Women Talking Read online

  As I expressed this to the women, Ona had looked up, her eyes on me, and silently mouthed Coleridge’s words with me. Sympathy and love. In her secret school, my mother had often quoted the words of Coleridge, her favourite of the Romantic poets, a metaphysical dreamer, in pain, mysterious, handsome.

  I nodded to the women vigorously, on the verge of tears, a lunatic, a sad clown. I said: I believe those boys should be allowed to leave with the women, providing the women choose to leave.

  Mariche is the first to respond. It was a “yes” or “no” question, she says. Why do you talk that way? You shit like any other man, why can’t you talk like one?

  I scratch my head. I am sorry, I tell her.

  Ona ignores her. Instead, she asks me: August, what will you do here on the colony if there are no children to teach?

  Before I can gather my wits to answer, Mariche says sarcastically, If nothing else surely it will be a good opportunity for August to learn the tools of a serious trade, like farming.

  Perhaps the older boys could continue to attend classes, suggests Neitje. Those over fifteen, the ones who, as members of the church, will stay behind.

  Autje nods. She (slyly) states: Several of them could benefit from remedial teaching.

  Yes, says Neitje, fifteen-year-old boys still believe that throwing horse turds at the girls while we do the milking shows their love.

  Autje laughs. But a boy who truly loves you will intentionally miss when he throws the shit, she says, or will not throw it with quite as much force.

  Mejal and Salome shake their heads.

  Salome states (her tears a thing of the past, successfully pushed back into her sockets and locked away) that her most fervent dream for little Miep is that one happy day a boy will intentionally miss hitting her with a clump of shit.

  Yes, agrees Mejal, the day every mother dreams of, the hope that gets us through the darkest hours.

  But those boys can’t stay in school, objects Mariche. They are required to work the fields and tend to the animals. Their school is outside the classroom. And furthermore, she adds, if there are no women and girls here to help the men with the chores, those fifteen-year-old boys will be more needed than ever.

  Assuming that farming will be the central occupation of the men left behind, says Ona.

  What in the name of God’s green earth else could it be? asks Mariche.

  Ona shrugs. Surely there are other ways of being in the world.

  But not for these men, objects Greta. They are certainly not scholars, not these men.

  (I catch Autje and Neitje exchanging glances, mysteriously.)

  Agata considers this point. Possibly, she says. But there are occupations other than scholar or farmer.

  And then, in a moment I find serendipitous, because I had been reciting the same words to myself, silently, Ona quotes Virgil, from a poem my mother taught us in her secret schoolhouse. “Much service, too, does he who turns his plough, and again breaks crosswise through the ridges he raised.”

  I look up from my minutes and smile at Ona.

  Is that from Leviticus? asks Mariche.

  Yes, says Ona, correct, and I pretend to cough.

  Mejal uses her finger and thumb to pinch out her cigarette, no doubt with the intention of saving it for later. Her fingertips are yellow—no, ochre.

  So, says Mariche, the Bible endorses farming. That’s clear. (She is glaring at me, I think, although one of her eyes is cloudy, veiled in white, from having a hoof pick flung at it, and it’s not always clear where she’s looking.)

  But more than that, says Ona, it’s a useful metaphor.

  Agata, indulgent, acknowledges Ona’s small fib with a nod but then pleads with her: My love, we’re plotting to save our lives right now, so—

  I’m aware of that, says Ona. I’m trying to help, and metaphors can be beneficial in this regard, and this particular line, this metaphor is so apt for the boys and men of Molotschna, for the—

  Agata nods quickly. Yes, she agrees. She clamps her hand over Ona’s, and again insists that the women move forward. She gazes deeply into Ona’s eyes while she’s saying this, begging. Agata’s eyes are wet and bloodshot, pink and red veins streaking from a darker centre, setting suns.

  Ona stops talking about metaphors.

  Agata continues: We girls and women are considering leaving the colony, but has it been determined among us what we will do, how we will live, how we will support ourselves, when and if we leave? We’re unable to read, we’re unable to write, we’re unable to speak the language of our country, we have only domestic skills that may or may not be required of us elsewhere in the world, and speaking of the world—we have no world map—

  Mariche interrupts. Not this business with the world map again, she says.

  I make a foray into the conversation, at the risk of incurring Mariche’s wrath, and suggest that I may be able to secure a world map for the women.

  Ona asks: In short order?

  I nod.

  Mariche huffs, flares her nostrils.

  Greta closes her eyes.

  Agata straightens her back.

  Neitje asks: From where?

  I answer, From Chortiza.

  The women are startled. In unison, they ask me how it is that the neighbouring Chortiza colony is in possession of such a map.

  I’m unable to divulge that information, I explain, as a matter of safety—theirs—but it is quite likely that I could borrow the map for a short period of time, and that perhaps Autje and Neitje, with their artistic prowess, could copy it onto packaging paper.

  The women, except Mariche, seem to find this proposition appealing.

  Salome asks whether there might also be, in the Chortiza colony, a map of this specific region? It would be best, she wisely points out, if we were to have a very detailed map that included highways, minor roads, rivers and rail tracks, for instance. If such a map exists.

