Tzili: The Story of a Life

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SPRING WAS NOW at its height, its light was everywhere. Some of the people could not bear the silence and left. The rest sat on the ground and played cards. The old madness, buried for years, broke out: cards and gambling. All at once they shook off their damp, rotting rags and put on carefree expressions, laughing and teasing each other. Tzili did not yet know that a new way of life was unconsciously coming into being here.

The holiday atmosphere reminded Tzili of her parents. When she was still small they had spent their summer vacations in a pension on the banks of the Danube. Her parents were short of money, but they had spared no effort in order to be in the company, if only for two weeks, of speakers of correct German. As if to spite them, however, most of the people there spoke Yiddish. This annoyed her father greatly, and he said: “You can’t get away from them. They creep in everywhere.” Afterward he fell ill, and they stayed at home and spent their money on doctors and medicine.

No one spoke of the war anymore. The card games devoured their time. A few of them went to buy supplies, but as soon as they got back they joined enthusiastically in the game. Every now and then someone would remember to say: “What will become of us?” But the question was not serious. It was only part of the game. “What’s wrong with staying right here? We’ve got plenty of coffee, cigarettes — we can stay here for the rest of our lives”—someone would nevertheless take the trouble to reply.

Not far from where they sat the troops passed by, a vigorous army liberated from the siege, invading the countryside on fresh young horses. They all admired the Russians, the volunteers and the partisans, but it was not an admiration which entailed a desire for action. “Let the soldiers fight, let them avenge us.”

Tzili was with herself and the tiny fetus in her womb. Words which Mark had spoken to her on the mountain rang in her ears. Scenes from the mountain days passed before her eyes like vivid, ritual tableaus. Mark no longer appeared to her. For hours she sat and waited for him to reveal himself. He’s dead — the thought flashed through her mind and immediately disappeared.

One evening a few more Jewish survivors appeared, bringing a new commotion. And one of them, a youthful-looking man, spoke of the coming salvation. He spoke of the cleansing of sins, the purification of the soul. He spoke eloquently, in a pleasant voice. His appearance was not ravaged. Thin, but not horrifyingly thin. Some of them recognized him and remembered him from the camp as a quiet young man, working and suffering in silence. They had never imagined that he had so much to say.

Tzili liked the look of him and she drew near to hear him speak. He spoke patiently, imploringly, without raising his voice. As if he were speaking of things that were self-evident. And for a moment it seemed that he was not speaking, but singing.

The people were absorbed in their card game, and the young man’s eloquence disturbed them. At first they asked him to leave them alone and go somewhere else. The young man begged their pardon and said that he had only come to tell them what he himself had been told. And if what he had been told was true, he could not be silent.

It was obvious that he was a well-brought-up young man. He spoke politely in a correct German Jewish, and wished no one any harm. But his apologies were to no avail. They ordered him to leave, or at any rate to shut up. The young man seemed about to depart, but something inside him, something compulsive, stopped him, and he stood his ground and went on talking. One of the card players, who had been losing and was in a bad mood, stood up and hit him.

To everyone’s surprise, the young man burst out crying.

It was more like wailing than crying. The whole night long he sat and wailed. Through his wailing the history of his life emerged. He was an architect. Like his father and forefathers, he was remote from Jewish affairs, busy trying to set up an independent studio. The war took him completely by surprise. In the camp something had happened to him. His workmate in the forced labor gang, something of a Jewish scholar although not a believer, had taught him a little Bible, Mishna, and the Sayings of the Fathers. After the war he had begun to hear voices, clear, unconfused voices, and one evening the cry had burst from his throat: “Jews repent, return to your Father in Heaven.”

From then on he never stopped talking, explaining, and calling on the Jews to repent. And when people refused to listen or hit him, he fell to the ground and wept.

The next day one of the card players found a way to get rid of him. He approached the young man and said to him in his own language, in a whisper: “Why waste your time on these stubborn Jews? Down below, not far from here, there are plenty of survivors, gentle people like you. They’re waiting for someone to come and show them the way. You’ll do it. You’re just the right person. Believe me.”

Strange, these words had an immediate effect. He rose to his feet and asked the way, and without another word he set out.

Tzili felt sorry for the young man who had been led astray. She covered her face with her hands. The others too seemed unhappy. They returned to their card playing as if it were not a game, but an urgent duty.