Tzili

by Aharon Appelfeld

  23

  IT 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.”

  Once she dared to ask him: “Won’t your wife be angry with me?”

  “My wife,” said Mark, “is a very forgiving woman.”

  “As for me,” said Tzili, “I love your children as if they were my own.”

  “In that case,” said Mark in a practical tone of voice, “all we have to do is wait for the war to end.”

  But at night when she returned to the hut reality showed itself in all its nakedness. The peasant’s wife beat her as if she were a rebellious animal, in a passion of rage and fury. At first Tzili screamed and bit her lips. Later she stopped screaming. She absorbed the blows with her eyes closed, as if she knew that this was her lot in life.

  One night she snatched the rope from the woman and said: “No, you won’t. I’m not an animal. I’m a woman.” The peasant’s wife, apparently startled by Tzili’s resolution, stood rooted to the spot, but she immediately recovered, snatched the rope from Tzili’s hand, and began to beat her with her fists.

  It was the height of winter and there was nowhere to escape to. She worked, and the work strengthened her. The thought that Mark would come for her in the spring was no longer a hope but a certainty.

  Once the peasant’s wife asked her: “Who made you pregnant?”

  “A man.”

  “What man?”

  “A good man.”

  “And what will you do with the baby when it’s born?”

  “I’ll bring it up.”

  “And who will provide for you?”

  “I’ll work, but not for you.” The words came out of her mouth directly and quietly.

  The peasant’s wife ranted and raved.

  The next day she said to Tzili: “Take your things and get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.”

  Tzili took up the haversack and left.

  24

  ONCE MORE she had won her freedom. At that time the great battlefronts were collapsing, and the first refugees were groping their way across the broad fields of snow. Against the vast whiteness they looked like swarms of insects. Tzili was drawn toward them as if she realized that her fate was no different from theirs.

  Strange, precisely now, at the hour of her newfound freedom, Mark stopped speaking to her. “Where are you and why don’t you speak to me?” she would ask in despair. Nothing stirred in the silence, and but for her own voice no other voice was heard.

  In one of the bunkers she came across three men. They were wrapped from top to toe in heavy, tattered coats. Their bloodshot eyes peeped through their rags, alert and sardonic.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Tzili.”

  “So you’re one of us. Where have you left everyone?”

  “I,” said Tzili, “have lost everyone.”

  “In that case why don’t you come with us? What have you got in that haversack?”

  “Clothes.”

  “And haven’t you got any bread?” one of them said in an unpleasant voice.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Can’t you see? We’re partisans. Haven’t you got any bread in that haversack?”

  “No I haven’t,” she said and turned to go.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to Mark.”

  “We know the whole area. There’s no one here. You’d better stay with us. We’ll keep you amused.”

  “I,” said Tzili opening her coat, “am a pregnant woman.”

  “Leave the haversack with us. We’ll look after it for you.”

  “The haversack isn’t mine. It belongs to Mark. He left it in my care.”

  “Don’t boast. You should learn to be more modest.”

  “I’m not afraid. Death is not as terrible as it seems.”

  “Cheeky brat,” said the man and rose to his feet.

  Tzili stared at him.

  “Where did you learn that?” said the man, taking a step backward.

  Tzili stood still. A strength not hers was in her eyes.

  “Go then, bitch,” said the man and went back to the bunker.

  From then on the snow stretched before her white
and empty. Tzili felt a kind of warmth spreading through her. She walked along a row of trees, which now seemed rootless, stuck into the snow like pegs.

  From time to time a harassed survivor appeared, asked the way, and disappeared again. Tzili knew that her fate was no different from the survivors’, but she kept away from them as if they were brothers who might say: “We told you so.”

  And while she was walking without knowing where her feet would lead her, the walls of snow began to shudder. It was the month of March and new winds invaded the landscape. On the mountain slopes the first stripes of brown earth appeared. Not long afterward the brown stripes widened.

