Women Talking

by Miriam Toews

  But not children, says Ona.

  Some children, Salome corrects her.

  Adult children, says Ona. She, like Salome, has several brothers in the city.

  But not all adult children, says Agata.

  That’s right, says Greta.

  Greta removes Mariche’s kerchief and strokes her hair. Mariche leans into the tender embrace of her mother.

  Let’s talk about our sadness after we have nailed down our plan, suggests Agata.

  The women’s expressions are stern, grim, desolate and tight with tension, but they nod in agreement.

  Agata reminds the women that she has secured a great amount of food for the trip, that they will pack it in her buggy later tonight. (Agata is a widow. Her husband, Kurt, died many years ago—from fright, according to Peters. In Peters’ account, Kurt saw the devil in a clearing beyond the mile road west of the yearling barn when he was shooting crows, crows that had been destroying his corn, and dropped dead immediately.

  In Agata’s account—supported by Ona though not entirely by Salome or by Agata’s sons, all grown men, married and in the city presently—Kurt put the .22 to the side of his head and blew his brains out. Ona’s Narfa, the colonists say, had been latent, simmering but not unmanageable, until her father died. Afterwards, she committed her life to dreamy eccentricity, and also to facts, curiously, and to her seemingly preferred status as a pariah, as the devil’s daughter, and God-given burden to the colony. I contend a lighter, less intrusive presence has never been known.)

  Agata asks the women what other preparations were made last night.

  The women speak at once. Greta can’t help but laugh. She asks the others to be quiet so that Autje and Neitje can tell of their accomplishment.

  Autje and Neitje are smiling, excited yet bashful, eager to share their news.

  Autje begins to speak, then stops and moans. The bruise on her face makes it painful to talk.

  Salome reaches across the table and pats her hand.

  Ona says, Oh, Autje, leibchen, don’t speak. Neitje will explain.

  Here is a summary of Neitje’s account: Last night, after Klaas went to get his rotten tooth pulled by Agata, Autje snuck out of the house and ran to get Neitje. (Neitje’s father/uncle, Salome’s husband, is in the city with the other men.) The two of them, Autje and Neitje, ran to Greta’s barn and hurriedly, in complete darkness, saddled up Ruth and Cheryl and rode them to Chortiza colony. There they met up with the Koop brothers behind the Chortiza church, near an open pit used for burning animal carcasses, where the youth of both colonies spend leisure time together on Wednesday and Sunday evenings.

  The girls managed to convince the Koop brothers to harbour Ruth and Cheryl overnight, in the brothers’ barn. In the morning, early, after Klaas had left for the city (angrily, without Ruth and Cheryl, but grateful to have had his rotten tooth removed), the Koop brothers would return Ruth and Cheryl to Molotschna, to Greta’s barn. Greta’s beloved team would be safe and ready to leave with the women on their journey.

  When Neitje finishes, most of the women are smiling, nodding and appreciative.

  Salome, however, is frowning. How were you able to convince the Koop brothers to hide Ruth and Cheryl in their father’s barn? she asks.

  It was easy, says Neitje quickly, because the Koop brothers like us. She and Autje exchange glances.

  And how did you girls get back to Molotschna if Ruth and Cheryl stayed behind in the Koop brothers’ barn? asks Salome.

  The Koop brothers brought us back, says Neitje, with a trace of defiance. We rode behind them on their horses, clutching their waists.

  You were clutching their waists? asks Salome. Clutching their waists?

  Neitje nods, and doesn’t avert her gaze from Salome’s.

  What did you do for the Koop brothers, asks Salome, in return for them hiding Ruth and Cheryl?

  The young women are silent.

  Well? asks Salome.

  Agata chastens Salome. It’s none of our business, she says. What’s done is done, Greta’s beloved team is safe and the girls are none the worse for wear.

  Salome persists. She is angry with Neitje—and with Autje, presumably. She raises her voice. Two old brood mares are not worth demeaning yourselves over, she says.

  Neitje mutters something.

  Please repeat that, says Salome. I can’t hear you.

  Neitje glares at her mother/aunt. She says, softly, You have demeaned yourself many times for much less than two good horses.

