Tzili

by Aharon Appelfeld

  Tzili too sold a dress. In exchange she received a joint of smoked meat, two loaves of fresh bread, and a piece of cheese. She remembered the woman’s anger and asked for milk, but they had no milk. Tzili sat on the ground and ate heartily.

  Apart from the card game nobody took any interest in anything. The woman who had scolded Tzili for not providing herself with milk played avidly. Tzili sat and watched them for hours at a time. Their faces reminded her of people from home, but nevertheless they looked like strangers. Perhaps because of the smell, the wet rot of years which clung to them still.

  And while they were all absorbed in their eager game, a sudden fear fell on Tzili. What would she do if they all came back? What would she say, and how would she explain? She would say that she loved Mark. She now feared the questions she would be asked more than she feared the strangers. She curled up and closed her eyes. The fear which came from far away invaded her sleep too. She saw her mother looking at her through a very narrow slit. Her face was blurred but her question was clear: Who was this seducer, who was this Mark?

  And Tzili’s fears were not in vain. One evening everything exploded. One of the card players, a quiet man with the face of a clerk, gentle-mannered and seemingly content, suddenly threw his cards down and said: “What am I doing here?”

  At first this sentence seemed part of the game, annoyance at some little loss, a provocative remark. The game went on for some time longer, without anyone sensing the dynamite about to explode.

  Suddenly the man rose to his feet and said: “What am I doing here?”

  “What do you mean, what are you doing here?” they said. “You’re playing cards.”

  “I’m a murderer,” he said, not in anger, but with a kind of quiet deliberation, as if the scream in his throat had turned, within a short space of time, to a clear admission of guilt.

  “Don’t talk like that,” they said.

  “You know it better than I do,” he said. “You’ll be my witnesses when the time comes.”

  “Of course we’ll be your witnesses. Of course we will.”

  “You’ll say that Zigi Baum is a murderer.”

  “That you can’t expect of us.”

  “I, for one, don’t intend hiding anything.”

  This exchange, proceeding without anger, in a matter-of-fact tone, turned gradually into a menacing confrontation.

  “You won’t tell the truth, then?”

  “Of course we’ll tell the truth.”

  “A man abandons his wife and children, his father and his mother. What is he if not a murderer?” He raised his head and a smile broke out on his face. Now he looked like a man who had done what had to be done and was about to take up his practical duties again. He took off his coat, sat down on the ground, and looked around him. He showed no signs of agitation.

  For a moment it seemed as if he were about to ask a question. All eyes were on him. He bowed his head. They averted their eyes.

  “It’s not a big thing to ask, I think,” he said to himself. “I didn’t want to ask you to do it, I don’t know if I should have asked you. The day of judgment will come in the end. If not in this world then in the next. I can’t imagine life without justice.”

  He did not seem confused. There was a straightforward kind of matter-of-factness in his look. As if he wanted to bring a certain matter up for discussion, a matter which had become a little complicated, but not to such an extent that it could not be discussed with people who were close to him.

  He took his tobacco out of his pocket, rolled himself a cigarette, lit it and inhaled the smoke.

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. He said: “This is good tobacco. It’s got the right degree of moisture. You remember how we used to fight over cigarette stubs? We lost our human image. Pardon me—do you say human image or divine image?”

  “Neither,” said a voice from behind.

  This remark was apparently not to his liking. He clamped his teeth on the cigarette and passed his hand over his hair. Now you could see how old he was: not more than thirty-five. His cheeks were slightly lined, his nose was straight, and his ears were set close to his head. There was a concentrated look in his eyes.

  “How much do I owe?” he asked one of the others. “I lost, I think.”

  “It’s all written down. You’ll pay us back later.”

  “I don’t like being in debt. How much do I owe?”

  There was no response. He inhaled and blew the smoke out downward. “Strange,” he said. “The war is over. I never imagined it would end like this.”

