Women Talking

by Miriam Toews

  Oh, it exists, says Mariche.

  Yes, says Salome, as a word, as a concept and as an action. But it isn’t the correct word to define our leaving Molotschna.

  It might be one word, says Mariche, to define our leaving.

  True, says Salome, one word out of many. But it’s a word that the men of Molotschna would use, not God.

  That’s true, says Mejal. God might define it otherwise, our leaving.

  And how do you think God would define our leaving? asks Ona.

  As a time for love, a time for peace, says Mejal.

  Aha! says Ona. She claps her hands joyfully. Salome smiles.

  Mejal is radiant. Agata moves her upper body to the left, then to the right.

  (I am struck by a thought: Perhaps it is the first time the women of Molotschna have interpreted the word of God for themselves.)

  We will feel anguish and we will feel sorrow and we will feel uncertainty and we will feel sadness, but not guilt, says Agata.

  Mariche amends: We may feel guilty but we will know we are not guilty.

  The other women nod, eagerly. Mejal says, We may feel homicidal but we know we are not killers.

  Ona says, We may feel vengeful but we will know we are not raccoons.

  Salome is laughing. We may feel lost, she says, but we will know we are not losers.

  Speak for yourself, says Mejal.

  I always do, says Salome. You should try it too.

  Mejal impersonates Salome, echoing her words in an imperious, frog-like voice.

  One last thing before we move on, says Greta. There is the question of re-educating our boys and men. Isn’t that also something we’d like?

  Not like, says Salome, not entirely. (At this correction from Salome, the young women again mime killing themselves.) Re-educating our boys and men is something we’re obligated to do if we are to uphold the tenet of pacifism and non-conflict that is central to our faith and must be adhered to if we are to know eternal peace in heaven!

  Yes, says Greta (with epic weariness).

  And if we are to protect our children, says Ona.

  Yes, that too, says Greta. And adds, So shouldn’t it be a part of our plan?

  The manifesto, says Neitje, and Autje giggles.

  Yes, says Greta. Part of the manifesto.

  Both Neitje and Autje burst into laughter. It appears they find the word “manifesto” unbearably funny.

  Salome says, We will be doing the work of re-education organically—(Oh for fuck’s sake, organically, says Mejal)—while we raise our young male children to be compassionate and respectful.

  Salome flicks a piece of rolled-up fabric at Mejal, who proceeds to burn a hole straight through its middle with her cigarette and then peers through the hole at Salome, with one dark eye.

  Salome laughs. Put that in your quilt, she tells Mejal. It will add character.

  You mean our imaginary quilt, says Mejal.

  But what of the boys left behind? says Greta.

  Salome turns suddenly solemn. She puts her hand up and asks for a clarification. Have we already determined the cutoff age for the boys who are allowed to join us? she asks.

  The women are silent for a moment. Then Agata says she has been thinking about this and would like to make a proposal. The subject of our boys and men is a complex one, she says. We love our sons, and with some legitimate reservations we love our husbands, too, if only because we have been instructed to.

  You’re confusing love with obedience, says Mariche.

  Perhaps in your case that is true, Mariche, but it is not necessarily true for the other women in the colony, Agata says. In any case, we must love, or show love, to all people. It is the preeminent word of God (as interpreted by men presumably) to love one another as God loves us, and to love our neighbour as we would hope that our neighbour loves us.

  (I hear Salome inhaling at length.)

  Autje and Neitje once again put their heads down on the table. Neitje has offered Autje a bite of a sausage she’s been chewing on since the meeting began.

  Autje frowns, closes her eyes.

  Neitje places her hand gently on Autje’s cheek, eclipsing the bruise left by Autje’s father.

  Agata presents her proposal: All boys under the age of fifteen must accompany the women.

  Accompany us to where? asks Mariche.

  Mariche, says Greta. You know we don’t know exactly where we’re going.

