Shira

Chapter one

It was two years since Herbst met the nurse Shira. Many things had happened in those years. Not only in the world, but in Herbst’s home as well. I will now recount some of what was new with Herbst.

Little Sarah was already walking, like all bipeds, and chattering away like a full-fledged person. Her speech was still a jumble of single words, but her mother knew how to combine them. Apart from this, she was very clever and showed her cleverness in every realm. Hen-rietta had a chicken coop. Once, when Henrietta was trying to get a chicken out of the coop, it escaped, and another one flew into her hand. Sarah chased it away and caught the fugitive. Another time, two days after her birthday, her mother was baking a cake for Shabbat. Sarah remembered that it was her doll’s birthday and she hadn’t baked her a cake yet. She went and told her mother, who gave her a pinch of dough, from which Sarah made a cake. These were some of Sarah’s tricks, and they provided some solace for Henrietta.

Henrietta managed to get a certificate for her brother. In the interim, he was offered a certificate for South America and went there instead. Henrietta got a certificate for another relative. In the interim, the Nazis harassed him out of existence, and he was dead. Henrietta tried to transfer the certificate to another relative and was told, “Why not?” Again, she ran around in a panic, for what had happened to her dead relative could happen to a live one. It was the anguish over these certificates that aged her prematurely. Since she considered herself old, the whole world seemed old to her, and she made no attempt to improve herself for her husband. Nor did she remark affectionately, as she used to, “Are there no young women in Jerusalem who would be glad to be with you?” Such talk was far from her lips and, needless to say, from her heart. Now all of Henrietta’s conversation with Manfred related to their daughters, to Tamara, for instance, who has finished her studies but has no job. All the openings are in depressed villages or in older settlements abandoned by the younger generation. A young teacher ought to be placed in a school in town, so she can learn from experienced teachers and from the principal, which is impossible in a far-flung village where the teachers and principal are second-rate. Meanwhile, she wastes her time on enterprises that please neither her father, her mother, nor even herself. A grown daughter can be an asset to her mother, but Tamara is incompetent in household matters and adds to her mother’s work. Henrietta Herbst, who taught Arab women domestic skills, didn’t teach them to her own daughter. Tamara spends half the day in bed, the other half in a telephone booth calling half of the directory. She spends evenings in a café, a cigarette in her mouth, a scornful look on her face, young men enveloping her in clouds of pipe smoke while she envelops them in clouds of cigarette smoke. When the band strikes up a tune, she dances, making no attempt to avoid the English officers, whose language she knows if not their intentions. Perhaps she does know their intentions and assumes her scorn will repel them too.

As for Zahara, we had the impression that her heart was drawn to Avraham-and-a-half or Heinz the Berliner. But she suddenly seems attracted to someone else, who doesn’t measure up to the former in height or to the latter in intelligence. Who is he? Heinz from Darmstadt. In fact, he is also one of the founders of Ahinoam, a good fellow, too, with some virtues the others lack. But why should a girl wear herself out and be torn between so many? This was not her mother’s way. Before Henrietta knew Manfred, she didn’t look at another man, and as soon as she got to know him, she clung to him. Before Manfred knew Henrietta, his eyes were buried in his books. Other than Henrietta, no young woman, however scholarly or beautiful, distracted him from his studies, although he lived in Berlin, whose very air loosens the constraints of the heart and the eye. This daughter of theirs lives in a small kvutza in the Land of Israel, settled by young men and women who left Germany to live a pure life on the land. But, in the end, she doesn’t measure up to her parents. Which is especially perplexing, for she is a girl with a head on her shoulders and eyes in her head. Why should she be groping as if she were blind?

Let me get back to Dr. Herbst. His great work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium is in progress — a mass of references, notes, index cards, notebooks, quotations, outlines that remain incomplete, material that is still not in order. Herbst sits at his desk, removes a slip of paper, and replaces it with another. He writes, erases, records, copies, pastes in quotation after quotation, and substitutes a more appropriate word wherever possible. A scholar’s wisdom is not like dough in a woman’s hand, from which a piece can be torn to make a cake for a doll’s birthday. It is bothersome, like the chickens in their coop when you reach for one and another comes flying into your hand; not only do you have to pursue the one you want, but you have to struggle to get rid of the one in your hand. This may be a false analogy; still, it applies to the scholar’s struggle with his material. However, it must be noted that Herbst’s struggles are not in vain. Any author would be proud of the data Herbst has amassed. When he surveys his material, he often thinks: I’ll sit down and organize, combine, and copy, and I’ll have a book. But wisdom has such scope and is contained in so many volumes that no scholar can know today what tomorrow will bring. He persists, continuing to do today what he did yesterday and every other day, in some cases to support his data and in others to avoid discovering later that he left something out. There are scholars whose expertise is bewildering. Their bibliography alone occupies a third of the book, and when you examine it you realize that most of the books mentioned are irrelevant. Other scholars, after citing many sources, add see and see also. In fact, they have copied their material from such see alsos, which is to say that the sources referred to by see also are the ones from which they have copied their data, never having seen the original books from which the data are derived. Still, should someone say, “Others have preceded you,” they can point out, sanctimoniously, that full credit was given. Other scholars quote extensively from their own books; that is to say, they cite themselves as authorities. If this isn’t a matter of extreme innocence, then it’s a game, for they play at showing how smart they are, how many books they have already produced. There are scholars who quote the opinions of others, not to support their own, but to dispute them.

Manfred Herbst did not behave in any of the aforementioned ways. One could say that he and his work were clean. So he ought to have been pleased with himself, but he was not. When he confronted his box of notations, his piles of cards, his collection of notebooks, bundles of papers and pads, and heaps of writings, he would sometimes pound the table and cry out, “May flames leap up and consume you.” But, as long as they existed, it was his duty to rework, amend, and update them. He went back to his work, continuing to do today what he did yesterday and all the other days. He worked without joy, for there is no joy in amassing papers, even if the papers are full of fine quotations. When Herbst first thought of writing his book, he was inspired by an idea. As he began to support it with facts, the facts took over, and the idea dwindled. Finally, his box was full of facts but short on substance.

Herbst left his desk and notes, lit a cigarette, and went to the west window, which was curtained in a colorful woven fabric. Under it was a bookcase that used to be filled with fine china from the era of Frederick iI, made in the royal factory. The pieces were passed on to Henrietta by her parents and grandparents, for the king, known as Frederick the Great, required every Jew in his kingdom who wished to marry to buy dishes produced in his factory. In time, these dishes were broken since the local help in the Land of Israel was unaccustomed to handling such fragile objects. What wasn’t broken, Henrietta sold to buy reproductions for Manfred or traded for books, and what they neither sold nor traded, they gave as a gift to the Bezalel Museum. When there was no china left on the shelves, Henrietta began putting volumes of poetry, stories, and novels there. Occasionally, when she was done with her work, she would come in and take a book to read. Manfred, too, when he was despondent and wanted to regain his composure, would reach for a book.

These books lie there, small volumes that don’t attract attention or catch the eye because of their form or content. They were written by individuals who, for the most part, never saw the inside of a university and never studied with the scholars of their day. They wrote in the recesses of their rooms, tormented by hunger and other trials. Their wisdom was gleaned in the marketplace and on the streets, from every man, woman, and child; from animals, beasts and birds; from dusty roads and chilly winds; from the sun, the moon, and the stars; from trees in the wood and streaming river waters. These are books about people of no consequence, yet, if one examines the plots, one finds insight as well as basic wisdom of the sort one has to struggle to extract from other sources, heavy tomes written in profound language and complex terminology.

Not all the books the Herbsts brought from Germany were still in the bookcase. Some had been borrowed and never returned. Zahara took some of them with her to the kvutza. Though the settlers in Ahinoam have truly turned their backs on Germany, Austria, or Czechoslovakia to make a new life in the Land of Israel, when it comes to books, they behave as they did in their birthplace. What they used to read there, they read here. Even Tamara, who can barely read German, began taking books off these shelves. When she had finished her courses and received a teachers’ certificate, she discarded all the books about yeshiva students, old men with earlocks, beggars, and eccentrics of all kinds — all those types celebrated by Hebrew literature — and turned to books in other languages that told about real people, the kind whose thoughts and actions a civilized person is interested in. After reading everything that had been translated into Hebrew, she began reading English and even German. It’s an odd thing: visitors who come from Germany say that, since the Nazi rise to power, they have begun to value a single line of Hebrew more than all of Goethe and Kant; yet this girl, conceived, born, and educated in the Land of Israel, whose friends were all born there, who speaks Hebrew fluently — she replaces Hebrew books with gentile books and, what is more, she calls the Hebrew books “drivel.” When Herbst’s supply of poetry, novels, and stories began to dwindle, he filled the space with biographies. Everyone should study the lives of famous men, as a source of strength and an antidote to despair, evidence that even the finest human beings were human and they too were subject to the wheel of fortune and often discouraged — although this is not stated explicitly, either because no one reveals everything or because biographers, wishing to glorify the lives of exemplary people, suppress whatever is not praiseworthy about them. Still, whoever can read between the lines is rewarded. Now that Herbst’s task seemed lighter to him, he reached into the bookcase and took out a book.

As soon as he began reading, he forgot why he was reading and found himself reading for pleasure. He read on, smiling every so often and shaking his head at the book, as if to say: How innocent this author is! Doesn’t he know that even the greatest human being sometimes hits bottom and is flung from soaring heights to earth’s deepest abyss? I am not a great man, nor do I have the arrogance of the great; I am, furthermore, grateful to those powers that didn’t endow me with a sense of my own greatness. But I would guess that even the great men of the world were not always so wise, that their actions were not always a credit to them, that they were careful to conceal unbecoming actions and not to make them public except, perhaps, when their very faults were praiseworthy.

Very slowly, his rational processes were suspended, and his critical faculties were replaced by a sense of pleasure. He read with utter pleasure and with a yearning that added a physical dimension to his sensual pleasure. His soul was transported from one realm to another, and he began to feel as if he were the character he was reading about. This crossing of souls and spirits was accompanied by envy, the envy scholars indulge in. Tears filled his eyes as he considered his empty, wasted life. But his envy was fruitless, his tears futile, for neither led to action. His notebooks, lists, notations, and manuscript were like an abandoned egg that would never hatch. Herbst put down the biography of some great man and returned to his box of notes, putting one in, taking one out. If Henrietta were watching, she would assume he was busy with his book. Actually, only his hands were busy, like a card player who keeps shuffling the deck even when he is alone, out of sheer habit.

Chapter two

As it happened Herbst was at his desk, occupied with his notes, not thinking about anything. He looked at the notes and discovered that the material seemed to fit together to form a discrete chapter. What was not the case with Homer’s poems — which, as one scholar has noted, are not mere letters arranged at random — was the case with the book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. All of a sudden, at random and inadvertently, an entire chapter had put itself together. Herbst had worked on it for many years; suddenly, it took care of itself. What needs to be done now? It needs to be edited, erasing what should be erased, adding what should be added, correcting the language, explaining abbreviations and the like, until the chapter stands on its own — since, to a great extent, it is a subject in itself.

How is it a subject in itself? In their legal code, a husband cannot divorce his wife, nor can a woman divorce her husband, since the Torah declares, “They became one flesh.” Their lawmakers took this to mean that what the Creator has combined into one flesh, no man may put asunder, adding that in some cases a man is allowed to divorce his wife, but a woman may never divorce her husband. The Byzantine emperor, Leo the Isaurian, however, introduced four situations in which a woman could rid herself of her husband; should he get leprosy, for example, the woman could rid herself of him. This ruling, along with related material, formed a chapter in itself for Manfred Herbst. As he looked it over, he decided to copy it out; as he copied it out, he corrected and rewrote. Once it was edited, written, and rewritten, he sent it abroad to the editor of the journal of research in Byzantine antiquities in which all the great Byzantine scholars are published. Believe it or not, although anti-Semitism was intense, and most gentile scholars lent support to our enemies, they welcomed this article by Dr. Herbst of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Scholarship has its own dominion, which villainous hands fail to rock.

It was only a few months before the journal arrived in Jerusalem. Believe it or not, even the scholars on Mount Scopus took note of Manfred Herbst’s chapter and said, “This makes sense.” Sometimes the world tires of its follies and begins to smile on its creatures. Everyone was certainly astonished: this Herbstlein, whom they tolerated because he was such a modest man and because he made no effort to advance himself, took everyone by surprise with this article. Herbst had already published a book of more than six hundred pages, so why the uproar over a single article? If you like, I will tell you. Whatever a scholar wrote in his youth is prehistoric. If you like, I will tell you more. Herbst had already cashed in on his book, having won his appointment because of it. Eminent faculty members now talk about him in favorable terms. Those who seldom speak positively about anyone have nothing negative to say about him. If one of them is forced to mention him, he is sure to add, “Too bad he didn’t show me his article before sending it out; I might have made some comments.” Saying this, he thinks to himself: If I read it again, I will surely have something to add. In short, suddenly, with very little warning, Herbst’s star began to rise.

Let me say a word about envy. A person who develops step by step gives his friends a chance to observe him and become envious, which is not the case when a person’s talents emerge suddenly, in full power. Friends, having had no time to observe him, have had no time to become envious. They don’t seem to mind that he has achieved a measure of happiness. They even seek his welfare on occasion, and, if he takes the world by surprise with a great book or an important article, they treat him as they always have, for habit goes a long way. As for those who didn’t know him before, they are obviously not susceptible to envy or hatred, envy being reserved for intimates or acquaintances.

Since Manfred Herbst didn’t arouse the envy of colleagues, what began as a somewhat favorable response to him escalated, becoming intensely favorable. When the board of governors, or the senate, met to consider his promotion, no one objected, except Professor Bachlam, who was always grudging, all the more so toward scholars from Germany, who tended to disparage him and disregard his scholarship, although he had produced books that were on a par with theirs. In brief, it was suddenly the consensus that Manfred Herbst deserved to be promoted — for the moment, to the level of associate professor, not full professor. Though there was no additional salary involved, there was added prestige. Sometimes a lecturer is promoted but makes do with a lecturer’s salary, since the university cannot afford to pay a professor’s salary to every instructor who is promoted; the university’s expenses are soaring rapidly, and its income doesn’t grow proportionately. Its employees no longer receive their monthly salary three days early; now they’re lucky to be paid three days late.

Back to Herbst. It was about to happen. Manfred Herbst was going to be appointed a professor, like Bachlam and Ernst Weltfremdt and Lemner and Wechsler and all the other professors at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem who achieved this high position because of their books or social connections. Were we to judge by the polished brass nameplates gleaming on their doors, this was a good thing; if we look to the heart, what’s so good about it?

There is a simple creature in this world, named Shira. Just when fortune begins to smile on Herbst, this creature, Shira, puts him off. On the face of it, she shows warmth; actually, she shows only the freckles on her face, which is to say that, when he comes to her, she shows only her face, that’s all. Unlike that night when he first knew her, when she was so affectionate that there could be no other woman as affectionate; unlike the three or four nights that followed, when she was not as affectionate as on the first night, but she did respond to him, though not as he wished, yet we can say she responded, and he was in another world because of her. Herbst sits wondering why that night was different. When he saw her for the first time, expecting nothing, she was very affectionate, whereas, now that he is obsessed by her, she doesn’t notice him. Has she found more adequate companions, lovers? Herbst isn’t jealous, nor does he wish to know who they are. Herbst’s mind is on Shira, who is above all women, whom none can match. Whether he sees or imagines her, that phrase “Flesh such as yours…” is fixed on his lips.

Herbst tries to extricate himself from this chaos of Shira thoughts, which are boundless and infinite, whose sole effect is to suspend all other enterprises. Herbst turns his mind back to his work, to his book, to the material he has compiled, collected, selected, copied, and invented. He begins to relate to his book as if it is already there, as if it exists, as if all the notes were gathered together in a single volume. What does Shira do? Surfacing from the dimness of his thoughts, she appears before him.

When it comes to self-deception, Herbst is cautious, and he examines his actions with total objectivity. He is aware that, even when his book is completed, his ultimate goal will not be realized. He regards the actions of others with the same objectivity. Even those who have published several books will not affect the heavenly bodies, nor will they change the course of our world. Though learning is a dominion in itself, it holds no golden scepter in its hand.

I’ll get back to Shira now. Shira is not the same Shira we knew two years ago. Her upper lip is wrinkled, and her hair is beginning to turn gray. She is still in her prime, but she’s becoming slovenly. Though her clothes are old, she doesn’t replace them. The walls of her room are peeling, but she doesn’t arrange to get them repainted. The print of the skull has yellowed frightfully, and it looks as if a real skull is staring at you. What Böcklin’s brush didn’t accomplish has been accomplished by Shira’s slovenliness; she has stopped dusting the picture. Only the bed has changed its place. It used to be in the southeast corner; it is now in the northwest. Was it Shira’s idea to move the bed or someone else’s? It doesn’t really matter, except that all these thoughts of Shira bring on other thoughts that relate to Shira. He tires of them — they never tire. They give him wings, and he takes off and flies to Shira. When he comes, she welcomes him, offers cigarettes, fruit, and tea. Herbst lights a cigarette, takes some fruit, drinks a glass of tea, and thinks to himself: The things she gives me are presents from lovers; just as she gives me the gifts her lovers give her, she gives her lovers the gifts I give her. None of this disturbs him. It does disturb him that, though her hair is graying, she doesn’t dye it; though her clothes are worn, she doesn’t replace them; though she has lost a tooth, she doesn’t get a false one. Is Shira so sure of herself, confident that she is still attractive? Herbst studies Shira and can only wonder: Why am I so drawn to her. If it’s habit, Henrietta is more of a habit. Also handsomer, and of superior character. If Henrietta were in trouble, I would be very upset; if this one were in trouble, I would be glad to be rid of her. Herbst studies Shira repeatedly, through investigation and visitation. Before he has a chance to observe very much, his heart begins to flutter longingly.

Shira continues to behave in her usual fashion. On the face of it, she is warm, allowing him not a hairbreadth closer. She is frank with him, concealing none of her activities. That woman’s activities are bizarre, and it is hard to come to terms with them. Doesn’t she realize how misguided they are? Her talk is not loose, but it is certainly stimulating. Does she even have to stimulate his desire? Is there any reality to her stories? She once told him about an English soldier who came to her one night. When did he come? He came after midnight. True, she threw him out. In any case, the question stands: What was an English soldier doing in the room of a Jewish nurse in the Land of Israel? What business did Shira have with soldiers anyway? I say “soldiers,” in the plural, because once she went to Netanya, and, since she had to leave early and didn’t know how she would get to the train station with her heavy luggage, the proprietress told her there was an Englishman there who would take her luggage to the station. That night, when she was in bed, the soldier came to her room. She said to him, “I’m old enough to be your mother; you want to make love to a woman your mother’s age.”

What will the future bring? Herbst asks himself. This question pertains not to the events of the world, nor to the murder of six hundred Jews in a single year by the Arabs and the country’s continued policy of self-restraint, nor to the university or the concerns of his wife and daughters, but to Shira, whom he has begun to call Nadia again. He goes to her two or three times a month, and, whenever he happens to be in town, he tries to make time for Shira. When he comes in, she welcomes him, says, “Sit down,” and offers him cigarettes, fruit, a sweet, and tea. She discusses the news and whatever is going on at the hospital. Sometimes, to accommodate him, she tells about herself, about the past, which she prefers not to recall, on the theory that it no longer affects her; only for his sake, because he wants to hear, does she talk about it. When he tries to approach her, she makes a screen with her hands and says, “Please, don’t be childish.” Herbst sits there feeling scolded, praying to himself: If only she would reproach me, if only she would say, “Don’t come here.” He himself doesn’t want to stop, can’t stop, doesn’t stop; he continues to come. And she continues to welcome him, without allowing him a hairbreadth closer.

Just to please him, Shira returns to a subject she was in the middle of, something she doesn’t like to talk about but he likes to hear. She tells him about the past, before she was married; about the young man who saw himself as her protector, whom she rejected because, from early childhood, she disliked anyone who tried to dominate her. What was predicted for him in his youth was fulfilled. He had become prominent as an orator, a politician, first in whatever he undertook. He was featured in all the newspapers and praised, for, when someone becomes the head of an institution, many people depend on him, and the writers hired to provide publicity for the institution weave the name of its head into their text, sometimes even making him the subject of the entire article. If some of these writers, seeing their words in print, cursed whatever had moved them and cursed themselves for being moved, he was becoming famous anyhow, and already there was a body of literature about him. As soon as the Diaspora began to shrink, so that he couldn’t find anything to do there, he came here. He does the same things here that he did there. He is involved in everything, everywhere. He orates, speechifies, takes charge.

Herbst scorned public figures and orators because the country was so full of them. Still, he was surprised that Shira had plucked the fellow from her heart. Like all people who tend not to become much involved with others, Herbst considered everyone who ever crossed his path an essential part of his world. He was therefore surprised that it was so easy for her to pluck a childhood friend from her heart. He wondered about her, but he was even more curious about that man, beyond what she was willing to tell.

As minds wander, so did his mind wander once again to Lisbet Neu. There really wasn’t anything between them, nor was it possible that there ever would be anything between them. But thoughts are thoughts; they take their own course, and you can’t tell them, “Please, don’t be childish.”

Lisbet Neu is still working in the same place, which she sometimes calls a store, sometimes an office. In either case, her salary is meager and hardly adequate to provide for her and her sick mother. How do they manage? They manage because the Torah instructs them to live. Lisbet Neu has tried to find a job in a government office, but a young woman’s prospects are limited there. Her monthly salary would be ten lirot, with no possibility of advancement. One would think that ten lirot a month is a decent salary for a young woman who now earns only six lirot. But, as was already noted, government offices offer a young woman no opportunity for advancement, whereas here, in this store, the owner is considerate and allows her to earn money on the side. What does this mean? There are certain products he is not allowed to handle, because he is the agent for other companies. He is reluctant to forgo the profit, so he orders these products in Lisbet Neu’s name, giving her two percent of the profit. Two other young women work for him, but he doesn’t treat them as he does Lisbet Neu, who is his right hand. Herbst doesn’t know Lisbet Neu’s employer and has no reason to know him. He is aware of one thing: the man is an elderly bachelor. Why doesn’t he marry Lisbet? She is lovely, of good family, gracious, and skilled in business. He probably doesn’t need a wife. Some women are available to men without the marriage ceremony.

The gentleman is rich. Surely he has an elegant apartment with fine furnishings, and, when he invites a girl to his home, it goes to her head. The first time, she comes feeling honored to have been invited; the second time, hoping he finds her appealing and may even want to marry her. The third time — the devil knows her thoughts. It goes without saying that none of the above applies to Lisbet Neu. I doubt that she was ever in any man’s home without her mother or her elderly uncle, Professor Neu.

Having mentioned young girls here, let me say something further about them. There are young girls in Jerusalem who used to live with their families in other countries, where they wore silk and ate fine food. They lived in splendid houses surrounded by maids who waited on them and gallant young men — intelligent, loving, and eager to please — as well as the finest teachers and educators, whose job it was to develop their sensibilities. Now these girls are up at dawn to earn the price of a crust of bread and a patch of roof. Some of them work in cafés, putting in an eleven hour day, for which they are paid eight lirot a month. Some work in army canteens, where drink, revelry, and lewdness are the rule. There are other young women who came to Jerusalem to study at the Hebrew University with their parents’ support, but, now that their parents are locked in ghettoes, the daughters spend half the day studying and the other half working for meager wages, barely able to support themselves and pay tuition. More than two years ago, the day Sarah was born, Dr. Herbst went to a restaurant for dinner, where he met a lovely and charming waitress, who gave him paper and envelopes so he could write to his daughters and inform them that their sister was born. Some time later he went there again, and, when he asked about her, he was told she had gone elsewhere and was working in a café frequented by Australian soldiers. The Australians are a good lot, easy with money and generous. They’re not pompous like the English. They’re friendly to us, so it’s nice to work in the places they frequent.

As things happen, Herbst happened to see that waitress again. Much later, Herbst went on a trip to the Dead Sea with his wife and Tamara. They stopped at the main hotel for tea. Herbst saw a waitress whom he recognized, though she didn’t recognize him. She saw so many people each day that new faces displaced the old ones. She came over and asked, “What would you like?” Her face was burned, her skin parched; her eyes had lost their luster. But she was gracious to the guests, like all waitresses in big hotels. Herbst identified himself to her, and she was pleased, as a lonely child who finds someone she knows in a crowd of strangers. For those who came to the hotel were strangers to her, while she knew him from the good days. What was better about those days? In those days, she was still endowed with the freshness of youth.

Manfred said to Henrietta, “Remember, Henrietta, the day Sarah was born I brought you a bottle of perfume with a scent you admired. I didn’t tell you how I found that delicate perfume, but now I’ll tell you. This woman gave me paper so I could write letters to our daughters, and the scent of the paper was so pleasant that I went to the pharmacy and asked for a bottle of perfume with that same scent. See, Henriett, I have secrets too. Secrets with young women. But in time every secret is discovered.”

Manfred continued, “Would you guess that this girl was actually pretty, in addition to her charming, youthful ways?” Henrietta said, “She’s still pretty.” Manfred said, “If you hadn’t said those words, I would have invited her to join us for a while.” Henrietta laughed and said, “You can invite her.” Manfred said, “You think it’s all right to ask her to sit with us?” Tamara said, “If anyone were listening, he would think you’re hammering out a program for the Zionist Congress. Comrade, come join us. This intellectual couple wishes to converse with you.” The young woman laughed and came over. Henrietta said, “Won’t you join us for a while, if you’re free.” Herbst was quick to offer her a chair, as if he were the host and she the guest, inviting her to sit down, moving his chair close to hers, asking questions for the sole purpose of making conversation — about the hotel and its guests, the British, the Australians. From there, he turned to questions about fortifications and road work the British were doing. Tamara sat there, inwardly scornful of these Zionists who see without knowing what they see and babble without understanding their own babble. Finally, she got up and left.

As soon as Tamara left, Herbst was relieved. He began asking questions and apologizing for each one. The young woman answered without hesitation and even volunteered information about herself and her family. The essence of her words was that her father had been rich and had provided her with excellent tutors. They taught her whatever one teaches the daughters of the rich, with the exception of Jewish subjects, which she was never taught. When disaster struck, German Jews didn’t believe Hitler would remain in power. Her mother and father stayed in Berlin and sent her to the Land of Israel. Though their hearts did not instruct them to save themselves, they did instruct them to save the girl. She knew nothing about this country except what she had heard in speeches. She would have been better off without those speeches, for she would have tried to find out the things one needs to know when going to a new place. She came here and didn’t know what to do. She worked as a waitress. When she lived in Berlin, she knew what to do. She wrote poems, some of which were published. In fact, one of her poems appeared in the Frankfurter Zeitung. Even here she continued to write, and she sent a story about a little girl in Jerusalem to the Jüdische Rundschau. Robert Weltsch sent the payment to her father.

She doesn’t write at all now. The heat and work exhaust her; also she’s not really inspired to write poems. If she knew Hebrew, the language might inspire her, and she would sing the songs of the land in its own language. It seems to her that a true poet can never make poems in a language alien to the land, but, being burdened with work, she hasn’t learned Hebrew. The people she knows don’t know Hebrew either. She has learned English, but not Hebrew. One doesn’t learn the language unless those who live in the country demand it. One thing sustains her soul: once every two weeks, she has a day off and goes to Jerusalem to be with her friends, young poets from Germany. Their lot is no better than hers, except for the young man who managed to put out a book of poems on a stencil machine. He didn’t cover his expenses and had to run around borrowing from one friend to pay the other. How does he live? Off his wife’s salary. She makes dolls, but people who value their beauty can’t afford to buy them, and those who have money have no taste, so the fate of the dolls is like that of the book. Along with all these misfortunes, there is also some good. She had two good days a couple of weeks back. How? That same couple has an adorable daughter, a child of about seven. They came with her, and the hotel owner allowed her to keep the child in her room, although waitresses are not usually permitted to have guests.

Tamara was back. She came and sat opposite the young woman, crossed her legs, and assumed the scornful manner we know so well. The young woman didn’t notice. Or perhaps she noticed, but she paid no attention and kept right on talking, as the daughters of the rich tend to do. Even when overwhelmed by disaster, they talk about themselves without complaining. And yet, from their accounts of their good fortune, one recognizes the sort of trouble they’re in.

Henrietta wiped her eyes and recalled various young girls she had known. Some of them, bringing regards from relatives, clung to her, coming again and again, hanging on even after they were settled. Others never returned. She took excessive pains on behalf of some and not enough on behalf of others. However much you delude yourself with the notion that you have done all you could, this is not the point; quite apart from you, a tender soul is involved, which exists and persists just as you do, and this is the point. Henrietta’s thoughts were blurred, and even before they had a chance to register, they faded away. Some of these thoughts had to do with a girl Manfred said was related to Neu. But she was displaced by Zahara and Tamara. From the start, she had been thinking about her daughters, but she dismissed these thoughts, rather than connect her daughters’ fate with theirs. Suddenly, her daughters came to mind again. Zahara belongs to a kvutza and, so far as one can see, she has settled down. But Tamara, Tamara…

Tamara sat there, ambivalent. One eye was on the young woman whose woeful tale played on her nerves; the other eye took in every detail and was eager for more. She turned her head to the left and scrutinized her, as if to ask: What do those stories mean? Finally, Tamara pinched her lips together and questioned her. “Tell me, comrade, why didn’t you go to a kvutza?” The waitress answered, “I don’t know why, but, since I didn’t go to a kvutza when I first came, I didn’t go later either. Why don’t I go now? Because of a jaw injury. Though it isn’t visible, it requires attention, and I may have to go to the hospital. The doctor isn’t worried about infection; still, he warned me not to neglect it. Besides, I doubt if I could succeed on a kvutza. The only thing I can do is wait on tables, which I can barely do. And I can do that only because I’m used to it. Having worked in several restaurants and hotels, I’m used to the work, so I keep doing it.” Henrietta asked, “And what will you do in the summer? The hotel closes in the summer, doesn’t it?” The girl said, “I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I might work in a café in Jerusalem. New ones open every day. Even a waitress like me can find a job. If I don’t find one, I won’t worry. I’m tired, dead tired. And if you ask what I’ll eat, I’ve saved enough money to support myself for three or four months. I haven’t saved a lot, but my needs are few, and I can make do with very little. Food doesn’t count as much as sleep. I daydream about sleep. When I get out of the hospital in good health, I’ll rent a room and spend my days and nights sleeping. Here in this hotel at the Dead Sea, I don’t sleep. True, there are days in the winter when this entire area is like the Garden of Eden — a Garden of Eden for the guests, not for those who serve them. In any case, I’m doing better than most of my girlfriends, not to mention the men, who can barely keep themselves going. Some of them are poets who were widely published and translated in Germany. Here, they make the rounds of editors, and when an article is accepted and they get forty or fifty grush, they are grateful, though they often have to share their pay with a translator.”

In the midst of the conversation, the girl got up to wait on a guest. She returned, bringing tea and cakes, sat down again, and talked until it was time for them to go. Herbst took out his wallet to pay. The girl looked at him with imploring eyes and said: “If I may ask a favor, let me ask you to be my guests instead of paying for the drops of tea you drank.” Herbst saw the look in her eyes, put back his wallet, and patted her hand in thanks, while Henrietta invited her to visit them at home in Jerusalem.

Chapter three

The day was spent in rest and pleasure; then the night began to emerge from various corners, visible and invisible. It was still not fully nighttime, yet there were clear signs of night. The world was ringed by hushed dimness and filled with it. Within the hushed dimness, a light twinkled, darkened, glowed, and darkened again, so that the whole world was darkness within darkness. The sort of warmth that causes no discomfort wrapped itself around the small band of travelers waiting for the Jerusalem bus. Suddenly a clear speck split the sky, followed by a second speck and a third, from which stars were created. Some remained stuck in the sky; others ignited higher stars; still others ignited low stars in the Dead Sea. The travelers waited silently. Soon the bus came. They boarded, took seats, and looked back at the salty stillness, watching it revert to solitude. As the driver put his hand on the steering wheel, the bus began to roll across the silent roads, where there was no sound or echo.

Manfred and Henrietta sat together, with Tamara across from them. Their minds were at rest, filled with joy and tranquility, which occurs when a day is spent peacefully and appropriately. Two or three times, Herbst reached into his pocket for a cigarette but didn’t take one. He suddenly seized Henrietta’s hand, pressed it fondly, and said in a whisper, “Weren’t we smart to come here?” Henrietta nodded and said, “You were smart, Fred.” Tamara heard and remarked to herself: I’ve been here many times, but I never enjoyed the trip as much as I did today with these two old folks.

The road provided Herbst with a respite from memories of Shira. When he became aware of this fact, he thought to himself: Then there are ways to put her out of my mind. He clutched his wife’s hand again and said, “We should go on a trip such as this every month.” Henrietta nodded and said, “Yes, dear, every month.” Manfred added, “Then you agree, Henriett?” Henrietta answered, “By all means.” Manfred knew these were empty words, that once he was back in Jerusalem he would sink into his space, go back to his desk — to his note box, pads, notebooks, and outlines — and who knows when he would travel again; in a few months, or a few years. But he recognized that one should get out of the house at regular intervals, that getting out of the house fortifies one’s body, settles one’s mind, relieves all sorts of stress. Once again he looked at his wife: Henrietta, mate and companion, who shared his fate, sustained him, was concerned with his welfare since long ago, before he was in the army, throughout the war, and in the days that followed, in Berlin as in Jerusalem.

Henrietta carried herself like a woman who has thrived and been successful most of her life, who knows through whom she has achieved this success and that she deserves whatever she has achieved. For she has labored over him, looked after him, made it possible for him to concentrate on his work, and protected him from other business. Even when she was involved with matters it was hard for her to handle alone, she didn’t intrude on his work.

Considering his age, he was healthy and sound, young and vigorous. She gazed at him with pride and pleasure. Compared to his friends, he was a youth. True, she had lost her own spark along the way, but Manfred made it worthwhile. Besides, all she required or wanted was some peace of mind, her daughters’ happiness, and Fred’s success.

Henrietta sat curled up, as she used to sit sometimes when she was young, in the old days. When something pleasurable came her way, her shoulders contracted with pleasure and contentment. In those days, she would stretch out gracefully, whereas now she didn’t have the strength to straighten up, so her shoulders simply sagged. Her mind began to wander and rove in many directions — what was, as well as what she had hoped for that never came to be. How wonderful everything was, even now, after so many years, undisturbed by time. Henrietta extricated herself from a tangled thicket, like the night’s brightness shining through its murky darkness. She saw herself and Manfred as they were in Berlin.

Manfred is standing at the clock in front of the train station at the zoo. Countless men and women come and go, but he doesn’t notice, as if none of them exist. Henrietta is the one he wants to see, and he doesn’t see her. But he yearns to see her. His patience gives out, and his eyes, eager for her, begin to speak, to shout: Come, Henrietta, come. She is there, but he doesn’t see her. There are so many people separating them. He closes his eyes for an instant, so that when he opens them he’ll see her standing before him or at his side. Henrietta observes all his moves and knows how to interpret them. Henrietta smiles. And she’s right to smile, for, just when she is close enough so he could see her, he turns away to look at his watch. What does she do? She puts her hand on the watch. He looks up and sees her. He grabs her hand and wants to say something to her but can’t find the words. He leads the way, walking with her in silence. They find their train and go together to one of those lovely spots outside of Berlin where woods, streams, lakes, and rivers exist side by side, and, in these streams, rivers and lakes, boats of all sizes skim the water, carrying men and women, boys and girls, the sun shining down on them from above and love shining from their hearts. The two of them, Henriett and Fred, are doubly warmed — by sunshine and by love. At last, they get out of the boat and hike through the woods. They come to a river, and, since there is no one else there, they take off their clothes and jump in, floating and frolicking like fish. Later on, later on they rent a boat and row down the river. They are alone on the water, far from anyone else and closer to each other than ever before.

These events were at the edge of Henrietta’s memory. God in heaven, when did such things happen? Unless we say that we had an existence before this one, it’s not possible to imagine that such things happened to us. A salty tear fell from her weary eyes onto her wrinkled face. She brushed it away with her little finger, gazing out at the ravines gleaming in the darkness of the salty desert. Manfred’s heart was stirred, and he directed his eyes to the landscape Henrietta was gazing at. He took her hand again and clasped the finger with which she had brushed away her tear.

They sat without saying a word; they sat in silence. After a while he lifted her hand, put it down, lifted it again, and put it down with a smile, saying, “So, Henrietta, we saw the Dead Sea today, and now we are traveling though the Jericho Valley.” Henrietta nodded. Her shoulders contracted as she whispered, “Yes, Fred. Yes, Fred.” He began explaining how the Dead Sea was created, how the Jericho Valley was formed, where the palm trees come from. Henrietta sat listening as Manfred continued his discourse. “And now,” Manfred said, “now, Henriett, I’ll tell you something worth knowing. I was hiking in the Dead Sea Valley with a group that included heads of institutions and various scholars, among them Warburg. When we approached Masada, I wanted to climb up, but Warburg said to me, ‘You’ve already been to Masada, and you’ll have other opportunities to go there. Now come and help me collect some local plants.’ I didn’t turn the old man down. I went with him. While we were collecting grasses, he straightened up and, pointing his finger, said, ‘This little country has twice as many plants as Germany. In Germany we can identify thirty thousand plants, and in this country we can identify sixty thousand, though we still haven’t explored it all and there are undoubtedly more varieties to be discovered.’ Warburg also told me that the palm tree originated here. Warburg never mentioned this in his books. He was always careful not to write anything until it was thoroughly researched and well documented. Since he didn’t get around to validating this hypothesis, he never wrote about it. But he believed that the Jericho Valley was the birthplace of the palm tree, and I may be the only one to have heard this from him.”

The universe cast off its shape and assumed it again, at first rapidly, then with restraint; with restraint, then rapidly. In between, it was permeated with brown, yellow, blue, and something more, which the eye couldn’t grasp. Its margins were filled with silence that sounded like something audible and looked like something visible. If the eye managed to grasp a bit of that something, it was lost instantly in the endless multitude of colors, shifting in the twinkling of an eye, yet leaving their wondrous trace in the memory of those who saw them. Henrietta sat in a hush, marveling at everything she heard and everything she saw. It was clear to her that whatever she saw, she heard, and whatever she heard, she saw. Manfred was still talking. He told legends about the Dead Sea and the palms of Jericho that added substance to what she saw. Henrietta listened, stroking her husband’s hand; Tamara listened and marveled; the other passengers listened and welcomed this family and this scholar, who imparted facts in a manner that was both informative and pleasurable. Before they knew it, they were in Jerusalem.

Tamara leaped off the bus, followed by Manfred, who helped Henrietta down. Henrietta was astonished to see her husband jump so easily, like a youngster. He was astonished too, feeling taller and lighter than usual, the weight of his pack having firmed up his bones, straightened his spine, and stretched his body to its full height. He thought to himself: If I didn’t have to take my wife and daughter home, I would go into town and stop at Shira’s to show her how lithe I am. Shira would be amazed. Even though she pretends not to notice that sort of thing, her eyes are sharp, and she notes every change. He glanced at his wife, who was standing with him, waiting for the bus to Baka. Their eyes met, and he saw a serene smile on her lips. He was stirred by this smile and smiled back, knowing that he had to go with his wife, thinking in his heart: Too bad Shira can’t see me now, lithe, erect, tall. Never in all the time she’s known me has she seen me like this.

Waiting for the bus, they were overcome with the fatigue that often follows a trip. In Manfred’s case, it was accompanied by fatigue of another sort, the fatigue that takes over when you are in one place but your thoughts have drifted elsewhere. Where had they drifted, and why did they taunt him? He was tired and in no position to follow them. Even if he were to go to Shira’s, she probably wouldn’t be in, as she often worked at night. While he searched for a reason not to go to Shira’s, the bus appeared. Tamara leaped onto the bus and gave her mother a hand. Tamara helped her from above, Manfred from below. He boarded and sat beside her.

The bus began to move, unlike Manfred’s thoughts. Fused and confused, they nestled like a cloud within a cloud, like layer within layer of desert, with Manfred in their midst. He wasn’t really there with his wife. He was far away; and far, far away was Shira’s house. She was at home. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts; her arms and knees were bare. She said, “Manfred, dear,” and a sweet quiver spread through his body. He sat across from her, counting her freckles.

Tamara asked, “Why are you staring at me, Father?” Manfred said, “Am I staring at you?” Tamara said, “You’ve been gaping at me for an hour now.” Manfred said, “Why would I stare at you?” Tamara said, “That’s just what I was asking.” Henrietta said, “Let him be, Tamara. His mind is on his books.” Tamara said, “Why don’t you write novels, Manfred?” “Novels?” Tamara said, “If you wrote novels, I would read them, and I’d get to know you.” Her father said, “And why don’t you write novels?” Tamara said, “I leave that to the waitresses who write poems and fairy tales. This is such a long trip. It takes less time to get from Jericho to Jerusalem than from the bus station to Baka. Comrade,” she said, addressing the driver, “I see you enjoy my company.” The driver asked in surprise, “How is that?” Tamara said, “You’re taking so long. Would you give me a cigarette? My father doesn’t give me cigarettes. He thinks it’s unbecoming for his daughter to smoke in public.” Henrietta said, “Are you mad? Do you intend to smoke in the bus? Besides, didn’t the doctor forbid you to smoke?” Tamara said, “Hush, Henrietta, hush. Don’t mention the doctor. That could ruin the match.” Henrietta laughed and said, “What does one do with such a bizarre creature?” Tamara said, “Look, everyone, the bus is beginning to move! One, two, three, four / Who is it that walks on four? / Four, five, six, seven / A natural law set up in heaven. / A boy and a girl walk on four / When they walk as one with however-many more.”

Herbst tried to sort out his thoughts. He remembered forgotten things, and, remembering them, they became central to his thoughts. He suddenly recalled a pleasant fragrance and saw sheets of paper before his eyes. Not his notebooks, which gave off the smell of ink and tobacco, but the paper that waitress had given him, the one who wrote poems and fairy tales. He remembered the day Sarah was born and remembered all of that day’s events. He reflected: I doubt if anything that happened that day was as pleasurable to me as being in the restaurant and talking to that girl. Still, Herbst was annoyed at his wife for having invited her. He was annoyed for two reasons. First, because sometimes, when there was a guest, his wife wasn’t free to pay attention to him, and, when such a girl visits strangers, she is sure to require special attention. And second, when Henrietta is busy, she expects him to deal with guests, although he is involved with his work and his mind isn’t free for company. He hasn’t even found time to call Lisbet Neu, although her uncle has done him several favors. And when he was about to call her, he didn’t, because of Shira.

On another subject: Has Lisbet Neu left her job with that old bachelor? But why do I call him old, when he is no older than I am and, no doubt, looks younger, since he isn’t married. I will now put the world out of my mind and devote myself to my book. But will I be permitted to devote myself to it? As soon as people sense you are busy, they come and interrupt you. Since I published my chapter on the four rulings of Leo the Heretic, editors of all the quarterlies have been asking for articles. Even the National Library has sent me a book to review.

Herbst took out his notebook to see when the review was due and realized he hadn’t been given much time. Tomorrow he would probably be tired from the trip, and after that is Shabbat, when guests usually come. When do religious people have time to write their books? On Shabbat, they waste the day walking to a synagogue. “Personally, I don’t like religious people,” Shira said when we were walking on the new road to Beit Yisrael. “Fred,” Henrietta was saying, “get your things. This is our stop.”

Chapter four

When Herbst was in bed that night, he took out the book the National Library had asked him to review. After getting an overview of the book he read the jacket and noted: This book is right up my alley. It’s about Theodora, the empress described by Procopius as the whore who ruled Byzantium.

Herbst moved the lamp closer to his bed, adjusted the wick, and began reading. He found nothing new, but still he was interested. Because there was no new material, the task was not demanding. But something about it irritated him. He didn’t know what, which was all the more irritating. He mused: The author is certainly an expert and knows how to present his views convincingly. But…But…I’ll sleep on it, and tomorrow I’ll read more and find out.

The “but” that he couldn’t identify kept him from sleeping. Herbst was not short on imagination; he was not one to get stuck on details, unable to see the whole. Nor was he one of those who drown the truth in some hypothesis, who appear to be reviving forgotten times, whose words have the aura of poetry, but, since they are not poets, their books are neither poetry nor truth. In addition to these negative virtues, Herbst knew how to clarify the material he dealt with and how to make a concrete picture for himself, certainly in the field of Byzantine history, to which he had devoted considerable thought.

Herbst lay in bed picturing Theodora in action. This woman, whose early years were spent in a circus, was empress for twenty-one years, assigning tasks to her lieutenants as a director assigns roles to actors. She seated and deposed popes, patriarchs, viziers, and generals; arranged divorces and marriages; had total command of her subjects. She committed scores of murders. Her victims were almost all male. One would suppose that, having been degraded by men in her youth, she was determined to avenge herself when she achieved high position. The most violent ruler of her time, she intended to exercise her power over these men, as they had done when she was the inferior. In any case, late in life she behaved charitably, freeing young girls from the circus masters who owned them and maintaining homes for them.

After reviewing her behavior, he compared it with the behavior of her husband, Emperor Justinian. Justinian enacted laws of chastity, which she overruled. He forbade women to bathe with strange men, to go to circuses at night without an escort, or to spend the night away from home. Theodora, on the other hand, supported adulterous women, and her rulings favored them over their faithful husbands. As someone has rightly said, women should be grateful to Theodora. She secured many rights for them and should be regarded as an early champion of emancipation. If women were historians, they would recognize her as the first patron of women’s rights.

His thoughts about Theodora put other thoughts out of his mind. On the face of it, the author conveyed the essence of the subject, even analyzed it adequately. But, because of that undefined deficiency, Herbst decided to review the book at length, to the extent that space would allow. He didn’t know yet what he would write, but he considered it his duty as a scholar to write about this book. Not because of its significance, but because of similar books that take a historic period, a scholar, a poet, an emperor, or a pope as their subject. One who is not an expert finds in them a mix of history and poetry, but in truth they are neither history nor poetry. As for this particular book, although it provided an adequate picture of the period, it was no different from all the others.

Upon concluding that the author was among those who approach history as if it were polite conversation, Herbst recognized the flaw he couldn’t at first identify. He now realized that the book wasn’t worth reviewing, since it wasn’t a scholarly work. If one were to review it, it would certainly be adequate to write two or three lines indicating that, since it was not a scholarly work, it was not relevant to us.

He reached for his watch, which was on the table beside the bed. As he groped for it, it occurred to him that he could put a nail in the wall and hang the watch on it, so he wouldn’t have to take his hand out from under the blanket to look at it. He was surprised that something so simple had not occurred to him before. He was so involved in the fact that this simple thought had never occurred to him that he forgot to look at the watch and found himself back where he started — with the book he planned to dismiss in two or three lines. For what reason? This was something Herbst preferred to hide from himself. Yet he was already beginning to scheme, and this is roughly what he was thinking: Now that they’re going to promote me, I’ll prove that they’re not wrong.

He considered each professor and which of them was likely to oppose him. First of all, the one who hates me. Why does he hate me? Because I don’t like him. But the real issue is, Why does he have the power to make trouble? Not because he is wise, for wise men are reluctant to take charge, knowing that there are people who are still wiser and that it is they who should rule the world. Meanwhile, fools and villains leap into the breach, take charge of the world, and conduct it willfully and foolishly. This is how it happens that wise men allow idiots and criminals to destroy the world. Since the wise men are wise and growing ever wiser, what they regarded yesterday as ultimate wisdom they realize, a day later, is not wise after all. They seldom maintain a position or remain committed to anything, because wisdom keeps leading them a step further. Not so with fools. Whatever they fix their eyes on, they stick with, never letting go; should they let go, they’d have nothing. Their entire life is a strategy, a way to keep the world in their hands. When Herbst arrived at this insight, he laughed and said to himself: Now that I’ve achieved such wisdom, I’ll act as those fools do and take charge of my world. If I’m unacceptable to someone, I’ll call on him and be friendly. I don’t expect him to fall in love with me; I don’t want him to fall in love with me. What do I expect of him? I expect him to keep his mouth shut, rather than indulge in hostile chatter about me.

Chapter five

Although he didn’t sleep very much that night, he woke up healthy and refreshed. The trip of the previous day and his decision about his job soothed his soul and gave him strength. He put on his robe. In his youth, it had been his favorite garment, and he used to wear it from the moment he woke up until he left home. He had done his favorite work in it, the writing that became the great book for which he was known in the world. Now that the robe is tattered, he wears it only to go from his bed to the bathroom. He glanced at the desk and saw the book he was assigned to review. He opened it and looked it over. Again, he was drawn to read it and yet irritated, not by the things that had irritated him the day before, but by other things. To support his position, the author leans on a certain scholar, without acknowledging that he had changed his mind and wrote, “I was mistaken, I changed my mind.” More disturbing is the fact that the author quoted from a secondary source without verifying it. Even more disturbing is the fact that he contradicts himself. In one chapter, he went along with Ranke, who disputes Procopius and contends that what Procopius wrote about Theodora is sheer nonsense and vicious fabrication; however, in another chapter, the author described Theodora’s actions when she was empress as a consequence of her wanton youth. So the author admits that in her youth she behaved wildly and improperly. In another context, he wrote that religion was remote from her heart, that all her actions were directed toward the welfare of the state, while, in yet another context, he wrote that, being Syrian, she was attracted to the priests, for in Syria everyone adhered to one of the many religious sects. How does the author explain her interest in the Syrian priest Maras? True, she was Syrian and priests were highly respected in Syria; but this was not her reason. It was because she had noticed how vulgar this priest was, in all his ways, and wanted to make him into some sort of priestly court jester. In summary, although the author appears to be an expert in Byzantine history, he has no clear theory and no overview. He included in his book every trivial detail that crossed his path and gave it prominence. Coming upon some further detail, even if it contradicts a previous one, he would add it to the book and highlight it, like a ferret that forages everywhere, making no distinctions. Still and all, Herbst saw a need to review the book — not to display his erudition to the trustees of the university, but because it was written in a vigorous style, engaging the reader and deluding him into thinking of it as a scholarly work, when in fact it was a compilation of details that the author had skillfully molded into a single essay.

