Tzili

by Aharon Appelfeld

  “Nothing.”

  “Why don’t you go down to the village and bring supplies? Our supplies are running out.”

  “It’s night.”

  “In that case,” he said, “we’ll wait for the dawn.”

  He’s sad, he’s drunk, she would murmur to herself. If I bring him tobacco and vodka he’ll feel better. She no longer dared to return without vodka. Sometimes she would sleep in the forest because she was afraid to come back without vodka.

  At that time Mark said many strange and confused things. Tzili would sit at a distance and watch him. Alien hands seemed to be clutching at him and kneading him. Sometimes he would lie in his vomit like a hired hand on a drunken spree. His old face, the face of a healthy working man, was wiped away.

  And once in his drunkenness he cried: “If only I’d studied medicine I wouldn’t be here. I’d be in America.” In his haversack, it transpired, were a couple of books which he had once used to prepare for the entrance exams to Vienna University. And once, when it seemed to her that he was calmer, he suddenly burst out in a loud cry: “Commerce has driven the Jews out of their minds. You can cheat people for one year, even for one hundred years, but not for two thousand years!” In his drunkenness he would shout, make speeches, tear sentences to shreds and piece them together again.

  Tzili sensed that he was struggling with people who were far away and strangers to her, but nevertheless—she was afraid. His lean cheeks were full of strength. On her return from the plains she would hear his voice from a long way off, rending the silence.

  And again, just when she thought that his agitation had died down, he fell on her without any warning: “Why didn’t you learn French?”

  “We didn’t learn French at school, we learned German.”

  “Barbarous. Why didn’t they teach you French? And it’s not as if you know German either. What you speak is jargon. It drives me out of my mind. There’s no culture without language. If only people learned languages at school the world would be a different place. Do you promise me that you’ll learn French?”

  “I promise.”

  Afterward it began to rain and Mark dragged himself to the bunker. A rough wind was blowing. Mark’s words went on echoing in the air for a long time. And Tzili, without knowing what she was doing, went up to the bunker and called softly: “It’s me, Tzili. Don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll bring you vodka and sausage.”

  19

  AFTER THIS the autumn weather grew finer and a cold, clear sun shone on their temporary shelter. Mark’s troubled spirit seemed to lighten too and he stopped cursing. He didn’t stop drinking, but his drinking no longer put him in a rage. Now he would often say: “There was something I wanted to say, but it’s slipped my mind.” A weak smile would break through the clouds, darkening his face. Far-off, forgotten things continued to trouble him, but not in the same shocking way. Now he would speak softly of the need to study languages, acquire a liberal profession, escape from the provinces, but he no longer scolded Tzili.

  He would speak of the approaching winter as a frontier beyond which lay life and hope. And Tzili sensed that Mark was now absorbed in listening to himself. Every now and then he would conclude aloud: “There’s still hope. There’s still hope.”

  And once he questioned her about her religious studies. Tzili’s life at home now felt so remote and scattered that it didn’t seem to belong to her. On the way to the plains she would wonder about Maria, whose name she had so unthinkingly adopted. The more she thought about her, the clearer her features grew. A tall, proud woman, she gave her body to anyone who wanted it, but not without getting a good price. And when her daughters grew up, they too adopted their mother’s gestures, they too were bold.

  She didn’t tell him about Maria, just as she didn’t tell him about Katerina. Her femininity blossomed within her, blind and sweet. Outwardly too she changed. The pimples didn’t disappear from her face, but her limbs were full of strength. She walked easily, even when she had a heavy sack to carry.

  “How old are you?” Mark had once asked her in the days of his drunkenness. Afterward he didn’t ask again. Now he would beg her pardon for his drunken behavior; his face recovered its former mildness. Tzili’s happiness knew no bounds. Mark had recovered and he would never shout at her again. For some reason she believed that the new drink, which the peasants called slivovitz, was responsible for this change.

