because he has no cigarettes. When he has cigarettes he’ll be happy. This thought brought her to her feet and she started to run, taking shortcuts wherever she could.
Toward evening she arrived. Mark bowed his head as if she had brought him news of some great honor, an honor of which he was not unworthy. He took the bundle of tobacco leaves, stroking and sniffing them. Before long he had a cigarette rolled from newspaper. An awkward joy flooded him. In the camp people would fight over a cigarette stub more than over a piece of bread. He spoke of the camp now as if he were about to return to it.
That evening he lit a fire again. They ate and drank herb tea. Mark found a few dry logs and they burned steadily and gave off a pleasant warmth. The wind dropped too, and seemed gentler than before, the shadows it brought from the forest less menacing. Mark was apparently affected by these small changes. Without any warning he suddenly burst into tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“I remembered.”
“What?”
“Everything that’s happened to me in the past year.”
Tzili rose to her feet. She wanted to say something but the words would not come. In the end she said: “I’ll bring you more tobacco.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I sit here eating and smoking and they’re all over there. Who knows where they are by now.” His gray face seemed to grow grayer, a yellow stain spread over his forehead.
“They’ll all come back,” said Tzili, without knowing what she was saying.
These words calmed him immediately. He asked about the way and the village, and how she had obtained the food and the tobacco, and in general what the peasants were saying.
“They don’t say anything,” said Tzili quietly.
“And they didn’t say anything about the Jews?”
“No.”
For a few minutes he sat without moving, wrapped up in himself. His dull, bloodshot eyes slowly closed. And suddenly he dropped to the ground and fell asleep.
17
E VERY WEEK she went down to the plains to renew their supplies. She was quiet, like a person doing what had to be done without unnecessary words. She would bathe in the river, and when she returned her body gave off a smell of cool water.
She would tell him about her adventures on the plains: a drunken peasant woman had tried to hit her, a peasant had set his dog on her, a passerby had tried to rob her of the clothes she had taken to barter. She spoke simply, as if she were recounting everyday experiences.
And because the weather was fine, and the rains scattered, they would sit for hours by the fire eating, drinking herb tea, listening to the forest and hardly speaking. Mark stopped speaking of the camp and its horrors. He spoke now about the advantages of this high, remote place. And once he said: “The air here is very fresh. Can you feel how fresh it is?” He pronounced the word
fresh
very distinctly, with a secret happiness. Sometimes he used words that Tzili did not understand.
Once Tzili asked what the words
out of this world
meant.
“Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
“It’s very simple: out of this world—out of the ordinary, very nice.”
“From God?” she puzzled.
“Not necessarily.”
But it wasn’t always like this. Sometimes a suppressed rage welled up in him. “What happened to you? Why are you so late?” When he saw the supplies, he recovered his spirits. In the end he would ask her pardon. She, for her part, was no longer afraid of him.
Day by day he changed. He would sit for hours looking at the wild flowers growing in all the colors of the rainbow. Sometimes he would pluck a flower and whisper: “How lovely, how modest.” Even the weeds moved him. And once he said, as if talking to himself: “In Jewish families there’s never any time. Everyone’s in a hurry, everyone’s in a panic. What for?” There was a kind of music in his voice, a melancholy music.
The days went by one after the other and nothing happened to arouse their suspicions. On the
Toward evening she arrived. Mark bowed his head as if she had brought him news of some great honor, an honor of which he was not unworthy. He took the bundle of tobacco leaves, stroking and sniffing them. Before long he had a cigarette rolled from newspaper. An awkward joy flooded him. In the camp people would fight over a cigarette stub more than over a piece of bread. He spoke of the camp now as if he were about to return to it.
That evening he lit a fire again. They ate and drank herb tea. Mark found a few dry logs and they burned steadily and gave off a pleasant warmth. The wind dropped too, and seemed gentler than before, the shadows it brought from the forest less menacing. Mark was apparently affected by these small changes. Without any warning he suddenly burst into tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“I remembered.”
“What?”
“Everything that’s happened to me in the past year.”
Tzili rose to her feet. She wanted to say something but the words would not come. In the end she said: “I’ll bring you more tobacco.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I sit here eating and smoking and they’re all over there. Who knows where they are by now.” His gray face seemed to grow grayer, a yellow stain spread over his forehead.
“They’ll all come back,” said Tzili, without knowing what she was saying.
These words calmed him immediately. He asked about the way and the village, and how she had obtained the food and the tobacco, and in general what the peasants were saying.
“They don’t say anything,” said Tzili quietly.
“And they didn’t say anything about the Jews?”
“No.”
For a few minutes he sat without moving, wrapped up in himself. His dull, bloodshot eyes slowly closed. And suddenly he dropped to the ground and fell asleep.
17
E VERY WEEK she went down to the plains to renew their supplies. She was quiet, like a person doing what had to be done without unnecessary words. She would bathe in the river, and when she returned her body gave off a smell of cool water.
She would tell him about her adventures on the plains: a drunken peasant woman had tried to hit her, a peasant had set his dog on her, a passerby had tried to rob her of the clothes she had taken to barter. She spoke simply, as if she were recounting everyday experiences.
And because the weather was fine, and the rains scattered, they would sit for hours by the fire eating, drinking herb tea, listening to the forest and hardly speaking. Mark stopped speaking of the camp and its horrors. He spoke now about the advantages of this high, remote place. And once he said: “The air here is very fresh. Can you feel how fresh it is?” He pronounced the word
fresh
very distinctly, with a secret happiness. Sometimes he used words that Tzili did not understand.
Once Tzili asked what the words
out of this world
meant.
“Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
“It’s very simple: out of this world—out of the ordinary, very nice.”
“From God?” she puzzled.
“Not necessarily.”
But it wasn’t always like this. Sometimes a suppressed rage welled up in him. “What happened to you? Why are you so late?” When he saw the supplies, he recovered his spirits. In the end he would ask her pardon. She, for her part, was no longer afraid of him.
Day by day he changed. He would sit for hours looking at the wild flowers growing in all the colors of the rainbow. Sometimes he would pluck a flower and whisper: “How lovely, how modest.” Even the weeds moved him. And once he said, as if talking to himself: “In Jewish families there’s never any time. Everyone’s in a hurry, everyone’s in a panic. What for?” There was a kind of music in his voice, a melancholy music.
The days went by one after the other and nothing happened to arouse their suspicions. On the
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