Shira

Chapter one

Henrietta kept her secret to herself and did not reveal what was in her heart. In delighted surprise and surprised delight, she mused: The baby I’m going to bring forth is younger than my daughter’s child; her own child is older than her mother’s child. She was embarrassed before her daughters, yet pleased for herself, for her youth had been restored and she was as she had been in the early days, right after her marriage.

How did she arrive at such a pass? After receiving the news that Zahara had given birth to a son, she decided to go to her in Kfar Ahinoam, and Manfred agreed to come along. They locked their house and went off, spending three days and three nights with Zahara’s firstborn, with Zahara, with Avraham-and-a-half, and with all their friends and well-wishers in the village. In all their years in Jerusalem, the Herbsts had never had three consecutive days of rest like these. I am speaking, of course, of Henrietta, whose days, except when Tamara and Sarah were born, were filled with work; but Manfred, too, enjoyed the rest. He wasn’t trapped by piles of books, pamphlets, transcripts, notebooks, and cards, nor was he occupied with endless papers that seemed to generate spontaneously, producing more and more of their kind, which he would move from here to there although they belonged nowhere.

He did lecture in Kfar Ahinoam, more than once, in fact. Nevertheless, I maintain that he had never enjoyed such restful days as those in Kfar Ahinoam, for there is a big difference between lectures in Kfar Ahinoam and those at the university. His lectures at the university were required. The lecturer was required to lecture, and the listeners were required to listen, whereas in Kfar Ahinoam it was his wish and desire to lecture, and it was because of their own wish and desire that the listeners listened, most of them being tired of the speeches of political hacks and eager for intellectual discourse. Furthermore, from his lectures in Ahinoam he learned that he could recover what had been taken from him.

I’ll explain what I mean. Dr. Herbst was not one of those who are willing to pay any price for a drop of so-called honor. He already understood in his youth that one benefits only from what is won through integrity. But when our comrade Berl Katznelson organized a three-day workshop, inviting various lecturers but excluding him, he was dejected, for he had always been in demand. The lectures he presented in Kfar Ahinoam were well attended, not merely by members of the settlement, but by many people from neighboring communities, proving that he could attract a larger crowd than all the lecturers on all three workshop days combined.

Back to Henrietta Herbst. Since the day she arrived in the Land of Israel, she had not had three consecutive days of rest, other than when Tamara and Sarah were born. Her days were spent working hard in the house, gardening, and dealing with guests. Most difficult of all was the pursuit of certificates.

Many of the Herbsts’ relatives were left behind in Germany. Upon hearing that Henrietta and Manfred were going to the Land of Israel, they sneered at them for leaving a highly cultured country for an arid wilderness. When they heard Manfred was appointed lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, they were astonished to learn that Jerusalem had a university. When they heard lectures were held in Hebrew there, they were astonished that the language still existed. Between yesterday and tomorrow, events occurred in Germany that transformed it into an inferno — the very country about which it was said: Every Jew should bless God daily for the privilege of living there. Now they wandered from land to land. The nations were grudging, and those who escaped the sword were not allowed to earn a living. At great risk, they returned to Germany, and from there they asked friends and acquaintances in America to send them entry permits. Our brethren in America did everything they could, neither resting nor desisting until they brought them to America. But, in the end, they were helpless before the mass of supplicants, among them the Herbsts’ relatives, who were left with no options other than Palestine. They wrote to the Herbsts, “Send us certificates.” Henrietta raced around to obtain certificates, making no distinction between her own relatives and Manfred’s. The same catastrophe engulfed them all, making them equal before it. Nor did she mention that her relatives had all laughed when they heard she was going to Palestine, and, now that they were in trouble, they were asking her to bring them to Palestine.

I will interrupt the flow of my story to praise Henrietta Herbst.

Henrietta had an elderly relative. He was born in the province of Poznan. When Henrietta informed her relatives that the Hebrew University in Jerusalem had offered Manfred a position, the old man said, “I will tell you something from which you will understand what a Hebrew university is.

“When I was a boy, I neglected my studies. My mother was sad, and my father scolded me. What they achieved through their sadness and scolding could be compared to what our teacher Moses achieved through his sadness and scolding.

