Women Talking

by Miriam Toews

  That’s ridiculous, says Mariche. We don’t have hard candy in Molotschna.

  Agata reaches over to touch Ona’s hand. You can tell us your dreams later, she says. When the meeting is over.

  Several of the women speak up now, saying they are not able to forgive the men.

  Precisely, says Mariche. She speaks succinctly, sure of herself again. Yet we want to enter the gates of heaven when we die.

  None of the women argue that point.

  Mariche goes on to state that we should then not put ourselves in an unfortunate position, where we are forced to choose between forgiveness and eternal life.

  What position would that be? asks Ona Friesen.

  That position would be staying behind to fight, Mariche says. Because the fight would be lost to the men, and we would be guilty of the sin of rebellion and of betraying our vow of pacifism and would finally be plunged deeper into submissiveness and vulnerability. Furthermore, we would be forced to forgive the men anyway, if we wanted God to forgive us and to allow us into His kingdom.

  But is forgiveness that is coerced true forgiveness? asks Ona Friesen. And isn’t the lie of pretending to forgive with words but not with one’s heart a more grievous sin than to simply not forgive? Can’t there be a category of forgiveness that is up to God alone, a category that includes the perpetration of violence upon one’s children, an act so impossible for a parent to forgive that God, in His wisdom, would take exclusively upon Himself the responsibility for such forgiveness?

  Do you mean that God would allow the parent of the violated child to harbour just a tiny bit of hatred inside her heart? asks Salome. Just in order to survive?

  A tiny bit of hate? asks Mejal. That’s ridiculous. And from tiny seeds of hate bigger—

  It’s not ridiculous, says Salome. A very small amount of hate is a necessary ingredient to life.

  To life? says Mejal. You mean to waging war. I’ve noticed how you come alive in the act of killing.

  Salome rolls her eyes. Not war; survival. And let’s not call it hate—

  Oh, you’d prefer to call it an “ingredient,” says Mejal.

  When I must kill pigs, I hit the runts harder, says Salome, because it’s more humane to kill them with one swift blow than to torture them with tepid hacks, which your system …

  I wasn’t talking about killing pigs, says Mejal.

  During this exchange, Mariche’s daughter Autje has begun swinging from a rafter, a human pendulum, kicking at bales mid-swing and loosening the straw, a piece of which has landed in Salome’s hair. Mejal looks up, tells Autje to behave herself, can’t she hear the rafter creaking, does she want the roof to cave in? (I muse that perhaps she does.)

  Mejal reaches for her pouch of tobacco but doesn’t roll a smoke, simply rests her hand lightly on the pouch as though it were a gear shift in an idling getaway car, and she is waiting, knowing it is there when she needs it because her hand is on it.

  Salome doesn’t know about the straw in her hair. It sits above her ear, nestled in that space, like a librarian’s No. 2 pencil.

  After a small silence, Greta returns to Ona’s question. Perhaps, yes, such a category exists, she says slowly. Except there’s no Biblical precedent for this type of God-only forgiveness.

  A brief observation about Ona Friesen: Ona is distinctive amongst these women for having her hair pulled back loosely rather than with the blunt force of a seemingly primitive tool. She is perceived by most of the colonists to have a gentle disposition and an inability to function in the real world (although in Molotschna that argument is a red herring). She is a spinster. And she is afforded a type of liberty to speak her mind because her thoughts and words are perceived as meaningless, although this didn’t prevent her from being attacked repeatedly. She was a reliable target because she slept alone in a room rather than with a husband, which she doesn’t have. Or want, it seems.

  Earlier she had stated: When we have liberated ourselves, we will have to ask ourselves who we are. Now she asks: Is it accurate to say that at this moment we women are asking ourselves what our priority is, and what is right—to protect our children or to enter the kingdom of heaven?

  Mejal Loewen says, No. That is not accurate. That is an exaggeration of what is truly being discussed. (Her hand still resting intimately on the pouch of tobacco.)

