Tzili (6 page)

Immediately he corrected himself and said: “You
can buy whatever you want, it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s something to fill our bellies. I’d go myself, and willingly, but I’d be found out. It’s a pity I haven’t got any other clothes. You understand.”

“I understand,” said Tzili submissively.

“I’d go myself if I could,” he said again, in a tone which was at once ingratiating and calculating. “You, how shall I put it, you’ve changed, you’ve changed for the better. Nobody would ever suspect you. You say your
r
’s exactly like they do. Where do you get it all from?”

“I don’t know.”

Now there was something frightening in his appearance. As if he had risen from his despair another man, terrifyingly practical.

E
ARLY IN THE MORNING
she set out. He stood watching her receding figure for a long time. Once again she was by herself. She knew that the stranger had done something to her, but what? She walked for hours, looking for ways around the melted snow, and in the end she found an open path, paved with stones.

A woman was standing next to one of the huts, and Tzili addressed her in the country dialect: “Have you any bread?”

“What will you give me for it?”

“Money.”

“Show me.”

Tzili showed her.

“And how much will I give you for it?”

“Two loaves.”

The old peasant woman muttered a curse, went inside, and emerged immediately with two loaves in her hands. The transaction was over in a moment.

“Who do you belong to?” she remembered to ask.

“To Maria.”

“Maria?
Tfu
.” The woman spat. “Get out of my sight.”

Tzili clasped the bread in both hands. The bread was still warm, and it was only after she had walked for some distance that the tears gushed out of her eyes. For the first time in many days she saw the face of her mother, a face no longer young. Worn with work and suffering. Her feet froze on the ground, but as in days gone by she knew that she must not stand still, and she continued on her way.

The trees were putting out leaves. Tzili jumped over the puddles without getting wet. She knew the way and weaved between the paths, taking shortcuts and making detours like a creature native to the place. She walked very quickly and arrived before evening fell. Mark was sitting in his place. His tired, hungry eyes had a dull, indifferent look.

“I brought bread,” she said.

Mark roused himself: “I thought you were lost.” He fell on the bread and tore it to shreds with his teeth, without offering any to Tzili. She observed him for a moment: his eyes seemed to have come alive and all his senses concentrated on chewing.

“Won’t you have some too?” he said when he was finished eating.

Tzili stretched out her hand and took a piece of
bread. She wasn’t hungry. The long walk had tired her into a stupor. Her tears too had dried up. She sat without moving.

Mark passed his right hand over his mouth and said: “A cigarette, if only I had a cigarette.”

Tzili made no response.

He went on: “Without cigarettes there’s no point in living.” Then he dug his nails into the ground and began singing a strange song. Tzili remembered the melody but she couldn’t understand the words. Gradually his voice lost its lilt and the song trailed off into a mutter.

The evening was cold and Mark lit a fire. During the long days of his stay here he had learned to make fire from two pieces of flint and a thread of wool which he plucked from his coat. Tzili marveled momentarily at his dexterity. The agitation faded from his face and he asked in a practical tone of voice: “How did you get the bread? Fresh bread?”

Tzili answered him shortly.

“And they didn’t suspect you?”

For a long time they sat by the little fire, which gave off a pleasant warmth.

“Why are you so silent?”

Tzili hung her head, and an involuntary smile curved her lips.

The craving for cigarettes did not leave him. The fresh bread had given him back his taste for life, but
he lost it again immediately. For hours he sat nibbling blades of grass, chewing them up and spitting them to one side. He had a tense, bitter look. From time to time he cursed himself for being a slave to his addiction. Tzili was worn out and she fell asleep where she sat.

W
HEN SHE WOKE
she kept her eyes closed. She felt Mark’s eyes on her. She lay without moving. The fire had not gone out, which meant that Mark had not slept all night.

When she finally opened her eyes it was already morning. Mark asked: “Did you sleep?” The sun rose in the sky and the horizons opened out one after the other until the misty plains were revealed in the distance. Here and there they could see a peasant ploughing.

