Women Talking

by Miriam Toews

No.

  It is electronic dance music.

  But you stole a horse? she said.

  Yes, at the protest in Hyde Park. It was a horse being ridden by a police officer. The police officer had forced his horse to charge the protesters. I told Ona that some others at the protests—there were over fifty thousand people there, we heard later—had pulled the cop off the horse and the horse then stood, riderless, panicking, stomping its feet, rearing up against the crowd. I leapt onto the horse and rode away, around the crowd, out behind the people and the other police officers to a pond with a fountain where the horse could drink some water and cool off. I talked with the horse in what I hoped was a soothing voice. Nobody paid any attention to me or the horse. Eventually, I rode the horse all the way back to Wandsworth and kept him there, as a friend. A friend to all of us.

  In fact, I said, I named him Frint. (“Friend” in Plautdietsch.)

  Frint also did some work for us, because every being was expected to help. He carried wood sometimes, and other materials. He was exceptionally well-trained and fit.

  Ona sat on the roof of the wash house and chuckled in the darkness. But you were caught? she asked.

  Yes, I said. Eventually I was arrested for stealing Frint. It’s a serious crime, to steal from a police officer.

  And you went to jail, she said. Where it’s a serious crime to admit that you love ducks.

  Yes, I said. To Wandsworth Prison.

  And was it difficult to be in jail? asked Ona.

  Yes, I said. I had no visitors. The other squatters, my friends, were driven off their land and they moved on, away, and I never saw Frint again either.

  Were you beaten? asked Ona.

  Daily, I said.

  Did you lose your faith? asked Ona.

  Many times, I said. I wanted to kill several of my cellmates. And most of the guards.

  Were you afraid? asked Ona.

  Always, I said. Always.

  JUNE 7

  Minutes of the Women Talking

  It is very early, and still dark. I haven’t slept since talking with Ona on the roof. I have lit a kerosene lamp so I can see what I’m writing.

  The milking is done, and all of the women, except for Mariche and Autje, are in the loft. Greta is pacing, and periodically going to the window to peer into the dark. Her balance is not good. She has fallen several times in the last few months and has broken some ribs and her collarbone. Mejal asks her to concentrate on lifting her feet higher when she takes steps, not to shuffle, in order to avoid tripping, but Greta is very tired and her body is heavy and it is apparent that every piece of it hurts.

  Agata has put her feet into Ona’s lap and Ona is rubbing them, trying to regain the circulation of blood. Ona sings quietly, “On the Old Rugged Cross,” and Agata sings every two or three words with her, although she is fighting for breath. Salome (Miep is not here, nor Salome’s other children) is absentmindedly braiding Neitje’s hair, tugging so tightly that Neitje must beg for mercy.

  You are blinding me, she tells her mother/aunt.

  Salome repeats her question to Neitje: Did you tell the others about our meeting?

  Neitje confirms that she did.

  Salome murmurs in approval and asks how the women reacted to Neitje’s news.

  Most of the women agreed to meet at the yearling barn this evening after faspa, Neitje says.

  And what about the other women? asks Salome.

  The other women didn’t say anything, says Neitje. Some didn’t want to hear it. Some walked away. Bettina Kreuger batted the air at imaginary pests.

  Mejal interrupts. Don’t worry, she tells Salome. The menfolk of the Do Nothing women are still in the city with Peters, and their women won’t be able to inform them of the plan.

  What if Klaas found out? asks Salome. Where is Mariche, anyway?

  Klaas won’t remember anything he was told, even if he was told, says Agata.

  Mejal asks Salome if Miep is with Nettie/Melvin.

  She is, says Salome. But she’s not well today and the pills are not helping her. I suspect the pills are for animals, not people.

  But Miep is small, says Mejal. They’ll work.

  Miep is small, Salome says. But she’s not a calf.

  Would you like to hear about the dream I had last night? Ona asks Agata.

  Agata is resting her head in her hand. She says: In all honesty, Ona, no, I don’t.

  Ona smiles.

  But later, yes, says Agata. She returns Ona’s smile.

