Tzili: The Story of a Life

7

FROM THE FIRST DAY Tzili knew what was expected of her. She swept the floor and washed the dishes, she hurried to peel the potatoes. No work was too arduous for her. The months out of doors seemed to have taught her what it meant to serve others. She never left a job half done and she never got mixed up. And whenever it stopped raining she would take the skinny old cow out to graze.

Katerina lay in her bed wrapped in goat skins, coughing and sipping tea and vodka by turn. From time to time she rose and went to stand by the window. It was a poor house with a dilapidated stable beside it. And in the yard: a few pieces of wood, a gaping fence, and a neglected vegetable patch. These were the houses outside the village borders, where the lepers and the lunatics, the horse thieves and the prostitutes lived. For generations one had replaced the other here, without repairing the houses or cultivating the plots. The passing seasons would knead such places in their hands until they could not be told apart from abandoned forest clearings.

In the evening the softness would come back to her voice and she would speak again of the days in the city when she and Maria walked the streets together. What was left of all that now? She was here and they were there. In the city a thousand lights shone — and here she was surrounded by mud, madmen, and lepers.

Sometimes she put on one of her old dresses, made up her face, stood by the window, and announced: “Tomorrow I’m leaving. I’m sick of this. I’m only forty. A woman of forty isn’t ready for the rubbish dump yet. The Jews will take me as I am. They love me.”

Of course, these were hallucinations. Nobody came to take her away. Her cough gave her no rest, and every now and then she would wake the sleeping Tzili and command her: “Make me some tea. I’m dying.” At night, when a fit of coughing seized her, her face grew bitter and malign, and no one escaped the rough edge of her tongue, not even the Jews.

Once in a while an old customer appeared and breathed new life into the hut. Katerina would get dressed, make up her face, and douse herself with perfume. She liked the robust peasants, who clutched her round the waist and crushed her body to them. Her old voice would come back to her, very feminine. All of a sudden she would be transformed, laughing and joking, reminiscing about times gone by. And she would reprimand Tzili too, and instruct her: “That’s not the way to offer a man a drink. A man likes his vodka first, bread later.” Or: “Don’t cut the sausage so thin.”

But such evenings were few and far between. Katerina would wrap herself in blankets and whimper in a sick voice: “I’m cold. Why don’t you make the fire properly? The wood’s wet. This wetness is driving me out of my mind.”

Tzili learned that Katerina was a bold, hot-tempered woman. Knives and axes had no fears for her. At the sight of an unsheathed knife all her beauty burst forth. With drunks she was gentle, speaking to them in a tender and maternal voice.

Although their houses were far apart, Katerina was at daggers drawn with her neighbors. Once a day the leper would emerge from his house and curse Katerina, yelling at the top of his voice. And when he started walking toward her door, Katerina would rush out to meet him like a maddened dog. He was a big peasant, his body pink all over from the disease.

Winter came, and snow. Tzili went far into the forest to gather firewood. When she came back in the evening with a bundle of twigs on her shoulders bigger than she was, Katerina was still not satisfied. She would grumble: “I’m cold. Why didn’t you bring thicker branches? You’re spoiled. You need a good hiding. I took you in like a mother and you’re shirking your work. You’re like your mother. She only looked out for herself. I’m going to give you a good beating.”

Of Katerina’s plans for her Tzili had no inkling. Her life was one of labor, oblivion, and uncomprehending delight. She delighted in the hut, the faded feminine objects, and the scents that frequently filled the air. She even delighted in the emaciated cow.

From time to time Katerina gave her significant looks: “Your breasts are growing. But you’re still too skinny. You should eat more potatoes. How old are you? At your age I was already on the streets.” Or sometimes in a maternal voice: “Why don’t you comb your hair? People are coming and your hair’s not combed.”

Winter deepened and Katerina’s cough never left her for an instant. She drank vodka and boiling-hot tea, but the cough would not go away. From night to night it grew harsher. She would wake Tzili up and scold her: “Why don’t you bring me a glass of tea? Can’t you hear me coughing?” Tzili would tear herself out of her sleep and hasten to get Katerina a glass of tea.

It was a long winter and Katerina never stopped grumbling and cursing her sisters, her father, and all the seekers of her favors who had devoured her body. Her face grew haggard. She could no longer stand on her feet. There were no more visitors. The only ones who still came were drunk or crazy. At first she tried to pretend, but now it was no longer possible to hide her illness. The men fled from the house. Katerina accompanied their flight with curses. But the worst of her rage she spent on Tzili. From time to time she threw a plate or a pot at her. Tzili absorbed the blows in silence. Once Katerina said to her: “At your age I was already keeping my father.”