Davita's Harp by Chaim Potok Page B

went by, the bird began to notice that she went to the village later and later each day. He noticed a weariness coming upon her shoulders, a slowness in the way she picked and ground the flowers, a reluctance to walk the path to the village, a heaviness in her legs as she moved about the slope, a growing darkness in the sockets of her eyes. And one day she rose and came out of the cottage and did not pick any flowers. Instead, she went down to the edge of the river and gazed into its clear, gray-blue, silently rushing water. She turned and with dark and solemn eyes stared up the slope at her cottage. Then she turned again and looked deeply into the water. And once again she turned and looked yearningly toward the cottage. She seemed to be measuring the steepness of the slope. Then the bird heard her murmur sadly, wearily, ‘I cannot endure the slope.’
    “She thrust her hand into the water.
    “The surface of the water congealed, turned brown and bracken. An odor rose from it, a foul and stinking putrescence. The girl turned and walked slowly up the slope and along the path through the meadow and the street through the village and was never seen again.
    “The little bird understood that this lovely girl was not the source of the world’s eternal music and flew off to continue his search.”
    Jakob Daw stopped and looked up from the papers in his hands.
    “That is my story. Thank you.”
    I saw the tremor in his hands as he folded the papers and stuffed them back into the inside pocket of his jacket. In the large room was a silence so palpable it had the density of stone. I glanced around. People were staring at him in utter bewilderment. Mrs. Greenwood sat in a front row chair with her lips fixed in a tiny frozen smile.
    Jakob Daw went slowly to his chair and sat down. His face was white. He was removing his spectacles when my father and others began to applaud. My mother sat white-faced and motionless. The applause died away.
    Mrs. Greenwood rose and stood before the group, looking very old and full of authority. She began to talk about the need to help the government of Spain. She said that in the coming months more and more meetings of this kind would take place all over the country. “If Spain falls to the Fascists,” she said, “Hitler and the others will soon attempt further conquests and our very civilization will be threatened. We are at a crossroads and we need your help.”
    Behind me a man stood and began to talk about Franco. He said he was giving money to stop the Fascists in Spain now and to keep them from infesting America. A woman rose and spoke about the Italian invasion of Ethiopia. They had used poison gas, she said. And terrible explosives. Against tribesmen on horses.
    Teresa slid down off her chair and went from the room. Shewent quickly into the entrance hall and up the staircase. I watched her legs climbing the staircase—the rest of her cut off by the top of the living room doorway; spindly legs in knee-length white socks and shiny black shoes.
    I listened to another brief talk and the announcements of contributions. Jakob Daw was sitting with his eyes closed. From time to time a tremor ran across his face. My father was slumped back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his long legs stretched out before him. My mother sat very still, staring straight ahead, her face flushed.
    I whispered to my mother that I needed to go to the bathroom and slipped quietly from my chair and went upstairs.
    I went from room to room and could not find Teresa. There was no one in the hall bathroom. I started back toward the staircase. Passing the open door of a bedroom into which I had looked before, I heard a low, keening sound. I stopped and listened. It was coming from behind the open door. I stepped inside and peered behind the door and saw her sitting on the floor against the wall near the corner of the room, her arms around her legs, her chin on her knees, her eyes closed. She was rocking slowly