Later on he asked: “Why don’t you say anything?” Tzili shivered. She was no longer accustomed to the old words, the words from home. She had never possessed an abundance of words, and the months she had spent in the company of the old peasants had cut them off at the roots. This stranger, who had brought the smell of home back to her senses, agitated her more than he frightened her.
When it grew dark he lit a fire. He explained: the entire area was surrounded by swamps. And now with the thawing of the snow it would be inaccessible to their enemies. It was a good thing that the winter was over. There was a practical note now in his voice. The suffering seemed to have vanished from his face, giving way to a businesslike expression. There was no anger or wonder in it.
13
WHEN SHE WOKE there was light in the sky and the man was still sitting opposite her, in the same position. “You fell asleep,” he said. He rose to his feet and his whole body was exposed: medium height, a worn-out face, and a crumpled suit, very faded at the knees. A few spots of grease. Swollen pockets.
“Ever since I escaped from the camp I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m afraid of falling asleep. Are you afraid too?”
“No,” said Tzili simply.
“I envy you.”
The signs of spring were everywhere. Rivulets of melted snow wound their way down the slopes, dragging gray lumps of ice with them. There was not a soul to be seen, only the sound of the water growing louder and louder until it deafened them with its roar.
He looked at her and said: “If you hadn’t told me, I’d never have guessed that you were Jewish. How did you do it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”
“If I don’t change they’ll get me in the end. Nothing will save me. They won’t let anyone escape. I once saw them with my own eyes hunting down a little Jewish child.”
“And do they kill everyone?” Tzili asked.
“What do you think?” he said in an unpleasant tone of voice.
His face suddenly lost all its softness and a dry, bitter expression came over his lips. Her uncautious question had apparently angered him.
“And where were you all the time?” he demanded.
“With Katerina.”
“A peasant woman?”
“Yes.”
He dropped his head and muttered to himself. Apparently in anger, and also perhaps regret. His cheekbones projected, pulling the skin tight.
“And what did you do there?” He went on interrogating her.
“I worked.”
“And did she know that you were Jewish?”
“No.”
“Strange.”
In the afternoon he grew restless and agitated. He ran from tree to tree, beating his head with his fists and reproaching himself: “Why did I run away? Why did I have to run away? I abandoned them all and ran away. God will never forgive me.”
Tzili saw him in his despair and said nothing. The old words which had begun to stir in her retreated even further. In the end she said, for some reason: “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying. I’m angry with myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a criminal.”
Tzili was sorry for asking and she said: “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
Later on he told her. He had escaped and left his wife and two children behind in the camp. He had tried to drag them too through the narrow aperture he had dug with his bare hands, but they were afraid. She was, his wife.
And while he was talking it began to rain. They found a shelter under the branches. The man forgot his despair for a moment and spread a tattered blanket over the branches. The rain stopped.
“And did you too leave everyone behind?” he asked.
Tzili said nothing.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“How you got away?”
“My parents left me behind to look after the house. They promised to come back. I waited for them.”
“And ever since then you’ve been wandering?”
For some reason he tore off a lump of bread and offered her a piece.
She gnawed it without a word.
“The bread should be heated up. It’s wet.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t you suffer from pains in your stomach?”
“No.”
“I suffer terribly from pains in my stomach.”
The rain stopped and a blue-green light floated above the horizon. The gurgling of the water had given way to a steady flow. The man washed his face in the rivulet and said: “How good it is. Why don’t you wash your face in the water too?”
Tzili took a handful of water and washed her face.
They sat silently by the little stream. Tzili felt that her life had led her to a new destination, it too unknown. The closeness of the man did not excite her, but his questions upset her. Now that he had stopped asking she felt better.
Suddenly he raised his eyes from the water and said: “Why don’t you go down to the village and bring us something to eat? We have nothing to eat. The little we had is gone.”
“All right, I’ll go,” she said.
“And you won’t forget to come back?”
“I won’t forget,” she said, blushing.
Immediately he corrected himself and said: “You can buy whatever you want, it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s something to fill our bellies. I’d go myself, and willingly, but I’d be found out. It’s a pity I haven’t got any other clothes. You understand.”
“I understand,” said Tzili submissively.
“I’d go myself if I could,” he said again, in a tone which was at once ingratiating and calculating. “You, how shall I put it, you’ve changed, you’ve changed for the better. Nobody would ever suspect you. You say your r’s exactly like they do. Where do you get it all from?”
“I don’t know.”
Now there was something frightening in his appearance. As if he had risen from his despair another man, terrifyingly practical.
14
EARLY IN THE MORNING she set out. He stood watching her receding figure for a long time. Once again she was by herself. She knew that the stranger had done something to her, but what? She walked for hours, looking for ways around the melted snow, and in the end she found an open path, paved with stones.
A woman was standing next to one of the huts, and Tzili addressed her in the country dialect: “Have you any bread?”
“What will you give me for it?”
“Money.”
“Show me.”
Tzili showed her.
“And how much will I give you for it?”
“Two loaves.”
The old peasant woman muttered a curse, went inside, and emerged immediately with two loaves in her hands. The transaction was over in a moment.
“Who do you belong to?” she remembered to ask.
“To Maria.”
“Maria? Tfu.” The woman spat. “Get out of my sight.”
Tzili clasped the bread in both hands. The bread was still warm, and it was only after she had walked for some distance that the tears gushed out of her eyes. For the first time in many days she saw the face of her mother, a face no longer young. Worn with work and suffering. Her feet froze on the ground, but as in days gone by she knew that she must not stand still, and she continued on her way.
The trees were putting out leaves. Tzili jumped over the puddles without getting wet. She knew the way and weaved between the paths, taking shortcuts and making detours like a creature native to the place. She walked very quickly and arrived before evening fell. Mark was sitting in his place. His tired, hungry eyes had a dull, indifferent look.
“I brought bread,” she said.