  It seemed to Tzili that the happy days of the summer were about to return, but she was wrong. Mark now craved a woman. This secret he was keeping even from himself. He would urge Tzili to go down to the plains even before it was necessary. Her blooming presence was driving him wild.

  And while Tzili was busy pondering ways and means of getting hold of the new, calming drink, Mark suddenly said: “I love you.”

  Tzili’s mouth fell open. His voice was familiar, but very different. She was surprised, but not altogether. The last few nights had been cold and they had both slept in the bunker. They had sat together until late at night, with a warm, dark intimacy between them.

  Mark stretched out his arms and clasped her round the waist. Tzili’s body shrank from his hands. “You don’t love me,” he mumbled. The tighter he held her, the more her body shrank. But he was determined, and he slid her dress up with nimble fingers. “No,” she managed to murmur. But it was already too late.

  Afterward he sat by her side and stroked her body. Strange words came tumbling out of his mouth. For some reason he began talking again about the advantages of the place, the beautiful marshes, the forests, and the fresh air. The words were external, and they brushed past her naked body like a cold wind.

  From now on they stayed in the bunker. The rain poured down, but for the time being they were sheltered against it. Mark drank all the time, but never to excess. His happiness was a drunken happiness, and he wanted to cut it up into little pieces and make it last. From time to time he ventured out to confirm what he already knew—that outside it was cold, dark, and damp.

  “Tell me about yourself. Why don’t you tell me?” he would press her. The truth was that he only wanted to hear her voice. He showered many words on her during their days together in the bunker. His heart overflowed. Tzili, for her part, accepted her happiness quietly. Secretly she was glad that Mark loved her.

  Their supplies ran short. Tzili put off going out from day to day. She liked it in this new darkness. She learned to drink the insidious drug, and the more she drank the more slothful her body became. “I’d go myself, but the peasants would betray me.” Mark would excuse himself. And in the meantime the rain and cold hemmed them in. They snuggled up together and their small happiness knew no bounds.

  Distant sights, hungry malevolent shadows invaded the bunker in dense crowds. Tzili did not know the bitter, emaciated people. Mark went outside and cut branches with his kitchen knife to block up the openings, hurling curses in all directions. For a moment or two it seemed that he had succeeded in chasing them off. But the harder the rain fell the more bitter the struggle became, and from day to day the shadows prevailed. In vain Tzili tried to calm him. His happiness was being attacked from every quarter. Tzili too seemed affected by the same secret poison.

  “Enough,” he announced, “I’m going down.”

  “No, I’ll go,” said Tzili.

  The dark, rainy plains now drew Mark to them. “I have to go on a tour of inspection,” he announced. It was no longer a caprice but a spell. The plains drew him like a magnet.

  20

  BUT IN THE MEANTIME they put off the decision from day to day. They learned to go short and to share this frugality too. He would drink only once a day and smoke only twice, half a cigarette. The slight tremor came back to his fingers, like a man deprived of alcohol. But for the many shadows besieging their temporary shelter, their small happiness would have been complete.

  From time to time, when the shadows deepened, he would go outside and shout: “Come inside, please. We have a wonderful bunker. It’s a pity we haven’t g
ot any food. Otherwise we’d hold a banquet for you.” These announcements would calm them, but not for long.

  Afterward he said: “There’s nothing else for it, we’ll have to go down. Death isn’t as terrible as it seems. A man, after all, is not an insect. All you have to do is overcome your fear.” These words did not encourage Tzili. The dark, muddy plains became more frightening from day to day. Now it seemed that not only the peasants lay in wait for her there but also her father, her mother, and her sisters.

  And reality stole upon them unawares. Wetness began to seep through the walls of the bunker. At first only a slight dampness, but later real wetness. Mark worked without a pause to stop up the cracks. The work distracted him from the multitude of shadows lying in wait outside. From time to time he brandished his spade as if he were chasing away a troublesome flock of birds.