  And suddenly she saw what she had not seen before: the mountain, undistinguished and not particularly lofty, the mountain where she and Mark had spent the summer, and not far from where she was standing the foot of the slope, and next to it the valley leading to Katerina’s house. As if the whole world had narrowed down to a piece of land which she could feel with her hands.

  She stood for a moment as if she were trying to absorb all these painful places into her body. She herself felt no pain.

  And while she was standing there sunk into herself a refugee approached her and he said: “Jewish girl, where are you from?”

  “From here.”

  “And you weren’t in the camps?”

  “No.”

  “I lost everyone. What shall I do?”

  “In the spring they’ll all come back. I’m sure of it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m quite sure. You can believe me.” There was strength in her voice. And the man stood rooted to the spot.

  “Thank you,” he said, as if he had been given a great gift.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Tzili, as she had been taught to say at home.

  Without asking for further details, the man vanished as abruptly as he had appeared.

  Evening drew near and the last rays of the sun fell golden on the hillside. “I lived here and now I’m leaving,” said Tzili, and she felt a slight twinge in her chest. The embryo throbbed gently in her belly. Her vision narrowed even further. Now she could picture to herself the paths lying underneath the carpet of snow. There was no resentment in her heart, only longing, longing for the earth on which she stood. Everything beyond this little corner of the world seemed alien and remote to her.

  For days she had not tasted food. She would sit for hours sucking the snow. The melted snow assuaged her hunger. The liquids refreshed her. Now she felt a faint anxiety.

  And while she was standing transfixed by what she saw, Mark rose up before her.

  “Mark,” the word burst from her throat.

  Mark seemed surprised. He stood still. And then he asked: “Why are you going to the refugees? Don’t you know how bad they are?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “You won’t find me there. I keep as far away as possible from them.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Setting sail.”

  “Where to?”

  All at once a flock of birds rose into the air and crossed the darkening horizon, and Tzili understood that he had only called her in order to take his leave.

  She put the haversack down on the snow. Her eyes opened and she said: “My search was in vain.” It was her own voice which had come back to her.

  “So you’re abandoning me to the refugees, those bad, wicked people.” A voice that had been locked up inside her broke out and rose into the air. “I’m asking you a question. Answer me. If you don’t want me, tell me. I’m not complaining. I love you anyway. I’ll make you herb tea if you like. The mountain is unoccupied. It’s waiting for us. There’s no one there; we can go back to it. It’s a good mountain, you said so yourself. I’ll go to the village and bring back supplies, I won’t be lazy. You can believe me. Don’t you believe me?”

  After this she sat for hours next to the haversack. She woke up and fell asleep again, and when she finally rose to her feet brown vapors were already rising from the valleys. Here and there a peasant stretched himself as if after a long sleep. There were no refugees to be seen.

  “So you’re abandoning me,” the old anger flickered up in her again. It wasn’t really anger, but only a weak echo of anger. She was with herself as if after a long hunger. She narrowed her eyes and stroked her belly, and then she said to herself: “Mark’s probably not allowed to leave, for the time being. Later on, they’ll let him go. He’s not his own boss, after all.”

  The snow thawed and the first convoys of refugees poured down the hillsides. Strange, thought Tzili, the war’s over and I didn’t know. Mark must have known before me; he must be happy now. Suddenly she felt that her life was moving toward some other destination, where the colors were different. She heard the voices of the refugees, and the sound was so familiar that it hurt her.

  She thought that she would go to the high mountain where she had first met Mark. She set her steps in that direction but the road was covered with mud and she gave up. Later, she said to herself.

  Afterward the commotion died down and the lips of the land could be heard quietly sucking all over the plains. The liquids were being absorbed into the earth.

  “Thank you, Maria,” said Tzili. “Thanks to you I’m still alive. But for you I would already be in another world. Thanks to you I’m still here. Isn’t it strange that thanks to you I’m still here? I’m grateful to you, Maria.” Tzili was surprised by the words that came out of her mouth.

