Women Talking Page 11

  But, says Ona, we’re not pigs. Can’t we be different? Do you believe that we evolved from animals or were created in the image of God?

  Ona, says Agata gently. That’s a fairly ridiculous question. You know the answer.

  (A note: I am a little unsure myself what Agata thinks, although I assume she means the latter, that the women are created in God’s image.)

  Ona continues. One is probable, and certainly more conceivable, but the other is so beautiful, so hopeful, don’t you think?

  (Autje and Neitje glance at one another, as confused as I am at the moment. Their glance says, what is Ona saying now?)

  I mean, says Ona, if we are created in God’s image it allows room for our souls, for us to have them and to be in service to them. The power that we have is to give in to the power of our souls.

  Mariche begins: I suppose if you’ve relinquished all practical considerations from your life and exist purely to satisfy your own crazy—

  Now Salome interrupts. August, she says, what do you think? God’s image or animals?

  Animals? I ask. Do you mean as in—

  Ona begins to laugh, rescuing me once again.

  Salome elaborates. Yes! Do you think you were created in God’s image, or that you evolved from animals?

  Salome, says Ona. We can have souls either way.

  I’m asking August, says Salome. Just answer the question.

  No, says Agata. Not now. The one thing we can be sure of is that time exists, can’t we? Because it’s disappearing. And something that doesn’t exist can’t disappear. And without it, our goose is cooked.

  But what about heaven? asks Neitje.

  Her question is ignored because a person is climbing the ladder to the loft. It is Grant. He is “simple,” as we say in Molotschna (although I am aware of the irony of this even as I write the word). He is reciting numbers, randomly, because he loves numbers, but hates having them arranged by others into recognizable equations. And he is “driving” his car. Cars are forbidden in Molotschna (not even rubber is allowed on the buggy wheels because rubber enables wheels to spin faster, allowing for a quicker escape into the world), but Grant is allowed to “drive” around the colony pretending to clutch a steering wheel with both hands, and to recite numbers in no discernible patterns.

  We say hello to Grant. He tells us his father just won’t die, he must stop eating bread made with white flour, he must be shot. (Death, in this case, is the reward, the compassionate choice. Grant is expressing his anxiety that his father was bedridden and in pain for so many years, and that he had wished to die, to join the Lord. He had asked to be shot but nobody would do it.) But Grant’s father died years ago and Grant stays with Agata, or with other women in the colony when she gets weary of his endless talking, counting and singing. (He is one of the men who will accompany the women when/if they leave.)

  Grant says, Six, nineteen, fourteen, one.

  Alright Grant, says Agata. Those are fine numbers. Thank you. Would you like to sit quietly with us in the loft?

  Grant offers to sing for us. He gets out of his car and sings a hymn relating to suffering followed by rest.

  When he is finished we thank him, and he says we are most welcome. He gets back into his car and drives around the loft and honks his horn once or twice, then leaves, saying twelve, twelve, twelve …

  Autje calls out, Thirteen!—and the other women shush her.

  JUNE 6

  August Epp, At Night Between Meetings

  There has been an incident. The women and children have left the loft. I am here alone, briefly finishing these notes for the day.

  The young women, Autje and Neitje, left first, to check on the new calves. Then, while the remaining women were laughing at one thing or another, Autje and Neitje returned to the loft, followed by Klaas, Mariche’s husband.

  Autje called up as they ascended the ladder, Dad’s home! She lent a cheerful inflection to her voice. She climbed slowly and Klaas was forced to fall in behind her on the ladder.

  When they appeared, Autje and Neitje were visibly nervous and chagrined. Clearly they’d had no choice but to lead Klaas to the women.

  Autje’s announcement was a warning that allowed me just enough time to hide my papers and pens under the table. Ona tore the cheese wrapping with the writing, the pros and cons of the various options, from the wall and pushed those papers, too, under the plywood table.

  When he appeared at last, Klaas demanded to know why the women had gathered in the hayloft.

