Shira

Chapter one

It was almost twilight when Manfred Herbst brought his wife to the hospital. After a few minutes, footsteps were heard, and Axelrod, the clerk, arrived, talking over his shoulder to an aide, to the aide’s wife, to both of them at once. As he walked and talked, he shifted his glasses from his eyes to his forehead and looked around in alarm, as if he had come into his house and found a stranger there. He asked what he asked, said what he said, took out a notebook, put his glasses back in place, and wrote what he wrote. Finally, he brought Mrs. Herbst to the room where women in labor wait to be assigned their beds. Manfred dragged along behind his wife, then came and sat with her.

Manfred sat at Henrietta’s side with the other women about to give birth, thinking about her and her pregnancy, which had come upon them not by design for, being past midlife, she was, presumably, beyond such concerns. How would she withstand the anguish of birth and how would she endure what follows? But what is done is done. Now, we have no choice but to accept whatever windfall comes our way as a gift from heaven. He reached over to stroke her tired arms, her withered cheek. When she dozed off, a sad smile playing on her swollen lips, he dozed off too, becoming his wife’s partner in anguish and in joy.

The hospital nurse arrived — tall, mannish, with glasses that towered over her eyes arrogantly and lit the freckles in her ashen cheeks so that they shone like nailheads in an old wall. Manfred had seen her for the first time some three or four years earlier. On that day, Jerusalem was in deep mourning. A young man from a leading family had been killed by a Gentile, and the entire city was gathered for the procession to the graveyard. Just then, with everyone grieving, that very woman sauntered out of the hospital in her uniform, head held high, a lit cigarette protruding from her mouth, her entire person arrogant and defiant. From that day on, whenever they crossed paths, Manfred Herbst would turn away rather than see her. Now that she had appeared, he was angry at the hospital administration for putting her in charge. A vulgar-spirited person, who behaved arrogantly and defiantly while a city mourned, could hardly be expected to have compassion for those who need compassion. She had come to extend her harsh hand over these tender women, and Henrietta too was in her power for life and death. His thoughts returned to his wife, who was about to give birth, and once again he began to reflect on the things that confront a woman in labor and thereafter. Imperceptibly, his eyelids began to contract with sympathy.

How did I happen to think of Lisbet Neu, Herbst asked himself. I wasn’t really thinking of her, but I’ll think of her now. And, remembering her, a breath of innocence swept over him, as it did whenever she came to mind. The radiant darkness of her eyes, without a hint of anger, the cast of her delicate face, her grace, her beauty, her fetching stance, her fine limbs — all were evidence that the Creator had not lost the power to fashion splendid creatures. Add to this her family connections, her manner, her burdened life, her Ashkenazic piety, all of which were barriers, so that, even as his thoughts were becoming schemes, they were pushed beyond her domain. That nurse, the one he called Nadia, was back again. Her name was actually Shira. Her father, a Hebrew teacher and an early Zionist, had called her Shira after his mother, Sarah.

Shira did not show the women to their rooms. She came and sat with them, as if she were sick or about to give birth herself. As Herbst closed his eyes to avoid looking at her, a beggar appeared, blind in both eyes, and began to mill about among the women. Herbst was surprised at the hospital staff for allowing this fat beggar to roam through the building, among weary women about to deliver, dragging his feet, touching each one of them while humming a monotonous tune with neither beginning nor end, his red headdress ablaze with derisive laughter. Nadia, i.e., Shira, i.e., Nadia, opened a pack of cigarettes and said to him in Russian, “My dove, would you like a cigarette?” He spoke no Russian and answered in Turkish, a language Shira, i.e., Nadia, didn’t know, touching her shoulder as he spoke. Herbst thought of telling her: The blind man is a Turk and doesn’t know your language. But he kept his mouth shut, saying nothing, as he did not wish to speak with her.

Shira sat confined to her body, which began to expand and grow so that her ample limbs enveloped the fat beggar. Herbst shifted his eyes and mused: The nerve of that woman. She is shameless and of such poor taste as to reach out and embrace a blind beggar with a foul stench coming from his eyes. The women were now astir, watching Shira and the beggar. They watched, less baffled than curious. Then suddenly something baffling occurred. The two of them were so close together that they began to dwindle and dissolve, until nothing was left of Shira except her left sandal, which was baffling, for a sandal is only one of the body’s trappings, and how could two persons — one fat, the other somewhat fat — be enclosed in it? And what if they were not enclosed in the sandal? Where were they then? Our eyes have been fixed on them constantly, but we didn’t see them go. We insist they are in the sandal. Nevertheless, it makes sense to ask Henrietta what is fact and what is fancy. Before he had a chance to ask, he felt her long, warm fingers stroking his forehead and heard her saying, “My love, they’re coming to take me to my bed. I’m going now.”

Manfred opened his eyes and saw his wife standing up, a small hospital nurse holding both her hand and her small suitcase. He took leave of his wife, who clung to him, as she always did when she was about to give birth, as she had done when she was about to give birth to Zahara and when she was about to give birth to Tamara. Manfred gave her a parting kiss, the same sort of kiss he had given her half a generation ago, when she was about to give birth to his eldest daughter, Zahara, and when she was about to give birth to her sister, Tamara. After kissing her, he kissed her again and went on his way.

He thought to himself as he walked: I know the entire episode was a dream. In which case, why agonize over it, why not dismiss it from my mind, why not accept it as a dream? I will now abandon all those fruitless struggles and see just what I need to do. He searched his mind and found nothing that needed to be done, surely nothing that needed to be done immediately and couldn’t just as well be put off until after Henrietta gave birth, even until she was back home. He turned toward home and began to consider the dinner he would prepare as well as the book he would read.

Engrossed in thought, he walked on, looking in his notebook to see if there was anything he had to do on the way home. There was nothing he had to do, but there were addresses, among them the phone number of Lisbet Neu, a relative of his celebrated mentor, Professor Neu. He remembered telling her that he would almost certainly call one day soon. In truth, this was neither the day nor the hour to telephone a young woman. Moreover, he had nothing to say to her. But, Herbst thought, since I promised to call, I will keep my promise. As he was near a phone booth, he went in to call her.

Chapter two

How did Herbst know Lisbet Neu? It happened that one Saturday, before noon, in a lull between rains, Herbst went to congratulate Dr. Ernst Weltfremdt, who had been promoted that same week from associate to full professor. While Herbst was at Weltfremdt’s, two women, one old and one young, came to congratulate the new professor. Weltfremdt introduced Dr. Herbst to them. The older woman, tilting her head slightly, offered the tips of her right fingers. The younger one offered her hand and said to him, “I was once in your house.” Herbst replied, “Odd that I didn’t see you.” She smiled and said, “I didn’t see you either. You were out.” Herbst said, “Much to my regret. When was this?” She said, “When my uncle, Professor Neu, was in Jerusalem, he went to call on you, and I went with him.” Herbst said, “What a misfortune, my dear lady; to think that Professor Neu came to my house, and I wasn’t there to welcome him. But I hope to see him soon, and perhaps I will have the good fortune to see you with him.” The older woman said, “Our uncle is old, and the discomforts of travel are a strain on him. I doubt if he will come again.” Herbst said, “In any case…” and didn’t elaborate. But he thought to himself: Though he won’t come because of his age and the strain of travel, you, my dear lady, are young, and the roads leap out toward you. Perhaps you will come again.

He left Weltfremdt’s house and had not gone far when he began to picture Lisbet Neu’s face, realizing how rare it was to see such a woman. He was sorry he hadn’t said something to her that could be pursued. But, even if he had said something that could be pursued, he could not have pursued it, for he was married, the father of two grown daughters; even if he were to speak with her again, what did it matter? Still, Lisbet Neu was certainly worth seeing.

Like people who choose a vocation in their youth, Manfred Herbst put Lisbet Neu out of mind. When he did remember her, he remembered only so he could tell himself that even if he were to find her, he wouldn’t recognize her, because he didn’t have an eye for faces and wouldn’t recognize anyone after a single meeting, even a woman as lovely as Lisbet Neu. Perhaps he should have asked her to be sure to say hello, should she happen to see him first, because of his age, because of his vision, or because of both of these infirmities. Having neglected to ask, there was no hope of seeing her.

What hope did not accomplish was accomplished through luck. Not many days later, he met her, recognized her, and, what is more, it was he who recognized her instantly, whereas she didn’t know him until he told her his name, for, when she had come with her mother to congratulate Professor Weltfremdt on becoming a full professor, she hadn’t had a chance to engrave Herbst’s image in her heart. For one thing, all of Professor Weltfremdt’s furnishings were black, a setting in which it is hard to discern a person’s face, and, for another, immediately after conveying their good wishes, they left to give the two scholars a chance to talk about their own affairs.

She was plainly dressed and wore a straw hat, which was out of season, for summer was over and the days were rainy. It was clear from her appearance that she was poor. Those immigrants from Germany, who had lived in an abundance of wealth and honor until they were exiled from their splendid houses by Gentiles and who finally went up to the Land of Israel, were penniless and financially pressed by the time they found jobs. But her poverty was masked by charm, charm that was enhanced by reticence. At first glance, she seemed to have no self-confidence, like someone who has landed in a place where she is totally unknown. But, in this case, her reticence was in her character. She felt that she didn’t deserve to enjoy the bounty of a land others had toiled over — for her father’s and mother’s families had lived complacently, fulfilling their commitment to the Land of Israel through donations to the poor of Jerusalem and to charitable organizations, while the Jews of Russia, Poland, Galicia, and Rumania came and built houses, planted vineyards, made citrus groves, established settlements, and prepared the country for their brothers-inexile. Much as Herbst scorned both racist theory and the would-be scholars of this would-be theory, when he discovered Lisbet Neu, in whom youthful grace was joined with ancient splendor, he was glad, despite himself, to be of her people.

Since Lisbet Neu is destined to occupy several sections of the book Shira, I will include some of the conversation between Dr. Herbst and Lisbet Neu. But, rather than present it in dialogue form, I will relate the general content of their conversation.

Herbst began by telling Lisbet Neu about the recent book by her aged uncle, Professor Alfred Neu, which even his adversaries conceded was a scholarly breakthrough that would soon be considered a classic in the field. Lisbet was very surprised. In all the years she had known her uncle, it had never occurred to her that his distinction derived from books. She regarded him as an uncle, one of her closest relations. He was actually a distant relative, but, since we have no special word for this relationship, and since it is customary to use the term uncle broadly, she called him Uncle, though he was not her uncle but her grandfather’s uncle, having been born to an elderly father at an advanced age, so that, as it turned out, he was younger than her own grandfather, who was the grandson of Professor Neu’s grandfather. “But,” Lisbet Neu said, “my mother and I are now worried, for it is more than a year and a half since our uncle wrote to us, and he used to write three or four times a year, apart from sending New Year greetings.” “He wrote to you four or five times a year?” Herbst cried in amazement. “Four or five times a year…. He must be very fond of you. Scholars from all over the world send him letters that remain unanswered. If he does answer, he answers one out of many, so he takes time from them for you and writes to you four or five times a year!” Herbst did not take leave of Lisbet Neu without promising to inquire about Professor Neu’s health and report back to her.

As it happened, Herbst happened to stop in to see his friend Professor Lemner and found him in a state of elation, having just received a letter from Professor Neu. And, as it happened, he happened to run into Lisbet Neu that very day. He said to her, “I have something good to tell you, my dear lady. I just saw a letter from Professor Neu that was received today, written in a hand that proves he has the strength of seven youths.” Lisbet Neu laughed and said, “We had a letter too. He must have written both letters on the same day. Uncle Alfred sets aside special days for letter writing.” From then on, whenever Manfred Herbst met Lisbet Neu, he would discuss Professor Neu with her. So-and-so had a letter from Professor Neu; in such-and-such a journal, there was an article about her uncle or about his theory. Since she knew so little about Professor Neu’s field, Herbst could not engage her with words. Since he could not engage her with words, the conversation ended where it began. He was aware that he was not one to win a maiden’s heart through fine conversation, so he was brief rather than risk inflicting boredom. To her, this was a virtue, for she understood, in her own way, that Dr. Herbst was a distinguished scholar, and it was not the way of scholars to converse with simple girls endowed with neither Torah, wisdom, nor anything else.

A month passed, then another month. The world was occupied with its affairs, as was Dr. Herbst. Who can relate the affairs of the world? The affairs of Dr. Herbst I can relate.

I’ll begin with essentials and relate one thing at a time. He prepared lectures and delivered them to his students. He read many books and journals in his field, as well as related fields. When he found something worthwhile, he copied it by hand and put it in a box. If it was not worth copying, but nonetheless of interest, he would mark it in pencil, sometimes even in ink. In addition to all this, he talked with his colleagues at the university, with his students, and at times with ordinary people, such as the bus driver, the shopkeeper who sold him stationery, or the neighbors, and, needless to say, with his wife and daughters when they were at home. Zahara, his eldest daughter, lived on a kvutza, and Tamara lived at home and didn’t burden her father with conversation. I will not dwell on the daughters now, though I mean to tell about them in time.

And so several months passed, during which he didn’t see Lisbet Neu. He was too busy to notice. When he did notice, he thought to himself: How is it that one doesn’t see Neu’s relative? Finding no one to answer his question, he answered it himself: She must have gone to Tel Aviv or to some other place. Finding no one to ask, he observed to himself: Actually, what’s it to me if she’s in Jerusalem or not? Even if she is in Jerusalem, and if I do see her, I have nothing to say to her. Still, what a joy it is for a “tent dweller” to venture into town and see a fine young woman there.

Chapter three

I will add several words on this subject. Manfred Herbst didn’t tell his wife about the young woman he met at Ernst Weltfremdt’s when she and her mother came to congratulate Weltfremdt on becoming a professor. Though it was Manfred’s custom to tell Henrietta everything, he didn’t breathe a word about Lisbet Neu, though he knew that if he were to say anything to her, she would make nothing of it. Henrietta doesn’t follow every turn of Manfred’s eye, especially when the young woman in question is the relative of an eminent professor, and Henrietta had surely noted, when she came with her uncle, that she wasn’t one of those meddling spinsters who pursue other women’s husbands.

I will clarify something that needs to be clarified. When Lisbet Neu told Dr. Herbst that she and her uncle had been in his house but hadn’t found him in, he expressed regret at having been denied the privilege of receiving his eminent professor in his home. Though Herbst didn’t see him, Henrietta did, and she surely told him so. Still, his words suggested that he hadn’t heard about the visit at all. In fact, Henrietta did tell him, and Professor Neu told him too, before leaving the country, so that what Herbst told Lisbet Neu was mere rhetoric.

Let us linger awhile with Henrietta. At about this time, she had begun to age rapidly. Wrinkles appeared on her face, and, though it is common for blondes to age before their time in this country, in her case it was due less to climate than to stress. Her relatives in Germany were in great distress, so her mind was totally fixed on getting them out of there and into the Land of Israel. Her concerns were imprinted on her face in the form of wrinkles, which, unlike others her age, she did nothing to conceal, making no attempt to improve herself for her husband. At night, when a woman is unencumbered by household tasks and can give her mind free rein, she would be scheming: what to do next, and how. And what she decided by night she acted on by day, running to the Jewish Agency, to lawyers, to the immigration office, from there to brokers, agents, advisers who, though they were not evil, behaved unscrupulously. When evil pervades the world, even those who are not evil behave in an evil fashion. Henrietta took all this on, sparing her husband the runaround and abuse so many of our people were subjected to in those days by English officials, Arabs, and those Jewish officials who allied themselves with all the others and were more cruel than the Gentiles. Since Manfred was spared these troubles, the One who was created only to make trouble came and troubled him, saying: Take a look at yourself and you’ll see — if you’re not young, you’re not old either. Though you and Henrietta are equal in years, there is a difference between man and woman. She is already aging, but you still have your youthful vigor. In such matters, one tends to accept idle talk as ultimate truth. This was true even for Manfred Herbst, the renowned scholar, the author of a six-hundred-page tome on the artifacts in the Byzantine church of Santa Sophia at the time of Leo iii, a work praised by most scholars, who found nothing to delete or add, beyond two or three questions which, according to other scholars, had to be studied further in order to determine whether the small beakers actually existed in Leo’s time or were introduced later. This same Manfred Herbst began to say: I’d better take over before old age overtakes me. How? Through the company of attractive young women. As long as Henrietta was young, while the girls were small and the house was in good order, he sat with his books, collecting material for an essay on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, without giving a thought to finding companionship away from home. Now that Henrietta was aging, the girls were grown, and he was less confident about finishing his paper, he was drawn to follow his roving eye. But his eyes were slow to find what his heart was after. Then he made the acquaintance of Lisbet Neu. Though he realized she was not the girl he was seeking, his loftiest thoughts were of her. Were it my tendency to analyze, I would suggest that deep in his heart he was displeased with the winds that disperse illicit fantasies.

One day Manfred Herbst came out of the French Library on Ben Yehuda Street, carrying new novels from Paris. Some scholars boast of not having read a poem, story, novel, or anything else outside of their field since their schooldays. Others, when they wish to read for pleasure, choose a detective story and read it discreetly, so as not to be seen. Herbst read a great deal of poetry, as well as short stories and novels, and he was open about this. As he walked down the street, he treated himself to a taste of what he would soon be reading. Suddenly he felt a rush of warmth, a flash of radiance. Even before he could identify the source of the warmth and radiance, Lisbet Neu came toward him. She looked up, her black eyes flashing. Herbst forgot that he had told himself he had nothing to say to her and forgot that he had told himself that, should he talk to her, he had best be brief, as they were barely acquainted. By some miracle, it was she who began speaking. She said, “Please, Dr. Herbst, could you possibly give me a bit of your time? It won’t take long. I need some advice.” His heart was stirred by her voice, even more so by her eyes: the look of concern — had she overstepped? Perhaps she had asked too much…. Herbst hugged the novels he was holding and said, “Wherever you choose, I’ll be there. Anytime.” Lisbet was bewildered. This was beyond what she had in mind, though the consultation did, in fact, require a time and place. She braced herself and said, “If it’s all right with you, I’ll be at the Café Zichel tomorrow at six.” When Herbst repeated her words so he wouldn’t forget them, a note of furtive joy rang in every syllable he uttered. He was breathless, like someone anticipating joy but unable to wait for it. She soon took leave of him and was on her way.

Herbst didn’t watch her go, but in his mind he followed her footsteps as she made her way among passersby, unaware of the company they were in and that her every step was putting distance between them. All of a sudden he remembered something he did not want to miss. He turned to look after her. She was already far away, so that he could barely make out the fringe of her hat, blown by the evening breeze like a curtain designed to shut out the street.

I am skipping an entire day, which was in no hurry to pass — the day between meeting and meeting — but let’s see what followed. This sort of thing, O ye who seek novelty, is already common and recurs every day, at any time, at any hour: a married man, father of two daughters, lecturer at a university, arranges to meet a twenty-four-year-old woman of good family in a café. I will nonetheless recount it as if it were news, from beginning to end: how he waited for her, how he went into the café with her, sat with her, what he said to her, and all that ensued.

About an hour before the appointed time, Herbst stole away from home, since he had no way of knowing what his wife might ask of him, nor could anyone know who might suddenly appear at his door and how long it would be necessary to tarry, since a friend could drop in without calling ahead, and Herbst would not be free until the friend was ready to go. For these reasons, Herbst left home an hour before the appointed time.

When he got to Ben Yehuda Street, Herbst crossed from sidewalk to sidewalk, from the side the Café Zichel was on to the opposite side, then the reverse, afraid someone would engage him, for it is the custom in this land that, if you run into a friend and you are not busy, you attach yourself to him, whether or not you have something to say. One can imagine Herbst’s concern. Still, except for the cigarettes he took out and lit, one after the other, nothing engaged him. Between cigarettes, he consulted his watch, which did not alter its time, like an hourglass in which the grains of sand will not move until it is time, however much one taps it. When the appointed hour arrived and Lisbet Neu was not there, Herbst began to review every word he had said the previous day. He had, perhaps, said something inappropriate that turned her against him. Reviewing the entire conversation and weighing each word, he found no flaw, so his mind was at rest, but not his feet. He went into the café to see if she was there. Pressed between the crowded tables, he searched every corner without finding Lisbet Neu. As he didn’t find her, he left.

Again he crossed from sidewalk to sidewalk in despair, then anticipation; in anticipation, then despair. When these two emotions faded and were replaced by a vague sense of weariness, he spotted Lisbet Neu. There she stood: face to face with him, eye to eye.

There was Lisbet Neu. She came and said, “I’ve wasted your time, Dr. Herbst. I kept you waiting.” Hearing this, Herbst would have liked to say: I would wait for you until tomorrow or the day after. But, saying nothing, he bowed, shook her hand, and went into the café with her.

Again Herbst was pressed between crowded tables and chairs with back legs that were straight and indifferent to the fact that everyone knocked into them. The whole point of a chair is that one sits on it however he likes, with no concern for passersby who knock into it. Herbst was in the café again. The first time he had felt sad and abandoned, but now Lisbet Neu was at his side. He was surprised that everyone in the café did not get up to offer her a chair. Since no one offered her a chair, he began looking for one. He couldn’t find an empty chair. Then someone did get up to go — to a meeting, a conference, home — and there was an empty chair. Herbst brought it to Lisbet Neu. He stood beside her and would have stood there until the end of time. Another chair was vacated. He grabbed it but remained standing. He suddenly realized he could place it near Lisbet Neu’s chair and actually sit down. He took the chair, put it near Lisbet’s, and sat down.

Lisbet Neu sat there, as did Dr. Herbst. They seemed to be sitting for the sake of sitting. The waitress came and asked in a coarse voice, “What will you have?” Herbst answered harshly, “What will we have? Everything. And if there is not enough here, run and bring us Jerusalem’s best.” Lisbet laughed and said to the waitress, “Bring me cocoa made with water rather than milk. And you, doctor, what will you drink?” Herbst asked, “Cake, how about cake?” Lisbet Neu said, “I can’t have cake.” Herbst said, “Why?” She said, “They’re made with butter.” Herbst said, “So much the better. They’re better with butter.” Lisbet Neu said, “It has not been six hours since I ate meat.” Herbst was astonished to discover that there were people who still waited six hours between eating meat and milk. She was astonished by his surprise. She told him, among other things, that when she, her mother, and little sister came to the country, they had no means of support. She was hired to cook in a restaurant that was certified to be strictly kosher, and observant Jews did not hesitate to eat there. One day she saw meat dishes and dairy dishes being washed together in the same basin. She would never again taste anything that was cooked there. From then on, she did not eat hot food until she got home after midnight and cooked for her mother and sister. Her mother was too sick to stand on her feet long enough to cook more than a simple porridge, her sister was still young, and she, Lisbet Neu, loathed porridge. So she cooked for herself and her little sister, who lived with them while she was still in school. The girl was now living in Amsterdam with her mother’s aunt.

Manfred Herbst learned from Lisbet Neu that her mother was sickly and, for the most part, bedridden. He learned that Lisbet’s sister was too young to support herself, and he learned that the entire burden of the household was on Lisbet’s shoulders, that there were many days when she went hungry, that as a result she had come down with jaundice but was now fully recovered. Neither the rigors of life nor an excess of piety were congenial to Manfred Herbst, an enlightened man who lived an orderly life. But the religious feelings Lisbet Neu conveyed when she spoke of the practical commandments were unlike those of other observant Jews Herbst had occasion to know, for whom he had little regard.

“What am I doing now?” Lisbet Neu continued, not wanting him to think she was still employed in the restaurant. “I am a clerk in a furniture store.” Herbst didn’t ask if she was being paid enough or what the job entailed. The word clerk has many connotations. The woman who cleans and takes customers up in the elevator could call herself a clerk. It could even be that Lisbet Neu is merely a caretaker.

The waitress brought the cocoa and coffee. Herbst said to Lisbet Neu, “It took so long to bring the cocoa, it must be six hours by now. You could have it with milk and eat the cookies, which probably don’t have a trace of butter.” Lisbet Neu smiled politely, but it was evident that she did not approve of his joke, that even a mild joke about religion disturbed her.

Herbst remembered that Lisbet Neu needed advice. He couldn’t decide whether or not to remind her. If he reminded her, the entire matter might be concluded in three or four minutes, and their meeting would be over, which would not be the case if he failed to remind her — then their meeting would be prolonged. He weighed the two options and admonished himself: Unless you give her an opening, she won’t begin; but, since you enjoy the company of this lovely young thing, you allow her to flounder while you subject her to bad jokes. Lisbet Neu got up and said, “It’s time for me to go. Forgive me, Dr. Herbst, for troubling you to come here.” When she got up to put on her coat and he got up to help her, she added, “I don’t deserve it.” When she realized he meant to see her home, she was surprised, for not only had she taken his time, but he was going to take more time and see her home.

As they walked, she said, “The matter I wanted to consult you about has worked itself out, and I am glad not to have to bother you. I’m really surprised at myself. I can’t believe that I was going to bother anyone with it.” As she spoke, her face seemed to cloud over, and Herbst concluded that, though, the matter was settled, it was not settled in her favor and, furthermore, that he had no right to ask about it. They walked on in silence, in close physical proximity but at a distance in their thoughts. Lisbet Neu was considering: I went to a café with a stranger. I let him pay for my cocoa, and now I am walking with him, while Mother is at home alone, worrying about me. Herbst was considering: The conversation I had with Miss Neu has no future. With this sort of young woman, you imagine you’ve come close when in fact you’ve created a barrier. Wish her well and don’t try to court her.

He did not act on this intelligence. The next day he ran into her in the post office, at the next window. Having met her, he spoke to her, and when their business was concluded he joined her. While they walked, he talked on and on. He suddenly had so much to say. With no preparation, the words came. Not of themselves, but by way of a story about a postal worker who collected stamps. He used to remove valuable stamps from international letters and keep them. Nothing was said about this, for what would be the point of speaking out when your letters could be confiscated? Then, suddenly, someone saw the matter differently. He went and told a supervisor, who would have dismissed the matter in deference to British honor, for no servant of the British Empire would violate its laws, but he was not content until the fellow was reprimanded. In addition to the reprimand, he was ordered to return the stamps. He denied taking them. His house was searched, and many undelivered letters were found.

A story that doesn’t really pertain to either Dr. Herbst or Lisbet Neu gave them something to talk about. If we were to monitor their conversation, we would find nothing that hasn’t been said by others. Still, it wasn’t wasted. For, having begun a conversation, they continued to walk and talk, like people who know each other well and enjoy talking to each other. As things happen, it happened that, before taking leave of each other, she gave him the telephone number of the store she worked in and, as it was closed at night, added the number of the grocery she shopped in; the grocer and his wife were there until 10:00 and would call her to the phone at any time. The night Dr. Herbst took leave of his wife when she was about to give birth, it was hard for him to go back to his empty house. He thought of various people but was not drawn to any of them. He was reminded of Professor Neu’s relative. He thought of calling her. One doesn’t really call a young woman at such an hour, but Lisbet Neu was different, This is the beginning of the story of Manfred Herbst and Lisbet Neu, a relative of Professor Alfred Neu, Dr. Herbst’s distinguished teacher. I think I have made things as clear as they can be. But this is not the essence of the story. The essence of the story involves Manfred Herbst and the nurse Shira, the Shira I began with, whose conduct I will continue to recount insofar as it touches on the story of Herbst.

Chapter four

Now, after taking leave of his wife, he went to telephone Lisbet Neu. He found a phone booth, but it was at an intersection, and he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to hear Lisbet Neu’s lovely voice over the traffic. So he passed it up and went on to another phone, only to realize that the numbers were jumbled in his mind. He wasn’t sure which was her work number and which was the grocery number. He opened the telephone book to verify the numbers. They were spotted with dirt and illegible. He put down the book with the illegible numbers and went on. He found another booth.

When he opened the door, he found a woman inside. He retreated and was about to turn away. The woman said, “I finished my conversation. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Dr. Herbst, Mrs. Herbst’s husband.” Herbst stared at her and at the red turban on her head, his face turning red, like the turban. She said, “I am sure that Mrs. Herbst is well. She is comfortable with us and has whatever she needs.”

Herbst asked himself: Who is this woman in whose hands Henrietta is so comfortable? One thing is clear: the red turban on her head is becoming. And it is equally clear that she is the nurse I call Nadia, though her name is not Nadia but Shira. He was gracious to her, so that she would be gracious to his wife.

Shira said, “Did Dr. Herbst want to use the phone?” He blushed and muttered, “Yes.” Shira said, “Is there trouble with the phone? Here, I’ll make the call.” She lifted the receiver, placed a coin in the slot, and said, “This is the nurse Shira. S-h-i-r-a. How is Mrs. Herbst? H-e-r-b-s-t. I said Mrs. Herbst, the wife of Dr. Herbst. Dr. Herbst from the university. Mrs. Herbst who checked into the hospital this afternoon. She’s doing well? If so, Mr. Axelrod, her husband sends regards. Her husband, Dr. Herbst, who is right here having trouble with the phone. Can you hear me? Heeeeaaar meee? Or do I have to repeat everything? You heard me. Good.”

Herbst thought to himself: That nurse took on a hard job. I must thank her and pay her for the call. But will that make us even? He looked her in the eye and said, “If Miss Shira is free, I would be glad to take her for coffee.” Shira answered, “I am free, and I would be delighted to go.” Herbst realized his timing was right, that he had done the correct thing, and that to have done otherwise would have been rude.

Shira adjusted her turban, took a mirror from her purse, powdered the tip of her nose, and said, “Let’s find a café with a phone so we can inquire about Mrs. Herbst.” Herbst opened the door of the phone booth for her, thinking: This woman is tough on the outside, but inside she is soft. As for me, what am I like? I’d rather not inquire or analyze. He looked at Shira again. Her freckles were no longer visible, because of the darkness or the powder. Either way, she was tall and well dressed, so one would not be embarrassed to be seen with her in public. She opened her purse but, instead of a cigarette, took out a mirror and peered into it, as young women do.

They went into the café and sat down — Herbst like a man unaccustomed to the company of a woman, and Shira like a woman intending to relax rather than talk. When Herbst realized she wasn’t eager for conversation, he was relieved and took the opportunity to observe her. He noted that she was sitting distractedly, sitting without crossing her legs, sitting and drinking tea with milk, sitting without smoking, sitting contentedly without looking this way or that, simply gazing at the small space in front of her, which was being filled with her tranquil presence. Though one cannot quite say this, for space is space and she is no more than herself — how could her mere gaze fill it up?

When she had finished about half of the tea, she took her purse, got up, went to the phone, picked up the receiver, and asked how Mrs. Herbst was doing. She came back, smiling, and said, “This time I was lucky and more successful. I spoke with the night nurse, not with Axelrod, who never hears you, who just keeps talking to everyone and his wife, as they say. As for Mrs. Herbst, she is doing well and is in good hands. The nurse I spoke to is the one in charge.”

Herbst said to Shira, “Really, that Axelrod is an odd fellow. He talks over his shoulder to everyone at once.” But what I am saying is irrelevant too. I should thank her for taking the trouble to inquire about my wife for me, and I end up talking, in Shira’s words, about “everyone and his wife.”

Shira didn’t answer. She sat with her legs crossed. When she crossed her legs, it seemed to Herbst that she began to dwindle. Not as she had dwindled there in the hospital, when he and Henrietta sat as one, and Shira and that beggar merged and were enclosed in whatever place that was. Though it was clear to him that it had all been a dream, he looked around and was surprised that the same beggar, blindman, Turk, wasn’t there now. As soon as he saw that he wasn’t there, he smiled and murmured to himself: In any case, it’s clear that he didn’t disappear in that sandal.

While Herbst was struggling to extricate himself from matters that are inherently impossible to extricate oneself from, a man appeared, dressed in black, elegant, and so closely shaved that there was a blue cast to his cheeks. He bowed and asked if they were pleased to be in his café, if they had received what they ordered, if what was served to them was satisfactory. When they answered that they were pleased with the service, that whatever they were served was good, he went on to say, “I hope that from now on you won’t pass me by.” He then took the opportunity to introduce himself. Actually, he had already introduced himself and told them his name. He had introduced himself earlier so he would be able to talk to them. He was introducing himself now to assert his position.

Now that he had joined them, he thought it would not be inappropriate to say a few words. He began telling about himself: that he was new here in Palestine and in Jerusalem, that it had never occurred to him that he would come here, certainly not to live. “But,” he continued, “having come here, I wanted to set up a café like the one I had in Berlin. At first, I thought I would open a café in Tel Aviv, a dynamic city, teeming with action. But when I saw the cafés there, which are half out-of-doors, I decided against Tel Aviv. For I, dear sir and dear madam, see the café as an enterprise that should offer refuge from the street rather than drag the street along with it. In Tel Aviv, coffee drinkers sit outside, as if they’re drinking soda, not coffee. With your permission, madam, and yours, sir, let me say a few words on the subject of drinks. Every drink has its place. Wine loves a fine room, furnished like a parlor with chandeliers that light the room as well as the wine in the goblet. Your eyes are fixed on the goblet, and its eyes are fixed on you. Being gay and jubilant, you bring the goblets together and sing out, ‘L’hayim.’ Tea loves grayish yellow walls and a low ceiling. It inhabits its cup like a mandarin ruling his domain. Cocoa loves a cloth embroidered with roses and butterflies, with cake alongside the cocoa and cream topping them both. Beer loves an old, dusky cellar with oak tables, heavy and bare. A cocktail is at home anywhere, asking nothing of those who drink it. It sits watching with sadistic pleasure as people clamor for an illicit drop whose mother doesn’t know who its forebears were and is even unsure of her own daughter’s genealogy. And so on, with every sort of drink. Each one has its place. Coffee is foremost, with a special place named for it. Whoever comes for a cup of coffee comes to relax, to be refreshed. There, in Tel Aviv, you sit on the street, drinking, without knowing what you are drinking, engaging every passerby, arguing, shouting, contending, though no one can be heard, while a small, dark Yemenite crawls about applying the tools of his trade to the assorted footwear. He alone, I would say, is of any consequence. While he shines a man’s shoes, the fellow’s head could be switched with someone else’s, and neither of them would notice, in the general commotion, that head and shoulders are mismatched. Even here in Jerusalem, all is not well. It’s hard to find a good spot and hard to find waiters. You’re forced to hire waitresses. I don’t deny that waitresses have something waiters lack, but they’re impatient. They don’t have the patience guests deserve. There are guests who don’t know what they want, and a waiter must know what to suggest and how to use hypnosis sometimes to make them think it was their own idea to order as they did. Not only do waitresses fail to help a guest, but their brash manner confuses him. I stand by in silence. If I speak up, the union will be after me. If you will permit me, sir and madam, I would like to tell you what happened to me here in Jerusalem. I once threw a waitress out of my café. I won’t claim I was one hundred percent right, but surely ninety-nine. Picture this: I am standing and talking to her, and she yawns in my face. I yelled at her and said, ‘Take your rag and get out.’ As soon as she left, her friends stopped working and followed her, declaring that they were on strike. I laughed and said, ‘Strike, my girls, strike. Such meager chicks… you’re not even worth the price of slaughtering.’ I tried to find other waitresses, but they all belonged to the union and would have nothing to do with an employer involved in a strike. A gentleman came from the Histadrut, carrying a briefcase, like a lawyer, and began talking to me as if he owned my café. In short, he talks and I answer, I talk and he answers. Meanwhile, the customers rush in, and there is no one to serve them. Having no choice, I decide to negotiate with the waitresses, all except for that brazen one, so they’ll go back to work. Do you know what that man from the Histadrut said? He said to me, ‘If you don’t want her, we don’t want you.’ Ha, ha, ha, ha — I’m the boss, and she’s merely my servant. Yet he has the nerve to say to me, to the one who set up this place, ‘We don’t want you.’ If things hadn’t happened as they did, who knows how it would have ended? Exactly what happened? The sort of thing that happens only in Palestine. That gentleman had his eye on the waitress, and she had her eye on him. They were married, and, believe it or not, I sent them an enormous tart with ‘Mazel Tov’ written on it in chocolate. Which is not to say that we made up. But I did win their hearts, and they are now regular customers. He comes for coffee and she comes for ice cream. It’s the sort of thing that occurs only in Palestine. There are many basics missing here. I won’t mention the ones a cultured person misses all the time. But even some of the things a modern man needs only two or three times a year can’t be found here. There is not a single synagogue with an organ or a choir. I have dealt with one such need by setting up this café. I hope it suits you and that I will have the pleasure of seeing you here again. Good night, dear lady. And a restful night to you, sir. I am at your service. Au revoir.”

The conversation with the café owner rescued Herbst from a whirlpool of imagination. When he left the café with Shira, his mood was light. When he went to the hospital with Henrietta, his mood had not been so light. To add to the lightness, he took off his cap, turned to Shira, and said, “What a splendidly grotesque performance.” Shira said, “It’s hard for those yekkes to adjust.” Herbst smiled and said, “I’m a yekke too.” Shira said, “A yekke, but one who came willingly, unlike that lout who never considered leaving Germany and coming here. Such a person could not possibly be comfortable here, apart from the absence of an organ or the presence of the Histadrut. There are other forces undermining him.” Herbst said, “If I had permission, I would ask: What about Miss Shira? Is she comfortable here?” Shira said, “Comfortable or not, wherever I am there are sick people, and what difference does it make if I am with them here or somewhere else? I wear the same white kittel, the same white uniform, here as there.” “And apart from the white kittel, is there nothing else?” “Apart from the kittel, there are the sick, who are sick whether they speak Russian, Yiddish, or Hebrew.” Herbst said, “In that case, I’ll ask no more questions.” Shira said, “I have nothing more to add. Jerusalem is already asleep. There’s not a soul on the streets. Anyone who happens to be out has one thing in mind: to find refuge in his doorway and then inside his home.” Herbst said, “A perfect definition of night in Jerusalem…. Night in Jerusalem, just as it is.” Now what? Herbst pondered. I’ll see Shira to her door, go to my empty house, get into bed, wake up early, and in the morning I’ll go to see Henrietta. When I knock at the hospital gate, they’ll open it and call a clerk, who will talk to me over his shoulder and ask in alarm, “What do you want?” To which I will say, “My name is Herbst — Herbbbst — husband of Mrs. Herbst.” To which the clerk will answer, “You mean Mrs. Herbst who came with you for, for — “ I will grab his notebook and show him what she came for. What if I had called Lisbet? Before Herbst could pursue this train of thought, Shira stopped and said, “This is my house.” “This one here?” Herbst asked, somewhat dismayed. When he saw that she was dismayed by his dismay, he added, “Since the walk was short and the company pleasant, I am sorry to be here already.” Shira said simply, “Would Dr. Herbst like to come in?” Herbst looked at his wrist, as if he were consulting the time, and said, “I’ll come in, but I won’t stay long.” He stared at the house in wonder, amazed that such a structure existed. It had been there for several generations. One could tell from the style of the structure. But Shira’s words gave it new vitality, deriving not from the stone, wood, mortar, plaster of which it was constructed, but from its own power, imbued with life and will which, at will, gives life. Vivid thoughts took over, though not yet in full color, showing Herbst more than his eyes could see. In just a few minutes, he might enter that house, for Shira had explicitly said, “Come in, sir,” and he had answered, “With your permission, madam, I will come in.” His legs were suddenly heavy, his knees began to quiver, his entire body was inert, and he was afraid he would be too weak to move. Still, with heavy heart and in high anticipation, he stood peering in and looking to see whether the house had a door and whether it was a door one could enter.

Shira took a bunch of keys from her purse. In the light from the window of the house across the way, she chose a key and opened the door for Herbst. Standing at the entry, she said, “Wait a minute. I’ll go in and turn on a light. Or would it be better to go in while it’s dark and close the door before turning on the light, to keep out mosquitoes and sand flies?” Herbst nodded and said, “Let’s close the door first and then turn on the light.”

They entered the room in darkness. Shira dropped her purse on the bed, along with the keys, and said, “I opened the door with the wrong key.” She groped for a match, then turned on the lamp. “Success! Three cheers for success!” Herbst said — as if it were remarkable to succeed with the first match.

Herbst was now in Shira’s room. There was a bed, a table, a chair, a closet, a chest with five or six books on it, and above it the Böcklin painting with the skull. Two windows overlooked the street and the neighboring houses. There was also a door, covered with a curtain, that led to the kitchen. The scent of coffee mixed with burnt alcohol wafted through the room. Everything was in perfect order, though it didn’t seem as if a guest was expected. Nor did Shira seem to be paying attention to the guest she had brought.

Shira lowered the blinds on both windows, taking her time, as if no one else were there. Finally, she turned toward Herbst and said, “My room is small, but it’s mine.” She sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing the turban, and said to herself: What was I going to do? Try the key and see if it fits the lock…. I’ll leave that for tomorrow. She suddenly looked up at Herbst, gave him a long, searching look, reached out wearily, and pointed to the chair without telling him to sit down. Though she sat down and took off her turban, Herbst remained standing. She waved the turban at him and said, “Why not sit down. Here’s a chair.” Herbst said, “Should the lady wish to change her clothes, I can turn the other way.” Shira said, “That’s a fine idea. If the professor doesn’t mind, I will go and change my clothes.”

She got up from the bed, went to the closet, and stood behind the open door, lingering as long as she lingered, then appeared in dark blue slacks and a thin shirt. Herbst looked at her and was astonished: now that she was in male attaire, her masculine quality seemed to fade. She sat down on the bed again, and he sat on the chair between the table and the bed. His mind remained fixed on this miracle, this miraculous reversal: when she took off her dress, which was womanly attire, her masculinity was dispelled. As that thought became more and more dim and as his mind became vacant, once again everything was concrete and once again he saw Shira as she was, namely, in those particular dark blue slacks and in that particular thin shirt. He saw her, not face to face, but in a vision. He remained in this state of mind but started when he heard Shira say, “One can assume the professor would not like tea, having just had some in the café. If so, I’ll pour us some cognac.” She got up and bent down to get the cognac from the chest. Then, straightening up, she said, “Dr. Herbst is a smoker, right? Here are cigarettes, matches, an ashtray.” She took a box from the table, opened it, and said: “I haven’t tried these yet, but the company that makes them wouldn’t turn out inferior cigarettes. Most important, I trust the source.”

Herbst asked himself: Who is it that gives this woman cigarettes she is so confident about? The question exploded in his mind. He, no doubt, brought the cigarettes to her room. Yes, to her room. And when he brought them to her room, he was obviously in the room, as I am now. And when he was in her room, she sat on the bed as she did a few minutes ago. And he too may have suggested that she change her clothes. And when she changed, she changed into those slacks and that shirt, those blue slacks and that thin shirt. His heart was suddenly heavy, his shoulders drooped, his eyes began to sweat, and he felt as if his head had been hit with a metal pole. He was caught in a muddle of hate and envy, hating the shade of dark blue that enclosed her hips and belly, the shirt that pressed against her heart, and envying the cigarette giver, who had been here in this room in this place with this woman while she changed into those slacks and that shirt. But his envy and hatred were short-lived. They had appeared suddenly and vanished just as suddenly, leaving panic in his heart.

Those familiar with Dr. Manfred Herbst’s character might wonder at this degree of emotion, and even he wondered about himself — how he had suddenly become excited to the point of altered sensibilities. Nonetheless, as if to protest against those cigarettes, he took out a battered pack and lit one of his own.

Meanwhile, Shira had made herself at home on her bed. Realizing she was tired and in need of rest, she reached for a pillow, which she propped up between her head and the wall, taking no notice of what had happened. When Herbst lit his cigarette, which was not one of hers, she let the pillow slip, looked at him, bewildered, and said, “What is it, doctor? Is there something wrong with my cigarettes?” Herbst shook his head and said, “No, no, no.” He grasped her hand reassuringly, as if it were the way of the world, when one turns down a woman’s cigarette, to comfort her by taking her hand. Now that her hand was in his, he took the other one too. Her hands were cold and his were warm.

