“Won’t you have some too?” he said when he was finished eating.
Tzili stretched out her hand and took a piece of bread. She wasn’t hungry. The long walk had tired her into a stupor. Her tears too had dried up. She sat without moving.
Mark passed his right hand over his mouth and said: “A cigarette, if only I had a cigarette.”
Tzili made no response.
He went on: “Without cigarettes there’s no point in living.” Then he dug his nails into the ground and began singing a strange song. Tzili remembered the melody but she couldn’t understand the words. Gradually his voice lost its lilt and the song trailed off into a mutter.
The evening was cold and Mark lit a fire. During the long days of his stay here he had learned to make fire from two pieces of flint and a thread of wool which he plucked from his coat. Tzili marveled momentarily at his dexterity. The agitation faded from his face and he asked in a practical tone of voice: “How did you get the bread? Fresh bread?”
Tzili answered him shortly.
“And they didn’t suspect you?”
For a long time they sat by the little fire, which gave off a pleasant warmth.
“Why are you so silent?”
Tzili hung her head, and an involuntary smile curved her lips.
The craving for cigarettes did not leave him. The fresh bread had given him back his taste for life, but he lost it again immediately. For hours he sat nibbling blades of grass, chewing them up and spitting them to one side. He had a tense, bitter look. From time to time he cursed himself for being a slave to his addiction. Tzili was worn out and she fell asleep where she sat.
15
WHEN SHE WOKE she kept her eyes closed. She felt Mark’s eyes on her. She lay without moving. The fire had not gone out, which meant that Mark had not slept all night.
When she finally opened her eyes it was already morning. Mark asked: “Did you sleep?” The sun rose in the sky and the horizons opened out one after the other until the misty plains were revealed in the distance. Here and there they could see a peasant ploughing.
“It’s a good place,” said Mark. “You can see a long way from here.” The agitation had faded from his face, and a kind of complacency that did not suit him had taken its place. Tzili imagined she could see in him one of the Jewish salesmen who used to drop into her mother’s shop. Mark asked her: “Did you go to school?”
“Yes.”
“A Jewish school?”
“No. There wasn’t one. I studied Judaism with an old teacher. The Pentateuch and prayers.”
“Funny,” he said, “it sounds so far away. As if it never happened. And do you still remember anything?”
“Hear, O Israel.”
“And do you recite it?”
“No,” she said and hung her head.
“In my family we weren’t observant anymore,” said Mark in a whisper. “Was your family religious?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You said they brought you a teacher of religion.”
“It was only for me, because I didn’t do well at school. My brothers and sisters were all good at school. They were going to take external examinations.”
“Strange,” said Mark.
“I had trouble learning.”
“What does it matter now?” said Mark. “We’re all doomed anyway.”
Tzili did not understand the word but she sensed that it held something bad.
After a pause Mark said: “You’ve changed very nicely, you’ve done it very cleverly. I can’t imagine a change like that taking place in me. Even the forests won’t change me now.”
“Why?” asked Tzili.
“Because everything about me gives me away—my appearance, from top to toe, my nose, my accent, the way I eat, sit, sleep, everything. Even though I’ve never had anything to do with what’s called Jewish tradition. My late father used to call himself a free man. He was fond of that phrase, I remember, but here in this place I’ve discovered, looking at the peasants ploughing in the valley, their serenity, that I myself—I won’t be able to change anymore. I’m a coward. All the Jews are cowards and I’m no different from them. You understand.”
Tzili understood nothing of this outburst, but she felt the pain pouring out of the words and she said: “What do you want to do?”
“What do I want to do? I want to go down to the village and buy myself a packet of tobacco. That’s all I want. I have no greater desire. I’m a nervous man and without cigarettes I’m an insect, less than an insect, I’m nothing.”
“I’ll buy it for you.”
“Thank you,” said Mark, ashamed. “Forgive me. I have no more money. I’ll give you a coat. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s good,” said Tzili. “That’s very good.” In the tent of branches he had a haversack full of things. He spread them out now on the ground to dry. His clothes, his wife’s and children’s clothes. He spread them out slowly, like a merchant displaying his wares on the counter.
Tzili shuddered at the sight of the little garments spotted with food stains. Mark spread them out without any order and they steamed and gave off a stench of mildew and sour-sweet. “We must dry them,” said Mark in a businesslike tone. “Otherwise they’ll rot.” He added: “I’ll give you my coat. It’s a good coat, pure wool. I bought it a year ago. I hope you’ll be able to get me some cigarettes for it. Without cigarettes to smoke I get very nervous.”
Strange, his nervousness was not apparent now. He stood next to the steaming clothes, turning them over one by one, as if they were pieces of meat on a fire. Tzili too did not take her eyes off the stained children’s clothes shrinking in the sun.
Toward evening he gathered the clothes up carefully and folded them. The coat intended for selling he put aside. “For this, I hope, we’ll be able to get some tobacco. It’s a good coat, almost new,” he muttered to himself.
That night Mark did not light a fire. He sat and sucked soft little twigs. Chewing the twigs seemed to blunt his craving for cigarettes. Tzili sat not far from him, staring into the darkness.