“It’s a good place,” said Mark. “You can see a long way from here.” The agitation had faded from his face, and a kind of complacency that did not suit him had taken its place. Tzili imagined she could see in him one of the Jewish salesmen who used to drop into her mother’s shop. Mark asked her: “Did you go to school?”

“Yes.”

“A Jewish school?”

“No. There wasn’t one. I studied Judaism with an old teacher. The Pentateuch and prayers.”

“Funny,” he said, “it sounds so far away. As if it never happened. And do you still remember anything?”

“Hear, O Israel.”

“And do you recite it?”

“No,” she said and hung her head.

“In my family we weren’t observant anymore,” said Mark in a whisper. “Was your family religious?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You said they brought you a teacher of religion.”

“It was only for me, because I didn’t do well at school. My brothers and sisters were all good at school. They were going to take external examinations.”

“Strange,” said Mark.

“I had trouble learning.”

“What does it matter now?” said Mark. “We’re all doomed anyway.”

Tzili did not understand the word but she sensed that it held something bad.

After a pause Mark said: “You’ve changed very nicely, you’ve done it very cleverly. I can’t imagine a change like that taking place in me. Even the forests won’t change me now.”

“Why?” asked Tzili.

“Because everything about me gives me away—my appearance, from top to toe, my nose, my accent, the way I eat, sit, sleep, everything. Even though I’ve never
had anything to do with what’s called Jewish tradition. My late father used to call himself a free man. He was fond of that phrase, I remember, but here in this place I’ve discovered, looking at the peasants ploughing in the valley, their serenity, that I myself—I won’t be able to change anymore. I’m a coward. All the Jews are cowards and I’m no different from them. You understand.”

Tzili understood nothing of this outburst, but she felt the pain pouring out of the words and she said: “What do you want to do?”

“What do I want to do? I want to go down to the village and buy myself a packet of tobacco. That’s all I want. I have no greater desire. I’m a nervous man and without cigarettes I’m an insect, less than an insect, I’m nothing.”

“I’ll buy it for you.”

“Thank you,” said Mark, ashamed. “Forgive me. I have no more money. I’ll give you a coat. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s good,” said Tzili. “That’s very good.” In the tent of branches he had a haversack full of things. He spread them out now on the ground to dry. His clothes, his wife’s and children’s clothes. He spread them out slowly, like a merchant displaying his wares on the counter.

Tzili shuddered at the sight of the little garments spotted with food stains. Mark spread them out without any order and they steamed and gave off a stench
of mildew and sour-sweet. “We must dry them,” said Mark in a businesslike tone. “Otherwise they’ll rot.” He added: “I’ll give you my coat. It’s a good coat, pure wool. I bought it a year ago. I hope you’ll be able to get me some cigarettes for it. Without cigarettes to smoke I get very nervous.”

Strange, his nervousness was not apparent now. He stood next to the steaming clothes, turning them over one by one, as if they were pieces of meat on a fire. Tzili too did not take her eyes off the stained children’s clothes shrinking in the sun.

Toward evening he gathered the clothes up carefully and folded them. The coat intended for selling he put aside. “For this, I hope, we’ll be able to get some tobacco. It’s a good coat, almost new,” he muttered to himself.

That night Mark did not light a fire. He sat and sucked soft little twigs. Chewing the twigs seemed to blunt his craving for cigarettes. Tzili sat not far from him, staring into the darkness.

“I wanted to study medicine,” Mark recalled, “but my parents didn’t have the money to send me to Vienna. I sat for external matriculation exams and my marks weren’t anything to write home about, only average. And then I married very young, too young I’d say. Of course, nothing came of my plans to study. A pity.”

“What’s your wife’s name?” asked Tzili.

“Why do you ask?” said Mark in surprise.

“No reason.”

“Blanca.”

“How strange,” said Tzili. “My sister’s name is Blanca too.”

Mark rose to his feet. Tzili’s remark had abruptly stopped the flow of his memories. He put his hands in his trouser pocket, stuck out his chest, and said: “You must go to sleep. Tomorrow you have a long walk in front of you.”

The strangeness of his voice frightened Tzili and she immediately got up and went to lie down on the pile of leaves.