Herbst knew he was behaving childishly, that this was, no doubt, apparent on his face, that he was surely ridiculous, that Shira knew he was ridiculous and was laughing to herself at his expense. Herbst, like those who always behave properly but suddenly do something improper, was afraid of appearing ridiculous. He let go of her hands and relit his cigarette, for it had gone out. When it was lit, he set it down, turned back toward Shira, moistened his lips with his tongue, and stared at her. He saw not a trace of ridicule. On the contrary, her face was opaque. Or, as they say in modern Hebrew, her face was “serious.” In any case, Shira’s mind was elsewhere. Herbst stretched out his arm, his fingers open, like someone on the edge of despair who doesn’t know what to do. Shira was still in the same position, her head against the wall, her eyes closed. Whether or not you knew Shira, you could recognize that Shira was tired, that she was waiting for you to get up and go so she could entrust her weary limbs to sleep.

Herbst looked at her and said in a whisper, “Miss Shira is tired. I will go now so she can sleep.” Shira said, “I’m not tired. I don’t want to sleep, and there’s no reason to go.” Herbst said, “Then I have some advice to offer.” Shira covered her eyes and, peering through the cracks, said, “We’ll hear, then we’ll see.” Herbst said, “Miss Shira should stretch out and close her eyes.” Shira opened her eyes wide, stared at him with the aforementioned curiosity, and asked, “What will Dr. Herbst do meanwhile? Dr. Herbst will sit with Shira and sing her a lullaby? But Shira is afraid he’ll be bored. Besides, Shira is not a baby and Dr. Herbst, who is the father of two grown girls, may not remember any lullabies. It’s too bad that I don’t have a phone. We can’t call the maternity ward and check on Mrs. Herbst, who may have just now presented her lord and master with a glorious songbird. Dr. Herbst can see I am treating him as an adult. I haven’t mentioned the stork that brings babies from heaven.” Herbst was startled and began praying he would forget all that had transpired here. He looked at Shira, wishing that she too would erase from her heart all that had happened. Knowing this was a futile wish, a deep sigh erupted from his heart.

Shira smoothed her shirt, touched her thumb to one of her freckles, and sat watching Dr. Herbst. She watched him for a long time, her eyes growing bigger and bigger. Herbst sat with Shira like a man who sees that his downfall is imminent and there is no way to avert it. He shifted from one foot to the other, let his shoulders droop, and stood ready to submit. After a while, since Shira hadn’t said a word, he thought to himself: What will be will be, but I ask only one thing — that she not mention my wife. As Shira sat in silence, not saying a word, he repeated to himself: Why is she so silent, why doesn’t she speak, why doesn’t she say something to me? Shira remained silent, giving no sign that she intended to speak.

All of a sudden, she stirred and said in a singsong, like a woman telling some old tale, “Now let’s go back to the beginning. He said I should close my eyes and try to sleep, that he would sit beside me. I said I was afraid it would take too long and be boring. If I hadn’t interrupted, he might have added, ‘How can anyone be bored in Shira’s presence?’ So much for that. Let’s deal with another matter. I didn’t serve him cholent, and the cognac I offered never appeared. Now, all the evil spirits in the world will not keep me from pouring him a drink.”

She straightened up and, moving gracefully, with a youthful stride, went to the chest. She took out a bottle and a glass, poured a drink, and said, “Have some. As a licensed nurse, I can guarantee that this drink is harmless.” “And what about Shira?” Herbst asked in a whisper. “If he insists, I’ll drink with him.” She went to get another glass, poured herself a few drops, lifted her glass, and said, “L’hayim, doctor, l’hayim.” She drank up and was about to refill his glass when Herbst cried in alarm, “No, no, no!” She glanced at him, and in a flash she understood: He is afraid I will drink to his wife.

She stood over him, her arm on his shoulder, and declared, “Dr. Herbst is a baby.” Earlier, when he had held her hand, it was cold. Now it was warm, so much so that he felt it through his clothes. He grabbed her hand and held it in his. Shira withdrew it and, stroking his head, remarked, “What a full head of hair, like a young man’s.” Herbst said, “I meant to get a haircut.” She said, “It’s just as well. I prefer a full head of hair.” Herbst brushed his hand over her head and said, “Then why does she cut her own hair?” She said, “Did I say I like my own hair? That’s not what I said.” While she was talking, he brushed her cheek with his hand. As his hand brushed her cheek, fingering its freckled surface, the blood rushed to his hand, emitting flashes of violent fire that stemmed from his blazing blood. Shira closed her eyes, opened them again, and stared at him. A bond seemed to stretch between her eyes, not a bond of curiosity, as before, but more like the bond that marks a woman whose heart has turned to love, who would give her life for love. She tilted her head to the left, and her eyes turned toward him, studying him obliquely, fixing themselves there, unswerving.

I will stop in the middle, leaping over those things that transpired between him and her, and continue to relate what followed, that is to say, after Manfred Herbst took leave of Shira.

Chapter five

What happened then? Manfred Herbst left Shira and went on his way, not knowing if he was happy or sad. But he was perplexed. How could he not be perplexed? He, the father of two daughters, the husband of a fine woman with whom he lives amicably, is on his way back from a woman he met in a telephone booth and was drawn to follow home, staying from early evening until past midnight. Despite all this, he sees no change in himself. Nor has there been any change in the world.

The small filigreed streetlamps, designed to bestow romantic sleep on the city — by a shortsighted mayor who regarded himself as the last scion of the Crusaders and prided himself on doing as they did — these small beacons gave off light that was scarcely visible. Though Jerusalem already had electricity, it was expensive, and most people used kerosene. The city was quiet; there was not a person in sight. Earlier, when we were seeing Shira home, there was not the image of a person in sight; now there was not even the image of an image. Who is it who said, “In Jerusalem, if you see anyone stirring about at night, he is heading for the safety of home”? Now I am the one seeking the safety of home.

Herbst has already left Shira’s street. He is winding his way through the alleys that serve as shortcuts. Alley bites alley, lane is joined to lane, yard to yard. And from alley to alley, from lane to yard, you imagine you are back where you started, that you will have to retrace your steps and find another way out. But we are fortunate, for, along with the earth under us, we have sky, moon, stars above, so that, when we look up, we are never lost. Herbst looked up at the sky, oriented himself, and found the intersection from which a broad street led to the upper valley and to his house.

By now, other winds were blowing, cool winds from Talpiot, where the good winds gather to give life to the entire region. On such a night, at such an hour, when Herbst happened to come home and find restful quiet pervading every rock, every mound, every hill, breezes blowing and bringing with them the fragrance of cypresses, pine, garden flowers, wild grasses, desert plants, cool earth, his heart was tranquil and his soul soared. Now his mind was distracted, his heart impassive, his soul in turmoil. When Herbst happened to be coming home from an academic meeting or lecture on such a night and at such an hour, he would take short steps, enjoying every breath. Now he was running, though there was no one waiting for him at home, no one to ask where he had been and why he was late. Earlier would have been better. Why, he didn’t know.

His thoughts suddenly shifting to his wife, he speculated: While I was with Shira, my wife could have given me a son or a daughter. “No!” Herbst shouted. “The good Lord wouldn’t do such a thing!” Herbst lifted his head toward the sky, as if to probe God’s mysterious ways. The skies were pure; the stars were in place, showing no trace of evil design. But Herbst’s mood was foul, more so than at first, for it occurred to him that, while he was with Shira, his wife could have had a difficult delivery and died. He pulled off his hat and crumpled it angrily. Among his numerous thoughts, not one was of sorrow, grief, sympathy for his wife. His were thoughts of revenge, retribution, recompense for his malice and villainy. All of a sudden he laughed derisively and said to himself, still laughing: Now, Manfredchen, all you need is for that freckled one to come and say, “Now that your wife is dead and you are without a wife, take me as your wife.” Where is my hat? My God, I left it at Shira’s. He didn’t realize he was holding it. When he realized his hat was in his hand, he recovered, and his thoughts were once more with Henrietta. You are a good woman, Henriett, you’re a good woman, Henriett, he singsonged sadly. You were with me, and you are with me now. You raised the girls, you made me a home, looked after my interests, seeing that I did my work, not letting me be distracted by these troubled times. And when we began to be discouraged about my academic prospects, you never came to me with recriminations or complaints. You gave me support and kept me from joining that thwarted lot that degrades itself through gossip and slander. After all this, that woman could come and say, “Take me as your wife.” But the choice is mine, and what Miss Shira wants is not what I want. An evil spirit responded, saying: If so, if the choice is yours, where were you an hour ago, when Henrietta was in the throes of labor? And what will you do when Shira informs you that she is carrying your child? No need to worry about that. Women like Shira protect themselves. If she was careless, there are ways to terminate a pregnancy. And if she wants to have the child, there are places in the world where no one asks the mother if she is properly married. In any case, Shira is not one of those who attach themselves to a man against his will. And, in any case, from now on I will never again darken her doorstep.

Herbst was already at his house. When he saw he was there, he lunged toward the gate to the garden that surrounded the house and found it was locked, just as he had left it when he took Henrietta to the hospital. But there was a break in the fence. When Arab shepherds notice there is no one home, they poke a stick through the wiring and make a hole, a bit yesterday, a bit today, until the fence is destroyed and their sheep have the run of the garden. I see, Herbst said, that, first thing in the morning, I must fix the fence, or not a single bush or flower will survive. Now I’ll go and see if there are any letters.

There were no letters in the box. Only notices, announcements, invitations, and other printed matter that comes our way, to which we pay no attention, except for a reprint that would have interested him at any other time, as there were arguments in it challenging Alfred Neu’s theories. His eyes skimmed the article, but his mind was elsewhere. He was in a hurry to get to bed, for he had to be at the hospital early to see Henrietta. By and by, his mind lighted on Lisbet Neu.

If I were to speak to you today, Lisbet Neu, I would not choose my words so carefully, and you, my dear, would not be such a sheltered rose. When he left Shira, he was not aware of any change in himself, but he now had the air of a youth, confident of success.

Enough about Lisbet Neu, who is only an accessory to the story, and enough about Shira, who is not yet at its core. I will merely take what comes, event by event, and set it in its place.

Chapter six

The next morning, he was up early, shaved with a new blade, changed his clothes, and put on the tie Henrietta had bought him for his birthday. It was the color of dark Bordeaux, woven of silk thread that popped up in balls between the rows like berries between the furrows of a garden. Then he rinsed the kettle to make coffee. While waiting for the water to boil, he picked up that fool’s article and, with a single glance, skimmed his misguided version of Professor Neu’s theories. Herbst laughed, ranted, laughed again, threw it on the floor, flung it in the air, drew donkey’s ears on it. Then he made his snack, which he ate and drank. He looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie, locked the door, and jumped down the three steps in front of the house.

He noticed that the hole in the garden fence was higher than it had been the previous night. A large creature could shove its way in. As he was in a hurry to get to Henrietta, time was precious. He looked around for a neighbor he could ask to keep the Arabs from sending their animals into his garden. There was no one in sight. Just as well, he thought. Since there’s no one around, I don’t have to account for myself.

“A most felicitous morning, sir!” A voice was heard, hoarse as an old parakeet, and an odd creature appeared, perhaps male, perhaps female, perhaps priest, perhaps actor. Herbst pretended not to hear. The greeting was repeated: “Good morning, professor! Good morning, professor! I see you are already up tending your garden. Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund — he who makes the early rounds will reap success beyond all bounds.” Herbst answered curtly, “Good morning.” And that creature Sacharson, that convert, that priest of Jewish Christians, ignoring his neighbor’s grudging tone, leaped over to join him, walking and talking like those agitators who speak when no one listens and are nevertheless paid for their words. Herbst pointed to an approaching bus, jumped on, pushed his way in, and adjusted his tie. A child on her way to school got up to give him a seat. Someone else grabbed the seat, so Herbst and the child both had to stand. Like a man whose senses are impaired, he took no notice. She was offended and enraged — enraged at the Arab policeman who took the seat she had given up for Dr. Herbst and offended that Herbst did not acknowledge the seat. Herbst suddenly recognized her, asked about her parents, how she was doing, all the other questions one asks a friend’s daughter. The child was appeased and answered all his questions. When they arrived in town, she took another bus to the high school, and he went on to the hospital.

The hospital gates were open, but no one was allowed in, as a truck was delivering ice and the help was working frantically to finish before the heat set in. Herbst moved aside to make way for the ice carriers, whose hands were red and chilled. One of them looked up from the ice and informed him that his wife had borne him a daughter. “A daughter?” Herbst stammered. “A daughter is not a son,” the informant added. “But, in these times, with wars raging everywhere, it’s a blessing to have female children rather than males, who are likely to be sent off to war.” Herbst nodded and moved out of the way. Someone shouted, “Make way for the doctor!” Herbst tried to make himself inconspicuous, so he wouldn’t be mistaken for a doctor of medicine, and went in. When he arrived at the maternity section, he asked, “Which room?” Realizing the question was vague, he added, “Mrs. Herbst’s room, please.” They opened a door and led him to Henrietta’s room. He scanned it quickly and went to her bed. She was lying there, radiant. She offered him her hand, gazing up at him like a woman gazing at the beloved husband whose child she has just borne as if to proclaim, “Look, my darling, look — I have overcome all obstacles and fulfilled all your hopes.”

He didn’t say a word. Henrietta took no notice. She was peering at him, watching him lovingly, without a word, without speech, without end. Roses sent forth their scent from the small table beside her bed, and their fresh redness sparkled. Who had already brought Henrietta flowers, and why hadn’t it occurred to him to bring some? He blushed and began to stammer, “I’m embarrassed, Henrietta, I’m embarrassed.” Henrietta looked at him fondly and asked, “Why are you embarrassed, my dearest?” Again he stammered. “Because, because I should have brought you flowers.” Henrietta pressed his hand in hers and caressed it, saying, “Never mind, my love. At a time like this, how could you have thought of bringing flowers? Tell me, my dearest, tell me truly: Did you sleep? Did you sleep enough? Now, my love, let’s call the nurse, and she’ll show you your little daughter. There’s the bell, my love. Put your finger on the button and push three times. Like that, my darling.”

He barely touched the button. He touched it again and pressed it with trepidation — once, then once, then once again, without turning this way or that — for it might be Shira who responded. A groundless fear. Another nurse, an old woman, was on duty in that room at that hour. The old woman came and glanced fondly at the new mother and her husband. She offered her small, sturdy hand to Herbst, smiled, and said pleasantly, “Mazel tov, doctor. I must say one thing: Your wife is brave. The courage she showed last night should be engraved in gold on a marble plaque. Look and see if there are signs of fatigue on her face. Because of the evil eye, we are keeping her in bed. Otherwise, you could order a horse and she could ride to Motza or Kiryat Anavim. If you don’t believe me, ask the other nurses. They all agree.”

Henrietta’s eyes pointed toward a wicker basket. The old woman smiled and said sweetly, “In your place, Mrs. Herbst, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry. I would let him ask again and again, and each time I would demand a gold dinar or, in the currency of our land, a shiny new lira. But since the baby is eager to see her father, I will bring her.” The old woman brought out a tidbit of flesh, swathed in linen, and began to mumble and coo, “My sweet honeycomb, my luscious nectar, look and see who is here. It’s your father, your sire, who has come to consider your dowry. But I can tell, you won’t need a dowry. The boys are all after you already. They’ll have you as you are, my pet.”

She took out the baby and presented her to her father, watching to see if he could tell how fetching she was. Manfred stared at the rosy tidbit, its two spots of twinkling blue fixed on him, not knowing what to say. Henrietta turned her eyes toward her husband and toward the infant, not knowing what to say either. She fixed her eyes on his. Manfred knew he was expected to say something. He arched his lower lip and said, “So this little worm is our daughter.” The nurse put the infant back in the basket and left silently. Manfred went to sit beside his wife.

Once more, Henrietta took his hand in hers and spoke. “Now, my love, you must relay our news to the girls, so they know they have a little sister. And now, my love, let’s get down to essentials. What name will we give our daughter? I should confess I have already given her a name, not one of those new names that are chirped over every cradle, but a name from the Bible.”

“What do you call her?” Manfred asked. Henrietta answered, “What do I call her? If I tell you, you’ll agree.” “So?” Herbst asked impatiently. “So,” Henrietta answered, “so I call her Sarah.” Manfred heard and was silent. After a while he asked, “Why did you choose that name?” Henrietta looked up at her husband with special affection and answered with a question. “Wasn’t your mother called Sarah?” Manfred nodded and said, “Yes. Yes, my mother’s name was Sarah, but she was called Serafina.” Henrietta said, “Tell me this, my love. Can a child be called Serafina in this country?” Manfred said, “It’s truly impossible.” Henrietta said, “So let’s name her for your mother’s grandmother, who was probably called Sarah.” Manfred said, “Yes, yes.” Henrietta said, “I assumed my lord and master would be thrilled to name his daughter after his mother,” Manfred said, “Yes, yes. Of course, Henriett. Of course.” Henrietta said, “Unless you prefer one of those new names, such as Aviva or Zeva.” At this point Henrietta puckered her lips and chirped like one of those women, the mothers of Aviva and Zeva, “Avivale, Zevale. Remember Elizabeth Modrao, the daughter of Professor Modrao? Do you remember telling us that her grandfather was called Samuel, a rare name for a Christian in Germany? Do you remember why he was called Samuel? You don’t remember? She told you, and you told me. It was because he was born in Jerusalem, on Shavuot, and his father saw fit, in honor of the land and the festival, to give his son a name from the Hebrew Bible. After what the Germans did to us,” Henrietta added, “why say anything good about them. Still, it must be admitted, they did pay homage to Palestine.”

Another nurse came in and whispered something in the new mother’s ear. Henrietta glanced at her husband and said, “You must leave now, Fred. It’s really too bad. I want so much to talk to you, but I can’t delay the nurse, who is here to take care of me. So, for now, Fred, let’s say goodbye. Come back this afternoon, if you can. In about four hours, or four and a half. Did you have breakfast? Did you eat any of the eggs Zahara sent us from her kvutza? Please, be sure to have an egg in the morning and another in the evening. If you have two at a time, all the better. The natives say seven olives are the equivalent of one egg. If you ask me, an egg is an egg. As for olives, if you happen to like them, they spice up a meal. But not for a main dish — even eggs themselves don’t have such pretensions. According to Dr. Taglicht, the Talmud states that whatever is like an egg — that’s right, whatever is like it — doesn’t match it in quality. Now, my dearest, tell me where you plan to have lunch. I insist, my dearest, that you go to a good restaurant and have a solid meal. Meat, not vegetables. When you eat out, be sure to avoid salads, since you can’t be sure the greens were properly washed. I’m told restaurants buy their greens from Arab women, and you know they water their gardens with sewage, which is the source of most of the disease in Jerusalem. Now then, my love, are you listening? Say goodbye to Sarah.” “Sarah? Who’s Sarah?” Henrietta smiled and said, “My little Sarah, you chose a forgetful father. He hears your name is Sarah and forgets.” “Ah,” said Manfred, rummaging in his pockets. It seemed to him that it was the anniversary of his mother’s death, and he wanted to consult the calendar. “Now you know who Sarah is,” Henrietta continued. “Sarah, your daddy is saying goodbye to you, and I’m saying goodbye to your daddy in your name. I’ll say bye to you too. Goodbye, Fred. Don’t forget to write the girls. I would ask you to phone them if I didn’t know how hard that is to do.” “I’ll phone.” “You will? Bless you, my love. When they let me out of bed, I’ll go to the phone and call each of them. See you at four. If you promise to rest after lunch, I won’t expect you until five. Right away, nurse. Bye, Fred. At five.”

Chapter seven

Herbst left the hospital and stood near the fence, trying to recall the precise date of his mother’s death. By his calculation, it was not the previous evening, but he wanted to consult the calendar to be certain. He looked in his pocket, but the calendar wasn’t there. He had changed his clothes in the morning, and the calendar was still in yesterday’s jacket.

He had left the calendar in his old jacket. He was haunted by the thought that what had happened to him the night before could have occurred on the eve of the anniversary of his mother’s death. It was good that it did not occur on the actual anniversary. Still, the event was bad in itself. Even if I was after something of that sort, now that it has come to pass, I see it wasn’t what I was after. In seven days, Henrietta will be home again. May the intervening days be straightforward and uncompromised. If a man sins once, only once, the sin is not erased; still, one offense is less than two. What did Henrietta ask of me? Henrietta asked me to inform the girls that they have a sister. And something further. When he remembered what else she had asked, he looked at his watch to see how many hours remained until lunch. He noticed that his watch strap was worn. He took off the watch, put it in his jacket, and straightened his tie.

Julian Weltfremdt, a relative of Ernst Weltfremdt’s, appeared. They were related in family but not in fortune, for one was a full professor and the other was not even a lecturer. He deserved to be a lecturer, even in one of the great European universities, and if Professor Weltfremdt had supported him, he would have secured an appointment. But Ernst Weltfremdt was afraid he might be charged with nepotism, that is to say, with bestowing favors on relatives. Ernst used to say to Julian, “Would you have me behave like that administrator who made his brother secretary, found jobs for his mother and father, and then changed their names, so no one would know they were related?” Since Julian Weltfremdt considered himself a victim, he allied himself with other would-be victims and, like them, engaged in challenging the establishment. Unlike most of them, a thwarted lot that indulged in gossip and slander, Julian Weltfremdt was devoted to truth. Since scholarship has many branches and truth has many violators, he became more and more outspoken against those who mock the truth.

At that time, the entire country was astir with Professor Wechsler’s discovery. He had found a manuscript attributed to Saint Justin the Martyr on the subject of the profane aspects of life and the love of purity. I am not an expert on the writings of the Church Fathers, nor do I know whether he uncovered an ancient source or was misled by one of the counterfeits common in Jerusalem for three generations now. Between eagerness to innovate and the proliferation of counterfeiters, the world has been inundated with parchments, jugs, burial chests, figurines, idols, and gods from Enoch’s time and earlier. Moreover, most of the scholars from Germany came to this country intent on discovering antiquities, and they found what they were after. Actually, Professor Wechsler was legitimate, as was his enterprise. But he was also extremely eager to publicize his discoveries. To this end, he invited a host of journalists, as administrators often do in the interests of their institution, attracting attention to themselves as if they were the institution. Wechsler presented his discoveries to the journalists, glorifying himself at every opportunity. The journalists listened, sent telegrams to their newspapers, and provided Wechsler with a public. Scholars of other nations began to view this country’s scholars and academics with suspicion, which gave Julian Weltfremdt an opportunity to deplore the university’s scholars, especially Wechsler, whose behavior he considered scandalous. However Herbst viewed Wechsler’s activities, he dismissed them with a casual gesture and proceeded to enumerate some of Wechsler’s accomplishments. Weltfremdt was enraged and shrieked, “What I am telling you is deplorable, and that’s how you respond! Go and tell your father you need to be born again. Maybe this time you’ll turn out to be a man. By the way, did your wife give birth yet? Boy or girl?” “What if it was a girl?” Weltfremdt said, “Don’t tease me, Herbstlein. I believe you have two girls already.” Herbst said, “Now I have three.” “Three daughters? So now you have one more daughter. Don’t be disheartened. The world needs girls too. I see you’ve bought a new tie. Come, let’s wet our palates in honor of both these events. There’s a new café nearby. They try to serve real coffee. Let’s go there.” Herbst said, “You sound as if you’re their agent.” Weltfremdt said, “Not yet. If you prefer, we’ll go to another café.”

They tried one place, but it was crowded. Here, there were young men with pipes in their mouths; there, old men with canes in their hands. Here, there were young women waiting for young men; there, young men waited for young women. Here and there, young men and women sat together, engulfing each other in clouds of smoke. “Look,” Weltfremdt said to Herbst. “Look — every face is clean-shaven, every mouth holds a pipe. They all talk out of the corner of their mouth, like native Englishmen. If France had the mandate, our boys would grow beards and start whistling like birds. Get moving, man. Let’s go to the place I mentioned before.”

The café owner recognized Herbst, brought their order, bowed, and then retreated, so as not to give the gentleman who had been there the previous evening the idea that he intended to bother him. The two friends sat. They sat, and Weltfremdt talked about the university, about its professors, about other matters, talking, as the saying goes, about everyone and his wife, while Herbst stared straight ahead, wondering: Where was that space, the space he had seen here the night before? Weltfremdt sensed that Herbst was preoccupied. He assumed that he was worried. He certainly had cause for worry, with another daughter in addition to the first two. Feeling sorry for his friend, he insisted on paying the check.

After they took leave of each other, Herbst went to the jeweler to buy a new strap for his watch. While the worn strap was being removed, he looked at the watches, designed for a single purpose yet made in many forms. Time is constant, yet manifest in varied forms. All things are like time, even rumors, even words. A single lesson can be learned from many texts. Herbst had once said to Lisbet Neu, “I’m old enough to be your father.” She had said, “I don’t know your age, but I see your face and you look young.” At the time, he had thought she was being generous. Now he viewed her words differently.

So much for the parable of the clocks. After fastening the new strap around his wrist, he stuck in his finger to stretch it. All of a sudden he felt bewildered. Where was the pure spirit that used to be invoked by the mere mention of Lisbet? One thought led to another, as thoughts do, and he had another thought: What if I had a son and this son was drawn to Lisbet? One thought led to still another: Henrietta will, undoubtedly, be unable to nurse the baby, so we’ll have to hire a wetnurse, which will mean extra expense and put us even more in debt. Moreover, while the baby is young, wherever we put her to sleep, I will hear her and be distracted from my work, which requires concentration. My paper will remain a mess of notes, and I will remain a lecturer, with a lecturer’s salary, rather than that of a professor or even an associate professor.

I will now convey some of what was implicit in Herbst’s thoughts. The author of a thorough and comprehensive work on Leo iii, the Byzantine ruler, a work that established his academic reputation, so that, when our university was opened in Jerusalem, he was recommended by Professor Neu and appointed lecturer — such a man should have produced another book. But days and years had passed, and he had produced nothing. When he was a student, still single, and the university was full of German women, Russian women, Jewish women — among them, some who sought his company — he turned away, out of devotion to his studies. Now that he was married, all the more reason to avoid distractions. Yet, in the end, it was he who pursued them. Who was to blame? Certainly not Henrietta. I doubt there are many like her. In terms of intelligence, beauty, and competence, Henrietta has no peer. Without regular help, without her husband’s assistance, she did all the household chores. She cooked, baked, sewed, ironed, even made her own clothes. And when the girls were young, she chose to take care of them herself, without a nursemaid. As for their house — when the Herbsts came up to Jerusalem, they couldn’t find a place to live. Talpiot and Beit Hakerem were new neighborhoods, and there were no apartments to be had there. Rehavia was in the planning stages. This left the Bukharan Quarter, which in those days was as important and as lovely as Rehavia is now. And there were areas that were free of flies and mosquitoes, but every space was occupied, taken over by intellectuals from abroad. In Baka, however, Henrietta found a hovel filled with garbage, considered unfit to live in. She rented this hovel, got rid of the garbage, and fixed it up. We were astonished; the hovel was transformed into a delightful, even glorious house. Henrietta made herself a garden, too. She made it with her own hands. Without the help of a gardener, without the help of her daughters. Tamara, as you know, loves flowers that come from the store rather than from trash and dung. Her sister Zahara has many tasks to perform for her teachers — she collects money for the Jewish National Fund’s land-reclamation projects, sells ribbons for charitable causes, et cetera — and, because of all these tasks, she has no time for homework and never eats at mealtimes. Henrietta’s only helper is Manfred, who waters the garden. Not that Henrietta needs him to do this, but it gets him out of his room and gives him a chance to exercise, rather than acquire a belly, like Professor Weltfremdt and Professor Lemner, who are all belly, below their middle and above it — a mound of neck topped by a tiny head.

Having referred to Herbst’s study, let me say a word about the room. It was the largest and most spacious room in the house, but its dimensions were not apparent because of the books lining its four walls. The wall opposite the door had a square window in it that looked onto the street, bringing the outdoors in. There was no end to what went on outside or to the shifts of scene from day to day, from hour to hour. There was another window in the south wall, and, if not for the tall piles of books on the floor, it would be possible to get to the window and see the earth’s marvels: rocks rising from the ground, looking like shepherds with their flocks. Or are those shepherds with their flocks that look so like rock? Either way, there are rocks in Jerusalem that look like sheep, as well as sheep that look like rocks, and the shepherds look equally ambiguous.

The desk, the chair next to Herbst’s chair, the guest chair opposite the desk — all these, like the walls, were filled with books. When a guest came, he would clear a place for him, either with a single gesture or book by book, lingering over each one. In some fields, new replaces old. Not so with Herbst. He was fond of every book that passed through his hands, even if it was outdated, even if its conclusions were outdated when it first appeared. A scholar ought to consult those naive works, Herbst would say, for we learn from them that knowledge has arrived at its current positions by way of false hypotheses, invalid conclusions, groundless evidence. In truth, it was not for this reason alone that Herbst filled his room with books. He began collecting books as a child, and what he was accustomed to do as a boy he continued to do as he grew older. In the past, before his house was filled with books, the walls of the room were decorated with antique maps of Byzantium, shaped like ships in the heart of the sea, like mountains floating in pale blue air, like many-colored towers. But, in time, these maps gave way to bookshelves.

Many other things could be found in Herbst’s room, on his desk, on the windowsills. Such as pipes and ashtrays, some of which he bought in Jerusalem’s markets and some of which were gifts, like the pebbles he had collected in Ashkelon, on which one can discern symbols of a language not yet decoded. Next to the pebbles were thorns, the ones that seem to have a human face. Since they are not relevant to Dr. Herbst’s field of study, I will not deal with them, though I will mention the polished brass inkstand he bought from the crippled scribe who sits at the entrance to the courthouse, who was rescued by Herbst from under the hooves of a wild horse on Ramadan — its drunken rider was a judge in that very courthouse at the time.

Herbst’s study is his domain, and he works with few distractions. Henrietta has a discerning eye, and whoever calls on her husband is closely scrutinized to determine whether or not he is one of those who lead to idleness. There are many idlers in Jerusalem, those employed by national institutions as well as people who know the value of work but, not having found anything to do themselves, keep others from their work.

Just as Henrietta protects her husband from idlers, she protects him from excessive burdens. She even spares him the burden of the girls’ education. You, of course, know how hard it is to raise a daughter in this country. Not only a daughter like Tamara, who is as full of thorns as a cactus, but even one like Zahara, who is softer than butter. What’s more, she — that is, Henrietta — manages her household without complaints or bitterness on thirty-five lirot a month, her husband’s salary from the university. Were the entire sum available for household expenses, it would be simple. But it isn’t simple, as some of it is earmarked for the National Fund, some for the Foundation Fund and various other funds not yet founded, which, when they are founded, will be superfluous. But who can withstand such an appeal, the word-filled drone that drowns everyone and everything? Despite all this, Henrietta carries on and maintains her home with dignity. Everyone who sees Henrietta Herbst is moved to remark, “That woman has sprung out of a painting. She’s a Rubens in the flesh.”

But Henrietta is flawed in one respect: she began to age prematurely. Though Manfred is still in his prime, she is aging rapidly. Another flaw: she works too hard and doesn’t look after herself — all so Manfred can devote himself to his work, prepare lectures that will not bore his audience, produce a new book on a par with the first, which made his reputation. After giving him a second child, Henrietta began to behave as if she were not wife to her husband. If not for his birthday nine months ago, Sarah would not have come into being.

Manfred was faithful to his wife, even if his fantasies were sometimes illicit. From several of Henrietta’s remarks, one learns about Manfred’s fantasies. She has said to him many times, “Are there no attractive girls in this country? Is that why you’re always after me? Go find yourself a young girl. If you look, you’ll find one.” I don’t know how long a man’s wife would tolerate another woman. Even if she did put up with it, in the name of domestic peace, one would do well to beware. Manfred Herbst neither looked nor found, either out of respect for Henrietta or because it was not his style. A man who marries his wife out of love at first sight isn’t likely to have eyes for other women. He was once on an ocean voyage, and, finding himself on the high seas for several days with nothing to do, he considered: If an attractive woman were to appear, would you keep your distance? But nothing came of this. Herbst assumed he was the cause. He was in the habit of telling his wife everything; should he take up with another woman, he would tell his wife and cause her sorrow. Which is not to say that, in the time he was abroad, no woman was warm to him, but only a fool would assume that every attractive woman who behaves warmly is open to love. The episode ended as it began. Dr. Manfred Herbst came home bringing new books, nothing more. When would he read them? As book collectors know, not every book has to be read. All a book needs is a buyer, and all a buyer needs is a bookcase that can take one book more. It is to their credit that books contract to make room for others.

Suddenly, all of a sudden, there were newcomers in the land. They were unexpected, and if anyone had said to them two or three years earlier that they would emigrate, they would have protested. Suddenly, all of a sudden, they were here. These people whose fathers and forefathers preferred the soil of Germany to that of the Land of Israel, loving Germany perhaps even more than the Germans did, felt the ground crumbling under them and could find no foothold anywhere in Germany. Some of them went from nation to nation, from exile to exile. Others sought refuge in the Land of Israel, waiting there for Germany’s rage to be spent, assuming Germany would soon recover. They came to the Land of Israel, continuing to refer to it as Palestine, as its detractors always do.

Among the recent newcomers from Germany were various scholars and their wives, their sons and daughters. Herbst had studied with some of them and had known their daughters when they were in high school, at the university, hiking together in the woods of Berlin. One elderly professor with a sharp tongue, who was hostile to women, hearing that the students were planning a hike, had offered this advice: “My dear colleagues, be sure to invite some women. If there are mosquitoes, they will attack the women, and you will be spared.” Many years had passed. Young women Herbst had known in Germany were now married, and he had a wife too. Hearing that some of them were in Jerusalem, he was stirred and began to recall each one, what she was like, or rather, what she had been like in those days. These thoughts led him to imagine ties of affection. He forgot that there had been nothing between them beyond prosaic words. Time plays odd tricks: what never was, pretends to have been. Some of these girls, who were once extremely beautiful, had lost their beauty and radiance. There were others whose beauty endured, but it was not the sort of beauty that revives the soul. Living in Germany, we regarded blonde hair, blue eyes, and the like as the ultimate in beauty. Having settled in the Land of Israel, another beauty arrests our eye, another sort of beauty is appealing. If he happened on one or another of these friends from the past and gathered from the conversation that she was unable to pay for lodging, he would tell Henrietta, and she would put her up. Even after the friend was settled in an apartment, Henrietta would invite her, as is the custom in this country, for lunch, dinner, sometimes for the weekend. If Manfred became deeply involved in conversation with the woman, Henrietta was never jealous. It happened that they invited one of these women for Shabbat. On the following day, Sunday, Henrietta had to go to Tel Aviv. She went to Tel Aviv, leaving her husband alone with the woman. Manfred thought to himself: I see that Henrietta trusts me. In the evening, she came home and put on the kettle. Then they had coffee with the cakes she had brought from Tel Aviv. Henrietta was not in the habit of buying baked goods. She and her family were accustomed to home baking, but, when she had occasion to be in Tel Aviv, she would bring all sorts of treats, for the confections one finds in Tel Aviv are unlike anything in Jerusalem, where pastries all taste alike. Though they come in many shapes, they have one taste.

Among the learned men who came from Germany, there were several distinguished scholars. Some were experienced medical doctors; some occupied academic chairs and were renowned throughout Germany and beyond. There were those who had been a thorn in the flesh of their Christian colleagues and those whose learning served them well, so that their Christian peers took note of their learning but not of their Jewishness. They now roamed the streets of Jerusa-lem, destitute, with no prospect of a livelihood. This country has only one university, and all its academic positions were occupied. Not many people would act as the scholars of Bathyra did, yielding to the authority of Rabbi Hillel. What an opportunity to make Jerusalem a metropolis of medicine and scholarship! But, because of financial calculations and narrow vision, these great men did not find a footing here. They left the country, and their wisdom was dispersed in other lands.

When these exiled scholars arrived from Germany, Manfred Herbst was like a man who wakes up and is unable to find his clothes.

Since the meaning is simple, I will not pursue the metaphor.

As we know, Herbst was one of the first lecturers at the first Hebrew university in the world, and, as such, he was honored, along with others who, being the first to be appointed lecturers and professors at the Hebrew University, were important in other people’s eyes as well as their own. They lived serenely, relishing this honor, delivering lectures, reading books, each man in his own field. They wrote books too. Those who produced many books rejoiced in them and displayed them prominently; those who produced only one or two maintained that more books do not equal more wisdom; and those who didn’t produce any books at all turned out the sort of dutiful papers that are referred to in the footnotes of scholarly journals and, after a certain number of years, become a monograph.

What about Herbst? After his book on the life of Leo iii, the Byzantine emperor, he published nothing except for several papers that appeared in various collections. But he continued to read widely, even outside of his field, to take notes, compare texts, and collect material for a new book he intended to write on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. With the arrival of the great academics in exile from Germany, he emerged from the complacency enjoyed by his colleagues, the professors of the Hebrew University.

Herbst began to examine his behavior and was forced to attribute his position to the fact that he had come to the country early, when the university was being established and there were many openings. He recognized that he had been recommended by his renowned professor, Alfred Neu, and made a lecturer on the basis of a book that he had by now fully exploited. Now he had only those tedious notes and references, which became more tedious as their number increased.

Out of habit, and because he had no proper plan, Herbst pored over his books, read prodigiously, took notes, and added more and more references, assuming that in time he would make them into a book — like those instructors who assume that in time they will be granted tenured positions. As the old saying goes: What reason doesn’t do is often done by time.

Herbst sits in his study, reading, writing, making note after note. His note box is filling up. The connection between the notes becomes less and less apparent, every additional part seeming to diminish the whole. Learning can become impotent; fed on its regular diet, in the end it loses its potency.

His reward came from an unexpected source. Herbst, as we know, in addition to reading everything in his field, also read books that were totally unrelated — even books one would be shocked to know he was reading.

Through one such book, Herbst made a discovery envied by more than one scholar of Italian church history. Even Professor Ernst Weltfremdt, who was not known to lavish praise on a friend, was moved to exclaim, “Bravo, dear colleague, you have made an important discovery!”

Since everyone conceded that Dr. Manfred Herbst had made an important discovery, we will go into some detail about it.

Scholars of Italian church history were struggling to determine when churches were first built to honor Prieguna the Meek, the duckeyed saint. As the earliest existing church in her name was known to have been built at the time of Pope Clement iv, it was assumed that churches were first built for her in his time. Dr. Herbst discovered that, in the very heart of Venice, there was a church named for her that predated Clement iv. How did he know this? From a collection of letters written by courtesans. He found one such document in which a courtesan reports to a friend that she has left her lover, the cardinal, because he scolded her for being late, although it was his fault that she was late rather than her own: she always took the shortcut through the courtyard of the Church of Prieguna the Meek, but on that day there was a detour, because of a woman in labor who was taken into the church and on whose account passersby were denied access to the courtyard. As His Eminence the Cardinal knew, it was he who made the unfortunate woman pregnant and caused the event that forced the courtesan to take the longer route.

Although the Holy See removed Prieguna the Meek from the Catholic calendar after the pope’s committee on Catholic saints concluded that the Meek One herself as well as her story was a legend, and she was divested of her holiness, still and all, Herbst’s discovery remains important. For, even if Prieguna the Meek never existed, the churches built in her name surely do.

A greenish light shines on Herbst from the south window. Herbst looks away from the light, concentrating on the books at his side and the pencil in his hand. He sits copying out material that will pull his book together. His book is still but an embryo in the womb of scholarship; at full term, a book will emerge. Meanwhile, Henrietta was at full term and bore him a daughter.

You may remember that when Professor Ernst Weltfremdt was promoted to the rank of full professor, Herbst went to congratulate him and met a relative of Professor Alfred Neu’s, and a furtive love developed between the two of them, so that, whenever he saw her, it seemed to Herbst that he was suffused with a breath of innocence and in the end it turned out that when he meant to call her he found Shira. How do we relate to this incident, wherein innocence led to its opposite?

Herbst was already engaged in the struggle to eradicate the Shira episode from his heart. If he did remember it, he assured himself: It was an accident, involving no sequel; tomorrow I’ll be back at work, with no time for frivolous thoughts. Still, Herbst was curious about one thing. Did Shira plan to invite him to her room; did she do what she did deliberately and with forethought? In other words, Herbst wanted to analyze his acts, to know who had initiated them, he or Shira. Much as he thought about them, only one thing was clear: Shira was adept at lovemaking, and he was not the first of her lovers. Still, he had no wish to know who her lovers were and if she was still involved with them.

Thoughts are devious. Before his thought was complete, it turned to the dream he had had in the hospital, when Shira was with the women, and the blind Turk with the red turban on his head was with Shira, who offered him a pack of cigarettes. Thus far, everything is clear. From here on, one must look beyond the obvious — at Shira’s turban (when Herbst found her in the telephone booth, she was wearing a red turban), as well as the pack of cigarettes she handed him when they sat together in her room, the very pack she had handed to that blind Turk. Remembering the time he spent with Shira in her room, Herbst’s heart began to flutter longingly.

Chapter eight

Wishing to please his wife, Herbst stepped into a restaurant known for its fine food and ordered a meat meal. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal as much since Henrietta checked into the hospital. A wife knows more about her husband than he does. He imagined he would be revolted by meat, and here he was, enjoying it thoroughly. When he finished his coffee, he leaned his head against the back of the chair and began composing letters to his daughters.

As he sat there, his mind wandering from Zahara to Tamara and from Tamara to Zahara, he lifted his eyes and looked around. The waitress noticed and came over, assuming he wanted something. Since she was there, he asked for paper and envelopes, which she brought him. They sent off a pleasing fragrance. He sniffed them and said, “If I could find this fragrance, I would take some to my wife in the hospital.” The waitress asked in a hush, “Is your wife sick?” He ran his hand through his hair, laughing heartily, and said, “She’s not sick, she wasn’t sick, and she won’t be sick. She has given birth to a daughter. She has given me a sweet new baby, whom all the boys are already after.” The waitress said, “When you came in, I said to myself: This man is celebrating. Mazel tov, sir. Mazel tov.” To which Herbst said, “And what sort of good wishes may I offer in return? I could wish for a husband for you, but such a fine young woman has probably been spoken for already.”

The restaurant owner strutted over, bowed perfunctorily, glanced harshly at the waitress, and was off. Herbst asked the waitress, “Who is that absurd-looking man?” “He owns the restaurant,” she replied. “And it annoys him to see us talking,” Herbst said. “Even nurses in a hospital are allowed to talk to visitors, and this yekke doesn’t want you to talk to me. In fact, your words have more of an effect than any of this yekke’s delicacies.” The waitress smiled and said, “But, sir, aren’t you from Germany too?” Herbst said, “True, I was born in Germany, but I left before you were born.” “An exaggeration, sir! What an exaggeration!” Herbst said, “Then let’s say I left Germany while lullabies were still being sung to you.”

The proprietor was back, glaring darkly at the waitress. Herbst gathered up the paper and envelopes, and said, “Rather than arouse that fool’s envy, I will just sit here and write to my daughters. Many thanks for the paper, the envelopes, for everything.”

The waitress left, and Herbst began to write. The scented paper reminded him of its owner. He thought to himself: Too bad about that man and all that befell him. He had a further thought: A man becomes intimate with a woman, and, in a flash, all her sisters begin to notice him. He found some newspapers to lean on and composed this letter to Zahara or Tamara: “Our mother fair / To whom poems are dear / Wishing to spare poets the effort / Has added to Zahara and Tamara / A new rhyme, namely, Sarah.”

After writing this, he glanced at the newspapers that were under the letters. He saw a puzzle, which he tried solving. While working on it, he noticed a poem. He put down the puzzle and looked at the poem. He read: “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten….” He folded his letters and left.

