Tzili: The Story of a Life

19

AFTER THIS the autumn weather grew finer and a cold, clear sun shone on their temporary shelter. Mark’s troubled spirit seemed to lighten too and he stopped cursing. He didn’t stop drinking, but his drinking no longer put him in a rage. Now he would often say: “There was something I wanted to say, but it’s slipped my mind.” A weak smile would break through the clouds, darkening his face. Far-off, forgotten things continued to trouble him, but not in the same shocking way. Now he would speak softly of the need to study languages, acquire a liberal profession, escape from the provinces, but he no longer scolded Tzili.

He would speak of the approaching winter as a frontier beyond which lay life and hope. And Tzili sensed that Mark was now absorbed in listening to himself. Every now and then he would conclude aloud: “There’s still hope. There’s still hope.”

And once he questioned her about her religious studies. Tzili’s life at home now felt so remote and scattered that it didn’t seem to belong to her. On the way to the plains she would wonder about Maria, whose name she had so unthinkingly adopted. The more she thought about her, the clearer her features grew. A tall, proud woman, she gave her body to anyone who wanted it, but not without getting a good price. And when her daughters grew up, they too adopted their mother’s gestures, they too were bold.

She didn’t tell him about Maria, just as she didn’t tell him about Katerina. Her femininity blossomed within her, blind and sweet. Outwardly too she changed. The pimples didn’t disappear from her face, but her limbs were full of strength. She walked easily, even when she had a heavy sack to carry.

“How old are you?” Mark had once asked her in the days of his drunkenness. Afterward he didn’t ask again. Now he would beg her pardon for his drunken behavior; his face recovered its former mildness. Tzili’s happiness knew no bounds. Mark had recovered and he would never shout at her again. For some reason she believed that the new drink, which the peasants called slivovitz, was responsible for this change.

It seemed to Tzili that the happy days of the summer were about to return, but she was wrong. Mark now craved a woman. This secret he was keeping even from himself. He would urge Tzili to go down to the plains even before it was necessary. Her blooming presence was driving him wild.

And while Tzili was busy pondering ways and means of getting hold of the new, calming drink, Mark suddenly said: “I love you.”

Tzili’s mouth fell open. His voice was familiar, but very different. She was surprised, but not altogether. The last few nights had been cold and they had both slept in the bunker. They had sat together until late at night, with a warm, dark intimacy between them.

Mark stretched out his arms and clasped her round the waist. Tzili’s body shrank from his hands. “You don’t love me,” he mumbled. The tighter he held her, the more her body shrank. But he was determined, and he slid her dress up with nimble fingers. “No,” she managed to murmur. But it was already too late.

Afterward he sat by her side and stroked her body. Strange words came tumbling out of his mouth. For some reason he began talking again about the advantages of the place, the beautiful marshes, the forests, and the fresh air. The words were external, and they brushed past her naked body like a cold wind.

From now on they stayed in the bunker. The rain poured down, but for the time being they were sheltered against it. Mark drank all the time, but never to excess. His happiness was a drunken happiness, and he wanted to cut it up into little pieces and make it last. From time to time he ventured out to confirm what he already knew — that outside it was cold, dark, and damp.

“Tell me about yourself. Why don’t you tell me?” he would press her. The truth was that he only wanted to hear her voice. He showered many words on her during their days together in the bunker. His heart overflowed. Tzili, for her part, accepted her happiness quietly. Secretly she was glad that Mark loved her.

Their supplies ran short. Tzili put off going out from day to day. She liked it in this new darkness. She learned to drink the insidious drug, and the more she drank the more slothful her body became. “I’d go myself, but the peasants would betray me.” Mark would excuse himself. And in the meantime the rain and cold hemmed them in. They snuggled up together and their small happiness knew no bounds.

Distant sights, hungry malevolent shadows invaded the bunker in dense crowds. Tzili did not know the bitter, emaciated people. Mark went outside and cut branches with his kitchen knife to block up the openings, hurling curses in all directions. For a moment or two it seemed that he had succeeded in chasing them off. But the harder the rain fell the more bitter the struggle became, and from day to day the shadows prevailed. In vain Tzili tried to calm him. His happiness was being attacked from every quarter. Tzili too seemed affected by the same secret poison.

“Enough,” he announced, “I’m going down.”

“No, I’ll go,” said Tzili.

The dark, rainy plains now drew Mark to them. “I have to go on a tour of inspection,” he announced. It was no longer a caprice but a spell. The plains drew him like a magnet.