  What are you talking about? Salome demands.

  Neitje is silent.

  Salome repeats her demand.

  Neitje won’t speak.

  Salome, again, demands that Neitje speak.

  Neitje shakes her head no.

  Raising her voice now, Salome says that she has only ever done what was required of her in order to keep the peace, that Neitje has no business criticizing her behaviour as a wife and mother, that her behaviour, her submission, her own pain, has prevented Neitje’s father from violating Neitje herself, that—

  Agata puts her hand up.

  At last, Neitje speaks. Oh, she says to Salome, should I thank you?

  Agata says quietly: Salome, that’s enough. There’s no time for this.

  Salome’s eyes are bayonets. She mutters obscenities, jabs at the air, tugs at the front of her dress, the rectangular panel of fabric, de rigueur, that is worn to conceal her breasts … Girls who aren’t virgins can’t get married, she says. She is raging.

  Ona pulls gently on Salome’s sleeve, murmuring words I can’t make out. (She is telling Salome, I believe, that the laws of Molotschna are not the same as the laws of the world, that it doesn’t matter if the girls are virgins or not.)

  What do you know of the world? Salome asks Ona.

  Nothing, says Ona.

  Ona has succeeded in calming Salome. Their faces are an inch apart, as though Ona is breathing sweetness, peace, into the mind of her angry sister.

  Fair enough, Salome says. But tell me, Neitje, did you girls tell the Koop brothers of our plan to leave?

  The young women shake their heads.

  You’re sure of that? says Salome.

  The young women nod their heads. They are sure.

  We are not idiots, says Neitje.

  I am not so sure of that, replies Salome, her voice rising, allowing the Koop brothers to have their way with you for the safety of two near-death nags—

  Agata interrupts. Salome, she says again, enough.

  Salome is quiet, breathing heavily.

  Greta turns to the young women. I am grateful to you, she says, for saving Ruth and Cheryl from being auctioned. I will always be grateful, but I would never have wanted you to compromise your virtue in doing so.

  Oh, Mariche says. Mother. What virtue are you talking about? (She pronounces the word “virtue” as a hiss, a curse.) Virtue, she continues. My ass. You have your horses now. We all know that Neitje’s and Autje’s innocence was taken from them years ago. Let’s be modern. (This is unexpected—and interesting. Being modern has not been an aspiration before, in the colony.) And Salome, you’re behaving sanctimoniously and in bad faith if with one breath you push for this “freedom run” from the men of Molotschna and with the next breath pretend to be offended by the revolutionary (Not revolutionary! objects Greta) actions of the younger women in furthering our goal of leaving. Neitje and Autje used what was available to them to protect Ruth and Cheryl from auction, says Mariche. This isn’t your personal catastrophe.

  What are you talking about? asks Greta.

  Mariche ignores her. She continues to address Salome. How do you suppose the bruises on my face, and Autje’s, got there? Well, I will tell you. When Klaas went to get Ruth and Cheryl and discovered them missing he became very angry. He demanded I tell him where the horses were. I told him that while he was unconscious, getting his tooth pulled, the horses had broken out of the barn because somebody had forgotten to close the door. Klaas hit me and to
ld me that was a lie, ridiculous. Ruth and Cheryl are never interested in running, he said. They’re the laziest horses (Not true! says Greta) in Molotschna. He hit me again. Autje tried to intervene and Klaas slapped her face.

  So, concludes Mariche. What of it? Can we proceed?

  Agata pats Salome’s hand.

  Salome pulls it away and folds her arms.

  Mariche has wounded Salome’s pride. And Neitje has exposed her duplicity. She cannot be consoled.

  We are wasting time, pleads Greta, by passing this burden, this sack of stones, from one to the next, by pushing our pain away. We mustn’t do this. We mustn’t play Hot Potato with our pain. Let’s absorb it ourselves, each of us, she says. Let’s inhale it, let’s digest it, let’s process it into fuel.