Herbst was suddenly enraged. Some years back, he had put together a Byzantine anthology for a foreign publisher. Five or six months later, he happened on an essay by a renowned scholar. He read it and saw that its entire substance was taken from that anthology, except for the conjunctive clauses: “Hence, one can arrive at a conclusion that provides definitive support for this hypothesis…It becomes clear that…Though at first it appears otherwise, one could argue…” This entire essay, which had nothing original in it but its scholarly jargon, was widely acclaimed, although the anthology itself was barely noticed. He recalled a similar incident involving a scholar who wrote an introduction to a book by a friend that was being published posthumously, about codification of the liturgy in the proto-Slavic church. All the material on Byzantium presented in this introduction was lifted from Herbst’s anthology, except for the conjunctive jargon. Neither of these authors bothered to mention the anthology from which they copied their material, typographical errors and all.

He could hear Henrietta’s footsteps, light and jaunty, as she prepared breakfast, then the sound of coffee being ground. That good, dry smell, pervasive and stimulating, began to filter through and cling to the veins of his throat. Body and soul craved the brew — its appealing taste, aroma, and sight — so invigorating that it erodes the boundary between ability and will. Herbst put down the book and went to wash up and shave, so he would be ready to drink the coffee while it was hot and fresh. On the way, he stopped to say good morning to Henrietta and added, “Don’t bother about me, Henriett, I’ll have coffee alone today, and I’ll have breakfast later, after I’m into my work.”

A little later, Henrietta brought the coffee to his room. She was pleased to see him with the open book before him and said, “Drink a little at a time. I won’t give you more than one cup, because I made your coffee strong today. You didn’t shave.” “No,” Manfred answered. He lowered his eyes, looked at the book, and took a sip, thinking: I’m drinking now and enjoying it, but suddenly all the coffee will be gone, and there I’ll be, my mouth open, looking for another sip and not finding it. Henrietta left quietly. At the door, she turned toward her husband and said, “You could say thank you.” Manfred looked up from his book, cup in hand, and said, “Thanks, Henrietta. Thanks. Also, thank you for breakfast. Whether I eat it or not, I thank you for it. The coffee’s good.”

Henrietta left, and Manfred went back to work. He picked up a pencil and reviewed yesterday’s notes. He lit a cigarette, then looked in the cup to be sure there wasn’t another drop. Though not a single drop was left, the cup still smelled of coffee. Herbst took two or three puffs of his cigarette, like a winemaker drawing liquid through a tube, and went back to the book. He stared at the pencil marks, took some books from the shelf, and began reading, checking up on the author. As it happened, they happened to lead him to conclusions that were different from the author’s. In some cases, this occurred because the author had a superficial understanding of the text; in others, because he had copied fragments of the data rather than the whole, either out of sloppiness or for some other reason, such as political motives of the sort that prevailed in Germany after its defeat. Herbst, who detested scholarship that was being used as a means to a political end, was appalled by this diligent author who had used old texts so cleverly. But he decided to ignore these motives and consider the book in purely scholarly terms.

The house was quiet. Not a voice was heard, not Sarah’s, not Sarini’s, not anyone’s. Sensing that Manfred was preparing to do important work that required concentration, Henrietta took charge of the silence. After a while she came back and asked Manfred when he would like some food. Manfred was startled and said, “Food, what a monstrous thought! But a cup of coffee would be nice. I beg you, Henrietta, be so kind as to forgo your principles and make me coffee. Just one more cup, and I promise that, as soon as I’m done with this book and with the article I’m writing, not a drop of coffee will cross my lips until you invite me to drink it.” Henrietta said, “Coffee again. You think I’m running a café here, that I’m sitting and waiting for customers like you. You’d do better to eat something, instead of drinking coffee. Tell me, how many cigarettes have you smoked today? One, two, three. All before breakfast. Not another drop of coffee for you today.” As she spoke, she made an about-face; then she left the room and came back carrying a cup of coffee that had been ready and waiting. Manfred leaped up to take it from her, leaned over, and kissed her hand, saying, “Many thanks, Henriett, for the coffee and many thanks for the timing. Now, Henriett, give me your hand and let’s say farewell until the third cup. Then I won’t drink any more until the government drives the dragons out of the Salt Sea, so they won’t swallow up the herrings. Incidentally, tell me, Henriett, why is it that we don’t see salt herrings anymore? Did you tell them I’ve become a vegetarian? As you can see, Henriett, this cup will guarantee a good job — if not good, then halfway good, for sure. In any case, this book and this author are getting more than they deserve. If you bring me breakfast now, I’ll eat it.” Henrietta said, “Tomorrow you’ll get herring for breakfast. May I ask what you’re writing?” Manfred said, “Why not? I already told you that the National Library was so kind as to send me a new book to review. So I am being so kind as to review it. Now you understand why I wanted coffee. As for the herring, I didn’t mention it with any ulterior motive. Still and all, if you mean to get a herring, I won’t keep you from getting a nice fat one. I myself certainly don’t need herring. I mentioned it only by way of association. Since we mentioned the Salt Sea, I mentioned salt herring. What did we drink at that inn near the Salt Sea? Was it tea or coffee? Even if you made me read one of Bachlam’s books as a penalty, I wouldn’t be able to remember.”

Seven or eight days later, Herbst finished his article. It had worked out well, not only in quality but in quantity. He had intended to write three or four pages but ended up with eight and a half, to which he added more than two and a quarter pages when editing — all this apart from the notes or the notes on the notes. As it turned out, in several days he had produced a real pamphlet. It was true that Avgad and Lemner turn out long articles regularly, not to mention Bachlam, whose papers cover the face of the earth. But any discerning reader would discern the difference between Herbst’s writing and theirs. Herbst examined his article, word by word, phrase by phrase. He cut it where it was longwinded, and where it was muddled he added clarification. He replaced one word with another, substituting the explicit for the vague. Here and there, he made slight corrections, adding, deleting, tightening, elaborating. He replaced idioms that struck him as Teutonic with Hebrew equivalents, and those that seemed florid he replaced with simpler ones. He then took the pages, held them in his hand, and read aloud, tapping on the table like a musician checking his tone. He seemed satisfied. Then, suddenly, he was sad to have written in Hebrew, a language with no terminology, and, even though he had found appropriate words for all the ideas he wanted to communicate, he wondered to what extent he would be understood. Had he been writing in German, there would be no need to waste time on style, and he would have written the entire article in two or three days, without any question about making himself understood. Just as suddenly, he was overcome with joy no article had inspired before, joy derived from the conquest of language. While he was rejoicing, a wave of sorrow took over, for his words were not likely to be read by anyone with a flair for language. They would be read by Bachlams and Lemners, who have no sense of style.

Henrietta brought him a raspberry drink. Manfred pretended not to see her, not to notice what she was bringing, not to smell the raspberry, not to feel what he always felt when he smelled a food or a drink he was fond of before coming to this country. When she was on her way out, he looked up, waved his papers at her, and called out, “Look, look, voilà! The article is ready, finished, done.” Henrietta regarded him without an ounce of disdain, sharing his joy. Actually, she valued these articles not for what they were but for his sake. They seemed to make him tranquil, to put him at peace with the world. In the past, in the first year of their marriage, before Zahara was born, when Henrietta saw Fred poring over his books day and night, writing, underlining, typing, editing, she would try to understand the secret of the subjects to which he was devoted and for which he was willing to forgo so many pleasures. Such interests were not his alone; he shared them with other scholars. She read some of this material, but it meant nothing to her, so she dismissed it. Having dismissed it, she turned again for satisfaction to books that could be read without much effort, those that sustain the soul in times of anxiety. When she was young, she loved the poems of Rilke; later, she found herself in the poems of Stefan George. Now, too, she often finds in them a source of strength, although their landscape is so different from that of this land and although their subjects have become foreign to her soul.

All of a sudden, Manfred put his hand on her shoulder, lowered his eyes, and said to her, his words measured, his voice a singsong, “Listen and you shall know. Bend an ear to my words. My heart, so full of wisdom, brims with counsel like a mountain stream. Let us fly together on wisdom’s wings to the dwelling place of Bachlam the Great, for, if he finds me worthy, you will become a professoress and I a professor. Now, Mother, I will explicate my poem for you. I want to call on Professor Bachlam. Not that I expect to endear myself to him, but, if I seem friendly, he may keep his mouth shut rather than denigrate me when my promotion is considered.” Henrietta stared at him and swallowed the words she was about to say. Manfred took her hand and said, “I know, Henriett, that you disapprove. Were you to ask me, I would say that I disapprove too. But it’s better to act out of character this once and thereby avoid anger, irritation, gossip, and slander.” Henrietta said, “Anger and irritation I can understand, gossip and slander I can’t understand.” Manfred took her hand and said, “You know I don’t enjoy making light of others or maligning them, nor do I understand the pleasure people take in making fun of friends in their absence. But, when it comes to Bachlam, even I join in. After visiting him, I’ll have good reason to refrain from such talk. Understand, Mother?” Henrietta said, “If you understand, that’s enough.” Manfred said, “Does that mean you approve?” Henrietta said, “Whether or not I approve, I’m not holding you back. If you want to call on Bachlam, I’m not about to say, ‘Don’t go.’“ Manfred said, “Not so, Mother.” Henrietta said, “What do you mean?” Manfred said, “It’s not a proper call unless the husband and wife both come.” Henrietta said, “If it’s essential that I come along, I’ll come along, but don’t ask me to put on the charm and stuff my mouth with polite chatter.” Manfred said, “Calm down, Mother. Who expects you to put on the charm and chatter politely? I’ll be content if you come with me and we sit there together for an hour.” Henrietta shrieked and said, “God in heaven, are you out of your mind, Manfred?” Manfred said, “Then half an hour will do. You’ll see, Mother, it won’t be so awful.” Henrietta said, “Awful or not, I’ve already told you I’m willing to go.” Manfred said, “I thank you, Mother. Now what was I going to ask of you?” Henrietta said, “Don’t ask anything more of me.” Manfred said, “First listen. I may be asking exactly what you would ask.” Henrietta said, “So?” Manfred said, “So, if other guests come and detain us there, they can go to hell. We have to be practical, especially now, when I have to produce something to secure my professorship. Why are you silent, Mother? Am I wrong?” Henrietta said, “You’re right, Fred. You’re right. If only we had always behaved this way.” Manfred said, “But you’re to blame for that. You’re always inviting young women to our house.” “Which young women do you have in mind?” “For example, the one we met in the hotel at the Dead Sea. The one who treated us to tea and cakes.” Henrietta sighed and said, “Poor thing. If only she would come visit, I could repay her.” Manfred said, “Poor thing is right. But there are so many young women in this country; we don’t have time for them all. We invite one today, another tomorrow. Between the two of them, time slips away and my work remains undone. Forgive me, Mother. Forgive me for talking like this. It’s not me talking, it’s the burden of work.” Henrietta said, “Do you mean to tell me, my dear, that, after she took so much trouble on our account and showed so much affection, there’s any question about inviting her? Think how much money she saved us. Six glasses of tea — that comes to twelve grush — and the cakes she served us would cost more than twelve grush.” Manfred said, “Then you invited her as a practical matter?” Henrietta stared at him and said, “Please tell me what you mean by the word practical?” Manfred said, “In any case, you can’t relate to people in terms of what you get from them.” Henrietta said, “Was that my only reason for inviting her? I invited her because I was touched by her problems.” Manfred said, “There are young women in this country whose situation is worse than hers.” Henrietta said, “Since I’m not acquainted with them, I don’t have to worry about them.” Manfred said, “It’s good that you’re not acquainted with life’s adversities. I, for example, know a particular young girl, of good family, an aristocrat, the one who was brought here by her uncle, Professor Neu. Surely you remember her? You even said — “ Henrietta interrupted, “You’re dreaming, Fred. I don’t know any such girl, and I can’t imagine Neu bringing a girl to our house.” Manfred said, “What if I told you she was the girl we talked about for Taglicht? Remember?” Henrietta said, “If I tell you we had no such conversation, will you let me be?” Manfred said, “We didn’t talk about her?”

Henrietta stood like a victim, as if she had been abused, as if words she had never said were being attributed to her, as if these words were vile and despicable. She looked gloomy, and one of her blonde curls, which had begun to turn gray, slipped down to her forehead, trailing across her handsome eyebrows. She barely managed to keep from speaking sharply to her husband. She didn’t know what was bothering her, but it seemed that every word Manfred uttered was designed to provoke her. Her peace of mind was disrupted by this anger, as were her thoughts of work, of all the things she had to do. Suddenly her face became youthful, and she took on the indignant look of a young woman whose words are being distorted. Manfred’s love was aroused by her face and by her rage, but she remained remote because of what he had said, his fragmented conversation, and his plaintive tone, which was particularly grotesque in this light, on this morning, in this land, on this day when a blazing sun ruled the world and she had to stand in the heat of the kitchen preparing food for Shabbat. At that moment Manfred was thinking to himself: Who would imagine that this woman has borne me three daughters, that this woman and I were intimate, physically and spiritually? He studied her clothes and her face, and said, “Mother, why are you so angry? Did I say something to make you angry? If so, was it my intention to make you angry?” Henrietta said, “You didn’t make me angry. I’m not angry.” Manfred said, “Then let’s change the subject. What does Madame Herbst intend to wear when we visit Professor Bachlam?” Henrietta said, “Leave that to me. You can be sure my clothes won’t disgrace you.” Manfred said, “Mother, did anyone say any such thing? Still, I’m annoyed with you for not taking care of yourself. I don’t expect you to paint your face like Mrs. Lemner. But there’s nothing wrong with lending nature a hand. There are women who grow old and don’t merely neglect themselves but go so far as to emphasize their wrinkles.” Henrietta laughed and said, “As for age, I’m old. As for wrinkles, even if I camouflage them, they show.” Manfred said, “Mother, if I tell you I wasn’t referring to you, will you believe me?” Henrietta said, “Why not? Have I ever questioned anything you told me?” Manfred said, “That’s true. I’ve never said anything you saw fit to doubt. I used to think you accepted whatever I said because you didn’t care whether I said one thing or another. Now I know that the faith you have in me has to do with what I say. Let’s get back to our subject. Not to Bachlam, but to women who have wrinkles and ignore them. Do you remember that nurse, the nurse who brought you flowers the day our Sarah was born? If I’m not mistaken, her name is Shura.” Henrietta said, “It’s not Shura, it’s Shira. I’m surprised she’s never come to visit. When I was in the hospital, she took so much trouble with me. She was especially affectionate and promised to visit. What were you going to say about her?” Manfred asked in alarm, “What was I going to say about whom?” Henrietta said, “Fred, you make me laugh. If I say I don’t know anything about a young girl brought here by Professor Neu, you insist I know her and I’ve seen her. If I say you were about to tell me something about the nurse Shira, you look bewildered.” Manfred said, “Actually, I was going to tell you about her. I saw that nurse walking down the street, wearing old clothes, her hair half-white, looking altogether like an old hag. Couldn’t she dye her hair? There are dyes that restore the original color.” Henrietta said, “She’s a natural woman who doesn’t want to dye her hair. You didn’t avoid her, my darling? You asked how she was? She did so much for me, showed such kindness, I wish she would come over, so I could reciprocate.” Manfred said, “If not for me, you would open your house to all the women in the world. Let’s talk about something else. What sort of lunch do you have simmering in your pot?” Henrietta laughed and said, “You want to know everything. Relax, Fred. It’s a meal worthy of Shabbat.” Fred said, “If I hadn’t written my review today, I would have forgotten all about Shabbat. Mother, we ought to make special plans for Shabbat. It’s not right that every day is the same for us.” Henrietta said, “How could we make it special?” Manfred said, “I haven’t studied the question, but we should honor the day. I had an old uncle who was born in Rawicz. All week he smoked cigarettes; in honor of Shabbat, he smoked a cigar.” Henrietta asked her husband, “Are you allowed to smoke cigars on Shabbat?” Manfred laughed and said, “For that matter, are you allowed to smoke cigarettes on Shabbat? My uncle wasn’t observant, but he enjoyed tradition. Before making his fortune as a manufacturer, he taught religion in the local school. He was unique. In the end, though he detested rabbis, he left half his wealth to a rabbinical seminary. I’m glad I remembered him. Now I have something to talk about with Professor Bachlam.” Henrietta said, “You’re an optimist, my friend, if you think Bachlam will give you a chance to talk. Before you can say anything, Bachlam will drown you in a flood of words.” Manfred said, “Then I won’t have to make any effort. I just mean to pay my respects.

Chapter six

I will omit the Herbsts’ visit with Bachlam, which went well. When they left Bachlam’s house, Herbst said to his wife, “I don’t expect him to praise me lavishly, but I hope he won’t be too critical.” Now let’s get back to Herbst’s other affairs.

M. Herbst’s article was accepted and published. In style and content, it worked out well. When Dr. Manfred Herbst arrived in the Land of Israel, he couldn’t say anything in proper Hebrew, and, were it not for two or three students who corrected him continually, those who came to hear his lectures would be beside themselves with laughter. Gradually he acquired the language, so that it enhanced his lectures and he was able to write in it. Those who see style as more than mere word combinations are moved to exclaim: “This German, who probably arrived with only the rudiments of biblical grammar, writes more elegant prose than many of those learned old-timers who are considered the creators of modern Hebrew style.” How can this be? Some said that a stylist in one language is a stylist in any language he touches. Others said that, having learned Hebrew as an adult, Herbst read only good books and didn’t fill his belly with vulgar prose that doesn’t stick to the ribs.

Until that article appeared, he had produced nothing in Hebrew, so he treated it like a book. He ordered offprints, had them bound, and distributed them to colleagues, including some Jewish scholars abroad. As long as he was busy inscribing these offprints and mailing them out, time was passing but he didn’t notice. When he was finished, he didn’t know what to do.

He did, actually, know what to do. But, because he was discouraged, that was how it seemed. It goes without saying that he has notes to sort out and, even more important, to classify. If he was going to put his book in order, it would be good to have the notes arranged by subject. Right now, a great deal of effort is being wasted. He often copies material that has already been copied once, because the notes are in a mess and it is hard to confirm whether or not a particular item has been copied. Similarly, he often finds something that is worth copying and doesn’t copy it, assuming it has already been copied; later, when he goes through his papers, he discovers this is not so, and, if he still wants to copy it, he has a hard time tracing either the source or the subject.

He would occasionally go back to his box of notes, taking out a note, putting another in, comparing texts, adding marginal notes, et cetera — including them, not because of their content, but because of pedants and polemicists who, should he omit a reference, would argue that, had the author seen what So-and-so wrote in such-and-such a book, he would not have arrived at such a misguided conclusion. Hence those footnotes and citations that add nothing but are inserted to silence critics, a gratuitous display of erudition.

While dealing with these papers, Herbst sometimes formulated fragmentary ideas he didn’t hesitate to write down, in some cases briefly, in others at length. He was sometimes caught up in his writing, as in the days when he wrote his first book, when ideas flowed, along with the ability to express them and the documentation to support his views. When this occurred, he mourned the early days, which were gone, never to return again. Herbst forgot that then, too, there were arid times. Now it seemed that those days had been altogether good.

Herbst was distressed about the work that remained undone; about Shira, who avoided him; about himself — about the fact that he needed to get rid of Shira in order to be free to work. It can’t be, Herbst would say. It can’t be that I’ll spend my days and years thinking about women. Many times Herbst cried inwardly: What does she want from me? Actually, it was not that she wanted anything of him; it was he who wanted her. What do I want from you? I want to see you, that’s all. Better still, not to see you. If you were to go away, or if I were to go somewhere, I would be rid of you. I would be free. Isn’t it enough that I’ve wasted two years because of you? And that verse “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten” played itself in his mind.

The Herbst household was in good order. Herbst had his concerns; his wife had hers. Herbst concerned himself with his books, his lectures, his students, and his major work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, while Henrietta concerned herself with the needs of the household — cooking, baking, sewing, ironing, shopping, health care, family matters locally and abroad. In addition, she tended the garden and tended her little girl, Sarah, who was no longer a baby in a crib but was not yet ready for nursery school, which is just as well, for there is no nursery school in Baka. The closest one is in Talpiot, and how could anyone find time to take her there and pick her up? Herbst’s salary is barely adequate to pay for household help. The Herbsts really ought to have moved to a Jewish neighborhood. In fact, they should have done so right after the riots of 1929 and all the more so now, when Arab bands are wreaking havoc, and Arabs are like wolves to Jews. But, being so fond of their home and garden, the Herbsts are reluctant to move. Anyone who has toiled over a house and garden will not abandon them easily. And you know what an investment Henrietta has made in her house and garden. She rented a heap of rubble and transformed it into a fine home. Henrietta ignores danger and lives as she did when she first came to Jerusalem, when the high commissioner, who was Jewish, used to go to the Hurva Synagogue on a special Shabbat, read from the Torah, and sit between the two chief rabbis on a throne adorned with the verse “Suffer not a stranger to sit upon His throne.” After the service, he would attend a reception in his honor, where the country’s leaders sang his praises over a full glass of wine. And the German consul, who sent his children to a Jewish nursery, used to ask Dr. Ruppin to intercede on his behalf when he needed a favor from the high commissioner. The German consul’s brother-in-law, who was a frequent guest in Jewish homes, used to praise all the Carmel wines. At night, after Shabbat, Hasidim would dance down from Mea Shearim to the Old City and from the Old City back to Mea Shearim, and young men and women would stroll all night, wherever they wished. If an Arab met a Jew, he would say hello. If they were acquainted, he would say more — and in Hebrew, so that those who presumed to foresee the future predicted that in another generation the Arabs would become assimilated. How? It remained for the future to fulfill their heart’s desire.

And so the Herbst household is in good order. Nothing has changed except for the help. Sarini is gone, and Firadeus has taken her place. Firadeus is alert and agile, dark and attractive. Her eyes are like two sweet raisins, and she never says a sharp word. She is the embodiment of humility, enhanced by modesty and reticence.

Henrietta is pleased with Firadeus’s work, Manfred is pleased with her manner, and Sarah prefers her to all her dolls. Firadeus is only sixteen, and she supports six people: herself, her mother, her mother’s mother, her father’s blind father, and Manawa, the madwoman they found on the road from Persia to Jerusalem, as well as her little brother, Ziyon. He was born the day her father was killed by an Arab rogue when he was on his way to dump Talpiot’s garbage. Ziyon the father, who was Talpiot’s garbage man, is still remembered fondly by the local housewives; if he found something that had fallen into the garbage by mistake, he would return it. He was mentioned by the chairman at the first meeting of the Talpiot Committee, and all the members stood in silence to honor his memory. How can six souls subsist on Firadeus’s meager wages? While most of her friends sit around telling fortunes, fussing with their hair or their jewelry, Firadeus sits with her mother, wrapping pamphlets given to her by a gentleman with a stiff collar who lives near her employer and pays her half a grush for each piece. If he gives her a hundred pamphlets and she doesn’t return them all, he’s not particular. He pays for the whole lot, realizing that neighbors come by, see writing in the holy tongue, take it to read, and don’t return it, and she, being so young, doesn’t dare to speak up to her elders and say, “Don’t take it.” As was already stated, Firadeus is quick, conscientious, and altogether dependable. If she is told to do something a certain way, that is how she does it. Sometimes even before there is time to say anything, it’s done. Firadeus has another fine quality: she sees everything. I’ll give only one example. The Herbsts were in the habit of having their servants eat with them. The first time Firadeus ate with them, Tamara kept tapping her nose to call her parents’ attention to the girl’s repulsive table manners. In a very few days, Firadeus learned to handle a knife and fork more skillfully, perhaps, than Tamara. Herbst and his wife are not ethnographers; they’re not engaged in studying the different communities. But, when they first arrived in the country, they used to go to the Bukharan streets on Shabbat and holidays to watch the people in their colorful garments. Similarly, they used to take tourists to see the Yemenites in their synagogues. Having had their fill, they no longer concern themselves with all the tribes of Israel to be found in Jerusalem and are no longer able to distinguish the ethnic groups from one another. I would not be mistaken were I to say that Herbst is more attuned to the various Germanic peoples in Jerusalem than to the tribes of Israel. Still, when he hears these peoples being maligned, he responds, “You can say what you like about them, all but the Persians.” There is one problem with Firadeus: sometimes she shows up and sometimes she doesn’t, because her employers live among Arabs, in a neighborhood ruled by hoodlums, where every stone is waiting to be flung at a Jewish head. When Firadeus comes, she takes on all the housework, and her mistress sits writing letters to relatives in Germany. If she doesn’t come, all the work falls on Henrietta, since Tamara is inept when it comes to housework.

At this time, Tamara had an opportunity to visit Greece. How? A group of university students was going on a scholarly expedition. When Tamara heard about it, she wanted to travel too, to breathe the air of other places, never having been out of the Land of Israel except once, when she toured the cities of Lebanon, which she considered part of her own country. Tamara wasn’t a student and couldn’t qualify as a scholar. Her knowledge of Greek culture could be inscribed on the tip of a lipstick without making a dent. But she was lucky. One of the women backed out, and there was room for Tamara. The cost was minimal, since both governments offered large discounts for students. Also, Mother Henrietta managed to skimp on household expenses to make it possible for Tamara to go.

Tamara “spoiled” her parents with picture postcards. Whenever she found a post office, she sent a card. To spoil them further, she adorned her cards with rhymes about her companions, about the food, the drink, the person who dipped his cheese in wine, and so on. Henrietta reads them and remarks, astonished, “Tamara is no poet, but look, Fred, the rhymes seem to roll right off her tongue.” Manfred laughs. “Your good taste has vanished, Henriett. You read Stefan George, and you’re enthralled; you read some jingles, and you’re equally enthralled.” Henrietta says, “Still, it’s a miracle to have such control of a language that you can make rhymes.” Manfred says, “Rhymes without meter are lower than the lowest prose. Tamara reminds me of Professor Lemner. When he utters a Greek or Latin proverb, he drowns it in a sneeze so his mistakes won’t be noticed.”

One day a letter came from Tamara with an amusing story. In Athens, a wealthy young man wanted to marry her and had approached the professor in charge of the group to ask for her hand, because Athenian Jews follow patriarchal practices and wouldn’t dare ask a girl for her hand without her guardian’s permission. Henrietta laughed, as if it were a joke. Manfred didn’t laugh. Manfred almost fainted. Until that moment, Manfred had never noticed that Tamara was old enough to marry. Manfred didn’t think his daughter Tamara was different from her peers; but, like most parents, he forgot what it’s like to be young. Herbst was pleased that his daughter was superior in one respect: she wasn’t involved with those who want both sides of the Jordan as a Jewish state. The subject of Tamara has come up again, and again I am ambivalent about telling her story. Since it is too long to write with one drop of ink, I will leave it for now and get back to where I was.

When he was done with the offprints, Herbst felt listless. He barely made it back to his desk. As usual on such days, he did a lot of sitting and a lot of smoking. The tobacco smell neutralized the book smell, and he himself was neutralized by the clouds of smoke. When Henrietta came into the room, she had to clear a trail with her hands. When she went to open a window to let in air, she found it was open, but a pillar of cigarette smoke trapped at the window prevented the air from flowing in or out.

The air suited his thoughts, which were first and foremost about Shira. He himself — which is to say, his work, from which he still considered himself inseparable — came second. Third was Henrietta. His thoughts about Henrietta were roughly these: In any case, Henrietta’s lot is better than that of her relatives in Germany. She doesn’t live in fear — of police, of informers, of her husband being suddenly taken away and returned as ashes in a sealed box. She even has a garden with vegetables and flowers, as well as a chicken coop, all of which Henrietta had dreamed of in Germany when they were preparing to leave. She used to say, “I’ll go to Palestine, find some land there, and plant a garden, like the pioneers.” Someone else occupied Herbst’s thoughts: his eldest daughter, Zahara. But she wasn’t as persistent a presence as Shira, his work, or his wife, though she was perhaps closer to his heart than the others. His thoughts about Zahara were entwined with thoughts about Tamara that remained somewhat amorphous.

The cigarette smoke was occasionally invaded by the fragrance of the garden, the rooster’s cry, a chirping bird, Henrietta’s footsteps, little Sarah, or a student or colleague. Herbst deals with each one of his callers in terms of his nature and business, then sees him out and returns to the box of notecards, saying, “Here’s another note, and yet another.” The notes extended in several directions without coming together. The author of these notes is drawn in several directions too, but he doesn’t pull himself together either.

Herbst was like the poet who lost his baggage on a trip and was asked if his shadow was lost too, a question that inspired him to write a wondrous tale about a lost shadow. So it was with Herbst. Having lost the desire to deal with his notes, he became interested in something that, for him, was like a wondrous tale. That poet was privileged to write Peter Schlemihl, whereas Herbst wasn’t privileged to fulfill his wishes. I will nonetheless relate his wish. I will also relate the chain of events that led him to fix his attention on a subject other than his academic work.

In the realm of thought, this is how Herbst functions. He takes on a subject, considers it from various angles, moves on to another subject, and finally goes back to the beginning. Now that he had lost the desire to deal with his papers, he pondered his book, which was not being written. He thought about the delays and obstacles, about Zahara, who was living in the country, and about Henrietta. In the end, his mind was on himself again. He pictured himself leaving the city, leaving his home, going to a place where he was unknown, with no one to distract him from the work he was about to undertake. For he meant to do something new. He meant to write a play about Antonia, a woman of the court, and Yohanan, a nobleman in the capital. Several days earlier, he had intended to engage in research, as usual, but it had suddenly occurred to him that this was beyond what the researcher could handle, that the material itself yearned to fall into hands other than a researcher’s.

Despite their weight and value, the data peered at him with eyes that were crafty, shrewd, and clever; resistant, hesitant, fearful. If they had had words, they would have said roughly this: What do you gain by making an article out of us? Another article and yet another. You’ve already produced enough articles. He watched, listened, understood. Suddenly his heart felt pinched with painful sweetness, the kind a poet feels when he comes upon something that asks to be put in a poem. Dr. Manfred Herbst was resolved to write a play about the woman of the court and Yohanan the nobleman. Henceforth, nothing was as dear to Dr. Herbst as this play. If not for Shira, the project would have dominated his heart, and he would have written the play.

Thus far, his work had been nourished by what others provided, data from documents and the like. Now he would be nourished by his own spirit and creative imagination. Needless to say, he would no longer have to refer to books or copy notes to store in a box. He would no longer need to amass references and would have no use for scholarly apparatus. He barely managed to repress his sense of superiority, for he already viewed his academic friends as exploiters who eat fruit planted by others.

Herbst envisioned himself sitting and writing the play. Scene after scene unfolds, and the leading characters — Antonia, a woman of the court, and Yohanan, a nobleman — are engaged in conversation, which he overhears and records on paper.

It took a while for Herbst to be persuaded to write the play. I’m not a playwright, he thought. That’s not my profession, he told himself. At the same time, he was aching to try his hand at it. Aware that most people, unless they are poets, fail in this sort of endeavor — that, when they try to tell a love story, they become sentimental — Herbst was discouraged. But he was determined to write the play. And what would become of his notes? They would help him make the play authentic. So far, all he had was the story as conveyed by the writers of the time, but he was counting on precedent. Anyone who devotes himself totally to a task will not come away empty-handed.

Meanwhile, he investigated a pile of documents and discovered things no one else had noticed that were relevant to the story of Antonia, the woman of the court, and the nobleman Yohanan. He was thrilled with these discoveries and tested his imagination to see what it would add. But imagination doesn’t always respond, not to everyone and not on demand. Never before had the material refused to comply. Whenever he put his mind to it, a research paper would take shape, seeming to order itself, the pieces falling into place so that there was a beginning, a middle, and an end — all in language suited to the subject, without academic jargon, to which even renowned scholars are not immune.

Herbst went to the window and stared at the trees. They were blooming, as usual, as if of themselves. Actually, one should not forget that Henrietta had a hand in this, and, in fact, so did he; they both tended the trees, hoed, and watered regularly. Neither he nor Henrietta had worked the land in their youth, but the soil was there, so they made a garden. Though no parable is intended, this reflected Herbst’s feelings toward the play. But another feeling, about old age, insinuated itself. Was it old age that drained his energies and disheartened him? So this was why he hadn’t hurried back to Shira after that first night, and, because he hadn’t hurried back, Shira withholds herself from him now.

Turning away from the window and from the trees, he began pacing back and forth. Finally, he stood still, leaned over to press a cigarette into the ashtray, and either took another one or put the one he had just discarded back in his mouth. Then he took out the atlas in order to research the locale of his play. Atlas in hand, he cried out in amazement, “Tamara is in Greece. What does she know about Greece? I doubt she knows as much as the lowest-level student in a German high school. What do they teach here anyway? Who was it who described Apollo arrayed in tefillin? As an ideal, it’s defective; as a joke, it’s equally defective.”

Now, Herbst thought, I’ll try one of the cigarettes Julian Weltfremdt recommended. He leaned over and pressed the remnants of a cigarette into the ashtray, took out a long brown one, and smoked it slowly to assess its flavor. Now, Herbst said to himself, now I’ll look at the map and trace Tamara’s route. He got up, opened the door, and called out, “Henriett, Henriett, do you want to see where your daughter is?”

Henrietta came, parting the clouds of smoke with her hand, went to open the window, and found it open. She laughed in annoyance and said, “Unless your cigarettes induce amnesia, I don’t know why I forget the windows are all open.” Herbst laughed and said, “They don’t induce amnesia, but they do have a trace of mandrake.” Henrietta said, “You were going to show me where Tamara is now. Is there another card from her? I didn’t see the mailman today.” Manfred said, “The mailman wasn’t here, and there are no new cards. We can nonetheless look at the map and see her route.” Henrietta said, “What a good idea.” Manfred said, “But I doubt she is enjoying the trip.” Henrietta said, “Why not?” Manfred said, “Because she wasn’t prepared. She knows less than nothing about Greece. She hasn’t read Homer and doesn’t know Plato. She knows nothing at all about that civilization. Tell me, Henriett, how did Tamara qualify for a teaching certificate?” Henrietta said, “She’s as qualified as her friends.” Manfred said, “I’m not asking only about her; I’m asking about her friends too, and even her teachers. How are they qualified to be teachers?” Henrietta said, “You don’t mean to say they became teachers by pulling strings?” Manfred said, “I wouldn’t say that, but I judge teachers by their pupils.” “What do you learn?” Manfred laughed and said, “I learn, my dear, that they have all learned nothing.” “Nothing?” Manfred said, “Anyway, they didn’t learn what they should have learned. How many poems did you know by heart when you were Tamara’s age? If we were to be exiled somewhere, with no books, I would be content with the poems you remember from your youth. But our Tamara — except for the insipid jingles she sings — probably doesn’t know one entire poem.” Henrietta said, “It’s not her fault.” “If it’s not her fault, whose is it?” Henrietta said, “It may be Hebrew poetry that’s at fault for not lending itself to song.” Manfred said, “You have an excuse for everything, only the excuse is more radical than the problem. Now let’s spread the map and see what places Tamara has graced with the light of her eyes. First let me get a cigarette.” Henrietta said, “And I was going to ask you not to smoke for a while.” Manfred said, “You’re asking the impossible, but is there anything in the world I’m unwilling to give up for you? You’re asking me not to smoke for a while. That’s fine. But first let me have two or three puffs. This is a new brand. Weltfremdt recommended it.” Henrietta said, “Does Weltfremdt smoke?” Manfred said, “If you mean that secret adviser, Professor Ernst Weltfremdt, he doesn’t smoke. No, he doesn’t. But if you mean Dr. Julian Weltfremdt, I can tell you beyond doubt, beyond any doubt, that the gentleman certainly smokes. Yes, indeed, that gentleman certainly does smoke.” Henrietta laughed and said, “If I hadn’t seen your lips moving, I would be sure Professor Weltfremdt himself was talking.” Manfred said, “See, my dear, what close friendship achieves. Sometimes the mere mention of a fine gentleman such as Professor Weltfremdt causes us — indeed, it causes us — to adopt his rhetoric, his very own rhetoric.” Henrietta said, “You admit that you meant to imitate his speech.” Manfred said, “Intentionally or not, either way I succeeded. Isn’t that so, Henriett?” Henrietta said, “Besserman couldn’t do any better. Now let’s sit down and trace Tamara’s route.” After outlining Tamara’s entire route with his finger, Manfred said, “Now I’ll give you the Baedeker, and you can read about all those places.”

Herbst had a collection of Baedekers he was proud of. His pride may have been due to the careless comment of a Scandinavian, one of Strindberg’s last surviving friends, who remarked about Herbst’s collection that not even Strindberg had a better one. He searched but didn’t find the volume, and he remembered it had been borrowed by Sacharson. It was more than a year since Sacharson had borrowed it, and he hadn’t bothered to bring it back. “What a pig,” Herbst said, “to borrow a book and not return it. When I’m done with him, he’ll forget his conversion certificate. But first I have to scold myself. Fool that I am, I should have learned from experience. I once lent someone the Baedeker of Palestine, and it was returned to me without the map of Jerusalem.” Henrietta said, “It’s possible he took the map out for convenience and forgot to put it back.” Manfred said, “If you want to give people the benefit of the doubt, fine. But not when it comes to borrowing books. I’ll have to get Sacharson to return my Baedeker. Now, Henriett, am I released from the ban?” “What ban?” “The ban on smoking.” Henrietta said, “If you must smoke, then smoke. But not the black ones, please.” Manfred laughed and said, “Why is that? Because they have a pinch of mandrake, or because they have no mandrake?” Henrietta said, “What’s so funny about mandrake?” Manfred said, “Have you forgotten the erotic properties of mandrake?” Henrietta said, “To think that the father of a married daughter and of another whose hand is being sought in marriage is making such jokes! But who can blame you — you are young, truly young. If we were Yemenites, I myself would find you another wife.” Manfred said, “You? You would find me another wife?” Henrietta said, “Why not?” Manfred said, “I don’t think a European woman could do that.” “Do what?” “Yield her position to another woman.” Henrietta said, “You’ve forgotten the wife of the teacher from Beit Hakerem.” Manfred said, “To whom are you referring?” Henrietta said, “I think what I said was clear.” Manfred said, “One thing is clear, there is a neighborhood in Jerusalem known as Beit Hakerem. Many teachers live in Beit Hakerem, some of whom are clearly married, and it is also clear that, though what you said is crystal clear, the heart of the matter isn’t clear at all.” Henrietta said, “I know you remember the story, but you want to hear it from me.” Manfred’s eyes twinkled with repressed laughter as he said, “If so, all the more reason why you are required to tell it.” “Required? I don’t like requirements.” Manfred caught her by the chin and said, “Nu, nu, tell me.” Henrietta said, “Don’t you remember? We were walking in Beit Hakerem, and you were thirsty. We went into a house for water and found a young woman with a baby in her arms.” Manfred said, “A sign within a sign. A young woman with a baby in her arms.” Henrietta said, “It seems to me that you know a woman who isn’t so young with a baby in her arms. If you want me to speak, don’t interrupt.” Manfred said, “And then?” Henrietta said, “Why should I repeat things you know as well as I do?” Manfred said, “What do you care? So then the woman said, ‘I can’t go with my husband because the children are small.’“ Henrietta said, “You remember every word, yet you let me wear out my tongue. Do you want to bore us both?” Manfred said, “If I ask you, what’s it to you if you do as I ask? Do you have some special reason not to tell?” Henrietta said, “What reason could there be?” Manfred said, “Then tell me.” Henrietta said, “So the woman continued, ‘On a teacher’s salary, I can’t afford to hire help. What’s the solution? My husband could have two wives. When he is out with one, the other one could look after the child, and then they would switch.’“ Manfred said, “De jure but not de facto.” Henrietta said, “What do you mean, ‘de jure but not de facto’?” Manfred said, “Those are common terms, meaning ‘easier said than done.’ What woman could see her husband in someone else’s arms and be silent? In any case, I wouldn’t subject my wife to such a test.” Henrietta said, “Do you ever have such thoughts?” Manfred said, “Me? What are you saying? Me, God forbid.” Henrietta said, “You stuck another cigarette in your mouth. You still have one, and you’re reaching for more. Another woman, in my place, would see that as symbolic.” Manfred pressed his palms against each other, folded them over his heart, closed his eyes, and crooned a song:

I am tender, my heart pure,

No trace of sin in it;

Only you forevermore,

My sweet Henriett;

Only you forevermore,

My sweet Henriett.

Chapter seven

The play didn’t develop. Not for lack of imagination alone did it fail to develop, nor because the material was insufficiently dramatic, but something seemingly trivial interfered with the creation of the tragedy. The insipid jingles with which Tamara filled her postcards had an adverse effect on Herbst. On the one hand, he considered them meager and empty; on the other, they led him to look at verses written by poets who weren’t real poets but, inasmuch as they had a command of the language and could rhyme, were regarded as poets. Because he gave these works too much attention, it occurred to him that he could set the story of Antonia and Yohanan in romance or ballad form. Dr. Herbst was mistaken to think that, having written a scholarly paper in Hebrew, he would be able to turn out romances and ballads. What happened in the end was that seven times he dipped his pen in ink without producing a single verse. After several attempts, he gave up on Hebrew and turned his pen to the left, intending to write his romances and ballads in German. An odd thing happened. This scholar — born and educated in Germany, author of a six-hundred-page tome and many essays in German, who spoke German to his wife and most of his friends, who thought in German — when he was about to pour his lyrical musings into German verse, found neither the words nor the form. Herbst was caught between two tongues. When he tried writing in Hebrew, it seemed German would be more responsive; when he tried German, it seemed Hebrew would be more responsive. In fact, neither language responded. The Hebrew wouldn’t come; the German fled. Herbst went to the shelf where things he no longer used were stored, took out his old pipe and cleaned it well, dissected several cigarettes, filled the pipe with tobacco, and sat on his chair smoking away, smoking and thinking: I’ll go back to the beginning and write the tragedy in simple prose, neither rhymed nor metered. He was confident, since the plot, the time, and the place were clear to him, that nothing would prevent him from writing the tragedy. He took out a new notebook and wrote the names of the characters. Then he drew a map of the house and the courtyard, including something he hadn’t thought of originally, which added interest: a drawing of the leper colony in which Antonia’s slave lived out his final years. His drawing of the place was so successful that he feared his dreams would be haunted by what he had pictured when awake. Oddly enough, although he thought a great deal about the leper colony and the faithful slave who spent his final days there, at night Herbst saw neither the slave nor the leper colony.

Now I’ll revert to an orderly account, describing how one thing flowed from another and how everything interlocked, going back to the night after Herbst first wrote the names of the characters associated with the exploits of Antonia, woman of the court, and the nobleman Yohanan. If I omit something that happened to Herbst, I omit it because it’s unimportant, though when it happened it seemed essential. When a man has a toothache, the entire world seems worthless. He goes to a doctor, who fixes the tooth; then he forgets all about it, and everything is normal again.

He had another sleepless night. He saw a thousand things, but not a single drop of sleep. Some of these things appeared because he summoned them, because he said, “Come, come,” whereas others appeared on their own. Their pace was at first steady and regular, then intense and chaotic. The story of Antonia, woman of the court, and the nobleman Yohanan was so intense that his eyes began to hurt, and he had to close them because of the pain. It was, on the face of it, good that he closed his eyes, but this didn’t last, because he had to move to more modest quarters where he could work without being interrupted, having taken it upon himself to write the tragedy of Antonia and Yohanan at the same time that he was assigned by the university to lead a group of young scholars who were touring Greece because Tamara was eager to study the mechanics of poetic meter. It was good that Herbst went with Tamara to Greece. Otherwise, she would have seen him walking with Shira, which was not advisable, because Henrietta was in collusion with the wife of a teacher from Beit Hakerem. They agreed to prohibit their husbands from bringing other women to their studios, declaring, “If they want to draw — let them draw skulls.”

Unrelated to the skull or to poetic meter, the map of Jerusalem appeared, the one that was torn from the Baedeker. Unrelated to the map of Jerusalem, the brown cigarettes, distinguished by neither taste nor aroma, appeared. The fact that their long stems filled the ashtray was their sole distinction. Unrelated to the brown cigarettes, Avraham-and-a-half appeared. Not in person, but in the form of something sweet and good that stretches without limits and endlessly. In the midst of all this, he heard a voice calling, “Adam, Adam.” He pondered a while and concluded: This probably doesn’t refer to Adam Ahlenschlager, whose books I have never even touched. Then to whom does it refer? To Adam Miesckewicz, perhaps, whose poetry was translated into German by two converts, neither of whom was named Sacharson. In the end, everything was covered by a small leather strip, stretching to cover Wechsler and his colleagues, extending over Jerusalem and its inhabitants, and covering Herbst’s eyes, which pained him so much that he closed them, asking the strip of leather, “What is this?” He answered, “It’s that same leather strip, the ptygyl fragment.”

Chapter eight

Having touched on questions of poetry and language, I won’t refrain from relating and clarifying what Dr. Herbst knew about Hebrew literature, what he saw in it, and how he happened to study the language and learn it well enough to write an essay and try his hand at writing a play in Hebrew. Even without the metered verse he had in mind originally, a prose play would be amazing.

As you already know, Manfred Herbst was born and educated in Germany, in German schools, in German scholarship and poetics, like his contemporaries, Jews and non-Jews. I will add some information about Manfred Herbst’s progenitors.

Moritz Herbst, Manfred’s father, was from a small town in Poznan. Like many other Jews who couldn’t make a living there, he went off to Berlin to seek his fortune. He brought no capital to do business with, only the sort of sterling talents that can be converted into silver by their owner: good sense, goodwill, enterprise, and diligence. As a favor to an old man from his town, who, in his youth, had studied Mishnah with Moritz’s father, Moritz was given a job in an office-supply store. This store, one of the first to limit its trade to office supplies, specialized in all sorts of business equipment. Furthermore, anyone who was about to open an office turned to Rosenthal and Co. for advice. When Moritz Herbst began working there, he had only the word of his father’s childhood friend to recommend him. Before long, his actions spoke for him, his talents displayed themselves, and their outcome became more and more apparent. His employer took note and began to linger over the young man from Poznan, to observe how he arranged merchandise, how he dealt with customers, and the like. The employer sometimes expressed himself with an approving nod; he sometimes allowed him to accompany him home, so he could hear his opinion about various customers — who should be allowed to buy on credit and who should be turned down. At first, the employer suspected that he had hired the boy from Poznan only as a favor to that old man and that he would not last long; he soon began to recognize his worth and to befriend him. After a while, he invited him home for afternoon coffee on the weekend. After a further while, he invited him for lunch. From then on, he often invited him to eat in his home. Little by little, Moritz Herbst relinquished the manners he had brought from his village, especially those he realized were inappropriate in Berlin, and made an effort to please the wife of his employer, as well as his handsome and charming daughter, whose manners impressed the young man from Poznan as ultimate perfection. Though this young man seemed somewhat ridiculous to her, she found that there was something different about him. Not knowing how to describe this quality, she called it loyalty. Unless we project this word into the future, it remains abstract, for so far she had had no opportunity to test his loyalty. By and by, the young man from Poznan became a regular guest in this Berlin household, almost a member of the family, welcomed by all. The lady of the house sometimes made him mediate between her and her husband, and her daughter made him mediate between herself and her parents. The employer, seeing that this young man was dependable, turned over some of his own responsibilities to him and, in every case, was pleased with how they were carried out. Three years passed in this fashion. In this period he received three raises, as well as several bonuses. Moritz Herbst advanced from the lowest position to chief clerk, and, when a buyer left to establish his own business, Herbst was promoted and became the buyer. In all those years, Moritz Herbst gave his employer no cause for complaint or envy, although he introduced many innovations and expanded the business more and more. He never made a move without consulting his employer first, phrasing everything as a request, as if he were saying, “I have a favor to ask, sir,” which allowed the employer to believe that everything emanated from him. From the time Moritz Herbst began working in this office-supply store, it never occurred to the owner that he might leave to work elsewhere, nor did Herbst consider leaving. So they grew accustomed to one another, as if they belonged to each other.

As I noted, this store was one of the first to specialize in office supplies. In time, there were many competitors, and Herbst was urged to abandon his patron and work for them. Each tried to attract him with double the salary paid by Rosenthal and Co. But Moritz Herbst remained loyal and continued to work for the allotted salary, never asking for a raise and never considering leaving to work elsewhere at a higher salary. Until something happened that demonstrated that anything can change, even a faithful servant. His employer sent him to transact some business in his name. He discovered, inadvertently, that the transaction was risky and that it would be a mistake to proceed on the basis of credit. He therefore didn’t conclude the transaction. On the other hand, another much larger transaction came his way, in which the bulk of the merchandise would be paid for in cash. Not only did he prevent his employer from losing a fortune, but he found him another deal, which was profitable far beyond what was anticipated. When the employer became aware of these events, he immediately doubled Herbst’s salary. He expected him to be extremely grateful, to say, “Many thanks to you, kind sir, for your great generosity.” Not only did he not thank him, but he said, “I’m sorry, sir, but unless I can become a partner, I will resign to go into business on my own.” The employer answered, “You can’t be a partner, since it is the custom in our family to include only relatives in the business. And, as you know, we are not related in any way.” Herbst said, “That need not present a problem. With your consent, I can become related to you and your family through your daughter.” The man was stunned into silence. Then he asked, “What will my daughter say about this?” Herbst answered, “I already have her word. Now we are asking for your consent.” Not long afterward, Moritz Herbst married the daughter of his employer, becoming a partner in a business that had been selling equipment to offices, banks, and stores for several generations. It had always been known as Rosenthal’s but would henceforth be known as Rosenthal and Co.

From the moment he became involved in the business, Herbst made an effort to adapt his manners to those of his employer, whom he regarded as a model Berliner, a title which since childhood signified real distinction. After marrying the daughter, he became more and more relaxed about the manners he had acquired in Berlin and reverted, though not consciously, to his earlier ways. After his father-in-law’s death, he took charge of the entire business. He became less careful about his language, sprinkling his conversation with Yiddish and Polish words from his childhood. He often reminisced about his town, describing it in detail: the teachers there who had studied in the great academies of Poznan and Lysa, and were so intimidating that the rabbis with doctorates didn’t dare to challenge them in matters of ritual slaughter or anything else pertaining to religion, although whatever the former allowed, the others forbade, and vice versa. Even his father, Manish, may he rest in peace, for whom Manfred was named, knew the basic texts and studied Mishnah every day in a group that included the town’s leading citizens, led by Rabbi Eliyahu Gutmacher. Moritz still had his father’s books though he himself had never studied very much, because his father had died when he was young. His mother had married a man whose son by his first wife was already enrolled in a teachers’ seminary and depended on his father for support, so there was no money to pay the stepson’s tuition. Though he didn’t study much Torah, Moritz Herbst was blessed by a man immersed in Torah and even received a coin from him.

