Women Talking Page 10

  But perhaps it is our responsibility, counters Mejal. Especially if those boys are our sons, and if their fathers are incapable of doing the task themselves.

  Greta states: Don’t tell me we’re considering staying in order to teach the boys and men of Molotschna how to behave like human beings! Will we put them in desks?

  Agata (her hand once again on her chest) soothes the women. Nay, nay, she says.

  Ona whispers, not in desks, at desks.

  Salome laughs. We’ll get out the strap, she says, and make them wear dunce’s caps.

  No, Salome, demurs Ona. That defeats the purpose of the teaching of non-violence.

  Mejal asks: What are dunce’s caps?

  (On a personal note, I am on tenterhooks, hoping Ona doesn’t reintroduce the subject of Mariche’s own son, Julius, and the risk of him becoming an attacker if he isn’t taught differently. Mariche’s anger with Ona is now a tinderbox. Explosive.)

  Greta grimaces and moves her hand slowly in front of her face. I am sorry, she tells the other women, but I think I might be dying.

  Some of the women rise, in alarm, from their seats.

  Mariche looks directly into Greta’s eyes. Then she laughs. She removes Greta’s eyeglasses and asks the other women to look at them. Mother, she says, you are not dying. Your glasses need cleaning.

  Greta, mightily relieved, laughs, exclaiming that she thought the lights were going out.

  Agata hoots. That would alter your perspective! she says.

  The women laugh and laugh. Agata struggles for breath. The youngsters (Miep and Julius), startled by the noise, return to their mothers’ laps. They’ve been playing, constructing a miniature barn with animals made from straw and manure.

  The sun is setting, Ona reminds us, and our light is fading. We should light the kerosene lamp.

  But what of your question? asks Greta. Should we consider asking the men to leave?

  None of us have ever asked the men for anything, Agata states. Not a single thing, not even for the salt to be passed, not even for a penny or a moment alone or to take the washing in or to open a curtain or to go easy on the small yearlings or to put your hand on the small of my back as I try, again, for the twelfth or thirteenth time, to push a baby out of my body.

  Isn’t it interesting, she says, that the one and only request the women would make of the men would be to leave?

  The women break out laughing again.

  They simply can’t stop laughing, and if one of them stops for a moment she will quickly resume laughing with a loud burst, and off they’ll all go again.

  It’s not an option, says Agata, at last.

  No, the others (finally in complete accord!) agree. Asking the men to leave is not an option.

  Greta asks the women to imagine her team, Ruth and Cheryl (Agata yelps in exasperation at the mention of their names), requesting that Greta leave them alone for the day to graze in the field and do nothing.

  Imagine my hens, adds Agata, telling me to turn around and leave the premises when I show up to gather the eggs.

  Ona begs the women to stop making her laugh, she’s afraid she’ll go into premature labour.

  This makes them laugh harder! They even find it uproariously funny that I continue to write during all of this. Ona’s laughter is the finest, the most exquisite sound in all of nature, filled with breath and promise, and the only sound she releases into the world that she doesn’t also try to retrieve.

  Agata slaps me on the back. She rubs her eyes again, making them click, but I can see this time they are filled with tears of laughter.

  You must think we’re all lunatics, she says.

  I insist that I don’t, and nor does it matter what I think.

  Ona stops laughing, barely. Do you think that’s true, she asks, that it doesn’t matter what you think?

  I blush. Maul my own head.

  She continues: How would you feel if in your entire lifetime it had never mattered what you thought?

  But I’m not here to think, I answer, I’m here to take the minutes of your meeting.

  Ona brushes my words aside. But if, in all your life, she says, you truly felt that it didn’t matter what you thought, how would that make you feel?

  I smile and mutter something about God’s will being my purpose.

  Ona smiles back (!). But how are we to determine God’s will, if not by thinking?

  I blush again and shake my head, resist the urge to claw it to pieces.

  Salome interrupts: That’s easy, Ona, Peters will interpret it for us!

