Tzili: The Story of a Life

5

HOURS OF SILENCE came. Her oppression lifted. And after her weeping she felt a sense of release. “It’s better now,” she whispered, to banish the remnants of the fear still congealed inside her. She lay flat on her back. The late summer sunlight warmed her body from top to toe. The last words left her and the old hunger that had troubled her the day before came back.

When night fell she bandaged her loins with her shawl, and without thinking about where she was going she walked on. The night was clear, and delicate drops of light sparkled on the broad cornfields. The bandage pressing against her felt good, and she walked on. She came across a stream and bent down to cup the water in her hands and drink. Only now did she realize how thirsty she was. She sat calmly and watched the running water. The sights of home dissolved in the cool air. Her fear shrank. From time to time brief words or syllables escaped her lips, but they were only the sighs that come after long weeping.

She slept and woke and slept again and saw her old teacher. The look in his eye was neither kindly nor benign, but appraising, the way he looked at her when she was reading from the prayer book. It was a dispassionate, slightly mocking look. Strange, she tried to explain something to him but the words were muted in her mouth. In the end she succeeded in saying: I am setting out on a long journey. Give me your blessing, teacher. But she didn’t really say it, she only imagined saying it. Her intention made no impression on the old man, as if it were just one more of her many mistakes.

Afterward she wandered in the outskirts of the forest. Her food was meager: a few wild cherries, apples, and various kinds of sour little fruits which quenched her thirst. The hunger for bread left her. From time to time she went down to the river and dipped her feet in the water. The cold water brought back memories of the winter, her sick father groaning and asking for another blanket. But these were only fleeting sensations. Day by day her body was detaching itself from home. The wound was fresh but not unhealthy. The seeds of oblivion had already been sown. She did not wash her body. She was afraid of removing the shawl from her loins. The sour smell grew worse.

“You must wash yourself,” a voice whispered.

“I’m afraid.”

“You must wash yourself,” the voice repeated.

In the afternoon, without taking off her dress, she stepped into the river. The water seeped into her until she felt it burn. And immediately drops of blood rose to the surface of the water and surrounded her. She gazed at them in astonishment. Afterward she lay on the ground.

The water was good for her, but not the fruit. In these early days she did not yet know how to distinguish between red and red, between black and black. She plucked whatever came to hand, blackberries and raspberries, strawberries and cherries. In the evening she had severe pain in her stomach and diarrhea. Her slender legs could not stand up to the pain and they gave way beneath her. “God, God.” The words escaped her lips. Her voice disappeared into the lofty greenness. If she had had the strength, she would have crawled into the village and given herself up.

“What are you doing here?”

She was suddenly startled by a peasant’s voice.

“I’m ill.”

“Who do you belong to?”

“Maria.”

The peasant stared at her in disgust, pursed his mouth, and turned away without another word.