  What, then, is truly being discussed? Ona asks.

  Agata Friesen, Ona’s mother (and Mejal’s aunt), responds. We will burn that bridge when we come to it, she says (intentionally using this English expression incorrectly in order to leaven the proceedings). And Ona, indulgent of her mother, as she is of her sister, is content to let it be.

  I must record here that Greta Loewen’s eyes are opening and closing, and often tears roll down her cheeks. She is not crying, she says, she is moisturizing. Neitje Friesen and Autje Loewen (who has stopped swinging from the rafter) are restless in their chairs and are half-heartedly playing some type of clapping game, their hands hidden beneath the table.

  I suggest that we adjourn for a short period, and the women approve.

  Agata Friesen suggests that we sing a hymn before dispersing and the others (minus Neitje and Autje, who appear appalled at the thought of collective singing) agree. The women join hands and sing “Work, for the Night Is Coming.” Ona Friesen harmonizes, spell-bindingly. The first verse of the hymn is as follows:

  Work, for the night is coming,

  Work through the morning hours;

  Work while the dew is sparkling,

  Work ’mid springing flowers;

  Work when the day grows brighter,

  Work in the glowing sun;

  Work, for the night is coming,

  When man’s work is done.

  The women continue to sing verses two and three, and Neitje and Autje crumple in defeat.

  Greta Loewen pats Autje’s hand. Steady on. The knuckles on Greta’s hand stand out like knobs, like desert buttes on a cracked surface. Her false teeth are too big for her mouth, and painful. She removes them and sets them down on the plywood. They were given to her by a well-meaning traveller who had come to Molotschna with a first aid kit after hearing about the attacks on the women.

  When Greta had cried out, the attacker covered her mouth with such force that nearly all her teeth, which were old and fragile, were crushed to dust. The traveller who gave Greta her false teeth was escorted out of Molotschna by Peters, who then forbade outside helpers from entering the colony.

  The singing has ended. The women disperse.

  Note: Salome Friesen left earlier, exasperated, after Ona asked if the women were discussing what was right, to protect the children or to enter the kingdom of heaven, and if it wasn’t possible to do both. I hadn’t the time then to write down the details of her departure.

  Agata laughed gently when Salome left, telling the others that her daughter would be back, not to worry, let her blow off steam, let her be, let her check on her children, Miep and Aaron. That would settle her.

  When it comes to her children, Salome’s patience and tolerance know no bounds, but Salome’s reputation in the colony is that of a fighter, an instigator. She doesn’t react calmly to authority and is often engaged in a battle of wills with other colony members over the slightest of things. For example: once she hid the dining hall bell and claimed to have forgotten where she hid it, all because she resented the tone of the clang three “bloody” times a day, and particularly resented the pride that Sarah N. took in ringing the bell incessantly, more than is necessary. (Stop telling me when I must eat! Salome cried.) She also turned Peters’ rain barrel upside down during a massive downpour, shrieking that he was too pure to need washing water, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he!

  I find it curious that she hasn’t been excommunicated. Are her small acts of rebellion a convenient outlet for Peters, a type of performance that satisfies the colonists’ need to assert themselves, and that allows Peters to act with impunity on larger issues?

  Another note: As Ona
was leaving the loft, I managed to tell her that I liked her dream, the one about the pig. She laughed. I then mustered the courage to tell her a fact.

  Did you know, I said to Ona (by now she was climbing down the ladder, still laughing; she was the last to leave the loft), that it’s physically impossible for pigs to look up at the sky?

  Just then, in that moment, Ona looked up at me from her rung on the ladder.

  Like this? she said.

  This made me laugh. Ona left, satisfied.

  She will be the one to look up to the sky, I thought. That is why the pig in her dream had her pinned against the wall. But then I thought, how could that be? How could my interpretation of Ona’s dream be accurate when Ona wasn’t aware, consciously or not, of the physical limitations of pigs?