  True, says Mariche. We aren’t planning to traverse the planet.

  Perhaps we are, counters Ona. She adds an interesting fact. Did you know, she says, that the migration period of butterflies and dragonflies is so long that it is often only the grandchildren who arrive at the intended destination?

  As she speaks, Ona is beaming. She is again quoting, loosely, my mother. I want to thank Ona, I want to hug her. (No, what I really want is to pick her up and dance around the loft. When we were children, I scooped her up behind the yearling barn and ran a distance with her in my arms, laughing, as she told me not to crush her ribcage or her heart would escape.)

  Autje and Neitje smile back at Ona—although whether it is with genuine delight at the details of this dragonfly fact or simply because they have now been given an appropriate opportunity to smile and laugh broadly is unclear. I suspect they are laughing at the idiocy of their male peers while pretending to be greatly amused at the thought of little dragonfly grandchildren crossing an imaginary finish line having left the corpses of previous generations behind.

  Mejal, meanwhile, nods her head at this curious fact.

  Salome swats a fly away from Miep’s open mouth. Miep’s limbs have fallen loosely across the saddle blanket.

  And did you know, says Ona, looking straight at me now and smiling broadly, that dragonflies have six legs but cannot walk?

  I nod, yes. And also, I say, emboldened by Ona’s glance, dragonflies have compound eyes that cover nearly their entire heads allowing them to see everything all at once, even the smallest, fastest movements.

  Some of the women nod and ponder this. Autje and Neitje laugh.

  So, I say, flustered. Yes, so.

  I observe that Agata and Greta haven’t heard the fact. Instead, they are talking in low voices between themselves, speculating on how a world map made it to Chortiza.

  I whisper to Ona: There is a man, a musician named John Cage, who has composed a musical piece that will take over six hundred years to play. One note every few years, or even more. The notes are played on a special organ in
a church in a small town in Germany.

  Ona whispers back: Ah, so?

  Me: Yes.

  Ona: Is John Cage a Mennonite?

  Me: No.

  Ona: Ah.

  Me: Well, perhaps he is.

  Ona: Yes.

  Now the women are enjoying a laugh together as they imagine what Peters would do if he found out that an illicit world map was being harboured just down the road from Molotschna.

  Agata reminds us of the incident in which, on a particular Sunday, Peters held Earnest Thiessen’s organic farming manuals up to the congregation as evidence of worldly influence. Earnest Thiessen was disciplined by the elders and forbidden contact with the colony members for a period of eight weeks. During those weeks he roamed about the country roads and slept in the tack room attached to the yearling barn. (Now that Earnest is senile—except for his everlasting memory of the stolen clock—which is a blessing, he has forgotten the evil of his former ways and is either fully convinced that God will welcome him, no holds barred, into His kingdom, or has no idea that God or God’s kingdom even exist.)

  Mariche attempts to bring us back to the discussion. She reminds me that Salome had asked a question.

  Might there also be a regional map hiding out in Chortiza? Salome asks, repeating her question.

  I venture to guess that it’s possible.

  Mariche asks if I will smuggle it out of Chortiza as well as the world map, and I promise that I will, if one exists. Mariche thanks me! And allows that I have a practical use after all. In her lexicon, a smuggler is preferable to a teacher, though not as esteemed as a farmer.

  But August has had a practical use all along, says Ona. Who does Mariche think will explain the map to us if not August? Has Mariche, unbeknownst to the others, suddenly been blessed by God with an understanding of both geography and cartography?

  Mariche swats away the question and tilts her head, points at the window with her bitten-off finger.

  Ona makes a suggestion: Perhaps the women can create their own map as they go.

  The others turn their attention to her, mystified.

  Greta states: Now that is a unique idea—

  She is interrupted by Ona, who has begun to vomit into the milk pail that sits beside her.

  Greta says: Oh, schatzi.

  Agata gets up—her legs have been elevated until now—and walks to Ona. She strokes her back and keeps the loose strands that Ona has allowed to escape from her kerchief from getting in the way of the projectile.

  Ona lifts her head and reassures the women that she’s fine.

  The women nod. Their attention now turns to Mejal, who is breathing heavily. Her hand is on her chest.

  Greta says, What now?

  Are you okay, Mejal? asks Agata.

  Mejal nods her head vigorously.

  Salome explains quietly to me that Mejal is having one of her episodes. She goes to Mejal and whispers softly, inaudibly, in her ear. She holds Mejal’s hand.

  The others bow their heads in prayer and ask God to restore Mejal’s equilibrium.

  Mejal rocks on her milk pail. Then she tumbles off it and lies in the straw, her body quite rigid.

  Salome lies down beside her and continues to whisper inaudibly into her ear and to hold her. The women pray.

  Agata says: Almighty Father, in all humility and supplication we ask Thee for Thy abundant kindness this moment. We beseech Thee, have mercy on our sister Mejal. Please, in your beneficence, heal her. Please, we ask of Thee, envelop her in your strength and everlasting love, and please drive out the sickness that afflicts her now.