  Mariche tried to talk to him, to calm him. We were quilting, she said.

  Klaas looked at me and laughed. Were they teaching you how to quilt, too? he asked. Finally, a useful skill for August to learn, considering what a dummkopf he is in the field.

  The women laughed nervously along with him.

  Yes, I said, playing along. I wanted to learn how to sew with thread so I could stitch up my students if they cut themselves accidentally at play.

  Klaas repeated the word “students” and laughed again. He sniffed the air. He asked me if I didn’t know better than not to smoke in a hayloft.

  Mejal opened her mouth to speak. But before she could, I apologized loudly to Klaas. There will be no more smoking, I assured him.

  August is learning how to quilt, he said, amused. He asked me if I was sure I knew what existed between my legs.

  Oh, very, I said. (Smiling and tearing at my scalp.)

  Hmm, said Klaas, I’m not so sure. Perhaps we should have a look.

  Klaas, please stop talking that way in front of Julius and Miep, Mariche said, and his mood changed quickly.

  Klaas became angry, wondering why his wife was here, why Nettie (Melvin) Gerbrandt was taking care of the other children and where his faspa was. He looked only at me when he spoke. He told me—because I am a man, a half-man, and deemed, barely, able to receive this type of business news—that he and Anton and Jacobo had returned from the city to get more animals to sell for bail money.

  The judge is waiting, he said. Who has the key to the co-op?

  I don’t know, I said. (But I do know who has the key to the co-op. It’s hanging in the tack room of Isaac Loewen, the caretaker of the co-op, and I silently asked God to forgive me. Or, if not, then to smote me on the spot.)

  Where are the yearlings? asked Klaas. Why are they not in their barn?

  I don’t know, I said. (Again, I do know. Autje and Neitje released the yearlings into the field and they are down by the Sorghum Creek, grazing. Once again, I beg to be forgiven, or killed. Can I assume that since I now appear to be alive, I’ve been forgiven?)

  Autje and Neitje stood behind Klaas, indicating with hand gestures to the other women that they had turned the yearlings out to graze.

  Greta, Klaas’s mother-in-law, chimed in. Many of the horses were sick, she told Klaas, and the vet from Chortiza had come by while Klaas was in the city and recommended the horses be quarantined for a period of two weeks so as not to spread the infection.

  Klaas ignored her. Peters has instructed me to bring at least twelve horses to auction, he told me.

  Yes, said Greta, but you’ll get nothing for sick horses. You’ll be fined for bringing sick horses to the auction.

  Find the yearlings, he told the younger women, they’re too young to be sick. Find them and tie them up.

  Autje and Neitje once again descended the ladder.

  I saw your team in the yard here at Earnest Thiessen’s farm, said Klaas. They looked healthy, their eyes were clear and their coats shone.

  Greta nodded. Yes, she said, because they are of an age that prevented them from contracting the illness affecting the other horses.

  Klaas said, Bah, oba. He dismissed the explanation of age even though he had just mentioned that the yearlings were not old enough to be sick. He spat. Then he addressed Greta directly. Why were the women in Earnest Thiessen’s loft?

  Greta said: We needed to check on Earnest, to bring him food. We decided to do our quilting here i
n the loft because that way we can check on him regularly. We knew he wouldn’t mind and we needed the extra room.

  Is Earnest too senile to know that a gaggle of gossips are quilting in his loft? Klaas asked.

  Greta nodded.

  Where is the quilt then? asked Klaas.

  We have just finished it, said Agata. It’s been picked up by the Koop brothers to bring to the co-op.

  I don’t see evidence of the quilting table in the loft, or any odds and ends of fabric, said Klaas evenly. Nor have I seen the Koop brothers or the Koop brothers’ team on the road between Molotschna and the co-op.

  We have already cleaned up and were about to go home to make faspa, explained Agata. Aren’t you hungry?

