Do I believe in guardian angels? A difficult question in these times of cold rationalism. As the mother of two children, I'd like to say "yes". Even more - I want my children to find themselves in the care of something more powerful than their parents.|
When you pick up Dorota Terakowska's book Where the Angels Fall, don't be afraid that it's going to be a sugary novel about angels. The main plot is quite simple: Ewa has lost her guardian angel. Her parents, who love her but who are wrapped up in themselves and their work, fail to notice what has happened. Only the grandmother feels the child's loneliness and intuitively understands that a serious danger
is involved, and not just a chance combination of misfortunes or a "passing phase."
But it is only after Ewa has fallen deathly ill that she realizes that her only salvation lies in recovering her Guardian Angel. Her parents and grandmother and agree to change their lives in ways that until then had been unthinkable. Will their endeavors crown their victory over death?
The novel's secondary plot is played out between Ave, Ewa's Guardian Angel, and the Angel of Darkness, Vea, who is his twin brother, although they were never one.
"And White and Black were born of the Light. If the Light pushed them off the Ladder, it was not only as punishment, but also of necessity, in order that they should create the Land of Gloom, for it is in the Gloom that every light shines." The black angel's job is a thankless one, disliked as he is both by us and by himself. "Such is our assigned place in the order of Good and Evil. The Light did not push us off the Ladder in order for us to fortify the Good. It did so so that we could form a counterweight; for otherwise, if the Good is never put to the test, it will be without value. As for me, oh Brother, maybe I'm not particularly fond of my role! - screeched Vea...."
This is a book for everyone who does not wish to forget what it means to love everyday life and to be open to unusual things.
Where the Angels Fall
" Mom! Mommy! There are angels flying around in the sky!" shouted Ewa, running into her mother's studio. She
rolled in a funny way on her short, uncertain legs, and Anna thought with a smile that the girl walked like a duck. She would grow out of it, of course. She was only five... Anna looked at her daughter, smiled tenderly, and went back to work.
"Mom! Mommy! Come on! Hurry up! Angels are flying around in the sky! Angels," Ewa cried impatiently. She tugged at her mother's skirt and tried to take hold of her hand, but her mother was busy with her work. She was concentrating on modeling shapes in quick-drying clay. She had been doing this for two months and was still not satisfied. The sculpture was supposed to represent the Pieta she dreamed of. This Pieta. Anna's Pieta. would be different from the classical ones: the mother would not be mourning the loss of her child, but rather the misfortune that dogged her. Her child would not have died, but would rather be suffering, even in life. The mother must therefore have a tragic expression to her mouth, a vulnerable and unhappy gaze, and features that reflected her pain. Yet the expression of the sculpture remained lifeless. Something was missing. Something - but what?
Anna plunged her hand back into the moist, sticky clay and added some to the sunken cheeks of the great, unknown head. Yet it had been intended as a familiar, known face. She narrowed her eyes and surveyed her work yet again. "Hideous piece of junk," she thought, frustrated with herself and the world.
"Mom! Mommy! There are angels flying around in the sky! They're right over our house! Come and see! Hurry up!" shouted little Ewa, pulling at the hem of her mother's dress. She was hoping so much that her mother would take her by the hand and go outside with her to marvel at the incredible sight that had caught her attention while she was playing in the garden. But her mother continued to concentrate on her work and refused to react.
... And just a moment earlier, Ewa had been pouring water over soil that she kneaded like dough and, imitating her mother, tried to sculpt into a cat. But her cat refused to look cat-like. So she smashed it with one swipe of her hand, in order to start all over again - and that was when she heard the far-off, delicate beating of wings, that grew louder until it was a powerful throbbing. She looked up - and saw angels. A lot of angels. They were flying too high for her to be able to distinguish their individual features, but at the same time they were low enough that she had no doubts about the winged beings floating between the earth and the sky. They were not birds or butterflies. Angels.
Translated by William Brand