Tzili Read Free

name was a household word throughout the district. She had many daughters, all bastards. Because they were all good-looking, like their mother, nobody harmed them. Young and old alike availed themselves of their favors. Even the Jews who came for the summer holidays. In Tzili’s house Maria’s name was never spoken directly.
    A number of years before, Tzili’s older brother had gotten one of Maria’s daughters into trouble. Maria herself had appeared in the shop and created a scene. For days, the family had consulted in whispers, and in the end they had been obliged to hand over a tidy sum. The mother, worn out with work, had refused to forgive herson. She found frequent occasions to refer to his crime. Tzili had not, of course, grasped the details of the affair, but she sensed that it was something dark and sordid, not to be spoken of directly. Later on, their mother forgave her brother, because he began to study and also to excel.
    “Sit down,” said the blind man. “What’s your hurry?”
    She approached and seated herself wordlessly by his side. She was used to the blind. They would congregate outside the shop and sit there for hours at a time. Every now and then her mother would emerge and offer them a loaf of bread, and they would munch it noisily. Mostly they would sit in silence, but sometimes they would grow irritable and begin to quarrel. Her father would go out to restore order. Tzili would sit and watch them for hours. Their mute, upraised faces reminded her of people praying.
    The blind man seemed to rouse himself. He groped for his satchel, took out a pear and said: “Here, take it.”
    Tzili took it and immediately sank her teeth into the fruit.
    “I have some smoked meat too—will you have some?”
    “I will.”
    He held the thick sandwich out in his big hand. Tzili looked at the big pale hand and took the sandwich. “Maria’s daughters are all good-looking girls,” he saidand snickered. Now that he had straightened the upper half of his body he looked very strong. Even his white hands. “I don’t like eating alone. Eating alone depresses me,” he confessed. He chewed calmly and carefully, as blind men will, as if they were suspicious even of the food they put in their mouths.
    As he ate he said: “They’re killing the Jews. The pests. Let them go to America.” But he didn’t seem particularly concerned. He was more concerned with the coming harvest.
    “Why are you so silent?” he said suddenly.
    “What’s there to say?”
    “Maria’s daughters are a cunning lot.”
    Tzili did not yet know that the notorious name of Maria would be her shield from danger. All her senses were concentrated on the thick sandwich the blind man had given her.
    Once Maria had been a customer at the shop. She was a handsome, well-dressed woman and she used city words. They said that Maria had a soft spot for Jews, which did not add to her reputation. Her daughters too had inherited this fondness. And when the Jewish vacationers appeared, Maria would have a taste of what it meant to be indulged.
    Tzili now remembered nothing but the heavy scent Maria left behind her in the shop. She liked breathing in this scent.
    The blind man said casually: “Maria’s daughters lovethe Jews, may God forgive them.” And he snickered to himself again. Then he sat there quietly, as if he were a cow chewing the cud.
    Now there was no sound but for the birds and the rustling of the leaves, and they too seemed muted. The blind man abandoned his full face to the sun and seemed about to fall asleep.
    Suddenly he asked: “Is there anyone in the field?”
    “No.”
    “And where did you come from?” The full face smiled.
    “From the village square.”
    “And there’s no one in the field?” he asked again, as if he wanted to hear the sound of his own voice.
    “No one.”
    Upon hearing Tzili’s reply he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. Tzili’s shoulder slumped under the weight of his hand.
    “Why are you so