  She let the memory of Maria flow over her for a moment, and as she did so she saw her figure emerge from the mist and stand solidly before her eyes. A tall, strong woman dressed with simple elegance. When she came into her mother’s shop she filled it with the breath of city streets, cafés, and theaters. She never hid her opinions. She would often say that she was fond of the Jews, although not the religious ones. Those she had always hated, but the freethinking Jews who lived in the city were men after her own heart. They knew what civilization meant; they knew how to get the most out of life in the city. Of course, her appearances would always be accompanied by a certain fear, because of her connections with the provincial officials, the tax collectors, the police, and the hospitals. And when her daughters grew up, the circle of her acquaintances was enlarged. Not without scandals, of course.

  And when Tzili’s brother got one of her daughters into trouble, Maria’s tone changed. She threatened them brutally, and in the end she extorted a tidy sum. Tzili remembered this episode too, but she felt no resentment. A proud woman, she concluded to herself.

  Katerina, with whom she had spent two whole seasons, had often used this combination of words—a proud woman. Katerina too, Tzili now remembered with affection.

  And while Tzili was standing there in a kind of trance, the refugees streamed toward her in a hungry swarm. She wanted to run for her life, but it was too late. They surrounded her on all sides: “Who are you?”

  “I’m from here.” At last she found the words.

  “And where were you during the war?”

  “Here.”

  “Can’t you see?” One of the refugees interrupted. “She’s afraid.”

  “And you weren’t in any of the camps?”

  “No.”

  “And no one gave you away?”

  “Can’t you see?” The same man intervened again. “She doesn’t look Jewish. She looks healthy.”

  “A miracle,” said the questioner and turned aside.

  The news spread from one to the other but it made no impression on the refugees.

  Later on Tzili asked: “Did you see Mark?”

  “What’s his last name?” asked a woman.

  Tzili hung her head. She did not know.

  The cold spring sun exposed them like moles. A motley crew of men, women, and children. The cold light showed up their ragged clothes. The convoy turned south and Tzili went with them. No one asked, “Where are you from?” or “Where are you going?” From time to time a supply-laden cart appeared a
nd the people swarmed over it like ants. The familiar words from home now sounded wild and foreign to her. The refugees did not appear contented with anything. They argued, laughed, and fought, and at night they fell to the ground like sacks.

  “What am I doing here?” Tzili asked herself. “I prefer the mountains and the rivers. Mark himself told me not to go with them. If I go too far, who knows if I’ll ever find him?”

  From here she could still see the mountain where Mark had revealed himself to her, illuminated in the cold evening light. Now the bunker was ruined and the wind blew through it. Her voice broke with longing. No memory stirred in her, only a thin stream of longing flowing out of her toward the distant mountaintop. The calm of evening fell upon the deserted ranges and she fell asleep.

  25

  THEY MADE THEIR WAY southward. The peasants stood by the roadside displaying their wares: bread, vodka, and smoked meat. But the refugees walked past without buying or bartering. Suffering had made them indifferent. But Tzili was hungry. She sold a garment and received bread and smoked meat in exchange. “Look,” said one of the survivors, “she’s eating.”

  Now she saw them from close up: thin, speechless, and withdrawn. The terror had not yet faded from their faces.

  The sun sank in the sky and the crust of the earth dried up. The first ploughmen appeared on the mountainsides next to the plains. There were no clouds to darken the sky, only the trees, and the quietness.

  They moved slowly through the landscape, looking around them as they walked. They slept a lot. Hardly a word was spoken. A kind of secret veiled their faces. Tzili feared this secret more than the dark nights in the forest.

  A convoy of prisoners was led past in chains. From time to time a soldier fired a shot into the air and the prisoners all bent their heads at once. No one looked at them. The survivors were sunk into themselves.

  A man came up to Tzili and asked: “Where are you from?” It wasn’t the man himself who asked the question, but something inside him, as in a nightmare.