Every day after lunch, Herbst used to lie down on his bed, read, and doze. On this day, having eaten in town, he was far from home, and there wasn’t time to go back and forth. He was planning to go back to the hospital to see his wife. But the hospital would not be open for two more hours. What was he to do in the meanwhile?

He saw a pharmacy sign and remembered that he meant to take his wife some perfume, the scent that had been on the envelopes given to him by the charming waitress. He went into the drugstore and handed the druggist the envelope, so he could smell it and give him the same perfume. The druggist thought he wanted envelopes. He glared at him pompously and said, “This is a pharmacy, not a stationery store.” Herbst explained and said, “I will surely find what I want here.” The druggist clapped his hands to call his wife to come and sniff, since he himself had no sense of smell. She came, sniffed, and handed Herbst a bottle of perfume. He said, “I trust you to give me the right thing.” Hearing this, the pharmacist began to celebrate her sensibilities. “She is so sensitive, especially about smells. Once our daughter came from the kibbutz, stopped in to use the phone, and left immediately. A little later, her mother came back from marketing and had to phone one of the stores she had been in to see if her keys, which she had left somewhere — she didn’t know where — had been found. As soon as she picked up the receiver, she asked me, ‘Was our daughter here.’ I said, ‘Did you see her?’ She said to me, ‘No, I didn’t see her.’ I said to her, ‘Then how do you know?’ She said, ‘From the smell on the receiver.’” Herbst said, “You mentioned the telephone and I remembered that I must make a call. May I use your phone?” He picked up the receiver and said what he said. Believe it or not, before long, the telephone was answered in the kvutza.

And, believe it or not, Herbst was not satisfied. He still had almost two hours and didn’t know how to spend them. He went to a florist and bought a bouquet of red roses. From there, he went and bought some chocolate. If Henrietta didn’t eat it, the nurses would. He bought another box for the old nurse who had first showed him Sarah.

He left the store, holding two boxes under his arm and a bottle of perfume in his hand. He looked at his watch. It still wasn’t time to go to the hospital. When one’s patience is short and the time is long, the clock seems to slow down. He took a short walk, then a long walk, and turned into another street. He noticed a locked store with a sign on the door explaining that the family was in mourning. He recognized from the sign that this was where Lisbet Neu was employed, and he knew she would not be working for seven days. If she wasn’t at work, she was sitting at home with her mother and had most likely been home the previous night as well, perhaps even expecting his call. For his own sake, he was sorry he hadn’t called her. And he was sorry that when he went to call her events unfolded as they did. He rolled his lips and slipped his finger between the watch strap and his wrist. He looked and saw it was time to go to his wife. He stopped at the locked door and put down the flowers and perfume, so he could adjust his tie. Then he picked up his packages and was on his way.

Chapter nine

While he was sitting with his wife, hand in hand, the door opened and the nurse Shira came in. Henrietta looked at her warmly and said, “If my husband hasn’t already done so, let me thank you doubly for taking the trouble to ask about me on the telephone last night.” Shira answered, “It was no trouble at all, but Dr. Herbst has already thanked me beyond what I deserve.” Henrietta said, “Men do tend to be ungrateful, and I wouldn’t pretend that my husband is any different in this regard. Isn’t that so, Fred? Now, let me ask you this, Fred. Did you do as I ordered?” “What did you order?” Fred asked in alarm. “What did I order? Nothing. I asked you to eat a decent meal.” Manfred replied, “I did as I was told. I filled up on meat, left nothing on my plate, and I don’t know when I’ll ever have room for food again.” Henrietta said, “Don’t talk like that. When it’s time for supper, you should have supper and eat solid food, not nonsense such as salads. Now, listen to me, my sweet. I hear that the nurse Shira doesn’t work nights, and, if she has no plans, I will give her some good advice: I suggest that she have dinner with my husband tonight. Look at him, Miss Shira, the father of three daughters blushing like a schoolboy. So, Miss Shira, what do you say? But you must take him to a big restaurant and see that he has a solid meal, since he has learned to make do with fruits and vegetables. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t become a vegetarian. I have nothing against vegetable dishes if they come with meat, but as for grazing in a meadow, I leave that to the goats. By the way, how is our garden doing? Did you water the plants? Is the mallow growing? You look as if you’re sitting on hot coals. I know, my sweet, that you’re longing for your desk, but our little Sarah deserves another evening of your time. Isn’t that so, Nurse Shira? Where is that nurse? She’s disappeared.” When Henrietta realized she was alone with her husband, she took his hand and said, “Don’t be annoyed that I’m troubling you to take Shira to dinner. You don’t know what a wonderful woman she is, how she puts herself out on my behalf, beyond the call of duty. The mysterious hand that brought these flowers was hers. If you take her to a restaurant, it won’t pay even half the debt…. You’re embarrassed to be seen with her? Don’t be embarrassed. When she takes off her uniform and puts on her own clothes, she’s like any other woman…. You’re afraid you’ll have to go out with her again? Don’t worry. She’s the sort of woman who doesn’t ask for more than she’s offered. And if you’re afraid you’ll be bored, don’t worry, my sweet. Light conversation will help you sleep.” “Good, good,” Manfred said. “You have a new habit,” Henrietta observed. “You say, ‘Good, good,’ all the time.” Manfred said, “Good, good.” Henrietta said, “There you go again, it must mean you’re feeling good.” Manfred said, “I feel good. Yes, I feel good.” Henrietta said, “If you feel good, then I feel good.” Manfred answered, “Good, good.” Henrietta smiled and said, “You said it again: ‘Good, good.’“ There was a smile on her lips, but inwardly she wasn’t smiling.

She withdrew her hand from his and groped for something on the bedside table. She brushed aside the roses sent by the mysterious hand, as well as the presents brought by her husband. Manfred said, “What are you looking for?” Henrietta said, “I’m not looking for anything. Did you write to the girls?” Manfred said, “I wrote, and I also phoned Zahara.” Henrietta said, “You phoned Zahara? What did she say?” “She didn’t say anything.” Henrietta said, “Please, Fred, what do you mean, ‘she didn’t say anything’? You just told me that you phoned her.” “I did, but the fellow who answered the phone wouldn’t stop talking, and by the time they called Zahara, my time was up and we were disconnected.” Henrietta sighed and said, “Too bad. But will they tell her you called?” “They’ll tell her.” “You didn’t call Tamara? Why didn’t you call Tamara?” “Why? Because she has no telephone.” Henrietta said, “She has no telephone? She always had a phone.” Manfred said, “She used to have one, but she doesn’t now.” Henrietta said, “Just for spite — when we didn’t need to call her, she had a phone. Now that we need to call her, she has no phone.” Manfred said, “It’s not a matter of spite. Like most things that happen, it’s chance.” Henrietta said, “So we’re into philosophy.” Manfred said, “That’s not philosophy. When she lived in a house with a phone, she had a phone. Since she moved to a house without a phone, she has no phone.” Henrietta said, “Good, good.” Manfred said, “Who’s saying ‘good, good’?” Henrietta said, “By chance, I am.” Manfred said, “Then you admit, Henriett, that there is such a thing as chance.” Henrietta said, “Did I claim there was no such thing as chance? Of course there is.” Manfred said, “When I said it was chance, you laughed at me and cried, ‘Philosophy!’“ Henrietta laughed and said, “Dear Fred, I have no answer, only ‘good, good.’ Now, my darling, get ready for the nurse. Don’t you want to see Sarah?” “Sarah? Who’s Sarah?” Henrietta said, “Didn’t we agree to call our new daughter Sarah?” “We agreed? Good, good.” Henrietta said, “A good heart says, ‘Good.’ The nurse will soon come and show you Sarah. Actually, I could show her to you myself, but as long as the baby is here, the nurses are in charge.”

The nurse Shira was back. We barely recognized her. She wore a midlength gray dress and a silver filigree necklace, which set off her face to advantage, like that of a chaste woman whose beauty is emphasized by some trinket. One more striking thing: on her lovely, small feet she wore shoes made by a skilled craftsman, which lent special elegance to her bearing, and, as the day was beginning to darken, her elegant bearing was evident, but not its source. She held her hat in her hand, as a girl does, and it hid her purse, so one couldn’t tell she was ready to go. Henrietta glanced at her and said, “Shira the nurse looks charming. If I had known she would change so much, I would not have been so eager to put my husband in her hands. He might decide to leave me for her.” Shira said, “Do I give Mrs. Herbst a little pleasure?” Mrs. Herbst said, “That’s a big question. Not just a little. More than a little. Now, Fred, my dear, have a pleasant evening.” “We’ll try, Mrs. Herbst, we’ll try,” Shira said. Mrs. Herbst offered Shira her hand and said, “Yes, yes, nurse. Now let’s show the father his daughter…. Now that you’ve seen her, give me your hand, and I’ll say goodbye. If you want a kiss, no need to be shy. These are ordinary events. Good night, Fred. Good night, nurse.” Shira answered, “A fine and blessed night.”

Chapter ten

When they were outside, Shira said, “Actually, I would rather not go to a restaurant.” “Then where would you like to go?” Herbst whispered, his heart beginning to flutter. Shira said, “Let’s walk a little, so I can clear my head.” Herbst said, “I don’t know where one can walk in Jerusalem without being stopped at every step.” Shira said, “We don’t have to go to Rehavia.” Herbst said, “Beit Hakerem or Talpiot wouldn’t be any better. In Beit Hakerem, you run into teachers; in Talpiot, you meet professors. Wherever you turn, there are people you know. They choose to live out of the city in order to escape its tumult, and they drag the tumult with them. By now, the only difference between a suburb and the city proper is the distance and the bus fumes. This nation does everything in public. Because religion is public, it has become the custom to do everything in public.”

Shira looked at him searchingly and asked, “Are you Orthodox, Dr. Herbst?” “Why?” “Because you referred to religion. I don’t care for the Orthodox, nor do I care for religion.” Herbst said, “In your childhood, you were probably Orthodox too.” Shira said, “Even my father wasn’t Orthodox. He enjoyed tradition, and for that reason alone he fulfilled some of the commandments, but only those that didn’t require much effort. And, even then, he was rather casual, which is surely the case with me. I hardly know what tradition is or what it is for.” Herbst said, “I have very little information about the nurse Shira.” Shira said, “And my knowledge about the professor is limited as well.” Herbst said, “Actually, I know nothing about you.” Shira said, “When I get to know someone, I never concern myself with his beginnings.” She reached into her purse and rummaged around without taking anything out. Herbst said, “I think the lady was going to say something.” Shira said, “No, I wasn’t going to say anything.” Herbst said, “Then I was wrong.” Shira said, “Yes, Dr. Herbst was wrong.” She took a step and stopped. Herbst stopped and circled her with his eyes. Shira said, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but now I will. The only person about whom I knew everything was someone I loathed more than anyone.” Herbst said, “Am I allowed to ask who he was?” Shira said, “You are allowed to ask, and I am allowed not to answer.” Herbst said, “Pardon me, madam. In that case, I won’t ask.” Shira said, “Pardon me, sir, for not giving a proper answer.” They took a few steps. She stopped, groped in her purse, and said, “You asked who it was that I loathed more than anyone, and I didn’t answer. It’s not really a secret, only a memory, a piece of the past that is no longer painful. If you want to know about it, I’ll tell you.” Herbst said, “When I get to know a person, I want to learn all about him, and the more I learn about him, the closer he is to me.” Shira said, “Someone removed from life would say that, but those who know the world and are involved in it pay no attention to the past.” “Really!” Herbst declared, astonished. Shira laughed and said, “Yes, really.” Again she reached into her purse. She took out a cotton ball, rubbed the tip of her nose, threw the cotton away, and said, “Let’s take this turn. There’s a new road that connects this neighborhood with Sanhedria. No one comes this way. What is it, professor? You’re pouting like a child whose nanny has promised to tell him a lovely story but doesn’t keep her word. Dear professor, my story is not at all lovely. The man I loathed more than anyone was my husband.” Herbst asked in a whisper, “You were married?” Shira said, “I was married.” Herbst said, “I assumed that — “ Shira interrupted him, laughing, “What did you assume? That…that I was a virgin?” Herbst stammered, “No, but I…In fact, I don’t know what I assumed.” Shira said, “Don’t torture yourself over it. It’s not worth the trouble. Let’s stand here awhile and watch the sun.”

Shira continued, “The sun is setting, painting the empty new houses red, painting the bare windows no one looks out of yet with its golden flush. I’m a city girl, born in an old house. Here in Jerusalem, I live in an old house too, built several generations before I was born. But when the sun begins to set and I walk through the new neighborhoods and see all the new houses being built, my heart is filled with yearning and desire. Why is my heart so full of yearning and desire? Perhaps because I yearn to live in houses no one has lived in yet. But why, when in a day the novelty will be gone and they’ll be like other houses? Nonetheless, that desire becomes more and more intense. The sun has already set. Its golden flush has vanished. Everything sinks and disappears, even the sun, with all its dazzle, leaving nothing behind, no further dramas to unfold.”

Herbst rolled his lip into his mouth, pressing one lip over the other. He walked quickly, but his heart was in a state of suspense. What was Shira saying, and what did he want to hear? Shira was totally distracted. She walked in silence. The houses were all dim by now. Mounds of lime and piles of cement peeked out from among the unfinished buildings, and the road in between glittered like a silver chain. Shira lifted the hem of her dress, took a few steps, smoothed her eyelashes with her hands, and spoke. “What was I going to say?” Herbst lowered his eyes, so she wouldn’t see how eager he was to hear. Renewed passion stuck in his eyes like thorns. His heart was stiff, and his teeth began to chatter. He lowered his eyes further, to avoid looking at her, now that they were alone. He saw her small feet in the slippers she had waved at him the night before. He remembered the night’s events, how he had slipped them off and exposed her feet, how she had put the slippers back on and he had slipped them off again, how her feet had wriggled, stockingless, bare, lovelier than any feet in the world. Now those same feet walked a few steps, then stopped, then walked on along the dim road, and she seemed unaware of him. It may be that not even twenty-four hours have elapsed since those events occurred. In terms of time, it can’t be determined; in terms of truth, what is true cannot be denied. He came to a standstill, like someone confronting a riddle for which he finds no solution. She stopped too and said, “What was I going to tell you?” And then she began to talk.

Chapter eleven

“I should begin when I was a baby, but the impact of the war that engulfed us in the interim minimized the importance of early events. I will, therefore, begin after the war, when I was on my own and began observing my actions — becoming so much the observer that they unfold before me and I can recount them as if reading from a book.

“My father taught Hebrew and was highly involved in culture and Zionism. After the war, Father wanted to take me to the Land of Israel. But we were not allowed to leave Russia. Father was able to prove that he was born in Poland, and the emigration laws did not apply to natives of Poland. After considerable efforts, we left for Poland, intending to go to Israel from there. We were joined by others, who made Father into a sort of patron of emigration, then appointed him to administer a savings fund called the Emigrants’ Bank. We remained in Poland. I enrolled in the Hebrew high school and joined the Hehalutz movement.

“Once you’re involved in community work, you don’t get out so fast. At first, Father was upset when his departure was delayed. By and by, he began to take comfort in the fact that I belonged to Hehalutz and would leave with my pioneering friends, leading the way for him. Father had picked out a companion for me. He was the son of a widow — a pampered young man, active, ambitious, well spoken. His promise was already being fulfilled, for he held an important post in the Zionist movement, and a prominent position awaited him in the Land of Israel. He was especially appealing to Father, who had been a tutor in the home of this young man’s mother in his youth. Father took pride in the fact that the young man was now a regular caller at our house and had his eye on me. I didn’t like him, nor did I hate him. How is it possible to hate or like anyone? When he started treating me possessively, I began to put him off. I don’t think this was the only reason. There were surely others. He once asked, ‘What do you have against me?’ I answered, ‘I don’t know.’ He said, ‘Please think about it.’ I said, ‘There’s nothing to think about.’ I assumed he would leave me alone. But he seemed to cherish me all the more.

“At about this time, a group of our friends went to the country for agricultural training. He didn’t go, because he said he had work to do in town. I didn’t go, because my father wanted me to stay in school another year and make up what I had missed during the war.

“The village they went to was ruled by an old duchess. Before the war, she had several Russian villages under her jurisdiction. But, after the Revolution, she was left with only one, which was annexed to Poland. The village had a Jewish overseer, who had stood by her during the Revolution and managed to save some of her property. It was rumored that there was something more to their relationship. Was this true or half-true? She was jealous of his relationships with women. They say that, when she discovered that one of the servants was pregnant by him, she stripped the girl naked and beat her to death. This took place much earlier, long before the war, when nobles could do as they pleased. After the war, their power diminished, especially in the case of this duchess, who was half-paralyzed and depended on the overseer to conduct the affairs of the village, which was part of her estate and was where the halutzim were lodged. Father boasted that it was through the efforts of our Sokolow that this duchess was granted authority over the village. When lands were being distributed and boundaries set, Sokolow convinced the League of Nations that this was Polish territory, citing evidence from an old book that referred to it as Poland. And so it became Poland.

“One day, I went to see my friends in the village, and my protector was there to deliver a lecture. He saw me and was pleased, assuming I would hear his lecture and then return to town with him. I had no desire to hear his lecture or to be with him. When he was on the platform, about to begin his speech, I got up and left.

“The road was in disrepair, full of obstructions. It was piled high with dirt. Leaves, both green and wilted, covered the dirt and were covered by it. I left the road and entered the forest. I didn’t know the way. One didn’t normally venture into the forest, certainly not alone, because of the deserters who roamed there. I followed the sound of the church bells and was beginning to enjoy being among trees and bushes that smelled of the wild berries we often ate without knowing where they grew. As long as it was light, I relished every single step and every single breath. When dusk began to fall and the trees took on another aspect, my joy was mixed, and I began to be afraid of army deserters who might be hiding in the woods. I heard hoofbeats and thought: This is the end.

“A tall man dressed in leather appeared on horseback. My terror dissolved instantly, and I asked, ‘Which is the way to town?’ He said, ‘Do you ride?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then we’ll walk.’ He got off the horse and walked to town with me. In bed that night, I reviewed what had happened and was astonished. Had I not seen him later on, I would have believed he was from a fairy tale. But fairy-tale characters were dead before we were born, and if they still exist, they exist to deny their reality. Dr. Herbst has something to say? No? Then I’ll get back to my story.

“A few days later, he rode past our house. He tied up his horse and came in. He gave me his hand and said, ‘I was passing your house, and I stopped in to ask where it is nicer, in the woods or at home.’ At this point, I saw no trace of what I had seen in him before, yet there was a special quality I could not define, and his image was not diminished. Meanwhile, the horse was neighing. He said to me, ‘If you could ride, I would put you on my horse and race to the end of the world with you.’ I said to him, ‘Since I don’t ride, you will have to race alone.’ He pursed his lips and said, ‘Touché. You win.’ A few days later, he returned. Father took out the Carmel wine. I spread out a cloth and brought cakes. I noticed that he looked at me with pleasure, that Father was pleased too. We sat together. Father spoke about the Balfour Declaration, rebuilding the land, and the like. When our conversation turned to the halutzim, Father told about Sokolow’s influence, as a result of which the duchess had been granted jurisdiction over the village. When he left, Father said, ‘He is a real man. Too bad we can’t interest him in Zionism.’ I laughed inwardly. A real man, romantic whims and all.

“One night, when I came back from a drama workshop, Father came out of his room and said, ‘The forest prince was here.’ I said to him, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see him.’ Father said, ‘I guarantee that he’ll be back.’ He paused, then added, ‘You don’t wonder why?’ I said to Father, ‘Why are you smiling?’ Father said, ‘If I tell you, you’ll smile too. That man, who is as old as I am, asked what I would say if he wished to marry my daughter.’ I said to Father, ‘What was your answer?’ Father said, ‘What should I have answered?’ I said, ‘You gave him an answer. Tell me what you said.’ Father said, ‘I told him that my daughter’s heart already belongs to another.’ I began to wonder whom he had in mind. Then, suddenly, I became enraged and shrieked, ‘If you mean that climber, that Pickwick, let me tell you — you’re making a big mistake!’ Father said, ‘I thought you would smile, and instead you’re angry.’ I said to Father, ‘I’m not angry at him, I’m angry at you! You think I have no taste, that I would give my heart to someone I can’t stand.’ Father said, ‘Tell me, please, what do you have against him?’ I said, ‘You want to know, then I’ll tell you. He calls Herzl, Gerzl.’ Father said, ‘That’s the only reason?’ I said to Father, ‘There’s more.’ ‘What else?’ ‘He calls Heine, Geinrich Geine.’ Father said, ‘His Russian diction is impeccable, yet you hold that against him?’ I said to Father, ‘I agree that those reasons are inadequate. I regret that I am not intelligent and knowledgeable and that I don’t know the true answer, but hopefully he will leave me in my ignorance.’

“The next day, I didn’t stir from the house. I knew I would turn down the man Father had told me about. Still, I waited for him. Why? Just to say: ‘I don’t want you’! The day passed, and he didn’t come. When, after several more days, he still didn’t appear, I stopped thinking about him, and Father didn’t mention him either. One day, at sunset, I heard a knock at the door. I thought to myself: He has finally come. The door opened, and Pickwick came in. He flung his hat angrily and said, ‘I’m here to congratulate you.’ ‘What for?’ He sneered and said, ‘On your betrothal.’ ‘My betrothal?’ I cried in surprise. He repeated, ‘Your betrothal to that old lecher, the gigolo who carries on with the old duchess.’ I was silent. He changed his tone and began to address me tenderly. ‘Really, Shira, really, its unbecoming for a young Hebrew woman, the daughter of a distinguished Zionist, to marry someone like that, who has lived with gentile women. Listen, Shira, let’s go to the Land of Israel, let’s join a kibbutz, let’s live a pure life.’ I answered him, ‘As for your speech about a Hebrew woman and all the rest, the fact is that I now have the opportunity to rescue a Jew from Gentiles. As for its being unbecoming, there are many unbecoming things in the world, and I don’t believe the world will be any uglier if I add one more. As for the Land of Israel, it seems to me that the first two answers include an answer to that idyll.’ After he left, the one who wanted me to be his wife arrived. I answered him, saying yes. So I was married, then divorced. I was divorced from him because I married him. I’m not joking. I’m simply reporting what happened. Dr. Herbst has a question? No? Then I’ll get back to the subject. I must say, I don’t really like talking about myself, least of all about that chapter. If I were to be interrupted, I would not return to my story.”

Chapter twelve

“Where was I? I was telling that story. Although I was mature beyond my years, I had no concrete picture of married life. As long as we were engaged, he behaved like a rich uncle. He used to bring me presents and speak to me affectionately. I can’t deny that those days were pleasant, but they didn’t last. I was not quite seventeen when we were married.

“The wedding was large and elegant. Zionist lumber merchants and householders came to share in our joy, and the flow of gifts and telegrams was a burden to me. Father had one drink too many and made a long speech about the apple of his eye and her chosen one. Other speeches followed in endless succession, after every speech a drink, and after every drink — joy. Everyone was happy, except for me. I was irritated and bored, the sort of boredom you feel at a gala concert. You sit there, stuck to your seat, not daring to stir. Meanwhile, something is bothering you, perhaps your skin, perhaps your clothes. Your eyelids droop. You strain to keep your eyes open. You watch the violin bow, make an effort to focus on it, but it looks menacing, and your mind is blank. I forgot I was at my own wedding, and all sorts of places where I had once been came together, lining up side by side, one after the other. Finally, all those places vanished, and I was in a forest with no way out. I was expecting a man in leather to come and lead me out, and I was surprised that he didn’t come. I heard the sound of a horse and looked up. I saw that very man seated beside me in fancy clothes, with another man standing over him, dressed like the one who had led me out of the forest. He pointed at the guests, most of whom were intoxicated. He pointed at them again, saying, ‘They need something, but who knows what? Get up, Shira. Put on some warm clothes, and let’s go out into the world.’ When I was outside, he covered me with fur and lifted me into a sleigh, which glided off into the forest.”

Shira paused and said, “I’ll leave the rest for another night. Now, Dr. Herbst, let’s go back to town and find a restaurant, as Mrs. Herbst instructed.” Shira suddenly laughed and said, “Don’t be afraid I’ll be another Scheherazade. Even if I recount every detail, I won’t take a thousand and one nights.”

Manfred Herbst was a curious person, like all those who deal with books and are so unfamiliar with the world that their ears perk up at any news of it. But now that he was out with Shira, he regretted every word she spoke, for she was involved with her story rather than with him. By and by, he relaxed and began to be intrigued by her words. When she paused, he started, expecting events to unfold as they had the previous night, when they were alone in her room. But, no. Shira returned to her story.

“The sleigh stopped in a field in the forest, surrounded by snowy hills and snow-covered trees. That man leaped out of the sleigh, wrapped me in his arms, and said, ‘Here is our house.’ I saw no sign of a house, only smoke rising from the snow, sending forth the fragrance of burnt pine. He brought me to a heated room. My limbs were heavy with fatigue, and my eyes sought sleep. He looked at me strangely, pointed to the wide bed, and said, ‘You’re tired. Take off your clothes and get into bed.’ He saw I was ashamed to undress with him there, and he left. An old woman came to help me. I said, ‘Don’t bother, I’ll undress myself.’ She wished me well and left. I threw off my clothes and my shoes, everything but my stockings, which I didn’t have the strength to remove. I stood there, wondering what was going on, just what I was doing there. Exhausted, I flung myself on the bed, curled up in the feather quilt, and gave myself to sleep.

“Hearing footsteps, I started. I assumed the old woman was coming to see if I needed anything. I closed my eyes, so she would think I was asleep. The quilt lifted itself, and a cold wind engulfed me. I opened my eyes and saw a naked man, totally undressed. I screamed in terror, ‘Get out!’ He whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m your husband.’ I screamed as loud as I could, ‘I’ll scream if you don’t get out!’ He said, ‘What’s the point, when you’re screaming already?’ And he began to caress me, to embrace me, his mouth dripping kisses. I freed myself from his embrace, leaped from the bed to the door and from the door to the hall. By the time he recovered from the shock, I was outside.

“The woods were covered with snow, and the trees were totally still. The snow vibrated underfoot in the stillness. I ran through the snow, not knowing whether I was cold or warm. A hand gripped me, and in an instant I was in that man’s arms. He ran with me, yelling, ‘If I hadn’t found you immediately, you would have frozen to death. A babe in the woods on a freezing night, without clothes, without shoes.’ He brought me to the room I had escaped from and stood me on my feet, sighing and whispering, ‘Oh, my darling, my darling, I didn’t know how much I love you. Kill me, but let me have one hour with you.’

“The old woman came with a hot drink, put me to bed, covered me with several blankets, and brought a hot brick wrapped in towels, which she placed at my feet. She sat beside me, singing sad and lovely songs about water creatures, wood sprites, and other sprites that assume human form and cohabit with the sprites, all of whom give birth to male children they hide in trees, where they grow up, unbeknownst to anyone. In springtime, when young girls go to the woods, these boys pop out, snatch the ones who are virgins, whisk them away, and marry them. When their babies are born, they deposit them in trees, unbeknownst to anyone. And when they grow up, the cycle is repeated. That’s how it is, that’s how it was, and that’s how it will be until the end of time.

“Night passed and day came. That man appeared and began to coax me, to promise me everything if only I would relent. I sobbed, I cried, I begged. ‘Take me back to my father. I don’t want to stay here even a minute.’ He no longer kissed and hugged me. He spoke to me gently, then harshly. When he spoke gently, I asked myself why he was not harsh; when he spoke harshly, I asked myself why he was not gentle. In either case, my heart was bitter and hard. While he was trying to win me with words, he was told guests had come to congratulate him. His manner changed, and he went to greet his guests. When he left, the old woman he had provided to serve me appeared. This happened several times in the course of the day.

“The old woman was the mother of the girl he had made pregnant, who was beaten to death by the duchess. The old woman used to sit and talk with me. ‘He’s a real man,’ she would say. ‘A real man. No girl can resist him. And you, my dove, are trying to run away. How will you do it? None of the farmers will give you a ride, for fear of your husband. If you walk, your little feet will sink into the snow. These darling feet were out on a snowy night; it’s a miracle the skin didn’t peel right off. Your dead mother probably came and put her good hands under the soles of your feet. The dead know the sorrows of the living and share them, though we are sometimes too stingy to light a candle in their memory. Give me one of your feet, my dove, and I’ll kiss it. My daughter didn’t have feet like yours, though she was lovely and good. Alas, she wasn’t favored by the Mother of God, who could have saved her from our mistress, the duchess. Probably because my daughter was born Christian and our lord, your husband, is a Jewish man. You, my dove, are Jewish too, so why resist your husband? You won’t find another man as powerful as he is. Be still, my dove, be still. Don’t look so enraged. The rage of the Lord God is enough, why add to it? You are, after all, a woman, and a woman’s heart is soft and good. Why be defiant? You are an orphan with no mother, and I am a mother with no daughter. Let’s live in peace, rather than upset each other. The Lord God and all those with him make enough trouble. Wouldn’t it be better if my daughter had lived and I had died, like your good mother who died, leaving you alive? She left you a kind father, too. Listen, my dove, listen: I hear the sound of a sleigh. Your kind father is coming. He will make peace between you and your husband.’

“The door opened, and Father came in. I fell on his neck and sobbed, ‘Father, Father.’ He pushed me away and said, ‘You’ve brought us shame, you’ve brought us shame.’ I was stunned. My tears dried up. I stopped crying and didn’t say a word. Father began to praise the man he called my husband, to describe all the good things he would be able to give me. I didn’t answer. I was as mute as a tree in the snow, but for the fact that a tree is alive on the inside though covered with snow, whereas I was like snow through and through. At night, that man gave a big party for Father, who had one drink too many and began muttering, ‘It will work out, it will work out.’ He kissed me and kissed the one they called my groom.

“It didn’t work out. On the contrary, it became more complex. At first, I had nothing against the man, but, in the end, my heart was filled with seething hatred. When he came near me, I shouted, ‘Get away from me, you wretch!’ I called him every vile name, and he loved me all the more. I was a captive in his house, seeking escape. Because of the snow, it was impossible to escape. Once, while he was drinking with friends who came to congratulate him on his marriage, I sneaked out of the house, hid in a sleigh belonging to a gentleman from my town, and rode off. Father was not happy to see me. Having married off his only daughter, he had his eye on a wife. Whom did he have in mind? The mother of the young man I had rejected. Knowing this, she hated me doubly — once for her son, once for herself — for I was interfering with the pleasure she sought from my father. Fate is a clown, and when he clowns, he doubles the laughs.

“Father hardly spoke to me. By day he was busy at the bank, and in the evening he was with the widow. I was on my own. I invited friends. They didn’t come. When I went to meetings, they avoided me, and those who didn’t avoid me spoke with feigned respect and addressed me as Madame So-and-so, wife of that man. When I was first betrothed, my friends began to keep some distance. Now they treated me as a stranger. I went home humiliated and swore I would never go back, nor would I forgive them. I stayed at home, without father or friends, without joy, without anything.

“One day the old woman appeared. She came in and said, ‘You don’t come to us, so I am coming to you.’ She sat with me, singing the praises of her master, my husband, who had always been a good man but, since I ran away, had become evil. ‘You must, therefore, go back to him, if not for my sake, then for the sake of others. Considering how little goodness there is, every good soul should promote goodness with his own body, all the more so women, who were created solely for the pleasure and benefit of men.’ This is how the old woman spoke. She mentioned the Son of God, who died for mankind and doesn’t harm even those who sin against him. He is generous even with the sinful duchess, so much so that her children, who were assumed to have been killed by the Bolsheviks, were, in fact, alive. Then the old woman praised my husband again and said, ‘What a pity to see this powerful man declining, all because my mistress, his wife, has left him.’

“A little later, that man came himself and talked to me like a merchant discussing business. He said roughly this: ‘Come back to me and stay; I won’t ask anything of you. I want only to be able to see you.’ He sent relatives, men and women, to urge me to go back to him. All this occurred again and again. Sometimes the old woman came, sometimes he came, sometimes all sorts of relatives came. In all this time, Father showed no sympathy. I’m not angry, I’m not complaining. He, of course, had my good in mind, as would any father with an only daughter. Scorning his efforts, I not only caused him pain and torment but prevented him from pursuing his own interests, for, as long as I was at home, the woman was unwilling to move in. And living with her would have been difficult for both of them, because of her son.

“Once Father brought a man home, took him into his room, and closed the door. When they emerged, Father’s face was dark. Father turned to me and said, ‘A splendid turn of events. If he runs off to America, you’ll be lost forever. Do you know what it is to be an abandoned wife? You don’t know, so I’ll tell you. If your husband goes to America, you will never be free as long as you live.’ I wasn’t very familiar with religious law, so I answered Father calmly, ‘What do I care? Let him go wherever he likes, as long as I don’t have to see him.’ Father began pulling at his beard and shouting, ‘God in heaven, isn’t it enough that You plagued me with such a daughter, did You have to impair her intelligence too?’

“The guest calmed Father down and said, ‘Why all the excitement? He’s not running off empty-handed, and if his wife goes with him, she won’t lack for anything either.’ Father repeated this to me: ‘Listen, he’s not empty-handed. Come to terms with him and go along.’

“After the guest left, Father sat for about an hour, in a state of shock. Then he said, ‘Come, let me tell you what made your husband decide to go to America. He was managing the property of the duchess as if it were his own, assuming that her sons were killed by the Bolsheviks. They are actually alive and are on their way here. When they come, they will demand an accounting, which he cannot and does not wish to provide. For him, escape is the best solution. If you don’t go with him, you will be an abandoned wife.’ As I said, I was not familiar with religious law, and I didn’t know that, until my husband handed me a piece of paper called a get, I was, by religious law, his wife. When Father realized I was firm in my decision and determined not to go with that man, he didn’t rest until he had prevailed upon him to give me a get. I was finally rid of him by Jewish law, having already rid myself of him on my own.

“What happened next? Did the professor want to ask me something? No? I’m surprised. I thought I was about to be interrupted. About six months after the get, I decided to come to this country. I didn’t come with my father, who was too deeply involved in his work and various other activities. I didn’t come with my friends from the youth movement, as we were no longer in touch with each other. But my mother’s mother lived in Jerusalem, so I went to stay with her.

“I’ll make a brief digression to explain some things that had happened several years earlier. A Russian boy was arrested for revolutionary activities and escaped to Galicia. He came to a town where he began teaching Hebrew. He set his heart on a student of his, who was the only daughter of a well-to-do family, and married her despite her parents’ objections. That man was my father and the woman was my mother. After a while, Father heard that conditions had improved in Russia. He took me and my mother back to Russia. Mother was homesick. She missed her parents, as well as her town. They sent her money for the fare. She went to visit them. One day, Mother was sitting in the park. A cavalry officer saw her, and, in the course of events, she went off with him. Not long afterward, she died. Her father and mother, wishing to atone for her sin, went up to Jerusalem.

“When I came to Jerusalem, my grandfather was already dead and my grandmother was living in an old-age home. I couldn’t stay with her, since she was in the home, nor could I find myself a room, as I had very little money. I decided to go to a kibbutz. My grandmother began to weep and begged me not to do anything so shameful.

“A rich woman from Hamburg lived next door. She took sick and was planning to leave the country. I looked after her in exchange for room and board. When she left, she took me along as a companion. I went with her to Hamburg. In Hamburg, once again I didn’t know what to do. The woman’s daughters-in-law advised me to study nursing. They helped me out while I was in school. When I completed the course, I was sent to Jerusalem to work in the hospital where Dr. Herbst made my acquaintance.”

Chapter thirteen

While she was telling her story, Herbst was haunted by this question: What sort of people did Shira know between the time she ran away from her husband and the present? Since she was silent, Herbst asked in a whisper, “After you were rid of your husband, you must have known other men?” Shira bit her lip and said, “I’m not someone who answers unwelcome questions. Not that I mean to cover up my past, but an unwelcome question makes me tight-lipped. Will the eminent professor please say if he grasps my meaning.” Herbst was silent, and Shira too was silent.

Finally she laughed and said, “I’ve upset you, now I’m ready to make up. What were you asking? If I knew other men. Is that it? You should say so without embarrassment.” Herbst nodded and said, “That’s roughly what I asked.” Shira said, “Yes, I did know some men.” Herbst asked in a whisper, “And you didn’t run away from them?” She laughed and said, “A big question. In the interim, Shira grew up. I beg of you, dear professor, a mature woman of ample years — and you ask such a question? Now, on a more appropriate subject: Wasn’t it a good idea to walk here? It’s restful, quiet, with a fresh breeze. The moon has even come up. Too bad we didn’t see it rise. How delightful it is here. The moon and stars are in the sky, and we’re alone on the earth.” Herbst peered at her and saw her face inundated with moonlight and smiling, like someone who smiles at himself for wanting what he can never have. He took her hand and was about to kiss her on the mouth. Shira said, “When I said we’re alone here, I didn’t mean to suggest that sort of nonsense.” Herbst was offended and responded with a growl, “Good, good.” Shira said, “What’s good?” Herbst said, “Shira’s mouth, for example.” Shira said, “If so, you should be good too and not do anything that displeases Shira. If there is no man here, then you should try to act like a man, not a boy. If it weren’t so far away, I would find myself a room in this neighborhood.”

“So she wants to move?” Herbst asked. Shira said, “Whether I want to or not, I won’t change my place. And any night, whenever I’m not working, you can find me in my room.” “And tonight?” “Tonight, as you can see, I am walking with Dr. Herbst in this new neighborhood.” “And then?” “Then we’ll go to a restaurant, where you will eat your fill, as Mrs. Herbst requested.” “And after we eat, what then?” “After we eat, the eminent professor will return home, climb into bed, and have good dreams about his good wife.” Herbst asked Shira, “Why did you mention my wife?” Shira said, “Why shouldn’t I? I might as well tell you that I am fond of Mrs. Herbst, and I don’t intend to cause her grief. Now let’s get back to town, go to a restaurant, and eat.” “Good, good,” Herbst answered, irritated. Shira said, “After a good meal, you’ll cheer up, and when you say, ‘Good, good,’ it will be from the goodness of your heart. Why so silent?” Herbst said, “Not at all.” Shira said, “But, you’re not talking.” Herbst said, “You talk like a logic teacher.” Shira asked, “What is logic?” Herbst said, “You did go to school, and you studied logic.” Shira said, “Since the day I left school, I’ve managed to forget everything they taught me. You want to know how many years I’ve been out of school. That I won’t tell. If I did, you’d know my age.” Herbst said, “Even if you don’t tell me, I can figure it out.” “How?” “You were about seventeen when you married, after which, you didn’t return to school. But I don’t know how long it was between the divorce and your second arrival in this country.” Shira laughed and said, “So — despite all your calculations, you aren’t sure.” Herbst said, “You are dear to me even if you’re forty.” Shira said, “I’m not yet forty.” Herbst said, “I didn’t mean to provoke you.” Shira said, “What do you gain by provoking me?” Herbst said, “Forgive me, Shira, far be it from me to provoke you.”

From here on, whenever the two of them were alone, Herbst and Shira addressed each other in the familiar second person.

Shira said, “We’re already at Jaffa Road. Where would you like to eat?” Herbst said, “As long as it’s not where I ate this afternoon.” “Why? Didn’t you like the food?” Herbst said, “Not only did I find good food, but I also found a lovely waitress.” Shira said, “Then let’s go there.” Herbst said, “Aren’t you jealous?” Shira said, “It’s not time for jealousy yet.” Herbst took her hand in his and said, “Forgive me, Shira. Forgive me.” Shira slipped her hand away and took out some powder, which she sprinkled on the tip of her nose. When she returned the powder to her purse, she straightened her eyeglasses and held on to her necklace with her left hand. The moon was bright, and Shira’s face was melancholy.

Chapter fourteen

Henrietta came home from the hospital, bringing an additional daughter. The little one occupied minimal space, but her presence filled the house. Herbst tried to get back to work and to prepare lectures for the winter term.

He was busy preparing his lectures, and his wife was busy with her child and with the wetnurse. The Fashioner of All Things creates many needy souls with a symmetry that maintains life, giving this one a daughter and that one a daughter. One has no milk for her child; the other has no way to support her family. He brings them together. One nurses the other’s child and is paid for the service, so that each one lives off the other’s flaw. One is from Kurdistan, the other from Germany. Kurdistan and Germany being far from each other, what does He do? He brings them both to Jerusalem, for a Jew’s eyes look to Jerusalem.

Sarini, the Kurdish wetnurse, is a handsome, healthy woman. Her face is dark brown, her hair dark gray. Her shiny eyes are green, her teeth like peeled garlic cloves and harder than rock. She is always laughing, and every year she gives birth. She has already produced eight male children, apart from the daughter we mentioned, all of them alive and healthy. They are no trouble during pregnancy or birth, being aware that none of them is an only child, that, should she wish to, she can produce many more. They don’t trouble her for another reason: it is she who supports them. Their father — which is to say, their mother’s husband — has many trades, none of which provides much income. There are times when he is a scholar in the yeshiva, times when he ties a rope around his waist to be a porter, times when he sells books, times when he does magic. He can look into a glass of clear water and tell if a particular woman was a virgin when she married. And, whispering gently over a pinch of salt and a sugar cube, he can cause you to forget to say the prayer for the new moon. He has many other accomplishments, foremost among them the fact that he is the husband of this prolific, powerful, shrewd woman who supports a houseful of children, besides two sets of parents, and is at war with the Mandate government for obstructing immigration. And, of course, she does her bit at home, so that the seed of our father Abraham will not vanish from the earth. Although Sarini has intelligence and good deeds to her credit, Henrietta has to exert considerable effort to get her to bathe and wear clean clothes, and to provide her with a wholesome diet, since she comes from a neighborhood of tin huts and lives in a dingy room with straw mats for bedding, coarse food, and foul water.

Henrietta is busy with other matters, apart from the wetnurse and the kitchen, such as driving away the goats the Arab shepherds send into the garden. While in the garden, she picks three or four flowers to put in a vase. If they are especially nice, she brings them to Manfred and sets them on his desk. She tiptoes in and tiptoes out again, going back to her pots and her stove until lunch is ready. After lunch, she has a short nap and tends to the remaining tasks, such as mending, ironing, and collecting milk so the baby won’t be hungry when the wetnurse is gone. Since Sarini can’t support her family on what Herbst can pay she has to supplement her income elsewhere. When Henrietta has an extra bit of energy, she goes into town on other business, such as obtaining certificates for her relatives in Germany, and making bank payments. On the way, she stops at the doctor to consult about the baby, at the dentist to have her teeth checked, at the tinsmith to have the kettle repaired, and at Krautmeir, the gynecologist. With all this business to attend to, Henrietta has no time for her husband. Similarly, he, with all his business, has no time for Henrietta. New students from Germany cannot be offered the usual fare; you have to be well prepared, for they come from German schools, where scholarship is serious. They each go their own way: Manfred doesn’t intrude on Henrietta’s domain, and Henrietta doesn’t intrude on Manfred’s.

Herbst is at his desk, which is filled with open books, reading a page here and a page there, writing, copying, adding to the pile of notes and comments, to the series of lectures on such-and-such an emperor — a Byzantine whose name I forget, a very short fellow who required that all his ministers stoop to a level below his shoulders. Herbst takes no shortcuts. He consults every book in Jerusalem pertaining to his field and orders books and photographs from abroad. Though the books are numerous and there is no shortage of scholars, there is room for innovation. If he had more books, he would make more discoveries, for it is in the nature of books that each one offers a different theory, and a reader with the capacity to innovate adds his own opinion. If his wisdom is significant, what he adds is significant. Whether you know it or not, Dr. Manfred Herbst is an expert on the Byzantine period, and, when Byzantine scholars are mentioned, his name is always included. So he has reason to be pleased with himself.

