by Miriam Toews
No, she says, let me guess. Because it flits about from leaf to stem to petal, pausing only briefly on its way? Because its journey is its story, never stopping, only pausing, always moving.
I smile and nod. Exactly, I say, that is why!
Ona punches the palm of her hand: Aha! She goes back to her seat.
But it’s not true, this is not why the Comma butterfly has its name. And of course there are periods within texts, journeys. Stoppage. The real reason, banal, is that the butterfly has a shape on the underside of its wing that resembles a comma.
I don’t know now why I let her believe otherwise, but someday, perhaps, it will be clear.
Ah, the women are stirring, this reverie has ended. I will resume taking the minutes.
Agata speaks.
Salome, she says, there is nothing worse than being a murderer. If you will become a murderer by staying in the colony, side by side with the men who are responsible for the attacks and side by side with the men who are posting enough bail to have the attackers return to the colony while they await trial, then you must, to protect your own soul and to qualify for entry into heaven, leave the colony.
Mariche frowns, unhappy with Agata’s reasoning. We are not all murderers, she objects.
Not yet, says Ona.
Agata nods. Mariche, she says, have you ever considered killing one of or all the men responsible for the attacks?
Never, says Mariche. What dummheit.
Have you ever wished the attackers dead? asks Agata.
Mariche concedes that she has, but instantly asked God to forgive her.
And do you believe your murderous thoughts would multiply if the men were in your vicinity? Agata persists. If you were to see the men every day, and if the men were in a position of authority over you and your children, and it was expected of you, by Peters, to obey these men?
Yes, says Mariche, I believe that would be the case, that my murderous thoughts would multiply under those conditions.
Ah, says Salome, so you do have murderous thoughts.
No, says Mariche, I told you. I only wish the men were dead.
And that is why we must leave, concludes Agata.
Some of the women, including Mariche and Greta, open their mouths to object, and Greta raises her arms in the air.
But Agata continues: I have done what the verse from Philippians instructed, which is to think about what is good, what is just, what is pure, and what is excellent. And I have arrived at an answer: pacifism.
Pacifism, Agata says, is good. Any violence is unjustifiable. By staying in Molotschna, she says, we women would be betraying the central tenet of the Mennonite faith, which is pacifism, because by staying we would knowingly be placing ourselves in a direct collision course with violence, perpetrated by us or against us. We would be inviting harm. We would be in a state of war. We would turn Molotschna into a battlefield. By staying in Molotschna we would be bad Mennonites. We would be sinners, according to our faith, and we would be denied entry to heaven.
Mejal takes a long haul off her cigarette. She exhales, and nods. Agata is right.
Let’s shake a leg, then, Mejal says.
But by staying and fighting, Mariche objects, we will hopefully achieve peace for our children. Eventually. And our colony will remain intact and we will remain apart from the world, not in the world, which is another central tenet of our Mennonite faith.
That’s true, says Agata, but there is no tenet within our faith that demands we stay apart from the world together with men who inspire violence in our hearts and minds.
Ona asks Mariche, Do you really mean that you want to stay and NOT fight? Because when was the last time you had the strength to stand up to the aggression of Klaas, to protect your children, or to get out of harm’s way?
Mariche is enraged. She rises, her jaw set, her eyes scorching. Who are you, she demands of Ona, to tell me what kind of a wife and mother to be when you are neither one yourself? Who are you but a dreamer, an idiot savant, a spinster, a crazy woman cursed with Narfa, a lunatic!
I’m writing as fast as I can but I cannot keep up with Mariche. She has called Ona a whore, an unwed mother.
Salome has risen now from her milk bucket. She is yelling at Mariche. She says that Ona was made unconscious and raped, like so many others, and now is with child as a result. How dare Mariche call Ona a whore. God, in His creation of the world, forced Adam into a deep sleep and while he was sleeping God removed one of his ribs and from that rib he created Eve. Was Adam a whore?