  August, says Ona. Did you dream last night?

  Yes, I say.

  In fact, I didn’t dream because I didn’t sleep—unless my conversation with Ona on the wash house roof was a dream? Ona continues to sing. Then she stops. Mom, she says, I dreamt that you had died, and in my dream I said, But if you are dead then there is nobody to catch me if I fall. And then in my dream you came back from death, you were tired, your feet hurt, but you were happy to come back one last time, and you said: Then don’t fall.

  The other women laugh.

  I long to tell Ona that I would catch her if she fell.

  Agata pats Ona’s hand. Ona, she says, we are born and then we live and then we die, and then we don’t live again except in heaven. Where there will be justice.

  And respect, says Greta. Her arms shoot up suddenly like an American football referee indicating a touchdown has been scored.

  Well then, says Ona, we were in heaven together. In my dream.

  But Ona, says Mejal, if you were in heaven you would have many people to catch you if you fell. But you’d be in heaven, so you wouldn’t fall.

  Salome says: You might trip, though. You’re clumsy. (I can see that Salome is exasperated with this subject.)

  Unless heaven is part of a dream, says Ona. Or unless dreams are illogical.

  Well, that they are, says Agata.

  I don’t know, says Ona, perhaps they are the most logical experience we can ever have.

  Heaven is real, says Mejal. Dreams are not real.

  How do you know? asks Ona. And don’t we dream of heaven? Isn’t heaven entirely a dreamt thing? Although that doesn’t make it unreal.

  Agata firmly changes the subject. Where is Mariche? she asks. And Autje. Look at the sky, she adds, pointing to the light on the horizon.

  Mejal places small remnants of fabric and spools of thread around the table to make it appear as though the women are preparing to quilt.

  In case Klaas comes back, she explains. When she finishes, she turns to Salome and tells her in a soft, worried voice that she has stopped bleeding.

  Salome curses, then makes a joke about who the father might be.

  Mejal lifts her ochre finger (secret life!) to silence Salome.

  (I observe that each time Salome is upset or angered she yanks on Neitje’s braid, and now Neitje has endured enough. She pulls away from Salome and gives the task of braiding her hair to her grandmother, Agata.)

  Mejal tells Salome that Andreas, her husband, is frightened each month when Mejal bleeds yet doesn’t die. It confuses him. She laughs.

  That’s a ridiculous exaggeration, says Greta. Of course Andreas understands the female cycle. (It’s clear she disapproves of Mejal’s lack of respect for her husband.)

  Have you not explained it to Andreas? asks Salome.

  Mejal laughs again. It’s funnier that he’s startled by it, she says.

  You mean because you don’t die when you bleed? asks Ona. Does he think you’re a witch?

  At last, Mariche has appeared and is climbing the ladder to the loft. Autje is behind her, helping.

  Greta rushes to Mariche, takes her in her arms.

  Ona and Agata look away.

  Salome stands up. What has happened? she asks. What has happened?

  Mariche’s face is bruised and cut. Her arm is in a sling fashioned from a feed bag. Autje also has a bruise on her cheek in the shape of four fingers and a thumb. The two take their places at the table.

  Greta asks: Is
he gone?

  Mariche, ever defiant, answers: Would I be here now if he wasn’t?

  Neitje, her hair finally in a braid, goes to sit beside her pal Autje. She says nothing, has nothing to tell her or to give her, but synchronizes her breathing with Autje’s. They look ahead, towards something I can’t identify, not empty space. And they are silent.

  Then let’s begin, says Agata. Yesterday was a day for talking, today is one for action. Tomorrow the men will return. Is it accurate to say that we have all, more or less, decided to leave before that happens? That we have overruled the other options of staying and fighting, because we are pacifists, and because—

  Salome interrupts: Or because we wouldn’t win.

  No, says her mother, we have ruled out staying and fighting because our faith consists of core values, one of them being pacifism, and we have no homeland but our faith, and we are servants to our faith, and by being such we are assured eternal peace in heaven.

  Salome nearly spits, Well that peace sure as fuck is not happening in Molotschna.