This is what happened with the coin. It was the custom in Moritz’s town, and probably in many others like it, that, as long as no worm was seen in the cherries, they could be eaten without inspection. But, as soon as the first worm was seen, an announcement would be made in the rabbi’s name that the cherries had to be inspected. To facilitate this, the children were alerted to report to the rabbi when they saw the first worm. One year, he was the first to spot a worm in the cherries. He ran and informed the rabbi. The rabbi gave him a coin and blessed him, expressing the hope that he would grow up to follow the straight path, observing the Torah and commandments. Some of this blessing was fulfilled, but not all of it. He never veered from the straight path, but he was lax about the Torah and commandments. On the face of it, he kept kosher; his house was equipped with separate dishes for dairy and meat, as well as for Passover, but his wife occasionally “borrowed” a Passover dish for ordinary use without bothering to scour it properly before putting it back. Similarly, if some ritual question arose in the household, she didn’t take the trouble to consult an expert. Nevertheless, they considered themselves proper Jews until the Great War broke out, adding to the hardships of observant Jews and undermining those who were lax. At first these Jews were careful not to defile themselves with forbidden foods. But, as the war continued, food was in short supply. When they were lucky enough to find something to eat, they were no longer exacting about keeping kosher. If they found a food that needed to be certified, they didn’t ask whether it was certified, who the certifying rabbis were, or the source of their authority. In Herbst’s home, too, kosher standards were relaxed, because Moritz Herbst came down with one of those illnesses that became rampant in the wake of the war and was no longer able to oversee the household, while his wife from the very beginning wasn’t strict about these rules.

Moritz Herbst died from that illness. At this point, Manfred was a soldier in the war, knee-deep in blood, and none of the affairs of the world seemed meaningful to him, certainly not business. From the beginning, he was not groomed for business; his father had kept him at a distance from it, coaxing him to study instead. His mother, Amelia, though she was a merchant’s daughter, was not skilled in business either. Neither her father nor her husband had included her in it. As she couldn’t handle the business left to her by her husband, not only did she fail to derive profit from the store, the equipment, the accounts, and all the rest, but they were a burden to her. Neither mother nor son knew what to do with this inheritance. After consulting relatives, they sold the business for several thousand marks. Like most of the population, they were unaware that the value of the mark was declining steadily, so that a thousand marks were worth a hundred and a hundred marks were worth one. In the end, all that money was worthless.

As I mentioned, when his father died, Manfred was at the front. When he returned, he resumed his studies. A son whose father dies without leaving him any resources ought to learn a trade that can be a means of support. If he is eager for learning, he ought to pursue the sort of knowledge that can be a means of support after a few years’ study. But Manfred was drawn to a profession involving a great deal of effort and minimal return. While he was a student, he didn’t have to worry. Tuition had been provided for him. Even before he entered the university, an allowance had been set aside to cover his expenses. How? This is how it came about.

When Manfred’s father, Moritz, was a boy, his father died. His mother then married a man from Rawicz. The husband had a son by his first wife who was studying at the teachers’ seminary in Cologne. The husband joined his mother in her town. Moritz lived with his mother, while the son of his mother’s husband lived in Cologne, so they never saw each other. When Moritz grew up, he couldn’t find anything to do in his own town and went to seek his fortune elsewhere. He came to Berlin, where he had the good fortune to find a livelihood and a wife. He took over the first store that hired him, and the daughter of his employer became his wife.

Now that you have heard the story of Moritz Herbst, I’ll tell you his stepbrother’s story. His good fortune was not in abeyance either. He completed his studies and began teaching religion in a small town. His salary did not satisfy his material needs; teaching did not satisfy his spirit. He suffered, regretting both these facts, but he seemed resigned to his fate, like most teachers, who were in no way inferior to him. In the town where he taught religion, there was an agent for writing equipment and school supplies, whom he sometimes helped with his accounts, letter writing, and the like. Whatever he did was done with no thought of reward. In time, the salesman became paralyzed. His wife invited the teacher to help her with the business. He became the agent’s agent. The woman realized he was more adept than she was and left most of the business in his hands. Once he got a taste of commerce, he lost interest in the school.

He gave up his pupils and his fellow teachers, who had lorded it over him because the subjects they taught were needed by the world, whereas he taught religion, and who can say whether it exists to gratify God or to serve man? As soon as he went into business, earning in one month twice what he used to earn as a teacher in half a year, he became ambitious and was not satisfied with being a middleman. He wanted to own a factory. He heard of one that was about to come on the market: a factory that had been producing slates for schools and was operating at a loss, because in most countries students were being given notebooks rather than slates, in order to assess the progress of their handwriting. He quickly bought the factory, confident that he could recover what the original owners had lost. And he was not mistaken. In a few years he had repaid what he had borrowed to buy the factory and made enough profit to convert from the production of writing slates to that of roofs, like those produced by the big slate factories in Thuringia. All those years, the two stepbrothers were blessed by fortune and engaged in the acquisition of wealth; one, as we already mentioned, through office equipment and the like; the other, as we already mentioned, through religion, writing equipment, and slate roofs. Both were determined not to waste a minute on anything unrelated to the acquisition of wealth. They never asked about each other, and, if their paths hadn’t crossed, they would have gone through life without knowing one another.

How did they become acquainted? The manufacturer came to Berlin for a board meeting of the Academy for Jewish Studies. Strolling through the streets of Berlin, he passed the showroom of Rosenthal and Co., and went in to see what was new in the way of office equipment. He was browsing through the store, cane in hand, and smoking a thick cigar, since it was Saturday and it was his custom to honor the Shabbat with a cigar, making do with cigarettes on weekdays. The owner stared at him and said, “Didn’t you have a father in Myloslow?” He took the cigar out of his mouth, flicked the ashes, and said, “That’s right. My father’s second marriage was to a woman from Myloslow, whom he followed to her town.” The owner said, “And is your name Ringer?” He said, “Yes, my name is Ringer.” He said, “Then we are somewhat related.” “How?” “My mother, may she rest in peace, was your father’s wife.” He said, “How did you recognize me, considering that you never saw me?” He said, “I looked at you and thought to myself: I know this man, and I don’t know where I know him from. My stepfather’s image came to mind. I thought to myself: If I were to dress him in elegant clothes, replace his beard with a mustache, and stick a cigarette in his mouth, a fashionable cane in his hand, and a gold chain on his belly, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish between the two of you. Logic led me to conclude that, since you are not my stepfather, you must be my stepbrother. I immediately asked what I asked, and then you answered as you answered. Now, in the name of brotherhood, we ought to have a drink, though I’m hoping for more than that. I have a wife and son. Won’t you do me the honor, on behalf of my wife and son, of coming home with me and having dinner with us?” He agreed, and they went off together.

During dinner, Moritz talked about his favorite subjects: the elderly teachers in his town who used to irritate the rabbis with doctorates by sending the slaughterers to them with defective knives, in order to test how well versed they were in the rules of ritual slaughter, and other similar ruses to make a mockery of them. He also told the story of the cherry, the worm, the rabbi, and the coin. He told other things, most of which I have already written in my book. In the course of conversation, he referred to a biblical verse and stumbled over it, like an ignoramus. He laughed and said, “It’s because of you that I’m so ignorant.” “How?” He explained that, because his stepfather had to pay tuition for his own son, he couldn’t afford to have his wife’s son study Torah. As a result, both he and the Torah were deprived; he, alas, remained totally ignorant. Mr. Ringer listened and laughed. He had drunk a great deal of wine, and he said, “An injustice that can be corrected should be corrected. I would like to make up, through your son, for what my father did to you. Allow me to pay his tuition while he studies for his degree.” Moritz Herbst laughed and said, “How can a little brother turn his big brother down? If that’s what you want, fine. Whatever you say.” He said, “Let’s shake hands on it.” He said, “If that’s what you want, I give you my hand.” Herbst considered the agreement a joke. Ringer considered it an actual commitment. He didn’t leave the house before writing a check. He continued to pay Manfred’s tuition until his death and then left him enough stocks to pay his future tuition. These funds made it possible for Manfred Herbst to study wherever his heart desired.

When Germany collapsed, most of its industry and commerce was disrupted. The value of Mr. Ringer’s securities declined, and there was a chance Manfred Herbst would have to interrupt his studies, since everything his father had left him was lost. He was rescued by a relative. He had an old aunt in Leipzig, the sister of his mother’s father, who was married to a noted singer, adored by all the music lovers in Leipzig. When he realized he was losing his voice, he turned away from music and established an advertising agency, which was patronized by all his fans. So it thrived and prospered, and after his death — even during the war and in the years that followed — his widow was able to support herself and to help the son of her brother’s daughter, who was the only one of her relatives to survive the war.

Chapter nine

I will now go back to Manfred’s beginnings, when there was still peace in the world, when Moritz Herbst was alive and Manfred was a student. In addition to his secular studies, Manfred took classes in religion and Hebrew. If the teacher was a scholar, he would call on a student to read something while he sat at his desk proofreading an article on Jewish studies. When the student paused, he would look up, call on someone else, and go back to his proofreading, giving no further thought to his teaching. If the instructor was not a scholar, he would pass the time with words that imparted neither Torah, wisdom, Talmud, nor Hebrew. In any case, Manfred learned neither the elements of religion nor anything related to Hebrew from these teachers. He didn’t feel he was missing anything; he pored over the literature of Germany and all the other nations without being aware that, although he was taking in foreign wisdom, his own people’s wisdom remained foreign to him.

As I said, there was peace in the world, but woe unto a world that is governed by hooligans. There was harsh news, from a land not so distant, about Jews being massacred. As a boy, he had heard about pogroms, about Herzl, about Zionism. Even before this, he had had a deep understanding of the issues and already tended toward Zionism. The Jewish community in Germany was still serene, diverted by the notion that there was no evil in Germany, that all the Zionist activity there concerned Jews in other countries whose governments oppressed them and instigated pogroms, that it was the duty of German Jews to assist their persecuted brethren in seeking a land that would offer them a haven. And where would these driven, worn-out people find such a haven? In Palestine, under the wing of consuls who would protect their subjects more effectively there than in their native lands. No one realized yet that Germany would be the major source of trouble for Jews, that they would seek refuge and not find it except in the Land of Israel. Since Zionism in no way interfered with the boy’s studies, his father didn’t interfere with his Zionist activities. He, too, would occasionally glance at Zionist pamphlets and nod affirmatively, saying, “What I see here makes sense, but, if the situation were really as the Zionists see it, our leaders would all be Zionists. Since they are actually hostile to Zionism, it’s best not to get involved.” Manfred’s mother was of another mind. Amelia Herbst loved life, and she loved enterprises that rewarded the people who undertook them. Zionism had neither of these attributes, so she should have rejected it. But, since her son, Manfred, was interested in Zionism, it could not be dismissed outright.

Zionism added little to Herbst’s knowledge, beyond the words that are familiar to every Zionist: shekel, hovev ziyon, yishuv, Ahad Ha’am, the names of all the settlements in the Land of Israel. From Zionist literature, he learned that those weary, tormented Jews, considered uncultured in Germany, had two libraries in two languages — one in the language they spoke and one in the language of the holy books.

From the time Herbst heard about this, a tune began to sing out from his heart, playing itself in those two tongues. It sounded sometimes like the dirge of an exile lamenting his devastated domain, sometimes like a noble cry. Victims from every era appeared, pouring out their souls in epic poems and stories. Countless events, from the binding of Isaac to the Damascus blood libel and the most recent pogroms, all spoke to him in verse. God’s spirit hovered over these poems, stories, and liturgical works, some of which he read in German translation, along with visions of the End of Days, glimpsed only by poets who suffered Israel’s pain. When he first read Yiddish literature in German translation, he didn’t eat, drink, or go to class. He curled up in a corner and sat reading these stories and poems. His eyes swallowed the letters; he fingered the text, hoping there was more there than was being revealed to him. When he had read an entire book, he studied the title page on the chance that there had been an error, that this volume was actually not from the body of literature he was after. He didn’t find what he was after, and whatever he found was not what he was after. Whether it was merely fine or very fine, he knew its counterparts in other languages and was not impressed. This happened again and again. Whether the book was merely fine or very fine, he had seen the genre elsewhere. He tried his luck with Hebrew, to see if he could find there what he hadn’t found in Yiddish. No complete works were available in German, only fragments. It is easy to translate from Yiddish into German, because the languages are akin, but it is hard to translate from Hebrew into German, because they are so alien to each other. I can see, Herbst used to tell himself, that Hebrew poetry refuses to appear in borrowed finery.

In those years, the Hebrew high school in Jaffa graduated its first class. Many of the graduates went to Germany for advanced studies. Foreign students commonly support themselves in a foreign country by teaching their native language, which is what those Jaffaites did. Because of the good name of the Land of Israel and of the first Hebrew high school, many people were eager to study living Hebrew with them. As a result, Hebrew teachers from other countries were rejected, although they were endowed with Torah and good manners.

Manfred Herbst was among the first to study with these graduates. He began his studies in a group, but, realizing he wasn’t accomplishing very much, he hired a private teacher. He didn’t learn from his teachers, nor did he learn from their books. He didn’t learn from his teachers because their nationalist sentiments exceeded their learning. As for their books, they used anthologies filled with fragmentary texts in translation. Still, Herbst remained grateful, recognizing that, if not for them, all Hebrew books would have remained foreign to him.

Herbst’s relation to Hebrew might have led nowhere, as is often the case, were it not for something he heard from a Christian student, a professor’s daughter, whom I think I mentioned at the beginning of this story in a conversation between Herbst and his wife. Among the medical students, there was a short, shriveled Jew, shabbily dressed, altogether sloppy, as if asking to be scorned. In the clinic one day, in front of the entire class, the professor presented him with a copy of his book, Fundamentals of Pathology, and inscribed it “In honor of a marvelous human being, a true lover of learning.” The gift from this professor, one of the greatest doctors of his generation, made a great impression. His dictum was well known: If I could, I would publish only three copies of my book; I would keep one for myself, and I don’t know to whom I would give the other two. In the end, he gave his book to that man and wrote those complimentary words in it. They learned what he had done to deserve the honor. Before enrolling in the university, he had been a rabbi in Lithuania. He gave up the rabbinate and came to Berlin, literally on foot, to study medicine. No one in Berlin knew anything about him. One day, a patient from some town in Lithuania was brought to the professor, and by chance this student dropped in. The patient saw him and cried out, “Rabbi, you are here?” The rabbi whispered, “Hush.” The patient ignored him and told the professor the entire story.

Herbst heard about that rabbi and thought: I’ll go and study with him. He found him and presented his request. The rabbi said, “When a Jew wants to learn, someone has to teach him.” But he was baffled when he heard what the student wanted to learn. How could anyone need to be taught to read such flimsy books? After much coaxing, he admitted to Herbst that he was familiar with only three such texts: Mapu’s The Love of Ziyon, the poems of Y. L. Gordon, and Bialik’s The Talmud Student. He considered The Love of Ziyon a florid book that did neither harm nor good; Y. L. Gordon’s poems were heresy, and he wouldn’t consider teaching them; he was willing to read the Bialik poem, although the diligent scholar depicted in the poem was not the one our sages described. It would, of course, have been best to study the books of Israel’s true sages, whose wisdom generates wisdom.

Herbst did not have the opportunity to learn very much from him. The strain of study, malnutrition, and whatever else is involved in the pursuit of knowledge depleted the rabbi’s strength. He was taken to the hospital and from there to eternal rest. But Herbst acquired a great gift from him: the ability to open any Hebrew book and learn from any text. Once he achieved this, he lost interest in the poetry of his own time. “What’s the point,” he used to say. “It doesn’t move me.”

It would be worth knowing why he wasn’t moved by our modern poetry. He did, after all, love poetry, and he was acquainted with the poetry of several nations in languages new and old. When he was weary with work and worry, he would soothe his soul with a poem, being truly fond of poetry. He said nothing explicit about our poetry. Still, if one can infer one thing from another, I am almost certain that a comment he once made explains why he said, “It doesn’t move me.” But first, a story.

The Friends of the University were honoring a Hebrew poet on the occasion of his birthday, and Herbst was among the guests. As is customary at such events, everyone who spoke lavished praise on the poet and his work. Finally, the poet himself took the floor. He spoke, not in praise of himself, but in praise of Hebrew poetry and those who created it.

It is in the nature of such celebrations that, when they are over, no one is really satisfied, so one goes out for coffee and conversation. Herbst was not a conversationalist. Those who are silent in company are always pressed to talk. Herbst was asked for his response to the speeches made in the poet’s honor. He answered, “Literature is not my field, so whatever an ignoramus like me says will neither add nor detract.” Because they pressed him, he said, “Modern poetry may be good, it may even be very good, but it can’t be compared to medieval poetry. And medieval poetry can’t be compared to even the most minor poetry of the Bible.” Someone laughed and said, “If you mean the Bible as emended by professors, even newspaper articles are preferable, so long as they weren’t written by those professors.”

Herbst was silent. He considered what he had said and was surprised that it had been so easy for him to speak from his heart. He was also surprised at his colleagues for not taking him seriously. He turned to them and said, “I should have remained silent, but, having begun, I will finish. If you want to hear, I’m ready to speak. For a people to have been granted such a book is quite enough, and it’s reckless to turn away from what is granted once in thousands of years in favor of what’s granted every day.”

These were some of Herbst’s attempts to master the Hebrew language. Now I will go back to where I was and recount what happened after that sleepless night.

Chapter ten

I took a break between Herbst’s dream and Herbst’s actions, interjecting some personal history. Now I’ll go back and relate events in sequence, as they evolved, recounting one thing after another, incident after incident, as it occurred, as it unfolded, as it fell into place.

By morning, Herbst had recovered from the nightmares that accompanied that mad slumber. A small parcel arrived from the post office, along with other written and printed matter. The parcel was so small that he could have ignored it. But something made him take note of it immediately. After examining what else the mailman had brought, he turned to investigate the parcel.

He took a pencil and slipped it under the string, hoping to loosen it without letting it snap, so he would be able to pass it on to Henrietta in one piece. Good, strong string was no longer available, and what could be bought was rough and ineffectual, like most of the defective merchandise that came in with the war.

He slipped off the string and then the wrappings, treating the paper with the same care. He removed the paper slowly and carefully, so it wouldn’t tear in his hand. Good, strong paper was no longer available in stores, and what could be bought was as ugly as all the other defective merchandise that came in with the war. When the package was unwrapped, he found a book inside, one of those books that, as soon as you see it, you feel you have always been waiting for. The book was by Alfred Neu, a distillation of all his articles and papers.

After glancing through the book, Herbst sat down at his desk, as he did when he was about to work. He sometimes sat down to work wishing that he would be interrupted, for even a zealous and diligent worker has to stop. Ideas don’t always fly into his pen, and he has to take a break and be idle. No one likes to take this on himself, to admit that he himself is responsible for the fact that he is idle. If he is interrupted, he has someone to blame for his idleness, and he can believe that, if he hadn’t been interrupted, he would be working diligently.

Now he was afraid he might be interrupted. He read two or three pages, then sat up in astonishment. He was, after all, well versed in Neu’s theories. He knew them by heart, so that, even were he to be wakened from sleep, he could have outlined them without faltering. Still, he found new material in the book. That is the secret of a good book: whenever you read it, you find things you hadn’t noticed before. As for this book, there really was new material in it. Some of Neu’s conclusions, which had seemed a bit flimsy, were reinforced here. Herbst, who already accepted Neu’s theory and was deeply involved with it, made no distinction between what was previously implied and what was now stated with certainty. In either case, he approached the book as a new reader.

I have mentioned Neu on many occasions without mentioning what he does. I have made fleeting references, as if he were a figure that flits from void to void. If he has assumed any substance at all, it derives from Manfred Herbst, who owed his position to him and was introduced to Lisbet Neu because of him. Now I will tell a little something about him, as well as his books. I’ll begin with his forefathers, as I did with Herbst, having learned from experience that, if you want to ascertain a man’s character, it’s worthwhile to consider the preceding generations, to know the quarry whence he was hewed. Also, it is good to begin with childhood, before one has learned to camouflage his actions, a time when everything is still exposed. I will deal only with his early years, before he became famous, because whatever transpired afterward can be found in the monographs written about him.

Alfred Neu was the son of financiers whose business was linked with commerce and industry in several German cities. In the memoirs of the elders, printed only for the family and never made public, there is a detailed account of how the business developed and acquired such a reputation that it became connected with leading banks in almost every country. It was not their wealth that made them famous, for they were not rich, but their loyalty and integrity, for they were scrupulous and rejected any questionable enterprise, any hint of speculation. Whoever preferred loyalty and integrity to avarice did business with them. Until the enemy took over, annihilating them and their business.

In the beginning, it was assumed that Alfred Neu would also go into the family business. It was the custom in the Neu family that, when a son completes his secondary education, he learns banking. This was the rule: he begins at the lowest level. If he is worthy, he is promoted. When he becomes more proficient and more worthy, he is made an assistant branch manager. When he becomes still more proficient and worthy, he is made a branch manager. If there is no vacancy, he waits until there is a spot for him, or another branch is opened with him at its head. So it was with each member of the Neu family, Alfred Neu included. When he finished his secondary studies, he was sent to work in a branch of the bank located in some small town. He spent a year there. He did well, and everyone predicted that he would become a competent financier. No one realized that, what his fathers had done eagerly and willingly, he was doing only out of a sense of duty. He was not yet aware of what his heart was demanding of him, but, unconsciously, he was pursuing its mission. The Neu family, being observant, was careful not to violate the Shabbat, and, since all work stopped on the Christian Sabbath too, he had two free days every week. He used to spend Shabbat studying Torah, philosophy, and science. He spent Sundays hiking, rowing, catching grasshoppers, collecting plant specimens, or fishing, according to the season and the weather. Because it was a small town with a tight economy, in which everyone was worn out by work and the pressure of taxes, because it was becoming more and more difficult to engage in matchmaking because most young men were going off to the big cities, no one was free to invite young Neu for an evening meal, a cup of coffee, or simple conversation, even though he was a bachelor and they were encumbered with daughters. In any case, it seemed clear that a young man from such a wealthy family was not meant for the daughter of some local businessman. So Neu’s time was his own to spend as he wished. He reserved the free days for trips and the like, the nights for books. He read all sorts of things that year. I would be surprised if there was a subject he didn’t explore, ranging from the origins of the world and its development to the history of man and all living creatures. Whatever he saw, heard, or read, he summarized in his notebook. The order and precision to which he was accustomed in the bank characterized all his endeavors. On the face of it, what Neu wrote was a diary, the sort a young person writes out of idleness, when there is no one to talk to. But the intelligence for which he later became renowned was already apparent in those notebooks. What did he include in them, and what did he exclude? Conversations, epigrams, fables, the chatter of children, jokes, riddles, hyperboles, incantations, slips of the tongue, legal verdicts — whatever struck him as special — along with fundamental theories and assumptions. His basic assumptions about sight, sound, and smell were already apparent in those notebooks, as were his opinions on the influence of smell on human behavior. Before Neu achieved what he achieved, he followed many blind alleys.

Scholars who know what they are after early in life are fortunate. From the start, they prepare themselves for that task, wasting no time on other things. Perhaps still more fortunate are those who don’t know what direction they will take and give their attention to whatever comes their way. When the time comes to display their wisdom, they are experts in many areas, like a landowner who knows the lay of his land. Why do I compare Neu to a landowner? While he was in that small town, he made the acquaintance of landowners who had dealings with the bank and, unlike the townspeople, invited him to their homes. He used to go with them and hear what a particular field was worth, whether or not such a plant species was productive, whether rearing livestock or producing cheese was more lucrative, what things needed to be improved, and whether the landowners were doing well with the new machinery some of them had adopted. He also heard about the workers from other countries who came to help with the harvest, whose wages seemed low but were high in the end, because of the thefts and fires that followed on their heels. He sat listening and thinking: I’m here only to learn about business and finance. Providence had other thoughts: He’s here to prepare for what he was destined to do from the beginning, to pave the way for discoveries he is destined to make. He spent even more of his time with the farmers. Until he tramped through the countryside, he was as unaware of the fields as any city person. When he began going to the country, he observed the farmers, their practices, and their conversations with their cattle and their fowl; how they tended their bees and worked their land. In this period he began to want to settle in the country, either as a farmer or a landowner, working at work time, resting at rest time, reading books and learning from the wisdom of generations, offering counsel and insight to his neighbors. He did not know then that many people would benefit from his wisdom, though not the country people he was so fond of at the beginning, when he was first moved by the spirit of enlightenment. Neu pictured his future in the country in various attractive forms. But none of his visions was fulfilled, for anyone who wants to work in agriculture must work for a farmer first. All the farmers were gentile, because only Gentiles could own land, so kosher food would be unavailable. Even if he were to find kosher food somehow, his parents would never allow their son to become a farmer.

After two years in a small town, it was time for advancement. He was about to be promoted to a high position in a large city. Not only was he himself unhappy, but he made his father and mother sad by asking something no one in the Neu family had ever asked. He wanted to enroll in the university. When his grandfather heard this, he said, “I thought he was talented, and now I hear he wants to enroll in the university!” Upon being told that he was truly talented, the old man said, “Then why does he need the university? Let him leave academic learning to mediocre people. Those with real talent deal in commerce or banking.” To appease his father, Neu chose medicine, a field that offers financial security.

I will pause to say something about the Neu family. All the members of the house of Neu loved the Torah, promoted learning, cherished the rabbinate, patronized Jewish and secular studies, and subsidized needy students. One such student lived in their home, so they could study with him in their spare time. They provided him with room and board, and treated him with more respect than they treated rich men. But they never produced a rabbi or a scholar; nor did their daughters marry rabbis or scholars. The first member of the family to turn to philosophy or science was Alfred Neu, who enrolled in the university to study medicine. But he didn’t become a doctor.

Medical school is a full-time occupation. Nevertheless, this eager scholar managed to pursue other subjects. He became an expert in some of them, so inventive that he was considered a leader in the field. Before achieving what he achieved, Alfred Neu traversed a long and devious road. The details are known and preserved in monographs and encyclopedias, so there is no reason for me to dwell on them. I might as well get back to Herbst’s story. If, in the course of it, it becomes necessary to return to Neu, I will do so. But not at any length.

After reading Neu’s book, Herbst placed his hand on it, as if it were a rare find which he was determined to hold on to. He sat and wondered: How does one arrive at such verbal clarity and simplicity, at the ability to express such mysteries so that they appear obvious, when the fact is that, until Neu revealed them, they were opaque and scholars were unaware of them?

Herbst enumerated some of Neu’s sources — fragments of myth, snatches of melody, jumbled proverbs, isolated phrases, magical incantations, legal pronouncements. Such material, unnoticed by other researchers, provided Neu with access to hidden worlds, which he delivered from the abyss of neglect. What was the state of this material before Neu began to deal with it? It was a battered, disjointed mess. Every generation tampered with it, abridging and emending according to its needs, so that its original form was no longer apparent. And what generations did to serve their needs, some researchers did to serve their theories. Neu arrived on the scene and cleaned up everything. Now everyone knows and recognizes this material; everyone is familiar with it. But, until Neu made it accessible, it remained unknown.

Herbst was moved to tears by the modesty of true scholars who work a lifetime to uncover deeply hidden material that becomes general knowledge, so general that those who discovered and revealed it are forgotten. Taking no notice of this, they work on tirelessly, unstintingly, incessantly, with no thought of reward. Herbst went back to the page he had stopped at, bent its corner, and reread the preceding pages. He was astonished. He had read the book and knew what was in it; still, he found things there that he hadn’t noticed earlier. Again Herbst asked himself: How does one arrive at this? How can such great and sublime ideas be expressed in such simple, graceful language? Herbst listed some of the ideas that were basic to Neu’s theory. The actual life and thought of early man, whose existence we were barely aware of, were outlined in the book. Future generations will surely come up with new and more precise facts, but it is clear that they will follow the path laid out in Neu’s books. They will have insights about things Neu never dreamed of, they will challenge some of Neu’s assumptions, but his basic theories will remain intact. Like a mountain, his research will not totter. Neu didn’t rely on anyone else’s work, having arrived at his discoveries on his own. Nevertheless, he gave others credit, beyond what they deserved. Only someone with great scope could have written with such vigor and so lucidly. Not many scholars were able to express their teaching in such terms, concentrating on the essentials without overemphasizing them and playing down the trivial without minimizing whatever quality it had.

Another notable aspect of Neu’s book: it exemplified the ideal old man who has acquired wisdom without proclaiming himself a paragon and declaring, “See how great I am.” Once again Herbst’s eyes filled with tears, because of Neu, because of his wisdom, because of his discoveries, and because of what others could discover as a result of his discoveries. How did Neu merit this? Through his own talent and the relentless pursuit of essential truth, not to mention the influence of the quarry whence he was hewed. This scholar, descended from merchants and bankers, knows how to calculate the past, like a trustworthy treasurer who can account for every cent he takes in and pays out. He has no patience with faulty estimates, invalid hunches, hollow verbiage, or certainties that shift in response to convenience. The entire book is considered, accurate, balanced. Like a large coin that can be exchanged for several smaller ones, his conclusions can be expressed in lower terms, and, like small coins with which small things are acquired, Neu’s remarks help scholars to acquire basic knowledge. The nations of the world characterize Jews as merchants whose entire existence depends on coins. What Israel’s enemies consider corrupt, we regard as virtue. Since Jews deal in currency, they become experts, buying and selling with the finest coinage. I will depart from the role of narrator and inject a word of my own. How is it that all of Professor Neu’s research is accurate and true? It’s because he is descended from proper God-fearing Jews, as meticulous in minor observances as in more stringent ones, knowing their Creator tolerates no deceit. Having learned to be meticulous with His commandments, they learned to be meticulous, whatever they do. Professor Neu follows his ancestors’ ways, and their merit sustains him.

As thoughts sometimes do, Herbst’s thoughts wandered, touching on Neu’s visit to this country. The days were especially beautiful, typical of the weeks between Purim and Passover in the Land of Israel. The earth put forth grass. All the mountains, hills, valleys, and hollows were filled with soft vegetation and the scents of green freshness. Even the aged rocks had buds in their crevices. The sky arched high and blue over everything, with good smells emanating from the earth and the heavens, from above and below. Look down, and a fine smell wafts upward; look up, and a fine scent drifts down from the sky. Between the earth and the sky, new birds dart from tree to tree, from branch to branch, testing their voices in a new song. Not to mention the dove from the Song of Songs by King Solomon, peace be with him, as in the verse: “The voice of the turtle dove was heard in our land.”

Like the two-legged creatures above, a host of four-legged creatures — land animals, intimate with the earth — respond with mounting exhilaration. Their voices are renewed when they see the bountiful nourishment provided by the One who provides for all His creatures. They are no longer dependent on their human masters. As they roam about, sniffing the ground, the food seems to reach their mouth with hardly any effort, for the land is generous to all creatures and favors them in every way. This is really how it is. Even thorns and thistles, created because of a snake, are adorned with buds and flowers, and are soft and pleasant in the days between Purim and Passover. This is not surprising, for Israel was redeemed in the month of Nisan, and, every year at that time, it’s as if Israel’s redemption were being considered again and again, and as if, knowing this, all creatures were on their best behavior, so that, should Israel be deemed worthy, they too would be redeemed. Already goats and sheep — ewes and kids — dot the landscape with their wool. Though we resent them for destroying gardens and flowers we have labored over, we cherish them in this season and enjoy watching them frolic. Even more so the cows, who are led out of the barns to graze. The meadow gives off the smell of milk, and a small boy leads the cows. If I’m not mistaken, he is the son of a Hasid from Galicia who abandoned his father and mother, his rebbe, and his entire community to go to the Land of Israel, acquired a small plot of land in one of Jerusalem’s neighborhoods, and bought one cow, then another and still another, all of whom give milk. At first, when there was peace in the land, Henrietta Herbst used to get milk from those cows, praising its quality and exclaiming over its cream content. Now that the roads are dangerous and Jews no longer show themselves in Arab neighborhoods, Henrietta gets her milk from some other source and no longer exclaims over the cream. At first, when that Hasid abandoned his rich family, his rebbe, and the entire community, his parents were in mourning, the rabbi spoke of him harshly, and everyone mocked him. Now that Hitler is in power, claiming their wealth and then their lives, they all want to come to the Land of Israel. What deters them? The law deters them. Not only in the lands of exile is that law wielded against them, but in the Land of Israel as well. That land, created for Israel’s sake, is governed by strangers who will not allow Jews in.

Back to Neu when he was in the Land of Israel.

The city is full of tourists. They come from every country.

They walk from place to place, astonished by Jerusalem’s splendor, the good Lord having filled it, from earth to high heaven, with astounding beauty. Despite the ugly houses, Jerusalem is lovely. At regular intervals the Lord cuts a hole in the sky, as it were, extracts some clouds — blue, purple, and all the other fine colors mentioned in the Bible — and decorates His city with them. Just as heaven and earth, cattle, animals, birds, trees, and rocks are a delight, so are human beings, especially our people Israel, when they see the Lord’s works and wonders — how He arranges time, shifts seasons, dispels chill, and provides warmth. Just as He dispelled the chill of winter, its winds and storms, bringing light and joy in their place, so will He soon dispel our exile and bring on true redemption.

I have been somewhat distracted by love of Jerusalem and the prospect of redemption. Now I’ll get back to Neu when he was a guest in this country. What a sight that old man was, at his age, skipping up mountains and leaping over hills to see the sun rise or the moon set. He made a point of going to different synagogues for morning and evening prayers, to get to know the customs of every community; wherever he prayed, it was clear that their God and his were one. I don’t know Neu’s views about race. In any case, seeing this wise man from the west among brothers from the east, north, and south, one would have to acknowledge that all of Israel is descended from a single father. Once, Herbst accompanied Neu to the Western Wall. On the way, Herbst told Neu that the stones meant nothing to him. When they reached the wall and he watched Neu studying those stones, Herbst’s eyes filled with tears. To this day, when he remembers that scene, he comes close to tears. Herbst, as you know, is not observant and remains remote from most things that arouse the hearts of the devout. But Herbst admires his teacher, and, whatever Neu does, he accepts. Often, when he watched him pray, he felt like joining in; had he known the prayers, he would have prayed too.

Neu’s visit was wonderful. Herbst was with Neu all the time, in Jerusalem and everywhere else. Finally, when it was time for Neu to leave, he came to Herbst’s house to say goodbye and didn’t find him in. Herbst missed the opportunity to welcome his teacher to his home before his departure. When he came, he came with his young relative, Lisbet Neu. Lisbet had accompanied him to help him find the place. Neu may have brought her along with some other intention. Perhaps he hoped to give her entry to his pupil’s home, in order to expand her horizons beyond those of the new immigrants, Orthodox Jews from Germany, whose world is circumscribed, who don’t see past their own four cubits. Some days later, Herbst called on Ernst Weltfremdt, who had just become a professor, and found two ladies there, one young, one old. One of them was Lisbet Neu; the other was her mother. Now he himself is in line for a promotion, and unless there is significant opposition, he may well be appointed professor, as he had been appointed lecturer when the university trustees asked Neu to recommend faculty and Neu directed them to Herbst. Just now, Herbst was concerned with Neu’s book rather than the professorship. It occurred to him that Neu might have sent the book to his relatives, who would rejoice over it — not because of its quality, which he doubted they would recognize, but because it was a gift from an uncle. How delighted they would be to have the book analyzed for them. Herbst had not as yet translated this thought into action, and he hadn’t as yet designated himself for the job. But he thought: How happy those two ladies would be if someone were to come and say, “I’ll explain the book to you, if you like.”

It was Shabbat, a day when no business is transacted in the Land of Israel. Since the university and the National Library were both closed, Herbst spent Shabbat writing letters or scholarly articles. But he didn’t get deeply involved in the articles, as he was determined to complete his book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, a project he had been working on for a long time and was eager to be done with, not only for the book itself but because it was such a bother to him. Now, since his review was published and his name was being mentioned again, all of the country’s journals seemed to be after him for articles. As you know, Herbst’s energies were depleted. Reading his teacher’s book revived him, so much so that he was confident that, if only he would pick up a pen, the letters would fly onto the paper.

Herbst took a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, lit it, stood up, and leaned on the arm of the chair, looking out the window as he blew a wreath of smoke rings. He suddenly heard a bird and became upset, remembering that he had been in the garden with his baby daughter the day before; they had heard a chirping sound, and the little girl had looked up and said, “There’s no bird in the sky.” Too bad; too bad he didn’t tell Henrietta. Henrietta is so pleased when she hears something clever from Sarah, especially when he reports it to her. He put the cigarette in the ashtray and took another. He meant to pick up a pen, but, since the cigarette had found its way into his hand, he stuck it in his mouth, lit it, sat down, and fixed his mind on writing. He produced an article that later became known by its full title: “To What Extent Did the Emperor Justinian Believe in Those Ministers Who Maintained that He Would Rise to Heaven Like Elijah in His Time?”

Herbst found some relevant notes, clipped them together, took one of the thousands of bulletins showered on us by national institutions, and wrote an outline on the blank part of the paper, beginning with quotations from Justinian’s ministers — evidence that often, when they sat together dealing with affairs of state, these ministers were worried that he would suddenly be swept up to heaven in a storm. Since the facts are known, I won’t repeat them, but I should note that Herbst tried to establish whether Justinian actually believed in his own holiness and considered himself in a class with Elijah, or whether he was persuaded to believe in his power by ministers who repeatedly said, “When we were in his presence, we were afraid he would be swept up to heaven in a storm.”

So much for Justinian’s holiness and Herbst’s calculations. It is time to get back to Herbst and to my subject, which is Neu’s book. Herbst’s idea — to explain Neu’s book to those two ladies, Neu’s relatives, contrived to assign him the role of messenger. Since it is my way to relate outcomes at the beginning, let me say that Herbst didn’t get to do it. Why do I tell you this? So no heart will grieve over a good deed that should have been accomplished but never was.

Chapter eleven

After lunch, when Henrietta lay down for a rest, Manfred put on his good clothes, tucked Neu’s little book in his pocket, and went to call on Lisbet Neu. Herbst had never been at Lisbet Neu’s, nor had he ever wished to go there. Now that he had her uncle’s book, his mind was set on going to her.

Like someone who is about to do something he is not in the habit of doing, he pictured some of what he would see at Lisbet’s. Her mother would be sitting in Shabbat clothes, a Shabbat kerchief on her head, her hands on her heart, in the manner of Orthodox women when they are at rest. On the table nearby, he would find a prayerbook, the five books of Moses with Hirsch’s commentary, and her uncle’s book. She has already read the weekly portion, as well as the commentary, and translated its lofty language into simple terms. Some of her interpretations were the ones she learned as a child; others were her own; still others, imparted by teachers, were outdated and had to be revised. Having done what she was trained to do on Shabbat, what more does her heart desire? It is now her desire to know the contents of her uncle’s book. She realizes she won’t ever know its contents, for she wasn’t allowed to study academic subjects, although she did study some difficult material that not everyone would grasp, such as Hirsch’s commentary and ritual law. On many occasions here in Jerusalem, Herbst had spent time with young women — high school students and university students alike — who couldn’t deal with that material, not even with its vocabulary. As she sits there, lost in thought, she hears footsteps, followed by a knock on the door. She says, “Come in.” He comes in and sees Neu’s book on the table. He opens it and begins reading; explicating, interpreting, and analyzing the text; pointing out original insights and discoveries. For Neu has brought many things to light, some of which were totally unknown until he revealed them and others that were illuminated by his insight. The old woman is astonished. She knew her uncle was a great scholar with an international reputation, but this knowledge was not grounded in understanding, and knowledge without understanding is not gratifying. Now that this gentleman, Herbst the teacher, has come and said what he said, her heart expands and her eyes light up, not out of pride and conceit, but in praise and gratitude to the Lord, may He be blessed, for bestowing wisdom on her uncle. Herbst sits with her, reviewing the history of this widow, once rich and aristocratic, which he learned from her daughter Lisbet. Her hand used to be extended to the poor, and countless emissaries from Jerusalem would come to her home and enjoy her hospitality, as well as her gifts and charity. Then, suddenly, the world was shaken by a curse; the entire country and its inhabitants became adversaries, so that she and her daughters, like countless other Jews, had to leave their home, their land, their silver and gold — all the property acquired by her family in the course of four or five generations. She wandered through many lands and finally came up to Jerusalem. Lisbet never mentioned whether the emissaries from Jerusalem — those who used to sit at their table and enjoy their bounty — have chosen not to recognize them, or whether it is they themselves who keep their distance, preferring not to put anyone to the test and risk being humiliated. They struggle to live on the meager resources they managed to take with them, supplemented by Lisbet’s salary. Suddenly, someone comes to her; he comes of his own accord and reads to her from this book, written by her uncle, a Jewish scholar with an international reputation, even now when Israel’s enemies, dominated by this curse, are denouncing Jews everywhere.

These were some of Manfred Herbst’s thoughts, reveries, fantasies when his will contrived to make him the messenger who would explain her uncle’s book to Lisbet Neu’s mother. Herbst had seen Lisbet when he went to congratulate Weltfremdt on his promotion, but since that day he had never thought of her, and it had never occurred to him to visit her. Suddenly, he found that his mind was completely occupied with her. He thought: I’ll go to her, sit awhile, and read a bit. Then I’ll tell Henrietta where I was and what I did, and, even if I say outright that I called on that widow because of Neu, her uncle, Henrietta won’t be surprised. Herbst was not always in the habit of saying “I’ll tell Henrietta”; now he enjoyed saying it: “I’ll tell Henrietta.”

Herbst went out, closed the door behind him, and checked the fence, the bushes, the vegetables, and the flowers, which were drooping because of the heat. He felt sorry for them and resolved to come back and water them before dark. He meant to go back in and tell Henrietta he would water the garden later. Meanwhile, he forgot what was in his mind and didn’t go back. It’s just as well he forgot. Had he gone in, he would have wakened her, and she needed her sleep, because she had been up all night with the baby, who had a stomachache from eating bad grapes and had cried all night. He turned back to the garden and glanced at the flowers, deciding which to take to Lisbet’s mother. He was distracted and didn’t take any. It’s just as well he forgot. Had he brought Lisbet’s mother flowers, she would not have accepted them, because he had picked them on Shabbat. He felt his pocket to be sure he had the book. He opened it and marked the passages he would read to Lisbet Neu and her mother. One could not assume the ladies would understand, but, if he explained, they would surely understand. Again, he pictured Lisbet Neu’s mother, sitting in her chair, hands folded over her heart, gazing at Lisbet, and saying to her, wordlessly: Listen, my child; listen, Lisbet. The scene conveyed a message: all the world’s goodness has not been totally consumed, and even in these troubled times there are ways to help others as well as yourself. Imagine yourself sitting with two respectable ladies, reading to them, and diverting your mind from that woman who was created to torment you.

The little neighborhood of Orhot Hayim was unusually quiet. As in most of Jerusalem’s neighborhoods, no work was done there on Shabbat. There was no one in sight. Some people were at home reading; others were in bed. Six days have been provided for work and labor; one, for rest and pleasure. Anyone with sense rests on that day and turns away from mundane concerns. Those with even more sense pursue wisdom as well as rest. How? By reading the Five Books of Moses, the commentaries of Rashi, the Ramban, Ibn Ezra. For the Torah is not to be taken literally and must be studied to be understood. If you find the key to its riddles, you are in on the secret of creation and the wisdom of the world. No day is so suited to such pursuits as the seventh, Shabbat, when the world rests. An object at rest is easier to observe, and observers are quiet, as a rule. Only their eyes are astir, exploring the Bible and its commentaries. God’s ways are wondrous. There are realms whose essence is feeling rather than thought. The Holy and Blessed One has granted our sages the wisdom to present these essentials again and again, until you feel you’ve already heard them. And you have in fact heard them. Where did you hear them? It was at Mount Sinai that we heard them, each and every one of us. For whatever our sages have discovered was already conveyed to Moses at Mount Sinai, and, what is more, the soul of every Jew was there listening. Because of the golden calf, forgetfulness was introduced into the world. Most things were forgotten, and it is the task of true commentators to restore what was lost. Man struggles six days, unable to provide essentials. When Shabbat comes, the intelligent soul pursues its true needs, those that relate to the living God. True sages appear and interpret the Torah and commandments, which they then impart to us effortlessly.

The above ideas are not Dr. Herbst’s, but those of the people in that neighborhood, whose grandparents came from the lands of exile to serve God, preserve His teachings, and fulfill His commandments in His chosen city. Dr. Herbst is an intellectual, whose thoughts center on his academic field. Now that he decided to write that article, he walked along thinking about the emperor Justinian and wondering if he really considered himself worthy of being swept up to heaven in a storm. His mind wandered from Justinian to his faithful servant General Belisarius, whom Justinian had blinded out of envy. His mind wandered from Justinian and Belisarius to Antonia, a woman of the court, and Yohanan, who were to be the heroes of the tragedy he planned to write. He didn’t dwell on this, because, whenever he thought about his tragedy, he was in the habit of smoking, and it would be disrespectful to smoke out of doors in Jerusalem on Shabbat, especially in an Orthodox neighborhood. Herbst refrained from smoking out of respect, not fear. This was before zealots in Jerusalem started attacking people for violating the Shabbat in public. They still remembered the special committee that supplied water, food, clothes, and medicine to a hungry Jerusalem in the wake of war, and they closed one eye to public violations of Shabbat, realizing that the offenders might be from the very committee whose help they might need tomorrow, for most of the communities they had depended on for support were now dependent on others and could not be counted on.

Even before the war, Jerusalem’s vigilantes had learned to close an eye when necessary. The following story is still being told. During the language war, when classes in all the Ezra schools were conducted in German and the Zionists demanded that they switch to Hebrew, an Ezra leader came from Berlin to investigate. All of Jerusalem expected a large contribution from him. Jerusalem’s leading citizens went to call on him at his gentile hotel on one of the intermediate days of Passover. He was in the dining room, dipping his biscuit in coffee. It was one of those thin biscuits that German bakers make from flour, egg, and butter. They remarked to him in mock-scholarly terms, “So you agree with those sages who regard watched-matzah and soakedmatzah as ritually independent of one another.”

Herbst abstained from smoking, but his mind did not. It led him to contemplate those brown cigarettes praised by Julian Weltfremdt. Since he didn’t think they were superior in taste or smell, he began to wonder why anyone preferred them. He was once out somewhere, and, noticing that everyone was smoking those cigarettes, it began to seem as if there were a secret society whose members recognized each other by this sign. Dr. Krautmeir was there too, with one of those long cigarettes stuck between her thin lips. Was there some special connection between her and Julian? Or was it the influence of Mimi, Julian’s wife? Was she also a patron of that skillful peddler, promoting his wares?

It’s not likely that there is anything between Julian and Krautmeir. Julian has no interest in women, and Krautmeir is such a cold person, totally devoted to her work, to the young sluts who beat a path to her door, eager to be relieved of their burden of shame. Julian has no interest in women, and Krautmeir, as was already noted, is cold. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cigarette in her mouth has a cold flame.

So much for Krautmeir; let’s consider why Julian is not attracted to other women. Is it because his wife is so lovely, charming, and gifted, with a fine voice and pleasant ways? Or is it precisely because his wife is lovely, charming, et cetera, that he isn’t attracted to others? This is not a paradox. If he has so little regard for this woman who is lovely and charming, he will certainly have no regard for others whose charm and beauty are no match for hers. So the facts explain each other, but what do we know about the workings of the heart and mind? Would it ever occur to you that a man such as Herbst is attracted to the woman —? We will suppress her name and refrain from saying “Shira,” for, if we say who she is, it will be totally baffling that a man with an intelligent, kind, industrious wife would pursue such a woman. And what is even more surprising: in his heart, he doesn’t fault himself for his actions. Shira herself, on the other hand, protects and safeguards him, by keeping him at a distance.

When Shira comes to mind, she doesn’t soon leave. Now that she was in his mind, she slipped away because of something trivial, because of two bits of wood he remembered leaving in the stove that morning when he took a warm bath. They were being wasted. While he was regretting the wasted firewood, he remembered his little daughter, whose digestion was upset by those grapes. These two causes — the wood and the grapes — were suddenly linked, and he recalled that he had deliberately left the wood burning in the stove, intending to prepare a warm bath for Henrietta. But, since she was so tired, having been up all night with the little one whose stomach was upset by grapes, she chose to do without the bath. The wood was burning, the smoke was trailing upward with no one to enjoy it. Meanwhile he, who would have enjoyed a cigarette, was deprived of this pleasure because those who live in this neighborhood regard Shabbat as the primary day of the week and view its rituals as a source of special sanctity, the core of life’s holiness, believing life should be sanctified, rather than wasted.

Like most Jerusalem neighborhoods on a summer afternoon after lunch, this little neighborhood was quiet. The shutters on its small houses were closed, and no creature stirred in the street, except for a dog or cat silently picking at the garbage. Were it not for the fact that dogs and cats are considered ritually unclean, I would suggest that they imposed this silence on themselves, for, when Jews observe the Shabbat, even animals and birds don’t disrupt them. Only the sun showed its force. Its intense heat was boundless. The air was filled with the scent of watermelons left to cool on windowsills, so they would be ready to eat when the afternoon rest was over. Herbst kept taking off his sunglasses and wiping them. He stood between the little houses, which were surrounded by bramble. It was the seventh year, so the gardens in the area had been left fallow and were taken over by bramble. The dry bramble would bake in the sun and split open, sending out a sharp, invigorating smell that was quite pleasant. Between the bramble and the houses, a dog and cat stood amicably picking at the same heap of garbage.

Herbst was approaching Lisbet Neu’s house. He consulted his watch and saw it wasn’t quite three o’clock. Three in the afternoon was not the time to visit, certainly not for the first time, and certainly not in the case of a well-bred young woman who lives with her mother. So all he could do was wait. He turned toward the valley, sat down in the shade of a rock, and lit a cigarette. Though there were no shade trees, bushes and rocks warded off the sun and sent up a fine, dust-free scent. When he finished the cigarette, he looked at his watch and saw he would have to be patient.

He took out Neu’s book and read snatches of it. He put it back in his pocket, took out a small notebook, and wrote: “Aristotle’s Poetics, Sophocles’ Antigone, Lessing, Herder, Wilhelm Meister, Goethe’s Profiles, Schiller’s Horen, Schlegel’s Descriptions of Character, Jean Paul, Hume.” Herbst meant to help himself remember some of the books he ought to read for the tragedy he was going to write. Actually, he had read all those books and remembered what was in them. He even knew some of them by heart, but, because he was so exacting, he decided to reread them. I will now leap ahead: Herbst followed through on this list, reading all those books, as well as many others, but the drama he intended to write was never written. Still, nothing was wasted. In taking stock of the characters he had invented and ordering their lives, he considered the events of his own life — how they fit together, as well as their implications. After writing what he wrote, he walked among the parched bushes and the sun-struck bramble splitting open with a sound like that of nuts being cracked, reflecting on the characters he had created.