Mariche hollers back, Adam was a man!
Salome ignores her, shouting: Did Adam initiate that act himself? Was he able to protect himself?
(As a quick aside, for later thought: I’m curious about Salome’s comment, considering the coincidental note I made in my notebook earlier referring to Michelangelo’s painting.)
Salome continues to yell, her voice hoarse. Mariche, are you not afraid that your own sweet Julius will become a monster like his father because you do nothing to protect him, nothing to educate him, nothing to teach him the criminality of his father’s ways, the depravity …
Agata hobbles (her edema is still an issue) to where Salome is standing. She gently urges her daughter back onto the milk bucket and strokes her hair, murmuring words I can’t make out. Agata strokes Salome’s hair with one hand and rubs her own eyes with her other hand, an action that makes clicking sounds.
Salome gently pulls Agata’s hand away from her mother’s eyes. Don’t, she says. That sound. You’re rubbing them too hard.
Agata smiles. The tenderness.
Salome is insane, says Mariche. She has stopped making sense.
Mariche adds, turning to face Ona: How dare you pass judgement on me?
Ona meets Mariche’s gaze and smiles. It wasn’t judgement, she says, it was a question.
Agata leans over to whisper to Ona.
Ona apologizes to Mariche, who suggests that Ona engage in a crude activity I cannot mention. (I’ll mention here that Mariche, in broken English, also told Ona to “fuck it off.” So much of what exists in the outside world is kept out of Molotschna, but curses, like pain, always find a way in.)
Mariche! Greta says. Sit down and be quiet.
Mariche sits down loudly.
Mejal and Salome are sharing a cigarette—waiting, it seems, for the air to clear.
Agata continues to stroke Salome’s arms and hair. She is rubbing her own eyes again, and they are making the little clicking sounds.
Salome frowns and says again, Mother, don’t.
Mariche is silent.
Neitje whispers: It’s “fuck off,” I think. The others nod in agreement.
Ona apologizes again and adds that she, too, was considering the verse from Philippians and thinking on what is good. Freedom is good, she says. It’s better than slavery. And forgiveness is good, better than revenge. And hope for the unknown is good, better than hatred of the familiar.
Mariche remains strangely calm. She asks Ona, genuinely and without sarcasm, But what about security, safety, home and family? What about the sanctity of marriage, of obedience, of love?
I don’t know about those things, any of them, says Ona. Except for love. And even love, she says, is mysterious to me. And I believe that my home is with my mother, with my sister and with my unborn child, wherever they may be.
Mariche asks: Will you not hate your unborn child, because he or she is the child of a man who inspires violent thoughts in you?
I already love this child more than anything, Ona says. He or she is as innocent and loveable as the evening sun—
She looks at me. I hold my breath and scratch my head, plead for forgiveness, but for what, or for whom, oh this temporal light—
And so, too, says Ona, was the child’s father when he was born.
Wait, says Mejal, I disagree. That man was born evil. God brought him into this world to test us, to test our faith.
Salome scoffs. Wasn’t it you, Mejal, who months
ago said all the attackers were employed by the devil? So which one is it? Are God and the devil one and the same to you?
Mejal rolls her eyes and says, Oh, fuck it, I don’t know.
I do not want to hear that language anymore, Greta says wearily.
Agata makes a small noise. Is she crying? No, she isn’t crying. She has rubbed her eyes too hard, just like Salome said she would, and has hurt herself.
Mariche continues her queries, still calm. If Ona is saying that forgiveness is good, better than revenge, is she implying that we must forgive the men of Molotschna, particularly the attackers, rather than serve justice by retaliating? And if so, wouldn’t it be possible to stay in Molotschna, and forgive the men?
But the men of Molotschna, and particularly the attackers, have not asked for forgiveness, Salome points out.
Yes, says Mariche, but Peters will insist that the attackers ask for forgiveness. And then, so as not to sin against God and risk being excommunicated and exiled, we will have to forgive them!