  One evening, as they were lying in the darkness, snuggling up to each other for warmth, the storm broke in and a torrent of water flooded the bunker. Mark was sure that the multitudes of shadows waiting in the trees to trap him were to blame. He rushed outside, shouting at the top of his voice: “Criminals.”

  Now they stood next to the trees, looking down at the gray slopes shivering in the rain. And just when it seemed that the steady, penetrating drizzle would never stop, the clouds vanished and a round sun appeared in the sky.

  “I knew it,” said Mark.

  If only Tzili had said, “I’ll go down,” he might have let her go. Perhaps he would have gone with her. But she didn’t say anything. She was afraid of the plains. And since she was silent, Mark said: “I’m going down.”

  In the meantime they made a little fire and drank herb tea. Mark was very excited. He spoke in lofty, dramatic words about the need to change, to adapt to local conditions, and not to be afraid. Fear corrupts human dignity, he said. The resolution he had had while building the bunker came back to his face. Now he was even more resolute, determined to go down to the plains and not to be afraid.

  “Don’t go,” said Tzili.

  “I must go down. Inspection of the terrain has become imperative—if only from the point of view of general security needs. Who knows what the villagers have got up their sleeves? They may be getting ready for a surprise attack. I can’t allow them to take us by surprise.”

  Tzili could not understand what he was talking about, but the lofty, resolute words, which at first had given her a sense of security, began to hurt her, and the more he talked the more they stung. He spoke of reassessment and reappraisal, of diversion and camouflage. Tzili understood none of his many words, but this she understood: he was talking of another world.

  “Don’t go.” She clung to him.

  “You have to understand,” he said in a gentle voice. “Once you conquer your fear everything looks different. I’m happy now that I’ve conquered my fear. All my life fear has tortured me shamefully, you understand, shamefully. Now I’m a free man.”

  Afterward they sat together for a long time. But although Tzili now said, “I’ll go down. They know me, they won’t hurt me,” Mark had made up his mind: “This time I’m going down.” And he went down.

  21

  MARK RECEDED RAPIDLY and in a few minutes he was gone. She sat still and felt the silence deepening around her. The sky changed color and a shudder passed over the mountainside.

  Tzili rose to her feet and went into the bunker. It was dark and warm inside the bunker. The haversack lay to one side. For the past few days Mark had refused to go into the bunker. “A man is not a mole. This lying about is shameful.” He used the word shameful often, pronouncing it in a foreign accent, apparently German.

  The daylight hours crept slowly by, and Tzili concentrated her thoughts on Mark’s progress across the mountainside. She imagined him going up and down the same paths that she herself had taken. She saw him pass by the hut where she had bartered a garment for a sausage. She saw it all so clearly that she felt as if she herself were there with him.

  In the afternoon she lit a fire and said: “I’ll make Mark some herb tea. He likes herb tea.”

  Mark was late.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll come back,” a voice from home said in her ear. But when twilight fell and Mark did not return anxiety began dripping into her soul. She went down to the river and washed the mugs. The cold water banished the anxiety for a moment. For some reason she spread a cloth on the ground.

  Darkness fell. The days she had spent with Mark had blunted her fear of the night. Now she was alone again. Mark’s voice came to her and she heard: “A man is not an insect. Death isn’t as terrible as it seems.” Now these words were accompanied by the music of a military band. Like in her childhood, on the Day of Independence, when the army held parades and the bugles played. The military voice gave her back a kind of confidence.

  Mark was late.

  Now she felt that the domestic smells that had enveloped the place were fading away. Fresh, cold air blew in their place. It occurred to her that if she took the clothes out of the haversack and spread them around, the homely smells would come back to fill the air, and perhaps Mark would sense them. Immediately she took the haversack out of the bunker and spread the clothes on the ground. The brightly colored clothes, all damp and crumpled, gave off a confined, moldy smell.

  He’s lost, he must be lost. She clung to this sentence like an anchor. She fell to her knees by the clothes. They were children’s clothes, small and shrunken with the damp, spotted with food stains and a little torn.