Meanwhile, the sun began to warm him, shrubs and rock giving back to the sun what they took so easily. Herbst closed his eyes, hoping to doze. Mosquitoes came and stung him. He lit another cigarette to keep the mosquitoes away. The cigarette in his mouth dozed off, and so did he. The mosquitoes, however, instead of dozing, came back and stung him again. He got up, yielded his spot to them, began pacing back and forth, and, as he paced, looked around and began to make archeological speculations. Leaping from rock to rock, he was no longer in the valley but had come to a bald spot between the bushes, adorned with thorns and thistles. It glistened in the sun with countless paths and trails nearby that vanished among the bushes and rocks. There were other paths, one of which wound as far as the eye could see, more than likely extending into town, perhaps even all the way to where Shira lived. He felt the point of a scalpel cutting into his heart. It was not a scalpel; it was the anguish of pain. He closed his eyes tight because of the pain and, with closed eyes, followed his feet. He moved on, his legs striking each other. Had he looked at his watch, he would have seen that he could now call on the Neu ladies. But rather than look at his watch, he looked at the path, retreating and bringing him closer to where he was going. When he realized he was close to Shira’s house, he indulged in the prayer we are familiar with: Let me find a locked door, let me find that Shira’s out. The gods, who mock each other and don’t give human beings a chance to mock them, did what they did. While he was praying that Shira would be out, the gods took charge, brought Shira home, and brought Herbst to Shira’s door.

Chapter twelve

Herbst was at Shira’s house again. He had been at Shira’s many times in the evening, but never by day. Now he was there in the daytime. On which day? On Shabbat, a day when neighbors are free to note nonessentials and their curious eyes scrutinize the very air. Herbst stood at the door, wondering how many times to ring. When their love was new, they had agreed on two long rings and one short one to announce his arrival. Now he hesitated; if she knew who it was, she might pretend not to be in. He decided to be devious and gave an ordinary ring. She didn’t answer. He waited and rang again. She didn’t answer. He left, came back, and gave two long rings and a short one. He soon heard her footsteps and could tell she was coming. After a while she opened the door. Before he had a chance to look at her, she was gone.

He went inside and found her in bed, wrapped and swaddled to her neck in a blanket that rose and fell over her stomach, which pushed the blanket aside and reared out from under it. A gurgling sound bubbled forth from underneath the blanket, the sound of an inverted water bottle. There was, in fact, a hot-water bottle resting on her stomach and bubbling loudly. He took a chair and sat beside her bed, as if he had come to see how she was, as if his only interest were in knowing what she was doing. She welcomed him as she hadn’t done in a long while. Her face was flushed, her cheekbones ashen, and her nose partly red, partly white. The hot-water bottle on her belly continued to rumble. The light was dim, because the curtains were drawn over the window. The entire room had become more like a dingy hallway in which a stranger wouldn’t be able to find the door. When he had collected himself, Herbst asked Shira, “Are you sick?” Rather than sympathy, there was a note of irritation in his voice, because she had chosen to be sick at the very time he had taken the trouble to visit. Shira answered, “I was on the night shift at the hospital, and I put myself to bed to make up the sleep I missed.” Herbst said, “I’m sorry I woke you.” Shira said, “You didn’t wake me. Someone rang earlier and woke me, but I couldn’t open the door because I was sleeping naked, without a nightgown.” Herbst said, “When you came to open the door for me, you put on your nightgown.” Shira said, “How do you know that?” Herbst said, “From what you said, I know you were wearing a nightgown. Also, I can see you are wearing it now.” Shira laughed and said, “You see everything, my dear Sherlock. Close the window, please, and lower the blinds. The sunlight is in my eyes. Many thanks, darling. Just that blind, the one across from the bed. Thanks, darling. You’re not smoking? Would you hand me my bag; it’s on the table. Thanks, darling. Now, darling, the little mirror, please. Thanks, darling. Now sit down, darling. You can sit down. I won’t bother you anymore. You’re probably tired. I assume you had to walk here, since it’s Shabbat. Shabbat…the God of the Jews knows how to torture His followers even more than the Gentiles torture them. No, that’s not the bag I meant. I meant the blue one. Would you please look and see if it fell on the floor. No? Then I left it somewhere, and I don’t know where. I’ll look for it later. Don’t bother. See, when you’re used to doing everything yourself and you ask someone else to do something for you, it’s useless. No, no. Actually, that is the bag I wanted. My mistake. That’s it. I’m surprised at myself. I should have recognized it immediately. I probably didn’t recognize it because of the light.”

Shira opened the bag, took out a small puff, dipped it in powder, and smoothed it over her nose. She sprinkled some powder on her forehead and said, “So you finished your article and even got it published.” Herbst asked in alarm, “Who told you about my article?” Shira said, “I have no contact with angels, and I don’t believe in devils, so you can assume it was a person that told me. Not just any person, but someone from Mount Scopus.” Herbst stared at her fiercely and said, “I demand that you tell me who.” Shira laughed and said, “You certainly are curious, sir. Very curious. If I’m not mistaken, two days after we met I told you I don’t like curious people, and you, sir, are not being considerate of me with this display of curiosity. But I will make an exception and tell you.” “Who was it?” Herbst needed to repeat the question, though he was afraid he might hear a name that would mean his downfall. Though Herbst knew of no such person, his terror was undiminished. Something akin to laughter leaped out of Shira’s eyes, glided over her face, and was intercepted by her ashen freckles before returning to its point of origin. She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes, in which two swirls of laughter shimmered, one filled with malice, the other with affection. She looked at him, laughing, and said, “You want to know who told me?” Herbst wanted to say, “Yes, I demand that you tell me,” but he didn’t say anything. Shira said, “Who was it? It was the very person who is here with me now, in this house, at this moment.” Even though he grasped that she was referring to him, his fear didn’t relent. It took him a minute to recover, feign laughter, move his chair, and say, “Yes, it’s true, I told you myself, and I forgot. Now let’s put the article behind us and talk about something else.” Shira said, “You think I’m too stupid for scholarly chitchat.” Herbst got up, took her hand, and held it, stroking it fondly with his other hand, as if to placate her. Shira made no move to withdraw her hand, but she said, “Dr. Herbst is a very learned man; still, there is no reason to stroke my hand.” Herbst let go and put his hands in his pockets. Shira said, “I didn’t mean to offend you.” Herbst said, “I don’t consider myself offended.” Shira said, “That’s good.” Herbst said, “Good, good.” He leaned to his left and looked at his watch. Shira said, “Sit down and have a cigarette. I’ll get dressed, and we can go for a walk.”

Shira wrapped herself in a robe and got out of bed. Herbst pretended not to be watching as he strained to follow every one of her gestures. He passed his tongue over his lips, speculating: Now she’s putting on her girdle; she’s taking off her robe now and putting on some other garment; she’s slipping her feet into her stockings. His eyelids covered his eyes, but her every move was revealed to him. His fantasies transformed themselves into vision and showed him everything she did. They showed him every single garment, and his mind was fixed on every one of her limbs. Had he uttered their names, he would have been startled. But his mouth was silent. He didn’t have the strength to say anything. Only his lips quivered. Then, all of a sudden, his entire body began to quiver, and he was overcome with sadness.

He was overcome with sadness — because of this woman, because of her clothes, because of her body, because of how she moved, because she paid no attention to him, because she ordered him not to look at her, because she didn’t acknowledge his existence. Would she continue to treat him as she had been treating him recently? His mood vacillated between inertia and turbulence. They finally merged, taking the form of devastating despair.

By degrees, his sadness dissipated and vanished. He had already forgotten its source, remembering only that he had been warned not to look up and gaze at what was forbidden. He complied, without cheating, and did not so much as glance at the sight his mind had conjured up.

He suddenly heard the sound of flowing water, like an open spigot with water spilling out. Herbst looked up in alarm and saw a dripping bottle balanced on the edge of the bed. It was the bottle Shira had been using to warm herself. The lid was loose, and it was dripping. Herbst’s face turned pale, and he wanted to yell, “Shira!” But he didn’t yell; he didn’t call her at all. He sat watching, as if he had been appointed guard.

Shira came. Without being called. Neither dressed nor naked. She picked up the bottle, then brought a rag and a bucket. She soaked up the water and wrung the rag into the bucket. Herbert sat watching her, taking in her every move with his eyes. When she had finished, she straightened up. Herbst asked, “May I help you?” Shira said, “It’s not necessary.” Herbst said, “I didn’t mean with the water.” Shira said, “What did you mean?” He laughed slyly and said, “I was offering to help you get dressed.” Shira said, “I’m not in the habit of having help for such things.” Herbst said, “If the answer is no, then it’s no.” Shira said, “Do you help your wife get dressed too?” He lowered his eyes and was silent.

When she was all dressed, she reappeared. “I see,” Shira said, “that you didn’t smoke. Let’s share a peace pipe, my friend. We won’t be able to smoke when we’re outside. It’s Shabbat for them.” She took out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, took another one and put it in her own mouth, lit her cigarette, and went over to him, lighting his cigarette with hers. He inhaled, then took the cigarette from his lips and held it between his fingers. “You’re burning your fingers,” Shira said. “I’m burning my fingers?” Herbst asked. Shira said, “Finish your cigarette, so we can go out.” Herbst said, “I’ll finish it, so we can go out.” Shira said, “You’re in another world today.” Herbst said, “If you want to go for a walk, let’s go for a walk.” Shira said, “Didn’t we agree to go for a walk?” “We agreed.” Shira said, “Then let’s go.” He answered, “Let’s go.” She stood there, looking around her room, at her bed, waiting for him to leave.

Outside, they found the road blocked by black-coated figures strolling along expansively, occupying the width of the street, some with their shtreimels centered on their forehead, others with their shtreimels angled to the left, still others with their shtreimels in hand. The figures became entangled with one another and increasingly voluble. “They are Hasidim,” Shira said. “From Poland. Listen to them, listen to those accents. Yach, mach, itchi maya. They make the city ugly with their getups and their gestures.” Herbst said, “In Jerusalem, everyone makes the city ugly. What about that plump morsel waddling by in shorts? Do her fleshy thighs add to the city’s splendor? Her two companions — the ones with their hands on their hips — are they any more attractive than she is?” “If they’re not attractive on Shabbat,” Shira answered, “they’re attractive on weekdays. They fix roads, build houses, do what they can to improve the world, undertake any task, eat bread they have earned. But these Hasidim don’t do anything to improve the world. They don’t work, they’re idle. They don’t lift a finger to accomplish anything, but at night they breed, producing more of their kind: idlers, nuisances, grumblers, greedy parasites — contentious, in conflict among themselves, with their wives, sons, daughters, the entire world. The more I know them, the more I hate them. They think we were born for the sole purpose of serving them. If they didn’t need us and our charitable institutions, they would drown us in spit. The name of God is on their lips, but their hearts are filled with vice. I won’t say none of them is decent, but how many? Fewer than you’d guess. With respect to women, they’re all the same. Women exist only to satisfy their appetites. One such specimen came to the hospital, a fellow with a goatee, an enlarged Adam’s apple, and elaborately curled earlocks. He came to see his wife, to see how she was doing. The poor woman welcomed him, despite her severe pain. He began to press her to come home. She had barely any life left in her, having been worked to the bone. He took no notice of her suffering and pressed her to come home. I saw her anguish and wanted to drag him by his ugly beard and throw him out. But I overcame my rage and asked, ‘Do you love your wife so much that you can’t do without her for a few days? Wait until she’s better, and she’ll come back to you.’ He laughed derisively and said, ‘Am I the one who needs her? The house and the children need her. Since she went to the hospital, her children have been wild. They don’t go to school; they play on the street like the children of the godless, may their name be erased. It’s not good for a man to be without a wife. It would be all right if there were someone to cover for her when she’s stuck in bed.’ If Dr. Herbst can’t see the difference between these Hasidim and the people who work for a living, I can’t teach him.” Herbst said, “I don’t know about you, but when I read about the lives of holy men, I’m ashamed. I sometimes wish I could drop everything and live with them.” Shira said, “How can you compare these bizarre creatures to holy men, who isolate themselves from the world and don’t demand anything from anyone? Whatever they demand, they demand of themselves. They want to improve their souls, whereas the Hasidim don’t demand anything of themselves. They demand that we satisfy their needs. We have to work, we have to labor, we have to slave, we have to undertake every difficulty, we have to give up sleep — all so those idlers can indulge their appetites.

Oh, how I despise them!” Herbst said, “But you enjoy all those lovely stories about righteous men and Hasidim.” Shira said, “In my childhood, I avoided them, and I don’t understand how a civilized person can see a trace of beauty in that ugly, vapid life. Please, Dr. Herbst, should I be amused because a certain idler didn’t bother to take off his socks year after year? Or, for that matter, because another one, who liked to sit around serving God, as they say, never noticed that his wife and children were wasting away? As you know, Dr. Herbst, I don’t believe in God. I’m not boasting about it, nor do I regret it. But, when they say proudly that all their actions are for the sake of God, I wonder. I don’t doubt that much of our arrogance, conceit, and anarchy derive from that source.”

Herbst repeated each of her words and said, “Please, Shira, explain yourself. Tell me what you mean by arrogance, conceit, and anarchy. To me, the Hasidim look humble. They walk at the side of the road with lowered eyes, making do with minimal food, drink, housing, and clothes. As for anarchy, people who are devoted to rules, regulations, customs, even special dress and gestures prescribed in books — can that be termed anarchy? It’s hard for me to accept what you say, Shira.” Shira glared at him, her eyes flashing with rage, and she spoke fiercely, “If you are so innocent, if you shut your eyes, nothing I say will help you. But let me tell you this: lazy idlers who avoid work to such an extent that they lose the power to engage in anything other than nonsense, retelling tales of righteous men who, with words alone, compel their God to alter the order of the universe on their behalf because of some trivial momentary need, or with a twist of their lip force God to defer His will to theirs — can there be arrogance and conceit to exceed this? Human beings whose arrogance, conceit, and self-love are of such magnitude defy all order and produce anarchy.”

Herbst looked at her with admiration and said, “I won’t debate the merit of your words, but I am sorry, Shira, that you didn’t go into literary scholarship.” Shira said, “You don’t have to debate with me. I don’t mean to win you over to my view, and I’m satisfied to have become what I’ve become and to leave literature to the scholars. I don’t think I would enjoy being a prophet and saying this or that is what the poet had in mind. Anyway, I’m astonished that in such a short time you’ve changed your mind, and now you think I’m capable of judging literature.” Herbst said, “I changed my mind? When did I say otherwise?” Shira said, “Should I remind you of that night and that magazine?” Herbst said, “You are vengeful, Shira. You don’t forget a single casual remark of mine if it displeases you. In any case, now you see that I don’t question the excellence of your taste. I’m merely sorry that you didn’t study literature. Now, tell me, Shira, how do you explain the fact that great thinkers, poets, and philosophers consider the Hasidim remarkable and their way of life sublime?” Shira said, “Maybe they are great thinkers, poets, or philosophers, as you say. I’m not equipped to judge. But I can tell you this: if it were in my power to change the world, like the righteous men in the stories those thinkers, poets, and philosophers find so enthralling, I would transform the poets and philosophers into Hasidim, so their bodies could have a taste of what they celebrate. Now, dear doctor, let’s not argue about things neither you nor I are interested in. I said ‘neither you nor I’; I, as you already know, and you, if you search your heart, will realize that you don’t want to be like them, even for a minute. You may sometimes wish to cast your lot with the holy men who have withdrawn from the world, but to be some sort of yach-mach or itchi-maya — it’s clear to me that’s not what you want. Their stench alone would drive you away.”

Once again, Herbst looked at her as he had never looked at her before and said, “I never met a woman like you, and I never heard such talk from a woman. Your talk would dazzle me even if it came from a man.” Shira said, “Because it is your opinion that women were created only to give men pleasure, you don’t consider the possibility that women’s minds are nevertheless far from empty. Dr. Herbst, I have no wish to offend you, and certainly not to offend Mrs. Herbst, but, when I see how you behave with me and how you behaved with Temima Kutchinsky, I wonder if you and your wife ever have a conversation about anything other than household matters and bodily needs.” Herbst said, “So that’s how well you know me.” Shira said, “Before you were married, you undoubtedly talked a lot about all sorts of German ideals. Humanism, you call it. But afterward, that was no longer necessary, so you flung the household and the children in her lap while you, the great pasha, amble through the palaces of wisdom where there is no place for featherbrains like us.” Herbst said, “You sound just like a book.” Shira said, “I’m only saying what I see.” Herbst said, “And what you say about me is what you see?” Shira said, “It’s only a fraction of what I see.” Herbst said, “Could you tell me more?” Shira said, “The gypsy whose tune I dance to hasn’t been born yet. You will have to make do with what I’ve already said.” Herbst said, “In that case, a thousand and one thanks for your generosity in offering me some of what your eyes have shown you.” Shira said, “Please don’t bore me by showing how smart you are.” Herbst said, “So you have a temper too?” Shira said, “I don’t have a temper, but, if there’s reason to be angry, I’m angry. The road is clear now. Let’s go.” “Whereto?” “To the King David Hotel.” “What do you want to do there?” “The gardener there may have some flowers. I’m going to visit someone, a sick friend, and I would like to bring her flowers. The florists are all closed for Shabbat, and there are no flowers to be had anywhere else. We go too far, allowing the Orthodox to do as they like with us. If we don’t stop them, we won’t be allowed to breathe on Shabbat. How I hate them and all the things they keep us from doing! Smoking on Shabbat is forbidden, wearing short sleeves is forbidden, everything is forbidden. People you have nothing to do with take charge of you, proclaiming, ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that.’ I doubt that any of them know what is forbidden and what isn’t, yet they forbid us to do anything.” Herbst said, “Who is the woman you plan to visit?” Shira said, “Come and see.” Herbst said, “Tell me anyway.” Shira said, “Again, you’re consumed with curiosity. There was a young girl in the hospital who went home a few days ago, and I want to see how she is recovering from her surgery.” “Was it serious?” “It was minor surgery, on her jaw.” “Who is she?” Shira said, “And if I tell you, will you know? Do you know all the young women in Jerusalem? We’re already there. Come up with me. I promise you, it won’t detract from your dignity. A little while back, you were willing to give up everything for the sacred life. Now that you have the opportunity to do a good deed and pay a sick call, you avoid it, preferring legends of holy men to an act of charity. You would rather be settled in an armchair, smoking and drinking coffee as you read all about them. Isn’t that right, sir?” She spoke without a trace of rebuke, her eyes mirroring her words. Once again, something akin to laughter leaped out of her eyes. Not the laughter with which he was familiar. If he had tried to define it, he wouldn’t have been able to find the words. She suddenly slanted her nose in the other direction, to avoid the powerful smell that came out of the dim house.

Herbst, who was perhaps even more sensitive to smells than Shira, didn’t notice. But the smell transported him to a desert with snakes, scorpions, caves, tombs, and old men buried alive to the waist in graves they dug for themselves, singing and praising their gods. Other old men, tied to wooden posts or to boulders, stood on one leg, reaching one arm upward, their bodies inert, only their lips moving. They never changed clothes or washed; their tattered garments were covered with vermin, worms, and maggots as they, too, sang and praised their gods.

Herbst was transported to still another place, an emperor’s palace, where there was a party for a holy man the emperor had heard about, who had been brought to the palace so the emperor could bask in his holiness. The emperor presided over an extravagant feast prepared for the holy man and for all his courtiers. The holy man sat at the head of the table, within sight of the emperor and his courtiers, neither eating nor drinking, delighting in his sores, which swarmed with worms and maggots. Before their very eyes, a new worm stirred, born in the holy man’s flesh, unmindful of the emperor, the feast on his table, his courtiers — unaware, perhaps, that it inhabited a holy body and was feeding on holy flesh. Such lowly creatures lack the capacity to recognize greatness. “Where are you?” Shira said to Herbst. “If you’re not in outer space, I don’t know where you are. As I said earlier, you seem to be in some other world today. Come on, let’s go in.” Shira took his hand and went up the dark, dilapidated steps with him.

Chapter thirteen

On a battered bed in a dingy room lay the body of an emaciated young girl. Her head barely touched the pillow, it was so light. Her eyes were weary and filled with longing. Herbst followed Shira to the sick bed, then turned back, looking at Shira as if to explain that he hadn’t approached the girl’s bed on his own but was simply following her. When he looked at Shira, he saw she was holding flowers. How could that be? When did Shira get flowers, and what sort of flowers were in her hand? In any case, they had no scent; if they had, she wouldn’t have had to close her nose against the garbage in the yard. As for where she got them, wasn’t I with her at the King David Hotel? And, when we got there, didn’t she go to the little hut near the hotel and come out with someone who led her to the hotel garden, from which she returned with an armful of flowers? I didn’t pay attention to the flowers, because I was preoccupied.

The sick woman dilated her nostrils to take in the scent. She offered Shira a small, frail hand, gazing at the flowers as if they were some lovely object she yearned for but knew she could never have. She said in a clear voice, unimpaired by sickness, “Please, Shira, let me smell your flowers.” I see, Herbst thought to himself, that they do have a smell. He breathed in the scent. Shira handed her the flowers and asked, “Where can I find something to put these in?” Hearing Shira’s words, Herbst noted to himself: She said “to put these in,” but she didn’t say their name. These city girls who have never made anything grow! He turned away from his thoughts to concentrate on the sick woman’s voice, which was familiar. While he was trying to remember where and when he had heard it, she offered her hand and asked how he was. Herbst said, “You didn’t come to visit us, so I came to visit you. How are you, my dear?” She answered, “I’m fine,” laughing wanly. Herbst looked at her, thinking: Why does she say I’m fine, when everything about her belies her words? In the midst of this thought, he answered the question himself: What should she have said to me? She continued, “And how is Mrs. Herbst? And your daughter?” Herbst answered, “Fine, fine,” laughing inwardly at himself and at the world, in which everything moves in circles, while the world itself moves in its own circle. A man goes into a restaurant, sees a young woman, and strikes up a conversation. He goes to the Dead Sea with his wife and daughter, and sees the same young woman. She says, “I’m fine”; he says, “I’m fine”; but neither one is fine. Shira glanced at her patient, then at Herbst, and asked, “Do you two know each other?” Herbst said, “My wife knows this young lady too. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

Shira found an empty jam jar, filled it with water, and put the flowers in it. “Too bad,” Shira said. “Too bad that I had to cut the stems. But they’re lovely this way too.” “They’re beautiful,” the girl said, leaning toward the flowers. She smoothed her disheveled hair, took the jar of flowers, and put it to her mouth, as if she meant to eat the smell. Then she extended her hand to hold the flowers at a slight distance. Each gesture seemed to have a message: the flowers that once strewed our path are now far away…. Even the hand that smoothed her hair suggested a message: although our paths are scattered, like these stray strands, we can put them in order.

Shira arranged the pillow under the patient’s head, took her left hand to check the pulse, then asked her, “What have you eaten today? What would you like me to prepare?” The girl said, “Many thanks, Nurse Shira, but I don’t need anything. Really, I don’t. I have a girlfriend who takes care of me. She went to the pharmacy to get my medicine.”

If that’s the case, Herbst thought, she’ll be back shortly, and another young woman will be added to those I already know. When your mind is on women, they begin to dangle before you like links in a chain, each one leading to another.

Herbst ran his hand through his hair and studied the girl, as though pondering something. Then he said, “I read two of your poems. If I’m not mistaken, one is entitled ‘The Goldfinch’ and the other ‘The Crane.’ They’re good poems; they’re both equally good.” She raised her head, turned to Herbst with a questioning look, and whispered, “Really?” “Yes, really,” Herbst said. “They’re quite good, with no extra words, and every phrase has integrity and grace.”

The young woman had put her poems out of mind. Now that they were being praised, she became as excited as she had been while writing them. Not many people had read her poems, only those to whom she had showed them. He had apparently read them on his own. Since she was a shy and lonely person, this seemed especially wonderful. Shira said to the young woman, “You write poetry? Then you are a poet.” She said, “That’s half-true. I write poems. As for being a poet, my dear Nurse Shira, that remains doubtful.” Herbst said, “That remains doubtful for most people who turn out poems. There are more poem writers than poets. As for you, my dear, there is no doubt that you are a poet. The two poems I read are evidence.” Shira said, “If my life depended on it, I wouldn’t know how to write a poem.” Herbst said, “You don’t need to know how. You have other talents, Miss Shira.” As he spoke, a faint tremor swept over him and he whispered, “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” Shira asked, “What were you whispering?” Herbst said, “You’re mistaken, my dear. I wasn’t whispering. May I smoke in here? Or would it be better not to pollute the air?” Now, Herbst was thinking, I have provided another witness. One more person has seen me with Shira. I should have been careful not to address her so familiarly.

After they left the sick young woman, Shira asked Herbst, “How do you know Anita?” Herbst looked blank and asked, “Who is Anita?” She said, “Anita Brik.” Herbst said, “It’s strange, but I didn’t know her name was Anita Brik. I’ve seen her twice and talked to her, but it never occurred to me that her name was Anita Brik. Nor did it occur to me to ask her name.”

Shira laughed heartily and said, “Didn’t you tell Anita that you had read her poems? If you didn’t know her name, how did you know those were her poems?” Herbst laughed and said, “You’ve stumped me, Shira. I’m sorry not to have a proper answer. From now on, Shira, from now on I’ll be more careful and precise. I won’t cause problems. Are you pleased with me, Shira? Are you pleased with my promise?”

Herbst suddenly stopped, took out a handkerchief, wiped his brow, and said, “You put a bug up my nose.” Shira said, “You must have gotten it out by now.” Herbst said, “I got it out, and it came back.” Shira stared at him and said gently, “What’s the matter, what’s the matter?” Herbst put the handkerchief back in his pocket and said, “I ask myself, Why is she so hostile?” Shira said, “Even if I were seventy-seven times smarter, I wouldn’t know who ‘she’ is or what sort of hostility you have in mind.” Herbst lowered his voice and said, “I ask myself how you got to be so consumed with hostility toward the Hasidim.” Shira said, “Hostility? What does it have to do with hostility?” Herbst said, “Then is it love that flows from your tongue?” Shira said, “In any case, in all of Jerusalem there is no one who would say that Shira the nurse neglects any of her patients and denies them the attention they need or that she favors some patients at the expense of others.” Herbst said, “You generalize about their behavior; you are thoroughly contemptuous and disdainful. Have you never heard about their good deeds? I assume that even you know the story about the righteous man who used to get out of bed on cold winter nights, dress up like a farmer, and carry bundles of wood to the homes of needy women who were in labor.” Shira said, “So he was doing social work.” Herbst said, “But, Shira, in his time there were no social-work agencies.” Shira said, “In any case, I don’t understand why that rebbe had to dress up as a farmer, and so on. Couldn’t he find someone who would deliver the wood to those poor women? It would make whoever he hired to deliver the wood a little bit richer, and he could add some radish, onion, and garlic to his own meal and that of his family.” Herbst said, “Are you joking, Shira?” Shira said, “I’m not joking, but the fact is, I’m not impressed with good works that depend on tricks. I’m not especially fond of good works and commandments anyway, certainly not the ones the Orthodox live by. The way they see it, everything is a mitzvah. Fill your belly with meat, fish, bread — it’s a mitzvah. Eat greasy kugel, preceded and followed by wine — it’s a mitzvah. Slither into your wife — yet another mitzvah. So much for them and their mitzvahs, which don’t interest me.”

With a wave of her hand, Shira dismissed the subject. She had already replaced her disdainful expression with the relaxed look of a hard-working woman who has cast off workaday burdens for a while and is enjoying a leisurely stroll, relishing each step and every sight. Herbst trailed along beside her, deep in thought, reexamining ideas he had always accepted without question. Shira, who had brought this on, was also subjected to his scrutiny. Those who know their friends well and are attuned to their thinking are fortunate; their conversation is always pleasant and reassuring. But friends who suddenly express opinions we never expected to hear from them are bewildering to us as well as to themselves, as if they have been transformed, reborn in a new guise. I already mentioned that, in those dark days when Herbst stayed away from Shira, when he was in such an agitated state, he used to think uncharacteristic thoughts — thoughts to which he was unaccustomed — including thoughts about the women with whom he had studied at various universities. I mentioned that some of them had become prominent and that he was alarmed when he ran into them at scholarly meetings, talked to them again, and realized they were different from him, that they were actually female. He was upset by their existence and by the fact that they had reverted to their essential nature. The opposite was true of Shira. Shira, who had always been woman to him and nothing more, had all of a sudden assumed a spiritual aspect; she possessed thoughts and opinions. What sort of opinions? Opinions that were totally new to him. But he was uneasy, not because they were expressed in vulgar terms, not because, as I observed, those who know their friends well and are attuned to their thinking are fortunate, et cetera, but because he was in public with a strange woman and anyone who saw them together would think the worst. In any case, it was good that Tamara was traveling in Greece. If she were here, he might run into her when he was with Shira. As he walked on, pondering, he turned to Shira and said, “I have something to tell you, Shira.” Shira said, “Only one thing?” Herbst said, “For the moment, only one thing.” “And later?” Herbst suddenly had a change of heart and, feeling some sort of pang, answered, “It depends on you and your affection.” Shira said, “What is it that my lord requests?” Herbst said, “Remember the café that belonged to that fellow who sent his waitress a wedding cake? Let’s stop in and refresh ourselves with some coffee.” Shira said, “You’re such an optimist. In Jerusalem, if a man does something well, he will certainly not survive. That café is no longer his. It has changed hands several times. After losing everything, he asked his relatives in America for a certificate, which they sent. He left, and, for all we know, he is doing there what he didn’t succeed in doing here. Also, it’s Shabbat, and all the cafés are closed.” Herbst said, “What now?” Shira said, “So what now? What should we do? You’ll go to your house, and I’ll go to mine.” Seeing the gloom on Herbst’s face, Shira shifted her tone and said, “Believe me, Manfred, I would invite you to my room, but I’m tired. I was up all night, and, when I got home in the afternoon and flopped on my bed, someone rang my bell and woke me up, and after that you came. Besides, I’m not well. I’m not sick, but I’m not well either. Please don’t ask questions.” Herbst said, “Then do we have to part?” Shira said, “If you insist, I could walk with you for a while.” Herbst said, “If you’re not feeling well, how can you walk?” Shira said, “Leave that to me.” Herbst said, “I see that I’m irritating you.” Shira said, “Perhaps.” Herbst asked, “To such an extent?” Shira said, “If you really want to know, think about your words before you say them.” Herbst lowered his head and was silent.

Shira noticed and said, “I don’t mean to upset you, but you twist things just to irritate me and force me to defend myself.” Herbst said, “From here on, whenever I want to say something, I’ll ask permission first.” Shira laughed and said, “It’s not necessary to go that far.” Herbst asked sadly, “Then what do I have to do to please you?” Shira said, “What do you have to do? Don’t do anything. We’ve been walking so long that Shabbat is just about over. Unless you’ve changed your mind, let’s stop for coffee.” Herbst said, “I was hoping to take you to that café I mentioned.” Shira said, “We could go to that café.” Herbst said, “What’s the point of a café that’s been abandoned by its owner?” Shira said, “Then we’ll sit there without any point.” Herbst looked at his watch and said, “It looks to me as if we’ll have to wait God knows how long before they open the cafés. Won’t your legs begin to hurt?” Shira said, “If my legs hurt, I’ll rest later.” Herbst said, “You’re right, Shira. You’re right. But it would be good to sit somewhere in the meanwhile. Aren’t we close to your place? Wouldn’t it be a good idea to wait there?” Shira said, “That’s possible. If that’s what you would like to do, here’s the key. You can wait there.” “And you?” “Me? I’ll wait for you here or in front of the café.” Herbst said, “What will you do if I spend the night there, if I stay until tomorrow?” Shira said, “If that’s what you want, you can do just that. I doubt that you’ll be bored. There are plenty of books, not to mention that magazine. You know the one, Manfred?” Herbst said, “Look, the sun is setting. Let’s see which café opens first.” Shira said, “Whoever wants to be first will discover that half a dozen others are already open. Who are those two young people waving at you?” Herbst looked around and said, “I didn’t see anyone waving. In any case, if there was any waving, it wasn’t directed at me.” Shira said, “If you didn’t see it, how can you say it wasn’t directed at you? I suppose we could head for that café now. By the time we get there, it will be open.” As she spoke, she stopped walking. Herbst noticed and asked, “Did you want to tell me something?” Shira didn’t answer but stood watching the sun set. After a while she said, “When I see the sun setting, I’m afraid I might never see it again. Not that I’m afraid I’ll be dead tomorrow, but I’m frightened by the ugly houses being built, shutting out the view. I don’t know whose fault it is — whether it’s the architects whose sensibilities are bizarre or their clients who want ugly houses.” A little later, she added, “Manfred, you were the one who said that every person here defaces the view. I would like to add that the houses are like the people, and all the houses built in recent years are a blight. Not only are they a blight, but they conceal God’s works.” Herbst said, “Bravo, Shira. Bravo. Finally, you believe in God.” Shira said, “Can I invent a special language for myself? I was using the accepted terms.” Herbst said, “No need to apologize. On the contrary, your slip of the tongue is evidence that the devil in you is not so formidable.” Shira said, “Good, good. Now let me look.”

The sun was still setting, and it looked as if this might go on forever. Even before the eye had a chance to take in the scene, as it was now, it altered totally, and once again it seemed as if it always had been and always would be as it was now. A minute later, it altered again and became rounded, like a magic ball colored by the artist in various hues of gold, untouched by any hand, rolling and tossing itself and altering everything wherever it landed. Not only was the sky altered, but the hilltops between earth and sky — even the earth itself — took on a new look. The hilltops and the earth; each did its best. After a while, the sun made a golden puddle, into which it was then tossed. It continued to glitter, to cast its red and yellow glow through the film of sky that covered it. A little later, it disappeared, leaving no trace. The hilltops and the earth responded similarly. If not for the light of stores, theaters, and cafés, which were now open, they would have been unable to make out the earth under their feet.

Chapter fourteen

Herbst was back in the café he had been in with Shira the night Sarah was born. The original owner had given up the café, and it had passed through many hands before being taken over by the present owner, who felt he had been cheated and was looking for a buyer to whom to sell the place, with all its equipment. Since he intended to get rid of it, he made no effort to improve it, and it was like every other café in Jerusalem. It was poorly ventilated; the chairs were uncomfortable; in some spots the light was inadequate, in others it was blinding; the waiter was never there when he was needed, and when he did appear his mind was elsewhere. With the exception of two people who were setting up a chessboard, an English soldier huddled in a corner with a Jewish girl, and a customer who was banging on the table and shouting “Waiter, waiter,” the café seemed empty. When curfews became frequent in Jerusalem, people began to hesitate to go out at night, since they couldn’t count on getting home: a curfew could suddenly be announced, and, before you could get home, the police would appear and take you to jail. As he entered the café, Herbst was reminded of his daughter. If Tamara were in Jerusalem, she might be in this café, and she would see her father with another woman. Luckily, Tamara was far away, and there wasn’t anyone in sight who knew him. After Shira chose a table, Herbst asked what she would like him to order for her. They suddenly discovered that, in addition to the people they had noticed on the way in, there were two others.

Shira whispered to Herbst, “There they are.” “What do you mean?” She whispered to him, “There are those two young men, the ones I saw waving to you.” Herbst shifted his gaze and said to Shira, “They’re my students. The short one with the dark shock of hair is sharp, like a hot pepper. It’s too bad he has to waste so much time earning money. His friend, the tall, skinny one with small, inquisitive eyes, he’s also — “ Shira interrupted, “Why not go over and say hello to them?” Herbst said, “What will you do meanwhile?” Shira said, “You won’t stay forever. I may even try to sit here and manage without you for a while.” Herbst said, “That’s right, I won’t stay with them forever, certainly not when I could be sitting with you. Still, how can I leave you alone?” Shira said, “Don’t worry about me. I promise that I’ll try to make good use of the time.” Herbst got up and went to join his students. Shira went wherever she went.

Herbst addressed them in his version of student talk: “What sort of discourse are you guys engaged in?” The small, dark-haired one said, “What are we engaged in? A thousand things, and nothing at all.” Herbst laughed and said, “I’m terrific at nothing at all; when it comes to a thousand things, I’m not so terrific. We could turn it around and say, ‘A thousand things, maybe yes; nothing at all — that’s impossible.’“ The young man continued, “We were discussing poetry and literature.” Herbst said, “You call such lofty subjects nothing at all? I don’t dare to think about them.” The tall, thin student responded, “Those are weighty subjects, but what we say about them is not very worthwhile. The words roll off our tongues in set speeches requiring very little thought, though someone like me makes the mistake of thinking everything he says originated in his own mind.” Herbst said, “Unless you think my ears are flawed, would you be willing to repeat some of your latest insights? I have often thought that, of all the secrets in the world, the most mysterious ones are the secret of language and the secret of poetry. You are probably familiar with what philosophers have said about the origins of language and the craft of poetry. I myself have done some reading in these areas. But when I disregard what I have read and respond with my heart to the marvels of language — to that which enables people to understand each other and allows philosophers to communicate their wisdom — I am awed and astounded to a degree that nothing else in the world can match. The longer I observe language, the more I regard it as the foremost gift granted to man since he appeared on the face of the earth. It gives him the power to express whatever his heart desires. However, if you end up in a place where your language is unknown and the local tongue is foreign to you, what use is speech after all? As you see, my ideas are neither profound nor novel, but my capacity for wonder is constantly renewed. Beyond language and the barriers of language lies poetry. There are so many words, an infinite number of them, that we don’t ever use. The person we call a poet appears, combines a series of words, and, instantly, each word becomes a joy and a blessing. But I came to hear new ideas, and, in the end, here I am, mouthing ancient, outdated truisms.”

When speaking to his students, Herbst adopted a modest tone. This modesty, at first a defense against pomposity, was now a subtle sort of bribery, for he was aware that his students risked their lives to protect the country and that he had opted not to join them.

As he talked, the old days came back to him, when Zahara was a baby beginning to say words and make sentences. She understood most of what was said to her, and, when she heard a word she didn’t understand, she used to look at him, baffled, and ask, “What, Daddy?” He did not derive the same pleasure from Tamara or, needless to say, from Sarah, because from the day of her birth he had been in a state of distraction. Although he wrote down words he heard Sarah say, he wrote them not on a special pad but on scraps of paper that happened to be at hand, which he never put together. As he jotted them down, he already knew he would not look at them again.

His students saw the gloom on his face and were afraid they had offended him by not answering his question. They didn’t know his face was gloomy for another reason; because he paid so little attention to Sarah. And he paid so little attention to Sarah because of Shira, whom he knew because of Sarah’s birth. Both of these facts — the fact that he paid so little attention to Sarah and the fact that his attention was fixed on Shira — made his face gloomy.

The students looked at one another and said, “You speak first.”

The small, dark-haired student was the one who began. “As I was telling my friend here, Hebrew is unlike other languages, and Hebrew poetry is not like any other. Were we to spot a familiar set of words in a poem in some other language, we would disapprove of this borrowed finery. In Hebrew, the more such combinations, the better. Since Hebrew is not a spoken language, its richness is contained in books, and whoever makes literary allusions in his writing imbues the older text with new life that generates and produces in its own image and form. Nonetheless, I can’t forget something that happened to me, which, on the face of it, ought to have been resolved by this approach. But that’s not how it turned out. I have been reading Hebrew since childhood. One day I happened on Bialik’s poem ‘O heavens, seek pity for me.’ I read it, trembling and marveling at this poet who had the audacity to turn to the heavens and ask them to speak for him, who considered himself deserving enough to trouble the heavens on his own behalf. I reviewed those six words again and again. Each time, my soul was stunned by their splendor. Days later, I opened the Midrash and found those very same words. ‘What’s this?’ I cried in alarm. ‘How did those words get into the Midrash?’ I stood bent over the book, my eyes clutching at each word, astonished, for the phrase had lost its impact; it no longer moved me. Was it because I knew it from the poem that it had no effect?”

Herbst lowered his head and reached across the table, touched a dish, withdrew his hand, touched it again, withdrew again. He studied his empty hand, muttering, “Anyone with credit can afford to turn to whomever he wants.” The tall, thin student laughed and said, “The author of the Midrash certainly didn’t lack the means to cover his words. This is probably equally true of our teacher Moses, to whom these words were attributed. He probably didn’t have to look for credit elsewhere.” To which his friend added, “Surely both Moses and the author of the Midrash said only what their credit would support.” The tall, thin student interrupted. “Since we were talking about language earlier, let me say something on that subject. It seems likely to me that those ancient languages that are no longer spoken, the ones we call Semitic, were pronounced without vowels, exactly as they appear in the early inscriptions. SDNM, for example, should be read as it stands, without adding vowels to make SiDoNiM.” Herbst, who was uncomfortable with theories and didn’t enjoy speculating in a field that was not his, smoked in silence, putting out one cigarette and smoking another, dropping the ashes everywhere except in the ashtray. Once or twice he looked in the direction of Shira’s table. Shira wasn’t there. Could she have gone off and left him without saying a word? Then she reappeared. He wanted to leave his students and go to her; he also wanted to invite his students to come sit with him and Shira. These two thoughts were accompanied by a third thought: I have provided more witnesses who could testify that they saw me with Shira.

He got up, went over to Shira, and said, “Come, Shira, let’s sit with those two young men. They’re intelligent people who express their ideas in vigorous language. I know that you’ll enjoy their conversation. This day has been dedicated to literature. On the way here, we discussed hasidic tales; at Anita Brik’s, we discussed poetry. Now, what are these two fellows discussing? Poetics.” Shira said, “Go back to them. I’m too tired to join you.” Herbst said, “Then I’ll call the waiter. I’ll pay, and we can go.” Shira said, “I’ve already paid. Go back and say goodbye to your students, or, if you like, you can sit with them and I’ll find my way home alone.” Herbst said, “I dragged you out of the house, and I’ll return you to it.” Shira said, “Whatever you like.” Herbst said, “If it’s entirely up to me, I choose to go home with you and stay awhile.” Shira said, “I already told you I don’t feel well today.”

Herbst ignored her words. Since the day he met her, he had considered her totally dependent on him, in every aspect of her being, as if she lived through him alone. And, as long as she pleased him, all was well with her. It was merely her obstinacy speaking now, an obstinacy he wished to break. His soul suddenly began to sway, and he was on the verge of falling. He dragged behind her, feebly, accompanied by the memory of her affection, which took several forms. “What’s the matter?” Shira asked. He was overcome with rage. She asks what’s the matter; can’t she see, can’t she tell? He suppressed his anger and asked, “What did you say?” She answered, “I was asking you if anything is the matter.” Herbst glared at her in astonishment and said, “Why do you ask?” Shira said, “You seem to be having trouble walking.” “Yes,” Herbst answered angrily. “My shoelace is loose.” “Your shoelace is loose?” “It’s loose, and it broke off.” “It broke off?” “Not really. Since it was loose, I thought it was broken.” “But it didn’t break?” “It didn’t break, and it isn’t loose. Tell me, Shira, has that never happened to you?” Shira said, “Neither that nor anything similar.” Herbst repeated her words and said, “Please, Shira, explain that to me.” Shira said, “I always tie a knot.” Herbst said, “Even when the shoe has a strap? What sort of shoes are you wearing now?” Shira said, “Do you know what I’d like to say to you?” “What?” Herbst cried, excited. Shira said, “No more questions.” “Why?” “Because they bore me.” Herbst said, “Believe it or not, I see great things in my questions.” Shira said, “In that case, enjoy them yourself; in fact, don’t bother putting them into words.” Herbst said, “It’s not just my thoughts that I want to enjoy, I want — “ Shira interrupted him and said, “I thought a scholar’s chief joy was his thoughts.” Herbst said, “And what about the rest of humanity?” Shira said, “As for the rest of humanity, everyone has his own idea of enjoyment.” Herbst said, “See, Shira, in this respect I’m like the rest of humanity; I’m not satisfied with fantasy.” Shira said, “In that case, you have my blessing. I hope you find what satisfies you.” Herbst said, “Actions speak louder than blessings.” Shira looked at him with open displeasure. Herbst said, “I’ll explain myself.” Shira said, “Don’t be angry with me, Herbst. My head hurts, and my brain won’t tolerate complicated explanations. I’m almost home. The road has never been so long as it is now.” Herbst said, “Is my company so oppressive?” Shira said, “Herbst, let me tell you this: not everything in the world depends on you. There are disruptive factors other than your company. Please, spare me further explanations. Every word I say is fraught with pain.” Herbst said, “It’s that bad?” Shira said, “Please, don’t bother to act surprised. Just give me a chance to recover. I’m glad to be so near home.”

Herbst was in the midst of a vexing muddle. He had already given up on the gratification implicit in staying with Shira. Now all he wanted was to talk. He had nothing specific to say to her, but it was hard for him to let her go. He wanted to engage her in conversation in order to hold on to her, another hour, another half an hour. He remembered Anita Brik and was about to make her a topic of conversation. Before he had a chance to set his tongue in motion, she was forgotten. He recalled Shira’s disdainful remarks about the Hasidim, among them the statement that no one had ever accused her of neglecting them in the hospital, and was going to bring up the subject of sympathies and antipathies — how they don’t always govern our actions. Before he said a word, he forgot what was in his mind. Various other matters muddled his thoughts. Before being transformed into words, they were lost in a muddle. He remembered his students: that he had invited her to sit with them and listen to their talk about language and poetry, and she had refused to join them. He said to her, “Do you ever read essays or articles about authors and books?” Shira said, “Why all of a sudden?” Herbst said, “It’s not so sudden. I’m asking because you rejected the opportunity to hear a discussion of poetry.” Shira said, “I was tired, and I’m still tired.” Herbst said, “Yes, Shira, you are tired. Still, you could answer my question.” Shira said, “What did you ask?” Herbst said, “When a good book about poetry or poets comes your way, do you read it?” Shira said, “Why read books about books?” Herbst said, “A good essay can sharpen a reader’s perception of a poem.” Shira said, “If I can read the poems themselves, why bother with the critics’ opinions? If I can master something with my own mind, why do I need other people’s?” Herbst said, “True, but they might reveal meanings you wouldn’t be aware of on your own.” Shira shrugged her shoulders and said, “You know something, Manfred? Since my teeth grew in, I’ve been in the habit of chewing my own food. Dear doctor, I see that metaphor seems crude to you, so I won’t speak in metaphor. From the day I learned to read, I read without inviting critics and essayists to chew the words of storytellers or poets beforehand and thrust the results into my mouth.” Herbst said, “You don’t admit that there are some things essayists and critics can elucidate for us?” Shira said, “My dear Manfred, when I was in nursing school and my fellow students used to sit around discussing the professors, the doctors, and the head nurses, I paid no attention. I haven’t changed in this respect, even now that I’m a licensed nurse. Their chatter and opinions had no effect on the doctors’ behavior. What they had in common was the fact that they all went right on doing what they did, and, since the nurses were so used to the doctors, they went right on making them the subject of their conversation.”

Herbst was at a loss for words. His tongue set itself in motion, uttering nothing. Herbst knew that at some point he would challenge her, but there was no way to eradicate her opinions. Your metaphors are certainly crude, Miss Shira, Herbst thought to himself. “Good night,” Shira said, her key in hand. “Good night,” Herbst answered. Shira said, “I should have stopped by the pharmacy.” Herbst said, “Then let’s go back.” Shira said, “I can’t.” “Why?” “Why? Because I’m too tired.” Herbst said, “Say the word and I’ll go.” Shira said, “My dear doctor, I’ll forgo the pharmacy and you’ll forgo the good deed.”

Chapter fifteen

As always when coming from Shira’s, he made his way on foot. Although the roads were desolate because of Arab shells, and Herbst was not without imagination, it didn’t occur to him that the perils that menaced others menaced him as well.

The bus was still running. In fact, service was more frequent, so those in outlying districts who had to congratulate a friend on some joyous occasion and couldn’t call on him on Shabbat because of the distance could go in the evening. But Herbst, as always, was on foot. His mind was brimming with the day’s events, and he didn’t want to be distracted by the crowd on the bus.

Sacharson attached himself to Herbst. Before he could hide from him, there he was. Enraged, Herbst lowered his eyelids and reflected: Only the devil could calculate the precise moment when just about anyone would be unwelcome and then proceed to inflict this nut on me. But he said, “I’m glad I ran into you, Mr. Sacharson. My daughter Tamara went to Greece, and her mother would like to trace her route. If you’re done with the Baedeker and no longer need it, I would like to have it back. Right now, if possible.” Hell, he was annoyed with himself. That nut deserves to be scolded for not returning my book, and I pamper him with words as if I’m asking a favor.

Sacharson smiled abjectly, which was how he responded when he saw someone stumble, and scratched his mouth to camouflage the smile, as he always did at such times. While scratching his lip, his fingers found their way into his mouth, and he began to gnaw at his nails. It was a dark night, and one couldn’t really distinguish his fingernails from his skin, so it wasn’t necessary to camouflage the smile. But, out of habit, he scratched his lip and gnawed at his nails. After spitting out some bits of nail, he coughed to clear his throat and threw out a word, as if adding to what had already been said. It was Sacharson’s style to begin in the middle, as if he were adding to a previous statement. After he had talked for a while, Herbst perked up and said, “You mentioned Norway. What does Norway have to do with us?”

Sacharson’s smile could be seen again, and then it was gone. He said, “I was recounting some of what happened to me a few years back, when I still bore the yoke of the commandments accepted by our people. I say ‘our people’; yes, our people, my dear Mr. Herbst. I still consider myself absolutely Jewish — more so than those who are regarded as proper Jews, more than ever since I associated myself with the new covenant between God and Our Savior, and even more so now that I have the privilege of considering myself faithful to God and His people Israel.” Herbst fixed his eyes on an approaching bus, hoping to be able to flee homeward on it and get rid of Sacharson. But it was headed elsewhere, and Sacharson tagged along behind him, walking and talking. Herbst looked back at him and said hastily, “So, Mr. Sacharson, what were you going to say?”