  Mejal adds: How could we know? We’ve never left Molotschna and we don’t have a map, and even if we did have a map we don’t know how to read it.

  Salome asks: How do you mean, must? We’re forcing them to leave with us?

  Agata continues, undeterred. Fifteen is the age of baptism and those boys who have been baptized into the church and are now fully fledged members are considered to be men, and so they are presently in the city with the older men. The boys under fifteen, and Cornelius, and Grant, are here on the colony. They are childlike because they require special care. Of course they must leave with us. Our duty and instinct, and our desire, as we’ve established, is to protect our children. Not only our daughters.

  The women speak at once, and again I’m unable to decipher their individual voices.

  Please, says Agata. One at a time.

  What will we do if those boys don’t want to leave, if they refuse to leave? Mariche wonders. We can’t carry fourteen-year-old boys on our back.

  That’s true, says Agata. We can’t force them to leave with us but we will explain everything that we’ve discussed here in the loft, why we think it would be best for them to leave with us. We will try to influence our sons.

  Autje and Neitje have lifted their heads from the table.

  Neitje says, The boys would be able to read the map.

  If we had one, says Autje.

  I raise my hand.

  Autje smiles. Yes, Mr. Epp?

  I tell the women that I’m still in the process of procuring the world map that I know to exist in Chortiza colony.

  The women laugh. (I don’t know why.)

  Ona returns to her mother’s words. For the women of Molotschna to agree to try to influence their sons is truly revolutionary, she says.

  No, says Agata. It’s instinctive. We are their mothers. They are our children. We have collectively and according to the tenets of our faith and to the definition, at least to our knowledge, of love and peace, and the criteria for eternal life in heaven, decided what is best for them, and we will follow through accordingly. Our animal instincts have joined forces with our intellects, which have lurked and languished in the shadows long enough, and with our souls, which are the manifestation of God. How is that revolutionary? (Agata is now very short of breath.)

  Will the boys who refuse to leave with us be allowed to stay in the colony? Mariche asks.

  Of course, says Agata, we’ll entrust their care to the Do Nothing women and to their fathers, who are due to return soon—tomorrow, anyway.

  Mejal says, But that would be very sad.

  Yes! says Agata. It would be very sad. But sadness can’t be avoided. And we’ll endure it.

  Salome, says Mariche. What will your Aaron do? Will he leave?

  Salome ignores the question. Instead she asks Agata: Will we invite the men and the boys who stay behind to join us later when we’ve established a new community?

  I’m not sure, says Agata. As we know, the young men of Molotschna often marry at age sixteen and the boys who stay behind will likely marry girls from Chortiza or beyond, perhaps from Hiakjeke. (Translator’s note: a colony north of Chortiza that means, in our language, “Here, look,” supposedly the answer to the question, Where are we?) They will likely not want to uproot themselves after that.

  But if they did want to join us, says Mejal, they’d be able to?

  Agata is silent. She blinks rapidly and looks towards the rafters.

  Perhaps, says Ona, they could join us if they sign our manifesto and adhere to it.

  Salome says she�
��s afraid the manifesto would be altered or gradually degraded by the men. They might sign only to be allowed back with the women, but wouldn’t follow the terms afterwards.

  Mejal agrees. And then we’d be back to where we started, she says.

  Listen, says Agata. We’re embarking on a journey. We’re initiating a change that we have interpreted, over the last two days, as being God’s will and a testament to our faith, and responsibilities and natural instincts as mothers and as human beings with souls. We must believe in it.

  Greta elaborates: We don’t know everything that will happen. We’ll have to wait and see. For now, we’ve made our plan.

  Ona turns to me. August, do you think the artist Michelangelo knew what his painting would look like before he started?

  I don’t know, I say.

  Mariche says, It’s not likely.

  Or a photograph, says Ona. Does the person taking the photograph know what it will look like while he is taking it?

  In the case of the photograph, I say, the photographer might possibly have a better idea of what the work will look like than the artist, Michelangelo, would have of the final expression of his art.