  Greta spoke up to say the Koop brothers had mentioned they’d be taking an alternative route, through fallow fields.

  And the real quilting room is being used for preserving, said Ona. It’s chokecherry season. The jam will be delicious on fresh zwieback.

  Klaas will not look at Ona or acknowledge anything she says. Ona is a ghost to him, or less, because of her Narfa, her spinsterdom, and her burgeoning belly. I have observed that being a ghost suits Ona.

  When I passed the co-op it was locked, said Klaas, and there was nobody there.

  Then the Koop brothers haven’t got there yet, said Salome.

  Do the Koop brothers have the key? asked Klaas.

  How should I know? said Salome.

  I need the key to get into the co-op to bring the money from the safe to Peters in the city.

  Salome said, Well then, Peters should have told you where the key was.

  Be quiet, said Klaas sharply.

  He looked at me. Neitje told me the women were attending to a birth in Chortiza, he said.

  We were, said Salome. There were difficulties. We’ll have to go back.

  Klaas maintained his gaze on me. Your responsibilities are here in Molotschna, he informed Salome.

  I’m well aware of what my responsibilities are, said Salome.

  I’m not talking to you. Be quiet, Klaas said again.

  But you have been talking to me. You have just told me what my responsibilities are, haven’t you?

  Klaas turned his attention again to Greta. And your team, he said, I’m taking them.

  Ruth and Cheryl? said Greta. No, you can’t!

  Klaas said he had no choice but to take Ruth and Cheryl. He told the women they should go do the milking now and then to their homes and children and prepare food.

  But they’re old, said Greta. What will I do without my team?

  You’ll stay at home, Klaas responded.

  He told Julius to leave the loft with him and return to their home. And he told Mariche to collect their other children from Nettie/Melvin. (Klaas and Mariche have many children, although I’m not sure exactly how many. They all have white hair bleached by the sun so that when they are darting about in their yard at dusk they look like fireflies or like the white seed heads of dandelions that float on the wind.)

  Salome was the last to leave the loft. She spent some time lingering with Miep, admiring Miep’s empire built from manure, while the other women descended the ladder, down from the loft to their earthly concerns.

  Ona had to help Agata place her feet on the rungs because the feeling had gone out of them, a side effect of her edema. As Ona did this, Agata laughed and kissed the top of Ona’s head. Breathe and slow down, Ona said. She reminded Agata of her habit of holding her breath while exerting herself, and then moving very quickly, too quickly, until the activity was complete and she could exhale once again.

  Agata laughed again.

  Don’t laugh while you’re on the ladder, Ona cautioned. Concentrate. (I wanted to tell Ona that Agata’s breathing pattern while exerting herself reminded me of a balloon, pinched at the end to prevent the air from escaping, then released so that the air escapes quickly and noisily. But these women have never seen balloons. Perhaps they’ve seen the inflated pig bladders the children of Molotschna use as balls when Peters is away from the colony and they feel free to play. The moment passed.)

  Agata at last managed to climb down the ladder and I heard her call out to the women that they would have to get an early start on the next quilt in the morning, immediately after milking.

  I also heard Mariche asking Klaas why he’d given Julius so many cherries, so many that now his stomach hurt. Klaas laughed. Then he called up to Salome, telling her to hurry.

  Salome yelled back down, Oh, you’re talking to me? Her movements slow, glacial.

  I offered to help Salome carry Miep down the ladder, but she refused. This was when we were alone briefly in the loft. I took advantage of the moment to tell her that the key to the co-op was in Isaac Loewen’s tack room, on a nail above a blue salt block.

  Forgive me for lying, I said.

  She frowned.

  I asked her if she knew how to navigate by the stars, if she knew where to find the Southern Cross.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  It is the supper hour now, I told her. While the men and women of the colony are in their homes, I will take the key and go to the co-op and get the safe. I don’t know the code to open it, but I will take the entire safe and hide it. I told her the women could take it when they left Molotschna, if they left Molotschna, and find somebody to help them open it in a different place, another place.