Sacharson draped his cane over his arm and said, “I see, Dr. Herbst, that your ears didn’t accommodate you by taking in my words. I’m not offended, and I don’t want to appear offended. That’s how people are: some talk, others don’t hear. It’s often better not to hear than to hear what wasn’t said. No need to show signs of displeasure. I don’t intend to offer clever aphorisms. I’ll get right back to the beginning of the story, and you’ll hear what you missed before.” Herbst said, “Tell me, Mr. Sacharson, do tell me. This time I will pay attention.”

Sacharson cleared his throat because of the stiff collar that pinched him, because of the bits of fingernail that were caught in his throat, because of the story he was about to tell. He jerked his thumb at Herbst and said, “It happened during the war between Russia and Japan.” Herbst said, “Then it’s an old story.” Sacharson said, “What I mean to tell is not a war story.” Herbst said, “If it’s not a war story, then what do you mean to tell? Whatever it is, tell it, Mr. Sacharson. Tell it. So, it occurred during the Russo-Japanese War. I don’t think you said what the story is about yet. Or am I mistaken? Anyway, no need to go back to the beginning. So, it happened during the Russo-Japanese War.” Sacharson said, “Yes, during the Russo-Japanese War.” Herbst said, “An unnecessary comment, Mr. Sacharson. I remember every word you said. If you like, I can repeat it. Now then…”

Sacharson repeated, “So, I was on my way to America. I was escaping, Mr. Herbst. Escaping from Russia, like many of my people who had no wish to risk their lives for the brutal czar. You people from the liberal countries can’t imagine the pain of young Jews in Russia. Denied all civil rights, members of a battered and trampled people burdened with harsh rules that were becoming worse with every passing day, all of a sudden we were told: ‘Rise up and join hands with your persecutors to fight a nation you don’t know, that has done you no wrong.’ Anyone who could, escaped this war, as I did. I won’t subject you to the entire story. Imagine it for yourself: fellow Jews, brothers in misery, who ought to stand by each other in time of distress — not only did they not stand by me, but they treated me like merchandise, an object to exploit. They stole my last penny, leaving me with nothing. I’m not here to accuse them, nor do I mean to suggest that Jews have no compassion. But compassion is one thing, and avarice is another. Those Jews who are willing to skin a poor man for a price are the same ones who contribute to charitable causes and, of course, to anything holy. In the great synagogue in my town, there is a Torah scroll donated by a renowned philanthropist. Who was he? A man who used to snatch poor orphans and hand them over to Nicholas’s soldiers in place of the sons of the rich. And the rich men — those same rich men — were God-fearing, performed all of the rituals and commandments, and contributed to every cause. Some built synagogues and seminaries or funded schools. Others supported assorted charities, especially those with a sacred purpose. Jews are attracted to that sort of thing. Remember the Kishinev pogrom? When it was over, a fund was set up for the victims, who were without food or clothing. A famous rabbi — one of the most famous in your country — was among those who responded. How? By sending them a very large supply of tefillin.” Herbst said, “Please, Mr. Sacharson, tell me, how are tefillin related to Norway?” Sacharson said, “You’re joking, doctor. Wait and you’ll see that it’s all one subject — tefillin and Norway, or Norway without tefillin. As you see, Dr. Herbst, Sacharson can joke too when he wants to.” Herbst said, “Excuse me, Mr. Sacharson. I wasn’t joking. I merely asked a question. Since you began with Norway, I was reminding you about Norway.” Sacharson said, “I’m not fussy. Still, let me remind you that I didn’t begin with Norway. Before I said anything about Norway, we were discussing something else: the Russo-Japanese War and the escape of poor Sacharson, who is now privileged to join you on your walk, a short walk as befits a short tale. Now I’m coming to Norway in my story. After many difficulties, I reached Norway. I arrived with swollen feet and torn shoes; hardest of all, empty-handed. The money my mother had given me for expenses was extorted by our Jewish brothers who were supposed to smuggle me across the border. Actually, those swindlers didn’t get rich on me. My mother was poor. She plucked feathers for a living. How did she have money to give me? She skimped on meals, filling the gap with fast days. If I told you how much she gave me, you would laugh. But all I ask of you is that you hear my story without making fun of me. I ask one further thing: a bit of patience. I’m getting back to the heart of the matter. So I arrived in Norway empty-handed. My paltry sum of money had been stolen at the border. I was allowed to keep my other possessions: three faded shirts, an old set of tefillin, and a frayed prayerbook inherited from my father, whose merit must have worked in my favor. You can’t imagine my misfortune. Empty hands, empty stomach, aching legs. Still, I did not despair. My physical anguish didn’t allow me to indulge in a spiritual response such as despair, but it nonetheless glared forth from my eyes. Some fellow from Norway noticed and said, ‘Come with me.’ He was a merchant who had dealt with Russian Jews and had learned some Yiddish. I went with him. He took me to a hotel and ordered a meal for me on his account. Even if you were never in Scandinavia, you have probably heard that it is the custom in most of the big hotels to offer a great assortment of food for breakfast, twenty or thirty varieties at a time, mostly meat and fish. I couldn’t eat meat, because it wasn’t kosher; nor could I eat fish, because it could have been cooked with shellfish. The sardines had been preserved in wine, so I avoided them too, for fear the wine was un-kosher. I took some of those thin crackers called Norwegian bread and ate until my throat felt scratchy. I was still hungry. My benefactor, who had invited me to eat, was confident that a starving man about to faint from hunger would eat whatever he was offered and didn’t notice what I was eating and what I was rejecting. But the waiter noticed and reported to the kitchen. The cook came and asked, ‘Why aren’t you eating any of the good things we’re providing for your pleasure?’ I told him they were forbidden by our religion, et cetera, et cetera. He listened, astonished. Finally, he glared at me, outraged, and this is what he said: ‘Who are you, and what sort of religion is it that forbids you to enjoy the good food any decent person enjoys?’ At the end, my dear Mr. Herbst, at the end, if you will excuse me, he spat in my face. Those northern people are very fine, but there is something in the Jewish religion that enrages even the best Gentile. And rage, my dear Mr. Herbst, leads to ugly deeds, such as spitting in someone’s face.”

Once more, Herbst’s attention wandered. Sacharson didn’t notice and kept on talking. Sacharson said, “You can’t imagine the contempt of the hotel workers. I myself took a hard look and began to analyze the rules. It wasn’t the crucifixion of Christ that aroused hatred toward Jews. Even if we accept the lie, which we know by now is a lie, and say the Jews betrayed Christ, it was without the people’s knowledge that he was betrayed. It was the high priest Caiaphas, a Roman lackey, who betrayed him, and it is an accepted fact that Caiaphas was killed by the Jews for delivering Christ to the Romans. It is the Gemara and our legal codes that arouse hatred, setting Jews apart from other nations through rules governing food and drink and every other human function, training Jews to consider themselves so refined, excellent, superior, and attractive that it would be beneath the dignity of such aristocrats to eat at a table with Gentiles, much less marry them. All this in the name of a religion invented by the rabbis.”

Herbst said to Sacharson, “I’ll make a confession, if you promise not to report it to the Orthodox authorities. I don’t avoid forbidden foods.” Sacharson sighed and said, “You’re teasing me, Mr. Herbst. You’re joking. It’s not fair to tease a person when he exposes his wounds.” Herbst said, “Forgive me, Mr. Sacharson, I’m no theologian. Religious faith and practice are not my subject.” Sacharson smiled bitterly and said, “Of course, of course. Religion and faith are of no interest to the learned Dr. Herbst. The renowned scholar Dr. Herbst, is engaged in study. As we all know, Dr. Herbst is engaged in…in…Forgive me, Mr. Teacher, but I have never inquired or been informed exactly which department you are in. I don’t distinguish between disciplines, and academicians are all the same to me, in that they know everything. Except for one thing: what that highest element in us is after, the wretched soul lent to us by our Creator to endow us with generosity and mercy.” Herbst shrugged his shoulders as he calculated how many meters it was from here to his home and how much chatter he would have to endure from the convert before being rid of him. Sacharson kept talking. “A schnorrer, afflicted with boils, begs at every door and gives thanks to God every morning for not having made him a Gentile. The Gentile he deplores is a workingman whose labor supports those Jews who throw occasional coins to beggars. Were it not for that Gentile, who allows those Jews to support themselves at his expense, the philanthropists who serve Abraham’s God would starve to death, and the rabbis would have to do without that daily blessing directed to God, who has ‘not made me a Gentile.’ Isn’t that so, Mr. Herbst?” Herbst said to him, “I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to prayer.” Sacharson added, “A Jewish whore who makes herself available to every British soldier for three or four shillings is certain that God values her more than a Christian nun who devotes her life to God’s work, good deeds, and curing the sick and caring for orphans.”

Herbst scratched his head and said, “Mr. Sacharson, I don’t get the drift of your words. I hear only one thing: you want to justify the fact that you abandoned the religion of your fathers and took on a more permissive one that lightens life’s burdens.” Sacharson’s smile was erased, and he said sadly, “Dr. Herbst, you know where my words are headed, and you know what I mean. You and your friends, having cast off all the rituals, are no different from a Gentile or a heretic, yet you consider yourselves superior to me. If you please, Dr. Herbst, in what way are you superior? Is it because you are without religion and without faith? Do you think it’s possible to exist without God? Let’s assume that an individual can get by for a while without faith. For an entire lifetime, it is definitely not possible. Even if he could live a lifetime without faith, no community, no nation could survive. Without religion, anarchy takes over. Anarchy allows evil to prevail, which, in turn, leads to annihilation.” Herbst answered calmly, “Then are you saying that all Jews lack faith? Anyway, Sacharson, I don’t deal with these issues. I don’t mean to offend you when I say that your entire conversation is superfluous to me.” Sacharson sighed and said, “My conversation is superfluous to you, but not to me. It is the welfare of my brethren that I’m after. You are good people, Herbst. You and Mrs. Herbst. And it goes without saying that you wouldn’t exploit anyone. Still, ask yourselves: how does your Firadeus support her family, whose breadwinner was killed over the garbage of Talpiot? Yes, he was killed over the garbage of Talpiot. Do you know what that means? This is what it means. A band of bourgeois Jews — let us call them devoted Zionists — build themselves a special neighborhood far from the city and from the stench of other Jews in order to enjoy the fresh air, or, in their words, to rebuild the country. They live in new houses, in a healthy environment, eating and drinking, enjoying life, and filling their bellies with delicacies. The surplus — what they don’t manage to deposit in their intestines — spoils and is put in garbage cans, which they hire a poor man to dispose of. You have a term for him in modern Hebrew, in your Hebrew that invents new words and puts the old ones out of mind, so that those who are proficient in the new language can’t understand a line of Scripture. The garbage man goes from house to house, clearing away the garbage. He is often disheartened by what he sees in those garbage cans, because what a Talpiot housewife throws out is enough for a poor man and his family to live on contentedly. Patience, Mr. Herbst. I’ll get back to Firadeus. You hired her for three lirot a month, and you pay her promptly, like the university, which pays its professors promptly. And, for this sum, she is allowed to expose herself to those dangerous armed marauders. Your conscience is clear because, after all, you are paying her. If Firadeus is killed, you and Mrs. Herbst will call on her grieving family, and I have reason to assume Mrs. Herbst would bring something from her own kitchen and leave some money on her way out. My words are not directed only to you, honored doctor. They are directed to all the just and righteous souls in Jerusalem and elsewhere who see their brethren wasting away and leave them to starve. You know, honored doctor, were it not for us, disciples of Christ, who stand by them, scores of Jews would have been erased from the world.” Herbst said, “Once again, I must inform you that you’ve come to the wrong address. I don’t do social work, and this sort of conversation goes in one ear and out the other.” Sacharson said, “Let me repeat what I said: I strive to improve the lot of my brothers, though you see me as someone who has sold his soul and his God for financial gain. Isn’t that so, Mr. Herbst? I don’t deny that among my friends there are some who have no conscience and convert for material gain. I am not one of those. I am definitely not one of them. Whatever I do is directed toward spiritual improvement, and I am especially eager to rescue Jews from oppression by the rabbis. Israel has suffered at the hands of Esau and Ishmael, but Karo’s Code of Law, preceded by the Talmud and the writings of Maimonides and, above all, the dictates of the rabbis, have been even more harmful. Those sadists, in the name of the dot on an i, because of a trace of impurity in the Passover food, see fit to starve an entire city, forbid contact between man and wife, doom an abandoned young woman to a solitary life, and…and…I’ve already forgotten the teachings and the villainy that are heaped on our unfortunate people through the righteousness of the rabbis. The rab — “ Before he could complete the syllable, he grabbed Herbst’s arm, shouting, “Get down, all the way down!” Herbst dropped to the ground, thinking: Why is he yelling at me, and why did I get down? While he imagined he was asking Sacharson this question, or that he had already asked him but hadn’t heard his answer, the air was pierced by an explosive sound. He smelled gunpowder and realized a bullet had been fired. His thoughts were arrested, his hair stood on end, and he felt a chill that seemed to run between his skin and his flesh, as if the skin had been peeled back and a chill had been trapped in the exposed space. His perceptions were clouded by an odd sensation. Odder still, the very sensation that clouded his perceptions made him more alert. “We’re safe,” Sacharson whispered. He took off his hat and wiped his brow, then his head, looking to see if there was any blood on his hand. Then he whispered to himself, “It was foolish to walk.” He took Herbst’s hand and repeated, “We’re safe, we’re safe, but it was foolish of us to walk.”

They went on in silence, their hearts pounding, each of them deep in thought. Sacharson was thinking: If that Arab knew I was not one of those Zionist Jews, he wouldn’t have aimed at me. Anyway, anyone who was born a Jew shouldn’t go out at night. When an Arab bullet leaves its barrel, it doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the innocent.

While Sacharson lamented the bullet’s error, Herbst kept on walking and thinking: Every day I hear the list of casualties — to think that I was almost one of them. I was spared today, but what about tomorrow and the day after? I live in a dangerous place, and I’m endangering both myself and my family. If I don’t move, I’m risking my life and theirs. What happened here? He reviewed exactly what had happened, replaying the sound of the shot as the bullet left the pistol, and realized that the danger had exceeded the terror, that terror isn’t always relative to danger.

They walked on in silence. They were no longer afraid, but their hearts were distraught and heavy. Too bad it’s a moonless night, Herbst thought. It’s so delightful when there’s a moon. Something seems to be changing up there in the sky. It’s a fact, something is changing there. The moon is rising. We’ll have moonlight. We’ll have moonlight, but there’s no joy on this road. No joy. Our hearts are uneasy, uneasy, and we keep on walking without making any headway. Shira is already sleeping. She’s in her bed, asleep, unaware, knowing nothing of what happened to me. If the bullet had accomplished its mission, I would be dead by now. Tomorrow they would find me in a pool of blood and take me to the morgue at Hadassah or Bikkur Holim Hospital. Henrietta and Tamara would come and see it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t get home last night. It was because I was hit by a bullet and murdered, and my corpse is here for them to cry over. A crowd has gathered around them, men and women, friends and acquaintances. Those who know how to put on a sad face are doing just that; those who don’t know how, clench their lips and put on a look of outrage, at the murderers for victimizing the innocent and upright, at the Mandate government for standing by in silence. The Brit Shalom people find further support for their views: we can no longer depend on British soldiers to defend us but must be quick to come to terms with the Arabs at any price. Among those who surround me are some who didn’t know me at all, who never even heard of me, but, now that I’ve been defined by death, they feel obliged to join the crowd. Shira may have come too. No, Shira wouldn’t come. Shira is in her room, reproaching herself — she should have acceded when I begged to go home with her. Now for my funeral. Shira won’t be standing there with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, as she was during that young man’s funeral when the riots first began. How could it be that I didn’t think of Zahara? Am I to conclude that in emergencies we don’t necessarily think of what is most precious to us? As for Shira, it is not the soul that remembers her, but the body; the body — ungratified, remembering, like a worm that keeps wriggling after it is cut in two. My corpse. That’s how I refer to my body. That’s the correct term for such a body. For you, my soul, I would prefer a finer designation. By my calculations, I ought to be home by now. Actually not, I was mistaken. After the shot, we shifted paths. Now we are on the right track again. I should be grateful for Sacharson’s silence. One word could crush my head.

Sacharson addressed Herbst. “I’m walking here, but my mind is somewhere else. I know we are in dangerous territory. Even if we are out of danger, it’s still necessary to be cautious, and we have to alert our senses to look, listen, smell, in case there is an Arab nearby scheming to kill us. Despite this, all my senses are elsewhere. I am pondering the event that occurred ten days ago here in Jerusalem. Yes, right here in Jerusalem, near Gethsemane. Some of the facts were reported in the Hebrew press, particularly in the Ha’aretz newspaper. I’m referring to the story of the two brothers who were killed together.” Sacharson brushed his hands over his eyes, stretched his thumb toward his collar, and pulled on it. Herbst took note of his gesture and concluded: He’s preparing to tell a long story, but, when we arrive at my house, I’ll leave, even if he’s in the middle of his story. Just because he’s my neighbor, does he have the right to harass me? Deep down, Herbst sensed it had less to do with the fact that they were neighbors than with what had just happened to them. The thought occurred to him: He said Gethsemane; the name relates to the event. This was followed by a further thought: What is there to lose by listening? Then he began to be worried that Sacharson had decided not to talk. Again, Sacharson reached toward his collar with his thumb. His eyes were enlarged by moonlight, and a great and bitter sadness dripped down from them, covering his face, wrinkles and all.

He resembled an old woman peering into her own open grave with a bitter heart. They continued to walk, walking awhile, then stopping, stopping in silence. Sacharson seemed shorter; his cane seemed taller. He looked more and more like an old woman. The cane in his hand cast a shadow wrapped in shadow. Because he was staring at this shadow, Herbst forgot about Sacharson and the story he had in mind to tell.

Sacharson stood still and leaned on the cane. After a bit, he raised his head and began walking again, muttering, “We were almost like those two brothers who were killed together. One of them had already found true faith and embarked on eternal life, whereas his brother was not equally privileged.” Sacharson’s eyes filled with tears, and he reached out to embrace Herbst but withdrew his arms midway, sighing. Herbst heard his mutterings and glanced at him although he had already forgotten the man wanted to tell him something. Sacharson hadn’t forgotten, and he began. As usual, he began in the middle. But for the fact that Herbst had read some of the facts in Ha’aretz, he wouldn’t have been able to follow. The story was roughly this: Two brothers, who were Jews, escaped from Hitler’s Germany. They wandered through many lands before arriving in Jerusalem. They fell on hard times and didn’t find what they were after. What were they after, and what was it that they hoped to find? I doubt this was clear to them. In any case, what they found was not what they were after, and what they were after they never found. This account is, more or less, what was reported by people who knew them fairly well. One of the brothers was so desperate that he converted and found himself room and board in a monastery in Gethsemane. The other brother found shelter in a Jewish school inside the wall, where he prayed a lot, entreated God, and fasted. Ten days ago, he set out from there to visit his brother, either because he missed him or to try to convince him to return to their fathers’ faith.

Now I’ll tell the story as Sacharson told it, in his terms. “One of the young men enrolled in a school in the Old City, where he spent the time weeping and fasting, imploring God to have mercy on his brother and return him to his fathers’ faith. God, knowing what is best for man’s soul, closed His ears to the poor fellow’s pleas, ignored his fasts, and fortified the other brother’s faith in salvation. When weeks and months passed, and still the brother who had been saved didn’t return to his old faith, the unfortunate fellow went to Gethsemane to urge him to return to the religion of his fathers. Or, it may be that he went because he missed his brother. Oh, Mr. Herbst, do you know what it means to miss a brother? So, just ten days ago, he put aside his prayers and studies, and left for Gethsemane. He found his brother. They fell on each other’s necks and wept. Then they sat together and talked. What did they talk about? Only God knows. They may have discussed questions of faith, or they may have not mentioned them at all. Anyway, there is no reason to believe that either one of them was converted to his brother’s way. Finally, they got up to leave, walking part of the way together. An Arab spotted them and decided to shoot. One of them fell in a pool of blood. The other one bent over him, shouting, ‘My brother, my brother!’ While he wept over his brother, the Arab fired another shot. They died together, one on top of the other.”

Herbst knew the story, and Sacharson had added nothing to it, except for his drone. He told it as if chanting a sacred text. From the moment Sacharson latched onto him, Herbst was irritated. Now his irritation was compounded. At a time when there are so many victims, singling out one to mourn ignores the common plight. As for the brother who converted, his decision probably had very little to do with a quest for God. So why did he do it? To change his circumstances, because he was having a hard time. He was sick of it and began to cast about for alternatives. Whatever it was that he lacked seemed to exist in those other settings. He began to compare his own situation with what they offered. Meanwhile, he found an opening there, went in, and never came out. You want to know if his new faith was a success. Even if he tells you he’s happy, if you look at his face, it’s obvious that he’s dejected. Perhaps because his new faith requires that he believe what he doubted to begin with, and now he is lost in both worlds. Near the train tracks, in Lower Baka, Herbst used to see a sign with the names of two doctors, a husband and wife. He was in general practice, she was a gynecologist, and they had a Jewish name. One day, he noticed that a Christian name had replaced theirs. Several days later, he happened to be at Bamberger and Wahrmann, where he found some books with those two doctors’ bookplate, giving the name he had seen on their sign before it was changed. Bamberger told him he had bought the books from an Orthodox doctor who came from Frankfurt, that he and his wife had converted and purged their household of all Jewish books. If they had not been forced to leave their homeland, they would have lived their lives as Jews. They might have become leaders of the community. But, since they were uprooted and unable to thrive in the new environment, their spirits were low, their minds vulnerable, their hearts despondent. When the riots broke out and there were so many casualties, they began to have second thoughts about their Jewishness, which seemed to be a constant source of trouble. Because they were Jews, they had to leave Germany; and, because they were Jews, they were being persecuted in the Land of Israel. They finally said, “We don’t need all this trouble,” and converted, since being Jewish was merely a matter of religion to them. We have learned from Sacharson’s experience that their Arab neighbors won’t necessarily make a distinction between them and other Jews.

Sacharson felt sorry for himself as well as Herbst, since they had almost been killed together. He said to Herbst, “Dear sir and brother, come home with me, and let’s sit together and reflect on what happened to us, so we can recover from the shock. I said ‘recover from the shock,’ when I really should have said ‘thank, praise, celebrate the One who wrought a great miracle and saved us from death, keeping us alive so we would be grateful to His name.’ I am bowed by sin and don’t deserve to recognize the full glory of the miracle. My Creator has allowed me merely the privilege of noting it, nothing more. It seems to me, brother, neighbor, that I’m not asking too much of you. Come home with me, and we’ll sit for a while. Then you can go home with a tranquil heart and a joyous soul.” Herbst remained silent. He didn’t answer. Sacharson changed his tone and said, “If you come in, Mr. Teacher, I can return the Baedeker. You were asking for it. I don’t need it any longer. That sort of guide, made out of paper and words, is not what I need.” Sacharson’s face was distorted by pride and disdain. He feels the sting of my words; a guide made out of paper and words — that’s what I told him. Paper and words. He knows, that stuffy academic knows just what I mean. As long as he doesn’t convert, any Jew, even one who violates all of their strictures, is, nonetheless, a pharisee. Herbst shrugged his shoulders and said, “There’s time for that tomorrow.” Sacharson sighed and said, “How many years have we been neighbors, yet I haven’t had the privilege of seeing Dr. Herbst cross my threshold. Neither he nor Mrs. Herbst, nor the two young ladies. Even now, when our lifeblood came so close to being mixed, even now Mr. Herbst refuses to come into my house. But I have nothing against Mr. Herbst, and I am sincere in wishing you, my dear Mr. Herbst, a good night. Good night, Mr. Herbst. I’ll send over the Baedeker tomorrow.”

When they had taken leave of each other, Herbst turned back and said to him, “Just one word, Mr. Sacharson. Please don’t say anything to my wife about what happened. No need for her to know I was in danger. There is a further reason to forget the matter. Mrs. Herbst has invested her youth in the house we live in and in the garden she has planted. If she hears what happened to me, she won’t rest until we move, though she’ll never find a place like this one. It would be hard for me to move as well. It’s not easy, Mr. Sacharson, to transport more than three thousand volumes. You can understand, Mr. Sacharson, why I’m asking you to conceal the incident from my wife. Actually, it is something that happens in these times, nothing more than an event that never took place. Isn’t that so, Mr. Sacharson?” Sacharson nodded in silence. At this point, Sacharson was content to be silent and to allow Herbst to be the one to leave, albeit without an answer. Sacharson didn’t report what had happened, and Herbst tried to avoid thinking about it. Whether or not he was successful, he never spoke of it.

Chapter sixteen

Zahara came, and Avraham-and-a-half was with her. We knew Zahara had found a mate, but we didn’t know who he was, for events had given us pause to question whether, in the interim, some other kvutza member might have claimed Zahara’s heart. Now that she had come with Avraham-and-a-half and was pregnant by him, there was no room for doubt, and the impression that Avraham-and-a-half was indeed her mate was confirmed.

Father Manfred sees, but doesn’t grasp, that little Zahara is a fullblown woman; not merely a woman, but halfway to motherhood. Having barely become accustomed to the fact that she was growing up, he now has to see her as a woman about to be a mother. What did Zahara do, and why did she do it? Such a charming little one, her father’s pet… She has shed all her graces and become a woman like the others.

Father Manfred sits talking to his daughter, as always. But in the course of conversation he notes that his voice is different; something is missing, and something else has been introduced. This is true of her voice as well. Where is the lilt that used to be so refreshing? He had a daughter once, who belonged entirely to him, but someone came and took her away.

Father Manfred sits and talks to his daughter, thinking to himself: How did this transformation occur? It had nothing to do with him, that was certain. It took place before he became aware of it. Father Manfred smoothed his temples. He smoothed them again, thinking to himself: First I smoothed my temples unconsciously; I smoothed them again, deliberately. He looked directly at Zahara to see if she was responding to the message. She hadn’t even noticed that her father had smoothed his temples twice. Father Manfred was accustomed to having Zahara question everything he did in her presence. He had just now smoothed his temples twice, and she hadn’t reacted.

Father Manfred got up and went to take one of the cigarettes he had tucked away in the closet for a rainy day, though there was a full pack on the table. Zahara saw him get up and made the mistake of taking this as a signal for her to leave, so her father could get to work. He noticed and said, “Sit down, my child. Sit down. I didn’t see that there were cigarettes right here on the table, so I was going to get some from the closet. You might think I’m hiding them from Tamara, but I don’t even hide them from myself. It’s a lost cause. I’m already doomed to end my days in smoke. Everyone has faults. Your father isn’t short on faults, and smoking is not the worst one. I say this, not in self-reproach, but to be truthful.” Just as it began to seem to Father Manfred that he had access to his daughter again, that he could talk to her in their usual mode, he realized that this was not their usual mode. Then what was it? He was testing himself to see how much he could say to her, now that she was transformed. Again he wondered: How did that transformation take place? Actually, that was not the proper form for the question. He should have asked: When did it begin? Between the time it took to strike a match and light a cigarette, Manfred remembered that once, several years back, when Zahara was still a girl, he went into her room as she was taking off a dress and putting another one on, and that she shuddered when she saw him. This was the first such shudder, the response of a newly adolescent girl when a man sees her half-naked, even though he is her father. In any case, it was adolescence that brought on the change, and I took no notice until she appeared with him, that is, with Avraham-and-a-half.

Father Manfred is curious about Avraham-and-a-half and engages him in conversation. Father Manfred has two motives: first, to find out what the young man is like and get to know the qualities through which he prevailed and won his daughter; and, second, to show his daughter that he is fond of her mate. Be that as it may, Herbst’s conversation is an empty gesture. He asks questions without hearing that they have already been answered. He makes a statement without hearing that he has already said the same thing several times. The young man realizes this and has no interest in chewing over what’s already been chewed. Manfred realizes this and makes a move to placate the young man. How does he placate him? With a cigarette. But he’s not a smoker. Manfred searches the recesses of his heart for something endearing and finds nothing. Again, he offers him a cigarette. He takes the cigarette, lights it, but doesn’t smoke. Father Manfred notices and says, “I just remembered that you’re not a smoker. How I envy you. I wish I weren’t a smoker.” The young man says, “Does anyone keep you from quitting?” The father smiles graciously and says, “Really, there is nothing easier than giving up smoking. Isn’t that what Mark Twain said — ‘I know from experience, because I’ve given up smoking dozens of times’?” The young man listens but doesn’t laugh. Father Manfred thinks to himself: This young man has no sense of humor. Father Manfred doesn’t realize that most of the jokes being told in town have already made the rounds of the kibbutzim and have lost their punch. Father Manfred eyes the young man intently. What does Zahara see in him? How could she leave her father for him? The young man gets up and leaves. Father Manfred remains alone, whispering to himself, “I hope he didn’t notice what a failure I was.”

Avraham-and-a-half didn’t notice Manfred’s failure, nor did he notice his efforts. People like Herbst are of no interest to Avraham-and-a-half. Having never paid attention to avuncular types, here in the Land of Israel he was certainly not burdened by the yoke of excessive manners imposed by the leisure classes. It was merely Avraham’s good nature that kept him from walking away in mid-conversation. After each conversation with Avraham, Herbst felt as if a weight had been lifted from his heart. Herbst had made many attemptsto ascertain just what it was that oppressed him when he was with Zahara’s young man, but without success. He did not want to admit to himself that he couldn’t talk to a young person about anything but academic subjects.

Mother Henrietta was different from Father Manfred. Even before she knew Avraham, Henrietta approved of him, and the first time Zahara brought him home, she became quite fond of him. Now that Zahara had chosen him, Henrietta considered him to be the most splendid young man in the world. Whatever Avraham-and-a-half did was just right.

Henrietta moves through her house marveling over this young man, whose manners and conversation are so appealing, whose timing is so perfect, who can answer any question. Subjects that were far from her heart, in which she had no interest, suddenly engage her. When Avraham brings them up, they become important, and she wants to hear more. She declares, “I always wanted to know more about that, but I couldn’t find anyone to explain it to me until Avraham appeared and made it all clear.” Manfred hears this, and an angry sneer distorts his lips. He had tried many times to explain just those things to Henrietta, who had put him off, saying, “Let me be. I don’t have to know such things.” Along comes this whippersnapper whose learning is minimal, and she sits at his feet, a humble student, devouring his every word with no thought of fatigue, displaying her ignorance shamelessly. Manfred tries to say something to her, but she interrupts to sing the praises of Zahara’s Prince Charming, who embodies all the finest qualities one could look for in a young man. If it’s a question of tact, there is no one so tactful as Avraham; as for kindness, there is no one kinder. Henrietta has never even imagined a young man finer than this one.

Manfred jokes with her and says, “You pride yourself on being a good judge of character. In that case, how did you happen to choose me?” Henrietta says, “In those days, when we first met, you were all right.” “And now? Am I not all right?” Henrietta answers, “Now, my dear, I am tired, and I’m not in the mood for conversation.” Manfred says, “You’re not too tired to listen to that maypole of Zahara’s.” Henrietta says, “Please, Fred, cut out the nonsense. It doesn’t suit you at all.” “It doesn’t suit me because it’s nonsense, but if I said something smart, would you prick up your ears and listen?” Henrietta says, “Judging by what you just said, I doubt you could say anything smart.” Manfred says, “Then let me try.” Henrietta said, “I already told you, I’m tired.” Manfred says, “And what was my answer to that? Have you already forgotten?” Henrietta says, “Whether or not I forgot, I don’t have the strength to hear any more.” Manfred says, “Very well, then. That’s how I’ll treat you too.” Henrietta says, “Go right ahead. Whatever you like, Manfred.” Manfred says, “I’d like to see if I can really do as I like.” Henrietta said, “Since when don’t you do as you like with me? Anyway, I already told you, you have your rights, you can do as you like. Don’t you always claim your rights?” Manfred said, “Just when did I ever claim my rights?” Henrietta said, “When, when, when. Every day, all the time, at any hour, you always claim your rights. Anyway, Fred, you know what I’m going to say. It might be best to conclude this silly conversation.” Manfred said, “If it’s best for you, it’s certainly best for me. Now, what was I going to tell you?” Henrietta said, “Maybe you could put it off until tomorrow.” Manfred said, “I could put it off forever.” Henrietta said, “What were you going to tell me?” Manfred said, “Curiosity has gotten the better of you.” Henrietta said, “If you think it’s curiosity, let it be curiosity. It doesn’t matter at all to me. I’ve given up on having an ounce of understanding between us. You can’t stand to see me happy for a minute.” Manfred said, “So you’re happy. I didn’t know that.” “You didn’t know?” “I didn’t know.” “Yes, yes. A father’s eyes are too dim to see his daughter’s happiness.” Manfred said, “It’s enough for me that the daughter’s mother sees her happiness.” Henrietta said, “So let me be happy with her, and don’t interrupt with complaints and grievances. If I were as hard as a rock, I’d be worn thin by your complaints. You think I don’t see how your every move is one more gesture of protest. I wonder what you would do if…” Manfred asked in dismay, “If what?” Henrietta said, “Better to be silent.” Manfred laughed bizarrely and said, “Let’s be silent, madam. Let’s be silent.”

If not for the mailman, who brought them a card, the two of them would not have been silent. Henrietta took the card and looked at the picture. Whenever she saw that heroic figure with the outstretched arm, she regretted her inability to remember who he was. Now it wasn’t her forgetfulness that she regretted, but the fact that the figure occupied half of Tamara’s card. Manfred peered over Henrietta’s shoulder and marveled at the fact that even on such a cheap postcard one could see the splendor of the sculpture. Henrietta soon handed the card to Manfred and said, “You read it now.” Henrietta had learned to decipher her daughter’s handwriting, but she wasn’t always sure she got everything right, so she was in the habit of reading it to herself, then giving it to Manfred to read to her. Now she had tried unsuccessfully. She handed the card to Manfred and said, “What is this? Is it Greek?” It wasn’t Greek writing, but every word was surrounded by the scrawl of some member of the tour group, and the entire picture was surrounded by greetings and good wishes, such as the message inscribed under Apollo: “We’re all having a marvelous trip. We were in Athens, Delphi, and Olympus, and tomorrow we’ll travel through Arcadia as far as the eastern shore of the Peloponnesus. With best wishes…” Under Apollo’s arm was another message: “Greetings to you, Herbst. Olympic greetings. Sorry I can’t convey them in person.” The message was signed by the professor who was leading the group.

“I see, Fred,” Henrietta said, “that, when it comes to your daughters, you have reason to complain. Tamara is so attached to you — she goes on a short trip, and every day there’s mail from her. I forgot to tell you. Sacharson returned the Baedeker. Why does that startle you?” “I wasn’t startled. You imagined that I was startled.” Henrietta said, “If you say you weren’t startled, I believe you. It’s all right to lend Sacharson a book. Not only did he return it in one piece, but he put it in a beautiful cover. Here’s the Baedeker. Find me Arcadia.” While Herbst was opening the Baedeker, Henrietta leaned her head on his shoulder and began singing, “I too lived in Arcadia…”

Zahara and Avraham didn’t stay very long. They spent four days with the Herbsts. Not counting the day they ate only breakfast at Henrietta’s table and the half-day they spent at Kiryat Anavim visiting a friend who had been on the training farm in Germany with Avraham, but adding the extra half-day they threw in for the yeast cake she baked them.

There was work to be done in Ahinoam, and it could not be postponed because of the sentiments of the old people, who would have had them stay on day after day. The air of Jerusalem, its cool nights, the friends from all over the country whom one runs into everywhere, the secrets the city reveals to its guests — all these things make it special. But to someone from a kvutza, particularly to a founding member, the kvutza is even more special. If there is still not a single tree — no shade, only thorns, briar, snakes, and scorpions — all the more reason why one has to hurry back to water the fragile plants, clear away the thorns and briar, and wipe out the nests of vipers.

When Henrietta realized that the children were determined to hurry back to Ahinoam, she tried to work out a compromise, to have Avraham go back to Ahinoam and leave Zahara to spend another two or three days in Jerusalem. But Zahara would not agree to stay even an hour without Avraham. Henrietta set about collecting all the things she had made for Sarah and passed them on to Zahara, specifying with each item, “This is for your baby, not for anyone else’s.” To which Zahara answered, “I can’t accept your conditions. In our kvutza, we each get what we need.” Henrietta said, “Still, this shawl, which I made myself — don’t give it to anyone.” Zahara said, “You can trust me.” Henrietta surveyed everything, praying to herself: I hope at least some of these things will be used by Zahara’s child.

Finally, she took another tack. She stopped praying, fingered the items she was especially fond of, and appropriated them with her eyes, reflecting: It’s not possible, it’s not possible that Zahara would offer this to the first taker. She couldn’t possibly give this up. She looked at Zahara and was amazed that her daughter didn’t seem to appreciate the baby clothes. And what baby clothes they were! Henrietta roamed from room to room, from closet to closet, from drawer to drawer, taking out everything, saying to herself: This will be good for Zahara. I’ll give this to Zahara, this will be very useful. As for Zahara’s statement “I can’t keep these things for myself,” those were just words. Zahara was joking. It was impossible that a treasure her mother gave up expressly for her could be offered to the world at large.

Henrietta had already forgotten what Zahara had said and was looking over other things that might suit Zahara and her unborn baby. She was suddenly overcome with worry that she had forgotten the essentials. In fact, she was certain she had forgotten the essentials, that everything Zahara and her infant were sure to need had slipped away from her mind, so that, when Zahara got back to Ahinoam, she wouldn’t find what she hoped to find, nor would she find what she needed. The pile she had dragged from Jerusalem to Ahinoam would have none of what she needed in it. Nor would those essentials be available in Ahinoam, for the entire community was made up of youngsters who had no idea what a mother needs. Henrietta refocused her thoughts, and it was not her mind that roamed through all her rooms, but her soul that roamed and fluttered like an anxious bird.

Henrietta paused for a bit, trying to remember what she had put in Zahara’s box and what she should have put in it. She did not realize that her hands were idle and her heart was empty, that her thoughts were being dispersed and no new ones were replacing them. The alarm she had felt a few minutes earlier seemed to subside, and she was utterly relaxed. Hardly conscious of the swift change, she stood beside the full carton and gazed into it, her eyes remaining fixed on its top. It seemed to her that something hidden kept emerging, some aspect of a thought about what she meant to put in the box. Her thoughts came to a sudden standstill, and all her ideas were suspended. She ignored the fact that Zahara was going to give birth. She was unaware of Zahara’s very being, as well as of her own. Like mother, like daughter: Zahara’s thoughts were dispersed too, and, between the two of them, the room was silent, like those frequently silent inner rooms on a hot summer day in Jerusalem, in houses surrounded by gardens and far from the road. In the stillness, the space within the room was suffused with the palest gray light, tinged with pale blue — paling, then darkening; darkening, then paling, until it took on an undefined hue. I don’t know whether the light was created from the space between shutter slats or from the objects in rooms. The two of them, mother and daughter, were unaware of each other and unaware of their own being as well. If I had a tendency to coin phrases, I would call this a state of “annihilated being.”

Sarah came into the room and stood there in dismay. After a moment or two, she backed up and knocked on the door from the inside, like someone who knocks before entering, and said, “Come in.” She went over to Zahara, wrapped her little arms around her big sister’s knees, and said, “Sarah loves Zahara.” Zahara bent down, placed her lips on Sarah’s, and said, “Zahara loves Sarah very, very, very much.” Sarah said, “No, no, no. Sarah loves very, very, very much.” Mother Henrietta bestirred herself and said, “Sarah, Zahara is leaving us.” Sarah looked at Zahara and said, “Zahara is leaving us?” This was not so much a question as a matter of words that were inconsistent with reality. Zahara kissed her sister again and said gravely, “I have to go home.” Sarah’s eyes scanned the room as she wondered: What did Zahara mean, ‘I have to go home’? Isn’t this home? And why did she say ‘I have to’? Mother Henrietta said to Sarah, “Tell her there’s no need to hurry.” Sarah said to Zahara, “Mother says — “ She stopped in the middle, turned to her mother, and said, “You tell her.” All of a sudden, she turned away from both of them. “What’s this?” she asked. “This…this here, this?” Zahara said, “I don’t know what you mean.” The child pointed with her thumb, repeating, “This.” Zahara turned to her mother. “Maybe you know what she means? Sarah, show me with your finger.” Sarah was annoyed at Zahara. “What I’m pointing with is a finger, isn’t it?” Mother Henrietta said, “She means the grasshopper playing on the window. It’s a grasshopper, Sarah.” Sarah repeated the word with a mixture of agreement and doubt. She said, “A grasshopper. Can I step on it?” Zahara responded with alarm, “Why step on it? Such a fine grasshopper — see how nice his wings are, what long legs he has.” Sarah said, “You don’t understand anything.” Mother Henrietta laughed and said to Zahara, “She doesn’t mean to step on it with her feet. She means to catch it.” Zahara said, “Then why did she say ‘step on it’?” While they talked, Sarah chased the grasshopper with her fingers. Zahara repeated, “Why did she say it that way?” Mother Henrietta said, “This is what happened: the first time Sarah saw a caterpillar in the garden, she was fascinated by it and finally stretched out her leg to trap it, so she could pick it up. Since then, whenever she tries to catch a butterfly, she says ‘to step on it.” Zahara said, “To think that I suspected she would crush it. Come, sweetheart, let me give you a kiss. Who’s that coming? Why, it’s Avraham.”

Avraham arrived, his eyelashes casting bars of gold on his wife and her mother and sister. He picked up Sarah, sat her on his shoulders, and began to prance around with her. Zahara shouted, “Careful! You’ll bang her head on the ceiling.” He bent down and began to crawl on his knees, holding on to Sarah, who was perched on his neck, clapping her hands and chanting the words of a song she had learned from Firadeus. Then she began tapping her feet to the music. Henrietta called, “You’re hurting him.” The child leaned over his ear and asked, “Does it hurt?” Avraham flung the golden bars from his eyes to the child and said, “It hurts, it hurts as much as eating chocolate. Do you like chocolate? Oh, dear, we forgot to bring you chocolate. Next time we come, we’ll bring some chocolate. Take my handkerchief, Sarah, and tie a knot in it to remind me to bring Sarah chocolate. What else should we bring you? We’ll bring you a baby girl, and then you’ll be an aunt. Aunt Sarah. How would you like to be an aunt? To someone real, not just a doll. What do you think of Zahara? She knows that sort of trick; she knows how to make you an aunt. Now, honey, I’ll put you on the grasshopper’s back. He’ll carry you to Ahinoam. All the young women will see you and wish for a little girl just like you.”

After Henrietta finished wrapping everything, she handed the packages to Zahara, who handed them to Avraham, then kissed her mother and her little sister, Sarah, and said goodbye to her father. Henrietta said, “You’ll come back to Jerusalem soon, right?” Zahara said, “What do you mean, ‘soon’?” Henrietta said, “‘Soon’ means when it’s time to have the baby. The setup for childbirth is better in Jerusalem than anywhere else in the country.” Zahara laughed and said, “What are you saying, Mother? You want me to give birth in the city? Do you expect me to have a city child? I’m a country girl now. I belong to a kvutza, and I’ll give birth in the hospital in Afula, like everyone else.”

Avraham and Zahara left, loaded down with all sorts of paraphernalia. After Henrietta had finished packing a large box, she remembered other things it would be good for Zahara to have. So she filled Avraham’s arms, warning him not to lose anything, for it would all be needed by Zahara and the infant she was about to bring forth.

A contented smile spreads over Zahara’s face, the smile of a woman who has found her mate and is going off with him to his home. Avraham-and-a-half is taller than anyone. He is twice as tall as Zahara. Unless you’ve seen those two together, you have no concept of large and small. Now, imagine this small creature, this mere girl, with a baby inside. Isn’t that a truly moving sight? It’s no wonder that Father Manfred is more and more moved, and has no further complaints about her, that he accepts everything, whatever his daughter has done.

Zahara and her young man left, and the house was as it had been before. Well, not really. As long as Zahara was single, Henrietta felt that she still lived there. Even when Zahara went to the kvutza, Henrietta regarded the move as temporary. Now that she had left with her mate, there was a void in the house. All that day, Henrietta couldn’t get her bearings. Wherever she turned, there was something missing. The things Zahara took from the house were not what was missing; something that eludes and at the same time occupies every sensibility was missing. Henrietta told herself again and again: Nothing has actually changed. To which her heart’s response was: No change? Things have changed. Yes, they’ve changed.

When she went to bed, she was confronted by all these voids, which were accompanied by concern for her daughter. Zahara might not find anyone to guide her during pregnancy, since all the women in Ahinoam are young, except for the nurse, and, having never been pregnant, they have no concept of caution. They undertake every kind of work, pay no attention to their own needs, and are totally ignorant about pregnancy and childbirth. She was suddenly overcome with joy on account of her daughter, who had found a mate, and on account of this mate, who was so delightful. In the midst of her joy, Henrietta forgot about Avraham and thought again about Zahara, who was about to become a mother. First she scolded herself for having said so little to Zahara about what she should and shouldn’t do. Actually, she had talked to her a great deal, but she should have told her more, for Zahara is young and doesn’t know anything. Before she had fully explored her thoughts about her daughter, she was reliving the days when she was pregnant with Zahara. The two feelings mixed together — those pertaining to Zahara, who was pregnant now, and those about herself when she was about to give birth to Zahara. Twin joys were born in her heart. With them came sleep, the sort that doesn’t seem like sleep but is in fact the sweetest and most exquisite of sleeps.

At the same time, Herbst was lying on the couch in his study, lying there and thinking about Empress Theodora, about the women of her court, about his two friends the Weltfremdts, about Professor Bachlam and Professor Lemner, about Axelrod and his son, and various other things — a blend of thoughts that have no connection with the heart, yet grip it and induce vacant emotions. From there, he arrived at the strip of leather, the amulet Professor Wechsler had identified as a fragment of an ancient garment. From there, to the elderly nurse who showed Sarah to him the day she was born. In the midst of all these things, something unfolded, sort of a cake on which mazeltov was written. Although a lot of time had passed since he had heard the tale of the waitress and the Histadrut official, Herbst realized that the reference was to the cake the café owner had sent them for their wedding.

Avraham-and-a-half belongs to the Histadrut too, but he is taller than all those officials and as innocent as a child. You can’t seduce him with words, because he doesn’t need anything from you. Nor does he want anything from you, having already gotten whatever he might want from another source. What is more, he doesn’t need you, either. When he sat with you and listened while you talked, he was doing you a favor. Where does that firmness come from? Is it from the kvutza? We know several young men from the kvutza who don’t have Avraham’s quality. This firmness comes from Zahara, who gives her whole heart to Avraham. Father Manfred was suddenly alarmed. This Zahara, this baby, is a woman like other women. Not just a woman, but halfway to being a mother. And Father Manfred is halfway to being a grandfather. Were we to analyze the subject, we would find…I’ll turn out the light now and try to sleep before other thoughts come and intrude on my sleep. However, it would be good to devote two or three moments of thought to the tragedy. Aristotle says, in the Poetics: One of the conditions for tragedy is…And most tragedians make the mistake of thinking that, if the events are tragic, that in itself constitutes tragedy.

When Herbst turned off the light, the thoughts he was afraid of took over. Though more than two years had passed since he first met Shira, he continued to think about her. His thoughts about her were different, a mass of contradictions. Love and hate, regret and longing; above all, wonder at himself for continuing to pursue her and wonder at the powerful attraction she exerted, though she was neither beautiful nor intellectual. What would be of interest to any intellectual, Shira dismisses with a disparaging twist of the mouth. Admittedly, this gesture of hers often led him to reexamine a subject and reflect further on it.

In addition to waking thoughts, there are his nighttime reveries and the succession of dreams they bring on. In one such dream, he met her one night at a concert hall. When did he meet her? Many years after they had parted and stopped seeing each other. But his love for her still filled his heart. That night she appeared to be a distinguished woman whose conversation with him was purely intellectual, and, though that tends to enhance a woman’s appeal, there was between them no hint of what transpires between a man and a woman. By his calculation, she was about fifty years old at the time, but she looked perhaps thirty, certainly not more than thirty-five. One further thing, her manner was exceedingly female. This led him to fantasies he did not at first dare to entertain. And these fantasies were so powerful that he became so bold as to stroke her skin. She didn’t object. On the contrary, her pleasure was evident on her face. But his joy was mixed, because her autocratic manner was replaced by submission and the desire to please.

Herbst lay in bed, thinking: It was a fatal mistake not to go back to her immediately after that first night. If I had gone back, she wouldn’t have slipped through my fingers. Like a penitent who regrets his sinful actions, Herbst regretted his inaction. Again, the same question: How to explain Shira’s actions? She is welcoming, but she doesn’t allow real contact. Is there someone else in her life? He reviewed a series of men Shira had mentioned to him, as well as men she hadn’t mentioned, whom he suspected of having relationships with Shira. That driver, for example, the son of Axelrod, the hospital clerk. Herbst was surprised at himself for not being jealous.

Herbst was not jealous. But he imagined their contact with Shira, or, to be more precise, the amount of contact she allowed them. In Herbst’s imagination, this took many forms, arousing his heart to the point of pain.

Chapter seventeen

Zahara left, and Tamara arrived. Before Henrietta had time to read about the places Tamara had visited in Greece, she was back to tell about them. If not for his interest in order, Manfred could have left the Baedeker in Sacharson’s hands, especially since another book on Greece now occupied its space on the shelf. Mother and Father listen to Tamara’s tales of her travels in Greece. He suppresses his laughter, and she laughs uncontrollably. Tamara herself is silent, like those Greek goddesses in the professor’s pictures whose eloquent silence is so amazing. In truth, Tamara has not a trace of the sublime beauty bestowed on Greek goddesses, but, when she wants to, she can make herself look like one of them. If you examine the contours of her face, you find nothing sublime there; on the contrary, there are traces of vulgarity. You wonder: Can this face transform itself into that one? You say to her, “Please, Tamara, just how do you do that?” And there she is, standing before you like one of those goddesses. She looks serene, tranquil, impassive; yet whoever sees her is unsettled. Even British officers are willing to change their ways for Miss Tamara. But she no longer frequents their haunts.

