bathtub.
“Get me out of here,” she whispered.
She was hoarse with fear. A tongue of blood poured from the corner of her mouth, bright and thin. Only her eyes moved and looked at him.
Moshe, his crushed leg pinning him to the mud, thrust his hands under the side of the wagon and estimated the load.
“Get me out, my Moshe.…”
Her voice was choked, it wanted to be a scream but didn’t succeed.
“Listen to me, Tonychka,” said Moshe. “I’ll raise the platform a little, and you’ll crawl out.”
Now the head also moved, nodded slowly, and the eyes opened wide in understanding and agreement.
“Now!” groaned Moshe.
His face grew dark with the effort. Veins and sinews stood out in the thick joints of his hands. The wagon creaked and was raised a little, and Tonya twisted, struggled, and gave up.
“I can’t,” she moaned. “I can’t.”
The pain cut Moshe’s trapped leg and the wagon came back down.
Some say that, in moments like that, time stands still. Others say that it passes doubly fast. And even others say that it is broken into a thousand tiny splinters that won’t ever be put together again. But on that rainy day, on the fall of the overturned wagon in the wadi, time didn’t pay attention to those hackneyed conjectures—itdidn’t slow down and it didn’t speed up, it just passed by in its path, huge and nonchalant, wings beating and hovering as usual over the world.
A thin mist dripped, dotting the surface of the water with pockmarks, the wintery sky grew dark, and meanwhile the wailing of the mule and the scent of fear wafting from its body attracted a few jackals, and they recoiled from Moshe’s shouts and the clods of mud he pitched at them.
One jackal leaped and sank its teeth in the mule’s hind legs, and Moshe, who had managed to pull out one of the posts of the side of the wagon, hit him and broke his back. The others were frightened and retreated, but later on they understood that the man couldn’t get up, and since they’re clever and hunger sharpens their intelligence and makes them brave, they approached the mule from the head, where the pole was too short to reach, and they leaped and tore pieces from its muzzle and lips.
“The pomelos are floating,” Tonya said suddenly.
“What?” Moshe trembled.
“The grapefruits are sinking,” Tonya explained. “And the pomelos are floating.”
“The villagers will come soon and save us. Keep your head out of the water, Tonychka, and don’t talk.”
It rained harder, the wadi rose, the grapefruits turned yellow like tiny faded moons under the water. Tonya, who lay on the other side of the wagon, now had a hard time keeping her head above water. Moshe tried to support the back of her neck with the pole, but couldn’t.
The sweat of fear bathed his bald scalp. He saw how the water was rising, how the nets of muscles on the side of his wife’s neck were trembling, and he understood what was going to happen.
Suddenly the head sank and immediately floated up again, as if kicked by the dread of death.
“Moshe …” a little girl’s voice was heard. “My Moshe …
der tsop …
the braid in the box …”
“Where?” shouted Moshe. “Where’s the braid?”
The water climbed and the head was covered, and rose up once again, and this time the voice returned and was Tonya’s voice.
“My end has come, Moshe,” she murmured.
Rabinovitch turned his eyes and squeezed his jaw and his eyelids shut until the air bubbles stopped slipping out of her mouth. Then the sun also declined, yellowish gray beyond the clouds, and only after she disappeared, and the twilight and the rain wiped out the memory of the horrible sounds of her death, did Moshe once again look at the dark place where his wife’s head had vanished. He was attacked by a horrible coughing. Tears of grief and failure flowed from his eyes. Lizards of regret, quicker and more slippery than any feelings, were already mining burrows in his body.
Out of
“Get me out of here,” she whispered.
She was hoarse with fear. A tongue of blood poured from the corner of her mouth, bright and thin. Only her eyes moved and looked at him.
Moshe, his crushed leg pinning him to the mud, thrust his hands under the side of the wagon and estimated the load.
“Get me out, my Moshe.…”
Her voice was choked, it wanted to be a scream but didn’t succeed.
“Listen to me, Tonychka,” said Moshe. “I’ll raise the platform a little, and you’ll crawl out.”
Now the head also moved, nodded slowly, and the eyes opened wide in understanding and agreement.
“Now!” groaned Moshe.
His face grew dark with the effort. Veins and sinews stood out in the thick joints of his hands. The wagon creaked and was raised a little, and Tonya twisted, struggled, and gave up.
“I can’t,” she moaned. “I can’t.”
The pain cut Moshe’s trapped leg and the wagon came back down.
Some say that, in moments like that, time stands still. Others say that it passes doubly fast. And even others say that it is broken into a thousand tiny splinters that won’t ever be put together again. But on that rainy day, on the fall of the overturned wagon in the wadi, time didn’t pay attention to those hackneyed conjectures—itdidn’t slow down and it didn’t speed up, it just passed by in its path, huge and nonchalant, wings beating and hovering as usual over the world.
A thin mist dripped, dotting the surface of the water with pockmarks, the wintery sky grew dark, and meanwhile the wailing of the mule and the scent of fear wafting from its body attracted a few jackals, and they recoiled from Moshe’s shouts and the clods of mud he pitched at them.
One jackal leaped and sank its teeth in the mule’s hind legs, and Moshe, who had managed to pull out one of the posts of the side of the wagon, hit him and broke his back. The others were frightened and retreated, but later on they understood that the man couldn’t get up, and since they’re clever and hunger sharpens their intelligence and makes them brave, they approached the mule from the head, where the pole was too short to reach, and they leaped and tore pieces from its muzzle and lips.
“The pomelos are floating,” Tonya said suddenly.
“What?” Moshe trembled.
“The grapefruits are sinking,” Tonya explained. “And the pomelos are floating.”
“The villagers will come soon and save us. Keep your head out of the water, Tonychka, and don’t talk.”
It rained harder, the wadi rose, the grapefruits turned yellow like tiny faded moons under the water. Tonya, who lay on the other side of the wagon, now had a hard time keeping her head above water. Moshe tried to support the back of her neck with the pole, but couldn’t.
The sweat of fear bathed his bald scalp. He saw how the water was rising, how the nets of muscles on the side of his wife’s neck were trembling, and he understood what was going to happen.
Suddenly the head sank and immediately floated up again, as if kicked by the dread of death.
“Moshe …” a little girl’s voice was heard. “My Moshe …
der tsop …
the braid in the box …”
“Where?” shouted Moshe. “Where’s the braid?”
The water climbed and the head was covered, and rose up once again, and this time the voice returned and was Tonya’s voice.
“My end has come, Moshe,” she murmured.
Rabinovitch turned his eyes and squeezed his jaw and his eyelids shut until the air bubbles stopped slipping out of her mouth. Then the sun also declined, yellowish gray beyond the clouds, and only after she disappeared, and the twilight and the rain wiped out the memory of the horrible sounds of her death, did Moshe once again look at the dark place where his wife’s head had vanished. He was attacked by a horrible coughing. Tears of grief and failure flowed from his eyes. Lizards of regret, quicker and more slippery than any feelings, were already mining burrows in his body.
Out of
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