  Salome, please do not curse, says Agata. She suggests that Salome do twelve jumping jacks instead.

  Neitje laughs.

  Will doing twelve jumping jacks bring peace to Molotschna? asks Salome.

  Mariche, with her ravaged face, says: I thought today was a day of action, not talk.

  The other women laugh softly, indulging her this morning, acknowledging her brave humour.

  Yes, continues Agata, we have ruled out the option of doing nothing because by doing nothing we are not protecting our children, who were given to us by God to protect and nurture—

  Mariche interrupts: But how can we be sure they won’t be harmed when we leave Molotschna?

  We can’t be sure, says Ona. But we can be sure they will be harmed if we stay. Ona and Mariche lock eyes.

  Can’t we? asks Ona.

  Mariche is silent. Her eyes are wet. She is folding a piece of fabric into a smaller piece, pulling at the threads.

  The other women look away, towards the light coming up over the horizon and through the window into Ernie Thiessen’s hayloft.

  I blow out my kerosene lamp. The light in the loft now is adequate and the women are vulnerable today, solemn, wounded, anxious. As well, I sense that Mariche wishes to remain in the shadows, uninterrogated. The sounds of animals are loud outside, and wind from the open window lifts the strands of hair that have escaped Ona’s forbidden loose bun.

  How many times will we pack our bags and disappear into the night? asks Greta.

  Autje and Neitje exchange glances. (They are literalists and I know they are likely thinking: We’ve never done that, have we?)

  Greta, what are you referring to? Agata asks.

  This is no time for a history lesson, says Mariche. As I understand it, what we women have determined is that we want, and believe we are entitled to, three things.

  What are they? asks Greta.

  Mariche says: We want our children to be safe. She has begun to cry softly and is finding it difficult to speak, but she continues. We want to be steadfast in our faith. We want to think.

  Agata claps her hands once, holds them together in midair and says, Praise God. Greta, like a football official once again, raises her arms above her head.

  The old women are jubilant. Salome and Mejal smile.

  Salome says, Yes, that’s it.

  Precisely, says Mejal.

  Well, it’s not quite precisely put, Salome says. But it sounds perfect to me. A perfect beginning.

  Salome, will you use your last breath on earth to correct me? Mejal asks.

  Yes, if that’s what is needed, says Salome.

  Ona’s eyes have become big. She appears to be in a reverie, or enraptured. This is the beginning of a new era, she says. This is our manifesto. (She says “manifesto” in English but with her Mennonite inflection it sounds like “mennofasto.”)

  What is that? asks Autje.

  Please direct all of your queries to Salome, says Mejal. She is willing to use her last breath on earth to educate her stupid friends.

  Salome laughs. She objects: I didn’t say you were stupid, Mejal. Only that you used the word “precisely” imprecisely.

  Mejal rolls a smoke and suggests she should be tortured to death for the infraction.

  What’s a manifesto? asks Autje again.

  The other women frown. They look at Ona, who smiles. I’m not entirely sure, she says, but I believe it is a statement of some kind. A guide.

  Then Ona looks at me and asks, Well?

  Yes, I agree, it’s a statement. A statement of intent. Sometimes revolutionary.

  Agata and Greta exchange alarmed glances.

  No, no, August, says Agata, it cannot be revolutionary. We are not revolutionaries. We are simple women. We are mothers. Grandmothers.

  Revolutionaries are soldiers, adds Greta, often armed with assault rifles or bombs or some such thing. That is the opposite of what we are. (Within the Molotschna Colony any reference to revolution invokes the Russian Revolution, which is not seen to have been a good thing for the Mennonites.)

  But are we willing to die for our cause? asks Ona.

  Neitje and Autje shake their heads.

  Yes, says Salome, of course.

  Neitje and Autje exchange alarmed glances touchingly similar to the glances exchanged by their grandmothers just a moment ago.

  Are you willing to kill for our cause? asks Ona.

  No, says Salome.

  But you’ll allow yourself to be killed for our cause? asks Ona.

  Well, no, says Salome, ideally not.