As soon as Tamara was back in Jerusalem, she went back to work. She spends part of the day and part of the night with tubercular girls in the Mekor Hayim neighborhood, teaching them writing and language. It is her fervent wish that the girls learn to speak Hebrew, rather than pollute the air of the Land of Israel with seventy tongues, so she stays with them until midnight and comes home even later. Henrietta doesn’t worry about her safety, because Tamara is always accompanied by a troop of young men. Further, Tamara is a strong and valiant young woman, and no one would dare to offend her. When she was a child and a teacher kissed her on the mouth for knowing the Isaiah chapter by heart, she reached out and slapped his face in front of the whole class. They say that, because of her, several elderly teachers who had been in the habit of rewarding female pupils with kisses were forced to give up the practice. So Henrietta doesn’t worry about what might happen to her daughter. But Manfred worries about his daughter all the time. Even a brigade of young men can’t intercept a bullet fired from a distance. All in all, Herbst isn’t pleased by Tamara’s presence in Jerusalem. Not only is there no chance that she’ll find a paid teaching job in Jerusalem, all the jobs having been taken by old hens who sit on them and never let go, but a new factor adds to his displeasure. Rumors are beginning to circulate about a band of young men who are not content to let Arabs kill Jews at will. Jerusalem, a city populated by Arabs and Jews, is a vulnerable spot, where trouble is likely to begin, and an unemployed young girl is particularly vulnerable. Being unemployed, she is especially likely to join this embittered group that defies the policy of self-restraint. Seeing this cheerful young girl, who regards the entire universe as something to laugh at, anyone would conclude that political concerns are remote from her mind. Nonetheless, there is reason to worry; if not because of her, then because of her friends. On the face of it, they are all charming and uncomplicated — so much so that they appear to be spiritually defective, mentally retarded, cognitively limited. Even those who appreciate their primitive quality are sometimes concerned that it may be excessive, certainly when compared with their peers in Europe, who, at the same age, are thoroughly mature. Even their peers in Eastern Europe, who study in yeshivas or one-room schools, seem to surpass them. Academically, this is what we would expect. But it is true in emotional terms as well. Still, the children of this country sometimes startle us with their words, and we have learned from experience that, in our time, words are the precursors of action. Until yesterday, we sneered at grandiose words. Yesterday, we were alarmed and frightened by the actions that followed on these words. Today, our lives are at risk. Since fathers don’t have the power to influence their daughters, Herbst takes his mind off Tamara and concerns himself with others. Man doesn’t control his thoughts, saying to some, “Come,” to others, “Go.” But, in the case of Herbst and Tamara, it’s different. Herbst puts his daughter out of mind and turns his thoughts to others. Who are these others? Since people are in the habit of saying “by chance,” I will also say “by chance.” By chance, he is thinking of Anita Brik.

Since the day Herbst visited Anita Brik, he has noticed that his mind sometimes wanders in realms that were previously alien to him. True, the first time he saw her, in the restaurant, when she gave him paper on which to write to his daughters and inform them of their sister’s birth, he gave some thought to the factors that had led such a girl to leave her home and come to the Land of Israel, where she worked as a waitress. When he found her in a dingy room, on a sickbed, his soul was stirred by her plight, by the plight of German Jews, whose glory was stripped away, who were now displaced and forced to hire themselves out for a crust of bread. When the Jews of Germany were first beset by trouble, when they began to be oppressed and lose their footing, all of Israel was alarmed and asked, “Can it be that the world will stand by in silence?” The world was silent, as it had been silent in the face of Jewish misfortune in Russia and other countries. What is more, the world granted the villains recognition, making it possible for them to thrive. The Jewish community in Germany lamented and cried out. What did the Jews in other countries do? They went about their business and said, “A regime such as Hitler’s cannot possibly last.” It lasted. Seeing its increasingly disastrous effects, they tried to reassure themselves, saying, “New conditions will arise that it will be possible to live with.” The new conditions were more difficult than the previous ones. They were followed by conditions cruel and severe beyond what could be grasped or imagined. Yet most Jews still sat tight, reassuring themselves, saying, “When were we ever without trouble, and when was Israel unable to withstand it?” But whoever could, sought refuge beyond the range of the disaster, waiting for its force to be spent, which is to say, they took flight, intending to return. The Jewish dispersion in Germany dispersed itself to many countries. Some went up to the Land of Israel, bringing with them remnants of their wealth, and some of these were lucky, in that their money was not lost by benefactors who invited them to invest in flimsy ventures. This is a story that should be told. Many immigrants from Germany were innocent about the people in the Land of Israel, trusting them much as brothers would trust one another. But these brothers were worse than enemies, involving them in enterprises that were shady, dubious, or nonexistent. In some cases, this was done in all innocence by individuals who had faith in their business acumen and believed that, given some capital, they could make a profit for themselves as well as for the investors. Others acted with less conviction, on the chance that they might succeed; and, if not, what was there to lose, since the money wasn’t theirs? Still others acted deliberately — to get their hands on other people’s money. When the good Lord wants to degrade someone, not only does He strike out through some cruel and vile Gentile, but He degrades him through his own people as well. This was demonstrated in the case of the German refugees and, some years earlier, in that of refugees from Russia, who escaped the pogroms and came to the Land of Israel. Here, they were beset by unscrupulous individuals who took their money deceitfully, advising them to buy land and, when they were about to buy it, persuading the Arab landowners to raise the price, because, in the meanwhile, they had found other buyers who offered more. Though one shouldn’t mix misfortunes, I must note, in this context, that the people of Israel, forgetting how these swindlers had behaved, began to regard some of them as builders of the yishuv. Although their ill-gotten fortunes, which were left to the next generation, stemmed from an ignoble source, their children saw how much the yishuv valued and respected them, and did what they could to have them proclaimed founding fathers.

Dr. Manfred Herbst, as we know, had the good fortune to come to the country a few years earlier. He had the good fortune to arrive with his books and belongings, and to find a respected position that enabled him to support himself and his family, and to continue to devote himself to scholarship in the field he had chosen. Professor Neu had done well to recommend that he be appointed a lecturer, for Herbst was well suited to the job. And if he still hasn’t been appointed a professor, this is due to the laziness of the university trustees, who never bother to open their eyes and see who he is. It is also Herbst’s fault for not pulling strings.

When refugees began to arrive from Germany, among them several of his acquaintances, Herbst sought them out as best he could, insofar as his schedule allowed, for a proper schedule determines one’s capacity to work, and, what is more, a proper schedule determines the quality of everything a man produces. There is a big difference between work undertaken at intervals and work that is uninterrupted. This is evident in the product. The one is flawed by gaps and excesses; the other is correct and thorough. There are famous professors in the great European universities who go to the library between lectures, watching the clock as they browse for a given number of minutes. In the end, they too produce books. Herbst was convinced from the start that such books, which he called “watched books,” do not amount to anything. Academic work requires concentration, which brooks neither interruption nor distraction. I will repeat what I said: Herbst, knowing that his work requires concentration and order, doesn’t devote much time to immigrants from Germany, though he fulfills his obligations. He does as much as a man such as himself can do. What he does may be minimal; in any case, his acquaintances ask no more of him. People from Germany are not accustomed to being needy. Whatever help is offered they consider extraordinary, and are grateful for what they get. Herbst’s wife tends to overdo. Without regard for herself, she would take immigrants into her home and provide them with food and drink. She would often sacrifice her own routines, and, when a guest arrived at mealtime, she would insist that he sit at the table and eat. She puts up countless newcomers in her home and searches for apartments with them, rather than let them fall into the hands of agents who wear out their customers and then charge for the wear and tear. All this was in addition to Henrietta’s efforts on behalf of relatives she was trying to deliver from their suffering in Germany. Had it not been for those heartless officials in the immigration office, several members of her family would have been with us here. The country would have benefited from their presence, since most of them were intellectuals, active individuals who did useful work in Germany. In fact, many German Gentiles were whispering among themselves, “Too bad that these good people were relieved of their jobs.” When Henrietta sees the sloppiness of officials in this country, her heart begins to cry out: If this or that relative of mine were here, he would teach them not to be idle; he would teach them that clerks were not invented to waste the public’s time. The plight of his brethren in Germany did not disrupt Dr. Herbst’s routines. I don’t mean to suggest that a photostat of some Byzantine document or the discovery of some trivial Byzantine practice was more important to him than the fate of his brethren. Nonetheless, he gave more thought to Byzantium than to Israel. He was certainly pained by the plight of his relatives, acquaintances, and fellow scholars who lost their positions, yet these heartfelt sentiments did not alter his preoccupations. The day he saw Anita Brik lying on a broken bed in a dingy room and reaching out for the flowers Shira brought her, he was suddenly confronted with an embodiment of the calamity. Herbst was not one of those who delude themselves with the thought that they can change anything. He therefore turned from what he couldn’t do anything about to something he could affect: his academic pursuits, his book. Between chapters, he filled his notebook with phrases and snatches of dialogue for the tragedy he planned to write. Herbst was planning to write a great tragedy about Antonia, woman of the court, and Yohanan the nobleman, which I mentioned earlier in this book.

Herbst took comfort in the tragedy, especially on sleepless nights when he was unable to read — because of ambivalence, because of emotional discord, because the text seemed to dissolve before he could grasp it — and drugs no longer brought sleep. He lay in bed picturing the lives of Antonia and Yohanan, of everyone else close to them in time and place, pondering, considering, plotting, arranging for them to meet. At times, it was all so sharp and clear that it could be written down and put in a book. Whether or not you believe it, Herbst sometimes saw the actual image of an image. Whether or not you believe it, he sometimes felt the tiniest trace of what a poet feels when he sees the character he has fashioned in his mind begin to take on flesh and blood. However, as joy is tinged with sadness in all of life’s pursuits, Herbst’s joy was tinged with sadness too, on his own account and on account of an imaginary character he had added to the tragedy, though the character was neither necessary to the tragedy nor validated by history. Who is it that Herbst invented from his imagination? A slave he called Basileios, whose soul was bound to his mistress and who suffered his love in silence. Needless to say, his mistress was unaware of this; nor did it ever occur to her that a slave would dare to covet her, for such a sentiment on the part of a slave would be offensive to his mistress. It was Schiller’s mistake, in his play about Mary Stuart, to allow young Mortimer to fall in love with her. Schiller, who knew only German duchesses and princesses, was misguided. Had he known a real queen, he would never have made such an error. In this connection, Herbst applauded the Scandinavian mythmakers who tell about a Norwegian queen who had several kings tortured and put to death for daring to seek her hand in marriage.

Let me return to Basileios clarifying and explaining how he interfered with Herbst’s happiness. Herbst didn’t know what to do with this slave who had sprung out of his imagination, much to his delight. He didn’t know what to do with him, yet he didn’t want to give him up, because, of all the characters in the tragedy, he alone was his creation. And, having created him without knowing what to do with him, he became a bother — so much so that Herbst was in despair and considered abandoning the tragedy altogether. After some manipulation, Herbst was able to deal with Basileios in such a way that his absence would not be a problem; that is, he found a way to account for his sudden disappearance.

I will reveal what he did and where he hid him. He made him a leper and hid him in a leper colony. Actually, in terms of the tragedy, this was a mistake, because Herbst was afraid to immerse himself in that disease, and explore it, to picture various aspects of leprosy, such as how do lepers relate to each other or how they function in conjugal terms. But, unless the mind becomes immersed in a subject, that subject remains vague. This is especially true in the realms of poetry and imagination, which require that the soul expand, and this expansion occurs only if two souls merge, giving life to a new soul, which the Creator deems worthy and endows with breath, as much breath as it can hold. Herbst didn’t achieve this, because he didn’t immerse his mind in the subject, for he was sensitive and found it difficult to tolerate infected blood. Despite the fact that he had been knee-deep in blood and pus when he fought for Germany in the last war, now that he was in Jerusalem, in peacetime, he avoided the whiff of a whiff of blood, the trace of a trace of pus — even more so leprosy, whose very name arouses metaphysical terror. So how was he to immerse his mind in a man with leprosy? I won’t be so ridiculous as to suggest that Herbst was afraid the leper would appear and display his leprous state. Nevertheless, he resisted thinking about him.

Most of all, Herbst was terrified of moving. Since the night he had heard gunfire at first hand, close to his ear, he recognized, understood, knew that he should move. But moving a household with three thousand books — apart from journals, offprints, and pamphlets — would involve giving up work for weeks, months, a year, even longer. Such an interruption, at a time when he was deeply involved in his work, would be emotional suicide.

I said three thousand books, but it’s not necessarily so, because books are sometimes counted by title, sometimes by volume. And sometimes, as a sign of affection, one includes a pamphlet or a booklet. So don’t be surprised if, in another context, I cite another figure in accounting for Herbst’s books.

His terror of moving led him to think about transporting the books from one apartment to another and arranging them in a new place, for he really must leave this apartment in Baka, where he has lived since he arrived in Jerusalem. Books that stand on shelves for many years are sedentary citizens, who prefer order and permanence to wandering. Even if they are sometimes willing to step out, to visit in another home, they have no desire to leave their place forever. True, years ago they were accustomed to wandering, but they were young then and few in number. Some of Manfred Herbst’s books remember being able to make do with two planks hung from four tightly woven wires on the wall opposite his bed. How charming Manfred was in those days. He was extremely appealing, with his chestnut hair, a lively devil who fingered those books constantly, covering them in colorful paper and showing them all manner of affection. He spread silver paper over the planks and fastened the paper with tacks that gleamed like gold. Some of the books are not very old, but their contents are ancient. They like to recall how and when they were acquired by Manfred. It happened at Manfred’s bar mitzvah. Some of his friends and relations, knowing there was nothing he cherished so much as books, brought them as gifts. How dear they are to Manfred. Though he has read them many times and actually knows some of them by heart, he still treats them graciously. Other books here are also not very old, but their discourse is like that of an aged relative. Were it not for the fact that they are scholarly books, which don’t deal in legend, they would have recounted the number of nights he did without sleep on their behalf, struggling to uncover their secrets, for the deep secrets they contain are disclosed only through great effort. There are still other books, four, five, six generations old, though they have been with Dr. Herbst not longer than half a generation. Although the authors of some of these volumes were mortal enemies, they live together in peace on Herbst’s shelf, clinging to each other in filial harmony, content with their situation, with the dim green light shining on them from the windows and garden, and with little Firadeus, who brushes them with a soft towel and sweeps off their dust. They don’t complain about the odd smell Dr. Herbst inflicts with a gadget that breathes smoke, to which they are unaccustomed. And now, my good people, lovers of peace, enemies of war, isn’t it criminal to uproot such books and crowd them into a tight city apartment? True, Henrietta is capable and conscientious, guided by good taste and intelligence, but her youthful vigor has been spent. Much as she would try to make the new apartment attractive, it wouldn’t be like this one. Surely not for the books.

Now let’s look at the state of the books in the homes of Herbst’s friends who live in town and in the new neighborhoods, beginning with those of Julian Weltfremdt. Julian Weltfremdt arrived in Jerusalem laden with books. He spent half the money he brought with him on import taxes, brokers, and porters; the other half, on shelves and the construction of a book shed, since there wasn’t enough space in his apartment. He didn’t arrive in proper style; he shipped his possessions, as well as his wife Mimi’s piano, in assorted crates. His books had been scattered in the towns and cities of Germany, for he had wandered from place to place, and, wherever he settled, he left some of his belongings and some of his books, until he arrived in the Land of Israel, where everything came together. When he went up to Jerusalem, he brought all his books along and built bookcases for them, as well as simple shelves. The books that were in the house, he placed in bookcases; those in the shed, he placed on simple shelves. He was so busy arranging his books that he didn’t concern himself with his livelihood, assuming that whoever had any use for someone such as him would take the trouble to find him. But those who might have had use for him didn’t bother to look, settling for those who took the trouble to make themselves available. Mimi shopped on credit, while Julian occupied himself with his books, climbing up and down the ladder, taking out a book, putting it back, cursing and deploring the villainy of inanimate objects, for the books he was looking for eluded his fingers, while the ones he had no interest in jumped into his hand. He kept running between the house and the shed, climbing up the ladder and down again. Once the books were arranged by subject and ordered in terms of his needs, he gave some thought to a job. What he had in mind was to teach at the university, but those jobs were already taken. What was true of the university was true of all the other educational institutions. When he agreed, for the time being, to consider a position in a secondary school, someone else had preceded him. At first, he laughed at the educational administrators for not knowing what sort of teachers the younger generation needed. Then he began cursing them, as well as the teachers who had taken all the jobs — above all, his relative Ernst Weltfremdt, who didn’t lift a finger on his behalf, out of snobbishness masked by a cloak of self-righteousness. Be that as it may, I didn’t mean to discuss Julian Weltfremdt; I meant to discuss matters that pertain to books.

And so, Julian Weltfremdt’s extensive collection of books was in good order. Those that were not in frequent use were put in the shed in his yard; those used more often stood upright in bookcases in his house. Consequently, he spent his days running from the house to the yard, from the yard to the house, sometimes to get a book, sometimes to catch a mouse, sometimes to dispose of a mouse stuck in the trap. It would have been a good idea to keep a cat in the shed. Not only did he fail to get a cat, he chased cats from the premises, because Mimi used to leave the milk and the meat on the table while she was at the piano. The cats would take over, leaving only scraps. He therefore decided to do without a cat and trap the mice instead. Mousetraps are more hazardous than mice. For example, when he found a mouse in the trap and tried to remove it, the spring would snap on his finger. And when he found a live mouse in the trap, he didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t just kill it, because he was squeamish; he couldn’t burn it alive, because that would have been too cruel.

In addition to the hazard of mice, there was the hazard of the elements. A sweltering summer that damaged the books was followed by a snowy winter. Snow fell, covering the houses. Their upper halves were in snow accumulated from below, the lower halves in snow falling from above. All the roads were covered with snow. No earth was to be seen, and nowhere could one find solid footing. Business was at a standstill. One could not even find a crust of bread for a child. But this is not what I want to tell. I want to tell the story of the books and the snow. Roofs began to sag under the weight of snow piled on top of them, while snow piling up from below weakened the substructures. The snow was accompanied by a violent storm that uprooted trees and damaged houses. When the snow stopped falling and the storm subsided, people began to venture outside. Julian Weltfremdt went out to his yard and found that his shed was crumbling. Heavy branches had been torn from the trees, and entire trees were wrenched from their places and scattered all over the shed, as well as along the path leading to it. Here and there, the snows were melting, producing a stream of water that gushed into the yard. Melting snow dripped onto the shed from above, so the entire space was water upon water. Julian Weltfremdt didn’t hesitate. Blazing a trail through the snow, puddles, and broken branches, he arrived at his shed, only to find himself knee-deep in water. His wife was standing in front of the house, shouting, “Julian, Julian, come back before you get sick, before you catch your death of a cold.” He gave no thought to his own welfare or to her warnings. He was determined to save his books. He saved what he saved, and what he didn’t save didn’t get saved. Meanwhile, Mimi caught a cold, as well as an ear infection, from standing outside without warm clothes. But I don’t mean to tell about Mimi now; I mean to tell about books. After the destruction of the shed, Julian Weltfremdt began to console himself with the books in the house. One day he took a book off the uppermost shelf and discovered that it was damp. This was true of a second, third, and fourth book, and so on, down the row. Not only that row, but most of the books on the upper shelves of the bookcases in his house were steeped in water. He took them down and put them out to air. He assured himself, every so often, that they would recover and, just as often, plunged into despair over his books and himself — to think that they could do this to him, after all his efforts on their behalf. In the end, some of them had to be rebound. You know, of course, how bookbinders are: not only do they do an inadequate job, but they leave out pages and expect to be rewarded for their vandalism. And how was he to pay? From the paltry funds sent by his wife’s family. This is the tale of some of Julian Weltfremdt’s books and their trial by water. What about his good books, those that weren’t damaged? They escaped destruction but didn’t remain in his hands. Though they withstood the cruelty of the elements, they did not withstand human cruelty. Julian Weltfremdt didn’t find a job and was forced to sell some of his books. After selling some of his possessions when his daughter took sick because of the drafty apartment, he had to sell the remainder in order to get food for her and pay her medical bills. His relative Professor Ernst Weltfremdt often boasted that he paid for the grave and burial expenses, but the doctors’ fees and medications were paid for by Julian. Things came to such a pass that, even while he was writing his popular pamphlet (The Seventeen Primary Factors Leading Us to Unequivocally Oppose the Appointment of Master Plato of Greece to the Position of Lecturer in Philosophy at Any University, Particularly One in Germany), when he wished to refer to some of the books he called “professors’ books,” he had to quote from memory. Needless to say, he made some errors, which provided a pretext for the charge that his work was unscholarly.

Having become so involved in Julian Weltfremdt’s books, I will be brief about those of Dr. Taglicht.

As is often the case with bachelors, Taglicht was a subtenant in the home of a gentleman who rented out one of his four rooms for the price of the entire apartment. Since he had only one room, he couldn’t collect very many books. He, too, had come to Jerusalem laden with books. The rare ones were borrowed by collectors, who never returned them, the ordinary ones were borrowed by ordinary people, who didn’t return them either. Taglicht often commented about this. “Why should I be upset? It’s enough that others are upset about this sort of thing.” Taglicht’s library is now limited to what fits on his windowsill.

According to the Gemara, books and bread were bound together when they descended from heaven. As for Taglicht, he often had to forgo his loaf to buy a book. Let me report a delightful exchange Taglicht liked to relate. “When I lived in Berlin, I often used to visit Shestov’s father, a sick old man. Once, the old man saw I was in distress. He asked me, ‘What’s the trouble?’ I told him, ‘Every month my landlady demands a rent increase.’ The old man said, ‘That’s because of all the books you collect. She sees you laden with books and thinks to herself: Such a person is not likely to move, so I might as well raise the rent. It would be costly to move, so you choose to pay more rather than leave. But a young man should first build his resources, then send a representative to acquire the books he needs — or thinks he needs.’“ Taglicht ignored the advice of the philosopher’s father. Not only did he starve himself because of his books, but in the end they were taken from him.

It’s only two or three steps from Taglicht’s house to Lemner’s. He has many bookcases filled with books. Books are stacked inside the bookcases as well as on the top of them. These books are not friendly to one another or even to themselves; that is to say, one volume of a set might be on one shelf, another on top of the bookcase, another who knows where. If a set contains a total of four or five volumes, it is doubtful that Lemner has them all. Lemner is an elegant and amiable person, and, since he is more concerned with others than with himself, he tends to wear soiled and faded clothes at home and to dress more attractively when he is out. His books’ behavior on their shelves is like his behavior at home. They are soiled and faded. Spiders spin webs on them; some have become a cemetery for flies and bugs. If he needs a book, either he can’t find it, or, being too lazy to brush off the dust and insect remains, he borrows it from the National Library. So why does he keep buying more? To occupy himself with something. Some people choose a social cause or some similar enterprise. Professor Lemner is engaged in the acquisition of books. Anyway, books are related to a professor’s occupation. If his wife hadn’t restrained him, he would have bought every book he was offered.

I might as well skip Professor Bachlam’s books. He was so busy writing his own that he didn’t have time to collect other people’s books. Nonetheless, he owned a great many volumes. If you wonder about them, look in the books he wrote and you’ll see them in his references. Surely his books also included opinions from books he had merely borrowed, but that doesn’t change anything.

I have yet to tell about the bookcases in the homes of Professor Wechsler and Professor Ernst Weltfremdt. Having begun with one of the Weltfremdts, I’ll conclude with the other. But first I’ll describe Professor Wechsler’s books. Actually, they are not really books, but folder upon folder filled with newspaper clippings about his discoveries and interviews with journalists. No professor in Jerusalem is as busy as he is, and no one keeps others as busy as he does. All of Jerusalem’s thirteen bookbinders are employed by him, making portfolios to contain the clippings that praise him and his work on amulets. Those who don’t envy Professor Wechsler regard the praise he receives as praise for the university, and praise for the university is praise for the entire community of Israel.

Now let’s have a look at Professor Weltfremdt’s books. There is no difference between Ernst Weltfremdt’s library and the libraries of most professors who marry rich women with large dowries that provide the means to buy many books in handsome bindings and construct handsome shelves for them. His bookcases have two sections: one for patrologists, the other for Hellenists, since he was first a lecturer in patristics and then in Hellenistics. In addition, on the corner shelves there are quite a few Hebrew books acquired here in Jerusalem.

I will now add a few words about other book collections in Jerusalem. A city of many scholars will have many bibliophiles. There are many scholars in Jerusalem who deprive themselves of a crust of bread in order to buy a book, whose passion for books is so great that they ignore their children and don’t bother about their education. In the former category are those who sell a book when their wives demand money for Shabbat provisions; in the latter category there are those who take no notice, even when members of their household are expiring from hunger. In the end, when they die, book dealers and collectors converge to buy from the orphans, who, not having been educated by their father, are unaware of the value of the books and sell them for a paltry sum.

Now, to get back to Herbst’s books. They are not arranged on handsome shelves, like Ernst Weltfremdt’s books, and are not as numerous as Bachlam’s and Lemner’s; nor does he have portfolios such as Wechsler’s. For the most part, they are plainly bound, resting in bookcases constructed from the crates in which they were shipped from abroad. But the grace that prevails in his library is not to be found in the library of any other scholar in Jerusalem. Henrietta’s good taste had left its imprint on the arrangement of the books, and the vaulted ceiling added charm to the room. It is easy to picture how sad Herbst was when he thought it would be necessary to move and house his books in the skimpy rooms one finds in those new neighborhoods.

I now mean to get back to the tragedy, and I will try to prove how worthwhile the tragedy was to Herbst. For years Herbst had been working out of habit, amassing notes and quotations without involving his emotions. Not so with the tragedy. Although his imagination proved inadequate, the tragedy shook the very foundations of his soul. What he had produced so far didn’t amount to very much, but he had faith in the future, that something would emerge, turning it into a tragedy. That is to say, the actions would unfold, justifying themselves, not only in terms of their own inevitability, but in terms of the intense power inherent in them from the beginning.

When a bookish person is about to create a book, he looks at other books to see how they were written. Herbst, who was reared on German poetry, went back and reread it. He was familiar with some of the poets from childhood; others, he had read as an adult. Of course, you know the power of good books: one never emerges from them empty-handed. Whenever you open such a book, you find something in it that you hadn’t noticed before. Even if you have read it many times, even if you know it by heart, when you go back to it you find a new message. Whether or not it is the one intended by the author, it is embedded in the text.

I’ll now turn to another matter. Herbst was aware that Germany was afflicted with a big dose of anti-Semitism, so that, of all the Hebrew words fixed in the tongues of German Jews, the word rishus, meaning “viciousness,” was most widespread. But he never considered the change in its meaning, for now one says rishus to warn Jews not to behave in this or that manner, so as not to provoke Germans to be vicious, that is, to behave badly toward Jews.

Now back to my original subject. When Herbst went back to those books, he realized that even the finest of Germany’s lyricists did not eschew such viciousness, that they celebrated and transformed it into a virtue, giving their approval to all manner of cruelty toward Jews. In the course of this, they distorted words, twisted the straight, perverted justice. But truth is so great that it is evident even in a lie. They meant to portray the Jew as a paradigm of evil, and, as a result, all the evil charges with which they disparaged Jews were like the skin of a garlic — of no consequence compared to the evil of the Germans. Furthermore, the very words with which they disparaged Jews were used to praise Germans. It is worth mentioning here that many slanderous and vicious books were given to Herbst by Jews for his bar mitzvah. The Jewish spirit was so totally dominated by Germany that Jews didn’t realize how much hatred permeated those books. But what the Jews didn’t recognize was recognized by the Germans, who learned what they learned. Even Herbst was now learning what he hadn’t learned before, and he began to be aware of Germany’s behavior toward Jews, especially toward his family and friends, who were forced to flee and to cast about among the nations, their frenzied souls adrift between borders. They were not allowed to live in one country; they were forbidden to enter another. Between countries, they perished. Once again, I must repeat what we well know. You sit at breakfast, open the newspaper, and read about a scholar who took poison or a poet who hung himself from a tree in the woods. International figures — about whom one boasts, “I was privileged to know So-and-so” — are persecuted by border guards, only to end their lives with a bullet or by jumping from a high place and being crushed. Once in several generations, the good Lord is generous to His creatures, sending into this lowly world a rare soul who glorifies it with his deeds, only to be intercepted by some authority and destroyed. Whenever Herbst sees two or three lines in the newspaper about a scholar who committed suicide or a poet who took his own life, if it was someone he knew and corresponded with, he would take out the letters and read them, then tie them with a string and put them in a special place. There are more and more such bundles. I hope I am wrong, but there seem to be more letters from the dead who have already died than from the living who are still alive.

From the dead to the living. Herbst puts down the letters of the dead. His mind turns to those who still are hovering between the living and the dead, and from there to those who have found a temporary haven in the Land of Israel. Having failed to grasp that the doors of Germany were closed to Jews forever and ever, and that they would never return to Germany, they reassured themselves, maintaining that the ignominious regime would be overturned and the exiles would return to hear the rustle of Germany’s forests and the roar of her waters once again, delighting in the culture they had helped create. For the moment, they are here temporarily — as foreigners, strangers, guests, sojourners — until the anticipated day when Germany’s cultural elite roots out the heinous government and the exiled children come home. Many were already helped by Henrietta, and just as many are being helped by her now. Even Dr. Krautmeir, who is the busiest doctor in Jerusalem, was helped by Henrietta. If not for Henrietta, she would have been lost. She came here emptyhanded and unknown; she had never had any contact with Jews and had associated only with Germans all her life. One day, soon after she arrived, she left her hotel, pondering to herself: How long can I tolerate this? Henrietta appeared, and they recognized each other, having lived on the same street in Charlottenburg and taken the bus together regularly. Though in all those years they hadn’t talked to one another, when they met again here in the Land of Israel, they considered each other a friend. Krautmeir said to Henrietta, “We lived in Charlottenburg for almost a whole generation and never engaged in the most casual conversation, and now I consider you a childhood friend.” Henrietta invited her over, provided her with room and board in her home, and found her work with an elderly doctor who needed an assistant. Krautmeir took an apartment, paid the import tax due on her furnishings, and began adjusting to life in Jerusalem. After a while she bought the old man’s practice and, since most of the patients were by now accustomed to her, they continued to come. She acquired some new patients too: young women in trouble as a result of their involvement with British soldiers, who made contact with the lady doctor, knowing she would see them through.

As the number of immigrants grew, Henrietta could no longer deal with all of them, and already there were those who didn’t know Mrs. Herbst at all, as well as those who knew her but didn’t have the opportunity to enjoy her hospitality. Anita Brik, for example. Why do I mention Anita Brik? Because Manfred believed that, had Henrietta invited Anita Brik, Anita would have been helpful to her. Henrietta complained that work was piling up that neither she nor Firadeus had the time to do. If Anita Brik had been in the house with them, she could have been helpful to him too, copying texts. Often, he would stop in the middle and say, “I’ll copy it tomorrow”; then, “day after tomorrow.” And sometimes he would think to himself: Is it really necessary for me to sit and copy? Couldn’t I just mark the passage and give it to someone else to copy for me, as many renowned and prominent scholars do? Some of them don’t even read through a text before instructing a secretary or assistant to seek out certain material, which they locate in books and copy out, presenting the finished product to their employer. It wasn’t arrogance that made Herbst think he deserved to have others do his work, but fatigue and weariness.

Remembering Anita Brik, the idea that she might be helpful to him, and that he might help her too, was appealing. Several mounds of books cluttered his desk, and he didn’t get to copy what he needed from them, so let her come and copy. Most of all, he needed help with books he sometimes borrowed from Ernst Weltfremdt. Weltfremdt was a fussy person who lent books only to those who promised to return them in three weeks, saying, “If I leave my books with you indefinitely, you’ll put off reading them from day to day and from week to week, and, in the end, you won’t even glance at them. That won’t be the case if I limit the time, forcing you to read, find, and copy what you need.” In the past, it was simple for Manfred to say, “Henrietta, invite such-and-such a young woman.” Now it is hard for him to mention any woman to Henrietta. He even hesitates to mention Lisbet Neu, Professor Neu’s relative, to Henrietta, despite all the favors Neu had done for him. He had been a student of his and become a lecturer through his efforts, and Neu would surely be consulted about his promotion. All this notwithstanding, not only does he not invite Neu’s relative to his home, but he avoids mentioning her name. That woman — that Shira — has made him tongue-tied.

Chapter eighteen

Now that I have mentioned Shira, I will get back to Shira, who is the core of the book Shira, and whatever doesn’t pertain to Shira doesn’t pertain to the story. Again, Herbst’s thoughts were of Shira; some to her credit, others to her discredit. Herbst was thinking: If only Shira would say, “Go away and let me be.” Herbst was assuming that if Shira were to say “Scram,” he would take off and leave her. But Shira says no such thing and he, therefore, continues to come. Whenever he comes, she receives him warmly, so that, if we didn’t know what we know, we would imagine she was sitting and waiting for him. Herbst, seeing he is welcome, reaches out to caress her. Shira takes his hand and bends his fingers, like a hunter who catches a bird and clips its wings to keep it from flying. Herbst nurses his fingers and wonders: What does she have in mind? Her face is welcoming; her hands are rejecting. He takes a chair and sits down, or he paces around the room. He takes a cigarette and fills the room with smoke, his face registering rage. Shira is surrounded by clouds of smoke, enveloped by them. She too takes a cigarette, smoking and talking from within the clouds of smoke, telling him everything that has happened to her since his last visit. One day, she sprained her leg. Dr. Zahzam came. She describes the examination, how his hand glided over her leg. Herbst has a dim vision of Shira’s legs, which he recalls in all their intense loveliness as soon as they are mentioned. Herbst is perplexed: Why is Shira telling me about Zahzam? If she means to arouse my jealousy, I’m not the slightest bit jealous. Is it true that he’s not jealous? Yes and no. In Shira’s case, he’s not jealous; in other cases, he is. He once ran into Lisbet Neu and saw that the hairs above her lip had been removed. He was upset, as if she had taken something away from him. What did she take away? Was he expecting to kiss her lips? His entire relationship with her was quite straightforward. But any knowledgeable person knows — and it is true — that a woman who does such a thing does it because of a man. Which is to say that there is a man who is so close to her that he can say, “Those hairs are unbecoming,” or he may have said, “You would look better without them.” And, hearing this, she has the hair removed.

Back to Shira. Shira’s behavior is consistent. She invites and rejects, rejects and invites. Once, he sat her on his lap. Though she seemed not to mind, she suddenly slipped down and fled. Herbst repeats the same question: If she means to reject me, why is she so inviting? If she means to be inviting, why the rejection? When he pressed her, she said to him, “I don’t want to upset your wife; I have nothing against your wife.” If that’s the reason, then why was she so inviting to begin with? When he examines the situation, he sees that, even when she is inviting, there are limits.

As it happened, the thought occurred to him that Shira might be sick — that she was surely sick and was afraid he would catch her disease, which was why she had mentioned his wife, saying, “I have nothing against her and I don’t want to upset her.” Because, if she did have something against her, she wouldn’t have worried about infecting her with a disease that could be transmitted to her through him. This would explain why she had been at first inviting and then rejecting. As long as she was healthy, she welcomed him; when she realized she was sick, she began to reject him. In that case, he ought to have been grateful for the rejection. Not only was he ungrateful, he resented the fact that she rejected him. But Shira was different from him. Shira was in good control, imposing her will on his. Herbst took leave of Shira, sad and distressed — distressed by the rejection, and sad that he might already have contracted her disease. If he had the disease, then he was sick; if he was sick, he needed to be careful not to kiss his wife and daughters; above all, not to kiss Sarah, because children are more vulnerable to illness than adults.

A man’s imagination generates his actions. Herbst pictured his wife and daughters with an illness the doctors could not identify. Only Herbst knows the source of their malady, and he doesn’t disclose it to the doctors. They are in the throes of disease, all three of them. He goes from bed to bed in silence. It is a grave disease, all the more so because the doctors don’t recognize it, and, until they recognize it, they don’t know how to treat it. Picture this: There is one person in the world who could open his mouth and reveal the nature of the illness so the doctors could find a cure, but he is so cruel to his wife and daughters that he ignores their pain and refuses to tell the doctors anything. Who is that person? He is that woman’s husband and the father of those girls.

Angry and confused, Herbst went home, afraid he would find his wife and daughters in the throes of some painful disease. A host of afflictions, which Herbst had become aware of during the war, when he was mired in blood, came back to haunt him. Recalled through the power of memory and powered by imagination, they took over. Not content with skin and flesh, the blight was everywhere, and as it expanded the body expanded too. But what he witnessed during the war was inflicted by enemies, whereas now his wife and two daughters were afflicted through him. Zahara was also afflicted. You might think she was spared because she lived elsewhere, but she was exposed when she came to Jerusalem.

Herbst despaired of salvation. What he would have liked at that point was to find refuge, to be alone and consider what to do. In truth, there were no helpful thoughts available to him, and he didn’t have the power to change anything. But he must concentrate on what has happened to his wife and daughters before he loses his mind and does something crazy.

Herbst sneaked into his house like a thief in the night, compressing himself as he had never done before. He dwarfed his body, stuffed his head between his shoulders, tightened his limbs, shut his eyes, and held his breath. He would have been willing to crawl on all fours, just so no one would hear him come in.

Before he had a chance to emerge from his dwarfed state, Henrietta came toward him, holding out a letter. He stared at his wife and at the object she was handing him, wondering if the facts were already known. He was struck by two simultaneous thoughts. One was: Woe unto you. The other was: Now that the facts are known, there is nothing you can do.

Henrietta said, “A letter from Zahara.” Manfred asked in a whisper, “From Zahara?” Henrietta said, “Yes, it’s from Zahara.” Manfred repeated his wife’s words and said, “The letter — it’s from Zahara.” Henrietta said, “The child writes that she is about to go into the hospital.” Manfred heard and thought to himself: Then Zahara is the first victim. If Zahara was stricken, then her husband was probably stricken too. Since no man is likely to stay with one wife an entire lifetime, he would probably take another woman, and Zahara would probably take another man; four people would be afflicted because of him, because he was afflicted by Shira. These thoughts about the disease were intercepted by a dismaying thought: I heard Zahara was going to the hospital, but I wasn’t shocked.

Manfred was sad and depressed. He had never been so depressed. He forgot that he had the cure for his wife and daughters in his hands, but he didn’t forget that he was responsible for their illness. Henrietta said, “Don’t you want to read Zahara’s letter? She’s about to go to the hospital.” Manfred peered at Henrietta and asked in a whisper, “She’s going into the hospital? Why all of a sudden?” Henrietta laughed and said, “Why all of a sudden? What a question! It’s not sudden. She’s about to have the baby.” Manfred said, “So that’s it. I imagined all sorts of illnesses, but I never imagined she was going to the hospital because she was about to have a baby.” At that moment, he felt neither joy nor sadness, but his heart was pounding violently and relentlessly. Henrietta saw his agitation and said, “I’ll bring you something soothing to drink.” Manfred said, “If you’re going to bring me a drink, make it coffee.” At that moment, Manfred had no desire for coffee or any other drink in the world, but, to prove to Henrietta that he hadn’t changed in any way, he asked for something she wasn’t eager to give. She brought him strong coffee, which provoked him. Her conversation provoked him too. Actually, she spoke only of Zahara and said nothing that could irritate a fatherly heart. But he was concerned with something else, and two simultaneous concerns are more than a mind can tolerate. Henrietta, however, was unaware of this and didn’t stop talking.

Once again, day follows day. The sun shines; the moon and stars give light. The days are hot. At night, a pleasant coolness sweetens the city, treasured dew is released, grasses impart a fine fragrance, and people strive to enjoy what can be enjoyed. They leave work, come home, eat dinner, and take out chairs or a blanket, which they spread in front of the house to lie on. Before they have a chance to settle down, a curfew is announced, and they go back inside, annoyed at themselves and their entire household, only to be startled by the sound of gunfire, far away or nearby. There are two aspects to the curfew: it locks in and releases. Jews are locked in, forbidden to leave home; triggers are released, spewing rounds of terror and death. If this puzzles you, here’s another puzzle: these deadly rounds land wherever the people are.

The days are orderly, as is Dr. Herbst’s household. But now, instead of writing often to her relatives in Germany and those who left Germany and were dispersed throughout the world, Henrietta writes to her daughter Zahara. Henrietta’s letters are long. Sometimes, after putting the letter in an envelope, she has to weigh it to see if it needs an additional stamp. What does she write, and what doesn’t she write? She has never written such letters, nor has she ever written as often. If letter writers are rewarded, Henrietta receives her due, for Zahara loves her mother and answers every single letter. It must nonetheless be noted that the daughter’s letters are not as lovely as the mother’s. Don’t be surprised by this: Henrietta was born when the world was peaceful, and she could concern herself with such things as elegant script, whereas Zahara was born into a world debased by war, and everything in it was debased — handwriting, language, and all the rest. In any case, her heart is steady, and so are her letters; steady and easy to read. Even Henrietta, who never studied Hebrew, reads her daughter’s letters herself and considers each one a gift, every word a kiss. These are not words Henrietta would use to praise Zahara’s dispatches. Joy and deep delight go beyond language, beyond the words we utter.

Another letter arrived from Zahara. The first part was written in the hospital in Afula, the rest in Ahinoam. It was scrawled on wrinkled paper in gray pencil. The lines ran into each other, and some of the letters were unclear. Out of affection for Zahara, let’s take the time to read it. As we read, we’ll correct the language, close an eye to the spelling, and omit buts, onlys, alsos, indeeds, becauses, and various hemmings and hawings, as well as other superfluous and redundant words.

“Dear Mother, I was mistaken when I wrote to you last night that I was due to deliver. I can tell you now that, when they brought me to the hospital in Afula, it became clear that it was a gross error, so they sent me home as fast as they had brought me. When I got back, rather than let it go at that, everyone agreed that I was going to have twins. When I came back, they made a huge fuss, as if a baby had been born and left in Afula for the time being, until its brother was ready to be born. When everyone was tipsy on wine, they teased our nurse, who had taken me to the hospital, and many of the boys came to ask her if it wasn’t time for them to give birth, too, and whether they should hitch up the automobile and rush to Afula. Oh, Mother, if you had seen their grave, worried faces, you would have laughed. But she didn’t allow them to tease her and presented me and Shammai, the driver, to attest that she had said right away, in no uncertain terms, that the trip was not necessary. She said she had taken me to Afula because of Avraham, who had stirred everyone up, in order to show him there was no need to worry. But, Mother, dear, the drive back from Afula was so beautiful. The moon lit up the roofs of our villages in the Emek valley, and, wherever we went, we saw a welcoming crowd. As our vehicle drew closer, we saw that there were no people, only trees and bushes. Oh, Mother, we saw some small animal on the road too, with red eyes that seemed to be filled with yearning. I don’t know what kind of animal it was. Shammai, who is very well read, said what we saw was a rabbit. But Avraham said it was a fox. The nurse joined in the argument, but I don’t remember exactly what she said. Actually, it doesn’t matter. All I know is how adorable that little creature was, scurrying from left to right, from right to left. If it really was a fox, I am astonished not to have observed a single trace of slyness. The one thing I saw, as I already wrote you, was the longing in its eyes, a megadose of longing. Mother, you don’t know what mega means. It’s a very modern term. Everyone uses it a lot now, in cooking and in poetry. When writing a poem, you throw in that word. It means roughly this: a very, very large amount and a little more than that. You understand me, dearest Mama. Another thing. I kept hearing the sound of a violin. I thought it was my imagination. Then they asked me, ‘Do you hear that, Zahara?’ I thought I was imagining the question too, so I didn’t answer until I heard the nurse, Shammai, and Avraham arguing about the sound, unable to decide what instrument it resembled. Then I knew I was really hearing music, but there was no instrument there. It was simply the night, with its magic. Now, to end this letter, I’ll get back to my affairs and tell you what Avraham said: that my entire adventure is described in the Bible. That’s what he said. He’s in the fields now, so I can’t ask him the precise words. Go to the Book of Ruth and you will find a verse more or less like this: ‘I was full when I went off and just as full when the Lord brought me back.’ Oh, Mother, I’ve written so much that I’m afraid I’m wearing you out with all this scribbling. So I’m telling you that you certainly don’t have to read everything, nor do you have to show it all to Father. Just tell him that Zahara sends a megakiss, also a pat on the forehead. For you too, dear Mother, a kiss or two. No, no, no, Mother — I’m sending you megakisses. For you as well as for Father and Sarah. Your daughter, who loves you very much.

“If Avraham were here, he would send regards to all of you, so I can truly send regards in his name. Also, my regards to Firadeus and Tamara. To all of you, without exception. Zahara.

“See, Mother, when I can, I write a lot to you. So, remember, if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m busy and don’t have the time or because I have to get ready to go to the hospital. Stay well. Megakisses to you, to Father, to Sarah, and to all the people I already mentioned in my letter.

“Mother, I am really worried that you won’t have time to read all that I’ve written here. I see that I’ve written quite a lot. Still, I ask of you, don’t let it keep you from writing what’s going on at home. Write everything, including news of Jerusalem. I’ve heard that terrible things are happening there. That the Arabs are doing things it is hard to believe human beings are capable of. But I’m sure our neighbors in Baka wouldn’t behave like those savage Arabs. They have absolutely no reason to harm us. We have always been kind to them, and you, dearest Mama, helped many of them so much that they consider you an angel. What you did for Lucy from Lebanon, for example, whose babies were always stillborn and who wanted more than anything to have a child. You found her a trustworthy doctor, and she had a little boy. Is it possible that her boy would harm us? But I have no desire to philosophize or politicize, that is to say, to get into politics. Again, megakisses. Avraham just came in from the field. He says his hands are beyond holding a pen and asks me to send his best to all of you. Which is what I am doing, absolutely, as you see. Again, a kiss. Not one but many, many kisses, as I already wrote. Once again, Z.

“Mother, I almost forgot. Tamara must be back from her trip. What does she say about Greece? She is probably full of stories. Tell her that she is (pardon the expression) something that begins with a p, ends with a g, and has an i in the middle. She knows. She never once wrote me even half a word. Still, I love her, though she doesn’t deserve it at all, not one bit. Love and kisses again, Z.”

The days are orderly. Herbst maintains his order too. Out of a sense of duty toward the university, he puts aside the woman of the court and the nobleman Yohanan, to devote himself to his students. He confers with them and provides them with material for their papers. He reaches into his box of notes, takes out a handful, and offers to share them. He is generous and ungrudging toward his students, who will write articles based on references he has discovered, labored over, and collected, material that was previously overlooked. Some professors require their students to gather material for them. And there are professors who put their own name alongside the student’s, making themselves the coauthor, assuming, in their vanity, that it will be to the student’s advantage if they lend their name to the work. Not so with Herbst. Herbst takes what is his and offers it to his students without patting himself on the back and saying, “See how wonderful I am — how decent, how generous — while others are stingy.” His students sense this and are drawn to him. They allow themselves to venture beyond academic matters to personal concerns, to their deepest secrets. One of his students even confessed to an emotional tangle centering on a young married woman with a child, who shares his desk at the university. Herbst, too, allows himself to discuss nonacademic matters with his students. His conversations with them are like conversations with peers. One of the two students he ran into that Saturday night when he was with Shira was sitting with him once, later on, and Herbst was on the verge of saying, “Remember that woman you saw me with in the café, when you and your friend were arguing about poetry and linguistics, discussing the verse ‘O heavens, seek pity for me’? I said anyone with the courage to ask the heavens to plead for him is certainly fortunate. Now, my friend, though I know I don’t deserve it, I too sometimes hear my heart cry out, ‘O heavens, seek pity for me’!”

Gradually, the storm in his heart, which had been stirred up by Shira — by the thought that she might have transmitted some disease to him and from him to his wife and daughters — began to subside. You can’t imagine the scale of his terror. He leaped up repeatedly, alarmed for no reason. When a spoon or fork fell, for example; when the door was opened. After he began to calm down, Herbst felt as if he had a wound that was bandaged too tightly. When the bandage was removed, the pain vanished and he felt normal again. Herbst felt like someone who went out for a walk but was unable to move his legs. When he opened his coat and took off his hat, his feet felt light. Herbst had many metaphors for his soul. I have included two of them, relatively simple ones, for in that period his imagination was vivid, and his images were odd and remote. In one realm, there was no change — the realm of impending disease, which sometimes remained vague to him, formless or nameless. At other times, each disease assumed its classic form, its characteristic symptoms. He considered himself the primary source; the rest of humanity, both a source and an outcome. Before long, all the victims, including himself, were forgotten, along with their diseases, except for his wife, who succumbed to an illness the doctors were unable to diagnose or cure. He, too, forgot the source of her disease and no longer tormented himself with the fact that he could have shed light on its nature and thus its cure. All the fantasies that at first led him to rage, to self-torture, were transformed into pity for this innocent woman assaulted by so many ills. Because he pitied his wife, he tried to please her. There wasn’t a single good thing it was in his power to do that he didn’t try to do. Which wasn’t easy, at this particular time. Because Zahara was about to give birth, Henrietta was unusually nervous. She forgot about serving meals on time; she forgot to do his laundry; and, when the mailman gave her a letter for him, she forgot to pass it on. It happened once that an urgent letter arrived and was left in the kitchen, among the pots. If Manfred hadn’t needed a match for his cigarette, the letter would still be there. Luckily, it was a silly letter, an invitation to a testimonial dinner, one of many such events that take place in Jerusalem every day, honoring some guest who is passing through. Tables are set up for cakes, cookies, pastries, and wines and other beverages, and prominent men and women are invited. But not every prominent person is the master of his own time, and many of them have other invitations for that very hour. In such cases, a moderately prominent person — the lecturer Herbst, for example — is invited and introduced to the guest of honor as a professor at the Hebrew University. Being a well-mannered person, he remains silent and doesn’t say, “No, I’m not really a professor.” Fortunately, it was a silly letter, and, if he had never received it, he would have lost nothing. But the same thing could have happened with an important letter. Nevertheless, he did not scold his wife. On the contrary, he made an effort to reassure her. And this is how he behaved whenever possible.

This effort purified his soul and allayed some of his anguish. But it left its mark on his face, and the strain was quite obvious to the world.

It is the way of the world to see one’s own worries reflected in a friend’s. A man with a miserable wife blames his friend’s sorrow on his friend’s wife, a man who is having trouble with his children blames his friend’s trouble on his children, and so on. Taglicht was a bachelor and childless. What troubled him at that time were those factions that split off from the Haganah to act on their own, contrary to the policy of restraint adopted by the moderates in the yishuv, by the Jewish Agency, by the bi-nationalists, by the best of the English. When Taglicht heard that Tamara Herbst belonged to one of these factions and was involved in terrorist activity, he surmised that her father was worried about her. It didn’t occur to him that Herbst knew very little about Tamara’s activities, that, like most parents, he was not well informed about his children’s lives. Especially in matters such as these, which are carefully guarded and concealed lest they reach the wrong ears.

