Aharon Appelfeld - Tzili - The Story of a Life

Tzili lay awake. Of all her scattered life it seemed to her that nothing was left. Even her body was no longer hers. A jumble of sounds and shapes flowed into her without touching her.

“Are you back from your leave?” she remembered to ask the nurse.

“I quarreled with my fiancé.”

“Why?”

“He’s jealous of me. He hit me. I swore never to see him again.” Her big peasant hands expressed more than her face.

“And you, did you love him?” she asked Tzili without looking at her.

“Who?”

“Your fiancé.”

“Yes,” said Tzili, quickly.

“With Jews, perhaps, it’s different.”

Bitter lines had appeared overnight on her peasant’s face. Tzili now felt a kind of solidarity with this country girl whose fiancé had beaten her with his hard fists.

At night the hut was full of screams. One of the medics attacked a refugee and called him a Jewish crook. A sudden dread ran through Tzili’s body.

The next day, when she stood up, she realized for the first time that she had lost her sense of balance too. She stood leaning against the wall, and for a moment it seemed to her that she would never again be able to stand upright without support.

“Haven’t you seen a haversack anywhere?” she asked one of the medics.

“There’s disinfection here. We burn everything.”

Women who were no longer young stood next to the lavatories and smeared creams on their faces. They spoke to each other in whispers and laughed provocatively. The years of suffering had bowed their bodies but had not destroyed their will to live. One of the women sat on a bench and massaged her swollen legs with pulling, clutching movements.

Later the medics brought in a lot of new patients. They reclassified the patients and put the ones who were getting better out in the yard.

They put Tzili’s bed out too. All the gentile nurse’s pleading was in vain.

The next day officials from the Joint Committee came to the yard and distributed dresses and shoes and flowered petticoats. There was a rush on the boxes, and the officials who had come to give things to the women had to beat them off instead. Tzili received a red dress, a petticoat, and a pair of high-heeled shoes. A heavy smell of perfume still clung to the crumpled goods.

“What are you fighting for?” an official asked accusingly.

“For a pretty dress,” one of the women answered boldly.

“You people were in the camps weren’t you? From you we expect something different,” said someone in an American accent.

Later the gentile nurse came and spoke encouragingly to Tzili. “You must be strong and hold your head high. Don’t give yourself away and don’t show any feelings. What happened to you could have happened to anyone. You have to forget. It’s not a tragedy. You’re young and pretty. Don’t think about the past. Think about the future. And don’t get married.”

She spoke to her like a loyal friend, or an older sister. Tzili felt the external words spoken by the gentile nurse strengthening her. She wanted to thank her and she didn’t know how. She gave her the petticoat she had just received from the Joint Committee. The nurse took it and put it into the big pocket in her apron.

Early in the morning they chased everyone out of the yard.

NOW EVERYONE streamed to the beach. Fishermen stood by little booths and sold grilled fish. The smell of the fires spread a homely cheerfulness around. Before the war the place had evidently been a jolly seaside promenade. A few traces of the old life still clung to the peeling walls.

Beyond the walls lay the beach, white and spotted with oil stains, here and there an old signpost, a few shacks and boats. Tzili was weak and hungry. There was no familiar face to which she could turn, only strange refugees with swollen packs on their backs and hunger and urgency on their faces. They streamed over the sand to the sea.

Tzili sat down and watched. The old desire to watch came back to her. At night the people lit fires and sang rousing Zionist songs. No one knew how long they would be there. They had food. Tzili too went down to the sea and sat among the refugees. The wound in her stomach was apparently healing. The pain was bad but not unendurable.

“These fish are excellent.”

“Fish is good for you.”

“I’m going up to buy another one.”

These sentences for some reason penetrated into Tzili’s head, and she marveled at them.

Somewhere a quarrel broke out. A hefty man shouted at the top of his voice: “No one’s going to kill me anymore.” Somewhere else people were dancing the hora. One of the refugees sitting next to Tzili remarked: “Palestine’s not the place for me.”

“Why not?” his friend asked him teasingly.

“I’m tired.”

“But you’re still strong.”

“Yes, but there’s no more faith in me.”

“And what are you going to do instead?”

“I don’t know.”

Someone lit an oil lamp and illuminated the darkness. The voice of the refugee died down.

And while Tzili sat watching a fat woman approached her and said: “Aren’t you Tzili?”

“Yes,” she said. “My name is Tzili.”

It was the fat woman who had entertained them on their way to Zagreb, singing and reciting and baring her fleshy thighs.

“I’m glad you’re here. They’ve all abandoned me,” she said and lowered her heavy body to the ground. “With all the pretty shiksas here, what do they need me for?”

“And where are you going to go?” said Tzili carefully.

“What choice do I have?” The woman’s reply was not slow in coming.

For a moment they sat together in silence.

“And you?” asked the woman.

Tzili told her. The fat woman stared at her, devouring every detail. All the great troubles inhabiting her great body seemed to make way for a moment for Tzili’s secret.

“I too have nobody left in the world. At first I didn’t understand, now I understand. There’s the world, and there’s Linda. And Linda has nobody in the whole wide world.”

One of the officials got onto a box. He spoke in grand, thunderous words. As if he had a loudspeaker stuck to his mouth. He spoke of Palestine, land of liberty.

“Where can a person buy a grilled fish?” said Linda. “I’m going to buy a grilled fish. The hunger’s driving me out of my mind. I’ll be right back. Don’t you leave me too.”

Tzili was captivated for a moment by the speaker’s voice. He thundered about the need for renewal and dedication. No one interrupted him. It was evident that the words had been pent up in him for a long time. Now their hour had come.

Linda brought two grilled fish. “Linda has to eat. Linda’s hungry.” She spoke about herself in the third person. She held a fish in a cardboard wrapper out to Tzili.

Tzili tasted and said: “It tastes good.”

“Before the war I was a cabaret singer. My parents disapproved of my way of life,” Linda suddenly confessed.

“They’ve forgiven you,” said Tzili.

“No one forgives Linda. Linda doesn’t forgive herself.”

“In Palestine everything will be different,” said Tzili, repeating the speaker’s words.

Linda chewed the fish and said nothing.

Tzili felt a warm intimacy with this fat woman who spoke about herself in the third person.

All night the speakers spoke. Loud words flooded the dark beach. A thin man spoke of the agonies of rebirth in Palestine. Linda did not find these voices to her taste. In the end she could no longer restrain herself and she called out: “We’ve had enough words. No more words.” And when the speaker took no notice of her threats she went and stood next to the box and announced: “This is fat Linda here. Don’t anyone dare come near this box. I’m declaring a cease-words. It’s time for silence now.” She went back and sat down. No one reacted. People were tired, they huddled in their coats. After a few moments she said to herself: “Phooey. This rebirth makes me sick.”