“One day, my father took me to a poor neighborhood. We went into a crumbling building. I peered inside and saw shabbily dressed boys crowded together on narrow benches, reading in shrill voices from tattered books, their words a jumble of the holy tongue and ordinary jargon. A skinny man stood over them, wielding a cane and a strap, groaning, grunting, and spitting. He leaped up suddenly, pinched one of the boys on the arm, and shouted at him, ‘Villain, what are you looking at? Look at the book, not outside.’ The boy burst into tears and said, ‘I wasn’t looking outside.’ The teacher said scornfully, ‘Then tell me what the book says.’ The boy began to read, stammering. The teacher shouted, ‘Villain, then tell me what you saw outside. Was it perhaps a golden whip? I know all of you only too well, you scoundrels. When I’m done with you, you won’t have eyes to see with or a mouth to utter lies.’

“When we were outside, my father told me, ‘In this school, the children of the poor are taught the Torah and commandments. If you neglect your studies, I’ll send you there, and what the teachers in the government school failed to achieve, that teacher will achieve with his cane and whip.’“

What is the point of this tale? The Hebrew University in Jerusalem, where our good friend Manfred was appointed lecturer, is the point. I don’t suppose the university in Jerusalem is exactly like the school my father threatened me with in my childhood. But most likely it is similar; otherwise, why would the Zionists want to create a Hebrew university in Jerusalem, when they send their children to universities in Germany? What role is there for Hebrew in our time, our forefathers having renounced it? And what do we, the Jews of Germany, need with Jerusalem? Invoking his advanced age, this relative now begs to be brought to Jerusalem.

Henrietta thought to herself: I’ll go to those in charge of certificates, and they’ll give me as many as I need, for the certificates are in their hands. After all, they are Jews too, and they know what’s in store for German Jews. But she was not aware of the difference between those who seek a favor and those who have the power to grant it.

So Henrietta ran around in pursuit of certificates. She took on the job herself, rather than encroach on Manfred’s time, for Manfred was busy with the new book he was writing on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. The book was still unborn, except in his thoughts. She ran to the office she had been told to go to, only to be told, “This isn’t the place, and this isn’t the office.” She asked where she should go. The clerk said, “I’m not an information service, and it’s not my job to tell people where to go.” Henrietta stared at him, her blue eyes black with despair. The clerk relented and, departing from the letter of the law, told her where the right office was located, giving her several landmarks: the streets in Jerusalem change names from one day to the next, so you won’t necessarily find a street just because you know its name. He told her, “Go quickly, or they’ll all be gone for lunch, and you’ll find yourself facing a locked door.”

She managed to run, unimpeded by the ruts in those Jerusalem streets. The good Lord is not overindulgent; He seems content to have covered Jerusalem with a sky that is uniformly blue.

Henrietta arrived at her destination and found the office open, but it was so crowded that she couldn’t get in — either because she wasn’t the only one with relatives sighing and moaning in exile in Germany, or because the office was overflowing with clerks. She stood — who knows how long? — until the clerks got up and went home for dinner, locking up for the day. Early the next morning, she was back again. She found that others had preceded her. She stood with them — who knows how long? — and left with all the rest, empty-handed. This was how it was, one day, two days, three days, and many days more.

She was once at a university reception for Weizmann, where she happened to be seated next to a prominent Jewish Agency figure, the one in charge of certificates. There was a long series of speakers, and this eminent man was struggling to remain alert. He saw a well-dressed woman, neither old nor ugly, sitting next to him. He began to talk to her. She sat and listened. He said, “My dear lady, do you take me for one of the speakers?” “Why?” “Because you sit so quietly, without interrupting.” She found her tongue and told him about her relatives. He said to her, “It’s impossible to bring them all in at once, but they could be brought in one by one. In three months, there will be a new round of certificates, and one — maybe two — could be earmarked for your relatives.” The anticipated day arrived. He remembered her, was most cordial to her, and inquired about her health, as well as her husband’s. As for the certificates, he said that all the certificates that arrived had been for individuals from a designated country, and every certificate had someone’s name on it. “But, in three months from now, there will be more certificates, and, what we failed to accomplish with the certificates that are here, we will accomplish with those that are on the way.”

The anticipated day arrived. She went to the Jewish Agency and knocked on the proper door. An assistant appeared and said, “He’s away.” “When will he be back?” He said, “My boss, the chief, is not in the habit of reporting his plans to me.” She stood there, not knowing what to do. She peered in and saw the chief at his desk, polishing his fingernails, like a woman. She felt like screaming, “What use are these people, what good are their promises?” But her mouth failed her; it did not utter a sound. Henrietta didn’t know that it was wise not to utter a sound. As long as we don’t tell our benefactors what they are, there is still hope. The fact is, we depend on them, for those close to our hearts are crying out in distress.

Chapter two

Let us turn from the anguish of certificates to the joy of a son.

