When she had composed herself a little, she saw her sister sitting at the table. In the last year she had tortured herself with algebra. They had to bring a tutor from the neighboring town. The tutor turned out to be a harsh, strict man and Blanca was terrified of him. She wept, but no one paid any attention to her tears. The father too, from his sick bed, demanded the impossible of her. And she did it too. Although she did not complete the paper and obtained a low mark, she did not fail. Now Tzili saw her sister as she had never seen her before, struggling with both hands against the Angel of Death.
And as the light rose higher in the sky, Tzili heard the trudge of approaching feet. One of the blind man’s daughters was leading her father to his place. He was grumbling. Cursing his wife and daughters. The girl did not reply. Tzili listened intently to the footsteps. When they reached his place on the hillock the girl said: “With your permission, father, I’ll go back to the pasture now.”
“Go!” He dismissed her, but immediately changed his mind and added: “That’s the way you honor your father.”
“What shall I do, father?” Her voice trembled.
“Tell your father the latest news in the village.”
“They chased the Jews away and they killed them too.”
“All of them?” he asked, with a dry kind of curiosity.
“Yes, father.”
“And their houses? What happened to their houses?”
“The peasants are looting them,” she said, lowering her voice as if she were repeating some scandalous piece of gossip.
“What do you say? Maybe you can find me a winter coat.”
“I’ll look for one, father.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget.”
Tzili took in this exchange, but not its terrible meaning. She was no longer afraid. She knew that the blind man would not move from his place.
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.
6
AUTUMN WAS ALREADY at its height, and in the evenings the horizon was blue with cold. Tzili would find shelter for the night in deserted barns and stables. From time to time she would approach a farmhouse and ask for a piece of bread. Her clothes gave off a bad, moldy smell and her face was covered with a rash of little pimples.
She did not know how repulsive she looked. She roamed the outskirts of the forest and the peasants who crossed her path averted their eyes. When she approached farmhouses to beg for bread the housewives would chase her away as if she were a mangy dog. “Here’s Maria’s daughter,” she would hear them say. Her ugly existence became a byword and a cautionary tale in the mouths of the local peasants, but the passing days were kind to her, molding her in secret, at first deadening and then quickening her with new life. The sick blood poured out of her. She learned to walk barefoot, to bathe in the icy water, to tell the edible berries from the poisonous ones, to climb the trees. The sun worked wonders with her. The visions of the night gradually left her. She saw only what was in front of her eyes, a tree, a puddle, the autumn leaves changing color.
For hours she would sit and gaze at the empty fields sinking slowly into grayness. In the orchards the leaves turned red. Her life seemed to fall away from her, she coiled in on herself like a cocoon. And at night she fell unconscious onto the straw.
One day she came across a hut on the fringes of the forest. Autumn was drawing to a close. It rained and hailed incessantly, and the frost ate into her bones. But she was no longer afraid of anyone, not even the wild dogs.
A woman opened the door and said: “Who are you?”
“Maria’s daughter,” said Tzili.
“Maria’s daughter! Why are you standing there? Come inside!”
The woman seemed thunderstruck. “Maria’s daughter, barefoot in this frost! Take off your clothes. I’ll give you a gown.”
Tzili took off her mildewed clothes and put on the gown. It was a fancy city gown, flowered and soaked in perfume. After many months of wandering, she had a roof over her head.