  The women howl with laughter yet again.

  I am laughing too. I put down my pen.

  The laughter fades. I don’t know where to look or where to put my hands. I have arranged my pens and notebooks at right angles to each other.

  Ona tells the women how itchy her stomach is, how she’s afraid her skin won’t stretch any further without tearing. The women laugh yet again, and Agata nearly falls off her milk pail.

  I paused in my writing to put my hand on her shoulder for a moment. What a relief it was to have something to do with at least one of my hands, if only for a second.

  The women are offering advice to Ona having to do with lard, sunflower oil, sunlight, clay and prayer. But something else has occurred to Ona. What if the men who have been imprisoned are not guilty? she asks.

  But Leisl Neustadter caught one of them, says Neitje. Didn’t she?

  That’s true, says Salome, she did. But only one. Gerhard Schellenberg. And he named his accomplices.

  But what if he was lying? asks Ona.

  Why would he lie? asks Greta.

  Agata admonishes Greta: You’re asking why a person who has no compunction about attacking children in their sleep would also lie about it? That’s not a legitimate question.

  Well, says Salome, it’s legitimate, but possibly rhetorical. The men Gerhard named were also the men who showed up late in the morning for fieldwork, and were tired, with dark circles around their eyes.

  That’s only hearsay, conjecture, offers Ona. Just because you’re late for work in the morning with dark circles around your eyes does not mean you’ve been up the night before sneaking into houses and attacking women.

  But the point, says Salome (Mariche sighs, as if to say, Here comes another one of Salome’s finger-wagging points), is that it makes no difference to whether or not we women leave Molotschna. We know that we’ve been attacked by men, or at least one man, Gerhard, and likely others, and not by ghosts or devils or Satan. We know that we have not imagined these attacks. And that we’re not being punished by God for impure thoughts and deeds.

  Mariche interrupts: Yet we’ve had impure thoughts, surely, haven’t we?

  The other women nod: Of course.

  Salome ignores Mariche and continues. We know that we are bruised and infected and pregnant and terrified and insane and some of us are dead. We know that we must protect our children. We know that if these attacks continue our faith will be threatened because we will become angry, murderous and unforgiving. Regardless of who is guilty of them!

  Alright, Salome, thank you, please sit down, says Agata. She tugs on Salome’s sleeve.

  I’d add, says Agata, that we have already also determined that we want to have time and space to think—

  Salome interrupts: And that we want and need our right to think independently to be acknowledged, she says.

  Or, says Mejal, just to think. Period. With or without it being acknowledged.

  Yes, says Agata, and this is another reason for leaving Molotschna, but one that doesn’t have anything to do directly with the attacks or the attackers.

  But indirectly, most certainly, says Ona.

  Salome, more calm now, adds: So once again, we return to our three reasons for leaving, and they are valid. We want our children to be safe. We want to keep our faith. And we want to think.

  Agata splays her fingers on the plywood table as if to build a new foundation. Shall we move on? she as
ks.

  But, says Mariche, if there is any chance that the men in prison are innocent shouldn’t we, as members of Molotschna, be joining forces to secure their freedom?

  Salome explodes. We’re not members of Molotschna!

  The other women recoil and even the sun takes shelter behind a cloud.

  Greta, she says, are your beloved Ruth and Cheryl members of Molotschna?

  No, not members, says Greta, although—

  Salome interrupts. We’re not members! she repeats. We are the women of Molotschna. The entire colony of Molotschna is built on the foundation of patriarchy (translator’s note: Salome didn’t use the word “patriarchy”—I inserted it in the place of Salome’s curse, of mysterious origin, loosely translated as “talking through the flowers”), where the women live out their days as mute, submissive and obedient servants. Animals. Fourteen-year-old boys are expected to give us orders, to determine our fates, to vote on our excommunications, to speak at the burials of our own babies while we remain silent, to interpret the Bible for us, to lead us in worship, to punish us! We are not members, Mariche, we are commodities. (Again, a translator’s note about the word “commodities”: similar situation to above.)