But this is not the case. Often Herbst shoves away his books, photographs, index cards, and notes, rests his left arm on the desk, and leans his head on his arm. This pose, if I am not mistaken, is hardly the one in which painters portray learned men. When he sits in this position, he resembles a man trying to dismiss his worries. Which of them did he succeed in dismissing, and which did he fail to dismiss? He succeeded in dismissing Lisbet Neu from his mind, but he failed to dismiss Shira.

Shira displays herself in an array of guises, and every one of her guises compels his eyes and heart. But he does not move from his spot or run to her, and he is surprised at himself for not running to her. A single verse he read by chance remains fixed in his mouth, and he mumbles, “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten.” He determines to go to her. When night comes, he finds an excuse and doesn’t go. He looks for Henrietta and insists on helping her in the kitchen, even though she has told him he doesn’t belong among the pots. This sometimes becomes a quarrel. And when she hears his footsteps, she locks the door. What does he do? He takes Sarah out of her crib, carries her in his arms, knocks on the door, and says, “I think the baby needs you.” Henrietta comes out, takes the baby, and walks Manfred to his room and to his desk, saying, “This is where you belong, Fred. Sit down and do your work.” What does he do? He remembers there is no butter in the house. Since there is no dairy in Baka, he goes to Talpiot to buy butter. In Talpiot, he meets up with some of his students, who are protecting the neighborhood from Arab snipers. Herbst does another thing: he writes letters to friends abroad, as well as to his two daughters who are in the same country, for a father is required to educate his daughters. If he didn’t educate them when they were at home, he is educating them now, from a distance. He also occupies himself with a matter that occupies few of his Jerusalem colleagues: he is engaged in clarifying and establishing just who deserves to be considered a Church Father. As Vincent of Lerins has already noted, not all the early Church writers should be considered Church Fathers, since God was testing the Christians through these great teachers, et cetera.

This is how Herbst spent those of his nights that seemed to be seeking Shira. When a night passed and he hadn’t gone to Shira, he felt he was in control.

A contradiction: If it was Shira he was seeking, why didn’t he go to her? But Herbst had a wife; he was the husband of an intelligent, attractive woman. He was the father of three daughters and a lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Whether or not the Hebrew University is required to uphold the teachings of the prophets and the Jewish moral code, whether or not it is a university like all others, university faculty should not behave frivolously. And, needless to say, they should not waste time indulging the body at the expense of the soul. There was a further reason: Herbst was a reticent man, attached to his wife. She was his first love, and it was with her that his love matured, which is to say that, until he knew Henrietta, he didn’t know a woman’s love.

So, if the night passed and he hadn’t gone to Shira, he considered himself in control. Even more so on a night when he knew she was at home. There were nights when he knew she wasn’t working and would be at home; when she told him this, it was quite deliberate, so he would know when he could find her in.

Herbst stayed away from Shira’s house. Shira didn’t stay away from Herbst’s house. She showed herself in seventy forms: her little feet escaping to the forest on a snowy night, the wolf pelt her husband flung over her on their wedding night when he took her to the house in the woods, the blanket wrapped around her in her husband’s room, the feet the old servant woman wanted to kiss, the slippers he slid off her feet and she replaced. When she appeared to him, her voice sounded as it did that night when they walked as one in the new neighborhood. And he was engulfed in the same stillness, not finding the courage to reach out and caress her. When, after a few weeks, the same face continued to impel him to run to her, he began summoning up her other face, the one he had seen the day the entire city was mourning a young Jerusalem boy who was killed and Shira appeared with that defiant cigarette in her mouth. When that face began to blur, he pictured her sitting with the women in the waiting room of the maternity section, her limbs expanding, encircling the blind Turk and reaching to embrace him. These things are certainly ugly, so reason would cause him to pluck her from his heart and avert his eyes from her. He did just this, pressing his eyes into their sockets so he wouldn’t see her. What did that Turk do? Believe it or not, he sneered from his blind eyes into Herbst’s tightly clenched eyes, chirping, “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten.”

Chapter fifteen

Manfred was having a hard morning. His head was heavy, and his shoulders were as inert as rocks. He was utterly debilitated. His bed annoyed him so, he couldn’t lie in it. He got up, settled his feet in his slippers, and began shuffling back and forth from one end of the room to the other.

Henrietta bathed and oiled Sarah, and put her on the scale to check her weight. The baby wriggled her round feet and raised them high, upsetting the scale, so no one could tell how much she had gained. Henrietta laughed and spoke as if to an adult, “I don’t have time for your mischief, Sarah. Father is awake, and I haven’t made his coffee yet.” Even if the child had understood Henrietta, it would have been impossible to find out her weight, as the scale wasn’t working because of a missing screw. When Henrietta realized this, she began searching the house. She remembered that a neighbor had come to weigh her son, and all his brothers had come along; they had played with the scale and, undoubtedly, broken it. Henrietta was irritated with herself. Why did I have to teach the Arab women what they and all their sisters never knew? Now that I need to weigh my daughter, the scale is broken.

Henrietta heard Manfred’s footsteps. They didn’t sound right to her. She handed the baby to Sarini and went to Manfred. His face looked strange. She assumed he had been awake all night with his books. She looked at the lamp and noted that it was still full of kerosene. It occurred to her that his stomach might be upset. Since she knew there were no spoiled ingredients in her cooking, she attributed this to some vegetarian dish, such as a radish he might have pulled up and eaten. Manfred tended to fill up on fruits and vegetables, on the misguided premise that live vegetation gives life. She looked at him again and saw that his eyes were red, his face somber. His shoulders drooped, and his entire body was dejected. Feeling sorry for him, she said, “Fred, I’m taking a chair out to the garden for you. I’ll bring out your coffee. Waste one day in the garden rather than several days in bed. If we were in Germany, wouldn’t we spend two or three months in a summer house? It’s about four years since you took a vacation. You surely deserve a day off.” Henrietta had forgotten that he once went abroad to a conference of Byzantine scholars and spent a few days at the seashore.

Manfred went out to the garden, and Henrietta brought him a lounge chair. She went to bring him coffee and milk, toast, butter, and honey, and to tell Sarini she could go home early, since it was a holiday for her — her brother Ovadiah was being released from jail for the fifth time. Not because of any crime, God forbid, but because he had no luck with women. When Sarini’s father and mother and their entire clan came to the holy city of Jerusalem, they brought Ovadiah along. He was like a brother, having nursed at her mother’s breast. On the way, Ovadiah went to the well for a drink. There was a large rock there in the shape of a wicked woman. She stared at him, and he forgot to come back. They went on to Jerusalem without him. There was a man in Jerusalem, strong as an ox, who said, “I’ll bring him back.” He went and brought him back. Seeing that he was a good boy, he gave him his daughter as a wife. Ovadiah was fifteen years old, and the girl they gave him for a wife was thirty-five. Ovadiah stayed with her a year and half and gave her two children. He lost interest in her and left. Some women’s organization came and said, “You are required to give her ten lirot a month.” Ovadiah went to a rabbinical court and proved to the wise men that the woman couldn’t become pregnant again, while he wanted more children. The wise men said, “Give her a get, and take another wife.” He threw a get at her and took a young wife. The first woman came to grief and died. Ovadiah had no life with the child-wife because he had no luck with women. So he left her. There was an outcry from the women’s organization: “If you don’t want her, you don’t want her, but you must give her ten lirot a month.” Ovadiah said, “Ten lashes, yes, but not ten lirot. In the name of Moses, I myself never had ten lirot.” The women’s organization maligned and slandered him. They sent a policeman to arrest him. This happened once, twice, three times — again and again, making five. His prison term was now up. Sarini was eager to see him, so Mrs. Herbst gave her permission to leave early.

As soon as Sarini left, Mrs. Herbst took a chair out to join Manfred. She brought Sarah out in her cradle and sat down, although there was much work and little time. Manfred looked at Henrietta, and he saw how concerned she was. He wept inwardly for her and for himself, that they had arrived at such a pass.

Manfred sat, Henrietta sat, and Sarah lay in her cradle, a rubber doll with a black face at her side, brought to her by Dr. Taglicht. Amid sun and shade, the garden shrubs sent forth their fragrance. Not a sound was heard from the neighbors. Even Sacharson, who could usually be found where he wasn’t wanted, was not in sight. The day was neither hot nor cold. The sun had lost its intensity, as the month of Av was over and it was now Elul, which often shows an autumnal aspect. Such a day and such an hour are a delight to anyone, all the more to a man and woman touched by the hand of God, which the faithless call the hand of destiny. Henrietta was not yet aware of that hand upon her, but Manfred was aware of it, and he was aware more of sin than of punishment.

Henrietta got up and stood next to her husband, smoothing his brow to erase the wrinkles. She said to him, squinting a bit, “I wish I knew the thoughts that make those wrinkles. I know your work involves heavy thought, but this is too much.” Manfred answered, “Henriett, you ask about the thoughts that are wrinkling my brow; actually it’s the lack of thought that makes wrinkles. You see, Henriett, when a waterskin is empty, when it has no water, it begins to wrinkle. Me, too — I’m an empty vessel. If I give a hundred lectures, if I copy a thousand quotations, nothing will change. When I was a boy, I wanted to read many books. When I grew up, I wanted to write books. Now, my dear, now I don’t want to read books, and I don’t want to write them either. When I visited you in the hospital the day Sarah was born, you mentioned Lisbet Modrao, the daughter of Professor Modrao. You mentioned her because of her grandfather’s name, and I am reminded of her for another reason. Lisbet told me — but why did I call her Lisbet, when her name is Elizabeth? — anyway, Elizabeth told me about her eldest brother, who was a minister, a Protestant minister in a small town in Thuringia. He wasn’t especially bright or learned, just an honest man, one who never had a chance to misbehave. During the war, some heretical texts fell into his hands. He read them, and his faith was undermined. He began to loathe his job, as it involved teaching what he no longer believed. One Sunday, after his sermon, he threw off his robes and decided to give up the ministry. At dinner he said to his wife, ‘Thus far and no farther.’ Those were the war years, when food was scarce. But, being a minister, he lacked nothing, as the peasant women used to bring him eggs, chickens, vegetables, butter, cheese, and meat in such quantity that his household was provided for and there was a surplus to send to other relatives. His wife listened and wrote to his father, the professor. The professor came, hoping to restore his faith. When he realized his words were having no impact, he said to him, ‘Truth and justice are fine and praiseworthy, but a man must be concerned with his livelihood. If you abandon the ministry, how will you sustain yourself?’ Economic pressure, Henriett, is not unique to Jews. With the power of German philosophy, which can be used to prove anything, the distinguished professor proved to the honest minister that it was essential that he keep his job and that, in order to do his job justice, he must become more devout. It ended well. A minister is a minister. His sermons were so fervent that he was promoted and his salary was increased, so much so that two of his daughters could study at the university, and the other five found husbands privileged to be in Hitler’s retinue. Why did I tell that story? It’s about me, Henriett. Yes, me. This instructor at the university in Jerusalem is where that minister was at the beginning. Don’t worry, Henriett. I won’t leave my job, and I don’t need a dose of German philosophy. I’ve had a bellyful of it already and wouldn’t mind vomiting some of it up.”

Henrietta asked Manfred, “If you had a choice, what field would you choose?” Manfred answered, “Do you remember Axelrod, who looks in his notebooks and sees prophecies about everyone and his wife? What do you think? If I wanted a job like Axelrod’s, would they give it to me?” Henrietta said, “You have so little respect for your work that you would rather be a hospital clerk?” Manfred said, “It’s not that I underestimate my work, but I’m no longer happy with it. Others are happy with their work; I’m not. I’m not happy. I’m not happy, Henriett, my dear.”

Henrietta said, “Is there some other sort of work that would please you?” Manfred said, “Whether there is or not, isn’t there a song that goes ‘Forest, forest, how far away you are’? Who sang that song to us?” Henrietta said, “Taglicht sang it.” Manfred said, “You remember everything, Henriett. You hear something once, and you never forget it. Since you mention Taglicht, I’ll tell you something I heard from him.

“Taglicht was at a conference of scholars in Jerusalem, seated next to a certain Hebrew poet. This country is so full of poets that I don’t remember his name. Taglicht said to the poet, ‘See what respect the world showers on learned men, but you poets never achieve it.’ The poet remained silent. Taglicht added, ‘Apart from the high regard in which they are held, they also make a living.’ The poet said to Taglicht, ‘You runt, I’ll tell you a splendid story that’s told about your great-great-grandfather, renowned for his righteousness.’ You’ve surely heard, Henriett, that our Taglicht’s forebears were noted for piety and virtue; they were distinguished rabbis, whom you probably read about in Buber’s books. How hard it is for people like us to talk about Jewish subjects. Everything needs an introduction, and every introduction needs to be explicated.” Henrietta said, “What did he tell you?” Manfred said, “He told me a splendid story. But if I tell it to you, I doubt you’ll enjoy it. It would be better to hear it directly from him than from me.”

Much as he resisted, she persisted. He began the story.

“There was once a crippled beggar who sat on a heap of rags at a crossroads, tending his deformity. Passersby took note of him and threw him coins — one, two, three, depending on their resources and compassion. The beggar made a fortune. A son was born to him. He whispered to the midwife, ‘Cripple him, and when the boy grows up, God willing, people will see his handicap and give him money. He won’t have to work for a living.’ The midwife did as she was told. Another son was born to him. He told her what he told her, and she did what she did. So it was with each of his sons; they were provided with a livelihood at birth and spared the need to exert any effort. When his sixth son, or perhaps the seventh or eighth, was born, he went to the midwife again and whispered, ‘Cripple him.’ She saw that the child was good. She felt sorry for him and didn’t cripple him. The father saw this son and preferred him to all the others, because of his charm, and beauty, and because he was not impaired. He held him in his arms, lifted him high, played with him, bounced him on his knee, and taught him all sorts of tricks, when he was small as well as when he grew up, in accord with the boy’s intelligence and the wisdom of the father, who, having sat in the marketplace observing all sorts of people and their behavior as they passed through, was full of wisdom. The boy surpassed all the brothers who preceded him and everyone in the city as well. While the brothers were occupied with their handicaps, tending them and grooming them to arouse sympathy and bring in wealth, while most people were snatching halfswallowed food from one another as others snatched what they could from both parties — which is typical of this generation, as it probably was in earlier times too — that son devoted himself to his father’s teachings. To these, he added his own ideas. And, being occupied with wisdom, he had no interest in anything unrelated to wisdom, which certainly included money, a commodity he didn’t value at all, having watched people throw it around. He himself, being occupied with ideas, didn’t notice that people gave his father money, sometimes out of sympathy, sometimes to delude themselves, thinking they enjoyed every advantage while that poor man sat on a heap of rags in the heat, cold, rain, and snow.

“One day, the man collected his sons and said to them, ‘You’re all crippled. You carry your livelihood with you. All you have to do is display your handicap, and everyone throws you money. All but your little brother, who is healthy and whole, charming and pleasant, with no handicap other than poetry, which most people consider a handicap. How will the boy make his way? How is he to earn his bread? I am, therefore, leaving him my entire fortune. The rest of you can go out and sit on your rags, displaying your handicaps. You will lack for nothing.’”

Henrietta said, “If there’s a moral in that tale, what is it?” Manfred said, “I enjoyed the tale so much that I forgot most of the moral. I’ll try to tell some of what I remember.

“The man sitting on a heap of rags is the Creator. He tends His handicap, a reference to the world He has created. The passersby are human beings, passing through, only to return to dust. They throw a penny or two — people’s good deeds, which are worth but a penny. The favored son is the poet, engaged in poetry, and his brothers are scholars who derive honor from their livelihood. What did that father do? He rejected them all and gave everything to the son who was most precious to him, who had devoted himself to poetry and was unsuited to the pursuit of honor and a livelihood.”

Henrietta laughed and laughed. While she was laughing, the sun reached the middle of the sky and it was noon, time for a meal, although Henrietta had not so much as put a pot on the fire or made any other move toward lunch. Henrietta left Manfred, went to the kitchen, and turned to her pots. She checked the vegetables and the fruit basket, and actually made a meal of what she found there. Believe it or not, this meal, which she hardly fussed over, was more satisfying than most others involving far more fuss. Not only to Dr. Herbst, but to Mrs. Herbst as well, and you know Mrs. Herbst usually says how much she likes fruit and vegetables along with meat, but not when they pretend to be a main course.

The Herbsts sat in the garden, eating, drinking, discussing what we eat, what we drink, the sort of people that cross our paths. It happened that their conversation touched on Taglicht, who is endowed with two talents, one for scholarship and one for poetry. Neither leads him to action as poetry alienates scholarship, and he doesn’t value scholarship enough to engage in it. But he has another talent, the most supreme of all: he has a soul. Henrietta said, “The fact that he’s still a bachelor doesn’t speak well for the daughters of Jerusalem.” Manfred said, “You may remember that young woman — the relative of Professor Neu’s, who came to our house with him. I told you I met her at Ernst Weltfremdt’s when I went to congratulate him on his professorship and was introduced to two ladies, a mother and daughter. If Taglicht were to meet the daughter, the outcome might be good for both of them. What do you think, Henriett, should we invite the two of them together? I know you have a lot on your mind, and I don’t want to add to your burdens. But Taglicht is worth the effort. In any case, I’ll talk to Weltfremdt first, since he knows both the girl and Taglicht.”

Chapter sixteen

Manfred Herbst and Ernst Weltfremdt both went up to Jerusalem when the university was first established, Herbst, because he was a bit of a Zionist; and Weltfremdt, because his luck was turning where he was. Weltfremdt was a lecturer in patristics at some German university. This subject is normally in the domain of the Department of Religion, but, since Weltfremdt was a Jew, not a Christian, he was made an adjunct to the Department of Philosophy. With the publication of his major work, Can We Assume Origen Was Familiar with “Hermes the Shepherd” as We Know It? he gained renown and his audience grew. Because he had such a following, it was often necessary to assign him the large hall in the university, which had not been done for any other professor in several years. All in all, things were going well with him, but not with the world. In those years, after Germany’s downfall, the bewildered Germans were asking who had caused their decline. Inasmuch as no nation is likely to take the blame on itself, least of all the Germans, who pride themselves on their exemplary behavior, they began searching for someone to whom to attribute their stench, and found the Jews. They failed to remember that twelve thousand Jews had fallen in Germany’s war, which was two percent of the Jewish population of Germany. Weltfremdt began to feel the fist of malice. Students began to challenge him; colleagues he had supported began to make themselves scarce and avoided being seen with him in public. The newspapers began to berate him and to call him a parasite of German scholarship. He assumed his fellow professors would deplore these affronts. Not only did they fail to rally to his defense, but, when he asked them to respond to these charges, they begged him not to press them, explaining that, for various reasons that could not be enumerated, they could not get involved in the controversy, although they naturally did not agree with the anti-Semitic propaganda. As for the substance of the matter, in their scholarly journals they had already expressed the opinion that his papers were among the best research produced in German in this generation. At first, Weltfremdt saw himself as an academic martyr, which enabled him to accept the pain with love. They continued to torment him, and the university authorities refrained from protecting him, so he soon realized there was no future for him in a German university. He heard they were starting a university in Jerusalem. Weltfremdt imagined that, if Jews were creating a university, its language would be German. He intimated to the head of the Zionists in his city that he would not rule out the possibility of becoming a professor in Jerusalem. When he learned that lectures at the Jerusalem university were to be conducted in Hebrew, he withdrew and looked elsewhere for a position. He got no response, so he began to negotiate with the trustees of the Hebrew University. Before long, he went up to Jerusalem and was appointed to the Faculty of Philosophy, where he specialized in Jewish Hellenistic writings, first as an associate professor and then as a full professor.

Ernst Weltfremdt and Manfred Herbst were on the same ship when they went up to the Land of Israel. Inasmuch as they were shipmates who came from the same country, spoke the same language, and had the same purpose, a friendship developed, which endured so long as the university remained small, the yishuv population sparse, and Jerusalem’s neighborhoods few. When the trouble in Germany and other Nazi-controlled countries began to escalate, many Jews arrived. The yishuv grew, the university expanded, new teachers came. Everyone found new friends, and Weltfremdt and Herbst rarely met up with each other. Herbst didn’t notice that he no longer visited Weltfremdt, nor did Weltfremdt notice that Herbst seldom appeared at his door. When they noticed, they saw no reason for a change. When they did meet, they met as friends with an ongoing friendship. Occasionally Weltfremdt dragged Herbst home with him, and occasionally Herbst came on his own to borrow a book, more frequently as Herbst grew interested in patristics. Weltfremdt had brought his books on the subject with him, this being the field he had studied and in which he had earned renown. He was still hoping to return to it, at first in England or the United States, and later on in Germany itself. What was it that attracted Herbst to patristics? He apparently wanted to find out whether he could still deal with unfamiliar material, for he often wondered if what he did in his own field was largely habit.

A few days after Manfred and Henrietta’s conversation about Taglicht and Lisbet Neu, it happened that Manfred went into town. When he was in town, it happened that he was in Rehavia. Once he was in Rehavia, he stopped at Weltfremdt’s.

Weltfremdt was busy preparing lectures for the spring term. He used to write them in German, and Taglicht would translate them into Hebrew, adding comments he considered appropriate from the Gemara and the Midrash, but no one was aware that Weltfremdt was plowing with Taglicht’s horse. Were you to mention this, Weltfremdt himself probably wouldn’t know what you were referring to. How could this be? He paid Taglicht generously, giving good money for what he got. Furthermore, although Taglicht was praised by everyone and considered highly accomplished in every field and discipline, his learning was a mass of disjointed fragments. If not for Professor Weltfremdt, who used this expertise as a resource for lectures, articles, and books, that expert would be lost in his own wisdom.

As soon as Herbst mentioned Taglicht, Weltfremdt was alarmed. When he told him why he had come, he was relieved. He got up and hid his lecture notes, placed his hand on Herbst’s shoulder, and said, “Neu, Neu. Yes, yes…. I know a woman called Neu. Yes, yes. If I’m not mistaken, she’s considerably older than Taglicht.” Herbst said, “If you’re referring to the mother, she’s older than Taglicht. As for the daughter, she’s younger.” Weltfremdt said, “Yes, yes, Dr. Herbst, the old are old, and the young are young. Incidentally, just yesterday I read your paper comparing the Code of Leo the Isaurian to the Hammurabi Code. Not bad, not bad at all. But, judging by the date under the paper, you wrote it two years ago. Two years ago, and you haven’t published anything since. Not a thing. This is contrary to university policy. We don’t require that each faculty member produce a weighty tome annually, but it would be appropriate to publish an article or a monograph every year or so. And you, doctor, turn out one article in two years. As for the piece itself, others have in fact dealt with the same subject, though yours is not without new insights. I pointed it out to our colleagues, especially to Professor Bachlam, who resents other people’s insights and always uses them to support what he has written or what he means to write, even in fields whose terminology he doesn’t understand. What were we talking about? Yes, yes, about Professor Neu’s relative. If I’m not mistaken, you — that is, you and Mrs. Herbst — are interested in making a match between Taglicht and Miss Neu, mainly because he and she are available. In that case, one should speak to them first, to both Dr. Taglicht and Miss Neu. Though you and Mrs. Herbst both agree that they — I mean, Taglicht and Neu — are suited to each other, that’s not good enough. You — I mean, you and Mrs. Herbst — have taken on a big job. I myself can’t imagine how these things happen — how you come to a fellow and say, ‘I’ve found a girl for you,’ not to mention coming to a girl and delivering the same message with the appropriate changes. Yes, indeed. Incidentally, doctor, have you noticed that Leo’s Code, though he is considered an outright atheist, is derived from the Torah and from the Evangelists, which is not the case with Justinian? Incidentally, doctor, if you see my cousin Julian, tell him that, though he maligns me in every café in Jerusalem, he is welcome for coffee at my house anytime. I see you’re hurrying. If you wait a bit, we can have coffee together. Not the kind you usually drink, which keeps you awake, but a harmless brew. Incidentally, tell me, how did you arrive at the comparison between the Code of Leo the Isaurian and the Hammurabi Code? If I were allowed to allow myself the liberty, I could, perhaps, give myself some of the credit, as I was the one who lent you David Heinrich Miller’s edition of the Hammurabi Code. Yes, yes. Incidentally, what do you think about Bachlam? Taglicht says that Bachlam writes ‘flaxen Hebrew.’ I can’t imagine what ‘flaxen Hebrew’ is. Welcome, Mrs. Weltfremdt. Did you manage to rest a bit? Now, Herbst, you can’t escape without drinking coffee with us first. What do you think, Dikchen, will Professor Herbst find some coffee in our house?”

Herbst stayed at Weltfremdt’s, where he drank coffee that doesn’t keep one from sleeping and ate cake that doesn’t keep one’s middle from expanding. They talked about the university, its faculty, and many other matters. When Dr. Ernst Weltfremdt publishes his autobiography, we’ll have more details.

To please his wife, Weltfremdt suggested that she show their guest the rhymes she had composed on the marriage of their eldest daughter. Professor Weltfremdt’s wife, Rikchen, poetized every family event. Her relatives in Germany were fond of her rhymes, but here in Jerusalem, where public events tended to overshadow personal ones and the Hebrew language was beginning to take over from German, she had no audience. If not for her husband, who sometimes told his guests about her rhymes, we would be unaware of Mrs. Weltfremdt’s talent.

While she went to get her rhymes, Weltfremdt gave Herbst the galleys of his article for Bachlam’s jubilee volume. As Herbst leafed through the galleys, Weltfremdt began discussing other individuals who had been similarly honored. Typically, as they approached the age of fifty or sixty, these men would go from professor to professor, asking how to avoid the notoriety to which they were about to be subjected. They would confide that the most erudite scholars had already met and formed a jubilee committee — a committee of unprecedented distinction — which they nevertheless considered flawed, “because Ernst Weltfremdt’s name is not included.” “Whether I want to or not, I add my name. They press me to contribute an article to the jubilee volume to be published in honor of that academic pest. They press me to hand it in immediately and then delay my article, along with the entire book, so that, when it finally appears, my insights are outdated. A learned man once said wisely, ‘All those jubilee volumes are burial grounds for the written word.’ I would amend this — they’re burial grounds for mummies. Yes, for mummies!”

Mrs. Weltfremdt returned, carrying a bunch of notebooks tied together with colorful string. She looked warmly at Professor Herbst, who had agreed to hear her verses, and imploringly at her husband, wishing he would stop talking and let her read. Her husband took no notice but went on talking to Herbst, explicating every new point in his article, for he gravely doubted that his colleagues would grasp it. “I’m not saying that all of our eminent colleagues are imbeciles. There are surely one or two — perhaps even three — who are capable of grasping my insights, but since they measure with their own yardsticks, they have the impression that my insights are no better than theirs. In any case, there’s nothing to stop them from claiming my insights as their own, with a change of language or an additional phrase, to the point where the sheer verbiage disguises the source.” If not for Lemner, who loved to disclose the sources authors use, none of them would realize that many of Weltfremdt’s insights were incorporated in their books. Mrs. Weltfremdt saw there was no end in sight and went off. In the interim, the sun set, the day darkened, and Herbst got up to go.

Weltfremdt remembered his wife and her verses. He opened the door and called, “Dikchen, Dikchen, what’s going on? We have here one-third of one-half of one dozen distinguished gentlemen eager to bask in your delightful verse, and you withhold its light.”

Mrs. Weltfremdt heard him and appeared. Professor Weltfremdt said, “It’s good you came, Dikchen. I was talking to our friend, Doctor Herbst, about our revered cousin, who never deigns to come to us, and I asked Doctor Herbst, if he should see our cousin, to tell him to be so kind as to come. What’s your opinion, Dikchen? Will he find a place to sit in our house? As for your verses, it’s good you brought them. Let me see if you brought the notebook with the humorous ones. Yes, yes. Here’s the notebook, and here are the verses. Bravo. What was I going to ask? Yes, yes…. Who’s that knocking? Isn’t there a bell in the house? Problems with the electricity again. Storrs may be right to keep everything modern out of Jerusalem. Even the electric lights go out most nights, leaving us in darkness. Dikchen, I see we won’t get to your verses tonight. I certainly won’t agree to let you ruin your eyes in the light of the kerosene lamp. I don’t know how anyone reads in that light. When I touch a kerosene lamp, I can’t get rid of the smell. Now, Doctor Herbst, it isn’t right to keep you here in this dark dungeon. Dikchen, allow me to go two or three steps with Doctor Herbst, and don’t be upset if I make it four or five. You know I’m no mathematician.”

When they were outside, Weltfremdt said to Herbst, “Dear doctor, why is it that Julian finds it necessary to malign me everywhere? In any case, I can say, like King David in his time, my throne and I are pure. I don’t know if I’ve quoted the phrase correctly, but I’ve made my point. Incidentally, your article was very successful. I said this in so many words at the senate meeting. You ought to publish more articles like that one, doctor. Just like it. Yes, indeed. I have an important subject for you to investigate: when Athanasius went to Rome to seek support, why did the journey take a whole year? As for my cousin Julian, when he discredits Wechsler and Bachlam, we can say that, if he isn’t one hundred percent justified, he is surely fifty or sixty percent right. I’m not a mathematician, and I can’t formulate the precise percentage. But when he maligns me, he does himself harm, because everyone knows he’s not familiar with my field. All of Jerusalem has light, except for my house. My best to Mrs. Herbst and to you, too, doctor. Above all, let’s get together again. Really. Yes, yes. Back to the subject of Julian. When his little girl got sick and was taken to Hadassah Hospital, where she stayed many days, who was it who tried to get the bill canceled, if not me? And when the child died, who paid for her burial? I was the one who paid to have her buried. In Jerusalem, nothing is free. Now I have to go home too. I assume it was the printer’s messenger knocking at the door, coming for the galleys of my article for Bachlam’s jubilee volume. See you soon, doctor. I really mean it. I hope to see you soon.”

Chapter seventeen

How long did he keep himself at home, occupied with things he hadn’t done in years, for one purpose — so he wouldn’t go into town? If he were to go to town, his feet would run to Shira. How he agonized the night he visited Weltfremdt! And he triumphed. In the end, he didn’t go to Shira, though he knew she was at home, perhaps even expecting him. That witch, she never said, “I expect you to come.” Still, even someone inept in the realm of women’s wiles could sense it. So he kept himself at home, hanging around his wife while she worked. At this point, Henrietta even allowed him to do household chores without protesting. Sometimes she even asked him to relieve her, teasing, “If you had teats, we wouldn’t need a wetnurse.”

Manfred is with Henrietta, arranging Sarah’s crib, spreading her rubber sheet, smoothing the wrinkles, while Henrietta plays with the baby, cooing at her like any mother with an infant daughter. Manfred watches them, thinking: If I didn’t know otherwise, I would think the baby was with her grandmother. Manfred looks furtively for some trace of youthful charm, but he sees an old woman. He starts to pity her and is overcome with renewed affection. He engraves its new form in his heart. He is warmed by this affection. The One who was created only to cause trouble asks: Isn’t she an obstacle in your path, the one that keeps you from living your life? Manfred sighs and reflects: Life…the life that seduces us is, perhaps, not really life. It may be the mission of our life to live with the wife we were given. If not for a man’s wife, he would sink from bad to worse.

Those were good days. His evil thoughts lost their sting, and he began to cherish his wife, for it was through her that he avoided a reckless course. At first he kept himself at home, helping his wife just to prevent his feet from heading toward town; now he was helping her in order to ease her burdens. Henrietta would take note and say, “Thank you, thank you, my dear. You did such a good job. Now, dear, you can go back to your own work.” Manfred would take her advice, go to his room, and sit at his desk, editing lectures he had prepared for the winter term. Should you stop in he doesn’t behave as if you’ve kept him from discovering the symbol for zero, for example, or impeded him in his conquest of Mesopotamia. Should a student stop in, Herbst receives him warmly, gives him a chair, hears his questions, provides advice as well as research data from the box of notes, gratis, without suggesting he has offered all the Indies as a gift. A student who arrives at teatime is served tea with a slice of cake, along with cordial conversation unrelated to scholarly work. Dr. Herbst doesn’t have many students, but if you combine all of them over his entire career, there are more than a few.

We could dwell a bit on Dr. Herbst’s students without arresting the pace of our story. They came from various countries, where they roamed the roads for many years, sustaining themselves as porters. Even here, their sustenance doesn’t simply land in their mouths. Some of them deliver newspapers; others are teachers and accountants. Those privileged to deliver papers are up before dawn. After distributing the papers, they race up to class on Mount Scopus, on foot, since even those who do well can’t afford the busfare. Sometimes they are up early, but to no avail, because of a hand that tampers with the papers: censors appointed by the Mandate government often allow things to be printed, only to ban them suddenly. The Hebrew newspapers remain in their place and never reach their readers. Those who deliver them are demoralized by the wasted time and loss of income. The others — those who are accountants or teachers — are no better off. But those with a talent for writing fare worst. They hire themselves out to all sorts of operators, do-gooders, and ordinary people who wish to perpetuate themselves through memoirs, although they haven’t the ability to write two or three lines properly. They write what they write and hire a poor student to translate their words into civilized language. They pay by the hour and include proofreading in the price. Not only do the students invest their strength in others, whose business is of no interest to them, but they don’t get to do what is suited to their talents. There is even a young woman, the mother of a baby, among those who listen to Herbst’s lectures. She is in Jerusalem five days a week, cleaning office floors for a living. On Friday nights, she goes down to Tel Aviv to enjoy her husband and the small daughter she leaves with her mother-in-law. On Sunday mornings, she returns to Jerusalem, to her studies and her job. What moves them to learn about subjects such as the history of Byzantium? Perhaps they are eager for knowledge, and it is not the subject that is crucial, but the learning process. Herbst is a splendid teacher, the sort one can learn from. Even if you wanted to, how could you pursue the subject of your choice, when the university is small and in many areas there are no teachers, so that what you want to study may be taught by some imbecile who distorts the material?

We have mentioned the students’ occupations; let us now mention their housing. They live in tin huts in Nahlat Achim, two or three to a room. Their beds are flimsy, their tables unsteady, their chairs lame. At night, they go out and learn to handle rifles. You, sir, lie in bed secure, get up the next morning, and sit at your lavish table reading the paper, assuming that mighty Britain is spreading a tabernacle of peace. Actually, it is a small band of fellows with empty tables and flimsy beds — they and other Haganah members — who protect you. Herbst isn’t one of them. He belongs to Brit Shalom, and he used to sit at Brit Shalom meetings devising plans to prevent Jews from victimizing the Arabs. Herbst once went to a friend’s home for a housewarming; he had built a new house in Rehavia. There was food, drink, conversation. Herbst noticed that his friend was sad and asked, “Did something happen to you?” He answered, “The same thing that happened to you, to me, to every Jew who lives in this country. Every Jew that lives here is driving out an Arab, since the land is his.”

As soon as Herbst started to get close to his students, listening to their talk and watching their actions, he began observing the land and those living in it. His eyes were opened, and he saw what most of his friends did not see, for they had found there a place to rest their weary feet, a comfortable and painless livelihood, a place where their sons and daughters would be safe from those evil doctrines that lead to extinction. It was not because of the Arabs that they found what they found, but because of those who formed the yishuv, transforming desolate wilderness into habitable land. They built cities and established settlements, which they defend with body and soul against a desert sword that threatens annihilation. And even these predators exist because of those who built the land. Both sides are governed from above, so no one knows whether to build or destroy.

For some time now, Herbst had in mind to put his views on paper. But he was concerned that his knowledge of the history of the land and its settlement would not provide an adequate base, and Herbst was a professional and a scholar, subject to a thousand research criteria, who would not make any work of his public until it was validated. Besides, this wasn’t the time for research and validation, since Ernst Weltfremdt had asked him to collaborate on a book about those terms in the writings of the contested Church Fathers that are not found in the writings of the true Church Fathers. Nonetheless, Herbst’s views were not wasted. He conveyed some of them in a letter to his elder daughter, Zahara, who belonged to a kvutza. Realizing that he was in accord with those engaged in building up the land, he began to be proud of his daughter, and she became an extension of his ideas about the land and its settlement.

While Manfred arrived at this truth through conversation with his students, Henrietta arrived at it on her own. All those years, living in the Land of Israel, she watched the land being built and saw who its builders were; and that there were others who would destroy it, and who they were. This being the case, to whom does the land belong? To the builders, of course. She objected to those who were cloistered in their homes, buried in their own affairs as if eternal peace had been achieved, who in the event of trouble would be unable to defend themselves and would surely be slaughtered, as was the fate of Jews in Hebron and Safed during the massive slaughter of 1929. She even used to argue with Manfred: any man who volunteered to fight in Germany’s war, who can handle weapons, who wrote an article about the strategy of Emperor Valens — how could he not enlist in defense of his people and his land? This woman, who always fought to protect her husband from any task that might distract him from his work, was demanding this of him. But she didn’t press him. I will now add a small detail, from which one can learn about everything else. When Henrietta rented a house in Baka, it was a ruin filled with garbage rather than a house, and no one would have considered it suitable to live in. Henrietta cleared out the garbage, repaired the house, and made herself a garden with fruit trees, vegetables, and flowers. When the land began to be productive, Arab shepherds appeared with their sheep and cattle, and what she had been tending all year was consumed in two or three days. She hired workers to fence in the garden. What did the shepherds do? They poked a stick in the fence, made openings, and sent their flocks into the garden. Henrietta found an olive tree that wasn’t bearing fruit; she dug up the soil and fertilized it, and it flourished. What did the shepherds do? They sneaked into the garden and pulled off leaves, which they fed to their sheep, or brought in goats to demolish the olives.

During one of those days when Manfred was keeping himself at home, sitting there for hours on end, this is what happened. That day he went out into the garden. The heat was past its peak, and the soil was fragrant. Above the earth, trees and bushes and grasses made a wreath of varied hues — some derived from innate power granted by God, others from His power being renewed all the time, at every moment. Just then, in fact, the skies were testing all the hues to determine which was most suited to the moment, shifting from hue to hue and back again.

Manfred looked around and saw Henrietta getting up from the ground, a bunch of flowers in her hand. His senses drifted back to a time when they were both young. He, a student at the university, and she, a clerk in a music store, used to meet in the evening, among rows of flowers in a park in Berlin. Not that evenings there were like this one; nor were there flowers such as these. Still, the scents and after-scents of those flowers wafted from the shadows of those vanished evenings. Manfred’s heart began to throb, as it had in those days of his youth when he used to run to those parks and see Henrietta walking through rows of flowers, waiting for him with a bouquet in hand. God-who-is-good-and-renders-good, man’s spirit lives not only in the present but in every good memory of days long past. His eyes were moved to tears, and he whispered, “Let’s sit a minute.” Henrietta heard him and said, “We can sit, if you like.” She repeated, “Yes, let’s sit.”

They sat together and exchanged pleasantries. Manfred was afraid he might say something inappropriate, for in such a setting and at such a time one might very well say words it would be embarrassing to recall, because of their banality. Manfred took the flowers from Henrietta and put her hand in his rather gruffly. He placed the flowers on a rock and closed his eyes. He saw Henrietta’s affection rising up before him, completely engulfing him. Now her hand was in his, lifeless. Only the afterscent of the flowers he took from her hand and placed on the rock was still alive. Manfred knew that the stress of caring for the household and the children had consumed the years of love. Add to this the anxiety about her relatives in Germany, where God’s wrath was loose. To remain alive, her relatives and acquaintances needed certificates. Henrietta used to spend half her day dealing with the household and the other half in pursuit of certificates. The household had its routines. As for the immigration officials, if no tears can move their ruthless hearts, from whence will our help come? While Manfred held Henrietta’s hand, the day darkened, the garden grew dusky, the array of colors vanished from the sky, and an evening chill set in. Henrietta went to get her shawl. Manfred followed her. As she wrapped herself in the shawl, Manfred reached out his arms and embraced her. She teased him and said, “What do you want with this withered stick of wood?” And she slipped out of his arms.

Chapter eighteen

Zahara and Tamara, Manfred and Henrietta’s daughters, came to welcome their little sister. Zahara is about nineteen, and Tamara is a year and a half younger as well as half a head taller, for she was only a baby when her parents brought her to this country, whose special milk makes people tall. Their faces are tanned, their hands steady — Zahara’s as a result of work, and Tamara’s from bathing in the sea and rowing on the Yarkon. Zahara belongs to a kvutza called Kfar Ahinoam, and Tamara is a student at a teachers’ seminary in Tel Aviv. They were both slow to arrive. One, because of a group of youngsters from abroad she was asked to take charge of; the other, because she went hiking with some friends.

Before dealing with the daughters, let us deal with the parents. Henrietta is blonde; her limbs are full and relaxed, responding to her at work as well as at rest. Her eyes are a medium blue that can turn fierce. Her hair is pulled across the middle of her ears and folded up in back, framing her face and leaving her neck exposed. Manfred is dark. His hair is thick, so that, seeing him in the street, you assume he is on the way to get a haircut. His eyes, either laughing or bemused, suggest a pleasant temperament. His mouth is small. A narrow mustache separates his nose from his mouth, and a wrinkle begins between his eyes, curving up to his broad forehead, where it joins with the other three and a half wrinkles that are there. This is approximately how Manfred and Henrietta look.

Now I will give about a pen’s worth of ink to a description of their daughters. But I will precede this with a few remarks about our other sisters in this land, as well as about ourselves.

When we came to the Land of Israel, we were shy young men with no interest in women, our every thought being centered on the land and on work. Finding work, we found a slice of bread, a plate of greens, and a cup of tea, and we were grateful for the land and its bounty. If we didn’t find work, we were hungry. In a hungry period, we sometimes danced to take our minds off our hunger. Whether or not the Lord of Hunger saw our situation, we paid no attention to Him. Either way, we were devoured by malaria and the other scourges of the land. If a young woman fell in with our group, we paid no attention to her looks, since it was not for the sake of beauty that she came to this country, but to work the land. When we sat discussing land, labor, farmers, and workers, it didn’t occur to us that the One who made farmers different from laborers made young men and women different too. If a fellow had his eye on a girl, it was her virtues that interested him, not her anatomy; if he had romantic tendencies, he would be interested in her doleful eyes, her plaintive voice. If she brought us songs of her homeland, in Yiddish, Polish, Russian, Ruthenian — which is now called Ukrainian — and sang them to us, we enjoyed these times on the beach at Jaffa far more than any concert we later attended in Europe’s great cities.

There were other young women, whose families were Sephardic exiles descended from the ruling class of Judea, from the tribe of Judah, like David our king and like our righteous Messiah, who will come to deliver us from exile in the lands of Edom and Ishmael. They would sit at a window and never come out of the house, for their dignity enclosed them. Unlike their Ashkenazic sisters, their dignity was interior. Their eyes were black; their black hair was parted in the middle and flowed to the edge of the forehead. A blue-black or black-blue spark flashed from their eyes, settling on their eyebrows with a fiery glow. A baffled smile fluttered over their mouth. Between eyes and mouth, the nose loomed, angry and menacing.

There were others, also descendants of exiles from Spain. They took on any job that came their way to earn their bread. Both their hair and their eyes were black. Their eyebrows glistened with warm compassion. Their mouth seemed about to cry, and, when they opened their lips to sing, their voice would embrace you and you would want to cry for no reason. If you took notice of such a one, she would turn away from the window and withdraw into the house. Why? Because you could have asked her father for her hand, but you did no such thing; you merely peered and gazed at her.

There were other young women, Moroccans, with full faces, oval heads, eyes almost as large as their face. I mean not to disparage but to praise these eyes, for they animated the entire face. They spoke a brand of Arabic not many people in this country would recognize. We include ourselves, realizing that, if we were to speak Arabic, the Arabs would assume it was Russian.

