Tzili: The Story of a Life

10

IN THE AUTUMN she found shelter with an old couple. They lived in a poor hut far from everything.

“Who are you?” asked the peasant.

“Maria’s daughter.”

“That whore,” said his wife. “I don’t want her daughter in the house.”

“She’ll help us,” said the man.

“No bastard is going to bring us salvation,” grumbled the wife.

“Quiet, woman.” He cut her short.

And thus Tzili found a shelter. Unlike Katerina’s place, there were no luxuries here. The hut was composed of one long room containing a stove, a rough wooden table, and two benches. In the corner, a couple of stools. And above the stools a Madonna carved in oak, as simple as the work of a child.

It was a long, gray autumn, and on the monotonous plains everything seemed made of mud and fog. Even the people seemed to be made of the same substance: rough and violent, their tongue that of the pitchfork and cattle prod. The wife would wake her while it was still dark and push her outside with grunts: go milk the cows, go take them to the meadow.

The long hours in the meadows were her own. Her imagination did not soar but the little she possessed warmed her like soft, pure wool. Katerina, of course. In this gray place her former life with Katerina seemed full of interest. Here there were only cows, cows and speechlessness. The man and his wife communicated in grunts. If they ran short of milk or wood for the fire, the wife never asked why but brandished the rope as a sign that something was amiss.

Here for the first time she felt the full strength of her arms. At Katerina’s they had grown stronger. Now she lifted the pitchfork easily into the air. The columns of her legs too were full of muscles. She ate whatever she could lay her hands on, heartily. But life was not as simple as she imagined. One night she awoke to the touch of a hand on her leg. To her surprise it was the old man. The old woman climbed out of bed after him shouting: “Adulterer!” And he returned chastised to his bed.

This was all the old woman was waiting for. After that she spoke to Tzili like a stray mongrel dog.

It was the middle of winter and the days darkened. The snow piled up in the doorway and barred their way out. Tzili sat for hours in the stable with the cows. She sensed the thin pipes joining her to these dumb worlds. She did not know what one said to cows, but she felt the warmth emanating from their bodies seeping into her. Sometimes she saw her mother in the shop struggling with hooligans. A woman without fear. In this dark stable everything seemed so remote — was more like a previous incarnation than her own life.

Between one darkness and the next the old woman would beat Tzili. The bastard had to be beaten so that she would know who she was and what she had to do to mend her ways. The woman would beat her fervently, as if she were performing some secret religious duty.

When spring comes I’ll run away, Tzili would say to herself on her bed at night. Or: Why did I ever leave Katerina? She was good to me. Now she felt a secret affection for Katerina’s hut, as if it were not a miserable cottage but an enchanted palace.

Sometimes she would hear her voice saying, “The Jews are weak, but they’re gentle too. A Jew would never strike a woman.” This mystery seemed to melt into Tzili’s body and flood it with sweetness. At times like these her mind would shrink to next to nothing and she would be given over entirely to sensations. When she heard Katerina’s voice she would curl up and listen as if to music.

But the old man could not rest, and every now and then he would dart out of bed and try to reach her. And once, in his avidity, he bit her leg, but the old woman was too quick for him and dragged him off before he could go any further. “Adulterer!” she cried.

Sometimes he would put on an expression of injured innocence and say: “What harm have I done?”

“Your evil thoughts are driving you out of your mind.”

“What have I done?”

“You can still ask!”

“I swear to you …” The old man would try to justify himself.

“Don’t swear. You’ll roast in hell!”

“Me?”

“You, you rascal.”

The winter stretched out long and cold, and the grayness changed from one shade to another. There was nowhere to hide. It seemed that the whole universe was about to sink beneath the weight of the black snow. Once the old woman asked her: “How long is it since you saw your mother?”

“Many years.”

“It was from her that you learned your wicked ways. Why are you silent? You can tell us. We know your mother only too well. Her and all her scandals. Even I had to watch my old man day and night. Not that it did me any good. Men are born adulterers. They’d find a way to cheat on their wives in hell itself.”

Toward the end of winter the old woman lost control of herself. She beat Tzili indiscriminately. “If I don’t make her mend her ways, who will?” She beat her devoutly with a wet rope so that the strokes would leave their mark on her back. Tzili screamed with pain, but her screams did not help her. The old woman beat her with extraordinary strength. And once, when the old man tried to intervene, she said: “You’d better shut up or I’ll beat you too. You old lecher. God will thank me for it.” And the old man, who usually gave back as good as he got, kept quiet. As if he had heard a warning voice from on high.