Taglicht was nineteen years older than Tamara. She therefore thought of him as a member of her father’s generation. Until Tamara went to study in Tel Aviv, he used to address her as if he were an old man talking to a child. That was how he behaved until the day Zahara came from the kvutza, bringing Avraham-and-a-half with her, at which point Taglicht began to treat Tamara as an adult. Henrietta took note of this and said, “Dr. Taglicht, why do you make an old lady out of Tamara? Why, you knew her when she was in the cradle.” Taglicht answered, “One of these days I’ll have to treat her as a grownup, so I might as well begin now.” Since Tamara remained silent, he said no more. After this exchange, Tamara tried to justify his new attitude and was careful not to respond to Taglicht in her usual frivolous way. When Taglicht saw Herbst’s worried face, he understood that he was distressed because of Tamara, because she belonged to that faction, and because she was involved in terrorist activities. He decided to seek her out in order to talk things over with her, to convince her to reconsider. At first, he had intended to revert to his original manner, to approach her as he used to when she was a child, so she would see she was still young and immature. After further consideration, he realized that she would be more likely to acknowledge the implications of her actions if he approached her seriously.

It was easy for Taglicht to go to Herbst’s house but difficult to find Tamara there, for she would fly off as soon as she finished breakfast. Where to, who knows? Still, he found her. He addressed her seriously, without reproach, speaking not as someone with a monopoly on the truth, but as someone whose heart is filled with concern. He talked on and on, until he came to the subject of politics. He began explaining English diplomacy and the strategy of the Colonial Office, which were designed to defeat Zionism and abrogate the Balfour Declaration. Terrorist actions that disrupted the policy of self-restraint were thus welcomed as a step toward the destruction of the yishuv. Tamara stood and listened. She gazed at Taglicht as if she did not know to whom his words were directed. She let him talk and assumed a bewildered expression, as though what was being said had nothing to do with her. Then her expression became questioning, as if to say, What are you after? and these two expressions alternated with a coy one: Though I don’t understand what you are saying, I’m willing to listen. When he paused to give her a chance to respond, she looked disappointed and said, “I thought you were going to say something nice. That you are in love with me, for example. Instead, you talk politics. Tell me, dear doctor, why haven’t you fallen in love with me? I can provide endless evidence that you won’t find another girl like me.” Taglicht looked at her and said, “I admit, Tamara, that I was denied a clowning tongue. Not that the subject can’t be treated lightly, but I was denied the talent bestowed on you in such profusion.”

As he was leaving, she called after him, “I was sure you would look back, that our eyes would meet and disturb you. But you went off without looking back. I didn’t turn to watch you go either. If you like, we could stop at that café on the corner. I hear they have all kinds of ice cream. If you don’t eat ice cream, because you believe the old doctors who say it chills the stomach, then you can have a warm drink. I’m surprised at you, Dr. Taglicht, for listening to every old wives’ tale. Those old doctors have weak stomachs, so of course they catch cold from ice cream. That’s no reason to deprive yourself. You renounce enough things for religious reasons.” Taglicht said, “You think it’s my idea to renounce them? The Torah requires this of me and of all Jews.” Tamara smiled, as she tended to do whenever she felt she had the upper hand, and said, “The Torah doesn’t require anything of me.” Taglicht said, “Why do you exclude yourself from the general public?” Tamara said, “I assume you know as well as I do that the rules you invoke are no longer generally accepted. They are upheld by stubborn individuals who refuse to relinquish the authority enjoyed by their ancestors in medieval times. Like the clerics, they want to exercise power over everyone. I admit that some of them are tolerant; even though they cling to superannuated notions, they don’t hold us in contempt, and they even mix with us.” Taglicht said, “Me, for example?” He was obviously pleased with his question. Tamara said, “Actually, I had in mind a young man you don’t know.” Tamara was about to mention his name but had second thoughts, as he was suspected of a terrorist act in which she had also been involved. Taglicht said, “Didn’t you want to tell me something about…about the fellow who — how did you put it? — ‘clings to superannuated notions’ and is an acquaintance of yours?” Tamara realized from his question that he knew to whom she was referring. She laughed inwardly at the phrasing of the question, at her attempt to conceal, which was, in fact, revealing. She affected innocence, pretending to be unaware of the gravity of the issue. Tamara said, “Last Hanukkah I was invited to a latke party. There was a man there who wouldn’t eat, because the pancakes were fried in the fat of a goose that hadn’t been slaughtered by one of those fellows. You know whom I mean — a fellow with a chin braid and a braid over each jaw, which the Orthodox call earlocks and a beard. There was a doctor there, a native of the Caucasus, descended from mountain Jews who had always been armed like free men and never known the yoke of the Diaspora. The doctor asked that man, ‘Why aren’t you eating latkes? Aren’t they good?’ He wasn’t ashamed to say, ‘Because they were fried in the fat of an improperly slaughtered goose.’ The doctor said, ‘The entire Diaspora is the outcome of those dietary laws. If Jews didn’t designate someone special, a shohet, to slaughter animals, they would have to do it for themselves. They wouldn’t be intimidated by a drop of blood. They would defend themselves, and Gentiles wouldn’t dare to attack them. But Jews are so afraid to spill blood that they deliver themselves to be slaughtered. They would rather let their blood be spilled than spill the blood of their enemies. Why? Because they’re not in the habit of slaughtering anything, not even a pigeon.’“

Taglicht asked Tamara, “And what do you think?” Tamara said, “I’m my parents’ daughter. They don’t observe the dietary laws.” Taglicht said, “I’m not asking about the dietary laws. I’m asking if it isn’t good that we have rules about slaughter and appoint a shohet to do the job — someone God-fearing and virtuous, who knows that it is only because the Torah lets us eat meat that he is allowed to tamper with life; all Jews are aware of this, and not everyone may slaughter. What do you think about that, Tamara?” Tamara said, “I was never confronted with that question before, so I haven’t explored it.” Taglicht said, “You want ice cream, and I detain you with words. Let’s go into that café.” Tamara said, “We don’t have to go to that particular one. If you like, we could stand outside for a while or walk a bit. Wherever we go, we’ll find other cafés.” Taglicht said, “If you want to walk, I’m certainly agreeable.” Tamara said, “On condition that we end up at some café.” Taglicht said, “Agreed. Meanwhile, let me tell you something.” “Is it something that happened to you?” Taglicht said, “I could tell you that sort of thing. My life is no secret. The events are known. I could give you an earful, enough to bore you. But now I’ll tell you about someone else. If the subject isn’t of interest, the person it relates to may be.” “Who is it?” “Hemdat.” “The one who writes…What is it he writes?” Once again Tamara feigned innocence. She took a mirror from her purse, looked into it, arranged her hair, looked up at Taglicht, and said, “Hemdat. I see.” Taglicht said, “Hemdat told this to me. He lived in Jaffa, in the Neve Zedek neighborhood, in a house owned by a Sephardic Jew. A German gentleman lived there too, who was one of the managers of the Wagner factory. He may have even been a partner to the owner, who was a descendant of the Templers. He himself may have been a Templer. I don’t recall the details. Hemdat thought this German was an extraordinary person. Before the war, all Germans were considered extraordinary — not to mention the Templers, who were, as a rule, ethical, upright, and God-fearing. Hemdat’s manners were such that he kept his distance, rather than risk intruding on these neighbors, and he maintained somewhat inflated illusions about their character, qualities, and intellect, because they were compatriots of Goethe and Schopenhauer. One day, they had visitors from Stuttgart, among them a large blonde girl, a beauty of the sort that had never been seen before in Jaffa. Picture to yourself, Tamara, the meaning of a beautiful girl from Germany in those years, in this country. Now our land is full of lovely, charming Hebrew girls. Hush, Tamara, hush. I include you among the charmers. If you insist, I include you among the beauties too. Are you satisfied? Here’s the café.” Tamara said, “First tell me, then we’ll go in.” Taglicht said, “Hemdat, like many poets when they see a lovely girl and are attracted to her, composed garlands of verse to her. Whether on paper or only in his head, he never divulged to me. His manners were such that he kept his distance, rather than risk intruding on her, and as a result he attributed every virtue to her. Besides, in that period he used to read German books, whatever could be found in Jaffa. And all the fine characteristics ascribed to their women by German poets, Hemdat attributed to this girl from Stuttgart. One day, Hemdat was standing in his attic room looking out the window. He saw the girl in the garden, holding a chicken. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her blonde curls mingled with the white chicken feathers, and her blue eyes matched the pure blue sky. In fact, Hemdat recounted, at that moment he thought he detected an evil spark in her eyes, the sort you see when someone is about to do evil but is too ruthless to be aware of the nature of the act. However, a young man, confronted with his idol, sees beauty even in such eyes. He suddenly heard the shriek of an animal, a heartrending sound. He looked up and saw the girl beating the bird on its head. Hemdat didn’t immediately grasp what had happened. When he did, he turned away from the blonde with the dead bird in her hand, and, if you’ll excuse me, he threw up. Yes, he threw up. On the face of it, the girl was not to blame. It is the way of the world to eat the meat of animals killed in this fashion, and a Gentile woman who needs meat kills, cooks, eats, and serves her family, and no one gives it a second thought. Now for the rest of Hemdat’s story, as he himself related it to me. Not about the belle of Stuttgart, but about that fellow with the earlocks and beard.

“After that incident, Hemdat fled from his room and roamed the streets, the avenues, the shore, the beach, the vineyards — any place that wasn’t fenced off, with the exception of the German neighborhood, which he chose to stay far away from. After several hours, when it was already night and he was plagued by hunger, he returned to Neve Zedek. He passed the synagogue and, hearing the drone of voices, he went in and found people engaged in Torah study. One of them, with earlocks and a beard like all the others, was leading the lesson. This person was the shohet. Hemdat gazed at him, searching for a sign of ruthlessness, of savagery. He found none. On the contrary, he saw a thread of kindness stretched across the man’s face. He asked about him and learned that he was a man of sterling character and high moral qualities, that he was especially generous in offering hospitality and charity for the poor.” Tamara said, “Here comes Father.” Taglicht followed her eyes and said, “I don’t see him.” Tamara said, “But I do. Here he comes.” Taglicht said, “Now I see him.”

Herbst appeared. His face was clear, with no trace of sorrow, probably because he was pleased to find his daughter with Taglicht. Herbst said, “I don’t want to interrupt. Continue your conversation and your walk.” Tamara said, “Come and join us. We’re heading for a café. Come on, Manfred. Come.” Herbst said, “How can I come if you call me Manfred? What will people say? He has a grown daughter and sits in cafés with young women. Isn’t that so, Dr. Taglicht?” “Of course, of course,” Taglicht answered, without having heard what Herbst said. After a few steps, Taglicht stopped and said, “Excuse me, but I can’t go with you. Weltfremdt is waiting for me.” “Ernst or Julian?” Tamara said, “Father, it’s as if you’re asking ‘odds or evens?’“

Neither one of the Weltfremdts was waiting for Taglicht, but he wanted to give the father and daughter a chance to be alone together. Tamara said, “Have you changed your mind?” Taglicht said, “What can I do? They’re waiting for me.” Herbst said to his daughter, “We’ll let him go now if he promises to come to us for supper.” Tamara said, “Eggs in a glass, tea in a glass, and a lump of sugar.” Taglicht said, “I’ll try to come.” Tamara said, “You see, Manf — I mean, Father — how much influence I have. He didn’t say, ‘God willing.’“ Herbst smiled. Taglicht smiled and took leave of them.

It was odd for Herbst to be going to a café with his daughter. He had never sat in a café in Jerusalem with either Zahara or Tamara. After ordering what he ordered, he began searching his mind for something with which to entertain his daughter. He found nothing. He wanted to tell her one of those anecdotes about university personalities. But he felt that the time and place required something special, not the sort of subjects they discussed at home. It occurred to him that he could ask her to do the talking. But he felt that he should entertain her. Again, he searched his mind and found nothing suitable to say to his daughter. While he was searching and failing to find anything, a newsboy came through, shouting at the top of his lungs that eight Jews had been killed on Mount Carmel. There was chaos in the café. The newspapers were snatched up, without much attention to proper change, and were all gone in a minute. Herbst barely managed to get a copy.

Herbst and his daughter sat in the café. He had a cup of coffee, she had a dish of ice cream. She was leaning over him, and they were both reading the names of the victims and the brutal details of the murders. After reading the entire account, Herbst scanned the other items in the paper, one about an attempt to smuggle arms from Syria and one about an interview with a Jew imprisoned in Acre who had been sentenced to hang.

This is how Herbst and his daughter spent the time on the one occasion in their lives when they were together in a café. Herbst suddenly said, “Time to go. Mother might worry about us. You didn’t finish your ice cream. It’s all melted. I’ll order another. You don’t want it? Then let’s go.”

On the way, Tamara said to her father, “We didn’t even mention Alfreda Weltfremdt, who just got engaged.” “Engaged? To whom is she engaged?” “You didn’t see the notice? She’s engaged to someone whose name I forget.” Herbst said, “Mrs. Ernst Weltfremdt must be very happy.” Tamara said, “Why single her out?” Herbst said, “Because now she has something to write a poem or a play about. But we, who will be invited to hear her verses, are not to be envied.

Taglicht was always careful not to lie, because one lie leads to another, ad infinitum. There is no end to the pile of lies, and, even if there was no choice about the initial one, you end up with an appetite for lying. Now that he had told Herbst and Tamara that he had promised Julian Weltfremdt to stop in, he wished to sweeten the lie with a dose of truth.

Julian Weltfremdt was not used to having guests. Since the death of his little girl and the loss of his library, he no longer invited people to his home. If a guest did stop by, it was a red-letter day for Mimi. Apart from her piano and the pretense that she was a protector of the needy, she had nothing to be happy about.

That day, she had bought artichokes for supper. When she saw Taglicht in her house, she was elated and invited him to eat with them. Julian, who knew Taglicht would refuse, remained silent. He could see in her eyes how eager she was to share the pleasures of her table with a guest. He said to Taglicht, “I know you pharisees don’t give an inch on ritual, even when it’s a matter of pleasing someone. But, if I promise to make sure Mimi doesn’t feed you anything unkosher, will you perhaps indulge her and eat with us? What can a kosher Jew eat in the home of an infidel such as me? Mimi, what did your grandmother feed that merchant from Galicia, the one your grandfather used to deal with? Pickled fish and whiskey. We don’t have any pickled fish and whiskey, but we have sardines and some superb cognac. But I don’t know if it’s kosher — it was a gift from an Englishman I rescued from an Arab shepherd who was about to thrust a knife in his back.”

Taglicht knew it would be right for him to accommodate these two solitary people and eat with them. Since the day their daughter died, they had lived together like two mutes. But he had promised Herbst and Tamara that he would come there for supper, so he couldn’t do the decent thing; he did what was required to keep his promise. Mimi gazed at him, her lovely eyes veiled by a film of grief. Julian, like most men who cause their wives sorrow without knowing it, noticed this and was annoyed at Taglicht, a gentle man who had suddenly become harsh. Taglicht stammered a bit and took leave of them.

When he left, Julian followed him out and said, “Wait, and I’ll show you a shortcut.” Taglicht said to him, “When did you last see Herbst? I wanted to talk to you about him. I don’t know anything specific. I know only what I see on his face. He looks tormented. If you see him, pay attention.”

Chapter nineteen

When Taglicht left the Weltfremdts’, he was haunted by the bleakness that prevailed there, even though it was overshadowed by the happy face of the lady of the house when a guest arrived at her long-forsaken door. Taglicht, true to character, tried to ignore what he had seen, to avoid thinking about his friends, but he didn’t succeed. He found himself reflecting on these two solitary people, who had suffered a double blow. After their furnishings and books were lost, their daughter died. When the child was alive, she had sweetened their plight and linked their souls. When she died, the link was severed and their souls became separate. They live together now, like the piano she brought with her from her father’s house and the crumbling box of books, the remains of his collection. Julian has no use for the tunes, and Mimi has no use for the books. What connects Julian and Mimi? Fear of change, habit, compassion, and sadness. Mimi’s sadness adds to her charm; Julian’s sadness makes him angry. They are alike in one respect: they are both kind. But they are different in that he communicates through reproaches, whereas she uses her lovely voice. Taglicht was feeling more and more troubled, until his thoughts shifted back to the Mount Carmel victims. They had been in his mind from the time he left Herbst until he entered the Weltfremdt house. There was no end to the murder, no limit to the massacre. Jews were killed in other countries; Jews were killed in this country too. Before a boy could distinguish between death and murder, he heard about Jews being killed. Taglicht himself remembered that one day he went to school and saw the city weeping. He learned that a Jew, a milkman, had been murdered. After a while, the culprit was found, and he told how he had killed the milkman. They were both early risers. The milkman used to get up early to cart milk from the country to the city, while he used to get up early to cut firewood and bring it to the city. That day the Gentile said to the milkman, “Jew, give me your head, so I can test out my axe.” The Jew laughed. The Gentile swung his axe and chopped off the milkman’s head. Everyone was still in shock about the milkman when another incident occurred. A Jewish midwife was called to some village by a local gentlewoman and didn’t return. The area was searched, but she wasn’t found. After a while, the gentlewoman got married. She hired workers to renovate her palace. One day they went to check something in the cellar. They noticed a barrel filled with honey, opened the barrel, and found the body of a woman, the missing midwife. While everyone was still in shock about the midwife, another incident occurred, involving a family of nine, all of whom were murdered. In each of these cases, Jews had been murdered secretly, and everyone — Jew and Gentile alike — was upset by the bloodshed. Suddenly, the events of Kishinev occurred: Jews were killed openly. From then on, it seemed to be acceptable to spill Jewish blood, and pogroms became common.

The massacre continues, and there is no end to the horrors that have transpired in the world, with Jews the principal victims. A Jew seeking refuge from trouble is pursued by trouble wherever he goes. Even here, there is no respite. What can one do to avoid being murdered? Some of what has to be done is being done by the Haganah, teaching us to defend ourselves, to protect our property, to prevent our enemies from destroying us. Taglicht doesn’t want revenge; he wants to contain the trouble. He enlisted in the Haganah as soon as he arrived in the Land of Israel. He goes where he is sent, without concern for his own safety, never avoiding danger. But the Haganah’s approach has to be scrutinized, because it protects and defends but never attacks, and, as long as you don’t attack, the enemy has the upper hand. If he kills, he kills; and if he fails to kill, what has he lost? He is merely driven off, unharmed. This subverts the Haganah. If we were to show the enemy that we can be like them, they wouldn’t be so eager for our blood, and we could prevent the murder of countless Jews. Until it becomes clear to the Arabs that Jewish blood does not come cheap, we have to act on the talmudic principle: “When someone comes to kill you, beat him to the draw.”

Taglicht did not arrive at this conclusion through his conversation with Tamara. On several occasions, when he was standing guard alone at night in Mekor Hayim, Beit Yisrael, or some other Jewish neighborhood, he had thought to himself: It’s good that we’re guarding the neighborhood; it would be even better if we were to make the first move.

These thoughts were difficult for him to accept, for they were contrary to the opinions with which he had grown up and which governed most of his actions. Not only calculated actions, based on consciousness and understanding, but the simple actions one engages in unconsciously. If he was ambivalent about some issue, when it was time to act, he followed the logic he had grown up with rather than the dictates of his heart, gleaned through his own experience. One night, while he was guarding Mekor Hayim, he had sensed that the enemy was approaching. He had not responded on the basis of “when someone comes to kill you, beat him to the draw.” He had fired into the air, allowing the enemy to escape. An enemy that escapes returns again. The trouble is averted for a time, but it isn’t eradicated. Raising his eyes, Taglicht looked around, like someone in conflict who seeks advice from others. The street was empty. There was no one in sight. Whether or not a curfew was in force, Jerusalem was shut in. Jerusalem was accustomed to the fact that its citizens stayed in at night unless there was an emergency. Only Taglicht was out on the street — because he had to go to Herbst because he had promised to have supper with him because he had left so abruptly because he had said he had to go to Julian Weltfremdt’s when he didn’t really have to go and it was just an excuse. And later, when he got to Julian’s, he left quickly, because he had promised Herbst he would come there.

This muddle compounded his weariness. His soul was already worn down by the news of the Mount Carmel attack. In his heart, the eight victims killed together did not constitute the number reported in the headlines and announced by the newsboys. To him, every one of them stood alone, distinct and alive, until he was struck by the murderers’ gunfire and fell dead in a pool of his own blood and the blood of unborn generations.

A bell was ringing at the top of a tower. Taglicht heard it and hurried to the bus stop. He wanted to ride to Herbst’s house, since it was almost suppertime. When he got to the bus stop, it was empty. No people, no buses. He looked in all directions, hoping to find a taxi. He saw a small car. It was hard to tell whether it belonged to a Jew, an Englishman, or an Arab. Then, all of a sudden, he heard drums and dancing. He looked up and saw that one of the two Rabinowitz hotels was brightly lit, that the porches and the entire building were crowded with men and women. He realized there was a wedding in town.

Taglicht was a frequent caller at the Herbst home. Julian Weltfremdt was not. That night, Weltfremdt called on the Herbsts. This was a novelty, since he didn’t visit very much, because of the comedies and tragedies: the comedies couples perform for guests and the tragedies a guest sees for himself.

At this point, it seems appropriate to tell about Julian Weltfremdt, as I have done about most of his friends. Though I already told about his books, I didn’t tell very much. Still, I’ll skip the major part of his life story and relate a most trivial detail, one that was on the lips of everyone in Jerusalem. It’s about those long brown cigarettes that took over the mouths of Jerusalem’s intelligentsia. If I were to go to Tel Aviv or Haifa, I wouldn’t be surprised to find them there, poking out of countless mouths.

Previously, Julian didn’t smoke or even touch a cigarette, because he needed his fingers for his books — to straighten their edges, to collect hairs he might find between the pages, to brush away specks of tobacco. As you surely know, it is not only the elders of Israel who keep every hair that falls out of their beard in a book, but the nations of the world behave similarly. Not with hair from their beard, as Jews do because of its holiness, but with the hair of the woman they love, which they keep in a favorite book. This also applies to the tobacco that drops into a book while they read.

Previously, Julian Weltfremdt didn’t smoke, nor did it occur to him to smoke. As the number of immigrants from Germany increased, each seeking a means of support, one such immigrant began peddling cigarettes. He called on Julian Weltfremdt with his wares. Julian Weltfremdt said to him, “I smoke only those long brown ones.” Julian assumed they were unavailable in the Land of Israel. The following day, the peddler brought what he had asked for. Julian Weltfremdt said to the peddler, “I see you are conscientious and dependable. Every morning, at 6:30, I would like you to bring me two packs. If you are a minute late or a minute early, you won’t find me in.” From then on, the peddler came at 6:30 and brought him cigarettes. Weltfremdt would take his two packs, put them in his pockets, and, when the time came, go to teach his students the wisdom he was hired to teach. Then he went to dinner, after which he stopped in a café, where he sat until he had finished the cigarettes in one pocket. He would then go to another café and sit there until he had finished the last cigarette in the other pocket. This is a tale of cigarettes and of Julian Weltfremdt, who was not originally a smoker. But, once he became one, many smokers were influenced by what was on his lips. If I hadn’t become so involved in this trivial tale, I would comment on the dynamics of influence. It does seem odd that we set up conferences, arrange meetings, speak, mumble, orate, preach, lecture, publish newspapers, and write articles, pamphlets, and books — and all of these enterprises don’t affect even the shadow of a cloud. Yet someone appears, does what he does, quite casually, and attracts a host of followers.

Now, to get back to Herbst.

Herbst stayed at home much of the time. On days when he had no classes, he worked at his desk, with his box of notes at his side. Sometimes out of interest; other times out of habit. Herbst discovered nothing new, but his slips of paper proliferated just the same. These papers seemed to procreate and produce more of their kind. Their offspring were similarly productive. By degrees, he disengaged his mind from Shira, as though she had no reality. He hadn’t come across her since that night when he had become alarmed by the idea that she was sick, because he tended to stay home and didn’t roam in those places where one might run into her. Nor did he go to her. In that period, Herbst was free of terror, no longer preoccupied by dread of the maladies that can overcome a person. He was working again, not with the great enthusiasm of former days, but as a scholar with work to do.

Something else was new. The colleagues Herbst had thought would undermine his promotion made no effort to harm him, while those he had assumed would be his champions did not lift a finger on his behalf. In a second hearing, things could change and the situation could turn around. It isn’t only world history that changes, hostile nations becoming allies and vice versa. This is true of individuals as well. Those we count on to be loyal supporters don’t put in a good word for us, and those we consider thoroughly hostile make no attempt to undermine us. This statement may sound severe, but its truth remains undiminished. Since wars have become more frequent, murders more violent, and bloodshed more common, man’s value has declined, the power of principles has dwindled, hate has lost its sting, love has forfeited its honeyed flavor, and all things are determined by the impulse of the moment.

Henrietta, a sensible, composed woman, heard that Manfred’s promotion was being discussed again, but she was not especially excited, just as her stewpot wouldn’t care whether it belonged to the wife of a lecturer or that of a professor. Herbst himself wasn’t very excited either. Over the years, he had come to accept that ageold wisdom: when a man becomes a professor, it doesn’t add to his happiness.

After his article (“Must We Accept As Truth…”) was published, Herbst went back to the heart of his book. The vacuum created in his note box because of the article began to fill up. But not his heart. He considered abandoning the central thesis on which his book was to be based and using the vast amount of material for separate articles. When a man is young, he reaches out in all directions, collecting endless data, filling boxes, crates, drawers, pads, notebooks. When he is older, he surveys the array of material and sees that he won’t live long enough to make anything of it. Herbst began sorting his papers and saying, “These notes are appropriate for this article, the others for another article.” One article, properly written and complete, is more significant than a mass of material over which you have no control. It is a fact that many scholars build their reputations on heavy books, dense with quotations, but a perceptive reader realizes that his conclusions were obvious from the beginning.

Herbst and Weltfremdt were once sitting and discussing the major work of a renowned scholar whose broad knowledge was astonishing. Taglicht, who was also there, didn’t say a word. Herbst said to Taglicht, “Dr. Taglicht, either you haven’t read the book or you don’t realize how great it is.” Taglicht said, “I read it, and it reminds me of something.” “Of what? What does it remind you of? But let’s not get off the subject.” Taglicht said, “As a matter of fact, this story makes the subject even more immediate.” “All right.” “So, it’s about a preacher interpreting a text. After twisting several verses, making a muddle of them, and confounding the words of our living God, he wished to validate his ideas and prove them reasonable. How? With a parable. He turned to his audience. ‘Gentlemen and scholars, I’ll tell you a parable. Once there was a great and awesome king, like Alexander of Macedon. This king attacked his enemies. He mobilized all his forces and defeated them. Now, gentlemen and scholars, another parable to support my ideas. Once there was another great and awesome king, like Napoleon, who attacked his enemies. He mobilized his forces and won the war. Now, gentlemen and scholars, one further parable to support these ideas. There was once a great king, also awesome, like Nicholas, czar of Russia, who was attacked by his enemies. What did this Nicholas do? He mobilized his forces, sent them to war, and defeated his enemies.’“

Herbst and Weltfremdt were totally bewildered. Where was the parable and where was the message? Weltfremdt suddenly leaped up, embraced Taglicht, and said, “My dear friend, come, let me embrace you. I would give a thousand and one of my years to anyone willing to tell those scholars that their books are constructed exactly like that preacher’s lesson. He cites one proof after another, though the second one adds nothing to the first. Dear Taglicht, you are such a treasure. Whatever the subject, you have a comment that eclipses it. I would trade all the folklorists for one of your parables. You should write it all down in a book. That would be a good book, and I could find good things in it.” Taglicht said, “In Galicia, where I come from, they would probably say, ‘An ordinary pharmacist is a fool.’“ Weltfremdt said, “I assume you brought up pharmacists to make a point. So, where you come from, in Galicia, they would say that an ordinary pharmacist is a fool. Why?” Taglicht said, “A man who spends all those years in school and is content to be a pharmacist rather than study medicine is foolish, right? This applies to folklorists, who have so much material and are content to present it as folklore rather than make it into a story.” Weltfremdt said, “Then why don’t you write stories?” Taglicht said, “I’m like those philosophy professors who aren’t capable of being philosophers.”

Having mentioned Taglicht, let me mention Lisbet Neu, to whom Herbst planned to introduce Taglicht. Despite the fact that a number of years have passed since Herbst met Lisbet Neu, she is still at the peak of her charm, as she was when he first saw her. How old is she now? Probably about twenty-seven. She is older than Zahara, but Zahara is already a married woman and almost a mother, whereas Lisbet Neu is alone with her widowed mother, in a world circumscribed by her home and office, with nothing more in it. Living a religious life, fulfilling the commandments, dealing with financial concerns, she is deprived of life’s pleasures. If Lisbet Neu were to join a kvutza, would she behave like the other young women there? She may already be taking liberties and she may be different than she was to begin with. What do we know about other people’s lives? Her body conveys innocence. Still, one wonders about her. She had the hair above her lip removed. A girl doesn’t do that sort of thing on her own. Someone else must be influencing her. Who could it be? Herbst suddenly felt a sharp pang, a pang that comes of jealousy. Herbst was sitting with friends, discussing ethnography and similar subjects, imagining: Lisbet, if I ever have the privilege of kissing your mouth, I’ll say to you, “Whenever I saw those silken threads that shaded your lips, my own lip began to quiver with the wish to kiss you.” The slightest male quality can drive us wild in a woman. Shira, for example, seems part male; yet, when you are intimate with her, you know there is no one quite as female.

My novel is becoming more and more complex. A woman, another woman, yet another woman. Like that preacher’s parable. As for the man whose actions I am recounting, he is lost in thought that doesn’t lead to action. I am eager to know what we will gain from this man and what more there is to tell. Having taken it upon myself to tell the story, I will shoulder the burden and continue.

Chapter twenty

A young woman arrived from the kvutza, bringing good news. The news came as a surprise. For Henrietta there could be no better news. Zahara had given birth to a boy. A boy was born to Zahara. Henrietta knew her daughter was about to give birth. Still, when the news came, it came as a surprise.

Henrietta moves through the house, but her mind is with Zahara. From the moment Henrietta received word that Zahara’s son was born, she has been walking from room to room. At times, her heart is light; at others, it is heavy. In either case, the walls of her house are constricting. They keep her from flying off to Zahara. In spite of this, she is totally with Zahara. In a thousand ways that begin in the imagination and then become real, she is with Zahara, even though one of them is in Afula and the other in Jerusalem; one is in a valley, the other in a glen. Let it be known that this is how it is. She sees Zahara in bed, her face radiant with light from her firstborn. Zahara’s son lies at her side, wrapped in the tiny garments she gave Zahara for him. Henrietta picks him up and hands him to Zahara, so she can feed him. It would be good for Zahara to drink malt beer every day, for it stimulates the milk. But, with so many new mothers there, who has time to think about Zahara’s needs? If her own mother were there, Zahara would lack nothing.

All of which suggests that she isn’t there. In truth, she is still in Jerusalem. Why? Because it’s a three-and-a-half-hour trip from Jerusalem to Afula. If you have a car for the trip. If you have no car, then it’s truly a problem. There are people with servants who call and order a car, and, when it comes, they let it wait as long as they like. Henrietta and Manfred, even now, when they are so eager to see their daughter, have to go to the telephone office and look up “Car Services” in the directory. If the directory is intact, it’s simple. Otherwise, they have to run to another office. There they find what they are looking for and ask about car service to Afula — when it leaves, whether there is room for two. By the time they get an answer, the car has left. They ask about the next one. A clerk answers, “Hey, take it easy.” They decide to try the bus. But the bus station isn’t listed in the directory. Why? Because two competing companies have suddenly merged into one and adopted a new name. They go into town to look for the bus and don’t find it. Even if they do find it, they don’t find the driver. They find the driver, but he doesn’t know when he’ll be leaving. Why? Because the road is closed. Why? Because of Arabs who are demonstrating against Jewish immigration. Until the speeches are over, the roads will be closed. They go to the office of the car service, because sometimes what can’t be dealt with on the telephone can be dealt with in person. The clerk in charge yawns in their faces and doesn’t dignify them with a straight answer, because he doesn’t need any more passengers, all the cars having already left. As for tomorrow, he lacks the imagination to think that far ahead, and, besides, it’s too much trouble.

Herbst, who had undertaken the search alone this time, was on the verge of despair when a passerby noticed him. He said, “Dr. Herbst, what are you doing here in town? I see you are about to take a trip. Are you, perhaps, leaving us forever? Just between us, I would run away too. If not because of the Arabs, then because of the English. If not because of both of them, then because of our leaders. Our orientation, Dr. Herbst, our orientation is truly — how shall I say? — defective. And it would be a waste of breath to say more.” Rather than waste his breath, he turned to other, more worthwhile, subjects. What did he say, what did he not say? Whom did Herbst’s daughter marry, and are both parents equally pleased? Often, the father is pleased and the mother isn’t, or the other way around. Sometimes both parents are pleased, but not the daughter. He stopped in mid-conversation. Why? Because a fly fell into his mouth because the city was full of flies because the streets were full of garbage, and, when garbage cans were placed on the streets, their lids were stolen. Before Herbst could escape, the man swallowed the fly and resumed his monologue, in the course of which he suggested taking the bus. But first, they had to find the bus stop, as the Mandate police favor the Arabs and are hostile toward us and our buses, so they move the bus stops on a whim.

While Herbst was engaged in his struggles, Henrietta was busy packing. As she put their things in the suitcases, her mind drifted back to Zahara. Again, the two of them are together. One is in bed; one is near the bed. Why not on a chair? Because the chair is occupied. A young man has come to be with his wife, and he sits on the chair, paying no attention to Henrietta but hearing everything she says to Zahara. This prevents Henrietta from telling Zahara some of the things she would tell her if no one else were there.

While Herbst was struggling to turn up a strip of space for himself and his wife, a new car drove by, with a man and woman inside. He was middle-aged; she was young. He was a Zionist official; she was his secretary. They were touring the Emek settlements, because he was going off to the lands of our dispersion to report on the accomplishments of our young men and women in the Emek. But first he was going to the Emek, taking his secretary along. He was traveling in a special car, so he could get back for a round of farewells tomorrow afternoon in Jerusalem and tomorrow evening in Tel Aviv. Or was it the reverse — Jerusalem in the evening and Tel Aviv in the afternoon? His secretary, of course, deserved the credit for writing things down and reminding him of everything in due time.

Back to the Herbsts. I’ll leave Herbst outside, struggling to arrange transportation, and turn to his wife, who is busy packing. Henrietta used to go off for several days without much preparation, without luggage. Now, a day trip requires great preparation.

While Henrietta considers every dress — whether to take it or not — her daughter Sarah clutches at her mother’s skirt and doesn’t let go. The mother studies this child of her old age — how she has grown, how much she needs her mother. She picks her up, as if to test her weight, as if that will determine whether she can leave her behind and go to Zahara. She can’t be left with Tamara, who is busy teaching the girls in Mekor Hayim writing and language. If Tamara takes time off, that will be the end of it. Even though she isn’t paid, she has many competitors, teachers in training who need experience. Henrietta can’t leave the child with Firadeus, because her mother doesn’t allow her to sleep away from home.

Henrietta was at a loss as to where to leave the child. She thought of Dr. Krautmeir, who had dealings with young women of every class and ethnic group, and had always found her helpers. But, because of what had transpired between her and Krautmeir, there was now a barrier between them. What happened was this. They met at a tea honoring a prominent woman who had been a social worker for many years. When Dr. Krautmeir arrived, her eyes were red. Since it was obvious that she had been crying, she smiled sadly and explained, “I’ve come from a condolence call to a mother whose daughter died, a girl of about fourteen. She died — actually, she was murdered. It was a double murder. I just hope the daughter’s death won’t lead to the mother’s death.” How did the girl die? In the summer, the mother and daughter exchanged their Jerusalem apartment for one in Tel Aviv and spent their vacation there. The girl was thrilled, after being closed in by the stones of Jerusalem for so long. She suddenly saw, stretched out before her, an endless expanse of soft sand, a sea full of water. She spent her days on the beach, running in the sand, bathing in the sea, enjoying the company of girlfriends, reading. Each afternoon and evening, she used to come home to eat with her mother. One evening, she didn’t come home. The police were informed. They searched for her all night. In the morning, they found her lying on the beach, without a breath of life. She was taken to Hadassah Hospital and revived. The girl couldn’t remember what had happened, other than that she had met a man, who spoke to her, said various things, and, in the course of the encounter, lit himself a cigarette and gave her one too. Beyond this, she remembered nothing. About three months later, she had an abortion, from which she never recovered. Shortly afterward, she died. It’s not clear if some medical quack was at fault, nor was the seducer and rapist tracked down, because the family preferred to protect its good name and hush up the affair. The story of this rape was followed by many others in which the family chose not to pursue the rapist, in order to protect its good name. These tales of rape were followed by tales of promiscuous young women, who make themselves available to anyone, and, when they become pregnant, find someone to go to for an abortion. Some of them continue on this course; others are permanently damaged, never regaining their health. One of the guests said, “If these girls knew that, when they get pregnant, no doctor will perform an abortion, they would behave less casually.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “In some cases, it is a medical responsibility to relieve a woman of her fetus.” Another woman said, “If it’s a matter of health, of course it’s a doctor’s responsibility to act.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “Not only in the interest of health, but whenever an unmarried woman is involved. Otherwise, she’ll put herself in the hands of some quack and risk her life. Until society changes its attitude toward a single mother, she is lost. It is the duty of every doctor, especially a female doctor, to relieve these women of their fetuses, not only because of health considerations, but because not every woman can bear the shame. And it is society that should be ashamed of its shameful attitude.”

Dr. Krautmeir was not usually talkative, especially in matters that call for silence. But she was overcome with the zeal of a professional woman who has renounced family life, speaking openly and from the depths of her heart. Dr. Krautmeir said, “Instead of abstractions, it would be worthwhile to have some examples. If you like, I will tell you a bit about my practice. One evening, two strange women came to see me, their eyes darting about nervously, looking into every corner of the room, as though they were being chased by their shadow. One of them looked not quite like a lay person and not quite like a nun. It was hard to judge the other one, who was swaddled from head to toe. I could tell from her shoes that she was young. The young woman’s companion began to mutter words that didn’t connect, and each series of words was punctuated by curses and imprecations. After the initial torrent, I said to her, ‘I can’t figure out what you’re saying.’ She continued to chatter without making sense. I said to her, ‘I beg you both, please go. I have no time for fantasies. If you can tell me what really happened, well and good. Otherwise, please leave.’ She continued to spout nonsense. I got up, went to the door, and said, ‘The door is open. Please go, and take along your swaddled madonna.’ She grabbed my knees and said, ‘Don’t be angry, doctor. This girl comes to the convent sometimes.’ I said, ‘All right, I understand.’ Then I said, ‘Take off your dress, my child, and I’ll examine you.’ Her companion said, ‘I told you she comes to the convent, but I didn’t mean to say she’s one of the nuns. She’s from the village, just a village girl whom the nuns feel sorry for. They sometimes pay her to help with the menial work.’ I said, ‘Very well. Let me see what’s what with her.’ The girl wept as she undressed. I examined her and said, ‘At such-and-such a time, you will enrich the world with a new life.’ She began to sob, and the older woman shouted, ‘That’s impossible!’ I said to her, ‘Why is it impossible? Everything is all right.’ She made some response, swallowing her words. I listened in silence. Finally she said, ‘She can’t just wait and have the baby. She is a nun. She lives in the convent, and, unless she has an abortion, she will take her own life.’ Having confessed this much, she proceeded to tell the whole story. It was not very romantic. One of the gardeners — not one of the young ones — used to hang around the convent garden, and they got to know each other. And so on. Now, I ask you, ladies, what should a doctor do in such a case? Should the mother be abandoned for the sake of a fetus, or should the girl be rescued from certain death?” One of the women responded, “To tell you the truth, Dr. Krautmeir, my interests are somewhat limited, and they don’t extend to Christian girls.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “Since your altruism is reserved for Jewish girls, I’ll tell you another story, not about one Jewish girl but about two or three of them. And if that isn’t enough for you ladies, let me assure you that these girls came to me in a single week — not a special week, but a perfectly typical one.” Henrietta Herbst stood up and said, “You are worse than Hitler. He destroys the Jews in his domain, and you destroy Jews who are even beyond his domain.” Since this exchange, the two women had avoided each other and were not on speaking terms. How did Henrietta Herbst, who was usually so reserved, come to say such things? Once, when Firadeus took sick, she sent one of her neighbors, an attractive young girl, to fill in for her. Mrs. Herbst was pleased with her, but she wondered about the sad look on her face, unusual for a girl of her age. At lunch, she asked why she was so sad. She told her that her husband played cards, drank too much, and sometimes spent his whole week’s salary in one night on arrack and cards — all because they were in such distress over the fact that they were childless. Why were they childless? Because, before they were married, she became pregnant by him and was afraid that, if her brothers found out, they would kill her. She heard there was an Ashkenazic woman, a doctor from Germany, where all Germans come from, who could arrange things so no one would know what the girl didn’t want to have known. She found out where the woman was and went to her. The woman doctor asked, “What do you want?” Being too shy to answer, she was silent. The doctor looked at her and said, “In that case, this is what you have to pay.” She gave her all the money she had. The doctor counted the money and said, “Is that all?” She said, “I have more.” She said, “How much?” She told her. She said, “And where is the money?” She told her about a Sephardic woman, the wife of a government official, who owed her two months’ salary and refused to pay; this woman was so mean that she took back all the gifts she had given her previously. The doctor said what she said. Then she did what she did and said, “From now on, you don’t have to worry.” Now that she was properly married, she wanted to have a child but couldn’t become pregnant. She was miserable, and her husband shared her misery. When he recovered from his drunkenness, he would cry and bemoan his fate. Sometimes, because this was so hard for her to bear, she would run and bring him arrack, so he could drown his sorrow. When he was sober, he was likely to go and kill that woman doctor, then take his own life.

So much for Dr. Krautmeir. Now I might as well get back to our friend from the kvutza. While Henrietta was tormented because she was determined to get to Zahara, although she had no one to leave Sarah with, help appeared from an unanticipated source. The very person who brought news of her grandchild’s birth offered to look after Sarah for however much time Zahara’s mother and father wished to spend with Zahara. She had come to Jerusalem to spend some time in a rest home in Motza, and, if she stayed there three or four days less, it would be no great loss to the Jewish people.

Zahara’s friend stayed to take care of Zahara’s sister so Zahara’s parents could visit Zahara and welcome Zahara’s child. Henrietta hadn’t been out of Jerusalem since the day she went to the Dead Sea with Manfred and Tamara. Now that she was leaving town, she was surprised at how easy it was to go and how easy it was to leave Sarah. She remembered what Manfred had said the day they came back from the Dead Sea: “We should go on a trip such as this once a month.” How many months ago was that? Not only had she not left Jerusalem in all that time, but even in Jerusalem itself she hadn’t been out for a walk, either alone or with Manfred. Now they were going off together for a number of days to see Zahara and her child. Henrietta was comfortable and relaxed, and so was Manfred. He, too, was surprised to be able to detach himself from all his commitments. Herbst was not one of those scholars who believe the world won’t survive without their writings, but he believed he wouldn’t survive without his work. It was suddenly demonstrated to him that he could leave his work in the middle. When they received word that Zahara had given birth, he was in the process of copying notes out of a book. He abandoned this task in the very middle, yet his mind didn’t wander back to it. When he did think about it again, he couldn’t remember where he had stopped. No sooner did he remember than he forgot again, although, when he sat copying, it seemed to him that he was making a great discovery. He put all that out of mind and watched the mountains, hills, and valleys unfurling and changing shape as they unfurled. A single color was smeared across the sky, mixing a variety of hues and altering them continually. Everything is subject to change — earth, sky, people. Henrietta glanced at her husband, wondering about him. He looked so boyish; his face glowed happily, just as it used to when he and she were young. Manfred was vigorous and happy in those days. He carried a heavy stick in his hand, and he sported a Rembrandt-like hat and a small mustache that was something of a joke. His manner was light and easy. She was not unattractive either. Her limbs were light; her entire body was lithe and lovely. Her blonde hair attracted considerable attention. When she walked into the municipal train station, with her briefcase tucked under her arm, more than one young man watched to see which car she went into and followed her. But she had eyes only for Fred, whom she still called Manfred. They were seeing a lot of each other when the war broke out and Manfred had to go to fight. She was convinced that this would be the end for her, because there were already rumors that not everyone who went to war came back alive. Her parents were also convinced that it was time for her to give up Manfred, for, when the sword of war hangs over a man’s head, his attachment to any young woman will surely wither. Manfred was of another mind. Two days before he left for the war, he married her. It was a hasty wedding, because he had to leave. As soon as they got up from their wedding bed, he went off to fight. But his steadfast love earned him the goodwill of guardian angels, and he returned from the front safe and sound. Whenever he had leave, he spent the entire time with her. Have a look at Dr. Herbst: here in the Land of Israel, he has not enrolled in the Haganah, but, there in Germany, he performed heroic deeds for which he earned extra time at home. It was still the custom, there in Germany, to reward such deeds, even in the case of Jews. He has already forgotten most of the feats that earned him extra time with his wife, but Henrietta never forgot. He came home in uniform, a dashing hero. Other soldiers saluted him, and when he saluted a superior, the response was respectful, as though they were equals. Until the revolution, when he discarded his arms and came home a free man. They were sure the trouble was over. Eternal joy was on the horizon. But in fact the end of the war ushered in a series of revolutions, making life even more difficult. Before one ended, a more violent one began. Because of these upheavals, life was disrupted. There was no electricity, no fuel for heat or cooking, no milk and bread deliveries. The baker didn’t respond to those who needed him. Food was scarce, and shopkeepers either closed their doors or opened them and said, “Come in and see the empty shelves.” There wasn’t even water in the faucets. Worst of all, the world was ravaged by many serious epidemics, all of which spread to Germany. Many young women died; Henrietta lost quite a number of relatives and close friends. They say that more people died from disease than from combat. When man is cruel to his kind, nature is cruel to mankind. Henrietta was not affected. Except by the shortages. There was no money shortage. On the contrary, they had millions, even billions. But the millions and billions didn’t buy food. At about this time, Zahara was born. No one who saw her then could believe that little worm would grow limbs and put on flesh. But she grew, exceeding her parents’ expectations. Now that child has borne a child.

Henrietta glanced at her husband, suppressing laughter. It certainly was funny that that child had borne a child and they were on their way to see the child she had borne. Manfred felt he should say something. His mind shifted from birth to birth, from the birth of his daughter’s son to the birth of his own youngest child, the child of his old age; to that day when he found the nurse Shira, who attended Henrietta. And events transpired that couldn’t be explained logically or in any other way, for, though he had never known any woman other than Henrietta, he was drawn to her. Henrietta looked at her husband again and was puzzled. From the moment she received news of the birth of Zahara’s son, she had never stopped thinking of Zahara. Now, all of a sudden, she was thinking about Manfred. She shifted her mind back to Zahara, but her thoughts drifted to Manfred. He appeared again, bent over Zahara’s crib, his shoulders so broad that the baby was hidden and only he was visible. Now that they were on the way to see Zahara and her baby, Manfred was doing exactly what he had done then, when she was a baby.

The car leaped down mountains, making its way through the valley. The mountains that had raised themselves along the way were no longer in sight. They were replaced by broad plains, brown and picturesque, dotted with gleaming red roofs. Over the rooftops, the sun was etched in the sky. Clouds of blue, silver, and a nameless whiteness unmatched on the earth below made shapes in the sky. A rare warmth, tempered by breezes, delicately scented, and embroidered in finely tinted color, encircled the earth. Sound, like a song, rose from the brush and bramble; from the wings of insects; from the branches of a solitary tree, a remnant of onetime abundance; from the bell of the ram leading the flock. Then, suddenly, everything was silent, but for the sound of a car with three passengers: a man, a woman, another man. The man was the Zionist leader who was touring the Emek. The woman was his secretary. Their companion lived in the Emek and was telling them what to report to our brothers-in-exile. The car raced ahead, because of the two events the Zionist leader was scheduled to attend before leaving the country. It vanished in a trail of exhaust, allowing the Herbsts to enjoy the sky above, the earth below, the sun, wind, scent, view, sounds, the tiny houses sprouting up from the midst of these Emek settlements. Their driver, who was from one of the houses in one of those settlements, turned toward the passengers, calling out the name of every cluster of gleaming roofs. He called out the name of the kvutza he had belonged to before becoming a driver and, with a lilt approaching song, told them when that kvutza was founded and by whom, what it had endured, and how many rounds of settlers had passed through. A kvutza is short on years but long on history. It isn’t years that make history, but what one does with them. The driver had a long history too, having spent time in every kvutza in the Emek, either as a member or a long-term guest, and he had earned the right to consider himself a founding father.

The driver succeeded in doing what the road failed to do: distracting Herbst, so that all thoughts of Shira slipped away. When the driver fell silent, the sounds of the Emek — its vegetation and wildlife — took over. Herbst’s mind was flooded with memories of events that preceded Shira. How wonderful those days were. If he was occasionally disturbed by fantasies about women, they were short-lived, because it was clear to him that he had no interest in any other woman. Manfred took Henrietta’s hand, pressed it fondly, and said nothing. Henrietta sat, her hand in his, choosing not to intrude on him with conversation. Manfred remained rapt in thought. His thoughts were a muddle, but all of them were about Henrietta: how they got to know one another, how they confided their feelings to each other, how they happened to marry, how they were before coming to this country, and how they are now, here in the Land of Israel.

Chapter twenty-one

It was an hour before dark when they arrived at the gate. Those who worked in the fields were not back yet. There was no one in sight, not a voice to be heard. The entire village was still, the stillness broken only by a murmur from the water tower. Bright greenish light glowed, and a warm blue, contained in the light and held together by air, floated through the atmosphere. The scent of thistle infused with sunshine radiated from the bushes at the gate. Here I would find the leisure to write my book, Herbst thought, and, at the same time, he was happy that here he would not be burdened by his book or required to do any work. He turned to his wife and said, “So, Henrietta, here we are at Zahara’s.” “Yes,” Henrietta said, “here we are at Zahara’s.” Though the entire trip was because of Zahara, Henrietta was surprised to have arrived at Zahara’s home. She felt she ought to do something — sit up straight, for example; something, the nature of which was unclear to her. She made herself small and stammered, “Yes, here we are at Zahara’s.”