A son was born in Ahinoam. His parents didn’t bother about getting him a certificate from the Jewish Agency or the Mandate government, yet he has come, he is here, he lets his voice resound, unafraid that Mandate officials will hear and expel him from the country. When Maria Teresa sought to limit the descendants of our father Abraham, peace be unto him, she issued a clever decree allowing only one member of each Jewish family in her kingdom to marry. The Mandate government behaves in a superior fashion, setting out with rifles to confront our brothers and sisters when they arrive at our shores, the old and infirm among them, as well as babies born en route. They stand ready to fire at these survivors, already debilitated by their woes, so they won’t come into the country. But they have issued no decrees limiting births.

So we are happy that a child was born unto us. Rejoicing over this child, the grandmother, Henrietta, and the grandfather, Manfred, have come to celebrate with his mother and with Avraham-and-a-half, her mate. Despite the fact that he was conceived and born in Kfar Ahinoam in the Land of Israel, whereas they were born in another country, he allows them to approach him, even to hold him in their arms. If he kicks them, how much charm there is in his legs, how much power in his kicks! A thousand times a day, Grandpa would willingly subject his face to Dani’s kicks, not to mention Grandma Henrietta. She has never enjoyed anything as much, even when Zahara was at Dani’s stage of life. You assume Dani’s kicks are random? Then look and see. They are deliberate and deliberately delivered. Grandma Henrietta has a gold tooth in her mouth. She had it made when she was pregnant with Zahara; when Dani kicks her, he aims at the gold tooth. He is suggesting to Grandma Henrietta that, if not for his mother, she would still be stuck with a rotten tooth. Despite his modesty, there is something about the shape of Grandpa Manfred’s nose that conveys pride, so, when Dani kicks Grandpa, he aims for his nose. I am no expert in physiognomy. Dani, may he have long life, makes it clear that he still remembers the passages from the Zohar that are relevant to this subject. It would seem that the angel forgot to slap him on the mouth as he emerged from his mother’s womb, so he still remembers everything he learned there.

The Herbsts are in Kfar Ahinoam, eating, drinking, sleeping, walking, kissing the hands and feet of Zahara’s baby. Out of love for his daughter’s son, Grandfather doesn’t smoke in his presence, much less when he holds him in his arms. It’s lucky that Grandpa Manfred doesn’t wear glasses, as most professors do, the eyes being so close to the nose. And it’s lucky that Grandpa can do without his pipe. Dani isn’t accustomed to the smell of tobacco, for neither his progenitress nor her constant companion is a smoker, unlike some people we know, who are never without a cigarette — the fathers even when they hold their child, the mothers even during pregnancy and while they are nursing.

The Herbsts spent three days and three nights in Kfar Ahinoam. They stayed in a single room that belonged to the nurse who had gone to Jerusalem with a young woman who was distraught because of the doctor who had refused to do what she had asked him to do for her. The doctor had said, “How many nights do I spend without sleep to keep a patient alive; how many times do I risk my life, exposed to the hazards of the road, the weather, and Arab gunfire — and you ask me to kill the baby in your womb.” Since the local doctor wouldn’t accommodate her, she went where she went, to someone who did what he did, causing what he caused. And the nurse had to take her to Jerusalem, because that local doctor had gone off to earn his livelihood elsewhere, for no one had the right to demand that he do what he didn’t want to do, what no doctor wants to do. But it’s doubtful that he will find work, since the country is full of doctors, among them some esteemed and famous men who escaped the Nazi sword but now have no means of support. Female doctors fare better: they can support themselves doing housework.

So the Herbsts spent their nights in the nurse’s room in the infirmary building, a second bed having been brought in for them. Because she was preoccupied with her son, Zahara had forgotten to say that her father and mother should be given separate quarters, as at home in Jerusalem. After the birth of Sarah, the child of his old age, Manfred had moved his bed to his study. So the Herbsts slept in one room, in adjoining beds, and this became their custom thereafter, at home in Jerusalem.

Chapter three

When Henrietta saw that she could no longer conceal what was becoming more and more obvious, she decided to tell her husband. Manfred listened, his face taut from end to end, his eyes altering their aspect. After a moment, he laughed, every limb laughing with him. After another moment, he reached for his wife, embraced her, placed his head on her heart, and was silent. She was silent too. The two of them sat in absolute silence, clinging to one another. Then Manfred looked up at her, afraid he had done some harm when he embraced her. Henrietta, reading his mind, laughed to herself. He saw her face aglow with serene joy. Putting together his assorted thoughts, he saw they contradicted each other. He tried to figure out just how, and found only this: Henriett, who produces female babies, will produce a male; although there is no evidence for this, it would be right and appropriate, since her three other pregnancies brought forth only girls. Which was not the case with Zahara. The very first time, she gave birth to a son.