There were still others, descendants of the exile into Yemen, the cruelest of all exiles. They came to this country with a purpose — to welcome the Messiah, for our righteous Messiah will reveal himself here first, before other countries. They left homes filled with every comfort and came empty-handed, with only the clothes on their back, carrying their books, which were written with ink on parchment and on parchmentlike paper. Some were copied from the manuscripts of our great Maimonides; others, we had heard of but never seen until these immigrants from Yemen came to the country. They wandered from desert to desert, hungry and thirsty. Their days were consumed by drought, their nights by frost, and they couldn’t sleep for fear of snakes, scorpions, or bandits. Still, they never said, “Why did we forsake a settled place to wander in this wasteland?” When they reached this country, they were not welcomed with bread; no door was opened to shelter them from the night, for their brothers regarded them as strangers. They slept in the woods, foraged for food, accepted their fate without rebelling. God opened the eyes of a few unique individuals, who saw the plight of their brothers from Yemen, bought Kfar Hashiloah, and built them houses there, so they could live off the yield of their labor. This, in summary, is the tale of our brothers, the early settlers from Yemen who have been a boon to the country.

So much for the fathers, for I mean to deal only with the daughters.

They were like children, though already mothers. Only yesterday they were nurslings; today it is they who offer the breast. We noticed their work but not their charm. The good Lord, cherishing their reserve, spread a film over our eyes, so we would not be led astray.

There were others, from the land of Queen Esther. Their eyes were as sweet as the raisins from which wine is made for Pesah, and their hair soft as the neck of a songbird. They wore so many layers that their limbs didn’t show. Their ragged clothes concealed their beauty, like the wretched exile they had come from.

We will also mention those distant sisters we saw in Jerusalem when we made a pilgrimage there. On special occasions and holidays, we used to stroll through the Bukharan Quarter. It was the largest and most sweeping of Jerusalem’s neighborhoods. All its houses were grand and elegant. Grandest of all was the splendid house built for the Messiah, our king, who, when he comes, will come to Jerusalem first. Our forefathers, elders, prophets, kings, generals, and scribes will come to receive him, along with many righteous men and dignitaries. To house them all, our brothers from Bukhara have prepared grand and elegant quarters.

So much for the houses; I will now deal only with the daughters.

Their faces were full. Their colorfully embroidered garments adorned the streets. They were round, absolutely round, the embodiment of good fortune. We walked the streets of the neighborhood, our eyes on the locked doors, the closed houses — the lovely girls will appear now, they’ll come out for us to see. When they came out, it didn’t occur to us that young men such as we were could approach them. The reserve was so intense in that generation that a young man — even one who devoured romantic novels and perhaps composed his own — would never presume to approach a girl not destined by God to be his wife.

There were other young women from the cities of Lebanon, from Damascus, Aleppo, Izmir, Babylonia, all the cities of Ishmael — each with unique charm and beauty. The Creator made pots of goodness and offered them to us, but their loads are so heavy that, before we get a good look at them, their beauty fades. This is how it was when we were young.

Between yesterday and today, our generation has changed its aspect. Its young women have done likewise. The world was stripped of its original beauty; primeval beauty was eclipsed, and other concepts of beauty began to dominate our minds, then our hearts. Neither lovely eyes nor a warm face make a woman attractive now. Shapely limbs, a proud bearing, and light-footedness are the qualities that count. A body like an aspen, quaking with every breeze, is considered beautiful.

Now, to get back to the two Herbst daughters. I will begin with Tamara. True, Zahara is the older one, but when they appear together, one sees Tamara first.

Tamara, as I have noted, is tall, and her cheeks are full — you might say plump. Her forehead is narrow. Her eyes are small, suggesting two bronze specks in which the artist has engraved the trace of a smile. Her hair, like her eyes, has a bronze cast to it, and she wears it loose and disheveled. As I already suggested, her eyes have a mysterious smile, but her mouth laughs openly, and it’s hard to find anything that doesn’t elicit laughter from this mouth. I have listed all her obvious qualities. As for the less obvious ones, who can say? So much for Tamara. Now I will turn to Zahara.

Zahara is blonde, like her mother. But she is shorter than her mother, father, or sister, as she was born in Germany during the lean years, when a pregnant or nursing woman had to struggle to find food to sustain her child. Henrietta used to tell that, when she was pregnant with Zahara, a bottle of oil fell into her hands, and she exulted over it all day. Because of this meager prenatal fare, Zahara arrived in the world serious. Tell her a joke, and you won’t get even the ghost of a smile; even when she herself tells an amusing story, such as the tale of the controversy between kvutza members and Jewish National Fund officials who called the kvutza Tel Vernishevsky, after one of thousands of active Zionists whose names are forgotten once they are dead. The kvutza members, however, called it Kfar Ahinoam, after Ahinoam the Holstein, a comely dairy cow, arguing that whereas man eats, drinks, and produces waste, she eats the waste and produces milk, butter, cream, and cheese. Zahara doesn’t so much as smile, even when she describes her friend Avraham-and-a-half, who is taller than anyone, as tall as two people, but is called Avraham-and-a-half because of his modesty. Once, when they were on a walk together, Zahara sprained her ankle, and Avraham-and-a-half picked her up and carried her. Anyone who saw them from a distance would have been astonished at such a tall woman. Zahara tells this story, too: There was a Yemenite in another kvutza, near Ahinoam, who was installed there by the religious party to slaughter poultry in the ritual manner and perform marriages throughout the area. He used to sit in his hut composing poems, which he sold to collectors. He tucked his legs under him and leaned to the left or on his knees as he wrote, adding poems to the cycle he was composing. Being preoccupied with his poetry, he often appeared at a wedding after the event. But everyone was so eager to please him, they set up the canopy and had him perform the ceremony anyway.

The father of these daughters sat in his study, with the mounds of printed matter this country provides in profusion laid out before him. He didn’t discard it, out of respect for the written word. He didn’t look it over, because he knew there was nothing of substance there. Being an orderly man, Herbst took the trouble to put these papers in order: announcements with announcements, reminders with reminders, letters with letters; another pile for memos, appeals, political flyers, and the like, put out by national and charitable institutions, scholarly and political groups, children’s schools and academies, jubilee committees and plain committees — the assorted material one receives daily. An entire lifetime is not long enough to look it over.

Tamara came in and stood behind him. She leaned over him and said, “So, Manfred, you’ve made us a sister.” At that moment, the father was not comfortable with his daughter’s impudence, and he asked, “How are your classes?” Tamara answered, “Don’t worry, I’ll get my diploma.” Her father said, “When I was your age, my studies were more important to me than the diploma.” Tamara responded coyly, “When you were my age, you weren’t expected to know when Issachar Ber Schlesinger was born, and you weren’t expected to know that poem about the statue of Apollo wrapped in phylacteries.” Herbst regarded her harshly and said, “That’s absurd.” Tamara said, “You see, Father, we’re expected to learn those absurdities, and they determine whether we advance to the next class or fail. That’s how it is, Manfred.” Herbst placed both his hands on the piles of paper and muttered whatever he muttered. Tamara stared at his papers out of the corner of her tiny eyes and said, “Wow! Your desk is popping with wisdom!”

Zahara came in and said, “Hello, Father. The little one is sweet. I’ve never seen such an adorable baby. She’s intelligent, too. When I said, ‘You’re my sister,’ she looked me over to see if I deserve to be her sister. You’ve acquired some new books, Father. The shelves are full, the desk is full, even the floor is full. I won’t be surprised if we have to start coming in through the chimney. What are you up to? Mother says you hardly leave the house. In that case, you’ll soon have a book in print.”

Herbst took a chair and said, “Sit down, Zahara. Sit down. How are you, my child?” Zahara said, “That’s good advice, I’m really tired. It’s nice to sit in your room, Father. I can’t remember when I last sat on an upholstered chair.” Herbst took another chair, moved it, and said to Tamara, “You can have a seat, too. So, Tamara, no marvels to report from school?” Tamara said playfully, “You want marvels? Who expects marvels these days? In my opinion, even small accomplishments are excessive.” Herbst said, “I met up with your history teacher, and he said to me — “ Tamara said, “Never mind what he said. What did you say? In your place, I would have said to him, ‘A deadhead like you ought to cover his tiresome face to keep me from yawning.’“ Herbst said, “Don’t you think a person should know our nation’s history?” Tamara said, “Then the nation should make the kind of history I want to know.” Her father said, “Your tongue is quick, my dear.” Tamara said, “I can’t tie my tongue to a birthing bed.” Zahara said, “It’s impossible to talk to you, Tamara.” Tamara answered, “And you’re such a conversationalist? Is it essential to talk? I like people I can sit with in silence. Who’s knocking on the door?”

Zahara got up to open the door and returned with a heavy, loose-limbed young man carrying a briefcase, confident he was created for a purpose. He placed his hat on the desk, took a chair, sat down, perspired, opened the briefcase, took out a notebook, leafed through it, and said to Herbst, “You haven’t paid your dues; you owe one grush.” Herbst paid him, and the young man added, “You probably want to subscribe to the jubilee volume the committee is putting out for Getzkuvitz.” Herbst said, “I have never had the privilege of hearing that name.” The young man said, “Is it possible you never heard of Getzkuvitz? He’s the Getzkuvitz who…” and he talked on and on, until Herbst put his hands on his head, wishing for a refuge.

As soon as the visitor left, Zahara asked her father what would be done with the grush he came to collect and why he called it a grush when he meant a shilling. Her father said, “Who knows?” Zahara said, “And you gave it to him without asking what it’s for?” Herbst said, “In this country, is it possible to investigate every organization that asks for money? Mother contributes to forty funds whose names she doesn’t even know. If you wanted to know the names of all the funds that demand money, you would have to appoint a special secretary, and even that wouldn’t do. It’s easier to get rid of them with money. Words don’t work.” Zahara said, “The officials know that, and they set their agents on your trail. Nonetheless, one should ask them what they give you for your money.” Herbst laughed and said, “They don’t give me anything.” Tamara said to her sister, “You’re asking such questions — you, a kvutza member!” Zahara looked at her disdainfully and offered no response. Tamara realized she had overstepped and said to her sister, “Don’t be upset, honey. Let’s get back to Sarah. What do you think of her?” Zahara said, “She’s a sweetheart.” Tamara said, “I can picture you at her age. You were probably a sweetheart too.” Herbst looked at Zahara and said fondly, “You really were a sweetheart, Zahara.” Tamara stretched to her full height and asked, “What about me, Father?” Her father said, “Your enthusiasm about yourself spares me the trouble of an opinion.” Tamara said, “Have I no reason to be enthusiastic about myself?” Her father smiled and said, “If I say otherwise, you won’t believe me anyway. Now, what are your plans for today?” Tamara answered, “Whatever comes my way is already in my plans.” Zahara answered, “I came to attend to some business for the kvutza.” Tamara said, “And if a sister hadn’t suddenly been born to you, the business would remain undone.” Zahara said, “They would have sent someone else to attend to it.” Tamara asked, “Tell me, sister, did they at least pay part of your expenses?” Zahara said, “Whether they did or not makes no difference.” Tamara said, with a wink, “Father, explain to her that her kvutza costs you more than my tuition.”

Henrietta came in, carrying the baby. Zahara was quick to take the baby and give her mother her chair. Henrietta asked, “What were you talking about? I seem to be interrupting.” Tamara said, “On the contrary, it’s we who are interrupting your lunch preparations. What, for instance, is Mrs. Herbst preparing for her daughters’ lunch? Sarahke, hush yourself and stop shrieking. Can’t you see there are serious people here dealing with a weighty question?” Henrietta got out of the chair, took the baby from Zahara, and began cooing to her. Tamara said, “Bravo, Mother. You sound as if she were your first child. Sarahke, tell us, whom do you look like?” Zahara said, “I’m going out, Mother. Do you need anything from the market?” Henrietta said, “Don’t be long, and bring back a good appetite.” Zahara said, “I’ll try, Mother. Goodbye, all you good people.” Tamara said, two and a half times, “Goodbye, goodbye, and bring me back some ice cream.”

Chapter nineteen

The girls had gone, each to her place, and the household resumed its routine. Henrietta deals with the baby, the wetnurse, all the household affairs. Still, she manages to run around for certificates. Oh, those certificates! It seems that if you reach out, they’ll give you one. But when you get to the office, there are none, and the official you saw yesterday, who promised to give you one today, isn’t there either. There — in Berlin, Frankfurt, Leipzig, all the cities of Germany — brothers, sisters, in-laws, uncles, and aunts are rotting away, and, if you postpone bringing them here, they will be erased from the earth. Every report from there is worse than the preceding one. Sad letters, imploring letters, reproachful letters arrive daily. They reproach us for being complacent, for not lifting a finger to rescue them. Henrietta is miserable. She cries and is full of reproach — not for the English who have closed the country, nor for the malevolent officials who do their bidding and withhold certificates. She reproaches her relatives who reproach her, as if their immigration were in her control and she were obstructing it. Unaware of the runaround and abuse she endures, they repeat what they already wrote yesterday. Once again, Henrietta dresses up, runs to the Jewish Agency, to the immigration offices, to those who rule the country and, in a most cordial manner, pleads gently, ever so gently, on behalf of her sisters and brothers. She no longer distinguishes between herself and her family; she has taken in their sorrow and is one of them. Henrietta is advised to bring in her relatives on the sort of certificate that is backed up by a bank account of one thousand lirot to guarantee each immigrant’s support. The Herbsts have no such resources, even if they were to sell the clothes off their backs. And besides, there are so many relatives that they would need countless thousands. Nonetheless, Henrietta does not relent. Julian Weltfremdt and Taglicht, Herbst’s two friends, agree to be cosigners. Henrietta runs to a savings and loan bank to borrow money for deposit in Barclay’s Bank. The manager looks at the signatures and rejects Taglicht’s for, being a man of meager means, his signature is worthless. As for Weltfremdt’s signature, the bank manager clucks his tongue and says, “Weltfremdt, Weltfremdt…. Which Weltfremdt?” “Dr. Julian Weltfremdt.” If she could get Professor Ernst Weltfremdt to sign, they would accept the document and lend the money. Of course, you know Professor Ernst Weltfremdt all too well. He would give you an offprint and sign it, but a financial note — never. Still, rather than trouble her husband, Henrietta deals with most of their business, leaving him free to work. Manfred sits in his study, working.

Herbst has already prepared his lectures for the fall term. When he finished this task, it seemed to him that he had done everything. Herbst did not remember Professor Weltfremdt’s suggestion that it was desirable for a faculty member to publish an occasional book or, if not a book, at least an article. Some things are desirable and some are not. Manfred Herbst’s desires are in abeyance. He produces neither books nor articles, yet he assists others who produce books and articles. They all accept his help, assimilate his comments, acknowledge his editorial skills. Since they are the authors, the books are theirs. And if not for them, Herbst would have nothing to comment on. Still and all, to be correct, they thank him. Herbst doesn’t mind if comments offered generously to friends are not acknowledged, nor does he blush with pleasure when they thank him. If you like, this is apathy. Or, if you prefer, it’s because his mind is elsewhere. And where is it? Believe it or not, it’s with Shira.

It is Manfred’s way to help Henrietta with the daily chores. So much so that when she goes into town, he does the dishes, keeps an eye on the kerosene lamp, takes the laundry off the line, and, needless to say, watches the baby and chases the cattle sent into the garden by Arab shepherds, which exposes him to Sacharson’s monologues, designed to prove that Arab hostility is not directed against Jews in particular, for his garden is invaded too, although everyone knows he is thoroughly Christian. Whatever Herbst does is done, not out of actual will, but in an attempt to keep himself at home. Were he to go into town, he would stop at Shira’s, and he doesn’t want to stop at Shira’s. What does this mean, he doesn’t want to? Not an hour passes without his thinking of her. Still, although he can’t control his thoughts, he can control his feet. And, as long as he can control them, he keeps them at home, despite the fact that, were he to go to Shira, he and his conscience would be clear: if a man’s wife doesn’t offer him comfort, he has the right to do as he likes.

Henrietta doesn’t offer Manfred comfort or intimacy, and Manfred no longer attempts to be intimate with her; she, because of her concerns, and he, because she has trained him not to bother her. Twice a day they eat together, discussing their relatives in Germany, the university, the students and teachers. At the core of the conversation are their daughters, who no longer need them. Zahara lives in Ahinoam. She is accepted by everyone and seems to feel she belongs there. When Zahara first said, “I’m going to a kvutza,” her parents laughed and said, “When you see the privation and hard work, you’ll come running home to Mama.” But she didn’t come home to Mama. She works hard — in the fields, in the garden, anywhere — enjoying her work and eating what she produces, and even her parents benefit from her labor. She sends eggs from the kvutza, each one the size of an ostrich egg. She sends tomatoes whose equal cannot be found in any Jerusalem market and flowers that charm the eye, give off a lovely scent, and have such sweet names. In our textbooks, flower names are translated from Latin, French, and a variety of other languages. Children in the kvutza give them Hebrew names, which I’m inclined to believe go back to the third day of Creation. Zahara has even found herself a young man in Ahinoam. We don’t know who he is — either that tall Avraham whom they call Avraham-and-a-half, who carried her in his arms when she sprained her ankle, or Heinz the Berliner, who manages the kvutza’s business, or yet another one of the young men who live there. When Henrietta met Manfred, she linked her soul to him for the rest of her life. In this time and place, a young girl doesn’t know to whom to cling. So much for Zahara.

Tamara still hasn’t finished her studies. She plans to live in Tel Aviv until she gets her certificate and a teaching job. When does she study? We wonder about that; one more wonder to add to the seven wonders of the world. In the summer? She spends all day at the beach, swimming, sunbathing, exercising, sailing, doing all sorts of delightful things on land and sea. In the winter? She goes hiking, to get to know the length and breadth of the land. When she’s in Tel Aviv, she sleeps all day. As for the night, she spends most of it in one of the cafés. Tamara and Zahara are sisters, with the same father and mother, yet they are not related in looks, height, or dress. But they do resemble each other. I will tell you something that happened to me in this connection. Once, in the winter, I was in Kfar Ahinoam, where I met Zahara. That summer I went down to Tel Aviv to bathe in the sea, where I happened to meet Tamara. I said to her, “I saw you in Kfar Ahinoam.” She stretched to her full height, laughed her bronze laugh, and said, “I grew two heads taller in the interim.” I looked at her, saw my error, and laughed with her. I have related all this to demonstrate that, though they seem dissimilar, they are actually alike. Not only these two, but all of the country’s youth: our young men and women are all alike. When you and I were young, we studied in one room, in one school, from one Gemara text, hoping to resemble our fathers and teachers. But, in the end, we were different from them and different from each other. Here, the schools are all different, the texts are different, and the students end up resembling one another.

I will get back to the heart of my story. Actually, I have nothing new to add. Everything is in order in the Herbst household. Henrietta deals with her concerns, and Manfred deals with his. They eat together and converse with each other. When she is free from her chores for a while, he reads the news to her and adds details excluded from the paper. Many things are happening. Every day Jews are killed in secret as well as in public, and every day there are black borders in the newspaper. At first, when we saw a black band in the paper and read that a Jew had been murdered, we left our meal unfinished. Now that there is so much misfortune, one sits at the table eating bread with butter and honey, reading, and remarking, “A Jew was killed again, another man, woman, child.” We sit with folded hands, yielding to murder, proclaiming, “Restraint, restraint!” They murder, kill, incinerate, while we exercise restraint. As for the authorities, how do they react? They enact a curfew. Our people are contained in their houses. They don’t go out lest they be struck by an arrow, for those who shoot the arrows roam freely, unleashing their weapons anywhere. You can’t say the authorities aren’t doing their job, nor can you say we’re not doing ours. We exercise restraint and show the world how beautiful we are, how beautiful the Jewish ethic is: even when they come to kill us, we are silent.

Manfred sits with Henrietta, reading her the news of the day, explaining England’s strategy, along with the importance of the Arab factor, listing all our disappointments from the Balfour Declaration to the present. Manfred and Henrietta are not politically knowledgeable, and I doubt if Herbst has read a single book about English policy, not to mention Henrietta, who doesn’t even read the newspaper. But since the riots of 1929, even they pay attention to what is going on in the country. With Jews being murdered every day, anyone who lives in the Land of Israel hears his brother’s blood crying out to him from the earth, and he too cries out. The Herbsts, who were remote from politics, began to dabble in them, like every other Jew, when the trouble became more constant.

Manfred and Henrietta are sitting together. He reads and she listens; she questions and he responds, stimulating her with his responses, so that she asks further questions. Manfred says to Henrietta, “You think those who hate Jews love Arabs and those who love Arabs hate Jews. But, in fact, when they denounce Zionism, they denounce us, hoping to win the Arabs.” Manfred, whose ideas lead to memories and whose memories lead to ideas, recounts earlier history, written and unwritten, provocative newspaper articles and virulent sermons delivered in mosques, inciting Arabs against Jews. Henrietta marvels at Manfred’s ability to fathom politics and to put things together. Henrietta accommodates her opinions to his and makes his thoughts hers. If Henrietta understood Manfred in other areas as well as she understands his remarks on the delusions of politics, they would both be better off.

The Herbsts’ position among their Arab neighbors in the Baka area began to deteriorate. Before 1929, Baka was settled by Jews who lived with Arab neighbors in peace and harmony. They rode in the same buses, the same pharmacists filled their prescriptions, and good wishes winged their way from a Jew’s mouth to an Arab’s ear and from an Arab’s mouth to a Jew’s ear. When a Jew greeted an Arab, he greeted him in Arabic, and when an Arab greeted a Jew, he greeted him in Hebrew. It was not mere lip service but a sincere, loving exchange, so that there were those who prophesied that Arabs and Jews would become one nation in the land. How? This could not be spelled out, but what reason doesn’t accomplish is often accomplished by time. The power of time exceeds the power of reason, even of imagination. Suddenly, all at once, came the riots of 1929. Jewish blood was spilled by Arab neighbors who had lived alongside them like beloved brothers. Fear of the Arabs fell upon the Jews, and anyone living in their midst ran for his life. All the Jews who lived in Lower Baka or Upper Baka fled and never returned to their homes in Arab neighborhoods.

When calm was restored, several families picked up and went back to Baka. Those who found that their homes had been plundered retrieved their remaining property and settled somewhere else. Those who found their homes intact went back to live in them while they looked for housing in a Jewish neighborhood.

Herbst was the first one to go back. On Sunday, after calm was restored, Herbst emerged from the hiding place in which he, his wife, and several neighbors had taken refuge that entire previous day and night. He met Julian Weltfremdt, who asked, “What happened to your books?” He said, “They were either flung into the street or burned.” Weltfremdt said, “I see a police officer. Come, I’ll tell him you left a roomful of books and you want to see if they survived.” They went and told the officer. He invited them into his car, and they drove to Baka.

They arrived in Baka and found that the house and study were both intact. The officer saw the books and was astonished that one man could own so many volumes. He was charmed by Dr. Herbst and said to him, “You and your family can go back to your house today, and I will guarantee your safety.” Three or four days later, the Herbsts were back in their house. Manfred returned because of his books, and Henrietta returned because she was attached to the home she had put together with her own hands. Mrs. Herbst had found a mound of trash and transformed it into a delightful home.

The Herbst family lived in an Arab neighborhood in a lovely house in the midst of a lovely garden, as if the riots had never occurred. Kaddish was still being said for those murdered in the Land of Israel, and the land was still in mourning for these victims, yet the Herbsts’ neighbors were already coming to “Madame Brovessor Herberist,” one to borrow a utensil, another to bare a troubled soul: her husband was threatening divorce because of her repeated miscarriages. She asked Madam Brovessor to take her to a Jewish doctor, as she had done for other neighbors whose homes were now teeming with children, for Jewish doctors deliver live babies. Once again Herbst’s neighbors anticipated his greeting, as in the old days; in those days, however, they greeted him in Hebrew, whereas they now greeted him in Arabic or English. In the interim, England had sent many troops to the Land of Israel, and the English language was becoming widespread. Before the riots, there were four hundred English soldiers in the land; since the riots began, you couldn’t make a move without running into an Englishman.

I will skip the years between the disturbances and the unrest (1929 to 1936), recounting events that occurred from 1936 on and relating them to Manfred’s story. Suddenly, without the leaders of the community and its great men being aware that a catastrophe was imminent, there was a new round of violence known as the riots, in which Jewish blood flowed unrestrained, and there were so many murders and massacres that no self-preserving Jew would venture out at night, certainly not a Jew living among Arabs, for his life would be at risk.

In the Talmud Tractate Gittin, we are told that Tur Malka was destroyed because of a rooster and a hen, that Betar was destroyed because of a chariot peg. What was it that brought on these riots? A straw mat. They tell a story about a Polish rabbi who went up to Jerusalem and prayed at the Western Wall on Yom Kippur. He gave an order, and a straw mat was hung up to separate the men from the women. Arab leaders complained to the English governor. The governor sent soldiers to demolish the divider. Jewish leaders called a protest meeting. Arab leaders incited their people against the Jews. The Arabs came out to demolish, eliminate, annihilate all the Jews. Blessed is the Lord, who didn’t abandon us.

Manfred Herbst sits at home nights and doesn’t go into town. Which is a good thing, for, if he were to go there, he would stop at Shira’s, and he doesn’t want to stop at Shira’s. In other words, he does and he doesn’t want to, and, since he is ambivalent, he assumes he really doesn’t want to.

A person can’t give up going into town night after night — because of a friend he needs to talk to there, or for some other reason. There are countless reasons. Most important: anyone who turns away from society will find society turning away from him. As for the dangerous roads, it is dangerous to go on foot but safe in a car, even in a bus, since the buses have been equipped with iron window bars that keep out the rocks Arabs fling at passengers. The way it works is this: one puts off compulsory trips and undertakes the optional ones. Since an optional trip is optional, it ends up becoming compulsory. One night Herbst happened to be in town, which did not gratify him. So he decided to go to Shira.

He didn’t really want to see her. On the way there, he began to wish that she wouldn’t be in, that her house would be locked, that some passerby would detain him. As he approached her house, his legs began to tremble with desire.

He arrived at her house, saw a light, and remarked in despair, “She does seem to be at home.” He began to mutter, “Let her be sick, let her not be able to get out of bed to open the door for me.”

He stood at the entrance to Shira’s house like a man whose mind is on a woman, who is wondering just what he sees in her, why she is in his mind, and what moved him to go to her, who concludes that, since he’s there, he might as well go in and stay just long enough to say hello, then take leave of her and go home.

He came to Shira’s and found she was in good health. Her face showed annoyance at having an uninvited guest. But in her heart she was glad to see him. He didn’t see what was in her heart, only what was in her face. She was sitting near the light, reading a German magazine. When he came in, she took off her glasses, held the magazine in her right hand, and greeted him with the left. Her fingers were cool, and Shira herself was like her fingers. There was something about her that puzzled Herbst.

A man has his eye on a woman and is eager to see her. After a while, he goes to her. He wonders what he saw in her, what it was that attracted him to her. She is not his type, and he is not hers.

He peered at the magazine in her hand, his mouth twisted with contempt, and said, “Put down that rag.” Shira answered, “It’s not a rag, and I have no reason to put it down.” Herbst said, “Why so angry?” Shira answered him, “It’s not anger, and there’s no reason for you to ask me questions.” Herbst shrugged his shoulders and said, “All right, all right.” Shira said, “Could it be that Dr. Herbst has nothing to say?” Herbst said, “What, for example, should I say?” Shira said, “After not showing yourself to me for weeks — a number that adds up to months, in fact — you come and start a fight. But I won’t fight with you. On the contrary, I’ll prove how eager I am to know how you’re doing. So, how is Dr. Herbst doing? And how is Mrs. Herbst? And the baby? I think she’s called Sarah. If you change the vowels, her name is like mine. So you are all well? A man whose wife and children are well is truly fortunate. Please take a chair, Dr. Herbst, and sit down, rather than wear out your legs pacing. You might like to try a new kind of cigarette; they say it’s easy on the nerves.”

Herbst was pacing around the room in an agitated state. He didn’t look at Shira, but her evil presence was palpable wherever he turned. He encircled his left thumb with his right hand and pressed it hard. After a while, he went over to Shira, looked down at the magazine she was holding, and took her glasses. Shira said, “What are you doing? Give me my glasses and I’ll read you something nice.” Herbst said, “If that’s the verdict, I’ll sit and listen.” After she had read awhile, he got up and said, “There are people who write such nonsense, and there are people who read such nonsense. For the life of me, I can’t understand it.” Shira said, “Tell me, please, what’s so bad about this article?” Herbst said, “Tell me, please, what’s so good about it?” He recognized from these words that such an argument would not lead to a meeting of hearts. He shut his mouth and thought to himself: If I hadn’t lingered this long, we wouldn’t be arguing.

Shira saw that his face was becoming more and more gloomy. She looked up at him and asked, “What’s wrong, dear? Did something happen?” There was a trace of pity in her voice. Herbst answered, “It’s nothing.” Shira said, “Then why so sad?” Running her hand through his hair, she said, “A fine head of hair, no doubt about it. And a fine forehead, the forehead of a scholar. I suppose there are fine thoughts rumbling around in your head when you are at work. Manfred, will I ever see you at work?” Herbst stretched out his arms to embrace her. Shira said, “I’m making meaningful conversation, and you want to be silly.” He caught her and sat her on his lap. But he wasn’t happy. Although she seemed to be in his hands, she could slip away. And what was in his mind she acted upon. She slipped off his lap, stood up, arranged her blouse, and said, “I’ll go and make you tea. I could even make you supper. When did you leave home? Aren’t you hungry? You could sit and read the magazine while I go to the kitchen.”

Shira went off to the kitchen, while Herbst sat browsing through the magazine. What he read didn’t add up to anything of interest, nor did his thoughts add up to anything. Only one thing interested him: when would Shira be back, and how would she behave with him?

Shira has already been gone longer than it takes to put a kettle on the fire, boil water, and brew tea. What is taking so long? She must be preparing supper. Yes, Shira is preparing supper. She invited him to eat with her. All day she works with patients; when she gets home, she has household chores to do. In this respect, she is no different from most single people in Jerusalem and throughout the land. Some of these women are her betters, yet their fate is in no way better than Shira’s. Before looking to them, let’s look to Lisbet Neu. But Herbst was not faring so well either: when he took the time to come to Shira, she went off to the kitchen, leaving him all alone.

Chapter twenty

Shira returned and set the dishes on the table, along with butter, cheese, tomatoes, cocoa, grapes, and berries. She moved slowly, singing some inane song. Her voice was not pleasant, and the words were banal. Herbst was irritated by the voice, the words, and most of all her pace. Such a leisurely pace would provoke even the most easygoing person, such as myself, to murder. In the interests of peace, he shut his mouth, rather than risk saying a harsh word.

When the dishes and food were arranged, Shira went to bring a jar of pickled olives. She sniffed them and said, “You don’t have to worry about garlic. I’ll bring us some cognac. I’ll have mine with the meal, and you can drink yours before, during, after — however you like, my dear. There’s no rule.” Then, with a start, she tapped her forehead and said, “What a fool I am. I have gin, and I didn’t bring it. Do you like gin?”

Herbst sat silently, thinking to himself: The devil take you, gin and all. He remembered that night when he was in her room for the first time; he remembered suggesting that she change her clothes, and he remembered everything that followed. He wouldn’t offer such a suggestion now — if she went to change her clothes, she would be sure to linger, and his chief desire was to be with her.

By now, the many kinds of food and drink that Shira had were arranged on the table. Nothing was missing, not a fork, a knife, a bowl, a glass. By all reason, it was time for her to sit down. What did Nadia do? She went behind the curtain to the sink and washed her hands, singing that same song. Her voice, like the song, was not pleasant, not lovely. When she had dried her hands, she came to Herbst and said, “There’s water, soap, a towel. Wash your hands and we’ll eat.” Herbst answered, “I don’t want to wash my hands.” Shira said, “You don’t want to wash your hands? One should wash before eating.” Herbst said, “I don’t want to eat.” Shira said, “As a nurse, an expert in health, I tell you that a person must eat. If he doesn’t eat, he’ll be hungry; if he’s hungry, he’ll have no strength; and if he has no strength, he’ll end up sick. Hurry up, sweetheart, and wash your hands. I’m hungry, and I want to eat.” As she spoke, she sliced some bread, buttered it, and began to eat. Then she put down her bread and asked, “Why aren’t you eating?” He said, “Because I don’t want to.” She said, “You’re acting like a baby — not a good baby, but an obstinate one. Do you know how we handle obstinate children? We make them eat.” She took the bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and said in a singsong, in baby talk, “A bite for Mommy, a bite for Daddy, and a bite for little Fredchen. Chew it well, my little one, or an ogre will come to put you in his sack and carry you off to a place where they make you eat porridge every day. Be good, my sweet. Eat up, and don’t make Mommy sad. You’re angry, my child. A good boy shouldn’t be angry. Now you’re smiling. Smile, my boy, smile. A smile is good for the heart. Tomorrow, my boy, we’ll take you to the barber and ask him to make a part in your hair. But first, eat well.” She brushed his head with her hand, took a pinch of hair, leaned over his head, and sniffed. As she stood there, he encircled her hips with his arms. She didn’t make a move, nor did she seem to object to his gesture. Suddenly she slipped away and fled. He muttered under his breath, “Damn!” Shira put her hand to her nose and said, “Didn’t they teach you not to swear, my child?” She moved close to him again, brushed her hand over his head, and said, “Eat, my friend. The cocoa will get cold.” Herbst said, “The light is blinding.” Shira said, “Which light?” He pointed to the lamp. “What do you mean, doctor? Should we sit in the dark?” Herbst said, “I didn’t mean the lamp. I meant the light from the neighbors’ houses. Please, Shira, lower the blinds.” Shira said, “The more light, the more joy.” Herbst made a wry face and said, “The light of your eyes is enough for me.” Shira said, “I beg you, don’t talk nonsense. I know my own eyes, and I know they don’t glow. Unless you’re referring to my glasses.” Herbst went to the window and rattled the blind. Shira said, “Easy, easy, you’re breaking it.” Herbst said, “Then you lower it.” She went to the window, singing that same song, stood looking outside, and said, “Enlightened professor, all the houses are dark. You’ve wrecked the pulley, and I can’t lower the blind. What a schlemiel! Everything he touches breaks.” She tugged at it, this way and that, over and over again. Then, turning her head, she said, “It’s hopeless.” Just then, the blind lowered itself. She went to the other window and lowered the blind in one move, turned her head again, and said, “Are you satisfied, my friend?” He nodded and closed his eyes. She said, “Do you have a headache?” He looked at her and said, “Why do you ask?” Shira said, “I saw you squinting, as if you were in pain.” He said, “No, it’s nothing.” She said, “Good.” He said: “Not good.” She said, “Not good?” He said, “Good, good.” She said, “When someone feels good, he doesn’t yell, ‘Good, good.’“He said, “Good, good.” Shira laughed and said, “There you go again. Please tell me, just who is feeling good?”

Herbst opened his arms and said, “Come, Shira, come.” Shira said, “But I’m here.” He said, “Come, sit on my lap.” She said, “He can barely hold himself up, and he wants to hold this heavy load — freckles, eyeglasses, and all. Eat first. It might make you stronger.” Herbst said, “I don’t need food.” “You don’t need food, but you do need this dismal load on your lap. You’re swaying like a windmill. I wonder if you have a fever. Give me your hand; I’ll check your pulse. The pulse is all right, but Fredchen isn’t. Let me listen to your heart.” After she listened to his heart, he said, “Now let me listen to yours.” Shira said, “I, my friend, am normal. I don’t need to be examined.” Meanwhile, he reached out and put his hand on her heart. She shouted at him, “You’re out of your mind! Anyone could peek in and see.” Alarmed, he looked around and then began to shout, “That’s a lie, Shira! A lie! No one is looking.” Shira said, “But someone could look.” Herbst said, “You pulled down the blinds, so no one can see.” Shira said, “But they can guess what you’re doing.” Herbst said, “If they can guess, let them guess.” Shira said, “It doesn’t matter at all to you, my friend, but it matters to me.” Herbst said, “Don’t be — “ Shira said, “What is my Manfredchen asking me not to be?” Herbst said, “I’m not asking anything.” Shira laughed and said, “If you were asking nothing, you’d be doing nothing.” Herbst said, “So what am I doing?” As he spoke, he put his arm around her hips. She loosened his grip. His head drooped, and he was silent.

Shira said, “You’re tired. Lie down for a while, then you can get up and go home.” Herbst stretched out on her bed, closed his eyes, and waited, expecting Shira to come and sit near him. When she didn’t come, he opened his eyes and discovered she was nowhere in sight. He muttered, “The hell with her, where did she go?” He looked around and saw that the table was bare: Damn; she went to do the dishes. She has to do them now, when I feel as if I was flung into a blazing furnace.

And, in truth, the fire had already taken hold. He was like fire within fire, flaming and enflaming; he was overwhelmed by a sweetness that melts the whole body. He no longer existed; nor did any part of him exist, other than that mounting sweetness. When he stirred and realized he was alone, he pricked up his ears but heard nothing. He began to wonder. When some time had passed and she wasn’t back, he began to worry: What if she doesn’t come back? If she didn’t come back and he were found stretched out on her bed, he’d be in trouble. Anyway, she certainly hadn’t gone far. If she had, she wouldn’t have left her purse and her powder. Then he saw his shadow on the wall, and his blood froze. Shira returned.

Shira came back, dressed in light clothes, giving off the good scent of lavender. Herbst reached out to her and whispered, “Come, Shira, come.” She sat beside him, her body quivering. He thought to himself: If I had any sense, I would lie here and let her quiver, let her know what it’s like. But he had no sense, and he didn’t lie calmly. Shira said gently, “You’re in such a frenzy, so stormy and wild. Take off your jacket and cool off.” She got off the bed to make room. As he struggled to get his jacket off, with her standing by, there was an uproar outside and the sound of running. Shira opened a window, stuck her head out, then turned back toward Herbst, saying, “It’s the curfew. They’ve announced another curfew until six in the morning.” Herbst was in a panic. He didn’t know what he would do, but he knew he had to get back immediately, that he couldn’t not go home.

“When does it start?” he asked in alarm. Shira said, “It starts now and is in effect until morning. You want to go? Do you have a pass?” Herbst said, “I don’t have any such thing.” Shira said, “Then how will you go? The police will stop you.” Herbst said, “But I must get home.” Shira said, “You must get home, but how? If you go out, a policeman will stop you immediately and take you to the station. You’ll have to spend the night there.” Herbst said, “I’m sure you understand, Shira, that I have to go. Think of something, Shira. I’m dying, I’m going crazy.” Shira looked at him irately and said, “No need to go crazy. I’ll talk to Axelrod, my neighbor. He may agree to take you home.” Herbst said, “Go on, Shira. Ask Axelrod to take me home. Who’s Axelrod?” Shira said, “Axelrod is Axelrod’s son.” Herbst said, “You’re teasing me.” Shira said, “It’s as I said. This Axelrod is the son of the Axelrod you met at the hospital when you brought Mrs. Herbst to the maternity section. Papa Axelrod is a pest of the first water, but the son is a daring young man who drives a bus for Hamekasher. I’ll see if he’s in.” Herbst looked at her imploringly and said, “Go on, Shira, go. But can you allow yourself to be seen in those clothes?” A few minutes later, he heard the sound of a car. A broad-shouldered young man came in and said, “Hop in, professor. Don’t worry, I’ll take you home.”

Herbst parted from Shira on the run. He got into the car and sat on the edge of the seat, compressing himself into his body, his mouth agape with wonder that, at an hour when no one was allowed to be out, a driver had agreed to take him home. He watched the driver, who held the steering wheel in his hand and made the car move. Herbst realized what a great favor the driver was doing for him and wanted to thank him, but he couldn’t find the words. He sat gaping, his lips on fire, dismayed to find himself in a car in the heart of the dark night. He sank into the cushions, listening to the wheels of the car turning and rolling onward. He began to reflect: It’s good that I’m going home, but the essence of the matter isn’t good. He covered his eyes with both hands and reviewed what had happened to him with Shira. Actually, nothing at all had happened, so why the embarrassment and regret? After a while, he uncovered his eyes. He looked at his hands and was surprised to find that the darkness had not clung to them.

Again he buried himself in the cushions, alerting his ears to the sound of the car wheels clattering through the silent city, the silence receding before them as he approached his home.

Near the Allenby Barracks, two armed Syrian policemen popped out and stopped the car. They were so short that their rifles overshadowed them. They rattled their weapons to intimidate the passengers, made menacing faces, and spoke menacingly — like warriors seizing captives. Axelrod eyed them calmly, like a customer examining toy soldiers to see whether they are made of lead or tin. He said to them, “The man I am driving is a great professor, one of our great university professors, and he can’t be detained.” Whether or not the policemen knew what a professor was, they understood from the driver’s tone that his passenger was important and to be treated with respect. They signaled with their rifles and cleared the road for him. Shortly thereafter, Herbst found himself at home.

Chapter twenty-one

On the twenty-first of Heshvan, Herbst went up to Mount Scopus for the opening ceremonies of the academic year. It was his habit to go to these ceremonies without his wife, as Henrietta had trained him to go alone whenever he could manage without her.

The main hall of the Rosenblum Building was full. In addition to professors, lecturers, advisers, students, and university officials, there were guests from Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa, and the rest of the country’s towns and settlements — invited guests who were guaranteed a seat, as well as uninvited guests, the sort who push their way into every public place and grab the reserved seats.

It was past three in the afternoon. Early autumn permeated the spacious, high-ceilinged room with air for which any attire was suitable. One would not feel chilly in summer clothes, nor would winter clothes be too heavy. Similarly with the doors: when they were open, they didn’t let in a chill and when they were closed, it wasn’t too warm. The guests chatted with one another about the university, its buildings, the courses for which there were still no teachers, and Mount Scopus and its environs. They didn’t raise their voices as they talked; even those who were in the habit of making themselves heard, at any time and in any place, behaved respectfully. The windows drew light directly from the sky itself, with nothing intervening. There were many people present who felt, at that moment, that this structure was unique among structures and this setting unique among settings. Individuals who tended to respond only to what was created to be useful to man were astonished by what they saw from Mount Scopus: the city, the Temple Mount, the wilderness inhabited by infinite colors, the Dead Sea, whose quiet blue flows up from the bottom of the deep, capped by hills and valleys that soar and dip and wrinkle, with every wind etching shapes above like those below, from which a breeze ripples upward and flutters overhead.

On the platform and close by sat the leaders of the yishuv, who arrived early, before the proceedings began, unlike those functionaries who make a point of coming late, so they can feast their eyes on the crowd rising to honor them. Suddenly all conversation ceased, the hall was silent. All eyes were on the president of the university, who had begun his speech. He had been a Reform rabbi in his youth and had been forced to leave his post because he was a Zionist. Although he retained some of the mannerisms of the Reform rabbinate, which are considered ridiculous in this country, his height, style, and dignity led even the cynics in the hall to listen to what he had to say.

As he did every year, he expounded on the role of the Hebrew University, which is not merely the university of the Land of Israel, but belongs to Jews everywhere and is destined to break down the boundaries of Jewish learning, fusing Jewish studies with the humanities and natural sciences to form one single discipline — for everything human is Jewish, and everything Jewish is human.

After outlining the future of the university, he enumerated the innovations of the past academic year, as well as those on the agenda for the coming year: who was appointed lecturer and who was promoted to the rank of senior lecturer, associate professor, or tenured professor. Although most of this information was already public knowledge, everyone listened attentively, for it is one thing to hear a rumor in the marketplace and another to hear it from the president of the university at the official opening of the new academic year.

After listing the names of the faculty members and the promotions, he told how many buildings had been built and how many new students enrolled.

After finishing this account, he spoke about the obligations of teachers and students. Their purpose was twofold and manifold, for, apart from coming to this institution for the sake of learning — some to study and some to teach — a further duty was thrust upon them: to fortify the Torah and the Jewish ethic, without which there could be no future for the nation and no basis for society.