S
HE SLEPT DEEPLY
, without feeling the wind. When she woke a mug of hot herb tea was waiting for her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“Why can’t you sleep?”

“I can’t fall asleep without a cigarette.”

Tzili put the coat into a sack and rose to her feet. Mark sat in his place next to the fire. His dull eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. For some reason he touched the sack and said: “It’s a good coat, almost new.”

“I’ll look after it,” said Tzili without thinking, and set off.

I’ll bring him cigarettes, he’ll be happy if I bring him cigarettes. This thought immediately strengthened her legs. The summer was in full glory, and in the distant, yellow fields she could see the farmers cutting corn. She crossed the mountainside and when she came to the river she picked up her dress and waded across it.
Light burst from every direction, bright and clear. She approached the plots of cultivated land without fear, as if she had known them all her life. With every step she felt the looseness of the fertile soil.

“Have you any tobacco?” she asked a peasant woman standing at the doorway of her hut.

“And what will you give me in exchange?”

“I have a coat,” said Tzili and held it up with both hands.

“Where did you steal it?”

“I didn’t steal it. I got it as a present.”

Upon hearing this reply an old crone emerged from the hut and announced in a loud voice: “Leave the whore’s little bastard alone.” But the younger woman, who liked the look of the coat, said: “And what else do you want for it?”

“Bread and sausage.”

Tzili knew how to bargain. And after an exchange of arguments, curses, and accusations, and after the coat had been turned inside out and felt all over, they agreed on two loaves of bread, two joints of meat, and a bundle of tobacco leaves.

“You’ll catch it if the owner comes and demands his coat back. We’ll kill you,” the old crone said threateningly.

Tzili put the bread, meat, and tobacco into her sack and turned to go without saying a word. The old crone showed no signs of satisfaction at the transaction, but
the young woman made no attempt to hide her delight in the city coat.

On the way back Tzili sat and paddled in the water. The sun shone and silence rose from the forest. She sat for an hour without moving from her place and in the end she said to herself: Mark is sad because he has no cigarettes. When he has cigarettes he’ll be happy. This thought brought her to her feet and she started to run, taking shortcuts wherever she could.

Toward evening she arrived. Mark bowed his head as if she had brought him news of some great honor, an honor of which he was not unworthy. He took the bundle of tobacco leaves, stroking and sniffing them. Before long he had a cigarette rolled from newspaper. An awkward joy flooded him. In the camp people would fight over a cigarette stub more than over a piece of bread. He spoke of the camp now as if he were about to return to it.

That evening he lit a fire again. They ate and drank herb tea. Mark found a few dry logs and they burned steadily and gave off a pleasant warmth. The wind dropped too, and seemed gentler than before, the shadows it brought from the forest less menacing. Mark was apparently affected by these small changes. Without any warning he suddenly burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?”

“I remembered.”

“What?”

“Everything that’s happened to me in the past year.”

Tzili rose to her feet. She wanted to say something but the words would not come. In the end she said: “I’ll bring you more tobacco.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I sit here eating and smoking and they’re all over there. Who knows where they are by now.” His gray face seemed to grow grayer, a yellow stain spread over his forehead.

“They’ll all come back,” said Tzili, without knowing what she was saying.

These words calmed him immediately. He asked about the way and the village, and how she had obtained the food and the tobacco, and in general what the peasants were saying.

“They don’t say anything,” said Tzili quietly.

“And they didn’t say anything about the Jews?”

“No.”

For a few minutes he sat without moving, wrapped up in himself. His dull, bloodshot eyes slowly closed. And suddenly he dropped to the ground and fell asleep.

E
VERY WEEK
she went down to the plains to renew their supplies. She was quiet, like a person doing what had to be done without unnecessary words. She would bathe in the river, and when she returned her body gave off a smell of cool water.

She would tell him about her adventures on the plains: a drunken peasant woman had tried to hit her, a peasant had set his dog on her, a passerby had tried to rob her of the clothes she had taken to barter. She spoke simply, as if she were recounting everyday experiences.