  The women continue to bow their heads and to offer various words of praise to our heavenly Father. (I remember how my father, two days before he disappeared, told me that the twin pillars that guard the entrance to the shrine of religion are storytelling and cruelty.)

  Salome very discreetly covers Mejal’s ears to the prayers of the women.

  Now Salome has asked Ona to roll Mejal a smoke. She continues to whisper, inaudibly, in Mejal’s ear. Mejal appears stable now, less rigid. She has stopped shaking. Her breathing has returned to normal.

  Ona has rolled Mejal a smoke, which she offers to her, with apologies. She is not an experienced cigarette maker; she frowns at its shape.

  The other women continue praying, their heads bowed, each holding the other’s hand.

  Mejal recovers and both she and Salome return to their places at the table.

  Agata says: Praise be to God.

  Greta asks Autje to run out to the pump for water, to prepare cups of instant coffee, and Autje flies from the table. Neitje instantly follows, like a barn swallow. They are gone.

  Salome runs to the window and calls Neitje back to the loft.

  We hear Neitje yelling from a distance, No, why? I’m helping Autje!

  Let her be, says Agata.

  But Salome calls once more to Neitje, and then is silent, watching out the window.

  Neitje returns to the loft.

  Agata is visibly upset with Salome, but holds her peace.

  Mariche now declares that Mejal’s episode was brought on by the thought of the women creating their own map. Not a conscious fear of do-it-yourself map-making, she explains, but of what it implies: that we are masters of our own destiny. That we will be setting off into unknowable space.

  Yes, says Agata, it stands to reason that one would panic …

  Mejal blows smoke rings. I am not panicking, she says.

  Yes, says Agata. But panic, in this case, would be understandable.

  But I’m not, says Mejal.

  Agata glances at the ceiling.

  After a brief silence, Greta regales the women, now, with an anecdote. For three years, she says, she could only walk backwards, never forwards, due to an injury sustained to her groin. (I glean that the idea of setting off without knowing where you were going contributed to this memory.)

  Soon another incident is upon us, distracting Mejal from her discomfort with the unknown.

  Nettie (Melvin) Gerbrandt is once again climbing the ladder to the loft, this time carrying Mariche’s youngest son, Julius Loewen, who appears to be inconsolable.

  Greta raises her arms into the air. What in heaven’s name?

  Nettie (who, since the attacks, as I have pointed out, speaks only to children) thrusts small Julius into Mariche’s lap. She gesticulates, pointing to the boy’s nose and expressing, as far as I can decipher, bewilderment.

  Agata calmly asks if Nettie might make an exception, and please be reasonable and speak to these circumstances. There are only women here in the loft, she points out. (I remain very still.)

  Nettie is silent, pondering Agata’s request, while Julius howls in Mariche’s arms.

  What has happened to him? Mariche asks urgently, above the din.

  Nettie, says Agata. Be realistic. What has happened to Julius?

  At last, Nettie speaks, but faces Julius as she does so. She says that young Julius has put a cherry pit into his nostril and that she is unable to remove it without pushing it further and further up into his nose.

  At once, the women react. They are once again speaking over each other and I am unable to record the minutes.

  Ona inserts two fingers into her mouth and whistles. (What a charming skill! And practical asset.)

  The other women stop talking and look at her.

  There are two faint vertical creases between Ona’s eyes, tiny railroad tracks that lead up towards her hairline but disappear halfway there. If Julius has put a cherry pit into his nose, she says, then it follows that Julius has been eating cherries or certainly has been in the proximity of cherries. We have no cherries in Molotschna. The cherries that we eat are always brought from the city, as a treat for the members of the colony, by one of the elders who has been to the city on business.

  The women are silent, absorbing this news. Agata steadies her gaze and is still.

  Salome, cursing, goes to the window.

  Greta calls down t
o Autje, who has not quite reached the loft ladder on her way back from the pump. Find out if some of the men have already returned from the city, she says. And if they have, try to find out which men they are.

  Also, she hollers down, if the men ask where their womenfolk are, tell them that Ruth and Cheryl are foaling late this spring and there are problems!

  At this, Agata objects. The men of the colony know that Ruth and Cheryl were not bred last year, she points out, so could not be expected to foal this spring. She hollers down at Autje: Tell the men, if they ask, that their womenfolk are attending the difficult birth of their sister, in labour, in Chortiza!

  This is met with approval from the other women. No man from Molotschna Colony will interfere with (or express interest in) childbirth, especially all the way over in Chortiza.

  Agata also asks Autje to put her kerchief back on. Autje and Neitje have both tied their kerchiefs jauntily around their wrists, the fashion for the Molotschna teenagers when men are not present.

  Mariche now takes a turn hollering at her daughter: Tell the men that we are quilting, but say you don’t know in whose house, and that we must continue well into the night as there has been a late and large order from the co-op!

  A note of explanation: The co-op sells Mennonite goods to tourists. The women of Molotschna provide the goods, but are forbidden to visit the co-op or to handle the money from the sales.

  Ah, Salome says, that’s a good one. No man of Molotschna will be seen in the vicinity of a ladies’ quilting circle. She is standing at the window, watching Autje: There she goes, running.