Tzili: The Story of a Life

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THE SUMMER TOOK them by surprise, hot and broad, filling them with a will to live. The paths all flowed together into green creeks, bordered by tall trees. Refugees streamed from all directions, and for some reason the sight recalled summer holidays, youth movements, seasonal vacations, all kinds of forgotten youthful pleasures. Words from the old lexicon floated in the air. Only their clothes, like an eternal disgrace, went on steaming.

Tzili sat still, this happiness made her anxious. Soon it would give way to screams, pain, and despair.

That night they made a fire, sang and danced, and drank. And as after every catastrophe: embraces, couplings, and despondency in their wake. Tall women with the traces of an old elegance still clinging to them lay sunbathing shamelessly next to the lake.

“What does it matter — there’s no point in living anymore anyway,” a woman who had apparently run wild all night confessed. She was strong and healthy, fit to bring many more children into the world.

“And you won’t go to Palestine?” asked her friend.

“No,” said the woman decisively.

“Why not?”

“I want to go to hell.”

From this conversation Tzili absorbed the word Palestine. Once when her sister Yetty had become involved with the Moravian officer, there had been talk of sending her to Palestine. At first Yetty had refused, but then she changed her mind and wanted to go. But by then they didn’t have the money to send her. Now Tzili thought often of her sister Yetty. Where was she now?

Tzili’s fears were not in vain. The calamities came thick and fast: one woman threw herself into the lake and another swallowed poison. The marvelous oblivion was gone in an instant and the same healthy woman, the one who had refused to go to Palestine, announced: “Death will follow us all our lives, wherever we go. There’ll be no more peace for us.”

In the afternoon the body was recovered from the lake and the funerals took place one after the other. One of the men, who had the look of a public official even in his rags, spoke at length about the great obligations which were now facing them all. He spoke about memory, the long memory of the Jewish people, the eternal life of the tribe, and the historic necessity of the return to the motherland. Many wept.

After the funeral there was a big argument and the words of the official were heard again. It appeared that the woman who had taken poison had taken it because of a broken promise: someone who wanted to sleep with her had promised to marry her, and the next day he had changed his mind. The woman, who in all the years of suffering had kept the poison hidden in the lining of her coat without using it, had used it now. And something else: before taking the poison the woman had announced her intention of taking it, but no one had believed her.

Now there was nothing left but to say: Because of one night in bed a person commits suicide? So what if he slept with her? So what if he promised her? What do we have left but for the little pleasures of life? Do we have to give those up too?

Tzili took in the words with her eyes shut. She understood the words now, but she did not justify any of them in her heart. She sensed only one thing: the grief which had washed through her too had now become empty and pointless.