Tzili (8 page)

From time to time, when the shadows deepened, he would go outside and shout: “Come inside, please. We have a wonderful bunker. It’s a pity we haven’t got any food. Otherwise we’d hold a banquet for you.” These announcements would calm them, but not for long.

Afterward he said: “There’s nothing else for it, we’ll have to go down. Death isn’t as terrible as it seems. A man, after all, is not an insect. All you have to do is overcome
your fear.” These words did not encourage Tzili. The dark, muddy plains became more frightening from day to day. Now it seemed that not only the peasants lay in wait for her there but also her father, her mother, and her sisters.

And reality stole upon them unawares. Wetness began to seep through the walls of the bunker. At first only a slight dampness, but later real wetness. Mark worked without a pause to stop up the cracks. The work distracted him from the multitude of shadows lying in wait outside. From time to time he brandished his spade as if he were chasing away a troublesome flock of birds.

One evening, as they were lying in the darkness, snuggling up to each other for warmth, the storm broke in and a torrent of water flooded the bunker. Mark was sure that the multitudes of shadows waiting in the trees to trap him were to blame. He rushed outside, shouting at the top of his voice: “Criminals.”

Now they stood next to the trees, looking down at the gray slopes shivering in the rain. And just when it seemed that the steady, penetrating drizzle would never stop, the clouds vanished and a round sun appeared in the sky.

“I knew it,” said Mark.

If only Tzili had said, “I’ll go down,” he might have let her go. Perhaps he would have gone with her. But she
didn’t say anything. She was afraid of the plains. And since she was silent, Mark said: “I’m going down.”

In the meantime they made a little fire and drank herb tea. Mark was very excited. He spoke in lofty, dramatic words about the need to change, to adapt to local conditions, and not to be afraid. Fear corrupts human dignity, he said. The resolution he had had while building the bunker came back to his face. Now he was even more resolute, determined to go down to the plains and not to be afraid.

“Don’t go,” said Tzili.

“I must go down. Inspection of the terrain has become imperative—if only from the point of view of general security needs. Who knows what the villagers have got up their sleeves? They may be getting ready for a surprise attack. I can’t allow them to take us by surprise.”

Tzili could not understand what he was talking about, but the lofty, resolute words, which at first had given her a sense of security, began to hurt her, and the more he talked the more they stung. He spoke of reassessment and reappraisal, of diversion and camouflage. Tzili understood none of his many words, but this she understood: he was talking of another world.

“Don’t go.” She clung to him.

“You have to understand,” he said in a gentle voice. “Once you conquer your fear everything looks different.
I’m happy now that I’ve conquered my fear. All my life fear has tortured me shamefully, you understand, shamefully. Now I’m a free man.”

Afterward they sat together for a long time. But although Tzili now said, “I’ll go down. They know me, they won’t hurt me,” Mark had made up his mind: “This time I’m going down.” And he went down.

M
ARK RECEDED RAPIDLY
and in a few minutes he was gone. She sat still and felt the silence deepening around her. The sky changed color and a shudder passed over the mountainside.

Tzili rose to her feet and went into the bunker. It was dark and warm inside the bunker. The haversack lay to one side. For the past few days Mark had refused to go into the bunker. “A man is not a mole. This lying about is shameful.” He used the word
shameful
often, pronouncing it in a foreign accent, apparently German.

The daylight hours crept slowly by, and Tzili concentrated her thoughts on Mark’s progress across the mountainside. She imagined him going up and down the same paths that she herself had taken. She saw him pass by the hut where she had bartered a garment for a sausage. She saw it all so clearly that she felt as if she herself were there with him.

In the afternoon she lit a fire and said: “I’ll make Mark some herb tea. He likes herb tea.”

Mark was late.

“Don’t worry, he’ll come back,” a voice from home said in her ear. But when twilight fell and Mark did not return anxiety began dripping into her soul. She went down to the river and washed the mugs. The cold water banished the anxiety for a moment. For some reason she spread a cloth on the ground.