  Ona thanks me for this explanation. We, the women, are artists, she says.

  Mariche scoffs. Artists of anxiety, she says.

  Ona smiles at me. I smile at Ona.

  Agata takes Ona’s hand who takes Salome’s hand who takes Mejal’s hand who takes Neitje’s hand who takes Autje’s hand who takes Mariche’s hand who takes Greta’s hand who takes Agata’s hand.

  The women look at me.

  Agata drops her hand from Greta’s and takes my hand and I will put down my pen and take Greta’s hand, trying not to put pressure on her swollen knuckles.

  We have sung. Agata began, and we all joined in: the two older women with gusto, the two youngest with mortification, mumbling; the ones in between with resignation, although artfully.

  We are in Earnest Thiessen’s hayloft, between earth and sky, and this was perhaps the last time I would hear Ona sing. We sang “For the Beauty of the Earth.”

  For the beauty of the earth,

  For the beauty of the skies,

  For the Love which from our birth

  Over and around us lies:

  Christ, our God, to Thee we raise

  This our Sacrifice of Praise.

  For the beauty of each hour

  Of the day and of the night,

  Hill and vale, and tree and flower,

  Sun and moon and stars of light:

  Christ, our God, to Thee we raise

  This our Sacrifice of Praise.

  For the joy of ear and eye,

  For the heart and brain’s delight,

  For the mystic harmony

  Linking sense to sound and sight:

  Christ, our God, to Thee we raise

  This our Sacrifice of Praise.

  For the joy of human love,

  Brother, sister, parent, child,

  Friends on earth, and friends above;

  For all gentle thoughts and mild:

  Christ, our God, to Thee we raise

  This our Sacrifice of Praise.

  For each perfect Gift of Thine

  To our race so freely given,

  Graces human and Divine,

  Flowers of earth, and buds of Heaven:

  Christ, our God, to Thee we raise

  This our Sacrifice of Praise.

  Greta has suggested we sing another hymn. She asks the women if they’d like to sing “Nearer, My God, to Thee.”

  I am emotional. I don’t know what is wrong with me.

  Ona is looking at me. I raise my hand.

  You can speak whenever you want to speak, August, says Agata, and you don’t have to raise your hand. You’re the teacher! She laughs.

  The others stare at me.

  Tears are rolling down my cheeks. I can hardly see the paper to write these words. I see Mariche purse her lips, look away. This half-man. Of dubious origin. Autje and Neitje appear to be as mortified by my crying as I am.

  This is what I wonder: Did my mother once love Peters? Had he been different than he is now? Kind? Another sort of person, if only he were not trapped in the crucible of this crushing experiment? Is it a sin to hope that this is so? Would he understand my fear? Console me? I force the tears to stop by focusing on the definition of liminal space. I want to share this definition with Ona. But perhaps I won’t, now, have that opportunity.

  Instead I ask the women if I may share with them a fact regarding the hymn that Greta has suggested: “Nearer, My God, to Thee.”

  Salome frowns but says, Of course, August, but hurry, look. She points to the window, to the light, which has suddenly become the central character in our story, the fearsome catalyst.

  “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” I begin, is the song that the passengers of the Titanic sang as the ship was sinking.

  I look at Ona.

  She says she doesn’t know of this ship, but it is the song she would sing as well if she were on a doomed vessel.

  Mariche adds: And if there was nothing else to be done.

  Yes, says Ona, if there was nothing else to be done.

  None of the women in the loft have heard of the Titanic. None of the women in the loft have seen an ocean. Their measured and polite attention to my fact is embarrassing. They are silent, nodding, giving the fact its due. Such torment in my heart, titanic. This fact was meant for Ona. But how stupid of me to offer such a gift, as though to imply that the women’s plan is doomed. How selfish of me.

  Greta, mercifully, again suggests that we sing now.