  In my jail cell (Wandsworth Prison) in England, my cellmates and I would play games. “What Would You Prefer” was the name of my favourite game. Knowing you were about to die, would you prefer one year, one day, one minute or no time at all to live with that knowledge? The answer is: None of the above.

  In jail I once made the mistake of telling my cellmates that the sound of a duck (and also the sight of its round, flat bill) made me happy and provided consolation. There are crimes. And then there are crimes. I have since learned to keep most of my thoughts to myself.

  We have reconvened. And I’m embarrassed.

  Outside, during our break, I met young Autje at the pump. At first, we were silent. She pumped water vigorously and I stared at the ground.

  When she had filled her pail I cleared my throat and mentioned to her that during the war, the Second World War, in Italy for example, specifically in Turin but in many other places as well, civilians would hide in bomb shelters. Often these civilians were murdered, I added, for participating in the Resistance.

  Autje slowly crept away backwards, smiling, nodding.

  Yes, I said, also nodding and smiling. In these bomb shelters volunteers were needed to power, by riding a bicycle, the generators that provided electricity. When she was swinging from the rafter earlier, with such vigour, it had reminded me of this fact, and of the volunteers who had generated this energy by riding a bicycle. She would be the perfect volunteer to do just that, I told Autje, if we were in a bomb shelter.

  Autje asked me, logically, where she would ride the bike to if we were in such an enclosed space?

  Ah yes, I said. Well, the bike would be stationary.

  Autje smiled and seemed to ponder this for a second or two. Then she reminded me that she had to get the water over to the yearlings. First, though, she showed me how she could swing the pail of water around in a complete circle without spilling a drop. I smiled, awkwardly. She ran towards the horses.

  I waved stupidly at her back, at the cloud of dust she left in her wake. I stood in the dirt, my shirt-tail flapping, like an absurd flightless bird. Why had I mentioned the Resistance, and that civilians had been murdered for their defiance? It dawned on me that I had suggested she was susceptible to being executed.

  I wanted to run after Autje and apologize for scaring her—but that would have scared her even more. Or perhaps my words are as ridiculous to her as they are to me, which is comforting only a little.

  Salome has returned, her eyes like asteroids now. Planet-destroying asteroids. (She may not have seen her children. I am afraid to query her directly.)

  Since we concluded our first part of the meeting with a hymn, I say to the women, Would it be acceptable if I were to begin our next part with a fact that could act as a metaphor and inspiration?

  The women agree, although Mariche frowns and goes to the window to look out as I speak.

  I thank the women and begin by reminding them that we Mennonites of Molotschna came to settle this land by way of the Black Sea. Our members had for centuries inhabited the shores of the Black Sea, near Odessa, and had experienced, until we began to be slaughtered, much peace and happiness. I state the fact: The deep waters of the Black Sea do not mix with the upper layers of water that receive oxygen from the atmosphere, making the deep waters anoxic, which means that they do not contain life. Anoxic conditions leave remarkably preserved fossils, and on those fossils the images of soft body parts are visible. But where does that life come from? There are no low or high tides, so the surface of the Black Sea is always calm and serene. Yet underwater there is a river, a mysterious river that scientists believe can sustain life in the bottom part of the Black Sea, the inhospitable part. But these scientists have no way of proving it.

  The women’s reaction to the inspirational fact is, once again, mixed—with silence being the most common response. Ona Friesen, who is known to appreciate facts, thanks me. When she speaks, Ona ends her sentences with a brisk inhalation of breath, as though she is attempting to take back her words, as though what she has just said has startled her.

  Mariche Loewen, who has been standing with her back to us, turns away from the window.

  Are you implying, she asks me, that the women should stay in Molotschna rather than leave? That the “upper layers” of the Black Sea represent the men of the colony and the “lower layers” the women who would somehow, mysteriously, thrive in spite of being beneath the severe and lifeless pressure of the men?

  I am entirely to blame for this misunderstanding, I say, but I mean only to somehow convey that life and the preservation of life is a possibility even when circumstances appear to be hopeless.