Darkness fell. The days she had spent with Mark had blunted her fear of the night. Now she was alone again. Mark’s voice came to her and she heard: “A man is not an insect. Death isn’t as terrible as it seems.” Now these words were accompanied by the music of a military band. Like in her childhood, on the Day of Independence, when the army held parades and the bugles played. The military voice gave her back a kind of confidence.

Mark was late.

Now she felt that the domestic smells that had enveloped the place were fading away. Fresh, cold air blew in their place. It occurred to her that if she took the clothes out of the haversack and spread them around, the homely smells would come back to fill the air, and perhaps Mark would sense them. Immediately she took the haversack out of the bunker and spread the clothes on the ground. The brightly colored clothes, all damp and crumpled, gave off a confined, moldy smell.

He’s lost, he must be lost. She clung to this sentence like an anchor. She fell to her knees by the clothes. They were children’s clothes, small and shrunken with the damp, spotted with food stains and a little torn.

Afterward she turned aside to listen. Apart from an occasional rustle or murmur there was nothing to be heard. From the distant huts scattered between the swamps, isolated barks reached her ears.

After midnight a thin drizzle began to fall and she put the things back into the bunker. This small activity revived an old scene in her memory. She remembered the first days, before the bunker, when she had brought him the tobacco. The way he had rolled the shredded leaves in a piece of newspaper, the way he had recovered his looks, his smile, and the light on his face.

The rain stopped but the wind grew stronger, bending the trees with broad, sweeping movements. Tzili went into the bunker. It was warm and full of the smell of tobacco. She breathed in the smell.

She sat in the dark and for some reason she thought about Mark’s wife. Mark seldom spoke of her. Once she had even sensed a note of resentment against her. She imagined her as a tall, thin woman sheltering her children under her coat. Strange, she felt a kind of kinship with her.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Mark still did not return. She stood on the edge of the plateau exposed to the wind. The downward slope drew her too. The slope was not steep and it glittered with puddles of water. Now she felt that something had been taken from her, something that belonged to her youth. She covered her face in shame.

For hours she sat and practiced the words, so that she would be ready for him when he came. “Where were you Mark? I was very worried. Here is some herb tea for you. You must be thirsty.” She did not prepare many words, and the few she did prepare, she repeated over and over again in a voice which had a formal ring in her ears. Repeating the words put her to sleep. She would wake up in alarm and go to the bunker. The walls of the bunker had collapsed, the flimsy roof had caved in, and the floor was covered by a spreading gray puddle. There was an alien spirit in it, but it was the only place she could go to. Everywhere else was even more alien.

The days dragged out long and heavy. Tzili did not stir. And once a voice burst out from within her: “Mark.” The voice slid down the mountainside, echoing as it went. No one answered.

Overnight the winds changed and the winter winds came, thin and sharp as knives. The fire burned but it did not warm her. Low, dark clouds covered the somber sky. She prayed often. This was the prayer which she repeated over and over: “God, bring Mark back. If you bring Mark back to me, I’ll go down to the plains and I won’t be lazy.”

How many days had Mark been gone? At first she kept track, but then she lost count. Sometimes she saw Mark struggling with the peasants and hurling pointed sticks at them, like the ones he had made for the walls of the bunker. Sometimes he looked tired and crushed. Like the first time she had seen him, pale and gray. Man is not an insect, she remembered and made an effort to get up and stand erect.

For days she had had nothing to eat. Here and there she still found a few withered wild apples, but for the most part she now lived off roots. The roots were sweet and juicy. “I’ll go on,” she said, but she didn’t move. For hours she sat and gazed at the mountainside sloping down to the plains, the two marshes, the shelter, and the haversack. Sometimes she took out the clothes and spread them on the ground, but Mark did not respond to her call.

The moment she decided to leave she would imagine that she heard footsteps approaching. A little longer, she would say to herself. Death is not as terrible as it seems.

Sometimes the cold would envelop her in sweetness. She would close her eyes and curl up tightly and wait for a hand to come and take her away. But none came. Winter winds tore across the hillside, cruel and cutting. “I’ll go on,” she said, and lifted the haversack onto her shoulders. The haversack was soaked through and heavy, with every step she felt that the burden was too heavy to bear.

