Tzili: The Story of a Life

15

WHEN SHE WOKE she kept her eyes closed. She felt Mark’s eyes on her. She lay without moving. The fire had not gone out, which meant that Mark had not slept all night.

When she finally opened her eyes it was already morning. Mark asked: “Did you sleep?” The sun rose in the sky and the horizons opened out one after the other until the misty plains were revealed in the distance. Here and there they could see a peasant ploughing.

“It’s a good place,” said Mark. “You can see a long way from here.” The agitation had faded from his face, and a kind of complacency that did not suit him had taken its place. Tzili imagined she could see in him one of the Jewish salesmen who used to drop into her mother’s shop. Mark asked her: “Did you go to school?”

“Yes.”

“A Jewish school?”

“No. There wasn’t one. I studied Judaism with an old teacher. The Pentateuch and prayers.”

“Funny,” he said, “it sounds so far away. As if it never happened. And do you still remember anything?”

“Hear, O Israel.”

“And do you recite it?”

“No,” she said and hung her head.

“In my family we weren’t observant anymore,” said Mark in a whisper. “Was your family religious?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You said they brought you a teacher of religion.”

“It was only for me, because I didn’t do well at school. My brothers and sisters were all good at school. They were going to take external examinations.”

“Strange,” said Mark.

“I had trouble learning.”

“What does it matter now?” said Mark. “We’re all doomed anyway.”

Tzili did not understand the word but she sensed that it held something bad.

After a pause Mark said: “You’ve changed very nicely, you’ve done it very cleverly. I can’t imagine a change like that taking place in me. Even the forests won’t change me now.”

“Why?” asked Tzili.

“Because everything about me gives me away — my appearance, from top to toe, my nose, my accent, the way I eat, sit, sleep, everything. Even though I’ve never had anything to do with what’s called Jewish tradition. My late father used to call himself a free man. He was fond of that phrase, I remember, but here in this place I’ve discovered, looking at the peasants ploughing in the valley, their serenity, that I myself — I won’t be able to change anymore. I’m a coward. All the Jews are cowards and I’m no different from them. You understand.”

Tzili understood nothing of this outburst, but she felt the pain pouring out of the words and she said: “What do you want to do?”

“What do I want to do? I want to go down to the village and buy myself a packet of tobacco. That’s all I want. I have no greater desire. I’m a nervous man and without cigarettes I’m an insect, less than an insect, I’m nothing.”

“I’ll buy it for you.”

“Thank you,” said Mark, ashamed. “Forgive me. I have no more money. I’ll give you a coat. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s good,” said Tzili. “That’s very good.” In the tent of branches he had a haversack full of things. He spread them out now on the ground to dry. His clothes, his wife’s and children’s clothes. He spread them out slowly, like a merchant displaying his wares on the counter.

Tzili shuddered at the sight of the little garments spotted with food stains. Mark spread them out without any order and they steamed and gave off a stench of mildew and sour-sweet. “We must dry them,” said Mark in a businesslike tone. “Otherwise they’ll rot.” He added: “I’ll give you my coat. It’s a good coat, pure wool. I bought it a year ago. I hope you’ll be able to get me some cigarettes for it. Without cigarettes to smoke I get very nervous.”

Strange, his nervousness was not apparent now. He stood next to the steaming clothes, turning them over one by one, as if they were pieces of meat on a fire. Tzili too did not take her eyes off the stained children’s clothes shrinking in the sun.

Toward evening he gathered the clothes up carefully and folded them. The coat intended for selling he put aside. “For this, I hope, we’ll be able to get some tobacco. It’s a good coat, almost new,” he muttered to himself.

That night Mark did not light a fire. He sat and sucked soft little twigs. Chewing the twigs seemed to blunt his craving for cigarettes. Tzili sat not far from him, staring into the darkness.

“I wanted to study medicine,” Mark recalled, “but my parents didn’t have the money to send me to Vienna. I sat for external matriculation exams and my marks weren’t anything to write home about, only average. And then I married very young, too young I’d say. Of course, nothing came of my plans to study. A pity.”

“What’s your wife’s name?” asked Tzili.

“Why do you ask?” said Mark in surprise.

“No reason.”

“Blanca.”

“How strange,” said Tzili. “My sister’s name is Blanca too.”

Mark rose to his feet. Tzili’s remark had abruptly stopped the flow of his memories. He put his hands in his trouser pocket, stuck out his chest, and said: “You must go to sleep. Tomorrow you have a long walk in front of you.”

The strangeness of his voice frightened Tzili and she immediately got up and went to lie down on the pile of leaves.