Greta has now laid her head on the table next to her teeth. (A small rodent, the same one or a different one from before, is crossing the floor of the loft. Why are there so many of you and where are you going?)
Forgiveness is moot, Ona insists, if not heartfelt. The only thing we must do is protect our God-given souls. We must find it in our own hearts to forgive the men of Molotschna, regardless of what Peters or anybody else expects of us and even if the men don’t ask for it themselves and even if they claim their innocence all the way to their graves.
So, you believe that maintaining the condition of your own soul is more important than obeying God? Mariche says, less calm now.
They are the same thing, really, Ona says, steadily. I believe that my soul, my essence, my intangible energy, is the presence of God within me, and that by bringing peace to my soul I am honouring God. If I can understand how these crimes may have occurred I am able to forgive these men. And I am almost able, certainly from a distance, to pity these men, and to love them. Love is good, and better than retaliation.
Mariche rises to her feet once again. Ona is preposterous, she rages. Everything she says is ridiculous, blasphemous and morally corrupt.
Greta, weary, lifts her head and then her arms, although not as high as before. Again, she beseeches Mariche to sit down.
Agata speaks: Ona, she says, you make a good point. You mention that certainly from a distance these things are possible: forgiveness, compassion and love. And that adherence to our Mennonite faith requires these things of us. And so, really, we must leave in order to achieve that distance you speak of. Perhaps we could call it perspective. A new perspective, one that is rational, understanding AND loving and obedient, and in keeping with our faith, all at the same time. It is our duty to leave. Would you agree? That the word is “perspective,” and that we would possess this with some distance?
Not fighting, but moving on, says Ona. Always moving. Never fighting. Just moving. Always moving. She seems to be in some kind of trance.
Mariche tells Ona to snap out of it.
You snap out of it, Mariche, says Salome.
All of you snap out of it and focus, Mejal says. Have you lost your minds? She jabs at the window, at the sun outside, at its passing.
Greta, sitting fully upright now, tells us a new story about her team, Ruth and Cheryl.
Several of the women groan, but she ignores this.
In the past, Greta says, she had always been frightened of the road between Molotschna and Chortiza. It is so narrow and the gullies on either side of the road are so deep. It was only when she learned to focus her gaze far ahead of her, down the road, and not on the road immediately in front of her team that she felt safe. Before she learned to do this, says Greta, her buggy would weave and lurch perilously from side to side. Ruth and Cheryl were simply following her commands on the reins, but her commands were reckless, jerky, frenetic and dangerous. Leaving will give us the more far-seeing perspective we need to forgive, which is to love properly, and to keep the peace, according to our faith. Therefore, our leaving wouldn’t be an act of cowardice, abandonment, disobedience or rebellion. It wouldn’t be because we were excommunicated or exiled. It would be a supreme act of faith. And of faith in God’s abiding goodness.
And the fact that we would be breaking up our families? asks Mariche. Taking our children away from their fathers?
Our duty is to God. (Agata)
Precisely—to our souls, which are the manifestation of God. (Ona)
Ona, let me finish. (Agata) Our duty is to protect the creatures He has created, which is ourselves and our children, and to bear witness to our faith. Our faith requires of us absolute commitment to pacifism, love and forgiveness. By staying, we risk these things. We will be at war with our attackers because we’ve acknowledged that we—well, some of us—want to kill them. The only forgiveness we can offer if we stay would be coerced and not genuine. By leaving we will sooner achieve those things required of us by our faith—pacifism, love and forgiveness. And we will be teaching our children that these are our values. By leaving we will be teaching our children that they must pursue these values above and beyond the expectations of their fathers.
Is that blasphemous? insists Mariche.
The others are silent.
Okay, so we leave, Mariche continues. And then, morally? We’re unimpeachable? We’ve acted according to God’s will. But what happens when we become hungry? Or afraid?