“I wanted to study medicine,” Mark recalled, “but my parents didn’t have the money to send me to Vienna. I sat for external matriculation exams and my marks weren’t anything to write home about, only average. And then I married very young, too young I’d say. Of course, nothing came of my plans to study. A pity.”
“What’s your wife’s name?” asked Tzili.
“Why do you ask?” said Mark in surprise.
“No reason.”
“Blanca.”
“How strange,” said Tzili. “My sister’s name is Blanca too.”
Mark rose to his feet. Tzili’s remark had abruptly stopped the flow of his memories. He put his hands in his trouser pocket, stuck out his chest, and said: “You must go to sleep. Tomorrow you have a long walk in front of you.”
The strangeness of his voice frightened Tzili and she immediately got up and went to lie down on the pile of leaves.
16
SHE SLEPT DEEPLY, without feeling the wind. When she woke a mug of hot herb tea was waiting for her.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“I can’t fall asleep without a cigarette.”
Tzili put the coat into a sack and rose to her feet. Mark sat in his place next to the fire. His dull eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. For some reason he touched the sack and said: “It’s a good coat, almost new.”
“I’ll look after it,” said Tzili without thinking, and set off.
I’ll bring him cigarettes, he’ll be happy if I bring him cigarettes. This thought immediately strengthened her legs. The summer was in full glory, and in the distant, yellow fields she could see the farmers cutting corn. She crossed the mountainside and when she came to the river she picked up her dress and waded across it. Light burst from every direction, bright and clear. She approached the plots of cultivated land without fear, as if she had kno
wn them all her life. With every step she felt the looseness of the fertile soil.
“Have you any tobacco?” she asked a peasant woman standing at the doorway of her hut.
“And what will you give me in exchange?”
“I have a coat,” said Tzili and held it up with both hands.
“Where did you steal it?”
“I didn’t steal it. I got it as a present.”
Upon hearing this reply an old crone emerged from the hut and announced in a loud voice: “Leave the whore’s little bastard alone.” But the younger woman, who liked the look of the coat, said: “And what else do you want for it?”
“Bread and sausage.”
Tzili knew how to bargain. And after an exchange of arguments, curses, and accusations, and after the coat had been turned inside out and felt all over, they agreed on two loaves of bread, two joints of meat, and a bundle of tobacco leaves.
“You’ll catch it if the owner comes and demands his coat back. We’ll kill you,” the old crone said threateningly.
Tzili put the bread, meat, and tobacco into her sack and turned to go without saying a word. The old crone showed no signs of satisfaction at the transaction, but the young woman made no attempt to hide her delight in the city coat.
On the way back Tzili sat and paddled in the water. The sun shone and silence rose from the forest. She sat for an hour without moving from her place and in the end she said to herself: Mark is sad because he has no cigarettes. When he has cigarettes he’ll be happy. This thought brought her to her feet and she started to run, taking shortcuts wherever she could.
Toward evening she arrived. Mark bowed his head as if she had brought him news of some great honor, an honor of which he was not unworthy. He took the bundle of tobacco leaves, stroking and sniffing them. Before long he had a cigarette rolled from newspaper. An awkward joy flooded him. In the camp people would fight over a cigarette stub more than over a piece of bread. He spoke of the camp now as if he were about to return to it.
That evening he lit a fire again. They ate and drank herb tea. Mark found a few dry logs and they burned steadily and gave off a pleasant warmth. The wind dropped too, and seemed gentler than before, the shadows it brought from the forest less menacing. Mark was apparently affected by these small changes. Without any warning he suddenly burst into tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“I remembered.”
“What?”
“Everything that’s happened to me in the past year.”
Tzili rose to her feet. She wanted to say something but the words would not come. In the end she said: “I’ll bring you more tobacco.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I sit here eating and smoking and they’re all over there. Who knows where they are by now.” His gray face seemed to grow grayer, a yellow stain spread over his forehead.
“They’ll all come back,” said Tzili, without knowing what she was saying.
These words calmed him immediately. He asked about the way and the village, and how she had obtained the food and the tobacco, and in general what the peasants were saying.
“They don’t say anything,” said Tzili quietly.
“And they didn’t say anything about the Jews?”
“No.”
For a few minutes he sat without moving, wrapped up in himself. His dull, bloodshot eyes slowly closed. And suddenly he dropped to the ground and fell asleep.
17
EVERY WEEK she went down to the plains to renew their supplies. She was quiet, like a person doing what had to be done without unnecessary words. She would bathe in the river, and when she returned her body gave off a smell of cool water.
She would tell him about her adventures on the plains: a drunken peasant woman had tried to hit her, a peasant had set his dog on her, a passerby had tried to rob her of the clothes she had taken to barter. She spoke simply, as if she were recounting everyday experiences.
And because the weather was fine, and the rains scattered, they would sit for hours by the fire eating, drinking herb tea, listening to the forest and hardly speaking. Mark stopped speaking of the camp and its horrors. He spoke now about the advantages of this high, remote place. And once he said: “The air here is very fresh. Can you feel how fresh it is?” He pronounced the word fresh very distinctly, with a secret happiness. Sometimes he used words that Tzili did not understand.
