looked truly euphoric, and they had never been closer. There was no question of how much or how deeply they loved each other.

It was harder telling Daphne, who cried horribly. She didn't want Amadea to leave them, nor did Beata.

“We'll never see you,” Daphne wailed miserably. “Ella never sees her sister, they won't let her. And she can't touch her or hug her.” Beata's heart sank at the prospect.

“Yes, you will. You can come twice a year, and I can touch you through a little window. Besides, we can hug a lot now and that will last us for a long time.” Amadea looked sorry for her, but remained convinced. And Daphne was inconsolable for the next week. Amadea was sad to leave them, but she seemed happier every day, as her entrance into the convent drew closer.

Hoping to make it easier for Daphne, Beata asked Amadea to wait a few more weeks, but she shook her head. “It'll only make it worse, Mama. She'll get used to it. She has you.” But that was hardly the same thing. Amadea was the light and joy in Daphne's life, as she was in Beata's. Beata had been solemn and depressed and withdrawn much of the time since her husband died. “It will do you good, too. You can do things with her, like go to movies, or the park, or museums. You need to get out more.” Amadea had done all those things with her sister for years. Beata did very little. She was too depressed, and spent most of her time in her room. She wasn't sure she was up to what she had to do now. But someone had to do it. Antoine was gone. Her mother was gone. And now Amadea would be gone too. Beata felt almost as though Amadea would be dead to them, if they could not see her every day, or hold her in their arms ever again. It was grim.

“Can you write to us?” Beata asked, feeling panicked.

“Of course. Although I'll be busy. But I'll write to you as often as I can.” It was as though she were leaving on a trip, for the rest of her life. Like going to Heaven. Or the first way station to get there. Beata couldn't imagine it, or wanting to do it. She had become a devout Catholic, but she still couldn't imagine wanting to go into religious orders. It seemed like a terribly restrictive life, but Amadea could hardly wait.

Beata and Daphne drove her there on the day she left. She wore a simple navy blue dress, and the hat she wore to church. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and Beata had rarely felt as depressed. Daphne cried all the way to the convent, as Amadea held her hand. When they got out of the car, Beata stood and looked at her for a long time, as though drinking her in for the last time, and carving her memory on her heart. The next time she would see her, she would look different. And be someone else.

“Always know how much I love you. How much you mean to me, and how proud I am of you. You are my gift from God, Amadea. Be happy and safe. And if it isn't right for you, it's all right to change your mind. No one will think less of you for it.” Beata hoped she would.

“Thank you, Mama,” Amadea said quietly, but knew she wouldn't. She knew to her very soul how right this was, and didn't doubt it for a second. She took her mother in her arms then, and held her. She held her like a grown woman, who knew what she was doing, and had no regrets. Just as Beata had done the day she left her mother to join Antoine. “Go with God,” Amadea whispered as she held her, and tears rolled down Beata's cheeks and she nodded. It was Amadea who seemed like the adult now and not the child.

“You too,” Beata said in a whisper, as Amadea kissed her little sister and smiled down at her. Amadea looked sad to leave them, but beyond that there was an overwhelming sense of joy and peace.

She had brought no suitcase with her. She had brought nothing except the clothes she wore, which they would dispose of the moment she took them off. They would give them to the poor. She could bring no possessions, and would eventually take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, all of which suited her. She was not frightened of what she was doing. She had never been happier in her life, and it was written all over her face. It was the same look Beata had worn when she met Antoine at the train station in Lausanne, and their life had been beginning. The same look she had worn the night Amadea was born. This was the beginning for Amadea. Not the end, as her mother feared.