Tzili: The Story of a Life

28

AFTER THIS the weather was fine and mild, without wind or rain. The grass grew thick and wild and the people sat about drinking coffee and playing cards. There were no quarrels, and for a while it seemed as if things would go on like this forever.

From time to time peasant women would appear, spread out their wares on flowered cloths, and offer the survivors apples, smoked meat, and black bread. The survivors bartered clothes for food. Some of them had gold coins too, old watches, and all kinds of trinkets they had kept with them through the years of the war. They gave these things away for food without haggling about their worth.

Tzili too sold a dress. In exchange she received a joint of smoked meat, two loaves of fresh bread, and a piece of cheese. She remembered the woman’s anger and asked for milk, but they had no milk. Tzili sat on the ground and ate heartily.

Apart from the card game nobody took any interest in anything. The woman who had scolded Tzili for not providing herself with milk played avidly. Tzili sat and watched them for hours at a time. Their faces reminded her of people from home, but nevertheless they looked like strangers. Perhaps because of the smell, the wet rot of years which clung to them still.

And while they were all absorbed in their eager game, a sudden fear fell on Tzili. What would she do if they all came back? What would she say, and how would she explain? She would say that she loved Mark. She now feared the questions she would be asked more than she feared the strangers. She curled up and closed her eyes. The fear which came from far away invaded her sleep too. She saw her mother looking at her through a very narrow slit. Her face was blurred but her question was clear: Who was this seducer, who was this Mark?

And Tzili’s fears were not in vain. One evening everything exploded. One of the card players, a quiet man with the face of a clerk, gentle-mannered and seemingly content, suddenly threw his cards down and said: “What am I doing here?”

At first this sentence seemed part of the game, annoyance at some little loss, a provocative remark. The game went on for some time longer, without anyone sensing the dynamite about to explode.

Suddenly the man rose to his feet and said: “What am I doing here?”

“What do you mean, what are you doing here?” they said. “You’re playing cards.”

“I’m a murderer,” he said, not in anger, but with a kind of quiet deliberation, as if the scream in his throat had turned, within a short space of time, to a clear admission of guilt.

“Don’t talk like that,” they said.

“You know it better than I do,” he said. “You’ll be my witnesses when the time comes.”

“Of course we’ll be your witnesses. Of course we will.”

“You’ll say that Zigi Baum is a murderer.”

“That you can’t expect of us.”

“I, for one, don’t intend hiding anything.”

This exchange, proceeding without anger, in a matter-of-fact tone, turned gradually into a menacing confrontation.

“You won’t tell the truth, then?”

“Of course we’ll tell the truth.”

“A man abandons his wife and children, his father and his mother. What is he if not a murderer?” He raised his head and a smile broke out on his face. Now he looked like a man who had done what had to be done and was about to take up his practical duties again. He took off his coat, sat down on the ground, and looked around him. He showed no signs of agitation.

For a moment it seemed as if he were about to ask a question. All eyes were on him. He bowed his head. They averted their eyes.

“It’s not a big thing to ask, I think,” he said to himself. “I didn’t want to ask you to do it, I don’t know if I should have asked you. The day of judgment will come in the end. If not in this world then in the next. I can’t imagine life without justice.”

He did not seem confused. There was a straightforward kind of matter-of-factness in his look. As if he wanted to bring a certain matter up for discussion, a matter which had become a little complicated, but not to such an extent that it could not be discussed with people who were close to him.

He took his tobacco out of his pocket, rolled himself a cigarette, lit it and inhaled the smoke.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. He said: “This is good tobacco. It’s got the right degree of moisture. You remember how we used to fight over cigarette stubs? We lost our human image. Pardon me — do you say human image or divine image?”

“Neither,” said a voice from behind.

This remark was apparently not to his liking. He clamped his teeth on the cigarette and passed his hand over his hair. Now you could see how old he was: not more than thirty-five. His cheeks were slightly lined, his nose was straight, and his ears were set close to his head. There was a concentrated look in his eyes.

“How much do I owe?” he asked one of the others. “I lost, I think.”

“It’s all written down. You’ll pay us back later.”

“I don’t like being in debt. How much do I owe?”

There was no response. He inhaled and blew the smoke out downward. “Strange,” he said. “The war is over. I never imagined it would end like this.”

Darkness fell and the tension relaxed. Zigi looked slightly ashamed of the scandal he had caused.

And while they were all sitting there, Zigi rose to his feet, stretched his arms, and raised his knees as if he were about to run a race. In the camp too he had been in the habit of taking short runs, in order to warm himself up. They had saved him then from depression.

Now it seemed as if he were about to take a run, as in the old days. One, two, he said, and set out. He ran six full rounds, and on the seventh he rose into the air and with a broad, slow movement cast himself into the water.

For a moment they all stood rooted to the spot. Then they all rushed together to the single hurricane lamp and stood waving it in the air. “Zigi, Zigi,” they cried. A few of them jumped into the river.

All night long they labored in the icy water. Some of them swam far out, but they did not find Zigi.

And when morning broke the river was smooth and placid. A greenish-blue light shone on its surface. No one spoke. They spread their clothes out to dry and the old moldy smell, which seemed to have gone away, rose once more into the air.

Afterward they lit a fire and sat down to eat. Their hunger was voracious. The loaves of bread disappeared one after the other.

Tzili forgot herself for a moment. Zigi’s athletic run went on flashing past her eyes, with great rapidity. It seemed to her that he would soon rise from the river, shake the water off his body, and announce: “The river’s fine for swimming.”

In the afternoon the place suddenly seemed confined and threatening, the light oppressive. The peasant women came and spread their wares on their flowered cloths, but no one bought anything. The women sat and looked at them with watchful eyes. One of them asked: “Why aren’t you buying today? We have bread and smoked meat. Fresh milk too.”

“Let’s go,” someone said, and immediately they all stood up. Tzili too raised her heavy body from the ground. No one asked: “Where to?” A dumb wonder stared from their faces, as after enduring grief. Tzili was glad that the haversack was empty, and now she had nothing but her own body to carry.