Once Tzili asked what the words out of this world meant.
“Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
“It’s very simple: out of this world—out of the ordinary, very nice.”
“From God?” she puzzled.
“Not necessarily.”
But it wasn’t always like this. Sometimes a suppressed rage welled up in him. “What happened to you? Why are you so late?” When he saw the supplies, he recovered his spirits. In the end he would ask her pardon. She, for her part, was no longer afraid of him.
Day by day he changed. He would sit for hours looking at the wild flowers growing in all the colors of the rainbow. Sometimes he would pluck a flower and whisper: “How lovely, how modest.” Even the weeds moved him. And once he said, as if talking to himself: “In Jewish families there’s never any time. Everyone’s in a hurry, everyone’s in a panic. What for?” There was a kind of music in his voice, a melancholy music.
The days went by one after the other and nothing happened to arouse their suspicions. On the contrary, the silence deepened. The corn was cut in one field after the other and the fruit was gathered in the orchards, and Mark, for some reason, decided to dig a bunker, in case of trouble. This thought came to him suddenly one afternoon, and he immediately set out to survey the terrain. Straightaway he found a suitable place, next to a little mound covered with a tangle of thorns. In his haversack he had a simple kitchen knife. This domestic article, dull with use, fired the desire for activity in him. He set to work to make a spade. The hard, concentrated work changed his face; he stopped talking, as if he had found a purpose for his transitory life, a purpose in which he drowned himself completely.
Every week Tzili went down to the plains and brought back not only bread and sausages but also vodka, in exchange for the clothes which Mark gave her with an abstracted expression on his face. His outbursts did not cease, but they were only momentary flare-ups, few and far between. Activity, on the whole, made him agreeable.
Once he said to her: “My late father’s love for the German language knew no bounds. He had a special fondness for irregular verbs. He knew them all. And with me he was very strict about the correct pronunciation. The German lessons with my father were like a nightmare. I always got mixed up and in his fanaticism he never overlooked my mistakes. He made me write them down over and over again. My mother knew German well but not perfectly, and my father would lose his temper and correct her in front of other people. A mistake in grammar would drive him out of his mind. In the provinces people are more fanatical about the German language than in the city.”
“What are the provinces?” asked Tzili.
“Don’t you know? Places without gymnasiums, without theaters.” Suddenly he burst out laughing. “If my father knew what the products of his culture were up to now he would say, ‘Impossible, impossible.’ ”
“Why impossible?” said Tzili.
“Because it’s a word he used a lot.”
After many days of slow, stubborn carving, Mark had a spade, a strong spade. The carved instrument brightened his eyes, and he couldn’t stop touching it. He was in good spirits and he told her stories about all the peculiar tutors his father hired to teach him mathematics and Latin. Young Jewish vagabonds, for the most part, who had not completed their university degrees, who ended up by getting some girl, usually not Jewish, into trouble, and had to be sent packing in a hurry. Mark told these stories slowly, imitating his teachers’ gestures and describing their various weaknesses, their fondness for alcohol, and so on. This language was easier for Tzili to understand. Sometimes she would ask him qu
estions and he would reply in detail.
And then he started digging. He worked for hours at a stretch. Every now and then it started raining and the digging was disrupted. Mark would grow angry, but his anger did not last long. The backbreaking work gave him the look of a simple laborer. Tzili stopped asking questions and Mark stopped telling stories.
After a week of work the bunker was ready, dug firmly into the earth. And it was just what was needed for the cold autumn season, a shelter for the cold nights. Mark was sure that the Germans would never reach them, but it was better to be careful, just in case. Tzili noticed that Mark often used the word careful now. It was a word he had hardly ever used before.
He put the finishing touches to the bunker without excitement. A quiet happiness spread over his face and hands. Now she saw that his cheeks were tanned and his arms, which had seemed so weak and flabby, were full and firm. He looked like a laboring man who knew how to enjoy his labors.
What will happen when we’ve sold all the clothes? the thought crossed Tzili’s mind. This thought did not appear to trouble Mark. He was so pleased with the bunker, he kept repeating: “It’s a good bunker, a comfortable bunker. It will stand up well to the rain.”
18
AFTER THIS the days grew cold and cloudy and Mark drank a lot of vodka. The tan faded suddenly from his face. He would sit silently, and sometimes he would talk to himself, as if Tzili weren’t there. On her return from the plains he would ask: “What did you bring?” If she had brought vodka he would say nothing. If she hadn’t he would say: “Why didn’t you bring vodka?”
At night the words would well up in him and come out in long, clumsy, half-swallowed sentences. Tzili could not understand, but she sensed: Mark was now living in another world, a world which was full of people. Day after day he sat and drank. His face grew lean. There was a kind of strength in this leanness. His days became confused with his nights. Sometimes he would fall asleep in the middle of the day and sometimes he would sit up until late at night. Once he turned to her in the middle of the night and said: “What are you doing here?”
Tzili Page 5