  Because you don’t want to make a murderer out of somebody else? asks Ona. Or because you value your individual life over the cause?

  I don’t know, says Salome impatiently. And time is passing.

  Ona is only trying to get a precise read, Mejal says. Isn’t precision your specialty? The subject of your last breath on earth?

  Listen, says Agata. That’s enough.

  I have now raised my hand, with trepidation, and Agata says, Yes, August?

  I have asked, once again, to be forgiven for using words recklessly and inciting unnecessary debate.

  Ona vomits into the feed pail next to her. She apologizes. Then she looks at me. I like the word “revolutionary,” she says. There are flecks of vomit on her chin.

  Salome picks up a piece of straw and wipes Ona’s chin. She whispers something to Ona, fiercely.

  Ona nods. She looks towards the window. She nods again. (A small revolution within a larger one?)

  Let’s move on, says Agata. Can we agree that we want only to protect our children, keep our faith, and think? That we are not revolutionaries (or animals)? And that the question of whether we would die for our cause is not something we need to ask at this point since we have more urgent matters to tend to?

  Yes, says Mejal. But I have one further question I’d like to raise. It has to do with the Biblical exhortation that women obey and submit to their husbands. How, if we are to remain good wives, she says, can we leave our men? Is it not disobedient to do so?

  Our first and more pressing duty, says Salome, is to our children, to their safety.

  But not biblically speaking, says Mejal.

  We can’t read, says Salome, so how are we to know what is in the Bible?

  You are being difficult, says Mejal. We have been told what is in the Bible.

  Yes, says Salome, by Peters and the elders and by our husbands.

  Right, says Mejal. And by our sons.

  Our sons! says Salome. And what is the common denominator linking Peters and the elders and our sons and husbands?

  I am sure you will inform us, says Mejal.

  They are all men! says Salome.

  Of course, says Mejal, I know that much. But who else would interpret the Bible for us?

  My point, says Salome, is that by leaving, we are not necessarily disobeying the men according to the Bible, because we, the women, do not know exa
ctly what is in the Bible, being unable to read it. Furthermore, the only reason why we feel we need to submit to our husbands is because our husbands have told us that the Bible decrees it.

  If your husband, she asks Mejal, told you that God, in the Bible, through the words of the various male prophets and disciples, or through the words of Jesus Himself, had made it clear that he, your husband, should punch you hard in the face when you question his motives—and also that he should lash his small children with a horse whip when they left the barn door open accidentally, and that you must do the same—would you agree with him?

  Mejal rolls her eyes—and also, a cigarette.

  Would you assume that he knew this to be God’s law? Salome insists.

  Ona quotes from Ecclesiastes: A time for love and a time for hate. A time for war and a time for peace.

  Agata raises her eyebrows. Why are you bothering to get involved in this discussion? she asks.

  The Bible suggests there is a time for hate and a time for war, says Ona. Do we believe in that?

  The women are silent.

  No, says Agata, we don’t.

  We hate war, says Neitje.

  Autje laughs.

  Agata smiles, acknowledging the girls. She moves her upper body to the left, to the right, to the left, a subtle dance she performs when she appreciates a joke, indicating she gets it, it’s a good one.

  Mariche says, It’s probably safe to say that there are some gaps in our understanding of the Bible. We should move on. She lifts her chin to the window, to the sun, a quick gesture.

  I agree there are gaps, Salome says. But the problem is more specific than mere gaps.

  Chasms? asks Neitje. Autje smirks.

  The issue, continues Salome, pointedly ignoring Neitje, is the male interpretation of the Bible and how that is “handed down” to us.

  Ona states simply: Yes, our inability to read or write puts us at a great disadvantage in any negotiation over the interpretation of the Bible.

  Agata slaps her hand on the plywood. This is interesting, she says, but Mariche is right. We’re running out of time. Can we agree that we will not feel guilt—

  But how can we control our feelings? interrupts Mariche.

  Agata continues: —about disobeying our husbands by leaving Molotschna because we are not entirely convinced that we are being disobedient? Or that such a thing as disobedience even exists?