After mentioning all the lofty and exalted hopes invested in the university and in rebuilding the land, he lowered his voice and spoke of impending dangers, dangers we did not foresee, with the power to undermine the lofty and sublime hopes that had brought us here.

Everyone sat and listened, not so much to the speech as to a voice from their own hearts that spoke without words and began to take form. Earlier, as long as there was peace in the world, in all the lands of our exile it was possible to dream of the return to Zion, the revival of the people and its language. Some unique individuals added a dream to this dream: the dream of a Hebrew University in Jerusalem. How? The dreamers never explained this dream. When they were awake, they could provide no key to it. Our holy language remained unsuited to scholarship; Hebrew-speaking professors were scarce, and Hebrew was as far from the lips as dreams from reality. The war suddenly erupted, the world was in chaos, and not one of the dreamers dreamed a good dream. The towns Jews lived in were eradicated, and hundreds of thousands of Jews were killed in the war and its aftermath. At last those at war were worn out and no longer able to fight. All weapons were at rest, and there was no more war. Some of those who survived the war thought about returning to their homes. They found no way to travel. There were no vehicles, no horses to ride. Highwaymen prowled the roads, which were in disrepair and difficult to traverse by foot. The survivors were pressed to leave those places in which they had found refuge from the sword of war, because of hardships and a shortage of food. So they plucked up their courage and, without regard for themselves, set off. They returned to their towns and found desolation, their houses burned to the ground. Anyone who found his home intact found it occupied by a vicious Christian, who held on to the house, shouting at him, “Jew, what do you want here? Go to Palestine!” During the war, Britain had issued a declaration and even published a letter saying that she viewed with favor the opening of the gates of the Land of Israel to the people of Israel. This message had not yet reached people’s hearts, though the hostile voices of those who stole our houses resounded wherever Jews sought their homes and property.

They swallowed their pride and looked elsewhere. Walking from place to place, they found nothing. They began to despair and asked, “Could it be, God forbid, that Israel’s destruction has been decreed and that this is the beginning of the end?” A very few individuals overcame these misfortunes and said, “Salvation will come from these very misfortunes.” How? Salvation isn’t brought about by reason.

In any case, there were a few individuals who ignored logic and didn’t wait for salvation. They banded together and went up to this land. They wandered from nation to nation, from country to country, along with those hordes returning from the war, its disabled victims, wounded human fragments, thieves, and murderers. At last they came to a port and hired leaky vessels that took them up to heaven and down to the abyss. Some reached the gates of death, and some reached the gates of this land. When they arrived, they engaged in hard labor. All day they were consumed by the sun; at night, by insects and other ills with which God blighted the land. Without regard for themselves, they paved roads, made settlements, and cured the ills of the land, preparing it for the next generation and for all our brothers-in-exile. Today they are here in Jerusalem, our glorious city, capital of our land, the Land of Israel, at our sanctuary-university at the opening ceremonies of the academic year. They sit at the Hebrew University, on benches like the ones in a real university. And what is the language of instruction? Hebrew. Disregard the fact that some of the professors are not very learned. You could say that they are like clay shards placed between beams, that great men will come tomorrow and fill the house with scholarship. Do you ask, “Who needs a university in an age such as this, when books are widely available and anyone who wishes can open a book and learn?” As long as other countries support universities, it is fitting for us to have one too.

When the ceremony was over, Herbst left for home. There were many cars at the university gate, waiting to take the guests back to town. But what always happens, on any day, at any hour, happened then. Those who value time, love work, and behave decently are shoved aside by loudmouthed idlers in noisy pursuit of nothing, who push and shove, occupying every space without leaving an inch, preventing you from getting home and back to the work that was interrupted by these ceremonies. All the cars were occupied and would be filled again when they returned by those who jump lines and are stronger than you. This being the case, Herbst chose to go back on foot.

He turned away from the vehicles, toward the edge of the road, stopping to adjust the elegant tie he had worn for the occasion and to decide which road to take, for there were many roads branching off this way and that, each one scenically special, so that it was hard to choose one over the others. Before Herbst had a chance to decide which he would take, he heard the sound of a car behind him. He moved aside, turned toward the car, and saw four or five of his friends in it, among them Professor Wechsler, who invited him to join them. When Herbst noticed that Axelrod was driving, he had no wish to get in, for Axelrod might mention that he had given him a lift the other night, and it would be best if they knew nothing about it. He thanked them for the invitation and went on.

Twilight. All over the mountain and in the valley, everything was still. The sky above was overlaid with an array of shifting colors throwing light on each other, blending, modulating, appearing, and disappearing in a flash, only to be succeeded by others, still others. Before these settle in, another round appears, and they swallow each other up. Dirt and rock take shape, as do shrubs and grass, fragrant grass which, along with thorns, briars, and wild brush, fills the arid land with its good smell as the day dims. Each step bestows peace, each breath cures, taking in the scent of field grass, a remnant of summer, born of the early rains. Suddenly, the lights were turned on and the whole city glowed. Over the city, in the skies above, the moon could be seen beginning its tour.

The evening was fine and pleasant, the air clear and fresh, like most autumn evenings in Jerusalem after the first rains. Herbst was in a similar state. The days spent at home, in his study, in the garden with Henrietta, peaceful and quiet, had a favorable effect. But for the somber thoughts that wrinkled his brow, Herbst was like a young man.

Herbst was already at the foot of the mountain, near town. Those who live in outlying neighborhoods, who come to town and are not in a hurry to get home, spend an hour or two roaming Jerusalem’s streets or seeing friends. Herbst, who had had his fill of society even before the ceremonies, wasn’t eager for his colleagues or their conversation. But he had an urge to see the whole city, to go beyond the wall, which he didn’t do. If he were to go there, he would become involved, endlessly so and without limits. Yet much as he resists, he is drawn there, because of a place he never saw, though he knew he was already there many times.

He took himself toward the post office, from there to the Jewish Agency, from there to Zion Square, and from there to a small department store. He looked in all the windows and came back to the one with fountain pens that sprang forward as if from inside a mirror. Actually, there was a large mirror beneath the pens, which were suspended over it on invisible string. A tiny light was attached to every pen, shining on it, on its shadow, and on the face of anyone who happened to be studying the display. While Herbst was considering which pen he would like to buy, his reflection peered out at him from the mirror, decked out in the finery he had worn for the opening ceremonies of the new academic year. It was a long time since Herbst had been so elegantly dressed and a long time since he had felt so fresh. He stopped to adjust the tie Henrietta had bought him for his birthday, with money held back from household expenses, and gazed into the mirror.

The tie was in place; it hadn’t stirred, not this way, not that. His thoughts, however, were stirring this way and that. He dismissed the pen he had in mind to buy for himself, as well as his thoughts about what he would write with the pen, and began listing the names of the lecturers and professors the president of the university had mentioned in his address. He repeated the names of all those who had been promoted. He considered each one of them — the books they had produced, the articles they had written. He envied neither them nor their works. He would have enjoyed discussing academic politics with his colleagues, but he wasn’t drawn to any one of them. This one never makes a clear statement; that one has a wife who doesn’t let him get a word in, and, before he has a chance to answer you, the house is brimming with her conversation. This fellow is even worse than the other two. He takes what you say and twists it, so you wear yourself out explaining what you meant, and you can never be sure he won’t quote you on something you never said. Still worse is the one who talks only about himself — what Mrs. So-and-so said to him after visiting him with a group of tourists, who felt deeply honored by his hospitality, and what Professor So-and-so wrote to him about his new book. Julian Weltfremdt is the one person worth listening to, but, not being a member of its inner circle, he tends to demolish the university and its professors with every breath. Also, if you come at night, you find him and his wife sitting across from each other at one table with one light. She is reading the novels she reads, while he covers his face with a newspaper or book to avoid seeing them. You begin talking, and, as soon as she says a word, Julian gets up, takes his hat, puts a hand on your shoulder, and says, “How about a walk?”

A man has many friends and no preference about which one to go to, so he doesn’t go to any of them. While Herbst was deliberating, he arrived at a point where several roads intersect. One of them leads to Shira. I will waste no words. Of all the roads, Herbst chose the one that leads to Shira.

Chapter twenty-two

Shira was dressed in warm, unattractive clothes. Her face was tired, her cheeks smooth. Only her freckles were prominent, so enlarged that it seemed as if a part of her right cheek had been taken away. The room smelled of some liniment, the kind you apply to a bruise. Either she had been tending patients’ bruises or she herself was bruised. Herbst stared at her with probing eyes, like a man studying a woman he dislikes in order to identify the power that draws him to her. He saw again what he had already seen: although she wasn’t ugly, she certainly wasn’t beautiful. He had called her Nadia in the beginning, before he really knew her. Actually, this name suggests no particular image; still, it suits her better than Shira.

Herbst changed his face to register fury and considered: Maybe I won’t address her in the familiar second person. He hadn’t arrived at a decision when he said, “I’ve interrupted you.” He was prepared to hear her say, “I’m busy,” and to answer, “If so, I won’t keep you. I’ll be on my way.” But rather than answer his implied question, she said, “So you got home all right.” Herbst said, “That’s an old story. It’s been almost a month.” Shira said, “A month and a half. Still, you haven’t forgotten me, and you took the trouble to stop by. One can’t say the man has no curiosity.” Herbst said, “It’s not a question of curiosity. I’ve been busy. I had to prepare first-rate lectures for the winter semester. Students are beginning to come from all over; many have been at European universities and can’t be offered rubbish.” Shira said, “And you stopped working to come here.” Herbst said, “You want to know how I could stop working to come here? Because, I already prepared some of the lectures, so I’m able to take the time.” Shira answered in a relaxed tone, “You prepared your lessons and found yourself with a little time, some of which you’ve decided to donate to me. Now I need some time to arrange my thoughts and consider what to do with the gift of time you were kind enough to give me. If I were sure I would be able to arrange my thoughts in a single evening, I would tell you to take a chair and sit down. But I’m afraid I, too, might need a month and a half to arrange my thoughts, and that may be too long for you to wait.” Herbst said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down.” He thought to himself: I’ll stay until she finishes complaining, then I’ll be on my way.

Herbst sat and Shira sat, making no move to change her clothes. Didn’t she realize such clothes were not likely to win hearts? Not to mention her complaints, or the look on her face. He thought of asking if she was sick but decided not to, for she would surely notice from his tone of voice that he was unsympathetic. He took a cigarette from the pack on the table and began smoking fiercely, to create his own atmosphere. As he smoked, he took out his own cigarettes and offered them to Shira. “I don’t want to smoke,” she said. Herbst blew smoke rings and said, “You don’t want to smoke? Then what do you want?” Shira stared at him and said, “What do I want? I want to know how Mrs. Herbst is doing.” Herbst growled a response. “She’s fine.” Shira said, “She’s fine. And how is the baby? Her name is Sarah, isn’t it?” Herbst growled at her again, “She’s fine.” Shira continued to question him. “And Dr. Herbst himself, how is he?” “Me? Yes, I’m fine.” Shira stared at him and said, “Then you, the baby, and Mrs. Herbst are all healthy and sound. You are such a successful man, Dr. Herbst. A man whose entire family is in good health, lacks nothing. What else did I want to ask you? What are your views, doctor, about men who beat women?” He looked at her in alarm and said, “What was that?” Shira looked at him with malice and affection, and said, “I asked for Dr. Herbst’s views on men who beat women.” Herbst answered, “They are depraved, absolutely depraved.” Shira looked at him with smiling eyes and said, “I think so too, and I knew that’s how you would answer. Tell me, my friend, are you not capable of beating a woman?” Herbst cried out in alarm, “No!” and realized he was on the verge of slapping her face. Shira said, “Well said, my boy. You must never strike a woman. Women are fragile, and one must be gentle with them.”

Shira sat on her chair, becoming one with it, her shoulders contracting, while Herbst sat crushing the cigarette with his fingers. The lines on his palms began to jump and were covered by dry, searing heat. His temples throbbed and sweated. Once or twice he was about to speak, but the words remained on the tip of his tongue. He stared with enmity at the remains of the cigarette in his hand, its embers singeing his fingernails. Again he wanted to say something and didn’t know how to begin, although he knew that, if only he could begin, words would come. He got up and moved his chair, put the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray, snuffed it out, sat down again, passed his tongue over his lips, and asked in a whisper, “What were you talking about and what did you have in mind, Shira?” Shira looked at him, lowering her head and speaking from deep in her chest. “And if I tell you, will you understand?” Herbst said, “Why wouldn’t I understand?” Shira said, “Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Even if you do, I don’t know why I asked such an odd question. Tell me, don’t you think it’s an odd question?” Herbst said, “It is an odd question, but allow me to ask what led to such a question.” Shira said, “You think I know?” Herbst said, “Don’t you know?” Shira said, “I don’t really know, but, because you asked, I will tell you something.”

Shira touched the tip of her nose, which was colored by the powder she had sprinkled on it, and asked in a leisurely tone, “What was I going to say?” Herbst said, “You were going to answer my question.” Shira said, “You mean about that odd question? I’ll tell you, if you like.”

Shira said, “The event took place a month and a half ago plus two days. Why did I say ‘plus two days,’ when actually it was a month and a half ago plus three days, exactly one night after the curfew. Remember, you were here the night they declared the curfew. So, one night later, a certain person happened by, not to my room but to the landlord’s apartment. A respectable person, healthy, not young but not old. In any case, his age didn’t show. He was an engineer by profession. A marine engineer, or some such thing. What do I know? Until that day, I never knew there were such engineers, though it’s logical that, if there are boats, they didn’t build themselves, and, just as you need someone to build houses, you need someone to build boats. Anyway, the engineer I’m telling about was related to the landlady, or maybe the landlord. For the life of me, I couldn’t say whose relative he was, hers or his. It happened that he came to visit his relatives, but they had gone to some kvutza because of a tragedy involving their daughter. The night before, her son, a child of about five and a half, had wandered off and encountered a jackal that devoured him, leaving only a headless skeleton. The architect was alone in his relatives’ home. What am I saying? I said ‘architect’ when, in fact, he was an engineer, a marine engineer. That gentleman, the engineer, was here in the home of his relatives, and I was in my room, paying no attention to him. It’s possible that I didn’t even know such a person was in the house with me. After dinner I said to myself: Why sit in the room when I could sit on the balcony? Hadn’t the landlady given me permission to sit out there whenever she and her husband were out? I put on comfortable clothes and went up to the landlady’s apartment and out onto the balcony, where I sat on a chair, allowing the wind to curl my hair and the moon to play hide-and-seek with me. I thought how lucky it was to have such a balcony, and now I was the lucky one. I heard footsteps. I’m not saying the footsteps concerned me. If someone was there, it was his right to move around. After a while, the architect appeared. Manfred, I’m talking, but you’re not listening. Are you listening? If so, I’ll tell you what followed.”

Shira continued. “The engineer came in, straight as a mast. And his shoulders — such shoulders! How can I describe them? Let me just say that, if he were to put me on his shoulders, I wouldn’t say, ‘There’s no room,’ although I would hope he wouldn’t try to add one more like me. He bowed and said, ‘If the lady will allow me, I’ll sit for a while.’ I answered, ‘You have more right to be here than I do.’ He bowed again and said, ‘With your permission.’ And he sat down. I sat as if he weren’t there. He began talking and said roughly this: ‘You don’t seem to be busy, so if I talk, I won’t really be interrupting.’ I looked at my hands, which were idle, and said, ‘I’m not really doing anything.’ He sat in silence, and I was silent too. I thought: Why sit idly? I’ll go get a sock to darn, or the wool I bought when the curfew began, and I can work on my sweater. I was too lazy to get up. I sat staring straight ahead, making a point of not looking at him, so he wouldn’t think I meant to engage him in conversation. I assumed he would take out a thick cigar, which is what that type of powerful man usually smokes. He didn’t take out a cigar but began talking again. What did he talk about? If you like, I could repeat every word, but neither you nor I would be enthralled by his words, would we? So I’ll summarize the whole conversation in two or three words. What did he say?

“He really didn’t say anything. But his voice, Manfred! His voice swept me off to distant places. After sailing with me from sea to sea and from continent to continent, he took me to Paris, which that gentleman was in the habit of visiting every year. To be more concrete let me tell you this: he sat and talked, and I sat and listened. Manfred, anyone who saw us would have said, ‘They’re like a young man and his maid when their time is ripe.’ Manfred, those scowls are uncalled for! What was I saying? He was like a youth courting his girl with engaging words. But I knew that words are one thing, the heart another. After touring those places with me, we were back in Jerusalem. Extending his hand toward Jerusalem, he said, ‘This is no city. It’s a desert, an eternal desert that sprouts earlocks, old men in frock coats stiff as Jerusalem stone, and even its sun is arid as stone.’ After he finished what he had to say about Jerusalem, he started on me. He shook his head at me and said, ‘Imagine, a young girl sitting here, lonely and solitary in this arid desert, under this arid sun, not enjoying what’s been created for her.’ I wanted to say, ‘No, sir, I’m neither young nor lonely,’ but his voice was so lulling that I didn’t say a word. Manfred, I see you are bored. No? Then I’ll continue. So I sat in silence while he sat and talked. He said roughly this: ‘The lady is alone because she ignores those who seek her company.’ All the time he was talking, he held something in his hand — not a cigar, for a cigar is quite thick, but this object was even thicker. All the time, the object kept swinging. Not on its own; the one who held it kept swinging it. I said to myself: I’ll look and see what’s in his hand. I looked and saw it was a whip — a small whip, but even a small whip is a whip. I began to be afraid he would strike me with the whip. He swings the whip without noticing that I’m afraid. I become more and more terrified that he may strike me — more precisely that he will surely strike me. He has only to extend his hand, swing the whip, and strike. With all my strength, I stare at the whip. He leads the whip this way, then that way and I am in terror. I didn’t have the strength to get up. I was too weak to run. What could I do? I could call for help, but even if I was saved from his clutches, I wouldn’t be saved from gossip. If he wants to hit me, let him hit me; I’m sure he won’t kill me. This gentleman — the one we’ve been discussing, the one I’ve been telling you about — is slowly being transformed. His face is malevolent, and there is an evil glare in his eyes. As he gazes at me, malevolently, I see he is reading my mind. I sit there, unable to stir. Every limb contracts. And he — the one I’m telling you about — sits opposite me, staring through those malevolent eyes. And they — those eyes — continue to be transformed, to blaze and glow. I’m not saying his eyes were appealing, but they were powerful. Some serpents immobilize their prey with such eyes. My eyes were drawn to his, so that I forgot the whip and the fear. I knew only that my limbs relaxed. Manfred, are you sleeping? It’s not nice to sit with a woman wringing your paws like a bereaved bear.” Herbst produced a rasping growl that seemed to mean: Tell me more.

Shira continued. “The fear became more intense, and my teeth began to chatter. I asked myself: Why so frightened? He is a polite, intelligent man with a whip in his hand; so what? If there’s a whip in his hand, does that mean I have to be afraid? To convince myself I wasn’t afraid, I got up. As I got up, I heard the sound of a whip and felt a burn on my flesh. That man, my dear Manfred, that engineer, swung his whip and hit my arms, which were bare since it was a warm night and I was wearing a sleeveless shirt. After he did what he did, he asked, ‘Where to, miss?’ He asked in a tender voice, and even his eyes were no longer evil. But, as for me, my dear Manfred, my arms were like torches. Even later, in bed that night, when I looked at them, all the marks of the whip were still coiled around my skin like blue-black snakes. I raised my voice and yelled at him. You’d think he would have panicked and run off. He didn’t panic; he didn’t run off. On the contrary, he sat down again and looked at me with equanimity. I stood there, immobile. Suddenly, another rattle of the whip, followed by a burning sensation on my knees, which were exposed, since it was a warm night and I was wearing shorts. I was stunned into silence and rubbed my flesh; first my arms, then my knees. A tremor of sweetness filtered through, permeating my entire body. He peered at me and asked, ‘Good?’ That was his very word, as if someone had asked him for a favor and, after granting it, he were asking if he had performed it well. Manfred, you’re wringing your paws like a bear again. What do you want to ask?” Herbst muttered, “And then what?”

Shira said, “That’s an odd question. What did you expect? There was nothing further. He threw down the whip and looked at me, his eyes devoid of evil. I asked him, ‘Why did you do that to me?’ He looked at me in dismay, as though I were ungrateful. I changed my tone and shouted, ‘Who gave you permission to do that?’ He answered in a whisper, ‘But, madam, wasn’t it all for you?’ I screamed at him, enraged, ‘Get out of here! Go!’ He got up and said, “With your permission, madam, I am going. Good night, madam.’ I pointed to the chair and said, ‘Sit down.’ He turned and sat down. I said to him, ‘You owe me an explanation.’ He answered, ‘These things are good, and you yourself probably recognize that they’re good, so there’s no need to explain.’ I said to him, ‘I have the right to an explanation.’ He sat and told me things I don’t mean to repeat. What did he tell me?”

Shira told Herbst what the engineer told her, but we will skip the engineer’s story and return to our own.

Shira said, “As he talked, he picked the whip up from the floor. I trembled, thinking he was taking the whip in order to strike me again. Believe it or not, I was ready. What did he do? He bowed graciously and left. I expected him to come back, but he didn’t. Not that night, nor the next day. Not to the balcony, nor to my room, though I didn’t stir from my room. He knew I was there, because I spent the day straightening my room and my things, and when I straighten my room and my things, I always sing. I sometimes sing loudly, though not on purpose, because I know I don’t have much of a voice.”

Herbst asked Shira, “When did you see him again?” Shira tapped her forehead with her hand and said, “Good morning, sir. His Highness has deigned to wake up? What did you ask? If I saw him again? Why should I see him! I didn’t see him; I saw him only three times. Once in the hallway, once on the stairs, and twice in the hall again. When he saw me, he inquired about my health and was supremely polite. I looked at his hands, searching for the whip. His hands were empty. They were firm, smooth, and without hair or wrinkles. When I saw him later on, I asked him where the whip was. He answered in a whisper, ‘It’s in my briefcase. I’m about to leave.’“

Herbst asked Shira, “And before leaving, he came to say goodbye?” Shira said, “If he had come, I would have thrown him out.” “Why?” “You’re asking why? After what he did to me, I suppose I was expected to bow my head to my navel and implore him, ‘Please come to me; please come, my lord and master’? I’ll show you something if you like, Manfred.” She bared her arm, and he saw a scar. Herbst asked Shira, “From his whip?” Shira shook her head and said, “I did it myself.” Herbst said, “And that was sweet, too?” Shira said, “Please, I’m asking you not to be sarcastic.” Herbst said, “But didn’t you yourself say… — “ Shira said, “I said what I said, and you have no right to say things like that to me.” Herbst said, “Come, Shira, don’t fight with me.” He stood up, encircled her hips with his arms, and closed his eyes, leaving a tiny opening. He saw that she was looking at him. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She covered his eyes with her hands and remained in his arms, exhausted.

Chapter twenty-three

Late that night, he left her and went on his way. She stood at the window, waving. He waved back and would have run, as it was past the hour when one is normally home in bed. But he couldn’t run, lest she see him and say: He’s running away from me. Also, what he remembered slowed him down. At the same time, he was pondering: When Henrietta asks where I’ve been, what will I say? Actually, she doesn’t usually ask questions, but what if she does? He went through all the possible excuses, how plausible they were, and which ones required caution, for the very person you were counting on for an alibi could have been in your house while you were off with that woman. Anyway, whatever he considered either ruled itself out or had a glaring flaw. An honest person finds it hard to tell a lie even when he wants to. Having failed to find an excuse, he felt pathetic. Not because of Shira, not because of the excuse, but because of Henrietta, who made it necessary to seek an excuse. He reached the end of Shira’s alley and was somewhat relieved; anyone who saw him now would have no reason to suspect he was coming from Shira’s.

There was no one in sight. But the one he had just taken leave of was present, with all her power and intensity. Herbst was not happy. When he was with her, he wasn’t happy. Now that he was rushing home, he wasn’t happy at all.

It was a fine night, charged with silence; the special silence of Jerusalem, an inner silence that exudes sweetness. Herbst hurried home, indifferent to the antics of the night, which, even for a Jerusalem night may have been unique in its sweet silence, or to the hour, equally unique in its pleasant sweetness.

He was already at King George Street, having come out of the web of narrow alleys near where Shira lived. When Manfred Herbst first came to Jerusalem, one couldn’t walk here because of all the stones, rocks, boulders, and gaping potholes. When Rehavia was built, the stones were cleared, the rocks dug up, the boulders uprooted, and the holes filled with dirt. A long, wide road, suitable for pedestrians and vehicles, was built. Traffic was constant, but, as it was past midnight, the Talpiot bus, which stops in Baka and could have brought Herbst home in no time, was no longer running.

The silence had moved on, and wherever it went, it was pursued by cars flying past, one after another. Where were they all coming from? The high commissioner’s residence. The high commissioner was having a party attended by many guests — people of wealth and status, diplomats, and even some yishuv leaders. They whizzed by in shiny cars with elegant interiors, their rubber wheels drinking up the earth. Manfred Herbst was small and humble. Not only was he on foot, but he had to keep swerving this way and that to avoid being run down. Every day you read in the papers that a man was run over by a car, a car struck a woman and killed her, children were playing in the street when a car came and crushed one of them. Herbst heard about a poor Jew who sold poultry, who happened to live between Mekor Hayim and Talpiot. One day he went out to slaughter a bird. A car ran into him and broke his ribs. He was taken to Hadassah Hospital, where the doctors labored over him until he was out of danger — out of danger, but not out from under the crippling effects of the car. Now he lived with some poor relative, sharing his meager resources. Shattered, broken, disheartened, depleted by the accident, he could no longer use his legs and pursue a livelihood. By rights, the driver should have compensated him for pain and suffering, medical expenses, disability, and embarrassment. But the rich are stingy where they should be extravagant and extravagant where they should be stingy. When the victim’s family decided to sue, the driver hired a lawyer who proved, through a little-known clause in the legal code, that his client was not required to pay. The offending party won the case. He paid his lawyer a fee that may have exceeded what the victim would have claimed had he won. That day, the son of the lawyer went with his friends on one of those hikes that have become the vogue. They arrived at some spot where they found a land mine the Mandate soldiers had neglected to clear. They picked it up, played with it, got bored, and threw it down. It hit that boy, the son of the lawyer, leaving him crippled. There are those who see connections, who connect the tale of the son with the tale of the father; may those who are experts in the laws of the Mandate see that there are other laws, higher ones. But what wrong did the child do, and why did he have to answer for his father’s sins? Moreover, why wasn’t the driver answerable for his car’s crime?

Herbst was already at the train station. He turned toward Baka, but he still had no excuse to offer Henrietta. He saw Dr. Taglicht approaching. Where from? Ramat Rachel. Had he been giving a lecture? Not so. Taglicht, that saint and promoter of peace, that mass of spirituality, is training himself to fight. Should the enemy attack, he will stand up with the other Haganah members, so we will not be massacred and plundered, as we were in other years sealed in Jewish blood. Twice a week, Taglicht goes to Ramat Rachel to train with a Haganah group, and now he is on his way home. All this is beside the point. The point is that Herbst now has an excuse. Should Henrietta ask him where he was, he can say he was with Taglicht. And should she ask what they talked about he could tell an anecdote Taglicht had told him. Once, Taglicht was on his way to give a lecture. Hemdat met him and went along. After the lecture, several people attached themselves to Hemdat. One of them remarked, “I’ve read your stories. I won’t say they’re not good; I could even say I enjoyed them. But, let me tell you, today’s reader is no longer content with reading for pleasure. He expects to find a new message in every creative work. Hemdat said to him, “‘Whereto?’ is not a question I answer, though I do sometimes respond to ‘Wherefrom?’“

Herbst and Taglicht did not have a long conversation; Herbst, because he was hurrying home, and Taglicht, because he had heard good news. On this night, one of many filled with horror and distress, catastrophe, restricted rights, and harsh measures and rulings that limit our every step, a band of youngsters had taken possession of some land, establishing a new settlement there. For this reason, Taglicht was not interested in the sort of conversation academics usually indulge in. They said goodbye to each other and went on their way, Taglicht rejoicing over the birth of a new settlement and Herbst relishing the excuse he had found.

When Herbst reached home, he saw there was a light on. A light at one in the morning meant something had happened. But this was beside the point, the point being that, should Henrietta ask where he was, he now had an adequate and totally reasonable excuse. Herbst put his key in the door, but it didn’t open. What’s this? Henrietta could have left her key in the lock so she would hear him when he came in.

He stood outside, unable to get into his own house without knocking. But if he knocked, his wife would come to let him in. Even if she didn’t ask any questions, shouldn’t he offer an explanation? But his face would contradict his answer. He had to get in somehow, and if he didn’t knock, no one would open the door. He knocked, and Zahara appeared.

Herbst saw his daughter Zahara and said, “You’re here? When did you come?” Zahara embraced her father and kissed him. He wanted to embrace her and kiss her too. But his soul was astir with other embraces, so he restrained himself. He brushed her head with his hand, smoothing her hair, reluctantly, as his hands still blazed with Shira’s fire.

Henrietta heard Manfred come in and called out from her bed, “Fred, what do you think about our visitor? Zahara, tell Father why you came.” Herbst asked in alarm, “What’s happened, what’s happened? Something bad again?” Henrietta said in a cheery voice, “What do you mean, ‘again,’ and why bad when it can be good?”

He hurried to his wife. Zahara followed him. He looked at them with concealed anger and said with open reproach, “Won’t you say…Won’t you tell me what happened.” Zahara answered, “Nothing, Father. Honestly. Nothing. I came to Jerusalem and I dropped in to see how you are.” Henrietta looked at her with affection and good cheer, and said to her husband, “But wait till you hear what brings her here.” Herbst said to Zahara, “Do I have permission to ask what brings you here?” Zahara said, “Honestly, you are strange.” Herbst said, “I’m strange? In what way?” Zahara said, “Isn’t that right, Mother?” Henrietta said, “When a special guest makes a statement, the host must agree.” Herbst said, “Nonetheless, I would like to know in what way I’m strange.” Zahara said, “You’re not strange now, Father.” Although at that moment he was actually stranger than ever, she repeated, “Honestly, you’re not strange now.”

Henrietta asked her husband, “Have you eaten?” Manfred was afraid to say, “I ate but I’m hungry,” since that might lead his wife to further questions. He answered, “I had tea with Taglicht.” Henrietta said, “Poor thing, you had tea, but nothing to eat.” He said, “Tea with some dry cake.” Henrietta said, “I’m getting right up to bring you something to eat.” Zahara said, “Stay where you are, Mother. I’ll fix something for Father.” Henrietta said, “Aren’t you tired from the trip?” Zahara answered, “Did I walk here? I came in a car, of course. And what a car, a very special one, like a deer with wings. It was quite a trip. Eighty kilometers an hour. If you promise not to report me, I’ll confess that we even hit a hundred kilometers an hour. Avraham-and-a-half says such speed causes cars to die an untimely death.”

Herbst asked his daughter, “What brings you here?” Zahara said, “Mother, I see Father isn’t pleased that I came.” Herbst said, “I’m pleased. I’m pleased, and all I’m asking is why.” Zahara said, “I came for the workshops. Out of the entire kvutza, two of us were chosen.” “And who is the other girl?” Zahara said, “Allow me to correct you, Father, dear. You ask about the other girl when you ought to ask about the other person.” Herbst smiled and asked, “Then who is the other person?” Zahara said, “If I tell you, will you know? You have a habit of switching people’s names, Father.” Herbst said, “Yes, child, I never remember the names of all the boys who surround you.” As he spoke, he noticed how ripe she was. He lowered his eyes and thought: She is with young men who have rejected the authority of their fathers. She has come here with one of them, and I’m too preoccupied to look after her. But look at Lisbet Neu — of course, she is older, but she is in constant contact with all kinds of people, clerks as well as customers, and she has an invalid mother and no father. Nevertheless, she behaves impeccably. He stroked his daughter’s head and said with concealed emotion, “It’s a great privilege to have been chosen to attend these workshops and to have an opportunity to hear things that are probably worth hearing. Did you see your little sister? Isn’t she a fine baby? Who will be lecturing?” As he asked this question, he felt a twinge of pain, for he had not been invited to participate. Several years earlier, there was not an intellectual event that didn’t include him. Now they were having these workshops, and he wasn’t asked to lecture even once. Manfred Herbst was on the way out. He used to be invited to participate in every cultural event, and those who arranged them didn’t make a move without consulting him. New people had come, bringing new wisdom. Herbst felt sorry for himself, sad that it had come to this. Yet he justified these omissions, for he had not published anything in several years, except for two or three trifles in Kiryat Sefer and Tarbitz. His great book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium was still a bundle of notes, references, and preliminary drafts.

Whose fault is it that the book lies curled up in a box, like an embryo dead in the womb. This country is at fault; it is not a scholarly environment. Here in the Land of Israel, everyone makes do with the minimum. This applies to spiritual needs as well as physical ones. Whatever is not essential to sustain body or soul is a luxury this poor country cannot afford. Our colleagues — those young scholars who came from Germany only yesterday, because they were relieved of their positions there — are amazed that in all these years we have contributed absolutely nothing. They don’t realize that this place is unlike any other. In other places, scholarship justifies itself. Not so here, where, unless a scholarly study can be related to Israel’s national destiny or to the ethic of the prophets, it is immediately discredited. Those innocents still pretend to be living in a German environment. Give them two or three years and they’ll be like the rest of us, making do with articles in jubilee volumes. The ambitious ones will join the bureaucracy, which is the seat of power. In other countries, the bureaucracy serves the needs of the people and the state; here, the bureaucracy itself is primary, and it takes precedence over the needs of the people and the state. Among those who came in the early days of the university, there were some true scholars. Years passed, and they didn’t achieve anything important. This being the case, they began to regard their minor achievements as major ones. When Julian Weltfremdt and his cronies remark scornfully, “See what those professors are up to,” the professors answer, “Their words have the ring of envy; they resent us because they weren’t appointed to the faculty.” What these malcontents say about the professors, most of the professors say about their own colleagues. In fact, most of them agree that Bachlam is no scholar, while he says they have small minds and deal entirely with trivia.

Zahara brought her father his meal. Herbst glanced at his beloved daughter, who was forfeiting sleep for his sake. He picked up a knife and fork to eat what she had prepared, but they remained idle. Zahara peered at him and said, “Father, you’re not eating.” Herbst answered, “I’m eating.” Zahara laughed gaily and said, “I see you deep in thought, but I don’t see you eating.”

Many thoughts troubled Herbst. He dismissed them, one after another, thanks to his beloved daughter. As long as she was in his mind, he felt relaxed. But he was sorry she hadn’t followed his advice. She hadn’t enrolled in the university, and her education was incomplete. Dr. Herbst had many opinions, among them that one cannot acquire an education outside of a university. Since settling in the Land of Israel, some of his opinions had changed, but he remained convinced that one could not be educated outside of a university, even by reading widely, listening to lectures, devouring the wisdom of the world. In the end, such knowledge is incomplete. He applied this rule to everyone, including his daughters.

Father Manfred doesn’t really know his daughters. This is surely true of Tamara, whose character no one really knows. But it is also true of Zahara, who is attached to her father and whose soul is as transparent as water from a spring; one can’t really say that her father knows her. Were we to summarize all of Father Manfred’s information about Zahara, it would add up roughly to this: Zahara belongs to a kvutza called Ahinoam, which foreign correspondents with Zionist sympathies mention often and journalists rush in to write about in many languages, as if it were there that humanity will be renewed — to the extent that one can barely find a kvutza member or even a shrub that hasn’t been photographed for one of these publications. Zahara is a member of this kvutza and is accepted by one and all. Its ways are congenial to her, and there is no activity in which she doesn’t participate wholeheartedly: the vegetable garden, the kindergarten, the kitchen, the dining room. Wherever she works, there are people helping her. It is the way of young men to be helpful to young women who enjoy their work, by lending a hand, giving good advice, or simply looking on. She occasionally comes to Jerusalem from the kvutza, sometimes with this young man, sometimes with that one. Today, too, she came with one of them. The early days were good, before Herbst met Shira. He used to see his daughter and her friends without being subjected to afterthoughts.

Father Herbst sits eating what his daughter serves him, straining to ward off suspicious thoughts. In the good days, before he knew Shira, he wouldn’t have entertained even the trace of a suspicion. Father Herbst raises his head so he can look at his daughter and lowers it without looking at her. He raises it again as if to say, “Go to bed, my child, you must be tired.” He also wants to ask for news of Ahinoam. The words are formed and need only to be uttered. A cough disperses them. Father Manfred lowers his head again and eats without tasting the food. Shame and regret are a harsh condiment.

Chapter twenty-four

In the morning, Herbst made a firm decision to clear his mind of all unessential business and devote himself to his major work, to check his pads, notebooks, and file cards, and determine what was new material — i.e., quotations and summaries distilled from documents unnoticed by other researchers. Caution is crucial to scholarship, and careful verification is crucial to caution. Not once, but constantly, for without frequent verification, material already presented by others could be copied into your book. Many times Wechsler had boasted to him that he had discovered a document no one had seen before; a simple document, one would assume. But not so. Were he to publish it, it would fly in the face of all our historians and reveal that they were, one and all, a band of illiterates. Herbst showed him half a dozen books citing that very document and basing theories on it; finally, he showed him a small volume that dismissed it with a curt phrase from which its fraudulence was obvious.

After eating and drinking, he returned to his study. He took out his pads, his notes, his index cards. Though his notebooks were full, with writing on both sides of the paper, and the box was stuffed with cards, he wasn’t arrogant, like those who presume that their book is done if they have enough notes.

Herbst sat at his desk for about two hours, arranging notes by subject, discarding duplicates and triplicates, for sometimes one sees an item and imagines it is new, not remembering he has already copied it two, three, four times. Although he found several new items in his notes, he didn’t delude himself into thinking he had achieved his goal. Nor did he err in the direction of despair, like those who feel helpless when they see they have failed to achieve their goal and say, “Why struggle, when it’s clear I’ll never finish?” One should know that every beginning has an end. Day after day, one does what he does, until finally the beginnings add up to a conclusion.

There were several articles that were similar in subject and in good shape. If he had retained his youthful vigor, he would not have stirred before finding additional material and combining the fragments into a book. But Herbst’s youth was over. This was not the Herbst who used to work so diligently that nothing could distract him. Now some frivolous woman could appear, disrupt him, and turn him on end.

Now that he was thinking of that woman, he began to scrutinize her actions. She sometimes sought distance, sometimes closeness, behaving at times as if there had never been anything between them. If she had allowed him to approach her yesterday, it was only after many rejections. Herbst leaned his head to the left, pondering: Maybe I myself am the guilty one. Had I gone back to her right then, after I was first close to her, she might have offered me her love. Did I think I was so attractive that I could stay away and she would still leap up and shower me with affection whenever I showed my face? She was, no doubt, deeply drawn to me at first, withholding nothing. But I didn’t show up again for several months, and when I did, I ran off because of the curfew and didn’t come back for a month and a half. Meanwhile, someone else found her. Why did Shira decide to tell me the story of the whip? Did she mean to make me jealous? Does she imagine I’m fool enough to think she keeps herself for me? Anyway, the engineer’s behavior was a disgrace. Shira herself is even more of a disgrace, since her behavior provokes insolence, even violence. It’s a fact: any woman who invites a man home after one conversation deserves what she gets. She deserves to be beaten, not loved. The man who beat her was wielding his charm, to take revenge, to make her pay for her misbehavior. “What do you want from me?” Herbst cried out, as if Shira were there, torturing him. “My God, my God,” he cried out, and as he cried out he was overcome with wonder, like a man in trouble who sees help and salvation.

The night they walked along the road to Beit Yisrael, Shira had asked Herbst, “Are you Orthodox?” She had told him, “I’m not Orthodox, and I don’t care for the Orthodox.” When she said this, he hadn’t given it a second thought. Now that he was alone, thinking of her and her behavior, an undefined question began to form in his mind. It could be articulated in these terms: It’s true, isn’t it, that, when one rejects religion, spiritual restraints are also suspended, that the soul casts off its restraints, and actions are no longer examined? Herbst was neither a believer nor an atheist. His research never led him to consider questions of faith. Not many of those who studied Byzantium were as familiar as Herbst with the endless strife, disputes, intrigues, conspiracies, murders, and massacres in the name of religion that occupied Christian sects in Byzantium from the time of Christianity’s early triumphs to Islam’s conquests. Still, his erudition did not compel him to reflect on the nature of his own faith. Now that he was invoking heaven because of his distress, a spark flared up for him and died as soon as it was lit. A spark that goes out immediately gives no light; it doubles the darkness. Out of anger, out of anguish, out of foolish self-pity, out of a need to act, he picked up a book and banged it on the table. With the exception of a cloud of dust, the act achieved nothing.

I don’t know how you relate to the contemplative process. When Manfred Herbst has an issue to contemplate, he begins by turning it over, abandoning it midway to consider matters that are tangential but not part of the issue, and ending up where he started. So, at this point, involved as he was with Shira, he moved on to Lisbet Neu. Along with these two, he considered several others — women he had been with at the university, women he had met later at scholarly events. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the realization that some of these women were working in the very fields he was working in, although they were very different from him. And it was this difference that unsettled and disturbed his soul. After visualizing their beauty, their coiffures, their fragrance, their manners, he fixed his mind on Lisbet Neu, hoping she would save him from them and from Shira. But the One who was created only to trouble us said derisively: What’s it to me if this fool doubles his trouble?

Suddenly, Zahara’s cheerful voice was heard calling him to lunch. Herbst answered, “I’ll be right there.” Zahara called again, “Father, the food is getting cold.” Herbst called out, “I’m on my way.” He picked up two or three stones from the bunch he had collected on an archeological dig and placed them on his papers, so they wouldn’t blow in the wind, arranged his pads and notebooks, and took a quick inventory — not like those scholars who estimate how many pages they can make out of a given amount of material, but like a builder amassing lumber and stone for construction.

Manfred Herbst was sitting there; his wife, Henrietta, was sitting there; Zahara, their daughter, was sitting there. They were eating together. The table was covered with a heavy cloth made of coarse fabric Henrietta had bought from the husband of Sarini the wetnurse. Henrietta was saving the things she had brought from her mother’s house for her daughters, with the idea of dividing them between them when they had homes of their own. She did this with the silver cutlery, substituting cheap metal utensils, as well as with the linen tablecloths, which she replaced with this coarse fabric. Now, the Herbsts were sitting together. Papa Herbst and Mama Herbst and Zahara, their eldest daughter, were sitting and eating lunch. Though it was an ordinary day and the food was ordinary, there was something exceptional about this lunch. Not only for her father and mother, but even for Zahara. The vegetables Zahara’s mother cooked were not her ordinary fare, though they came from the kvutza and she herself had brought them. The quality produce grown in the fields of Ahinoam is sent to market, and the kvutza eats only what fails to make the grade. Zahara took a double helping, feeling love for her mother, for whatever her mother did, and it seemed to her that she had never loved her mother as she did at that moment, though she knew, clearly, that she loved her mother then as always. This was true of the table, the dishes, everything in the house: in its rooms, which were dearer to her today than ever before; in the vegetable garden, whose beauty was displayed between every furrow. Only her mother could dig those little holes so they hugged the seedlings that were at rest there, saturated with rich water, pleased with the brown earth, content with the fertilizer and with the sun above, welcoming the grasshoppers that leaped over them, circled around, jumped, flew, and finally landed on their long legs. Not to mention the wondrous air that stretched between grasshopper and garden row, and was sometimes endowed with a color known as Berlin blue. Her heart expanded to include love upon love. This love augmented itself and engulfed her father. Zahara knew her father well, every line, every mark on his face. Still, she stared at him as if she had never seen him before. Zahara studied him, his forehead, his hair, his person — this precious human being whom she never tired of watching, not realizing her eyes were closed and what she saw of her father was in her own mind. This was her father, and she could barely begin to describe to her friends in Ahi-noam even a particle of what she found in him. In truth, no one in Ahinoam had asked about her father, not even in jest; for example: What sort of individual is your venerable progenitor? And no one there seemed interested in such things, not even Avraham-and-a-half or Heinz the Berliner. They didn’t ask about her father either. Just because no one there asked about her father, she found herself thinking about him, even now that she was with him and her thoughts were not colored by the magic of distance. Only good sense kept her from reaching out and wrapping her arms around his neck, for she wouldn’t have wanted to be considered sentimental.