  Darkness fell and the tension relaxed. Zigi looked slightly ashamed of the scandal he had caused.

  And while they were all sitting there, Zigi rose to his feet, stretched his arms, and raised his knees as if he were about to run a race. In the camp too he had been in the habit of taking short runs, in order to warm himself up. They had saved him then from depression.

  Now it seemed as if he were about to take a run, as in the old days. One, two, he said, and set out. He ran six full rounds, and on the seventh he rose into the air and with a broad, slow movement cast himself into the water.

  For a moment they all stood rooted to the spot. Then they all rushed together to the single hurricane lamp and stood waving it in the air. “Zigi, Zigi,” they cried. A few of them jumped into the river.

  All night long they labored in the icy water. Some of them swam far out, but they did not find Zigi.

  And when morning broke the river was smooth and placid. A greenish-blue light shone on its surface. No one spoke. They spread their clothes out to dry and the old moldy smell, which seemed to have gone away, rose once more into the air.

  Afterward they lit a fire and sat down to eat. Their hunger was voracious. The loaves of bread disappeared one after the other.

  Tzili forgot herself for a moment. Zigi’s athletic run went on flashing past her eyes, with great rapidity. It seemed to her that he would soon rise from the river, shake the water off his body, and announce: “The river’s fine for swimming.”

  In the afternoon the place suddenly seemed confined and threatening, the light oppressive. The peasant women came and spread their wares on their flowered cloths, but no one bought anything. The women sat and looked at them with watchful eyes. One of them asked: “Why aren’t you buying today? We have bread and smoked meat. Fresh milk too.”

  “Let’s go,” someone said, and immediately they all stood up. Tzili too raised her heavy body from the ground. No one asked: “Where to?” A dumb wonder stared from their faces, as after enduring grief. Tzili was glad that the haversack was empty, and now she had nothing but her own body to carry.

  29

  THEY WALKED ALONG the riverside, toward the south. The sun shone on the green fields. Now it seemed that Zigi Baum was floating on the current, his arms outspread. Every now and then his image was reflected on the surface of the water. No one stopped to gaze at this shining reflection. The current widened as it approached the dam, a mighty torrent of water.

  Later on a few people turned off to the right. They turned off together, without asking any questions or saying good-bye. Tzili watched them walk away. They showed no signs of anger or of happiness. They went on walking at the same pace—for some reason, in another direction.

  Tzili, it appeared, was already in the sixth month of her pregnancy. Her belly was taut and heavy but her legs, despite the difficulties of the road, walked without stumbling. When the refugees stopped to rest, they ate in silence. The strange disappearance of Zigi Baum had infected them with a subtle terror, unlike anything they had experienced before.

  Tzili was happy. Not a happiness which had any outward manifestations: the fetus stirring inside her gave her an appetite and a lust for life. Not so the others: death clung even to their clothes. They tried to shake it off by walking.

  From time to time they quickened their pace and Tzili fell behind. They were as absorbed in themselves now as they had been before in their card game. No one asked: “Whe
re is she?” but nevertheless Tzili felt that their closeness to her was stronger than their distraction.

  She no longer thought much about Mark. As if he had set out on a long journey from which it would take a long time to return. He appeared to her now as a tiny figure on the distant horizon, beyond the reach of her voice. She still loved him, but with a different kind of love. A love which had no real taste. From time to time a kind of awe descended on her and she knew: it was Mark, watching her—not uncritically—from afar.

  She would say: Mark is inside me, but she didn’t really feel it. The fetus was now hers, a secret which no one but she could touch.

  Once, when they had stopped to rest, a woman asked her: “Isn’t it hard for you?”

  “No,” said Tzili simply.

  “And do you want the baby?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman was surprised by Tzili’s reply. She looked at her as if she were some stupid, senseless creature. Then she was sorry and her expression changed to one of wonder and pity: “How will you bring it up?”

  “I’ll keep it with me all the time,” said Tzili simply.

