Tzili: The Story of a Life

12

WHEN SHE WOKE it was daylight. Scented vapors rose from the fields. And while she was sitting there a man seemed to come floating up from the depths of the earth. For a moment they measured each other with their eyes. She saw immediately: he was not a peasant. His city suit was faded and his face exhausted.

“Who are you?” he asked in the local dialect. His voice was weak but clear.

“Me?” she asked, startled.

“Where are you from?”

“The village.”

This reply confused him. He turned his head slowly to see if anyone was there. There was no one. She smelled the stale odor of his mildewed clothes.

“And what are you doing here?”

She raised herself slightly on her hands and said: “Nothing.”

The man made a gesture with his hand as if he was about to turn his back on her. But then he said: “And when are you going back there?”

“Me?”

Now it appeared that the conversation was over. But the man was not satisfied. He stroked his coat. He seemed about forty and his hands were a grayish white, like the hands of someone who had not known the shelter of a man-made roof for a long time.

Tzili rose to her feet. The man’s appearance revolted her, but it did not frighten her. His soft flabbiness.

“Haven’t you got any bread?” he asked.

“No.”

“And no sausage either?”

“No.”

“A pity. I would have given you money for them,” he said and turned to go. But he changed his mind and said in a clear voice: “Haven’t you got any parents?”

This question seemed to startle her. She took a step backward and said in a weak voice: “No.”

Her reply appeared to excite the stranger, and he said with a kind of eagerness: “What do you say?” The trace of a crooked smile appeared on his gray-white face.

“So you’re one of us.”

There was something repulsive about his smile. Her body shrank and she recoiled. As if some loathsome reptile had crossed her path. “Tell me,” he pressed her, standing his ground. “You’re one of us, aren’t you?”

For a moment she wanted to say no and run away, but her legs refused to move.

“So you’re one of us,” he said and took a few steps toward her. “Don’t be afraid. My name’s Mark. What’s yours?”

He took off his hat, as if he wished to indicate with this gesture not only respect but also submission. His bald head was no different from his face, a pale gray.

“How long have you been here?”

Tzili couldn’t open her mouth.

“I’ve lost everyone. I’d made up my mind to die tonight.” Even this sentence, which was spoken with great emotion, did not move her. She stood frozen, as if she were caught up in an incomprehensible nightmare. “And you, where are you from? Have you been wandering for long?” he continued rapidly, in Tzili’s mother tongue, a mixture of German and Yiddish, and with the very same accent.

“My name is Tzili,” said Tzili.

The man seemed overcome. He sank onto his knees and said: “I’m glad. I’m very glad. Come with me. I have a little bread left.”

Evening fell. The fruit trees on the hillside glowed with light. In the forest it was already dark.

“I’ve been here a month already,” said the man, composing himself. “And in all that time I haven’t seen a soul. What about you? Do you know anybody?” He spoke quickly, swallowing his words, getting out everything he had stored up in the long, cold days alone. She did not understand much, but one thing she understood: in all the countryside around them there were no Jews left.

“And your parents?” he asked.

Tzili shuddered. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

The stranger fell silent and asked no more.

In his hideout, it transpired, he had some crusts of bread, a few potatoes, and even a little vodka.

“Here,” he said, and offered her a piece of bread.

Tzili took the bread and immediately sank her teeth into it.

The stranger looked at her for a long time, and a crooked smile spread over his face. He sat cross-legged on the ground. After a while he said: “I couldn’t believe at first that you were Jewish. What did you do to change yourself?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, what do you say? I will never be able to change. I’m too old to change, and to tell the truth I don’t even know if I want to.”

Later on he asked: “Why don’t you say anything?” Tzili shivered. She was no longer accustomed to the old words, the words from home. She had never possessed an abundance of words, and the months she had spent in the company of the old peasants had cut them off at the roots. This stranger, who had brought the smell of home back to her senses, agitated her more than he frightened her.

When it grew dark he lit a fire. He explained: the entire area was surrounded by swamps. And now with the thawing of the snow it would be inaccessible to their enemies. It was a good thing that the winter was over. There was a practical note now in his voice. The suffering seemed to have vanished from his face, giving way to a businesslike expression. There was no anger or wonder in it.