“Did you see a man pass by?” she asked a peasant woman standing at the doorway of her hut.

“There’s no man here. They’ve all been conscripted. Who do you belong to?”

“Maria.”

“Which Maria?”

And when she did not reply the peasant woman understood which Maria she meant, snickered aloud, and said: “Be off with you, wretch! Get out of my sight.”

One by one Tzili gave the little garments away in exchange for bread. “If I meet Mark I’ll tell him that I was hungry. He won’t be angry.” The haversack on her back grew more burdensome from day to day but she didn’t take it off. The damp warmth stuck to her back. She went from tree to tree. She believed that next to one of the trees she would find him.

I
T BEGAN TO SNOW
and she was obliged to look for work. The long tramp had weakened her. Overnight she lost her freedom and became a serf.

At this time the Germans were on the retreat, but here it was the middle of winter and the snow fell without a break. The peasants drove her mercilessly. She cleaned the cow shed, milked the cows, peeled potatoes, washed dishes, brought firewood from the forest. At night the peasant’s wife would mutter: “You know who your mother is. You must pay for your sins. Your mother has corrupted whole villages. If you follow in her footsteps I’ll beat you black and blue.”

Sometimes she went out at night and lay down in the snow. For some reason the snow refused to absorb her. She would return to her sufferings, meek and submissive. One evening on her way back from the forest she heard a voice. “Tzili,” called the voice.

“I’m Tzili,” said Tzili. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mark,” said the voice. “Have you forgotten me?”

“No,” said Tzili, frightened. “I’m waiting for you. Where are you?”

“Not far,” said the voice, “but I can’t come out of hiding. Death is not as terrible as it seems. All you have to do is conquer your fear.”

She woke up. Her feet were frozen.

From then on Mark appeared often. He would surprise her at every turn, especially his voice. It seemed to her that he was hovering nearby, unchanged but thinner and unable to emerge from his hiding place. And once she heard quite clearly: “Don’t be afraid. The transition is easy in the end.” These apparitions filled her with a kind of warmth. And at night, when the stick or the rope fell on her back, she would say to herself, “Never mind. Mark will come to rescue you in the spring.”

And in the middle of the hard, grim winter she sensed that her belly had changed and was slightly swollen. At first it seemed an insignificant change. But it did not take long for her to understand: Mark was inside her. This discovery frightened her. She remembered the time when her sister Yetty fell in love with a young officer from Moravia, and everyone became angry with her. Not because she had fallen in love with a gentile but because the intimate relations between them were likely to get her into trouble. And indeed, in the end it came out that the officer was an immoral drunkard,
and but for the fact that his regiment was transferred the affair would certainly have ended badly. It remained as a wound in her sister’s heart, and at home it came up among other unfortunate affairs in whispers, in veiled words. And Tzili, it transpired, although she was very young at the time, had known how to put the pieces together and make a picture, albeit incomplete.

There was no more possibility of doubt: she was pregnant. The peasant woman for whom she slaved soon noticed that something was amiss. “Pregnant,” she hissed. “I knew what you were the minute I set eyes on you.”

Tzili herself, when the first fear had passed, suddenly felt a new strength in her body. She worked till late at night, no work was too hard for them to burden her with, but she did not weaken. She drew strength from the air, from the fresh milk, and from the hope that one day she would be able to tell Mark that she was bearing his child. The complications, of course, were beyond her grasp.

And in the meantime the peasant woman beat her constantly. She was old but strong, and she beat Tzili religiously. Not in anger but in righteousness. Ever since her discovery that Tzili was pregnant her blows had grown more violent, as if she wanted to tear the embryo from her belly.

Heaven and hell merged into one. When she went to graze the cow or gather wood in the forest she felt
Mark close by her side, even closer than in the days when they had slept together in the bunker. She spoke to him simply, as if she were chatting to a companion while she worked. The work did not stop her from hearing his voice. His words too were clear and simple. “I’ll come in the spring,” he said. “In the spring the war will end and everyone will return.”