  Or perhaps, I said, Benjamin would give me a stick of dynamite, one that he uses to scare up the alligators in Sorghum Creek. You could use it to detonate the safe.

  Wouldn’t it be easier, whispered Salome, to find out the code?

  I pleaded with her not to try to do that. And I asked her to forgive me once again, and then to go immediately to her duties so as not to arouse suspicion.

  That was when Salome said my name.

  August, she said, that money is ours anyway. There is nothing to forgive.

  She carried Miep down the ladder and left the barn quickly.

  I met Ona later, on the dirt path near my shed. The moon was bright.

  I had gone out to pick some chokecherries for a night snack, because Ona had mentioned earlier that it was chokecherry season, and I had dribbled cherry juice down the front of my shirt. I returned to my shed, changed my clothing, then took my soiled shirt and walked to the wash house to leave it in the overnight bin. As I was leaving the wash house, I heard a woman say my name. Again. Two different women in one day saying my name. What a cacophony of emotions this aroused in me.

  This second time, it was Ona. She was sitting on the low roof of the wash house, looking at the stars.

  August! she said.

  I looked up.

  Come sit here with me.

  I climbed a water barrel. And I sat beside her, in the night. The two of us. My knees shook.

  She asked me why I was at the wash house and I told her. Then we were quiet.

  Finally, I asked Ona if she knew of the Southern Cross. I pointed to the constellation of bright stars.

  Of course, she said. She laughed.

  I told her she and the women could use the Southern Cross, often referred to as the Crux, for navigation.

  If you clench your right fist like this, I said. I took her hand and shaped it into a fist. I held it up against the stars. Her arm was rigid, her fist clenched, like a freedom fighter.

  Now align your first knuckle with the axis of the Cross, I told her. I held her hand, her wrist. I felt God’s majesty, overwhelming gratitude. My stomach flipped. My prayer had been answered.

  Now, I said, the tip of your thumb, here, will indicate south.

  Ona smiled, nodded, clapping her hands.

  Will you show the others? I asked her.

  Of course! she said again. We will have a lesson in navigation.

  Ona, I said.

  She looked at me, still smiling.

  Did you already know about this little trick?

  She laughed, nodded, said of course she did.

  I sm
iled, too, sheepishly. I told her I wished there was something I could tell her that she didn’t already know.

  There is, she said. Tell me why you went to jail.

  I stole a horse, I said.

  Ona nodded solemnly, as though she had suspected this.

  Then I explained everything to her. In London, after my father disappeared and my mother died, I had no place to live. I was in university, taking history classes, and had a nervous breakdown. I quit my studies (the Enlightenment) and I joined a group of anarchists and artists and musicians who were squatting on derelict land near the Gargoyle Wharf, in Wandsworth, next to the Thames. (This is where I learned to love ducks, though not to keep that ridiculous fact about myself to myself—especially in jail.)

  Talking about semi-aquatic birds in jail, even the smallest detail, can trigger a severe beating, I told Ona, and she agreed I should have kept it to myself.

  But when one loves something deeply it’s very difficult to keep it a secret, isn’t it? she said.

  I mumbled, Yes. I glanced at her, then at the Southern Cross, then at my knees.

  It was wonderful there, in Wandsworth, I continued. We lived simply, collectively. I built several buildings from material we took from old houses the city had torn down to make a freeway. We had concerts in our Eco Village, we had gardens, we strove to get along. There were hundreds of us, and one day we all went to Hyde Park to protest a bill that had been passed. It was a Criminal Justice bill that allowed the state to impose greater penalties for “antisocial” behaviours, such as ours. It outlawed raves and gatherings and even certain types of music that were “characterized by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats.” I made imaginary quotation marks in the air as I told Ona this. I used what I thought was an authoritative voice. I spoke with a British accent.

  Ona laughed. What is that music? she asked.

  Techno, I said. Do you know what techno is?