The gate was closed. In front of the gate, on a crooked pole, a warning was posted: because of hoof-and-mouth disease, no guests will be admitted and all strangers are absolutely forbidden to enter. This was the announcement posted by all the communal settlements before a holiday, to discourage an onslaught of guests. Though the holiday was over and there were no others anytime soon, the announcement was still posted. Herbst, who was a disciplined person, accepted the decree regretfully and resigned himself to the fact that, despite the long trip, he wouldn’t see his daughter. Henrietta was also law-abiding, but it was clear to her that no power in the world was going to prevent her from seeing her daughter, especially now that she had given birth. The driver sounded his horn, a long drawn out blast, to get someone to open the gate. The Herbsts stared at him, bewildered. Didn’t he see the warning; couldn’t he read? They had noticed a book resting on the driver’s seat. It was a detective story; still, he must know how to read. The driver blew his horn again. The Herbsts stared at him again, not perplexed, but openly pleased and approving.

A tall, thin young man, with a splendid shock of blond hair poking out from under a battered hat, made his way to the gate and opened it lazily, asking the bus driver in a whisper, “Which hotel garden are these two turnips from?” The driver laughed to himself and didn’t answer.

Feigning graciousness, the young man asked, “How can I help you?” The driver answered, “You could, for example, tell Zahara’s son to run to his grandpa and grandma.” The young man studied the guests and said, “Perhaps you are Zahara’s parents?” Henrietta said, “Why ‘perhaps’?” The driver added, “If you don’t believe them, I can testify that I found them in the Herbst castle.” The young man lowered his head, brushed away the lock of hair that dangled over his eyes, and said, “Come to the dining room. You can have some tea while I go and tell Zahara.” Henrietta was puzzled. Why to the dining room rather than to Zahara’s? Before she had a chance to say anything, she and Manfred were in the dining room. Before they had a chance to catch their breath, a drink was set before them.

Still in their travel clothes, the Herbsts sat at a long table on which there were a tray with a kettle, two glasses, bread, and jam. A plump and jolly girl stood by, with smiling eyes and black curls dancing around her rosy cheeks. She looked at both of the Herbsts and said, in a tone at once coquettish and absolute, “This jam is good in tea, as well as on bread. We make it ourselves. The fruit is grown here in Ahinoam. Please, try some. I’ve already poured your tea.”

The Herbsts sat, tea in hand, their eyes on the door. Henrietta’s glass was already half-empty, and Zahara still hadn’t come. Other people came. But not Zahara, not Avraham-and-a-half, her husband, not the person who went to call Zahara. Some other young man came in, accompanied by a young woman. He was the driver who had brought the Herbsts to Ahinoam, and she was one of the kvutza members. Zahara, however, didn’t come. Henrietta looked around, nervous and irritated. She looked at Manfred, who was sitting there indifferently. Fred was odd; from the moment he set out on this trip, nothing seemed to matter to him except the pleasure of travel. The whole point of the trip was Zahara, yet, now that they had arrived, it didn’t matter to him whether Zahara appeared or not. Henrietta put down her tepid tea. The driver discarded what was left, took the kettle, and poured her fresh tea. Henrietta thought: I should offer the driver some tea. She also thought: I’m not even a tea drinker. It’s Fred who drinks tea. He quotes Goethe, who said he preferred a delicate drink such as tea to poisonous coffee; still, when it’s time for a drink, he asks for coffee. Henrietta was engrossed in her thoughts when Zahara came. She came running. She came suddenly. Henrietta didn’t see her coming, yet there she was. Avraham-and-a-half was with her — Avraham-and-a-half, who was Zahara’s husband and the father of Zahara’s son. In a flash, mother and daughter were embracing one another, entwined in each other’s arms, the daughter’s arms wrapped around her mother, the mother’s arms wrapped around her daughter. As they embraced, they kissed and kissed again, holding on to each other and kissing all over again. They clung and were so tightly entangled that it was hard to tell them apart. If this was not a manifestation of the wish to merge, to be one body again, I don’t know what it was. Zahara suddenly let go of her mother and flung herself on her father’s neck, hugging him and giving him a protracted kiss. After a time, she kissed him again and said, “Father, you’re here.” Manfred was enveloped in his daughter’s arms, unsure whether he had kissed her or not. After a moment’s reflection, he kissed her on the forehead. Then he offered his hand to Avraham-and-a-half. Taking his son-in-law’s hand, he felt weary, a weariness that irked him. He heard Zahara’s voice. She seemed to be saying something. He looked up at her, noting that her face glowed and her mouth was bright with happiness. She was saying, “Now, my dears, now come and I’ll show you my son.”

They went down the dining-room steps, which were lined with two rows of well-trimmed myrtles, and past an old cistern on which Shomron, the watchman’s partner, was stretched out. Shomron eyed the two creatures who trailed behind Zahara. They looked weird, their clothes were weird, their speech was weird; everything about them was weird. He was debating whether or not to bark at them. He jumped toward Zahara and looked into her eyes for a clue. Zahara didn’t notice. He began scratching with his right hind leg, as he always did when he couldn’t figure out what to do. He shook his ears and considered: Does Zahara want me to bark at these twolegged creatures who have latched onto her, so she can scold me, thus demonstrating that she is protecting them from me? But no, I won’t raise my voice, and I won’t abandon my good manners. That may be how Zahara is, but that’s not how I am. He flexed his ears, relaxed his leg, and continued to watch the odd pair that tagged along at Zahara’s heels, their mouths in constant motion, producing incessant noise. He understood that she was ignoring him because of them. He stood up on all fours, rounded his tail, and opened his mouth wide but made no sound, observing to himself: They deserve to be bitten rather than barked at. He settled down again at the other end of the cistern, keeping an eye on Zahara’s retinue.

Zahara pointed out two matching structures, more attractive than the others and somewhat separate from them, surrounded by an expanse of green grass spread with diapers and other such items. Zahara said to her father and mother, “See that house there, to the left, with the red roof? Father, if you insist on looking down, you can’t see it.” Father Manfred said, “What is that over there, in that box that looks like a hut? Rabbits? There really are rabbits? I haven’t seen a rabbit since I came to this country. The red roof you were talking about — what is it? Didn’t you mention a red roof?” Zahara laughed gaily and said, “That red roof is the roof of the house chosen by all four village babies — among them your grandchild, who happens to be my son — as their home. Now, Father, you know what I’m showing you. Mother already understands.” Henrietta nodded and walked briskly toward the porch, where there were four cribs covered with netting.

Zahara ran to one of the cribs, took out a tiny creature, held him in her arms, and lifted him up so her parents could see him, saying, “This is my son.” She took him out quickly, picked him up quickly, lifted him quickly, showed him to her parents quickly, said he was her son quickly — all before her parents could make a mistake and look at some other baby. Henrietta handed her purse to her husband. Manfred looked at her questioningly. Why had she handed him the purse, and what was he supposed to do with it? Henrietta took her daughter’s child and stared at him as hard as she could. Then she leaned over him, lifting him close to her eyes, and bent her head over him until his eyes met hers. Anyone who saw his stare would say it was no random stare, that it was deliberate, that Dan knew who she was. Henrietta said nothing. She watched him without a word. As she watched, something occurred in her heart that she had never been aware of before and could not identify. Days later, she understood that a new love had possessed her at that moment. Grandma Henrietta stood gazing at her daughter’s son, with no thought of relinquishing him, ever. Zahara stood across from her, gazing at her son cradled in her mother’s arms. After a bit, she cooed to him, “Dandani, this is your grandma. And here, on the sidelines, is your grandpa. How about you, Grandpa, aren’t you interested in your grandson?” “Me?” Manfred retorted in alarm, “I’m afraid to hold him. He might cry.” Zahara laughed and said, “If he cries, let him cry. He’s used to it. Take him, Father. You’ll see how delightful he is.” Manfred stretched out his arms and said, “Come, come to Grandpa.” Zahara laughed. “He’s clever, but he doesn’t know grandfather language, and he doesn’t know how to walk either. Put down the purse, Father. I’ll hand Dan to you.” Zahara took her son from her mother’s arms and handed him to her father. Grandfather Manfred was trembling. He finally said, “I’m afraid he’ll fall. You take him, Mother.” Zahara said, “Which mother do you mean, my mother or his mother? Come, Dani. If you want Grandpa Manfred to pay attention to you, you’ll have to enroll in the university.”

The dog suddenly leaped out of his spot and, with a yelp of excitement and pleasure, began to run. As he ran, he turned his head to announce that the workers were coming back from the fields. The paths were soon humming with voices.

The woman in charge came out of the children’s house and stationed herself on the grass, holding an infant in each arm. Children stood behind and in front of her, waiting for their parents, who were returning from the fields. Some stamped their feet impatiently; others did tricks to show Mommy and Daddy what they could do. Before they knew it, these children were scooped up. One was on his father’s shoulders and another on his father’s head, having appropriated his father’s hat for himself. One was buried in his mother’s arms. A little girl was stroking her mother’s cheeks and saying, “Love your mommy?” All sorts of pet names and personal dialects were heard.

The workers were all back from the fields. The unmarried men and women ran to the showers, and those with families rushed off to see their children, stopping briefly at the office to ask for mail. Not all the children in Ahinoam were from that settlement. The kvutza was still young and hadn’t produced many children yet, but, since its climate was so pleasant, several children from less comfortable settlements were spending the summer there.

The entire village was bustling. In one corner, a father was carrying around a child. In another, a mother nursed a baby. Nearby, a young man pranced around with a little girl whose father had been killed on guard duty. Next to them, someone was standing on his head, clapping his feet together. Slim girls with cropped hair, dressed in men’s clothing, their shoulders like those of young boys, gurgled at their infants. Alongside each such girl was a suntanned boy with a peeling nose. The setting sun cast its final light, as it did each day, releasing specially created colors in a band that extended around the village from the westernmost reaches of the world. Birds were heard returning to their nests with a final chirp before hiding themselves among the branches for the night. The rabbits scurried around in their box and were suddenly still. A gentle breeze blew. All this lasted less than a minute. Then the bell was heard, announcing dinner.

From all the houses, huts, and tents, they assembled, filing into the dining room. Some had come to eat; others waited. The dining room was small, and there were two shifts, one entering, one leaving. Zahara was occupied with her son, so she didn’t come to supper. Avraham-and-a-half was busy helping Zahara, so he didn’t come to supper. But her father and mother were seated under the clock, between the windows and across from the door, in a spot reserved for important guests, from which they could see everyone in the kvutza.

The Herbsts were in the midst of a circle of young men and women. Some were cutting vegetables; some were spreading margarine on their bread. Some drank tea; others gulped water. Some were calm; others noisy, either behaving as they had learned to at home or demonstrating their liberation from bourgeois table manners. They all ate their fill. Then someone looked up from his bowl and, seeing the Herbsts, leaped up and went to sit with them. Others followed, welcomed them, poured their tea, peeled their cucumbers, sliced their radishes, made them salad and sprinkled it with oil and salt, and handed them dishes, the salt-shaker, the cruet of oil, urging them cordially to enjoy everything. As Herbst picked up his tea and was about to drink, a pretty young woman came running with sugar she had obtained especially for the guests. Someone asked, “Has Zahara been informed that she has guests?” Someone else answered, “By the time a speedy fellow like you makes a move to go tell Zahara, it will be time to tell Zahara’s grandchild that his grandpa and grandma are here.”

The entire kvutza responded warmly to Zahara’s parents. Some knew the Herbsts, because they had been in their house, enjoyed Mrs. Herbst’s cooking and Dr. Herbst’s conversation, fingered the books on his shelves, and been stimulated by his ideas. Others didn’t know them but had heard about them. Everyone welcomed them, as young people tend to do when company is congenial. There were some guests they were required to welcome: tourists who were ridiculous and whose questions were just as ridiculous; official guests from the national bodies that determined the budget; cultural windbags who assumed they were indispensable. But the Herbsts were welcomed because of Zahara and because of who they were. They were “like us,” and, even if our problems weren’t theirs, when we discussed them, we didn’t run into a stone wall. Furthermore, although Herbst was a scholar, he wrote academic papers in ordinary language.

The two Heinzes — Heinz the Berliner and Heinz from Darmstadt — took charge of the Herbsts. They sat with them and told them what had been happening in the kvutza and what was about to happen. They sat talking until a few members of the Culture Committee came to invite Dr. Herbst to give a lecture. “A lecture?” Herbst asked in dismay. “As I was leaving, I stored all my wisdom in a desk drawer. It didn’t occur to me that anyone here would be interested in my merchandise.” He scrutinized the young people, their amiable charm and lively innocence, and it seemed odd to him to stand up and lecture on his usual topics, which, though important in themselves, were of no consequence here. They pressed him, suggesting all sorts of subjects. He listened and responded, answering with repeated qualifiers that contained not a trace of scorn, only wonder that anyone was still interested in such things.

While the Culture Committee was negotiating with Dr. Herbst, a group of young women were engaged in conversation with Mrs. Herbst on such subjects as cooking, baking, sewing, and weaving. Mrs. Herbst thought in wonderment: When they come to Jerusalem, they pursue everything except domestic activities; here, their interests are exclusively domestic. She had some questions too: Why aren’t the thorns at the gate being destroyed, when do the thistles wither here? In her experience, they wither in July, yet here they are still in bloom. Mrs. Herbst also asked why the olives were preserved in soda, which spoils their taste. She still remembered eating marvelous olives when she first came to the country. The two Heinzes left with the Culture Committee, to give Herbst a chance to prepare his lecture. Herbst watched the Heinzes go, thinking: They’re both more attractive than that beanpole Zahara chose. He turned to Henrietta and asked, “Where is Avraham?”

Chapter twenty-two

When dinner was over, the bell at the top of the water tower rang once again. It was a long time since the bell had sounded so gay, so inviting, so full of promise, saying, “Come everyone, come. You won’t be sorry. You can trust me not to mislead you. Remember, when that windbag was sent to talk to you, I hinted that you wouldn’t miss anything if you stayed away. He accused you of hating culture, not realizing it was because you are cultured that you stayed away. Now I’m telling you to come. You can count on me. It will be worthwhile.”

After the children were put to bed, their parents arrived in the dining room. They had been preceded by the unmarried settlers, who were preceded by those who knew the lecturer. Before long, the room was full. People who weren’t particularly attracted to lectures came too; there was nothing else for them to do, since everyone else was going to the lecture.

The supper dishes were cleared, the floor was swept, the doors and windows were opened, and the fan was turned on to disperse the smells. Only the odor of cigarettes clung to the walls and the window screens. The tables were arranged as if for a holiday: a short table connected two long ones, adorned with a large green bowl full of wildflowers. Everyone found a seat. Those who tended to stay until the very end sat near the lecturer; those who tended to leave midway through sat near the door. The chairs in the middle were empty. After a while, they were occupied by the people who had been hugging the door.

Herbst was still wavering about his subject. He was in the habit of lecturing to students who come because of the subject, who have made a choice; when he lectures to them, he knows what they expect. The intellectual level of this group of youngsters is not clear. Some of them know things most people don’t, yet they don’t know what a beginning student knows. Some of them read a great deal; others never open a book. To whom should he direct his words? In the past, when he gave public lectures, he knew what would be appealing. Now that he hasn’t given one in years, it is hard to decide. He considered several subjects and settled on “The Art of Byzantium.” Lectures on art are always popular. But he had second thoughts. Without illustrations and a slide projector, such a talk would be boring. He considered lecturing on the Crusaders in Byzantium and thought better of that, because he would first have to review what happened along the way, and it would take an hour to arrive at the gates of Byzantium. He considered lecturing on the Crusaders in general, but there was another problem. It is generally assumed that the Crusades had a positive outcome, opening up the mysterious Orient to Europeans, but he is not of this opinion. If he intends to challenge the accepted view, he would have to elaborate, and this is neither the time nor the place. He considered lecturing on contacts between Russia and Byzantium, and the Byzantine influence on Russia. Since these youngsters are sympathetic to Russia, the subject would appeal to them. But he hesitated, lest this lead to political debate. He hates the political debate that ensues from scholarly discourse.

One of the young women brought him a pitcher of water and a glass. She struck him as a model of Byzantine beauty. It occurred to him that he could lecture on images of Byzantine women. However, he would be embarrassed to discuss their behavior in mixed company. He rejected this and thought of lecturing on the poet Romanos. But the poets who influenced him ought to be mentioned, and he didn’t know a single related poem by heart, nor could he expect to find a text here. As he reviewed all these possibilities, they converged, reminding him of Constantinople and bringing to mind the truism “All good things must come to an end.” He decided to begin there, roughly in this vein: Constantinople was greater than any city known in Europe, so much so that it became the standard for everything great and enduring. As he began outlining his talk, he pictured a dead body seated on a throne, wrapped in a magnificent cloak, wearing the headdress of the Greek patriarch on its head and flanked by robed priests holding lighted candles and intoning mournful chants and dirges. He remembered that he once went into town to buy an oil lamp, so it would be possible to sit in the garden at night when it was too windy for a candle, which would please Henrietta. He remembered meeting up with the funeral of the Greek patriarch and being unable to buy the lamp, because the stores were closed. Since then, another patriarch had been appointed, who was subsequently removed and replaced by yet another, but he still hadn’t bought the lamp. Herbst managed to think many thoughts in a short time and to sort them out before contemplating the patriarch’s funeral itself. Now that he was ready to contemplate the funeral, he began to consider lecturing on the prohibition against keeping corpses overnight, which was a rule in the holy cities of Greece. This subject prevailed.

Herbst stood at the head of the table in the dining room. On the table were a pitcher of water, a thick round glass, and a bowl of flowers. On his left sat Zahara, her face beaming with love for the entire world — the world being the kvutza and all its members, plus her mother and father. But all this amounts to nothing compared to Dani, who embodies all love. Henrietta sat to the right of Herbst. She hasn’t heard her husband lecture in years. Now she is here, at his side, while he speaks. Though she knows him so well and is thoroughly familiar with his voice, she looks up to see if that is truly Fred, for his voice has a new ring, a ring of confidence. His voice has something in it of Neu’s tone and of that of all the teachers he is fond of — yet it is his alone, unlike anyone else’s True, she hasn’t heard every voice in the world; still, it is clear to her that his tone is unique and no one in the world can match it. Avraham-and-a-half stood at a distance from the lecturer. He was the tallest person in the room, soaring over everyone, surveying the heads of his friends and trying to determine, by their hair, who they were and how they were at that particular moment. The driver who had brought the Herbsts to Ahinoam stood next to Avraham-and-a-half, surprised at himself for not having noticed right away that his passenger was an interesting man. Before he started speaking, he had seemed like all the others. As soon as he began, he proved he wasn’t one of them. Herbst was an experienced lecturer. When he spoke, his words drew you in. Herbst was confronted with a mass of uninhibited listeners, careless of their manners — in some cases deliberately so, to show their indifference to good manners. After a while, habit notwithstanding, they began to listen, each according to his ability and even beyond. After a vigorous workday, they were tired, and some of them had come to listen a bit and doze a bit. In the end, what they were hearing ruled out sleep.

Herbst’s mode of thought begins with an overview and includes a range of subjects — skimming the surface, touching yet not touching — until, finally, he ends up where he began. In his lectures, he begins with essentials, never straying far from the heart of his subject, patiently clarifying and elucidating it. He is careful not to startle the listener with new interpretations and refrains from emphasizing any particular word. Just as he wouldn’t underline a phrase in one of his books, so, on the same principle, he doesn’t emphasize words when lecturing. It is not his way to begin at a barely audible pitch and work up to a crescendo.

On this night, he changed his tack — not in terms of form, but in terms of the lecture itself, introducing material that was somewhat tangential. He began with the prohibition against keeping corpses overnight that prevailed in the holy cities of ancient Greece. In this context, he formulated the very essence of Greek philosophy and the principles of religion. He looked at the arts, theater, the circus, athletic games, and the marketplace, where citizens dealt with issues of state — the entire range of Greek manners and pastimes before Christianity appeared, obliterating everything. Herbst, a disciple of Neu, who viewed economics as a force but not a primary force, mentioned the economic factor without dwelling on it. Finally, he came to the decline of Greece and of all civilization until the rise of Christianity, which delivered the fatal blow. Having mentioned the holy cities of Greece, he remarked on the Greek cities in the Land of Israel, too — how they were maintained, how they were destroyed. Finally, he told of the destruction of Gaza and the struggles of Porphyry, the bishop of Gaza, who witnessed its destruction. Here, Herbst offered facts not noted by Marcus the Deacon or by any other chronicler.

Chapter twenty-three

The lecture was successful beyond all expectations. I have already described Herbst’s prowess; now let me describe the prowess of his listeners. They listened, not merely with their ears, but with their soul, alerting their ears so their soul could hear. Those who had left school to come to the Land of Israel, abandoning their studies in the middle, remembered things they had been too young to appreciate. Now that Herbst was bringing up these subjects, they recognized what they had lost, and what was lost to the world with the destruction of Greece. When had their loss occurred? The day they left their parents’ home and the town in which they were born. Throughout Herbst’s lecture, some of our friends sat summing up accounts vis-àvis the Land of Israel, comparing themselves to the last of the Greek philosophers, who watched as Christian invaders destroyed all that was good in the world, stamping out life’s joy and beauty. Were it not for the Land of Israel, they would be with their families, tranquil in their homes, serene in their towns, free from fiscal worries, hostile Arabs, and the blistering heat of hamsin winds.

Others, who came from the study houses of Galicia, knew hardly anything about Greek cities beyond what appears in the Gemara and in Josephus. Macedonia, for example they related to Alexander of Macedon, conqueror of Judea in 322 b.c.e.; Athens, to the elders of the Athenian school, and to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananiah; Corfu, to news items about its citrons on Sukkot. They were astonished by everything Dr. Herbst said, especially about burial customs. Jerusalem was known to be the only place in the ancient world with a prohibition against keeping corpses overnight; now he claimed that idol worshipers lived by the same rule. They were further astonished to hear him refer to worldly scholars as zaddikim. Though they themselves had changed since childhood, their faith in these righteous zaddikim was intact. And who were the zaddikim? They were rabbis whose greatness was on the lips of everyone, the teachers of the Hasidim. When these young people moved away from the Torah and began reading secular books, they found support for much of what they had heard. Herbst, as you know, always responded to young people’s questions as if they were those of a scholar and made every effort to satisfy them. Now he was quiet, reflecting on statements he had heard from Shira. Once, walking together on a Shabbat afternoon, they encountered a group of Hasidim. Shira was annoyed and imputed all sorts of evils to those pious people, Hasidim and zaddikim alike. But his mind didn’t dwell on Shira. The road, the village, the lecture dissolved the image of Shira.

Others, because of poverty or the effects of war on their childhood, had never studied and never read. Still, they considered what Dr. Herbst told them and thought: What Dr. Herbst described may have happened in the past, one or two hundred years ago; in more recent times, such things couldn’t happen.

One by one, several kvutza members slipped away to do chores. Those who were at leisure stayed on with the Herbsts. They brought tea and cake, and presented Herbst with further questions, which they had forgotten but remembered again. A breeze began to blow. Mrs. Herbst said, “Why don’t we go outside. You don’t mind, do you, Fred?” They got up, went outside, and stretched out on the lawn behind the dining room.

The fresh grass gave off a fragrance enhanced by the myrtle trees alongside the steps, whose scent was diffused by evening dew. They brought straw mats, which they spread on the grass, and blankets. The Herbsts sat on their mat and covered themselves with blankets. The affection of their hosts was all around them; bright stars were embedded in the darkness above. A light suddenly began to twinkle in the grove at the edge of the village; it split into several lights, and a bark resounded from the cucumber field where Shomron slept. The bark was followed by three cries, then the call of a nightbird.

From the western part of the village, where the light was, came the sound of singing and the smell of burning twigs. Henrietta looked in that direction and turned so she could listen. Someone noticed and explained, “The Palmach people have built a campfire. They like to sit around it and sing.” Henrietta nodded and said, “I see, I see.” She was thinking: Tamara is already grown and Sarah is still small. Because of age and circumstance they’re safe from such adventures.

Herbst was still holding the glass of tea he had taken with him from the dining room and giving profound answers to the questions he was being asked. Finally, there were no further questions, and Herbst was asked to talk about whatever he liked. He sat talking. It was many years since he had lectured before such an audience, since he had been in the company of such youngsters. It was many years since Henrietta had heard Herbst lecture and since she had heard him say the sort of things he was saying here. On this night, these two things came together. Most important, she understood the lecture, which was not the case when Manfred began lecturing at the university. At that time, she still didn’t know a word of Hebrew. At many points during his talk, she had felt like stroking his hand. Now that she was sitting next to him, she took his hand and clasped it in hers, not letting go until they got up.

Chapter twenty-four

It was nearly midnight when Avraham-and-a-half and Heinz I accompanied the Herbsts to their room. Heinz I is Heinz the Berliner. The numeral I was appended to his name so he wouldn’t be confused with Heinz from Darmstadt, who became Heinz II. Avraham-and-a-half walked with Zahara’s mother, while Heinz I walked with Herbst. After a bit, they were joined by Heinz II and Marga — the Marga who had given Herbst the idea of lecturing on images of Byzantine women. Marga adds nothing to the story of Herbst and Shira. Her only relevance is that she had brought Herbst water and now gave Mrs. Herbst some sprigs of myrtle. She had planned to bring them in the morning, but Heinz II had said, “What you picked tonight, bring tonight; tomorrow you’ll bring more.” As she spoke, Marga was chewing a myrtle leaf. Herbst thought she was smoking a cigarette. Marga and Heinz were accompanied by Shomron, who always joined the night watch. Shomron was pleased with himself for having controlled the impulse to bark at Zahara’s retinue. He didn’t bark at them now either. But he would have liked to bark an inquiry: Why was everyone nodding at those people. Marga and Heinz had no effect on the Herbsts’ walking pattern. Henrietta continued to trail behind Avraham-and-a-half, and Heinz I walked with Manfred. Henrietta’s conversation was exclusively about Zahara and Dani, about the arrangements in the kvutza, which were ideal for babies but less than ideal for nursing mothers. Even had they been ideal for nursing mothers, they were not ideal for Zahara, who, though we wouldn’t call her weak, was nevertheless delicate. Abraham-and-a-half devoured every word uttered by Zahara’s mother, although he didn’t grasp its meaning. The more she talked, the more fond he became of the old lady who was so fond of Zahara, and his mind raced ahead: In a few years, when we’re really settled, we’ll build a parents’ house. We’ll invite Henrietta and Herbst to live with the other old people, and every day, in the evening, Dani will visit Grandpa and Grandma. He will come back and tell his friends that Grandpa and Grandma speak Yiddish to each other. How odd it is that Henrietta and Herbst, who take such pains with their speech and whose German is so literate, will be perceived by the local children as Yiddish speakers. Avraham was deep in thought and didn’t realize he was taking the Herbsts the long way around when he ought to be leading them directly to their room. It was already late, and they must be tired from their journey. Heinz and Marga weren’t paying attention to the route and noticed neither the Herbsts nor the fact that they had left them without saying goodbye.

Heinz I was still engaged in conversation with Herbst, in the course of which he mentioned Saint Jerome and his Jewish teacher. So Herbst wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking he was an expert on the subject, he announced, “Everything I know about the Church Fathers I learned from a single lecture by Yohanan Levi. I once went to Jerusalem and up to Mount Scopus. I wanted to see the university. I soon found myself listening to a lecture on Saint Jerome.” “In any case,” Herbst said, “you have a good memory if you remember who his teacher was.” Heinz was quiet, offering no further comment. After a while, he said, “It’s not that my memory is good, but in the course of that lecture Yohanan Levi mentioned that Saint Jerome had misinterpreted a particular biblical verse and remarked that, for Jerome, that teacher was a poor investment. I only remembered Jerome and his Jewish teacher because of that joke.” Herbst said, “Nonetheless, you deserve praise. Because of a silly joke, you remembered what was essential.” Heinz said, “If you mean to praise me, I have to share the credit with Avraham, who was at the lecture too.” Herbst turned to Avraham and said, “I hear you go to lectures. I’m sorry to have missed the privilege of having you in my audience.” Avraham said, “I heard your entire lecture tonight.” Herbst said, “And is it unusual to hear an entire lecture? If you had left in the middle, Dani would accuse you of offending his grandfather. Yes, yes, I forgot — you don’t smoke, so I can’t compensate you for your time with a cigarette. But you, Heinz, surely you smoke? Not you either? Only the girls smoke here.” “The girls?” “Didn’t you notice that the one with Heinz ii was chewing on a butt? But let’s get back to our subject. So, you heard the entire lecture. Tell me this, my dear boy, how many grammatical errors did you find?” Avraham said, “I didn’t find any.” “But my accent is bad?” Avraham said, “An accent tells where you’re from. I can tell you’re from Berlin.” Henrietta said, “You’re not going to argue about accents at this hour?” Manfred said, “We’ve already begun.” Henrietta said, “In that case, stop.” Manfred said, “We’ve stopped.” Heinz said, “This is the place. You can sleep as late as you like. You won’t be disturbed by noise. The person who built this house loved to sleep. He picked a spot on a hill, with no neighbors. If you leave the lights off, even the sand flies will leave you alone. You don’t have to worry about mosquitoes. The windows are well screened, but nothing keeps the sand flies out.” Avraham said, “Since I came to this country, I’ve been hearing about sand flies. I think it’s all a fairy tale.” “A fairy tale?” Avraham said, “In the old days, people were afraid of giants. Now they’re afraid of sand flies.” Henrietta looked at Avraham fondly and said to her husband, “Fred, isn’t it a pleasure to hear such conversation? Tell me, Avraham, haven’t you ever been bitten by a fly?” Avraham said, “Not by a fly, not by a mosquito, not by a scorpion, not by any of those mythical creatures we hear so much about. Why should they sting me? Do I occupy their space? There is room in this country for me and for them.” Heinz said, “Now I understand why you didn’t join us last weekend when we were clearing away the stones in order to get rid of the scorpions.” “Last weekend? I wasn’t here last weekend. I went to Afula to bring Dan and Zahara back.” Herbst said to Avraham, “Didn’t you ever suffer from mosquitoes?” Avraham said, “Yes, of course. One summer they made my vacation so miserable that I gave up and ran away.” “You ran away? Where did you run to?” “To my mother and father in Berlin.” “Berlin? Where were you?” “In Karlsruhe. I had an aunt there, a special aunt, who invited me to spend my vacation in Karlsruhe. I was happier than I had ever been about any aunt, because I was told that my Karlsruhe cousins were going to act out the Karl May stories we used to read. When the vacation began, I went to Karlsruhe. I was attacked by mosquitoes and stung until my hands and face were like sieves. It was impossible to stay outside because of the mosquitoes. Not only was I unable to join in the play, but I couldn’t even walk in the park with my cousins because of the mosquitoes. Yes, they had window screens there.” Heinz said to the Herbsts, “Even though Avraham denies the existence of sand flies, you should be careful. If you can’t get undressed without light, be sure you turn it off immediately, before the sand flies notice. The moon is bright, and there’s actually no need to turn on the light.”

It was nearly midnight when they brought the Herbsts to the house in which they were going to spend the night. It was set on a hill at the edge of the village, away from the other houses, and had two rooms, one an infirmary, the other for the nurse. It had been built by the engineer who planned the kvutza, for himself and his new wife, with the idea that they would come for weekends and vacations. He didn’t spend much time there, so he sold it to the National Fund. The National Fund gave it to the kvutza, and it served as an infirmary, as well as a place for the nurse to live. The house was sold because of something that happened. The engineer and his wife were once on their way to Ahinoam, looking forward to a quiet and pleasant Shabbat. They met up with an Englishman, a government official whose car had broken down on the road. They offered him a ride. He accepted. The engineer invited the Englishman to stop in Ahinoam and have tea with him and his wife. He agreed to join them. Over tea, he told his hosts that he had been living in the country for six years and had never been invited to anyone’s home. The engineer said to his wife, “We ought to make up for all those years of loneliness.” The woman said, “We’ll do our best.” The Englishman spent all of Shabbat, as well as the following day, in the engineer’s house, and his hosts did their best to make his stay pleasant. He grew fond of them and became a frequent caller, almost a member of the household. One day the woman said to the Englishman, “I’m tired of this deception. Rather than cheat on my husband, I’m going to move in with you, and we can always be together.” The woman left her husband’s house and went to live with her lover. The engineer began to detest his country house. He sold it to the National Fund, and it was passed on to the kvutza. That night, it was unoccupied. The nurse who lived there had gone to Jerusalem in the morning, to see the psychiatrist Dr. Heinz Hermann about a young woman who had been attacked by an Arab shepherd and was in emotional shock. Herbst didn’t know that the quarters he and his wife were occupying belonged to the nurse he had met at Shira’s. It’s good that he didn’t know. Had he known, he would have been afraid Zahara would discover that the nurse knew him and that they had met at Shira’s. One further detail: when the nurse returned to the village and heard that Dr. Herbst had stayed in her room, she said, “I’m sorry I missed his lecture,” but she didn’t mention the fact that she knew him.

Zahara hadn’t informed anyone that her parents were used to sleeping in separate rooms. The two of them were given one room, the nurse’s room. The infirmary couch was brought in, and the two beds were set up side by side. The Herbsts came into the room. The scent of flowers, along with that of fresh linens, conveyed the fact that these were welcome guests. Henrietta put down the myrtle, undressed, took the flowers out of the room, got into bed, said good night to Manfred, lowered her eyelids, and succumbed to sleep.

Manfred found it odd to be sleeping in the same room as Henrietta, which he hadn’t done for many years. From the time she became pregnant with Sarah, they hadn’t slept in the same room even once. Now, all of a sudden, they were in the same room, and their beds were so close they were within arm’s reach of one another. Henrietta paid no attention. As soon as she got into bed, she dozed off, and, now that she was covered by the light blanket Zahara had brought her, she succumbed to the deep sleep decreed by the day’s activities.

Fearing the sand flies, Herbst went to bed without light and without a book. Since his return from the war, he would never lie down without a book. Even in bad times, during the unrest that followed the war — when municipal lighting, both gas and electric, was suspended — he had read by a small candle or a carbide lamp. Here, he lit neither a candle nor a lamp. For a time, the moon lit up the window and shone into the room. It vanished, appeared, vanished, and didn’t appear again. It may have reappeared after he dozed off. Anyway, he wasn’t asleep now. He was very alert, because of the fresh air, because of the lecture, because of his conversations. The lecture was a success. It wasn’t new; he had given the same lecture when he was first appointed to the university. But new elements were introduced tonight. As he presented new insights, many eyes shone responsively, unlike that first night, when the evil eye lurked everywhere, awaiting his downfall. Not that he had been usurping anyone or that there were other candidates for his position, a position that was created for him because of Professor Neu. But the primal law holds; for every Abel there is a Cain, if not to commit actual murder, then to invoke the evil eye that destroys one’s spirit. Another thing about the lecture in Ahinoam; it was spoken rather than read.

Herbst lay in bed recalling the people who had been in his audience this evening. Herbst was attached to his university students, knew each one of them, with their particular spiritual qualities, and was fond of them, perhaps more than they realized. But how many were they? Five or six a semester. Here in Ahinoam, fifty or sixty young men and women came to his lecture, healthy, vigorous, lively. And that Byzantine girl — if I were going to add pictures to my book, hers would be the first. All of these youngsters, males and females alike, invest their youth, designed for joy and pleasure, in work and drudgery. They sacrifice much-needed sleep to hear a scholarly lecture on a subject remote from their lives. As for me — the lecturer, for whom scholarship is, presumably, the axis of life — I waste my time on…Lo and behold, what he failed to do on all other nights, he succeeded in doing on this night. He took charge of his thoughts and did not dwell on Shira.

That night, as was always the case when his mind was stimulated by work, he resolved to devote all his energies to completing his book, fortifying his conclusions, leaving no grounds for the charge that the author was inventive but unconvincing. Convincing, convincing…Who invented that ugly word, and what is it doing in a scholarly context? Are we political agitators? Scholarship involves going with the data. Whatever conclusions this forces upon us, we are required to present them without equivocating, even if they are contrary to what we had in mind. I don’t specialize in the Hasmonean period, but, if I were to deal with it, I would conclude that much of what Antiochus demanded of the Jews, the Hasmonean kings did willingly. And I wouldn’t hesitate to make this fact public, although it detracts from our glory, demonstrating that, given the chance, we behave like any other nation. Similarly, if I were to write a book about national character, I wouldn’t hesitate to generalize about Jews, to declare that it isn’t a state and political life that Jews are after, but the opportunity to serve God and support themselves. Which is what Mattathias and his sons were after when they were pressed to violate the rules of their religion. When the Hasmonean kings behaved corruptly, many leaders in Jerusalem chose to give up the kingdom and beseeched Pompey to protect them from the rule of the Hasmoneans. I know that such ideas are a challenge to Zionism, and Zionism has, after all, saved my life and brought me here, at a time when so many fine and prominent individuals are in mortal danger. I am repaying a good turn with a bad one. But those who engage in scholarship value it, and we must stand by its truths. As for my book, I must get back to work and finish it. Should new material fall into my hands, it would be wise to ignore it. It is sometimes better to close one eye than to add material that pretends to add to the substance but merely doubles the bulk.

Herbst lay in his bed reviewing his manuscript. He undertook this review to determine what to highlight and what to play down, in the interest of completing the book and preparing himself for a new project. It was not yet clear to him what it would be, but he had a sense of it, as though he were already collecting material.

So as not to interfere with his sleep, he began thinking about a simple aspect of the work: how to set up a new box for his new notes. Even if he completes his large work, the boxes won’t be empty. Those boxes are amazing; though he takes out endless notes for colleagues, students, or minor articles of his own, they always fill up again. When your soul is fixed on a particular idea, you discover it in everything, and, in this process, new notes are constantly created. That night, he decided to abandon the tragedy he had intended to write about the Byzantine woman of the court, the nobleman Yohanan, and Basileios, the faithful servant, which I have described in preceding chapters. Even, before this night, Herbst had begun to suspect that he had nothing to contribute; that, even if he were to make a great effort, he wouldn’t accomplish very much; that whatever he might achieve would be so slight that it would not approach even the tiniest fraction of what Gerhart Hauptmann achieved in Heinrich the Unfortunate, his dramatization of a superb story. Herbst was not presumptuous. He had no illusions about himself as a visionary. Not in his wildest imagination did he compare himself to such a famous poet. But, having given up the idea of composing a tragedy, he began analyzing the work of various authors and ended with Gerhart Hauptmann and his play Heinrich the Unfortunate.

Once he decided to give up the tragedy, he felt a surge of relief and lightness. From now on, his time was his own. He was free to pursue his interests and devote himself to his current book, as he had done when writing the first one. Actually, there was a big difference between the two. One was written in German, a language with thousands of volumes on the subject, while the other was to be written in Hebrew, in which there was not a single pamphlet on the subject. His first book was written in a language with standard, set, accepted terminology, whereas Hebrew possesses no standard terminology, and scholarly writers must improvise, translating or creating terms from scratch. Either way, they struggle and waste time on something a living language simply provides, demanding no effort. Herbst was pleased to be writing in Hebrew, rather than in one of the languages of the world, though those languages promote an author’s name. And he was pleased to be repaying a debt to the language in which he now lectured, at a time when many far more distinguished scholars were being deprived of their posts and were in mortal danger.

From the bed opposite his couch, he could hear Henrietta’s breathing. Her breaths were even and regular. Three long ones and one short one, one short one and three long ones, each breath timed to fit in with the others. Even in her sleep, she wasn’t undisciplined. A woman who is orderly when awake is orderly when asleep. He turned toward her and told himself: Those old bones need rest. Let her sleep. She’s tired, she’s tired from the trip. She was so alert on the way. She noticed every mountain, hill, and forest, every snip of cloud, each bird and grasshopper — everything that crossed the road, man as well as beast, not to mention grasses and flowers. Her eyes soaked up the colors of every blossom. If I were to draw an intelligent woman, one whose vitality has not been diminished by the years, I would draw Henrietta as she was when she sat in the dining room with those girls. Henrietta sat among them like a mother with daughters awaiting her in many different places, with such intense anticipation that their places can no longer contain them, so they come together, and, as soon as she arrives, they swarm around her, fixing their eyes on her lips as she tells each one what she wants to know. This is how it was with Henrietta and those girls: until she spoke, they didn’t know what they were after. When she spoke, they knew she was saying what they wanted to hear. More than surprises or miracles, the heart needs answers to unformed questions.

Chapter twenty-five

The village was asleep; well-earned rest and tranquility enveloped its houses, huts, and tents. An occasional sound was heard — a cow mooing in the barn, chickens clucking in their coop. This was followed by a second sound, sometimes repeating the original one, sometimes sounding surprised at itself. Then the village was silent again, pervaded with quiet peace. The silence was once again broken by the gurgle of irrigation pipes and noises from the water tower, the smell of fading embers emanating from the campfire.

A gust of wind passed through. Tent flaps swelled, and the lights inside quivered. Those who live in the tents are young and hungry for knowledge. On a night such as this, if they are not working, they are sprawled on their beds, reading by candlelight. There are many problems and many hidden secrets; a few of these secrets have been revealed to wise men and are disclosed in their books. There are those who read about cosmic affairs; others read about human affairs. Some read what was written by historians; others read what the poets wrote — the story of Amnon and Tamar, for example. Amnon and Tamar are names picked at random; if you prefer another set of names, they will do as well. Some are reading about soil mechanics; others, about raising livestock and poultry. There is even someone writing, not reading at all. Perhaps future generations will read his words. It is the way of the wind to shift and be everywhere.

I will get back to those people who receive light from others. Right now, let me mention something that is useful to farmers and fruit growers. Both are at war with birds, for they fly in and consume hard-won crops. Those who tend cows and chickens share their grief, for the birds come and eat the animal feed. For this reason, war is declared, even on songbirds. The assault involves not only noisemakers and scarecrows but rifles and other deadly implements. In some poet’s story, we find the tale of a man who had gardens and orchards. He invited birds from near and far to his gardens and orchards, made birdhouses for them, and provided them with food. They grew fond of these gardens and orchards, and became permanent guests. His neighbors said, “Don’t you realize they’re destroying your crops? You give all that up merely for their songs and their beauty.” He said, “Not only do their songs fill my heart with joy. My eyes feast on their feathers. Also, they are useful to me, because they peck at the trees and ferret out insects no human hand can reach.”

The village is deep in well-deserved sleep. Many perils menace these sleepers, for all around them are armed bands with designs on their lives. Yet most of the villagers are immersed in sweet sleep that attached itself to them as soon as they lay down, before they had a chance to think about it. In fact, the watchmen who guard the village function in a remarkable way. They appear to be idle, to be doing nothing, but their roving eyes are a warning to thieves, bandits, and murderers that they had better not approach the village. Occasionally, they approach and even enter, but only after killing the watchman. This is what happened to one of the watchmen in Ahinoam itself, the one whose picture is in the dining hall along with other heroes, whose only daughter is being raised with the rest of the children. The watchmen patrol the four corners of the village, each one heading in a different direction. Those with families think of wives and children, whose sleep they safeguard. Those who are single think of someone special asleep in her tent. Since sleep puts everything out of mind, has she, perhaps, forgotten him? Just then, a tent flap is lifted, and she emerges, the young woman he feared had forgotten him. They run toward each other and walk on together, talking — not in a whisper, which would be frightening; not in a loud voice, for that would disturb those who are asleep — but singing as they go, without raising their voices. They choose, not nostalgic songs, but some of the lighter trifles, such as “Sing a song, song, song, / Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.”

Herbst lay listening. It seemed to him that what he heard was a German song that sounded like a Russian song but was actually a Hebrew song. His mind shifted to the question of accents, and from there to the character types he had observed in the kvutza and to young women who take on men’s work. From there, his thoughts turned to the war, when most men went to the front and it seemed possible that the world would be destroyed. What with war casualties, the casualties of time, and work left undone, how was the world to survive? So women were expected to do men’s work. Since they were doing men’s work, they wore men’s clothing. Some of them were grotesque, some attractive. But he didn’t dwell on this and began thinking about his book again. He pondered the books of other faculty members, trying to recall whether anyone had written in Hebrew on a general subject or whether all the Hebrew books were about Judaism or the Land of Israel. His mind drifted here and there, from subject to subject, back to the war, to the agents of war, the victims of war, the events of the war. He thought about some of it a great deal; some, he preferred to avoid.

Now, in connection with what happened later that night, I bring up one of the things he dismissed from his mind. During the war, shortly after his marriage, his aunt in Leipzig asked to meet Henrietta. His aunt was too old to travel to Berlin. They agreed by letter that he and Henrietta would come to Leipzig on one of his leaves. One day, Manfred was granted leave. He went to his aunt’s house in Leipzig. He washed up, shaved off his beard, changed his clothes, and went to the train station to meet Henrietta, who was expected on the night train. This plan had been devised in an exchange of telegrams. When he got to the train station, he discovered that he had made a mistake and come a day early. He stood there dejected, watching the Berlin train, which had arrived without Henrietta. As he watched the train, he noticed a girl, dressed in trousers, cleaning one of the cars. His heart began to pound, and he left. Walking back to his aunt’s house, he saw her again. She was coming from work, dressed in a winter coat of the sort train conductors wear. It hung on her shoulders in a mannish way, and her coarse boots squeaked noisily. He stood watching her. She became aware of him and slowed down, to be more available should he choose to talk to her. He was taken aback and walked on, his heart pounding rapidly and ablaze with excitement. The next night, he went to the train station an hour early. While waiting for Henrietta to arrive, he went to the newsstand and saw a photograph of two severed legs, accompanied by a caption about a boy of fifteen or sixteen whose severed limbs were found on a bench in the Rose Valley. Near this item was a second item with the same picture but another caption, explaining that doctors consulted by the police believed the legs were those of a woman of about twenty, who was murdered, probably by a rapist, and that, since a young woman who cleaned cars in the central station in Leipzig had disappeared, it was assumed that the severed legs were hers. I am omitting Henrietta’s reception that night, but I will add that Herbst reproached himself with the thought that, had he talked to the girl, she wouldn’t have fallen prey to the rapist who killed her. Now, back to Ahinoam.

The singing voices were no longer heard. They were replaced by the wail of jackals. This sound didn’t usually frighten Herbst. He had lived in Jerusalem for so many years that it was familiar to him; it had been common in the beginning, when Baka was sparsely settled. Now he was alarmed and shaken, but he didn’t realize the alarm had been stored in him since the night Shira told him about a jackal that devoured a baby. All the things alluded to here are recounted, described, and elucidated in preceding chapters. When Shira told him about the jackal and the baby, he paid no attention, because he was preoccupied with the tale of the engineer and the whip. Now that he heard the jackal, having already dismissed the tale of the whip, the entire story came back to him. When he dismissed the tale of the baby and the jackal, the tale of the severed legs recurred. When he dismissed the tale of the severed legs, the tale of the baby and the jackal recurred. Finally, between the tale of the baby and the jackal and the tale of the severed legs, he was overcome by sleep.

But it was not good sleep, because in his sleep he discovered whose legs they were and who had severed them. Some brute, returning from war, had found her in the field behind her house and murdered her. Herbst ran to the police station to tell them who the murderer was. Before he even reached the station, he was intercepted by policemen, who arrested him as a suspect. He went with them, saying not a word, for they would soon see he was entirely innocent and release him. But he was upset that, in the meantime, there would be an item about him in the newspaper, and his wife and daughters would be mortified. He was not released; he was led to the death cell. He went to the death cell, saying not a word. He was confident they would soon realize he was innocent and send him home. But he was upset that, in the meantime, his wife and daughters would find out and be mortified. He began to worry that his wife and daughters might suspect him of the murder. He wanted to shout, “I’m innocent of that murder and of any other murder!” His voice was locked in his throat, because Shira was coming and he knew that it was she who was the murderer and it was she who was the rapist. He lifted his eyes and turned toward her imploringly, to arouse her sympathy, so she would attest that he wasn’t guilty. But Shira gave no sign that she intended to make a move on his behalf. He raised his voice and shouted, “Shira, Shira!”

He woke up screaming and saw his wife standing over him, comforting him, trying to soothe his distraught soul. What he had seen in his dream was forgotten. He remembered nothing. Then he remembered being led to the death cell, with women dancing before him and singing, “Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.” He was startled and wanted to scream. Henrietta stroked his cheek and tried to calm him. Manfred stared at her and cried, “Mother, are you here? Oh, Henriett, I had a terrible dream. Such an awful dream. The sort of dream that can lead to madness.” Henrietta smoothed his brow and said, “Calm down, my love. Calm down, Fred.” Manfred said, “I can’t calm down. I can’t! What a dream, what a dream. Tell me, did you happen to hear what I was shouting in the dream?” Henrietta said, “I heard.” Manfred shrieked in alarm, “Tell me what I shouted!” Henrietta said, “Calm down, Fred.” Manfred said, “I won’t calm down! Tell me what I shouted.” Henrietta said, “You didn’t shout. You were singing.” “Singing? What was I singing?” Henrietta said, “That silly song that Tamara always used to sing.” “Which one?” “‘Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.’“ Manfred reached for Henrietta and said, “Come and lie down next to me.” Henrietta lay down next to him. He embraced her with all his might and cried out, “It was awful! Mother, a dream like the one I dreamed could drive a sane man to madness.” Henrietta said, “Tell me the dream.” Manfred said, “I can’t, I can’t. Don’t ask me to tell it to you, and don’t mention it. Maybe I’ll forget it too. Mother, it was a dreadful dream, an awful dream, and you say I was singing in my sleep. What was I singing, Mother?” Henrietta said, “But I just told you, Fred.” “Tell me again what I was singing.” Henrietta said, “‘Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.’“ “Is that all?” “That’s all.” “Mother, you are so good. If not for you, I would have been hanged.” Henrietta said, “Hush, Fred. Hush.” She kissed him on the mouth, and he kissed her, a protracted kiss. Henrietta said, “Wait. I’ll go and cover the window. The moon is shining on my face.” Manfred said, “Mother, don’t move. You are such a delight, Mother. It’s good to have you close.” Henrietta peered at him and asked, “Is that so?” Manfred said, “Yes, Mother. Believe me. You please me more than any woman in the world.” Henrietta said, “To hear you talk, one would think there were others.” She kissed him again and said, “My love, lie quietly. Maybe you’ll fall asleep.” Manfred said, “I don’t want to sleep when you’re with me.” He embraced her with all his might. She embraced him so that they clung to one another and became one flesh.

With this, I have concluded Book Two of the book of Manfred Herbst and the nurse Shira. I will now begin Book Three, starting not with Herbst or Shira, but with Henrietta. After telling about Henrietta, I will come back to Herbst and Shira — to Herbst first, then to Shira, then to the two of them together.