Zahara served herself and ate slowly, hoping to figure out just what was in the dish. As she ate, she abandoned her research, began eating for pleasure, and took another helping. Again she tried to analyze the dish. She stared at the plate, then at her mother, and stopped trying to guess the ingredients. With her mother’s cooking, it wasn’t the ingredients that determined the taste. Even when her mother told her how to prepare a particular dish and she passed on the recipe to her friends in Ahinoam, it never turned out like her mother’s.

Herbst ate with pleasure too, but he was troubled. He picked up a spoon instead of a fork and assured himself that, if what was on his mind was important, it would make itself known; if not, it would slip away. But it didn’t make itself known, nor did it slip away. What could be troubling me so? Manfred wondered. Is it that I didn’t praise Henrietta’s cooking? If so, I’ll say something, and, even if she sees I’m not sincere, I’ll be in the clear. He put down the spoon and looked up. His eyes met Zahara’s. Affectionate joy flashed from his eyes to hers; identical joy flashed from Zahara’s eyes to those of her father. Herbst forgot his troubles and began talking to Zahara.

Manfred said to his daughter, “Now, Zahara, we should ask what’s new back in Ahinoam. You ought to tell us without being asked, since we’re so citified that we’re total boors when it comes to kvutza affairs and our questions won’t be meaningful. Aren’t you pleased, my child, that your father knows himself so well?” Zahara said, “Wrong, Father. You ask and I’ll answer, since I don’t know what you would like to know.” Herbst said, “All your news is important to me.” Zahara said, “There are several sorts of news, and I don’t know which you have in mind.” Henrietta said to Manfred, “You start, Fred.”

Father Manfred sat asking questions, and Zahara answered at length, as if it were vital for him to have thorough knowledge of all the things he asked about. She didn’t realize that this urban man, this bookworm, probably forgot his question before he finished asking it, that he hadn’t noticed she wasn’t finished answering and was already asking Henrietta what she had accomplished with regard to the certificates. Before Henrietta could answer, he asked Zahara questions he had already asked and she had already answered. Even things he knew and had no need to ask about, he asked. Zahara and Henrietta didn’t notice at first; when they noticed, they laughed about the absentminded professor whose great ideas left no room in his head for their trivial concerns.

Zahara’s mind was somewhat like her father’s. Her brow was narrow and unwrinkled, but many ideas were spinning around in her brain. Some were the outcome of conversations with Avraham and Heinz; some were inspired by lecturers. She stored some of these ideas in her heart and imparted some of them to her parents. Herbst looked at his daughter fondly and said to his wife, “What do you think of our scholar, Henrietta?” Henrietta answered, “She’s your daughter; like father, like child.” Herbst was pleased with his wife’s words and wanted to say something about his daughter, such as “No need to be sorry that she left school.” But his own sorrow suppressed these words, for it was Berl Katznelson, his close friend, who had designed her workshops, bypassing him, neglecting to ask him to give even one lecture. Herbst had one consolation: his great work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. It was still a heap of notes, the skeleton of a book, but it would surely become a real book. When it appeared in print, those who ignored him now would be the first to seek him out. Herbst wasn’t thinking in terms of revenge: You underestimate me now; tomorrow, when I’m famous, you’ll be the first to honor me. But, remembering his book, he was comforted. The book was important, not only because of the sources he uncovered, but because of his ideas, which, at several points, approached the level of a study in religion. The burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, which at first glance, appear entirely opposed to Christian doctrine, were in fact derived from a philosophy that found itself a niche within that very religion. Now that Herbst was thinking about his book, he was determined to do whatever was in his power to complete it. Having reached this decision, his sorrow vanished. Although it vanished, he was not relieved. On the contrary, as he thought about his book he grew more and more angry that, with such a work in progress, he could be treated as if he didn’t exist. Actually, it was not because he wasn’t invited to the workshops that he was angry, but because of himself, because his mind was not on his work because of Shira.

Chapter twenty-five

When they had finished eating, Zahara led her mother to the upholstered chair near the window and went to clear the table. As long as Zahara was clearing the dishes, Henrietta sat quietly. When Zahara didn’t come back, Henrietta understood that she must be washing them. But she had come for the workshops, not to do dishes, and she ought to rest before going to the lectures. Henrietta pulled herself together, got up, and went to the kitchen to relieve Zahara. Zahara refused to listen to her; she wouldn’t let her do household chores after being up most of the night and spending most of the day cooking, with no one to help. When Sarini came to nurse Sarah, she had asked if she could take the day off, as she was being offered the chance to assist at an important ritual — the ransoming of a firstborn donkey — to pour drinks for the guests and serve all sorts of sweets, since the wife of the celebrant, a kind and rich Bukharan, was all thumbs and so inept she couldn’t even manage the sugar cubes she sucked on, let alone the guests. And it was going to be a great ceremony, like the one with Balfour and Herbert Samuel when the Ashkenazim established a university. Manfred, when he heard Zahara and Henrietta arguing, leaped into the fray and declared, “I’ll wash the dishes.” Henrietta scolded him, saying, “You, go back to your room. Climb into bed. And after you’ve slept, you can get back to work.”

Neither of them washed the dishes, nor did anyone go back to his room, since Zahara’s friend, the lanky young man called Avraham-and-a-half, appeared at that moment. He was as smart as he was tall, having come to the Land of Israel where the sky is tall too, and one’s head doesn’t scrape the clouds.

Avraham-and-a-half is about twenty-two years old, but he looks younger. He is from a rich family that, generations back, cast off the yoke of the Torah and commandments, renouncing the Hebrew language and the Land of Israel. It was Avraham who rediscovered the Hebrew language and went to the Land of Israel. He is meticulous with language and meticulous in all his actions. His hair is wild, but his thoughts are orderly. His clothes are in tatters, but his soul is intact. Because his hair is golden, as are his eyebrows, and his eyes hide shyly behind long, smiling, golden lashes, bars of gold seem to pour forth from his eyes. He loves everyone, and everyone loves him. Since the time he was hiking with Zahara and she sprained her ankle so he had to carry her in his arms, he loves her twice as much as anyone else. Zahara loves him too, but she still isn’t sure whether she loves him or Heinz the Berliner more. It’s odd, but, as soon as she decides she loves one, the other appears and makes himself even more lovable; then she decides he is the one she loves more, and the first one appears, and so on, over and over again. Though she is in conflict with herself, Avraham and Heinz are on amicable terms. Affection for Zahara is very special, in that those who love her are not moved to hate one another.

As soon as Avraham-and-a-half appeared, all the arguments about dishwashing came to an end. Zahara made coffee and Henrietta brought cake. They all sat down, drank coffee, and ate cake. Avraham-and-a-half told about several news items that were reported in the papers with essentials omitted. Then he told about the workshops and the lecturers, most of whom didn’t know how to accent words, handle grammar, or construct a proper sentence in Hebrew. They sometimes phrased their sentences in such a way that, if one weren’t already familiar with the subject, he would conclude the exact opposite of what was intended. Similarly, there were those renowned orators whose language was meager, whose vocabulary was like a child’s but without its charm. As he spoke, Avraham-and-a-half swallowed slice after slice of cake, which Zahara placed on his dish unnoticed, until the ninth or tenth round, when he began wondering how there could still be half a slice in his hand when he had been eating constantly.

Henrietta sat idly, enjoying the boy and his conversation. Even Manfred was aware of his fine qualities. But, if he could have exercised a fatherly prerogative over his daughter, he would have chosen another young man for Zahara, such as Taglicht. Though he already had Taglicht in mind for another young woman, he would have reconsidered on his daughter’s behalf.

When there were no more cakes on the table, Zahara tapped Avraham on the shoulder and said, “Let’s get going, or we’ll be late to Aharaoni’s lecture on domestic and nomadic cultures.” They got up and left. Henrietta got up and went into the kitchen to wash the lunch dishes, as well as the additional ones from the coffee and cake. Herbst got up and went back to work.

Having had three cups of hot coffee, as well as another halfcup at the end, which was cold by then, he was alert and decided to forgo an afternoon nap and get right to work. He had not slept enough the previous night, and his hands were clumsy and awkward as a result, so that, when he began sorting his notes, not only did he add nothing, but he disturbed the ones that were in good order. It was hard for him to continue working and hard for him to stop, for it was barely two or three hours since he had resolved to keep working until he finished his book. He sat fingering his papers and notecards. He read a bit here, a bit there, and was not pleased with anything. He put down the papers and began looking for something else to occupy himself with.

There are many things asking for attention. One has only to glance at the books piled on the desk, the chairs, and the floor, asking to be put in place. What a waste of time, what a bother to run into them when you don’t need them and not be able to find them when you do. This goes for borrowed books as well. They should be returned to their owners, but he hasn’t even looked at them yet. And the collections of scholarly papers that, presumably, contain new material, although they must be examined to see if they say anything really new, as well as dissertations that sometimes refer to an unfamiliar book or article. Over and above these are the letters, those written to him that require answers, as well as those he has to write. These are aspects of his work that he deals with regularly, but now his soul seeks replenishment. He glances harshly at the room that has attached itself to him, clinging to him like a skin, unchanged since he first occupied it. Just then, the strip of greenish pink light that shines in from the garden between the rains, just before dark, begins to glow through the window. He goes to the window and gazes out at the garden in amazement, like a man who sees something lovely and is amazed that it still exists. He soon leaves the room and everything in it, and goes out to the garden.

Before he could catch his breath, he saw Sacharson, his neighbor. Last night, when Herbst needed an excuse for Henrietta, he found one. Now that he was looking for a way to escape Sacharson, he couldn’t find one. So he prepared himself for the worst. Sacharson glanced at him and, seeing he was upset, slipped away. Herbst forgot about Sacharson, kneeled down to pull up a weed that was growing in Henrietta’s flower bed, and cleared some pebbles flung by a shepherd to call back sheep he had sent into the garden. Having begun to tend the garden, Herbst threw himself into the task. He pulled off wilted leaves, evened out a mound of dirt, fixed a furrow, adjusted some stakes that were beginning to slip. Finally he went to get the watering can, happy to have a chance to spare Henrietta the chore. On his way, he stopped in the kitchen to see if there was any dishwater to use for the garden.

He found Sarah lying in her crib, with a fat housefly circling above her nose. He chased the fly and chirped at the baby. She fixed her eyes on him and stared, wondering where the sound was coming from. It seemed she thought the buzz was from his hands and was wondering how hands could have the strength and wisdom to make such a sound.

The fly disappeared somewhere, and still Herbst did not stir from his daughter’s crib. He stood chirping through his lips. It occurred to him that he might entertain her by clapping. He began clapping his hands and chirping. It occurred to him that he could dance, and this would surely please her. He began to dance for her while he clapped and chirped. It occurred to him that he could walk on all fours for her. He bent down and began walking on his hands and knees. He jumped around like a rabbit or a hare, only to realize that her crib was too high for her to see what he was doing. He straightened up and stood alongside the crib, clapping and chirping. It occurred to him that all these games were outdated and not very exciting, that, if he wanted to amuse her, he should invent something new. He puffed up his cheeks and tapped them with his fingers so the air would burst out. The baby laughed and reached out to him.

Henrietta came in and saw him playing, the baby laughing. Her throat tightened and she felt like crying with joy at the sight of this child of their old age, lying in the crib, contemplating her father with such perceptive eyes. Henrietta took her husband’s hand, pressed it, and said, “Fred, is there anything in the world that we lack?” Suddenly, a sigh was plucked from her heart on behalf of the relatives stranded in that German hell. Her face darkened; she made a fist and said angrily, “What are they up to at the Jewish Agency? They pretend to be working for Zionism, and they’re not working at anything. Every day I knock on their doors and list all the calamities, and either their ears are shut tight or their hearts are stone. Fred, my love, I haven’t told you even the tiniest fraction of what I go through dealing with those blocks of ice. I know, my love, that I mustn’t keep you from your work and I shouldn’t distract you from your business. Still, I need advice. Tell me, my love, tell me what to do. I don’t expect you to tell me immediately. With your insight, you’ll surely find the answer. Don’t cry, Sarah. Don’t cry, my sweet. I’ll feed you in a minute. You’re lucky to have been born in this country, so you don’t need a certificate.”

Remembering the certificates, she pictured all the people she was negotiating with, to no avail. Some of them put her off with “Come back tomorrow”; some didn’t even take the trouble to put her off and treated her with total disrespect. Suddenly, they all appeared before her eyes, in a single horde, and, since her heart was bitter, they looked to her like monsters. She was frightened and covered the baby’s eyes with her hands, so she wouldn’t see them and be afraid.

Chapter twenty-six

That night, Taglicht came. He had no particular reason to come, other than to see how the Herbsts were doing, but once he was there, he asked to see Zahara, having heard she was in Jerusalem. To be precise, he had seen her on the street in the company of an extremely tall young man.

As soon as Taglicht appeared, Herbst became uneasy. He was worried that Henrietta might ask what she hadn’t asked the night before. He glanced at Henrietta, then at Taglicht, who was unaware of what he could unleash with one wrong word. He envied Taglicht. As a bachelor, he was not accountable to any woman, nor was he afraid she might learn things it would be best to conceal from her. Yet this man, who was free to do as he pleased, was not engaged in any acts that had to be concealed. But what do we know about our friends? Would it have occurred to Wechsler, to Weltfremdt, to Lemner that Herbst was involved with another woman? Even Professor Bachlam, whose nose was everywhere, would never have suspected that a lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem — someone who ought to be a model of the Jewish ethic proclaimed by prophets of truth and justice — might covet a woman not lawfully his. Who knew about him and Shira? Other than the driver Axelrod, son of Axelrod at the hospital, and the café owner from Berlin, no one has seen him with Shira. How different Herbst had been that night when he spoke with Axelrod the clerk, after bringing Henrietta to the hospital when she was about to give birth. With regard to Henrietta, he had still been free of guilt; with regard to Shira, that evening in the café had been so splendid because he was free of hateful envy.

Taglicht sat at the Herbsts’, saying things Herbst would have relished at another time, for Herbst preferred Taglicht’s conversation to that of his other friends. Those who go in for paradox say there is one sin even a good man can indulge in: gossip. Not Herbst; he still hadn’t acquired a taste for it. Taglicht still hadn’t learned the art either. So they discussed those matters that a wise soul can enjoy. Taglicht’s words always seem to be transmitted from his heart to his tongue and carefully arranged before they are uttered. Those who are impressed are impressed, and those who are unimpressed say, “If Taglicht had to produce books and write articles, he wouldn’t be so free to play with words.”

This is true and untrue. It is true that Taglicht does not produce books or write articles, but also untrue, because he did write a dissertation for which he was awarded a doctorate.

We will tell about the dissertation and his years at the university. Taglicht, a perpetual student, spent year after year at the university. There wasn’t a subject he failed to explore. After many years, he was still not working on a doctorate. If asked, “When do you expect to complete your studies?” he would answer, “I seem to be just beginning.” During those years he made a meager living producing dissertations for doctoral candidates with the ability to pay but without the ability to do the work.

His favorite teacher once asked, “When will you present your own dissertation, so we can grant you a degree?” Taglicht blushed, thinking the professor was suggesting he was engaged in fraud. He stopped working on other people’s dissertations and began taking notes and writing for himself. After several months, he produced a fine manuscript on the names of the angels in the poems of Rabbi Amitai, son of Rabbi Shefatyahu, and how these names were interpreted by our sages, as well as in the writings of early German Hasidim.

One night, his professor invited him to his home. They sat for a while and said what they said. As he was leaving, he handed the professor a manuscript. When he was gone, the professor began to read it. He didn’t stir until he reached the end of it, at which point he thought: If I knew where Taglicht lived, I would go to him, knock on his door, and say, “You have written a great book.”

The next day, the professor told his colleagues about Taglicht’s work. They all read it and said approximately, “In all our years at the university, no one has ever submitted such a dissertation.” They told Taglicht, “Present your work to the senate, and you’ll be awarded a degree.” Taglicht didn’t submit his dissertation. His devoted teacher saw that all his efforts with Taglicht were futile. He and his colleagues did something that was probably never done in any other university. Let me tell you about it.

One day, his favorite professor invited him to his house for coffee. They sat around talking. Another professor, who was one of Taglicht’s teachers, arrived, followed by a second and a third. They sat for a while, talking about this and that, and they did not stir from that spot until Taglicht was granted a doctorate. Taglicht concluded his affairs at the university, went back to his parents’ home, from there to Vienna and on to the Land of Israel.

When he came to this country, he looked for work in the fields, the vineyards, the orchards. He didn’t find any work on the land. Those jobs were still being done by Arabs. They were everywhere — even in the very settlements that swore not to let in Arab labor after the first round of riots, since the rioters included the very same Arab neighbors who had worked there earlier. The entire country was inundated with Arab labor, so our friend couldn’t find work. Taglicht joined the halutzim engaged in paving the roads.

Taglicht found work, but the work didn’t find him worthy. The youngsters he was with laughed and teased, but they were drawn to him. They instructed him in the ways of work. He took sick and was brought to the hospital. The doctors examined him and discovered all sorts of ailments the patient was unaware of. He stayed for a while, until he was dismissed to make room for others, among them some of the youngsters he had worked with on the roads, who also came down with the local maladies.

From conversation with Taglicht, his doctor recognized that this patient was an intellectual, and not an ordinary intellectual, but one who had both broad knowledge and expertise in several fields. Other doctors who came from abroad and visited the hospital had known Taglicht and were told about his experiences in this country. They said to him, “You see that this country doesn’t want your sort of labor, so why not present yourself to the university administrators? Most of the departments still need lecturers.” Taglicht answered them, “Could I be so naive as to apply for a position in the university when the world is full of distinguished Jewish scholars seeking appointments and finding none?” This was before the rise of that appalling monster who annihilated one-third of the Jews. Throughout the world, there were still learned men filled with wisdom and knowledge.

The words of Taglicht’s champions were not wasted. He didn’t listen, but others did. They began seeking him out, courting him, and enjoying his conversation, which became part of them — and, in some cases, of their books.

Some of the departments had already found excellent lecturers, but not everyone was well versed in the Hebrew language. Whoever was somewhat versed in the language, but not fluent, hired an editor to correct errors; those who could barely read Hebrew had their lectures translated. Those who came to Taglicht fared especially well, for, not only did he do his work, but, in the course of translating, he added to the text. And what he added was often more interesting than the rest; this applies to manuscripts he was given to edit as well. He returned translations and edited manuscripts with one condition: that his name not be mentioned. There were those who complied; others, who were of two minds, credited Taglicht with minor contributions, overlooking the significant ones. I have said more than I had to. Still, these details may be of some use.

Little by little, Herbst felt reassured. His worries took flight; his anxiety was dissipated. Henrietta didn’t ask, and Taglicht didn’t tell. There was really no reason for Herbst to be afraid. It was not Henrietta’s way to ask many questions, and it was not Taglicht’s way to indulge in many words.

Manfred, Henrietta, and Taglicht sat, as usual, sharing news of the outside world. We used to be baffled by people in the Land of Israel. Every little thing that happened in the country was more important to them than all the monumental things that were happening in the world. In time, we became like them, ignoring all other countries because of this one. But, in the end, we were back where we started. Once again, because of certain events, our attention was drawn to the lands we left years ago. Foremost among those countries was Germany. The events taking place there were brutal beyond what the most brutal imagination could envision. Anyone who was not affected by the events tried to ignore them. Then, suddenly, everyone was totally obsessed with them. Henrietta’s correspondence with relatives and friends in Germany had become limited, and it was sheer habit that kept up the flow of letters; in three or four years, they would, most likely, no longer have been writing to one another. A shift in place leads to a shift in thought; shifts in thought disrupt habit; disrupted habits lead to disrupted action. All of a sudden, there were major actions that affected every other action. There wasn’t a postal shipment from Germany that didn’t include many bundles of letters. The very people who were appalled at Manfred and Henrietta when they left Germany for this wasteland now urged them to get them out of Germany and into this land, lest they be lost. Some of them meant to settle in the Land of Israel, to live here as Jews. Others hoped to emigrate to America, but, in the meanwhile, they needed certificates for Palestine, as life in the lands of their birth was becoming impossible for Jews. Most difficult of all were the ones who asked nothing. There were rumors that they were already lost; some had taken matters into their own hands, others had fallen into the hands of the Nazis.

Manfred Herbst, Henrietta Herbst, and Taglicht sat together recalling the names of relatives and friends left behind in Germany, some of whom wanted to settle in the Land of Israel, some of whom wanted to use it as a stepping stone. The power of exile is great. Barely out of one exile, a Jew already seeks another. After a while, Henrietta went off to prepare supper.

As soon as Henrietta left, Manfred was relieved. He knew the reason and was ashamed. Anyway, it was good that Henrietta had gone and he didn’t have to worry that Taglicht might mention their encounter of the previous night. Herbst thought of referring to it, so the subject would be exhausted by the time Henrietta returned and he wouldn’t have to worry that Taglicht might say something about it in her presence. He was about to begin, but it occurred to him that Henrietta might come back while Taglicht was talking. His anxiety began to surface again. He got up and took a cigarette, put it down and took another — one of those black ones with a special tip — lit it, and turned to Taglicht, saying, in a tormented voice, “And you, Taglicht, you still don’t smoke? But that’s not what I wanted to say. What did I actually want to say?” He put down the cigarette, picked up a book, and waved it in the air, holding it tight, as though afraid it would be taken from him. “What’s this?” Herbst said, looking at the cigarette in alarm. “Didn’t I put it out?” He turned to Taglicht. “A first edition. I bought it for one shilling. Only one shilling.” Taglicht looked at the book Herbst was holding, without saying a word. Herbst glared at Taglicht and said to him, “Wouldn’t you like to see it?” Taglicht laughed and said, “But you’re holding it so tight that I can’t possibly see.” Herbst gave him the book. Taglicht opened it, tried to decode the name of the author, and didn’t succeed. The letters were stylized, so it wasn’t clear whether they were German letters in Greek form or Greek letters in German form. Herbst said, “Did it ever occur to us that, here in Jerusalem, it would be possible to find a first edition of The Birth of Tragedy? In Jerusalem’s bookstores there are many volumes for which the great collectors would give an eyetooth.”

Herbst took back The Birth of Tragedy and said, “Since the Nazis came to power, Jerusalem has become a center for German books.” He added, changing his tone, “The German immigrants are on a downhill course; every year they move to a smaller apartment. Those who brought crates full of books can’t find room for them in a small apartment, so they call in a dealer and sell him a sack of books for a shilling, to make room for themselves. Now every street corner in Jerusalem is overflowing with rare books. One could almost say that you’re more likely to find a rare German book in Jerusalem than in Germany. And now,” Herbst said, “I’ll show you a book that would delight me, were it not for the fact that it came from the estate of a scholarly couple, a man and woman who threw themselves off the roof of their house.”

Herbst took out a copy of the Apocrypha and proceeded as with The Birth of Tragedy. He waved it at Taglicht and stood watching his face gradually expand and fill with wonder. Herbst said to Taglicht, “Having worked on the Apocrypha, are you familiar with this edition? I wasn’t familiar with it myself until it fell into my hands. Incidentally, two rival scholars have already appropriated your insights about the giants in the Book of Enoch, each one proclaiming loudly, ‘These are my discoveries,’ and I already picture a third one about to claim them as his own. Don’t you see, Taglicht, the modesty that keeps you from publishing anything in your own name causes respectable citizens — people one would never suspect of stealing so much as a fingernail — to take credit for stolen wisdom.” Taglicht laughed and said, “Still, what they reject survives.” Herbst laughed and said, “You are referring to that word in Ecclesiastes that every scholar relates to a different ancient language, but for which you found an explanation in Kohelet Rabba? I forget the word.” He told him. Herbst said, “You told me that the Tanaim and Amoraim went beyond first meanings in their responses to the language of the Torah, yet those who make dictionaries don’t always take this into account, a situation that ought to be corrected. If only you would listen to me…. I hear Wechsler’s voice.”

Wechsler barely had time to open the door from outside and already he was closing it from inside. His arms dangled, his face was agitated, his glasses were at an angle — the left lens high and the right one low, or the reverse. He himself was also agitated. He was never a relaxed person, and that night he had a special reason. Bihlul’s Grammar was the alleged reason, but really it was because of his compassion. Professor Wechsler, as you know, was not excited by books. He was content with the files I have already mentioned. If I haven’t already mentioned them, I am ready to do so now. Apart from those files, he had several reference books and several dictionaries, among them Bihlul’s Grammar. Sitting there for a thousand and one years, Bihlul was never disturbed by Wechsler. Nor was Wechsler disturbed by Bihlul. All of a sudden Hitler appeared, confusing everyone, most of all us. Those who could, escaped from Hitler’s land and came to the Land of Israel. Wechsler was occupied with his own affairs, as usual — sorting amulets, seals, and family emblems; making files for each object — leaving Hitler to kill, the Jews to deliver themselves. Now we get to the heart of the matter. Those who maintain that politics is one realm and scholarship another — that a scholar can withdraw from the events of the world and concentrate on his research — don’t know how things work. Whether the scholar is willing or not, he becomes involved. If he doesn’t involve himself, others involve him. I will offer one example out of many. Many of those exiled because of Hitler came to Jerusalem. Those who brought money were well off, while those who came with a craft were sometimes well off, sometimes not. I can’t say that a rich man is well off wherever he goes, because everyone pursues his money. But a craftsman has to pursue potential employers. Just such a craftsman came from Germany or Austria, perhaps Czechoslovakia — can one mention all the countries conquered by Hitler? So, this craftsman came to Wechsler and told him, “I am a bookbinder. Surely the professor has some books that need to be rebound?” Wechsler was filled with compassion for this man, compelled by fate to search for work. There was another reason, which you may already know. In his childhood, Wechsler had been sort of a bookbinder, and he had destroyed more than one pair of shoes to get leather for a binding. If not for his mother’s ambitions, he probably would have become a bookbinder rather than a professor, and he probably would be like this man who was searching for work. So his heart went out to him, and he took about half a meter of books and handed them over to be rebound without even looking to see what they were. After the bookbinder left, Wechsler had second thoughts and realized he had behaved rashly, allowing his emotions to prevail over his good sense and ordering bindings for books that didn’t need them. He tried to remember which books he had given out. He thought of one, of another, and finally of Bihlul’s Grammar. He realized that he needed that particular book. He decided to borrow a Bihlul from Ernst Weltfremdt. On the way, he thought to himself: When Weltfremdt lends a book, he expects it back in three weeks. Actually, he had only one word to look up in Bihlul, but he hated any transaction that was conditional. So, instead of borrowing Weltfremdt’s Bihlul, he went to borrow a Bihlul from Herbst.

Herbst brought him his Bihlul. Wechsler said to him, “You’ve earned my envy. When I need Bihlul, I search through half of Jerusalem without finding it. When you need it, you come up with it instantly. Furthermore, your Bihlul is torn and tattered, and you haven’t sent it to the binder, whereas my Bihlul is good as new, yet I sent it to be rebound. I’ll go now.” Wechsler barely had time to open the door from inside and already he was closing it from outside.

Wechsler never lingered anywhere longer than his business required. Since that amulet fell into his hands, he was even more careful not to waste time on conversation, though it is more useful than thinking. If so, why did he run off? We know only too well the limits of scholarship and that new discoveries are not made every day. If Taglicht and Herbst do discover something new, it would be best for the two of them to clarify it together, and in a day or so we will have word of it. Then we will copy what we hear from them and file it away.

Having mentioned Wechsler, let me mention a few things about his history. His father was from Bessarabia. He was employed by the baron and ought to have educated his son in Paris, as everyone else did, but Leonid was educated in Germany. His mother came into an inheritance in Germany and went to collect it, taking her small son along to present him to her family.

When she came to Germany, she learned that her father’s will, which favored her — a stepdaughter born to his second wife during her first marriage — was being contested by his sons and daughters. She saw that the court was not likely to reach a swift verdict and enrolled Leonid in a German school, so he wouldn’t be idle.

The case dragged on. She hired other consultants and lawyers whose conduct was like that of their predecessors, which is to say that, except for a slight shift in reasoning and argument, the later round behaved much like the earlier one. Every month her husband sent money for living expenses, as well as legal fees, and once a year, during vacation, she would visit her husband briefly, taking her son along, so he wouldn’t forget his father.

Back to the subject I began in the preceding paragraph. The case dragged on. Leonid did well. He advanced from class to class, from elementary school to secondary school, from secondary school to the university. Too bad about his father, who died in the meantime and didn’t live to see his son grow up. And too bad about the mother, whose resources dwindled, for, after her husband’s death, she no longer had an income.

As her income declined, so did her appearance. She was no longer the Zenia Wechsler who wore a different outfit every day, with a thin chain of precious jewels adorning her graceful neck, which was without a trace of a wrinkle. Now the wrinkles were everywhere. Her face was prematurely wrinkled, her soul even more so, because of the anguish of the lawsuit. And, if not for her son, who was about to receive his degree, she would have been lost in grief.

Not many relatives remained. Some had left the land of the living; some had left the land of Germany to seek a life in those countries where it was still possible for Jews to live. She had only one relative in Germany, and he, too, was planning to leave.

When he parted from her, he said, “Go back to your home while you can still afford the trip. Your stepfather’s children are obstinate. You’re worn out and no longer have the strength to fight. It’s not only love of money but hostility to the woman who took their mother’s place that drives them to prevent you, at all costs, from getting a cent of their father’s. The lawyers will extract your last penny, and you’ll find yourself in an alien land, alone, without support.”

She took these words to heart, having suffered from the case, and settled with her stepfather’s legal heirs. She got what she got and didn’t listen to the lawyers, who said, “Be patient and see what we do to your adversaries.” At this point she went to the Land of Israel, and Leonid stayed in Germany to finish his doctoral work.

When he received his doctorate, he too went to the Land of Israel. The country did well by him, and he was appointed a research member or lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Shortly thereafter, he was promoted to associate professor. When his name became known in the world on account of the amulet he discovered, he was made a full professor. A country whose gifts are carefully calculated can also be generous. So it was in the case of Wechsler and the amulet. Were it not for this amulet, he would still be low-level professor, with only his name, rank, and salary to speak for him.

I have referred to the amulet. Now let me tell you about it.

Once, at sunset, Wechsler was browsing in some Jerusalem shops that dealt in antiquities. He was both happy and sad. Happy that even skilled counterfeiters didn’t try to cheat him, knowing he was an expert; sad that, because of his known expertise, nothing interesting enough to attract the attention of scholars to him was likely to come his way. Confused by this mix of joy and sadness, he noticed another man’s shadow extending over his own. He turned around and asked, “What do you want?” The shadowy figure said to him, “In the Monastery of the Outstretched Hand, there is a young monk who has a leather amulet, found in a cave near Ashkelon, with an inscription in ancient Hebrew letters. It is for sale, because the monk would like to help a young woman who is here on pilgrimage and about to give birth.” Wechsler did not procrastinate. He undertook the climb to the monastery and looked at the amulet. He did not succeed in buying it, because the seller was asking more than Wechsler could afford. Wechsler left, in a depressed and agitated mood. Several days later, he met someone who said, “So you want to buy the Ashkelon piece, and you can’t afford it because the seller is asking such a high price. Then let me whisper that he must sell it now, because it’s time for that woman to leave the country and go back to her husband. But she can’t go back, because she has given birth in the meanwhile and can’t take her child. When she left her husband over a year ago to come to Jerusalem, there was no sign of a pregnancy. Now that she has given birth, she has to hire a wetnurse for the child, and that monk, who offered to help her in her distress, has no choice but to convert the amulet into cash.” Once more Wechsler climbed up to see the monk. He met the one who first informed him about the amulet, who now said to him, “So you are going to buy the amulet, and you think you will succeed because the woman has to hire a nurse and can’t ask her husband for the money, and the monk wants to help her by selling the amulet. In that case, you might as well know that she no longer has to worry about a nurse. She found a woman doctor, one of your doctors, who took the child and put it in a Jewish foundling home free of charge. So she no longer has to pay a nurse and doesn’t need the monk’s money. The amulet is, nonetheless, for sale. Now that the monk has sniffed the scent of money, he would like to convert the amulet into cash. An American tourist has turned up and made a good offer, but something he said will work in your favor. The tourist said he would make the monk and his monastery famous, but the monk is concerned about the evil eye. He has no choice but to favor the scholar over the millionaire, since scholars tend to be discreet and to avoid publicity.” At night, a Syrian girl came to Professor Wechsler’s house, carrying a letter with this message: “The one I spoke of won’t sell the amulet to the American, but you must buy it quickly, before someone else does.” In less than twenty-four hours, the amulet passed from the monk’s hands into the hands of Professor Wechsler.

As soon as the amulet was in Wechsler’s hands, he — unlike those who find something rare and disclose it only when it is worth their while, who collect many opinions and finally publish them, prefaced by “in our opinion” — immediately photographed it and circulated the photograph. The amulet acquired renown; Jews and non-Jews were busy decoding it. And, whenever they mentioned the amulet, they mentioned Wechsler. Wechsler’s name became known around the world and all the way back to Jerusalem.

Mrs. Herbst returned and was bewildered. When she regained her bearings, she asked, “Wasn’t Wechsler here? Did he disappear? I never saw him go. I may have no choice but to believe in magic. I’ll bring supper in a minute. Don’t go, Taglicht. Stay, your supper is ready. Boiled eggs and a glass of tea.”

Chapter twenty-seven

As they ate, the conversation turned to the amulet and from the amulet to Wechsler, who was transformed by the amulet. This lazy fellow, whose laziness exceeded his ambition, was suddenly the darling of the scholarly world because of a snip of an amulet that fell into his hands. Most Orientalists became preoccupied with it and credited it to him.

Let us present their views first, followed by Wechsler’s. Some of them wrote, “Traces of three Aramaic letters can be discerned on the amulet. If we identify the middle one as t and the final one as n, we have two letters of Satan, from which we conclude that the amulet was related to Satan and that both the person who made it and the person for whom it was made were Satan worshipers. Inasmuch as there are no other indications of Satan worship in Ashkelon and its environs, it is more likely that it was invoked to counter Satan’s power. There are grounds for the assumption that this small object is part of a larger one with a more extended inscription. Which is cause for regret. If the amulet had been preserved in its entirety, we would have the formula for a spell against Satan.”

Other scholars maintained that the symbols on the amulet were not letters, and certainly not Aramaic letters; that, if they were letters, they were related to proto-Sinaitic script; that the word had to be read from left to right and was one of many words we cannot as yet attach to a particular language group with total certainty. In any case, three letters can now be added to the proto-Sinaitic alphabet, whose letters have not as yet all been discovered.

Other scholars regarded it as a transitional sort of script, a bridge between Semitic and ancient Greek, though they weren’t sure how it should be read, since it leaned in both directions, toward the Semitic and toward the Greek as well.

What did Professor Wechsler say? Wechsler said, “The inscription is not Aramaic. It is not proto-Sinaitic. Nor is it a transition between Semitic and Greek script. Those are Hebrew letters, not three but four of them. They are t, y, g, y, which should be read as a segment of ptygyl, a word in First Isaiah. Since the word occurs in First Isaiah, this bit of leather is obviously from the time of First Isaiah, one of the earliest and thus most precious disclosures provided by the soil of Palestine. Henceforth, we must dismiss all existing theories about this word. We can no longer say it refers to a silk belt or a fringed buckle — a forced interpretation to begin with — since what we have here is leather, not silk or fringes.”

The saga of Wechsler and the amulet adds nothing to our story, but it was useful to Herbst. It distracted him from what had happened with Shira the night before, so that he seemed to himself much as he had been in the old days, before he met Shira.

Chapter twenty-eight

Although the meal was over, the conversation between Herbst and Taglicht was not. It shifted from the amulet to other objects discovered in the country, from the cave in which it was found to other caves whose mouths remain sealed and, when they are finally dug up, will also yield great rewards. The strip of land known as Palestine, seemingly parched and denuded, is actually a treasure trove with all sorts of riches ensconced in it.

Taglicht said, “If you’re referring to geology, you’re right.” Manfred said, “What about archeology?” Taglicht said, “No one can deny that archeology has expanded our horizons. But, when I see how discoveries are interpreted, I’m reminded of biblical criticism. It seems that the people who deal with these subjects don’t have enough imagination to write historical novels, so they push themselves to make hypotheses. Scholars from other fields use these as a basis for some system of their own, on which they build vacuous structures — like that famous man who published a book proving whatever it was he proved, using an archeologist’s hypothesis that the archeologist had already retracted and declared to be wrong.”

Mrs. Herbst shook her finger menacingly and said, “Because a scholar makes a mistake, his entire field isn’t invalidated.” Herbst laughed and said, “Bravo. But I’m surprised, Henrietta, to hear you champion something you usually scorn.” Henrietta said, “Fred, do you want to argue? I don’t.” Manfred said, “I don’t mean to argue, but, tell me, Henrietta, where did you hide the cognac?” Henrietta said, “Now I’ll be the one to argue. Tell me, what do you see in that drink that consumes the palate, deadens the mind, and confounds the senses?” Herbst said to Taglicht, “You try. Describe the taste of cognac to her. Come on, Henriett, let’s drink to peace.” Henrietta said, “If you want to drink, drink. But I’m not drinking.” Manfred said, “I am given to understand that I have your permission.” Henrietta said, “And without my permission, you won’t drink?” Manfred said, “Tell me, Mother, do I ever make a move without your permission?” Mrs. Herbst said to Taglicht, “After such a speech, particularly when you look at his face, would anyone suspect he might make a move without my permission? Sit down, Taglicht. Sit down. There won’t be any scenes out of Strindberg. I’m bringing the cognac, and you can drink with Fred.” Herbst said, “Taglicht, I renounce all the other women in the world. I love only Henrietta.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Listening to you, one would think you’re involved with other women.” Herbst said, “Taglicht, what’s the hurry?”

Taglicht sat down again and stayed another half-hour. At ten o’clock, he left. Herbst didn’t detain him; even though he hadn’t mentioned the events of the previous night, there was no way of knowing what might still come up. The fact that it hadn’t come up yet didn’t mean it couldn’t.

After accompanying Taglicht to the bus stop and waiting for the bus with him, Herbst went back to Henrietta. He found her tired from the effort of having company, from the day’s work, and from lack of sleep. As usual, just when the lady of the house needed help, there was none at hand. Of all times, on the day when Zahara came with Avraham-and-a-half for the workshops organized by Berl Katznelson, hoping to find some rest at home, just then the Kurdish woman asked for the day off, because she was invited to an important event. What sort of event? It was in this connection, I believe, that Sarini referred to the university, to fingers dipped in fat, to a donkey, to drinks.

Manfred went back to Henrietta. Even before his thoughts were organized, he began talking. About Zahara and Avraham-and-a-half, who were together, alone in the car, with no one else there, such a long distance — all the way from Ahinoam to Jerusalem and from Jerusalem to Ahinoam. Manfred said to Henrietta, “You and I, Henriett, are of the old school, and our road never deviated, so we can’t fathom this new generation, whose emotional discipline is lax. Tell me, Henriett, what did Zahara say to you? I myself am out of step with this world, with this generation, with these daughters. But you, Henriett — you as a woman, a mother — are entirely of this world, and you sense what this generation is after.” Henrietta looked at him fondly and said, “If I weren’t an old woman, I would kiss you for your innocence. What should Zahara have told me? In any case, you can sleep peacefully. It’s past eleven, and here we are, chattering away like a pair of youngsters. Go to your room, my dearest. Get into bed and get some sleep. Last night you came in after midnight. Incidentally, where were you last night? What did you do?” “Where was I? What did I do?” Manfred cried in dismay. “Taglicht already told you.” “Taglicht told me? Not a word, not even half a word.” “What are you talking about? He distinctly said…” “What did he say? I didn’t hear a thing.” Manfred answered her, “You’re teasing me, Henriett. He certainly did tell you, and, if you don’t remember, I’ll remind you. Take a chair and sit down. I don’t like to see you standing when you should be lying in your crib. Taglicht came tonight because of last night’s events; he was here because of last night, Henriett.” “What happened last night?” “Last night? I didn’t really want to tell you about last night, but do we keep secrets? Is there anything in the world that I hide from you? You know the meaning of the riots only too well, and all about those young men who refuse…refuse to be slaughtered like the Jews of Hebron and Safed. You know all this, and about the Haganah too. But you don’t know that even Taglicht, even Taglicht is a member of the Haganah, and, like most Haganah members, he spends most of his evenings training. Tell me, Henriett, would you ever dream that such a fellow holds a rifle? Well, last night he dragged me to their training site. This is a forbidden subject, but we don’t have secrets between us. I said ‘training,’ but actually they were military drills. Real military drills. Please, Henriett, bury this information in your heart and don’t mention it to anyone in the world, not so much as a hint, especially not in front of Taglicht. I’m amazed that he revealed all this to me. It’s top secret. True, some of the English know what we’re up to, but they don’t want us to know that they know. Do you see, Henriett? On the one hand, they instigate the Arabs to fight us, and, on the other hand, they’re pleased that we create a counterforce. Who can grasp the English mentality? It may all be one scheme: the English want the Arabs to riot against us, and they want us to retaliate. Understand, Henriett?” Henrietta said, “I understand one thing: I understand that what Taglicht is doing is right, and I don’t understand why you and your friends stand by with folded arms. If I weren’t a woman, I would learn to use all those weapons.” “You? You, Henriett?” “Yes, Fred. Or would we do better to wait for the Arabs to come and slaughter us?” Manfred said, “Then I’ll confess in a whisper that there are not only young men in the Haganah, but young women as well. In a separate section.”

What he had feared the day before had come to pass today. But he emerged unscathed. True, he had given Henrietta an earful of lies. He may or may not have regretted these lies. In any case, he was astonished at his ability to heap lie upon lie without stammering.

He held Henrietta’s head in his hands and said, “Now, let’s say good night. But first, I want to seal our conversation with a kiss on the forehead — a modest kiss, with no ulterior motives.” Henrietta said, “Remember, no ulterior motives. You, my dear, need rest, and I, as you well know, am deadwood. I hope Zahara comes home soon. Liar, I allow one kiss and you pucker your lips for another. Scram. You woke the baby. Let me go to her. Be quiet, little one. Be quiet. Mama’s coming.”

Chapter twenty-nine

Herbst lay in bed on the verge of sleep. He put down the book he was meaning to read and turned out the light, in order to yield to sleep. His fatigue should have brought on sleep, but it was dispelled by his thoughts. He got up, turned on the light, and picked up the book. If he had only the book to deal with, he would have either read and enjoyed it or read and fallen asleep. But, apart from the book, he had his thoughts. He stared at the page, only to be diverted by his thoughts; yielded to them, only to have them abandon him and vanish. He turned back to the book, only to have his thoughts return; when he returned to his thoughts, they abandoned him and vanished. After several hours, he put down the book, turned off the light, turned it on again, and picked up the book. Finally, he was overcome by uneasy sleep, the sort of sleep that brings the body little pleasure.