  Afterward she turned aside to listen. Apart from an occasional rustle or murmur there was nothing to be heard. From the distant huts scattered between the swamps, isolated barks reached her ears.

  After midnight a thin drizzle began to fall and she put the things back into the bunker. This small activity revived an old scene in her memory. She remembered the first days, before the bunker, when she had brought him the tobacco. The way he had rolled the shredded leaves in a piece of newspaper, the way he had recovered his looks, his smile, and the light on his face.

  The rain stopped but the wind grew stronger, bending the trees with broad, sweeping movements. Tzili went into the bunker. It was warm and full of the smell of tobacco. She breathed in the smell.

  She sat in the dark and for some reason she thought about Mark’s wife. Mark seldom spoke of her. Once she had even sensed a note of resentment against her. She imagined her as a tall, thin woman sheltering her children under her coat. Strange, she felt a kind of kinship with her.

  22

  THE NEXT DAY Mark still did not return. She stood on the edge of the plateau exposed to the wind. The downward slope drew her too. The slope was not steep and it glittered with puddles of water. Now she felt that something had been taken from her, something that belonged to her youth. She covered her face in shame.

  For hours she sat and practiced the words, so that she would be ready for him when he came. “Where were you Mark? I was very worried. Here is some herb tea for you. You must be thirsty.” She did not prepare many words, and the few she did prepare, she repeated over and over again in a voice which had a formal ring in her ears. Repeating the words put her to sleep. She would wake up in alarm and go to the bunker. The walls of the bunker had collapsed, the flimsy roof had caved in, and the floor was covered by a spreading gray puddle. There was an alien spirit in it, but it was the only place she could go to. Everywhere else was even more alien.

  The days dragged out long and heavy. Tzili did not stir. And once a voice burst out from within her: “Mark.” The voice slid down the mountainside, echoing as it went. No one answered.

  Overnight the winds changed and the winter winds came, thin and sharp as knives. The fire burned but it did not warm her. Low, dark clouds covered the somber sky. She prayed often. This was the prayer which she repeated over and over: “God, bring Mark back. If you bring Mark back to me, I’ll go down to the plains and I won’t be lazy.”

  How many days had Mark been gone? At first she kept track, but then she los
t count. Sometimes she saw Mark struggling with the peasants and hurling pointed sticks at them, like the ones he had made for the walls of the bunker. Sometimes he looked tired and crushed. Like the first time she had seen him, pale and gray. Man is not an insect, she remembered and made an effort to get up and stand erect.

  For days she had had nothing to eat. Here and there she still found a few withered wild apples, but for the most part she now lived off roots. The roots were sweet and juicy. “I’ll go on,” she said, but she didn’t move. For hours she sat and gazed at the mountainside sloping down to the plains, the two marshes, the shelter, and the haversack. Sometimes she took out the clothes and spread them on the ground, but Mark did not respond to her call.

  The moment she decided to leave she would imagine that she heard footsteps approaching. A little longer, she would say to herself. Death is not as terrible as it seems.

  Sometimes the cold would envelop her in sweetness. She would close her eyes and curl up tightly and wait for a hand to come and take her away. But none came. Winter winds tore across the hillside, cruel and cutting. “I’ll go on,” she said, and lifted the haversack onto her shoulders. The haversack was soaked through and heavy, with every step she felt that the burden was too heavy to bear.

  “Did you see a man pass by?” she asked a peasant woman standing at the doorway of her hut.

  “There’s no man here. They’ve all been conscripted. Who do you belong to?”

  “Maria.”

  “Which Maria?”

  And when she did not reply the peasant woman understood which Maria she meant, snickered aloud, and said: “Be off with you, wretch! Get out of my sight.”

  One by one Tzili gave the little garments away in exchange for bread. “If I meet Mark I’ll tell him that I was hungry. He won’t be angry.” The haversack on her back grew more burdensome from day to day but she didn’t take it off. The damp warmth stuck to her back. She went from tree to tree. She believed that next to one of the trees she would find him.