  (This, I must confess, is a very loose translation. I’m pressed for time, and distracted because I’m remembering how Greta’s late husband used to travel twelve miles south to purchase moonshine, get very drunk, and then have someone wrap him in a blanket and put him in his buggy, trusting that his horses would find their own way home, which they always did. Then Greta would roll her husband out of the blanket and put him to bed. I’m closer to understanding her deep love for Ruth and Cheryl, and I’m remembering Frint, his large eyes and long lashes, his velvet nose.)

  Now somebody is climbing the ladder to the loft. It is Earnest Thiessen! He can barely walk let alone climb, and he is overexerting himself, smacking his lips, making grunting sounds.

  Ona rushes to help him up the last few rungs.

  Earnest asks us what we’re doing here in his loft. Are you angels? he asks. Are you lost? Will you help me with my bath? He is gasping for air, but also laughing in fits and starts.

  Ona helps him to sit down on a bale.

  What are you bitches plotting? he asks the women (this in an even more archaic dialect of our archaic language).

  Since becoming senile, Earnest Thiessen uses foul language regularly and the women are not alarmed. He was once a polite, reserved man, who, after working the fields all day, played tag in the dusky evening with his late wife, Annie, and their children, in their canola field, with kerosene lanterns to guide their chase.

  Agata, also struggling for breath, gets up and walks to Earnest (they are cousins, the same age) and sits next to him on the bale.

  Oh, Earnest, she says, we’re getting old, aren’t we?

  Earnest puts his head on her shoulder and she smooths his wild, white hair. He asks if the women are devils.

  No, says Agata, we’re your friends.

  He asks if the women are plotting to burn down his barn.

  No, Ernie, says Agata, there’s no plot, we’re only women talking.

  He seems to ponder this, then asks if Agata will help him with his bath.

  Mejal offers to take Earnest back to his house and give him a washing. She will also pick up some bread and sausage from the summer kitchen, and feed Earnest, and bring the rest, as well as instant coffee, back to the loft for the women.

  Will you make sure the water you use to wash Earnest is warm, but not hot, not scalding? asks Agata.

  Mejal nods, and Earnest and Mejal slowly climb down the ladder.

  Agata stands at the top of the ladder, her hands on her hips, watching. There is mint growing next to Earnest’s front porch, she calls after them. You could pick some of it and add it to the warm water. Earnest would love that.

  Agata goes to the window and watches for a long while, as Mejal and Earnest make their way back to Earnest’s house. (I realize suddenly that she is saying goodbye to Earnest, it seems, for good.)

  At last, she turns abruptly and addresses the other women. Is it agreed, she asks, that we will leave tonight after dark so that when we pass by the Chortiza and Hiakjeke colonies we won’t be seen?

  The women nod.

  Ona asks Agata: But what about the colonies beyond Chortiza and Hiakjeke?

  Agata frowns. What colonies? she asks.

  That is exactly what I am asking, Ona replies. What colonies?

  Well, says Agata, we don’t know what lies beyond those colonies because we haven’t travelled beyond them.

  Mariche says: So we don’t know if we won’t be seen leaving because we don’t know who else is there to see us?

  That’s right, says Agata. But we’ll try to cover as much distance as we can while it’s dark and then rest during the day, hidden.

  Where will we hide? asks Greta. With our teams and our livestock and our little children and our chickens squawking incessantly and Grant reciting numbers constantly?

  Greta, Agata says, impatiently, you know that we don’t have the answers to these questions. We can’t possibly know where we’ll be hiding or who or what we’ll encounter when we leave Molotschna. Let’s not waste time by dwelling on the unknown.

  But that’s what thinking is, says Ona. And thinking is one of the things we want to be free to do. The things we know to exist or to be true don’t require us to dwell on them.

  Agata ignores Ona. What else do we have for our journey? she asks.

  Well, Ona says, we must take animals, pigs and cows and chickens, to provide food along the way, and of course Ruth and Cheryl (Of course Ruth and Cheryl! echo the other women, facetiously), and the teams belonging to the other women.

  Greta adds, We’ll also need animal feed, and clean straw.

  But who do those animals belong to? asks Mariche.

  What difference does that make? Salome scoffs. We have to have animals with us to survive.