  Tzili too wanted to ask: “Where are you from?” But she had learned not to ask. On their last halt a quarrel had broken out between two women as a result of a tactless question. People were very tense and questions brought their repressed anger seething to the surface.

  “How old are you?” asked the woman.

  “Fifteen.”

  “So young.” Wonder softened the woman’s face.

  Tzili offered her a piece of bread and she said, “Thank you.”

  “I,” said the woman, “have lost my children. It seems to me that I did everything I could, but they were lost anyway. The oldest was nine and the youngest seven. And I am alive, as you see, even eating. Me they didn’t harm. I must be made of iron.”

  A pain shot through Tzili’s diaphragm and she closed her eyes.

  “Don’t you feel well?” asked the woman.

  “It’ll pass,” said Tzili.

  “Give me your mug and I’ll fetch you some water.”

  When the woman returned Tzili was already sitting calmly on the ground. The woman raised the cup to Tzili’s mouth and Tzili drank. The woman now wanted more than anything to help Tzili, but she did not know how. Tzili, in spite of everything, had more food than she did.

  Straight after this night fell and the woman sank to the ground and slept. She shrank to the size of a child of six. Tzili wanted to cover the woman with her tattered coat, but she immediately suppressed this impulse. She did not want to frighten her.

  The others were awake but passive. The isolated words which fluttered in the air were as inward as a conversation between two lovers, no longer young.

  The night was warm and fine and Tzili remembered the little yard at home, where she had spent so many hours. Every now and then her mother would call, “Tzili,” and Tzili would reply, “Here I am.” Of her entire childhood, only this was left. All the rest was shrouded in a heavy mist. She was seized by longing for the little yard. As if it were the misty edge of the Garden of Eden.

  “I have to eat.” She banished the vision and immediately put her hand into the haversack and tore off a piece of bread. The bread was dry. A few grains of coal were embedded in its bottom crust. She liked the taste of the bread. Afterward she ate a little smoked meat. With every bite she felt her hunger dulled.

  30

  THE SUMMER TOOK them by surprise, hot and broad, filling them with a will to live. The paths all flowed together into green creeks, bordered by tall trees. Refugees streamed from all directions, and for some reason the sight recalled summer holidays, youth movements, seasonal vacations, all kinds of forgotten youthful pleasures. Words from the old lexicon floated in the air. Only their clothes, like an eternal disgrace, went on steaming.

  Tzili sat still, this happiness made her anxious. Soon it would give way to screams, pain, and despair.

  That night they made a fire, sang and danced, and drank. And as after every catastrophe: embraces, couplings, and despondency in their wake. Tall women with the traces of an old elegance still clinging to them lay sunbathing shamelessly next to the lake.

  “What does it matter—there’s no point in living anymore anyway,” a woman who had apparently run wild all night confessed. She was strong and healthy, fit to bring many more children into the world.

  “And you won’t go to Palestine?” asked her friend.

  “No,” said the woman decisively.

  “Why not?”

  “I want to go to hell.”

  From this conversation Tzili absorbed the word Palestine. Once when her sister Yetty had become involved with the Moravian officer, there had been talk of sending her to Palestine. At first Yetty had refused, but then she changed her mind and wanted to go. But by then they didn’t have the money to send her. Now Tzili thought often of her sister Yetty. Where was she now?

  Tzili’s fears were not in vain. The calamities came thick and fast: one woman threw herself into the lake and another swallowed poison. The marvelous oblivion was gone in an instant and the same healthy woman, the one who had refused to go to Palestine, announced: “Death will follow us all our lives, wherever we go. There’ll be no more peace for us.”

  In the afternoon the body was recovered from the lake and the funerals took place one after the other. One of the men, who had the look of a public official even in his rags, spoke at length about the great obligations which were now facing them all. He spoke about memory, the long memory of the Jewish people, the eternal life of the tribe, and the historic necessity of the return to the motherland. Many wept.