Hunger and fear, Ona objects, are the things we share with animals. Can the fear of hunger and fear be our guide?
Mariche frowns at Ona. What are you talking about? Surely we need to think about hunger and fear.
Mejal raises her hand.
Just speak, says Greta. She looks exhausted and pale.
Mejal tactfully brings up Ruth and Cheryl. Would the horses have themselves extended their vision, and looked far down the road rather than myopically, if not for the commanding human pressure on the reins? Would the horses have understood how not to fall into the gully without the direction of a human hand?
Why are you asking? interjects Salome. Are you suggesting that if we follow our innate animal instincts, and act on fear and hunger or on the fear of falling, we’ll somehow find perspective and achieve peace?
Mejal yawns. I was only wondering, only thinking out loud, she says.
But Salome won’t drop the thread. It is true that hunger and fear are the things we share with animals, as Ona pointed out, not the intelligence that allows us to establish perspective or distance in order to better assess a situation.
No, says Mariche, that’s not true either. Animals, and even insects, are perfectly capable of perspective. Didn’t Ona herself mention the long-term planning abilities of dragonflies? How they are able to set out on a course of action knowing, or if not knowing then instinctively understanding, that they would not see the end of their journey but their offspring would?
Well, says Salome, we don’t know what dragonflies are thinking, or if they think. I’m not sure that’s what you would call perspective.
Why shouldn’t I? asks Mariche.
Because it may not be the correct word, says Salome.
What difference does that make? asks Mariche.
Every difference, says Salome.
Mariche suddenly changes the subject, and turns to me. She asks me what I was writing before, when the women were silent. And why I was writing at all, if my job is to translate what the women are saying into English and record those words on paper?
I have answered (startled and embarrassed) that I’m not sure what she’s referring to.
But Mariche is not satisfied. Before, she says, you were writing things, but we weren’t talking. So what were you writing?
I have responded: I was writing about a photograph I’ve seen at the co-op and about a painting by Michelangelo.
Mariche nods—with approval? Reproach? (Ah, reproach.)
Runs in the family, she says.
I don’t know how to answer.
Ona speaks, rescuing me yet again. It has just occurred to her, she says, that the women could consider another option, besides leaving and besides staying and fighting and besides doing nothing.
Mariche reminds her that it’s late in the day to introduce another option. Greta waves this comment away and gestures to Ona to speak.
We could ask the men to leave, says Ona.
Is that a joke? asks Mariche.
Salome, unexpectedly, agrees with Mariche. Are you crazy, Ona? she asks.
Perhaps all of us are crazy, Ona says.
Of course we’re all crazy, says Mejal. How can we not be?
(I’d like to return to this comment later, but for now must hurry along.)
Agata ignores the talk of craziness and returns to Ona’s original question: We ask the men to leave? You mean the attackers and the elders who support their return?
And Peters, of course, says Ona.
Greta lifts her arm. Untenable, she says. Imagine the response of the men, upon being asked to leave the colony. What reason would be given to them?
Everything we’ve discussed, says Ona. That to uphold the charter of our faith we must engage in pacifism, in love and forgiveness. That to be near these men hardens our hearts towards them and generates feelings of hatred and violence. That if we are to continue (or return to) being Good Mennonites, we must separate the men from the women until we can discover (or rediscover) our righteous path.
But, says Mariche, how are the boys and men of Molotschna expected to relearn their habits and their treatment of girls and women if there are no girls or women left in the colony to practise on! By leaving, she continues, we are removing the possibility of re-education for our boys and men. That’s irresponsible.
Ona pauses. She makes round shapes with her hands, as though they contain the universe.
Mariche, she says, you have, interestingly, made a relevant point.
Please do not imply that my other points weren’t interesting by claiming this one to be, says Mariche.
Ona laughs. I didn’t mean that, she says.
Salome interrupts. It’s not our responsibility to educate the boys and men of Molotschna, she says. Let August do it. (!)