  Mariche speaks up. So, she says to Salome, you aren’t morally opposed to doing what we must do to survive even if it means stealing?

  (Ona and I exchange glances: Frint.)

  Of course not, says Salome, and besides, the animals belong just as much to us as they do to the men.

  Agreed, says Mariche. But then you shouldn’t behave like a hypocrite when it comes to the other women doing what they feel they need to do in certain circumstances in order to survive.

  Saving two old mares from auction by giving away your bodies to the semi-evolved (so, does Salome believe in evolution? I wonder) Koop brothers is not a question of survival, says Salome heatedly. Whereas having animals on hand when you’re embarking on a long, unfamiliar journey to an unknown destination is definitely a question of survival. Have you ever heard of Noah and his ark?

  Have you heard of Mary Magdalene and her friend Jesus, retorts Mariche.

  Now Agata is laboriously getting to her feet once again. She enunciates every word, with venom in her voice. Now. I. Have. Heard. Enough! Are you women not aware that we are planning to run away tonight? That we are a large group, that the logistics are complicated, the variables multifold and the time fleeting! For the love of our Lord Jesus Christ and precious Saviour will you shut your pieholes, please!

  Ona whispers: We’re not running away, we’re not rats fleeing a burning barn, we’ve made a decision to leave and—

  Agata slams her hand on the table. Her other hand is on her heart. She collapses onto her feed pail/stool and does not speak.

  Ona rushes to her mother. I’m sorry, she says. I promise I’ll stay quiet. She removes her kerchief, dips it into the water barrel and places it on Agata’s forehead. (Ona’s hair cascades—this word retrieved from my memory of jailhouse literature, and I apologize—about her face and shoulders.)

  The other women crowd around Agata. She smiles, eyes wide, nods her head, concentrates on her breathing.

  All of us—the women and I—wait.

  (Translator’s note: There is no medicine for Agata in the colony, other than ether and the veterinarian spray, belladonna, used to knock out cows and horses—the same spray the attackers used on the girls and women of Molotschna.)

  Greta prays.

  Salome and Ona each hold one of Agata’s hands and synchronize their breathing. Mariche and the young women are quiet, looking on.

  Agata has enough breath now to speak. Yoma leid exhai, she says. (This is untransl
atable.)

  The women laugh, relieved.

  Where were we? she asks.

  The women seem nervous about speaking now.

  I raise my hand.

  Please, says Agata, just speak already.

  I explain that, since our meeting ended yesterday, I have managed to procure the safe from the co-op, a stick of dynamite and a world map. (After leaving Ona on the wash house roof last evening I felt emboldened, brave, for reasons having to do with not sleeping, plus pure joy, the sweet memory of our conversation, our proximity, alive inside me.)

  And a sextant, I add. However, I’m not sure that will be useful.

  A sextant! says Ona. She smiles. To measure angles?

  I shrug.

  The women, other than Salome, seem startled. They look at me.

  Greta’s arms go up over her head. Amen, she says.

  Mariche asks: What do you mean, when you say you have dynamite?

  To blow up the safe, says Salome. To get our money.

  Ona asks, What will happen when the men return to find the safe missing?

  We can blame it on the Koop brothers, says Salome.

  The others ignore her.

  Perhaps we will be able to leave a ten percent tithe of the money behind for the church, ventures Autje.

  Salome snorts.

  It was a serious suggestion, says Autje.

  Where did you find dynamite? asks Mariche. She is squinting at me through the damaged soft tissue of her face.

  I explain that it’s used by the colony men to scare the alligators out of the north lagoon. I have encased it in pigskin, like a sausage, I tell the women, so it won’t be detected.

  But won’t the dynamite blow the money that is inside the safe to pieces as well? Mariche asks.

  I hadn’t thought of that, I admit. It might be easier to have someone decode the lock.

  Yes, says Salome, but who? Remember, we will be in hiding in the countryside, not strolling about some city with countless decoding businesses lining the streets.

  That’s a good point, says Agata. I don’t imagine that on some desolate dirt trail we’ll bump into an individual advertising his business for decoding safes.

  True, says Greta. He would be an unsuccessful businessman if that were the case.