There was no more possibility of doubt: she was pregnant. The peasant woman for whom she slaved soon noticed that something was amiss. “Pregnant,” she hissed. “I knew what you were the minute I set eyes on you.”
Tzili herself, when the first fear had passed, suddenly felt a new strength in her body. She worked till late at night, no work was too hard for them to burden her with, but she did not weaken. She drew strength from the air, from the fresh milk, and from the hope that one day she would be able to tell Mark that she was bearing his child. The complications, of course, were beyond her grasp.
And in the meantime the peasant woman beat her constantly. She was old but strong, and she beat Tzili religiously. Not in anger but in righteousness. Ever since her discovery that Tzili was pregnant her blows had grown more violent, as if she wanted to tear the embryo from her belly.
Heaven and hell merged into one. When she went to graze the cow or gather wood in the forest she felt Mark close by her side, even closer than in the days when they had slept together in the bunker. She spoke to him simply, as if she were chatting to a companion while she worked. The work did not stop her from hearing his voice. His words too were clear and simple. “I’ll come in the spring,” he said. “In the spring the war will end and everyone will return.”
Once she dared to ask him: “Won’t your wife be angry with me?”
“My wife,” said Mark, “is a very forgiving woman.”
“As for me,” said Tzili, “I love your children as if they were my own.”
“In that case,” said Mark in a practical tone of voice, “all we have to do is wait for the war to end.”
But at night when she returned to the hut reality showed itself in all its nakedness. The peasant’s wife beat her as if she were a rebellious animal, in a passion of rage and fury. At first Tzili screamed and bit her lips. Later she stopped screaming. She absorbed the blows with her eyes closed, as if she knew that this was her lot in life.
One night she snatched the rope from the woman and said: “No, you won’t. I’m not an animal. I’m a woman.” The peasant’s wife, apparently startled by Tzili’s resolution, stood rooted to the spot, but she immediately recovered, snatched the rope from Tzili’s hand, and began to beat her with her fists.
It was the height of winter and there was nowhere to escape to. She worked, and the work strengthened her. The thought that Mark would come for her in the spring was no longer a hope but a certainty.
Once the peasant’s wife asked her: “Who made you pregnant?”
“A man.”
“What man?”
“A good man.”
“And what will you do with the baby when it’s born?”
“I’ll bring it up.”
“And who will provide for you?”
“I’ll work, but not for you.” The words came out of her mouth directly and quietly.
The peasant’s wife ranted and raved.
The next day she said to Tzili: “Take your things and get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.”
Tzili took up the haversack and left.
24
ONCE MORE she had won her freedom. At that time the great battlefronts were collapsing, and the first refugees were groping their way across the broad fields of snow. Against the vast whiteness they looked like swarms of insects. Tzili was drawn toward them as if she realized that her fate was no different from theirs.
Strange, precisely now, at the hour of her newfound freedom, Mark stopped speaking to her. “Where are you and why don’t you speak to me?” she would ask in despair. Nothing stirred in the silence, and but for her own voice no other voice was heard.
In one of the bunkers she came across three men. They were wrapped from top to toe in heavy, tattered coats. Their bloodshot eyes peeped through their rags, alert and sardonic.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Tzili.”
“So you’re one of us. Where have you left everyone?”
“I,” said Tzili, “have lost everyone.”
“In that case why don’t you come with us? What have you got in that haversack?”
“Clothes.”
“And haven’t you got any bread?” one of them said in an unpleasant voice.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Can’t you see? We’re partisans. Haven’t you got any bread in that haversack?”
“No I haven’t,” she said and turned to go.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Mark.”
“We know the whole area. There’s no one here. You’d better stay with us. We’ll keep you amused.”
“I,” said Tzili opening her coat, “am a pregnant woman.”
“Leave the haversack with us. We’ll look after it for you.”
“The haversack isn’t mine. It belongs to Mark. He left it in my care.”
“Don’t boast. You should learn to be more modest.”
“I’m not afraid. Death is not as terrible as it seems.”
“Cheeky brat,” said the man and rose to his feet.
Tzili stared at him.
“Where did you learn that?” said the man, taking a step backward.
Tzili stood still. A strength not hers was in her eyes.
“Go then, bitch,” said the man and went back to the bunker.
From then on the snow stretched before her white and empty. Tzili felt a kind of warmth spreading through her. She walked along a row of trees, which now seemed rootless, stuck into the snow like pegs.
From time to time a harassed survivor appeared, asked the way, and disappeared again. Tzili knew that her fate was no different from the survivors’, but she kept away from them as if they were brothers who might say: “We told you so.”
And while she was walking without knowing where her feet would lead her, the walls of snow began to shudder. It was the month of March and new winds invaded the landscape. On the mountain slopes the first stripes of brown earth appeared. Not long afterward the brown stripes widened.
And suddenly she saw what she had not seen before: the mountain, undistinguished and not particularly lofty, the mountain where she and Mark had spent the summer, and not far from where she was standing the foot of the slope, and next to it the valley leading to Katerina’s house. As if the whole world had narrowed down to a piece of land which she could feel with her hands.
She stood for a moment as if she were trying to absorb all these painful places into her body. She herself felt no pain.
And while she was standing there sunk into herself a refugee approached her and he said: “Jewish girl, where are you from?”
“From here.”
“And you weren’t in the camps?”
“No.”
“I lost everyone. What shall I do?”
“In the spring they’ll all come back. I’m sure of it.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m quite sure. You can believe me.” There was strength in her voice. And the man stood rooted to the spot.
“Thank you,” he said, as if he had been given a great gift.
“Don’t mention it,” said Tzili, as she had been taught to say at home.