  Salome continues: When our men have used us up so that we look sixty when we’re thirty and our wombs have literally dropped out of our bodies onto our spotless kitchen floors, finished, they turn to our daughters. And if they could sell us all at auction afterwards they would.

  Agata and Greta exchange glances. Greta closes her eyes, one hand on her cheek, arthritic knuckles bulging like the rings of a Tudor king.

  But, says Agata, Mariche raises a good point. Shouldn’t we, even as the women of Molotschna, be acting in solidarity towards the freedom of our falsely accused men, if they are falsely accused.

  Salome growls.

  Ona quickly interjects, saying that this raises another question. It is possible, she says, the men in prison are not guilty of the attacks. But are they guilty of not stopping the attacks? Are they guilty of knowing about the attacks and doing nothing?

  How should we know what they’re guilty of or not? says Mariche.

  But we do know, says Ona. We do know that the conditions of Molotschna have been created by man, that these attacks have been made possible, even the conception of these acts, the planning of these attacks, the rationale for these attacks within the minds of the men, because of the circumstances of Molotschna. And those circumstances have been created and ordained by the men, by the elders and by Peters.

  Agata nods. Yes, she says, we know that.

  (Autje and Neitje exchange glances. I surmise that this idea is new to them but they are prepared to accept it as fact if it means moving on, if it means less talk and more action.)

  Agata adds: But we still have the question of time. We have very little left. There are certain aspects to our leaving that we can’t resolve given our time constraints. We will have to put them aside for the time being and return to them at a later date. The guilt or innocence of the men in prison can’t be known now, or perhaps ever, and nor can the guilt or innocence of the men in prison be the thing we hang our decision on, in terms of leaving. We’ve established our three reasons for leaving on the basis of love and of peace and of the nurturing of our souls, given to us by God, and the guilt or innocence of the men in prison has no direct co-relation to those reasons. Can we agree on that?

  The women are pensive. Some nod with certainty (Salome and Mejal and Autje) but others are perhaps lost in thought, doubt and questions. (For clarity I will state: All the men in prison are known by, and related to, the women.)

  Well? asks Agata. Half of us agree. And you others? This is a democracy, after all.

  A what? asks Autje.

  Three more women nod their assent: yes, their reasons for leaving are not contingent on the guilt or innocence of the men in prison. Only Mariche is left to answer.

  Well, says Salome, that’s seven out of eight, that’s enough, this subject is closed.

  But wait, says Mariche, aren’t you suggesting that the attackers are as much victims as the victims of the attacks? That all of us, men and women, are victims of the circumstances from which Molotschna has been created?

  Agata is quiet for a long moment. Then she says, In a sense, yes.

  So then, says Mariche, even if the court finds them guilty or innocent, they are, after all, innocent?

  Yes, says Ona, I would say so. Peters said these men are evil, the perpetrators, but that’s not true. It’s the quest for power, on the part of Peters and the elders and on the part of the founders of Molotschna, that is responsible for these attacks, because in their quest for power, they needed to have those they’d have power over, and those people are us. And they have taught this lesson of power to the boys and men of Molotschna, and the boys and men of Molotschna have been excellent students. In that regard.

  But, says Mejal, don’t we all want some type of power? She is lighting match after match because they continue to go out just as she brings them to the end of her cigarette. She is patient.

  Yes, says Ona, I think so. But I’m not sure.

  Oh, says Mariche sarcastically, power is another thing you don’t believe in? Along with authority and love?

  I never said I don’t believe in love, explains Ona. Only that I am not sure what it means, exactly. In any case, what I said earlier was that I don’t believe in the security that you say love brings.

  You’ll never know security, responds Mariche. Because of your Narfa.

  That’s true, says Ona. She seems calm, thoughtful. It’s liberating, in a way, she adds.

  Agata is, again, impatient. Ona, she says, love is another subject for another time.

