Tzili (11 page)

Tzili liked the look of him and she drew near to hear him speak. He spoke patiently, imploringly, without raising his voice. As if he were speaking of things that were self-evident. And for a moment it seemed that he was not speaking, but singing.

The people were absorbed in their card game, and the young man’s eloquence disturbed them. At first they asked him to leave them alone and go somewhere else. The young man begged their pardon and said that he had only come to tell them what he himself had been told. And if what he had been told was true, he could not be silent.

It was obvious that he was a well-brought-up young man. He spoke politely in a correct German Jewish, and wished no one any harm. But his apologies were to no avail. They ordered him to leave, or at any rate to shut up. The young man seemed about to depart, but something inside him, something compulsive, stopped him, and he stood his ground and went on talking. One of the card players, who had been losing and was in a bad mood, stood up and hit him.

To everyone’s surprise, the young man burst out crying.

It was more like wailing than crying. The whole night long he sat and wailed. Through his wailing the history of his life emerged. He was an architect. Like his father and forefathers, he was remote from Jewish affairs, busy trying to set up an independent studio. The war took him completely by surprise. In the camp something had happened to him. His workmate in the forced labor gang, something of a Jewish scholar although not a believer, had taught him a little Bible, Mishna, and the Sayings of the Fathers. After the war he had begun to hear voices, clear, unconfused voices, and one evening the cry had burst from his throat: “Jews repent, return to your Father in Heaven.”

From then on he never stopped talking, explaining, and calling on the Jews to repent. And when people refused to listen or hit him, he fell to the ground and wept.

The next day one of the card players found a way to get rid of him. He approached the young man and said to him in his own language, in a whisper: “Why waste your time on these stubborn Jews? Down below, not far from here, there are plenty of survivors, gentle people like you. They’re waiting for someone to come and show them the way. You’ll do it. You’re just the right person. Believe me.”

Strange, these words had an immediate effect. He rose to his feet and asked the way, and without another word he set out.

Tzili felt sorry for the young man who had been led astray. She covered her face with her hands. The others too seemed unhappy. They returned to their card playing as if it were not a game, but an urgent duty.

A
FTER THIS
the weather was fine and mild, without wind or rain. The grass grew thick and wild and the people sat about drinking coffee and playing cards. There were no quarrels, and for a while it seemed as if things would go on like this forever.

From time to time peasant women would appear, spread out their wares on flowered cloths, and offer the survivors apples, smoked meat, and black bread. The survivors bartered clothes for food. Some of them had gold coins too, old watches, and all kinds of trinkets they had kept with them through the years of the war. They gave these things away for food without haggling about their worth.

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.

T
HEY 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: “Where 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.