Nevertheless, he was up at the regular time and got right to work. He wrote, erased, rewrote what he had erased. What did he write, what did he erase? What did he add, what did he delete? Between one thing and another, half a day passed, and it was time for lunch. When he heard Zahara calling, he put down his work, got up, and went to the dining room, as Henrietta made a point of promptness, insisting that everything be done on time, and Manfred made a point of not disrupting her routine. In his haste, he forgot to put the stones on his papers, so, when he got back from lunch, he found they had been scattered by the wind. The meal had been prolonged because of Zahara and because it was unusually good. Since he was tired because of his sleepless night, he ignored the scattered papers on the floor and stretched out on his bed. The papers started to fly. He got up and began collecting them. He soon gave up, and went back to bed. All of a sudden, he started, looked at his wristwatch, and saw that he had been sleeping for more than an hour. The house was quiet. Not a sound was heard. Not the baby’s voice, not any other voice. The window was open, and the sun shone in. The papers lay scattered but unharmed by the wind. Herbst unbuckled his watch, took it off, and picked up a book, meaning to read for a while. The book slipped out of his hand, and he dozed off again, then fell into a deep sleep.

It was almost twilight when he got out of bed, sat at his desk, and leaned his head on his arms, like someone awake but still in the power of sleep. His vision was blurred, his heart confused, alternately full and empty. He placed his hand on his heart and surveyed the scene. He spotted a slip of paper on the floor under the door and noticed that it was different from the others. He picked it up and read: “Father I didn’t want to wake you All those lectures have turned my stomach so I’m going back to Ahinoam Love and kisses Zahara.” He scrutinized her letters. They were large, straight up and down, without connecting strokes, commas, periods, or vowels. He put the note to his mouth, then placed it on the desk. He took a seashell, which was shaped like an eggshell and as sharp, and put the note under it. The room began to darken, and a bird was heard returning to its nest, for it was evening.

The books on the shelves were covered with darkness and gloom. They seemed to merge with the shelves, and the papers seemed to merge with the floor. It was hard to distinguish the shelves from the books or the papers from the floor. But Herbst picked up all the papers and placed them on the desk.

So Zahara, having had her fill of lectures, had left. In fact, she was now with Avraham-and-a-half, and he was driving fast, in order to get to Ahinoam in daylight. With so much unrest in the country, it was unwise to travel after dark. But he was the sort of person one could count on to know that there was a time for everything, and by now he and Zahara were probably back in Ahinoam. So let’s return to Herbst now and tell his story.

In the past, after a midday nap, it was Herbst’s custom to have some coffee and then sit and work without stopping until supper. If his nap happened to last into the evening, as it did today, he would immediately turn on the lamp and double his efforts, to make up for lost time. Or he would sit and read books related to his work, the sort of texts to which his own book and lectures were indebted, just as these texts were indebted to others, for even a learned man who has read many books and knows their views remains indebted to others. Scholars are not like poets. Poets derive their verse from what they see and feel; if they’re not lazy, they write it down. Not so with scholars, whose insights derive from predecessors and from those who preceded them. A scholar who pores over earlier books will not emerge unrewarded and will surely add to the body of literature.

Some scholars, once they have acquired a reputation, pass on to others the drudgery of providing material for their books. They either assign their students to do research or hire a needy scholar. Manfred Herbst is not this sort. Not only are his insights his own, but even the footnotes in his book and articles are derived from his own reading, which is to say, from the books in which they originally appeared — unlike scholars who use secondary or even third-hand sources without having looked at the books they refer to, but, rather than offend anyone, simply add them to their bibliography. Some scholars identify their sources but leave a space between two citations, although both are by one author. One who is not familiar with the material would assume the second entry is original; if, on the other hand, one is familiar with it, the source has been duly acknowledged. Manfred Herbst is not of that ilk. When he cites other people’s data, he doesn’t manipulate it to get credit for himself. Many researchers are so eager to come up with a theory a day that they publish instantly, only to wake up the next morning and see that the theory is groundless and must be retracted. Then why publish before verifying everything? Because they believe that, even so, they will stimulate study and research from which scholarship will benefit. Not so with Herbst. Nothing issues forth from under his hand until he is convinced of it. You see how Herbst labors over his book and articles. When he feels his work is sloppy, he doesn’t force it, unlike those whose work is the product of boredom. What does Herbst do? He puts down his work, picks up a biography or a scholarly monograph, and reads it. Whether we believe all the wonders we read about great men or remain skeptical, a reader loses nothing if the writing is good. The imagination of a competent narrator can affect and arouse the soul, mobilize faltering hands to renewed activity.

At this point, however, Herbst didn’t go back to his work, nor did he turn to those biographies and monographs. His depression was so great that it resisted every antidote.

Herbst sat as one whose world has vanished, for whom there is nothing left to do. Even cigarettes, which sometimes pulled him through desolate moments, did not trick him into thinking he was occupied. He sat alone with himself, a cigarette in his mouth, picking at his chin and whispering, “What am I to do?”

He spit out the cigarette, crushed it with his foot, and cried out, “I’ve got it!” He knew what to do. He went into the bathroom, tossed off his sandals, took off his clothes, got in the tub, and turned on the shower. The water poured over his head, his shoulders, his back, his entire body. The moist chill engulfed him from outside, and some of its sweet freshness seeped in, permeating his body with pleasure. Herbst was renewed from within and without, and was like a new creature. He dried himself, put on his clothes, and went to the kitchen for tea. He found some coffee Zahara had made before she left. He drank it. As soon as it began dripping down his throat, his fatigue was dissipated. After two cups of coffee, he was totally alert. He didn’t feel like getting back to work, so he went looking for his wife.

He found her sitting alone in the dusk, her chin on her heart, like someone overwhelmed with worry who obscures it rather than let anyone see her worrying. Henrietta didn’t know what she was worrying about, or why. But, since she was alone in the dark, it seemed to her the right time to examine her soul and render an account. Tired from the day’s work and from all that had happened to her, she allowed her head to droop and dozed off. Herbst looked at her and whispered, “Henriett, you’re sitting in the dark.” She was startled and said, by way of an excuse, “Yes, I didn’t turn on the light.” Herbst said, “Zahara is gone.” Henrietta nodded and said, “Yes, Zahara is gone. She went to your room twice, and you were asleep. She didn’t have the heart to wake you, so she left a note, but I don’t remember where I put it.” Manfred said, “You don’t remember where you put the note?” Henrietta said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.” Manfred said, “You have no way of knowing, since Zahara slipped the note under my door. You say Zahara found me asleep. Yes, that’s right, Henriett. It’s a long time since I’ve had such a good sleep. Now I’m up, and I don’t know what to do. Very simply, I don’t know what to do.” Henrietta said, “Go for a walk.” “A walk?” Manfred asked in dismay. Such a thought hadn’t occurred to him. “You suggest I go for a walk? And you, Henriett, will you be stuck here in the house? Will you stay home while I go out?” Henrietta said, “The baby can’t be left alone. Besides, my dear, I don’t have the strength to pick up my legs. Go ahead, my love. Don’t give me a hard time. I know you would rather walk with me than walk alone. Go ahead, and, when you come back, you’ll find your supper ready and waiting for you in your room, on your desk. If it’s a simple meal, don’t be angry. I gave Zahara every last bit of food for the road. Actually, she only took four slices of buttered bread, but Avraham said, ‘I’ll take the rest and I’ll feed her.’“ Manfred said, “You ought to turn on the light rather than sit in the dark.” Henrietta said, “Of course, of course. Do you think I’ll sit here all night in the dark? Don’t I have to put Sarah to sleep and make you some supper? I might even eat too.” Manfred offered his right hand and said, “Give me your hand, Mother, and I’ll say goodbye.” Henrietta said, “Here, my love. Goodbye. Don’t be late, Fred. Come back before you get tired. I hear Sarah. Go ahead, Fred, don’t let me keep you.” Fred said, “I’m going, I’m going. Bye, Mother. Bye.”

He went out, meaning to walk, but he saw a bus coming from Talpiot and jumped on it. The bus was nearly empty. There were only a few passengers. Because of Arab attacks, people from Talpiot were reluctant to go into town at night. Those who went into town couldn’t be sure they would make it back that night, for the authorities could suddenly proclaim a curfew, which would bring transportation to a standstill. Still, the inspector sent out buses rather than disrupt the system. When Herbst arrived in town, he was astonished to see the streetlamps lit as usual, the streets filled with men and women, ambling in a leisurely manner, in no hurry to find refuge at home. Even the shoeshine boys were there, plying their trade. People get their shoes shined, not in order to wear them in bed, but to walk in them, which suggests that the night has not closed in on us and there is no danger of a curfew.

Worried by what he saw and worried by his thoughts, Herbst strolled down Jaffa Road, which was as crowded with people as in peacetime. Soldiers of the Mandate government added to the bustle. Whether they ambled along like everyone else or stood like observers or inspectors, they were different, not only because of their uniforms, or because they were armed, but because of the expression on their faces.

I will dwell on this matter for a moment and explain my remark about the expression on the Englishmen’s faces. It seems to me that I speak for Herbst. I may be slightly mistaken in this matter, but surely not by very much.

Before Herbst came to the Land of Israel, he had little contact with other nationalities. Except for Jews and Germans of foreign extraction, he knew no other nation. When he came to this country and saw various peoples, distinct from each other, he became interested in their characters. When he knew a person well, he tried to determine which of his qualities were national traits and which were unique to that individual. I don’t know what he achieved or what he failed to achieve. It is clear that, of all the nations and tribes in this country, he was least acquainted with the English. And I would not be straying far from the truth if I were to say he made no effort to know them, although he often had the opportunity for close contact with the English. At public events, such as concerts and exhibits, for example, and even in private homes. I will try to explain why he didn’t get to know the English and why he made no attempt to do so.

As soon as Herbst arrived in the Land of Israel, he was imbued with a spirit that was totally new to him. It could be called the spirit of freedom. Herbst suddenly felt that he was in his own land, with his own people, with others like him, who shared many of his qualities and many of whose qualities he shared. He felt that he no longer needed to strain to be like others, for he simply was like them, which had not been the case before. As long as he was living in Germany, he made an effort to accommodate his ways to those of the Germans and to be like them. Even after becoming a Zionist, he didn’t change very much; nor did his Zionist friends.

As for all the other peoples to be found in this country — be they ordinary people or scholars and intellectuals — whether he considered them natives or guests who are here today and gone tomorrow, should this suit them, he saw no reason to change his character on their account. But the Englishman, lording it over a land to which he had no claim, considering himself superior to all its inhabitants, was strange in Herbst’s eyes, and he had no wish to make his acquaintance. Since the English were strange to him, the expression on their faces was equally strange.

Herbst was jostled, sometimes by a drunken sailor, sometimes by an ordinary person. Still, Herbst functioned under his own power, dispatching his eyes in whatever direction he chose: at the pedestrians, the houses and stores, the vehicles and their passengers, those little houses in Nahlat Shiva with larger structures and stores built to the right and left of them, about to swallow them up, along with all of Nahlat Shiva. The neighborhood, being modest and discreet, accepted its fate in silence. But, as you and I well remember, it paved the way for the building of modern Jerusalem, providing it with the vigor and courage to expand. When Herbst first arrived in Jerusalem, Nahlat Shiva, with its stone buildings, was still a defined neighborhood. Now it is overshadowed by houses built of concrete and stores with goods Jerusalem had no need of until they appeared, or, let’s say, until the shopkeeper explained how necessary they were. Herbst, who generally stayed at home, whose shifts and changes led him from workroom to dining room to bedroom, is suddenly in the midst of a crowd. There are many people on the street, so many that he can’t see if there is a friend or acquaintance among them. He doesn’t recognize anyone, yet he feels he is a partner, though the nature of the partnership is unclear. He sees himself as part of the crowd. He suddenly finds himself standing in front of a large store. Its windows are brightly lit, and the wares are skillfully arranged to catch the eye of strollers.

What did I want to look at? Herbst asked himself. I didn’t want to look at anything. Actually, I did. Before he could decide whether or not he did, he was interrupted by a bell being rung by the shoeshine boy sitting in ambush at the edge of the street. Herbst’s thoughts were interrupted. He looked up and saw a small boy sitting at the entrance to an office building, one hand on a bell, the other on a bristled implement. The boy jingled the bell again and said to him, “Here, here, sir. Let me shine your shoes. I’ll do it tiptop.” The word appealed to Herbst. He laughed and said, “If you can really do it tiptop, I’ll let you shine my shoes.” The boy said, “If I don’t do a good job, you don’t have to pay.” Herbst said, “That’s not the point. Just make it tiptop.” The boy said, “All right, sir.” Herbst extended his foot. The boy picked up his tools and began to work. Herbst watched him and said, “I see you are really making it tiptop. What do you earn in a day?” Herbst also asked the boy where he lived and if he had a father, a mother, brothers, sisters. I’m not sure just how interested Dr. Herbst really was. But the boy answered, adding even more information than was asked for.

This is roughly his story. His father had left his mother for someone younger, his mother having aged rapidly because she worked so hard, at home and away from home, in the homes of Ashkenazim, who are so rich that they don’t have to work and their work is done by others. As for his brothers, one of them, sort of a halutz, who studies at night and can even read a newspaper, was in partnership with a Yemenite. The Yemenite would give him a pile of newspapers to distribute and a share of the profits. On Friday nights, he would bring home a newspaper and sit reading it, like a scholar with a sacred text. And what about the sisters? They were up to no good. Victoria went with some Englishman. She was attacked by fanatics, who beat her up and poured acid on her face, which ruined her looks. When the Englishman saw this, he got angry and said he would kill all the Jews. Balfouria heard this and began to cry inconsolably. She said to the Englishman, “Don’t kill the Jews.” He took her to the movies, and she didn’t come back. When she came home in the morning, Victoria jumped on her, bit her, pulled her hair, shouted, and wept. Our brother Musa appeared and beat up Victoria and Balfouria, screaming, “I’ll kill all the English! They’re making our girls into whores! Even if they kill me, I’ll kill them first.” Then he joined forces with Fat Musa, who loved Balfouria dearly. They planned to ambush the Englishman, and Mother was terrified that Musa would kill him. Musa has a fierce temper, and, when he is angry, he turns red as a bull’s blood; his eyes get twice as red, so he can’t see what he is doing. He pounds with his fists, kicks, and thrusts his head into the enemy’s belly until the victim collapses in defeat.

After having his shoes shined, Herbst went to a candy shop and bought some bittersweet chocolate. He didn’t know what type of chocolate Shira preferred, but the package was attractive and the price was high, so he chose that one.

Herbst left the store pleased with himself, since he knew where he was going and he had succeeded in buying chocolate. Sometimes, when he had in mind to buy something for Shira, he restrained himself, out of fear of being seen. He imagined everyone was watching him and knew just what he was up to. Now, having entered and emerged, unscathed, he directed his feet toward the streets that lead to Shira’s.

He met Lisbet Neu. He greeted her, and she returned his greeting, saying, “You still remember me?” He offered her the chocolate. “This is evidence that I was thinking of you. Look and you’ll see. I wrote your telephone number on the wrapper. I was about to call you.” Lisbet looked at the wrapper and saw no sign of a number. Herbst said, “Oh my goodness, the salesperson switched packages. If you have room in your purse, please take it.” Lisbet said, “To waste one’s money on such things!” Herbst said, “I bought it for my daughter, but she left.” Lisbet said, “Then keep it until she comes back.” Herbst said, “When she comes, I’ll buy her another. Meanwhile, my dear, eat the chocolate and remember me.” Lisbet said, “I remember you even without it.” He looked at her fondly, wondering why he didn’t feel as he used to feel and respond as he used to respond. Whenever he saw her, he used to be refreshed by a breath of innocence. Now his soul was unmoved and his spirits were low.

Has there been a change in me or in her? Herbst asked himself. It’s not that, but…I’ll watch and see.

The street was buzzing. The pastimes that occupied the passersby were passed back to them by the street. But he withdrew from the tumult into which he had been propelled and eyed Lisbet obliquely to determine if the change was in her. His eyes lighted on the bag slung over her shoulder with the chocolate in it. Your present was taken away, Shira, and given to Lisbet Neu, Herbst remarked to himself.

Lisbet Neu interrupted his conversation with himself and said, “If you would like, Dr. Herbst, you could walk a little way with me. Only a little way. I know you are busy and have no time to waste.” Herbst said, “I’d be glad to walk all the way home with you.” Lisbet Neu said, “That’s more than I asked, and not what I intended.” Herbst said, “Intentions don’t preclude action.” Lisbet Neu looked up at him, struggling to fathom his words.

When they had walked a few paces, his mouth was empty, and he could find nothing to say. He thought: Will we walk in silence, like those couples who are weary of each other? He lit a cigarette and said, “If the lady agrees, we can stop for coffee.” Lisbet Neu said, “With your permission, I’d rather walk. I’ve been sitting in the office all day, and I don’t get a chance to stretch my legs. That’s why you found me on the street. If it’s all right with you, Dr. Herbst, let’s walk a bit.” Herbst said, “Let’s walk.”

They left Ben Yehuda Street and were on a road that had no name yet but is now called Shammai Street. They were suddenly encircled by the quiet that sweetens the summer nights of Jerusalem in those few remaining spots that have not been ruined by this perplexed generation. When they reached such a place, Lisbet Neu began telling about herself, things that astonished Herbst. Lisbet Neu said, “All my energy is wasted selling furniture and dealing with customers.” After talking about furniture and customers, she began to discuss how girls were educated, the fact that they were not taught a trade. What were they taught? To hope for husbands. And husbands didn’t appear, since most husbands were looking for a dowry and most girls didn’t have a dowry. Even back in Germany, where life was orderly and conventional, it was hard to find matches for daughters. Here in the Land of Israel, where there was so little order and few conventions, these young women hoped in vain. From these young women and their plight, she turned to tales of travel in Africa which she had been reading. One can hardly say there is a connection between the education of women and tales of Africa. Still, she saw some connections; but Herbst wasn’t listening.

They were already beyond the quiet streets, entering an area filled with houses, stores, pedestrians. When Herbst first came to Jerusalem, this entire territory was desolate. Now it was bustling, mostly with Jews, but with a few Arabs and a few Englishmen as well — Jews because they lived here; Arabs because, if the Jews thought that building houses and opening stores gave them the land, that’s not how it was going to be. For the time being, they were simply here; but, in time, they would have a chance to deal with the Jews. And why were the English here? They were here to bestow peace on the land. But, from the day they arrived, they have promoted hatred, envy, and contention, which will end in murder and bloodshed.

Herbst and Lisbet Neu didn’t talk about the usual subjects — Lisbet Neu, because she wanted to speak of her own affairs; Herbst, because he wanted to hear what she had to say. But Lisbet didn’t get around to her own concerns, because whatever she thought of seemed too trivial to say to this learned man, whose name she first heard from her uncle when he went to visit him. Whether or not her concerns were important, Herbst enjoyed her verbal contortions.

By now they had reached the little neighborhood adjacent to Orhot Hayim, where Lisbet Neu and her mother lived. This neighborhood, too, was sometimes called Orhot Hayim, after its elder sister, which was built first, and sometimes it was called by another name in honor of one of its settlers; there was still no consensus as to its name. How long did Lisbet Neu walk with Herbst? Whether she walked a lot or a little, she was tired, because she had been slaving all day in the store or the office, because she hadn’t had a hot meal all day, and because she had walked so far. For all these reasons, she was tired. And, for this reason, she linked arms with Herbst, which she had never done before with a man.

As sometimes happens, a man happened to pass. He stared at her. Perhaps he knew her, perhaps he didn’t. But he was surprised, since it was not the custom in Orhot Hayim for a woman to link arms with a man. Because I don’t intend to dwell on him — in fact, I doubt that I will refer to him again — I will ignore him and get back to Herbst and Lisbet Neu. Herbst was also surprised, not for the same reason, but for his own reasons, being so aware of her innocence.

Herbst and Lisbet were walking as one in Orhot Hayim, the neighborhood in which Lisbet Neu and her mother found an apartment when they came to the country. They had gone to Jerusalem the day they arrived, since, of all the places in the Land of Israel, Jerusalem was the one place they knew — not only through the prayerbook, but through fundraising letters sent out by charitable institutions in Jerusalem to everyone everywhere. In those days, when the Jewish community of Germany was tranquil and Lisbet’s father, Mr. Neu, was alive, an emissary arrived from the Land of Israel. He had been sent by an organization with plans to set up a school near Jerusalem, where Torah would be taught, as well as trades. The school day would be divided equally between Torah studies and vocational training, so the boys would be able to support themselves when they grew up. Mr. Neu was impressed with this project and made a sizable contribution. When he heard the school was to be built in Orhot Hayim, adjacent to several poor neighborhoods with many abandoned children, he began sending a portion of his annual tithe to the treasurer of this institution. He enclosed his daughter’s tithe as well, having trained her to set aside for worthy causes a portion of the monthly allowance she received from him. Mr. Neu used to combine the two sums and send them both together. I don’t know where that school is; even if it no longer exists, the neighborhood exists, and Mrs. Neu and her daughter, Lisbet, chose to live there.

That little neighborhood sits in darkness, like a rug on which a weaver has outlined houses and gardens in blues and grays. The houses are houses, the gardens are gardens, and their colors are the dusk that envelops them, for those who live in the neighborhood are mostly people of limited means. They skimp wherever possible, certainly on lights on a summer evening, when even the darkness gives off light. And if it doesn’t give light, it’s good to sit in the dark. In the darkness one is unaware of the house’s defects — its sinking floor, a crooked wall, crumbling plaster, a leaky faucet in the kitchen. The sound of a loud radio blares forth from one of the houses, the occupant having pitched its volume to let the neighbors hear, since not everyone has a radio. The tone is political, but the words are from the prophets.

Dr. Herbst and Lisbet Neu traversed the entire neighborhood and were now at the other end. If this was not the end of the world, it was surely the end of civilization. There were no houses here, no tents, no permanent structures, no temporary ones; only rock and bramble. The rock rolls downward, with clefts that form a series of steps. If these clefts were not made by God, they are almost certainly the ones Solomon described in the Song of Songs: “My dove, in the clefts of the rock, hidden in the cliff.” Manfred Herbst and Lisbet Neu are already far from the heart of the neighborhood or any part of it, and another scent and another sound take over — the fragrance of grass and the sound of wind stirring the grass; the scent of thorns sun-dried by day and dampened by evening dew. Along with the sound of the wind in the grass, a two-part song is being sung by a girl and boy perched in a cleft of the rock, a song with words that are in the melody, words to suit each listener. The fine scent from the rock and bramble, along with the singing, make this night like those Jerusalem nights long ago when even we were young.

Lisbet Neu withdrew her arm from Herbst’s and said, “Let’s turn back.” Herbst was surprised, though there was no reason for surprise. He had, in fact, meant to see her home, and now that she was there, it was time for her to go in. Herbst asked Lisbet, “What’s the hurry?” Lisbet said, “They’re playing Mozart tonight, and the man with the radio invited me to listen. I’ve been wanting to hear Mozart for so long.” If Herbst had put his thoughts into words, he would have said to Lisbet, “Forget Mozart, and let’s go down to the rocks and sit there like that boy and girl.” But not all of a person’s thoughts are put into words. Herbst kept thinking: If I run my hand through her lovely hair, she won’t object; she might even let her lovely head slip down and rest on my heart. Herbst glanced at her and saw that her ears were tiny, her eyes sparkling. A woman with small ears likes to listen and doesn’t turn one away. He continued to look at her. Alarmed by his evil thoughts, he began to scrutinize himself: How depraved this man is, buying a gift for Shira, giving the gift to Lisbet, and telling her, “I bought it for my daughter.” He is on his way to Shira, yet he seeks to amuse himself with an innocent young girl.

They were walking away from the steps. Lisbet stopped at one of the houses and said, “This is where I live.” “Here?” Herbst asked in despair. Lisbet said, “Most nights I sit inside with Mother. If you ever have some time, Dr. Herbst, you could come over.” Herbst said, “I won’t come.” Lisbet said, “Why won’t you come to our house?” Herbst said, “Because of the young lady’s mother.” “My mother?” Herbst said, “Old women tend to see me as a peer and engage me in conversation, so I don’t get to talk to their daughters.” Lisbet said, “My mother isn’t old.” Herbst said, “In any case, my age is closer to hers than to her daughter’s. And another thing, my dear Miss Lisbet: I don’t want your neighbors to gossip. Now, be well, enjoy the Mozart, and I’ll go home.” Lisbet said, “I’m sorry I took the professor this far. By now, the last bus has left, and you will have to walk back to town.” Herbst said, “Never mind, my feet will find the way. Goodbye.”

When Herbst reached the bus station, there was no bus in sight. Had it already left? Was it about to arrive? There was no one to ask. Herbst stood waiting for the bus, as people do in Jerusalem at night, especially then, during the riots, when Jews were being killed and injured every day. Standing there, he heard the sound of violins, harps, drums, and dancing. He looked up and saw that the two Rabinowitz hotels were filled with people in holiday attire. Some were dancing, some clapping, their shtreimels bobbing up and down, to and fro. Herbst thought to himself: On the one hand, death and injury, mourning and dirge; on the other, brides and grooms, joy and exultation. He soon grew tired of waiting. He soon grew weary of the instruments and the tunes, which were all one motif repeated over and over. He shifted his mind to Mozart and to Lisbet Neu, who, at that very moment, was sitting near the radio. His mind drifted to his book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, which was still a heap of notes and, if he didn’t idle away his time, would be a great book. He was sorry to be wasting time waiting for a bus, with no way of knowing when it was due. He decided to walk home. He took a few steps and turned back, took a few more steps and turned back again, thinking the bus might come in the meanwhile, and the driver, seeing no one waiting, would leave. This had happened to him on several occasions, when he was waiting for a bus and stepped back to read the bulletin board, only to be ignored by the driver and forced to wait for the next one or walk.

The driver appeared and saw Herbst waiting. He told him the bus was stuck on the road with holes in its tires, thanks to the nails with which Arabs immobilize our vehicles to disrupt transportation and cut off those living in outlying districts, so they will come to loathe their isolation.

The two of them, Dr. Herbst and the driver, stood discussing the subjects one discussed during the riots, when events were cruel and bitter, when the Arabs conspired to restrict us in every possible way. One of the things they would do was to scatter nails on roads frequented by Jewish vehicles. A bus or car filled with Jews would be traveling along and stop suddenly because a nail in the tire had caused a blowout. The driver would get down to change the tire, and a stone would be thrown at him or at the passengers. Given a miracle, the injuries would be slight. Often, they were serious. The Arabs would stand by laughing while the English policeman meted out justice. How would he do that? He would grab a Jew and order him to get the nails off the road.

Herbst stands listening to the news the driver has to tell. Actually, there is nothing new. Yesterday is the same as today. The only change is in the number of casualties. Still, there is no day without something novel. Since it is novel, I will tell about it.

An old Jewish woman lived at the edge of one of the settlements in the Sharon. Her home was open to passersby, offering shade from the heat of day and shelter from the rain. That day, her house wasn’t open, because her years weighed on her, making it hard for her to get out of bed. She had lived almost a hundred years, enduring poverty, grief, and bereavement. She found consolation in the fact that most of the settlement’s children, as well as the children of the Arabs in the surrounding villages, were her nurslings, for she had assisted either at their birth or at the birth of their mother and father, perhaps even of their grandmother and grandfather. She had seen them through childhood illnesses and the maladies of the region. From her bed, she heard a knock at the door, followed by a call for water. She managed to get up and open the door. She saw two Arab youths, who asked for a drink. She handed them the water jug. They turned on her and killed her. The driver had other news to tell. What is known is known; what is unknown, who will believe?

By now, the instruments had fallen silent and the wedding guests were beginning to leave the two hotels. Some of them came to the bus stop, intending to ride home. They found a driver, but not a bus. Having celebrated, danced, and feasted, they were tired. They could barely stand on their feet. And the bus was not there. They began quarreling with the driver. He said to them, “What do you want — should I carry you? You heard what happened to the bus. There’s a hole in the tire, and it won’t budge. If you’re not too lazy, you can carry it on your shoulders.” They said, “Then what should we do? It’s dangerous to walk, and we can’t stand outside — if a curfew is announced, the police will arrest us for violating it.” After some further argument, the driver went to call the office and ask that another bus be sent. He couldn’t find a public telephone that was in working order, so he took the risk of going into one of those dens of iniquity frequented by English soldiers, who would probably be drunk at this hour and up to no good. After a while, the driver returned and informed those waiting for the bus that the office had promised to send a replacement; unless it suffered a fate similar to that of its predecessor, it would almost certainly arrive soon. Had the bus come immediately, Herbst would have taken it and gone home. But, since there was a delay, he grew impatient and went to Shira’s.

The blinds were drawn, and a faint light filtered through. Most likely Shira was already in bed, reading a book or, perhaps, that vile magazine. If he didn’t hurry, she might turn out the light and close her eyes, in which case he wouldn’t have the heart to deprive her of sleep. She had once told him that, when she falls asleep, as soon as her eyes are closed she is asleep for the night. But, if she is awakened, she can’t fall back to sleep.

He bent down and picked up a handful of dirt to throw at the window. He decided not to throw it. Were he to throw it, she would open the window and ask who was there. He would have to say his name, which the passersby would hear and note. He discarded the dirt, then brushed his hand, entered the yard, approached her door, and knocked. While he was waiting, he realized she wasn’t alone.

Rage, fury, envy burned in his heart like fire. None of the vengeful acts he was considering diminished the intensity of that fire, vengeful acts he had heard of or read about but not believed possible. None of those acts could satisfy his impulses toward that woman who was in bed, the devil knew with whom, while he was on the other side of the door, his heart about to break. He held on to himself by his coat, by his buttons, grinding his teeth. Would she or would she not open the door? His heart was in turmoil. He gasped, “No, she won’t.”

The door opened and Shira stood before him, surprised that he had come back after having been there the night before. He hadn’t shown his face for a month and a half, and now here he was, night after night. Though she wasn’t exactly unfriendly, dismay was apparent in every aspect of her being. She offered her hand, greeted him, and said, “You frightened us.” As he held on to her hand, she withdrew it, tossed her head back toward the bed, and said, “Let me introduce you.”

A woman got up from Shira’s bed, greeted him, and said, “Temima Kutchinsky is the name.” Shira gestured toward him and said, “This is Professor Herbst.” She then gestured toward Temima Kutchinsky and said, “She was my shipmate, and do you know why she is in Jerusalem? She’s here for a great event.” Herbst said, “I imagine she’s here for the workshops.“ Shira said, “That’s right, but how do you know that?” Temima Kutchinsky said, “I, too, am wondering how Professor Herbst knows I’ve come for the workshops.” Herbst said, “It’s enough that I know. As for calling me Professor, I must inform you that I am not a professor.” Shira said, “If you’re not a professor now, you soon will be.” Temima asked Herbst, “Are you lecturing at the workshops?” Herbst said, “I wasn’t invited, but my daughter is attending them.” Temima cried out in amazement, “A grown daughter? I assumed you were a bachelor.” Shira laughed and said, “You assume he’s a bachelor because he calls on a single woman?” Temima Kutchinsky said, “Is that a sin?” Herbst said, “If you are well received, then it’s no sin.” Shira said, “Nonsense, didn’t we receive you warmly?” Herbst said, “We shall see. Isn’t that so, Lady Kutchinsky?” Temima Kutchinsky said, “I’m no lady.” Herbst said, “Any woman can be called a lady.” Temima Kutchinsky said, “I see you like to be correct.” Shira said, “Not merely correct, but most highly correct. A German from the land of the Germans.” Herbst said, “I see you are ready for bed, and I am keeping you from your sleep.” Temima said, “The night is young. Besides, I don’t usually get into bed until past midnight. I was in bed only because Shira insisted. I’m getting right up to help her make tea.” Herbst said, “If you’re thinking of me, I’m not thirsty.” Temima said, “Tea makes people sociable, especially at night. A musician once passed through our town singing, ‘Tea is a social brew / And a cure for any bruise.’“ Shira said, “You should know, Herbst, that Temima is a nurse, which is why she mentioned that chant. If you want to hear the whole thing, this is how it goes: ‘A fish on your line / And tea the social brew / Make every wound fine / And cure every bruise.’ Is that right, Temima?” Temima said, “Honestly, I heard him sing it, and you heard it from me. In the end, I only remember half of it, and you remember it all. Now I’ll get up and make tea.” Shira scolded her, “Stay where you are, Temima. I can boil water without any help.” Temima said, “I’m afraid Dr. Herbst won’t enjoy sitting with me.” Shira said, “Nonsense. What’s new in the world?” Herbst said, “I didn’t see the evening paper.” Shira said, “I wasn’t referring to the news in the paper. How is the baby? You should know, Temima, that our friendship is the same age as his little one.”

Shira went to boil water, and Herbst was left with Temima Kutchinsky, thinking: If I had asked Lisbet, would she have given up the Mozart, and would she and I now be walking among the rocks? He turned to Temima. “What did Her Ladyship say?” Temima answered, “That Germans remain German. I’ve already said I’m no lady.” Herbst said, “Forgive me.” Temima said, “Since there’s been no transgression, there’s nothing to forgive. So, your daughter has come for the workshops. Then I’ll see her tomorrow.”

His soul was alarmed, but he recovered quickly. Zahara had already left Jerusalem and was not known by her family name. There were two factors in his favor: first, that they wouldn’t run into each other at the lectures, and, second, that he hadn’t mentioned Zahara’s name. His apprehensions were groundless.

Shira returned with a kettle and glasses. Temina jumped out of bed, fully dressed, leaped toward her bag, and pulled out a yellow tin filled with baked goods, saying, “They’re from our village, homemade with our own flour and butter. Dr. Herbst, try some and tell me if they’re not better than all the cakes and pastries in town. I know that scholars don’t tend to have opinions on food, drink, and the like. Still, you ought to know the difference between our baked goods and what one gets in the city. Here, one dough takes many forms. While we don’t bother about the form, we fuss over the contents, and each cake has a different flavor.

Herbst took one of the cakes, thinking: If I hadn’t given Lisbet Neu the chocolate, I could have added it to this feast. He reached for a glass of tea. Temima said, “So your daughter came for the workshops.” Herbst nodded, thinking to himself: What will Zahara say when she hears where this nurse met her father? Shira peered at him and said, “You look as if you’re pondering the seven wonders of the world.” Temima said, “We can list more than seven wonders. What does the doctor think about our cakes? They say no one can cook or bake on the kvutza, which is outright slander. Try another. No, take this kind. It’s even better than the first.” Herbst said, “It’s time for me to go.” Shira said, “Even before you came, it was time for you to go, but since you are here, sit down.” Temima said, “So, my friends, you live in Jerusalem. I admit that our Jerusalem is a truly glorious city. The view from Mount Scopus can’t be matched anywhere in the valley. Altogether, I must say that…But what can I say, when you already know?”

Herbst lowered his head and lifted a finger toward the left side of his brow while holding on to his cup. After a while, he put down the cup and studied Böcklin’s skull. Did Böcklin paint from a model or from his imagination? Why do I ask? Herbst wondered.

Temima continued, “Most of the cultural institutions, headed by the university — which truly belongs here — are in Jerusalem. The National Library and the Bezalel Museum, for example. So naturally there are many cultured people, more than anywhere else in the country, and every new book, as well as every new idea, comes here before it comes to our kvutza. Still, I can say that, when I come from my kvutza to Jerusalem, I don’t feel inadequate. To borrow a term from Freud, I don’t have an inferiority complex. After all, we in our villages are also promoting the country’s interests. A few days ago, I happened on a book of philosophical essays and I found something on this subject that I can quote word for word. If the capital is the head of the country, then the villages are its limbs. To which I add: Just as a body can’t live without a head, a head can’t exist without limbs.” Shira said, “I see, Temima, that you’re looking for an excuse for living in the country rather than the city.” Temima said, “What makes you think I’m looking for excuses? Besides, what difference can one person make in times such as these? I don’t mean myself and those like me. What I have in mind is the world at large. You have to consider whatever is going on in the era it is your fate to be living in and account for every single action. We have no right to let actions go by without examining them and concerning ourselves with them.” Shira said, “And if you and I don’t concern ourselves with whatever is going on in the world, will anything be different?” Temima said, “Really, I don’t understand what you mean.” Shira said, “I think I’m making myself clear.” Temima said, “I’m surprised at you, Shira. After all, a person is a person. Isn’t it a primary duty to reflect about and consider whatever is going on in the world, all the more so here in this country, since we came here for a specific purpose?” Shira said, “Well spoken, Temima. We came for a purpose. The question is: For what purpose?” Temima said, “Really, I don’t understand what you are saying. What did we come for? For…for…” Shira laughed and said, “Temima, your name means ‘innocence,’ and you are as innocent as your name. Don’t wear yourself out looking for sublime words. I’m satisfied with what you said. We came for a purpose.” Temima said, “Really, I must repeat, I don’t understand you.” Shira said, “If I were ten years younger, I would envy you. Imagine, you are still looking for reasons to be where you are. We’re here because we’re here and nowhere else. And, if my view is too simple for you, that doesn’t change a thing. I don’t presume to phrase my ideas the way you do in the kvutza, but they are sincere.”

Herbst sat thinking many thoughts, having to do with another place and another time. If we look for a reason, only one comes to mind. Dr. Herbst wished to withdraw from his present company, if not in person, then in thought. Herbst asked himself: This skull of Böcklin’s — how was it drawn? From a model or from the imagination? Actually, Böcklin himself has answered my question. Where do we find his answer? He complained that he never had the chance to draw a woman from life, because his wife, who was Italian, was jealous and wouldn’t allow him to have a model in his studio. But why am I thinking about Böcklin’s skull painting? Is it because that nurse mentioned Bezalel? No, I thought of the question even before she mentioned Bezalel. Yes, Zahara went back and won’t be at the workshops. So, obviously, the nurse won’t see her and say where she met her father. Herbst looked at his watch and said, “Time to go. What’s this? My watch has stopped.” He took off his watch and set it, guessing at the time, not bothering to look at the numbers, and thinking to himself: I’m leaving this place, calm and confident, as if there were no reason to worry about the nurse telling Zahara that she met her father. Even if she were to tell her, she wouldn’t necessarily say where and when she saw me. Even if she did say when and where she saw me, Zahara, in the innocence of her heart and purity of her mind, would think nothing of it. And, if she were to wonder, her wonder wouldn’t last. Many things happen. Before you have a chance to attend to one thing, there is another on the horizon. We, too, rather than dwell on the past, should attend to what’s ahead.

Herbst took leave of Shira and Temima. He was on his way, restating to himself what he had said before: I’ll put the past behind me and attend to what’s ahead.

I’m going home to my wife, who urged me to take a walk before going to bed so my sleep would be sweeter. I went out for a bit, and the time stretched to several hours. What did I find in that time? I found Lisbet Neu. When I left her, I went to the bus stop, meaning to go home. I didn’t find the bus. I waited, and it didn’t come. Meanwhile, I heard the day’s news. If one were to be precise, I doubt it could be called news, since there is nothing new about it. Events that recur every day can hardly be called new. What do we consider new? A story with danger and with Arabs. Two Arabs come to an old woman and ask for water. They shoot her, though she has provided them with water. She falls in a pool of blood and dies. How naive that old woman was. Innocent blood is being spilled in this country, and it didn’t occur to her that what happens to others could happen to her. What happened in the end? In the end, they killed her.

So much for the old woman and the villains who killed her. Let’s get back to Herbst. Herbst was walking home and thinking as he walked: I left the others waiting for the bus and went to Shira. I arrived at Shira’s and found her shipmate there, a good woman, if a somewhat simple one. But what does a man know about a woman? A man doesn’t really know a woman except…Take Shira. Before I was close to her, didn’t I see her the way she makes others see her? Remembering Shira, his voice began to intone, “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten.”

He grew silent and reviewed the entire Shira episode, since he began to be close to her. He argued with himself: What did I think when I first knew her? Was I so innocent as to think I wouldn’t have to put myself out for her, that I could come at any time? What did she do? When I came, she made it clear that she had a will too, that her will was different from mine. He reviewed all of his struggles with her. There must have been other men, the engineer and his like. Without envy, without hatred, he enumerated all the men Shira had told him about. They had no reality. Shira was the sole reality. Again she was there, before his eyes, revealed in all the forms he had seen her assume, and as each form unfolded, his voice intoned, “Flesh such as yours…”

He suddenly began to wave his hands, as if to repel something unwelcome. But the very knowledge he was trying to repel seemed to become more and more palpable with every thought. He sighed from the heart and mused: As long as she exists, I will not be rid of her, whether or not that’s what she wants. As it is in the nature of thoughts to come and go, an evil thought came to him: Should something happen to her, if she were to be hit by a bus and run over, or if she were to come down with one of the dread diseases she treats, he would be rid of her forever.

Shira appeared before him again, as he had seen her that first night in her house, in her room, dressed in dark blue pants and a thin shirt, when, to his astonishment, as soon as she put on male attire, her masculine qualities vanished and she became all the more female. He opened his mouth wide; the edges of his teeth protruded and began to strike each other. He stood, shouting, “If you insist on living, live, as long as you are transformed into a man!”

He gradually calmed down. He wiped his brow and said, “Far be it from me to wish you misfortune, Shira. Live, but let me be, so I can live too. And, if you like, go off with your lovers and marry them. You could marry the one who gave you the cigarettes, or, if you prefer, the one with the whip, or that blind Turk. I won’t interfere. I will entertain you with a lovely tune, if you like.” He began singing, “Flesh such as yours…” Before he got to “Will not soon be forgotten,” his limbs became inert, and he was suffused with a pleasant sensation. The entire world became inert and vanished. Even Shira became inert and vanished. Only Herbst continued to exist.

When he got home and climbed into bed, he didn’t think about Shira or about anything in the world or about what had happened on the way. He rested his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling and at his shadow on the wall. While he was watching the shadow, it closed its eyes, exactly as Herbst himself did. The house was quiet. At intervals, a sigh could be heard in Henrietta’s room, but it didn’t reach Manfred’s ears, because of the snore from the wall or from the shadow on the wall.

Now something occurred that was either a dream or I don’t know what it was. Manfred Herbst had a childhood friend, a Greek scholar who used to correct Wilamowitz’s translations of the Greek tragedies. One day, he abandoned his studies and left for America. The war came, and there was no trace of him until he came back and was exiled to a detention camp. He suddenly appeared in Mea Shearim. Or perhaps in Tel Aviv. No, it was Mea Shearim, because, when he and Manfred went walking, Mount Zion walked with them. During their entire walk, they never asked each other what they had been doing all those years, but they did discuss gender restriction in language, particularly those words that are masculine in one language and feminine in another. Herbst was going to mention Neu’s definition of the word piyyut (poetry) as an example. Before he could mention it, his friend bent down and said, “I think my shoes are torn.” Herbst took him to a shoemaker. When they were at the shoemaker, Herbst noticed that his shoes were also in need of repair. He extended his legs, slipped off his shoes, and handed them to the shoemaker. The shoemaker took them, rounded the toes, and stitched them with white raffia. The American reached into his pocket and paid the shoemaker what he asked, sixty grush. Herbst began arguing with the shoemaker. Not only had he ruined the shoes and changed their shape, but he was asking sixty grush, which was too high a price. Hearing the argument, the neighbors appeared. Everyone at the Bezalel exhibit came too, as well as all those who were praying in the Emet Veemunah Synagogue next to Bezalel. Herbst wanted to tell them what the shoemaker had done. He realized there wasn’t time, since he had to rush off to the wedding of Shira and Lisbet Neu. They were marrying each other, and he still hadn’t given them a wedding present. He left all the people to wonder about him and ran to a craftsman, from whom he bought a knife of pure silver. He ran and brought it to Lisbet and Shira — a wedding gift to gladden their hearts.

With this I have concluded Book One of the book about the nurse Shira and Dr. Manfred Herbst. I will begin another, in which I will recount what followed.