  And security? says Ona.

  Greta interrupts: Isn’t it always the subject?

  Isn’t what always the subject? asks Agata.

  Love, says Greta.

  How can something that is always the subject, and is eternal, also be one that is unknowable—at least according to Ona? says Mariche.

  (At this, although it is an aside to note, I’m reminded of Montaigne’s statement: “Nothing is so firmly believed as that which a man knoweth least.” An embroidered image of these words was framed and hung in the dining hall in prison for a period of time. I do not know why.)

  Mejal has managed to light her cigarette. Well, that’s what makes it eternal, Mariche, she says. On and on and on. She exhales a little smoke between each “on.” When we know something we stop thinking about it, don’t we?

  That’s ridiculous, Salome says. Knowledge is fluid, it changes, facts change, become un-facts.

  Neitje and Autje laugh at this, perhaps out of nervousness or exhaustion. Then they quickly apologize.

  But seriously, says Salome. Are you telling me that you will stop thinking about something when you feel you “know” it? Are you out of your mind?

  Mejal exhales again. She calmly tells Salome to fuck herself.

  Order! Greta calls.

  Salome ignores Greta. She launches into a tirade, saying that she doesn’t even believe in eternity, nothing is eternal. In fact, she says, I no longer believe I will live forever. Her tone is defiant, a challenge, but the women do not take the bait.

  (A note for context: Several years ago, a rumour spread from Chortiza. A substitute bishop had been brought to preach at the Chortiza church while the regular bishop lay dying at his home, and before the elders were able to elect a new bishop from their own colony. This substitute bishop came from a place in North America, and he had a wife who did not braid her hair. He allegedly told the congregation that he did not believe in the literal existence of heaven and hell. Certain members of the congregation were incredulous and alarmed and ran him off the colony. But not before this substitute bishop challenged them. He told them that not only did he not believe in the existence of heaven and hell, he firmly believed that neither did the members of the congregation, not really. He asked for a show of hands from the congre
gation: Who here today is the parent of an unsaved child, a rebellious child who has left the colony or who has claimed not to be a believer? Several hands were raised. The substitute bishop then directed his next question to these individuals who had raised their hands. If you love your children and you believe they are literally going to burn in the flames of hell for all eternity when they die, how can you sit here in this room calmly? How can you go to your home and enjoy a nice lunch of vreninkje and platz prepared by your wife and then settle into your warm bed with your feather comforter for a relaxing maddachschlop—afternoon nap—knowing that your child will soon be burning forever, screaming in agony, eternal pain? If you truly believed this, wouldn’t you be doing everything in your power to get them to repent, to accept Jesus Christ into their hearts, to be forgiven? Wouldn’t you be scouring the earth trying to find these wayward children, the ones who have left the colony, or who have been forced to leave the colony, the ones roaming the proverbial desert, the ones you deem to be sinners, but are still your children, your flesh and blood, your precious babies?

  This substitute bishop was finally silenced and forced to leave the colony. The congregation agreed that having no church at all was better than this blasphemous garbage. But ever since, this idea of the nonexistence of heaven and hell has taken hold in some of the Mennonites, not only in Chortiza but in Molotschna as well, and is often used as a catalyst for provocation.

  I wonder what Peters thinks about it. About precious babies, about eternity. And prodigal fathers.)

  Well, says Agata calmly, if you don’t believe in eternal life then we really must hurry now. You must agree that time is running out?

  Ona says she would like to speak a little more on power. The bishop and the elders of Molotschna have seized power over the ordinary men and women of Molotschna, she states. And the ordinary men have seized power over the ordinary women of Molotschna. And the ordinary women of Molotschna have seized power over … Ona pauses. The women are silent.

  Nothing, says Ona, but our souls.

  But that’s blasphemy, says Mariche, if our souls are the manifestation of God, as you say. We can’t have power over God. Also, she says, where does the desire for power come from? Is it not perfectly natural? Even the pigs in their filthy pen have established a pecking order.