  I meant it to be inspirational, I say.

  Mariche reminds me that the women had asked me to take the minutes of their meetings only because I was able to translate and to write, and I should not feel obliged to offer inspirational counselling.

  Salome Friesen quickly suggests to Mariche that her reaction is inappropriate. Whereupon Mejal Loewen reminds Salome once again that she has not been given special powers to declare what is or isn’t appropriate.

  Maybe I have been, says Salome.

  By whom? asks Mejal. Peters? God?

  The surface of Molotschna, like the surface of the Black Sea, is always calm and serene, says Salome. Don’t you understand—

  So what? interrupts Mejal.

  Ona, intent on further examining the mysterious Black Sea scenario, asks, What is soft tissue, exactly?

  It’s the skin and the flesh and all the connective material, answers Agata. It’s anything that protects the hard tissue, like bones or anything rigid, I suppose.

  So, says Mariche, the soft tissue protects the harder tissue, like the tissue that makes bones. The soft tissue is more—what would you call it?—resilient, and yet it decomposes much more quickly in the end. Unless it’s preserved in the mysterious deep waters of the Black Sea, she adds, separating the words “mysterious deep waters of the Black Sea” from the beginning of the sentence to give them histrionic emphasis. I understand this to be mockery directed at myself.

  I smile. I dig my nails into the top of my scalp. I say that soft tissue is often defined by what it is not.

  I suppose so, says Agata, but—

  And yet, it’s stronger in a way, Mariche interrupts, in that it has restorative qualities. Before the end.

  Well, says Agata, perhaps, although—

  Do you mean death? asks Ona. When you say “the end”?

  Mariche makes a gesture: What on earth else would the end be, if not death?

  But Mariche, says Greta, physical death is not the end of life.

  Autje and Neitje are ignoring the other women now, and engaged in a private conversation of their own. Neitje is nodding, smiling, and glancing in my direction. I wonder, briefly, if Autje is mentioning our water pump conversation to Neitje. Again, predictably, I behave stupidly and nod cautiously to the girls, who instantly look away.

  So, says Ona, we women are the soft tissue of Molotschna, if the colony is a body, and—

  Or, says Salome, the colony is the Black Sea and we are its “mysterious deep waters.” I tried to tell you that.

  Mariche laughs and sarcastically
asks Salome what, in her divine wisdom, is mysterious about the women of Molotschna? There’s more mystery in the skin that forms on top of my morning milk, she says.

  Ona acknowledges the mystery of the milk skin, nodding at Mariche, in an attempt, I think, at friendship or solidarity. Kindness. Ona asks me if I wish to bestow upon the women any other inspirational facts.

  I rub the top of my head briskly, a simian instinct I picked up in prison. I felt it gave me a slim margin of time to compose my response to a question, a question such as: Epp, motherfucker, are you interested in having your brains smashed in?

  The gesture makes Ona laugh.

  Yes, I say. Humans shed approximately forty pounds of skin in their lifetime, completely replacing their outer skin every month.

  Neitje interrupts. Except for the scars, she says. Can they be replaced with fresh skin? No, says Autje, that’s why they’re called scars, idiot. The young women laugh, and punch at each other without making contact.

  Ona muses that the replacement of their outer skin every month coincides with the replacement of their uterine lining, also every month.

  How do you know that? Mariche asks, and Ona looks at me. This is something my mother had told Ona long ago in my mother’s secret schoolhouse, which was not a physical place at all, but a discussion that she called “the secret schoolhouse.” She held it for girls, during milking, when we were children, Ona and I, before I left Molotschna with my parents.

  Mariche glares at me and asks if I had explained things to Ona about her uterine lining.

  No, says Ona, not August. August’s mother, Monica.

  Mariche is silent.

  Salome comments that this explanation is probably useful, but shouldn’t we move on?

  Ona, as if she has not heard Salome, mentions that if my fact is true, the skin they, the women, had during the attacks is gone now, has been replaced. She smiles.