  After the funeral there was a big argument and the words of the official were heard again. It appeared that the woman who had taken poison had taken it because of a broken promise: someone who wanted to sleep with her had promised to marry her, and the next day he had changed his mind. The woman, who in all the years of suffering had kept the poison hidden in the lining of her coat without using it, had used it now. And something else: before taking the poison the woman had announced her intention of taking it, but no one had believed her.

  Now there was nothing left but to say: Because of one night in bed a person commits suicide? So what if he slept with her? So what if he promised her? What do we have left but for the little pleasures of life? Do we have to give those up too?

  Tzili took in the words with her eyes shut. She understood the words now, but she did not justify any of them in her heart. She sensed only one thing: the grief which had washed through her too had now become empty and pointless.

  31

  NOW THEY STREAMED with the sun toward the sea. And at night they grilled silver fish, fresh from the river, on glowing coals. The nights were warm and clear, bringing to mind a life in which pleasures were real.

  There was no lack of quarrels in this mixture. The summer sun worked its magic. As if the years in the camps had vanished without a trace. A forgetfulness which was not without humor. Like, for example, the woman who performed night after night, singing, reciting, and exposing her thighs. No one reminded her of her sins in the labor camp. She was now their carnival queen.

  Now too there were those who could not stand the merriment and left. There was no lack of prosecutors, accusers, stirrers up of the past, and spoilsports. At this time too, the first visionaries appeared: short, ardent men who spoke about the salvation of the soul with extraordinary passion. You couldn’t get away from them. But the desire to forget was stronger than all these. They ate and drank until late at night.

  “What are you doing here?” A man would accost her from time to time, but on seeing that she was pregnant he would withdraw at once and leave her alone.

  Tzili was very weak now. The long march had worn her out. From time to time a pain would pierce her and afterward she would feel giddy. Her legs swelled up too, but she bit her lips and said nothing. She was proud that her legs bore her and her baby. For some reason she believed that
if her legs were healthy no harm would befall her.

  And her life narrowed down to little worries. She forgot everyone and if she remembered them it was casually and absentmindedly. She was with herself, or rather with her body, which kept her occupied day and night. Sometimes someone offered her a piece of fish or bread. When she was very hungry she would stretch out her hand and beg. She wasn’t ashamed to beg.

  Without anyone noticing, the green creeks turned into a green plain dotted with little lakes. The landscape was so lovely that it hurt, but people were so obsessed with their merrymaking that they took no notice of the change. After a night of drinking they would sleep.

  The convoy proceeded slowly and at a ragged pace. Sometimes a sudden panic took hold of them and made them run. Tzili limped after them with the last of her strength. They traipsed from place to place as if they were at the mercy of their changing moods. At this time fate presented Tzili with a moment of peace. Everything was full of joy—the light and the water and her body bearing her baby within it—but not for long.

  During one of the panic flights she felt she could not go on. She tried to get up but immediately collapsed again. But for the fat woman, the one who sang and recited and bared her thighs—but for her and the fact that she noticed Tzili’s absence and immediately cried: “We’ve left the child behind”—they would have gone on without her. At first no one paid any attention to her cry, but she was determined to be heard. She called out again, with a kind of authority, like a woman used to raising her voice, and the convoy drew to a halt.

  No one knew what to do. During the years of the war they had learned to run and to stop for no one. The fat woman made them stop. “Man is not an insect. This time no one will shirk his duty.” A sudden shame covered their faces.

  There was no doctor among them, but there was a man who had been a merchant in peacetime and claimed that he had once taken a course in first aid, and he said: “We’ll have to carry her on a stretcher.” Strange: the words did their work at once. One of them went to fetch wood and another rope, and the skinny merchant, who never opened his mouth, knelt down and with movements that were almost prayerful he joined and he knotted. And they produced a sheet too, and a ragged blanket, and even some pins and some hooks. By nightfall the merchant could survey his handiwork and say: “She’ll be quite comfortable on this.”