  We have finished singing “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” I wished so badly to hold Ona’s hand while singing rather than Agata’s and Greta’s. God, forgive me.

  Now there is work to do.

  Agata insists that we must stop talking through flowers (a loose translation of the expression she has used in Plautdietsch). The time is nigh for the women to prepare for departure.

  Most of the others nod. Mariche frowns but says nothing.

  Things have happened overnight, says Agata, since our meeting ended yesterday.

  She continues: I went to use the biffy after faspa and I heard a terrible moaning from across the northwest field, next to my house. Because of my edema (she pauses and takes a breath, allowing the other women to linger and luxuriate on the proper name for what is ailing her) I was keeping my feet up, resting them on Autje’s old cradle, the light-blue one with the angels, the one that Kurt made before his spine cracked.

  I wasn’t able to get up to investigate, she continues, but the moaning was coming closer to my house, and closer still, then even closer, and I could also hear horses and the wheels of a buggy on the gravel, and eventually there was a knock at my door.

  Ona encourages her mother to pick up the pace of the narrative by clearing her throat and nodding vigorously, her eyes wide.

  Agata continues: It was Klaas.

  Agata tells the women that Klaas was suffering from the pain of a rotten molar. (Agata has been the colony dentist since her father, the previous colony dentist, died and left his tools in her care.)

  Mariche nods. Yes, she says, I knew that already. His breath has been putrid. She waves her hand beneath her nose, scowling.

  Salome asks: But was this before or after he left the bruises on your face, Mariche?

  Mariche swats the question away and motions, by flicking her bitten-off finger, to Agata to continue.

  Agata explains that she agreed to pull Klaas’s rotten tooth, but had to anesthetize him first. He agreed, and just before Agata clamped the ether-soaked rag on his face she asked him if he knew where the other two men were, the ones who had returned to Molotschna with him, Yasch (Anton) and Jacobo.

  Klaas told her they were drunk on mistletoe vodka, lying out in some fallow field near the yearling barn.

  I told Klaas he and the others drank too much, says Agata. He sulked. And he said that everybody talked about how
much he drank but nobody ever talked about how thirsty he was.

  Mariche snorts. I’ve heard that before.

  Agata put Klaas under and went to work on the tooth. She removed it quickly, left Klaas unconscious, and then got into his buggy and rode his team to the summer kitchen where she loaded it up with cheese, sausage, bread, flour, salt, eggs and water.

  Salome asks: Is the bread the bracka?

  Agata confirms that it is.

  (Translator’s note: Bracka is the dried bread needed for long journeys. It is dipped or soaked in water, to soften it, and it lasts for a very long time. And a second note: Had Agata noticed Ona and me up on the wash house roof?)

  Agata returned to her house, unloaded the supplies, hid them in her bedroom and waited for Klaas to wake up. As Klaas was preparing to leave he asked Agata why his horses were soaked in sweat.

  Ona interrupts: Was he able to speak after just having his molar removed?

  Yes, says Agata, he used hand gestures along with words.

  Agata replied that he must have driven his team hard, as always (Greta mutters: Too hard), to her place, that the surgery had been quick, and that the horses hadn’t had time to recover.

  Salome interrupts: Well, now that he’s had that tooth pulled he might be in a better mood.

  Mariche cocks her head and glares at Salome.

  I’m sorry, Salome says. But I am being genuine, hopeful.

  Perhaps Salome’s right, Greta says, soothing both women. He might be less combative without an aching tooth. Maybe Salome’s right.

  I don’t mind Salome being right, says Mariche. I just don’t like it when she thinks she’s right.

  There is a consensus amongst the women on this point. They nod at each other, chewing on the significant difference between being right and thinking one is right.

  Autje breaks the silence. We—she gestures at her mother and herself—might never see my father again, she says.

  The other women remain silent, brooding on this too.

  All of us here in the loft are leaving family members behind, Agata reminds her gently. Husbands, brothers, fathers, sisters, aunts and uncles.