Tzili: The Story of a Life

14

EARLY IN THE MORNING she set out. He stood watching her receding figure for a long time. Once again she was by herself. She knew that the stranger had done something to her, but what? She walked for hours, looking for ways around the melted snow, and in the end she found an open path, paved with stones.

A woman was standing next to one of the huts, and Tzili addressed her in the country dialect: “Have you any bread?”

“What will you give me for it?”

“Money.”

“Show me.”

Tzili showed her.

“And how much will I give you for it?”

“Two loaves.”

The old peasant woman muttered a curse, went inside, and emerged immediately with two loaves in her hands. The transaction was over in a moment.

“Who do you belong to?” she remembered to ask.

“To Maria.”

“Maria? Tfu.” The woman spat. “Get out of my sight.”

Tzili clasped the bread in both hands. The bread was still warm, and it was only after she had walked for some distance that the tears gushed out of her eyes. For the first time in many days she saw the face of her mother, a face no longer young. Worn with work and suffering. Her feet froze on the ground, but as in days gone by she knew that she must not stand still, and she continued on her way.

The trees were putting out leaves. Tzili jumped over the puddles without getting wet. She knew the way and weaved between the paths, taking shortcuts and making detours like a creature native to the place. She walked very quickly and arrived before evening fell. Mark was sitting in his place. His tired, hungry eyes had a dull, indifferent look.

“I brought bread,” she said.

Mark roused himself: “I thought you were lost.” He fell on the bread and tore it to shreds with his teeth, without offering any to Tzili. She observed him for a moment: his eyes seemed to have come alive and all his senses concentrated on chewing.

“Won’t you have some too?” he said when he was finished eating.

Tzili stretched out her hand and took a piece of bread. She wasn’t hungry. The long walk had tired her into a stupor. Her tears too had dried up. She sat without moving.

Mark passed his right hand over his mouth and said: “A cigarette, if only I had a cigarette.”

Tzili made no response.

He went on: “Without cigarettes there’s no point in living.” Then he dug his nails into the ground and began singing a strange song. Tzili remembered the melody but she couldn’t understand the words. Gradually his voice lost its lilt and the song trailed off into a mutter.

The evening was cold and Mark lit a fire. During the long days of his stay here he had learned to make fire from two pieces of flint and a thread of wool which he plucked from his coat. Tzili marveled momentarily at his dexterity. The agitation faded from his face and he asked in a practical tone of voice: “How did you get the bread? Fresh bread?”

Tzili answered him shortly.

“And they didn’t suspect you?”

For a long time they sat by the little fire, which gave off a pleasant warmth.

“Why are you so silent?”

Tzili hung her head, and an involuntary smile curved her lips.

The craving for cigarettes did not leave him. The fresh bread had given him back his taste for life, but he lost it again immediately. For hours he sat nibbling blades of grass, chewing them up and spitting them to one side. He had a tense, bitter look. From time to time he cursed himself for being a slave to his addiction. Tzili was worn out and she fell asleep where she sat.