Let us think and consider, what was it like for Zahara when she discovered she was pregnant and what was it like for him when Henrietta told him, in a whisper, that Zahara was pregnant. So many thoughts darted through his mind that he dismissed them all and concentrated on Sarah, child of his old age, who was born suddenly, arriving in the world suddenly, without his knowing she was on the way. Now that this pregnancy was conferred on her mother, Sarah no longer occupied her previous position.

What happened to him the night Sarah was born? It’s impossible to say nothing happened, but it is possible to say it was an error. Now that Shira no longer shows herself to him and he makes no effort to see her, he considers himself liberated.

Herbst was glad to be free of those things whose very goodness is bad. If he still had his youthful energy, he would devote it to his book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. He would finish that book and write more. Not because a man’s wisdom is measured by the number of books he writes; not because of Weltfremdt, who reminded him that such-and-such a number of years had elapsed since his first book was published, the one that led to his appointment by the university, and in the interim he had written only articles. He would write books for his own sake, because of his ideas, which were so prolific that they could fill several volumes and were already inscribed in notebooks, in papers, and in his heart.

Among the books he meant to write, we will mention the tragedy of the court woman, the nobleman, and his slave, as well as the book about the craft of tragedy. Even before he began, he renounced these plans.

He gave up the idea of writing about the craft of tragedy because he looked at the books others had written and saw that they were written only because their authors had read so much, and, having read a lot, they wrote a lot. He didn’t write the tragedy in order to avoid being troubled by those dreadful events, for a great calamity befell the woman of the court, the nobleman, and his slave, sweeping others along in its wake, and they all vanished from the world.

During this period, Herbst took things in hand, got back to work, and achieved in a small number of days what he hadn’t achieved in many months. There had been books on his desk, piled half a meter high and extending all around. Suddenly, in two or three days, all the books were cleared away, as if a magic wand had been at work.

The magic wand was a long, thick pencil, the kind factories distribute to advertise themselves. When Henrietta bought a portable stove for Zahara, the shopkeeper gave her the pencil to give to Dr. Herbst. As he read, Dr. Herbst marked what was of interest, copying the material into his notes immediately. When his mind was distracted by thoughts of Shira, he became ineffectual, stopped copying, and placed a scrap of paper between the pages as a marker, hoping to get back to work soon and continue copying. He didn’t get back to work soon, and he didn’t continue copying. His desk remained full of books, which were piled like two pillars designed to support the ceiling. I may be exaggerating; nevertheless, there is some truth to the description. The space between the books and the ceiling was minimal. Suddenly, all at once, the books were gone and the desk was clear. Herbst managed to copy in two or three days what he had failed to copy in many days. The blank scraps placed in books to mark material to be copied, he now wrote on in pencil. He began copying, continuing to work until everything was copied onto his note papers.

These papers were placed in a box about as thick as a mediumsized book. The enormous pile of books that had occupied the desk was replaced by a box, not large, not long. A box with several sections divided by colored pages — reddish, greenish, pink, dark brown, yellowish — in which his notes were arranged by subject. At the top of each page was a heading to indicate the subject. When there were no books left on the desk, the note box was full. Not one more note could have been stuffed in.

He went to Asher the bookbinder on Ben Yehuda Street to order a new box, so many centimeters long and so many centimeters wide, to match the first one, which he had brought from Germany along with his books. He went to Shiryon, a shop on Jaffa Road, to buy paper for new notes. He took the paper back to Asher the bookbinder and gave it to him to cut, so the notes would be the right size. Asher the bookbinder cut the paper according to Dr. Herbst’s specifications, like those of a publisher who indicates the length and width of every manuscript he sends to the printer.

What is more, before placing a note in the box, Dr. Herbst examined it carefully to determine how important it was. He arranged the notes by subject, then he grouped them, tying a string around each group, for the quantity of notes matters less than the range of categories. And what matters even more is that they be in good order.

Some notes are an asset and some are a liability. If they are orderly and well sorted, all is well. If you are looking for material for a book or an article, you reach into the box of notes, and they fall into your hand. But they can be a liability. If the notes aren’t orderly and well sorted, they confuse you. The more you use them, the more they divert you from your purpose, pulling you in their direction and causing you to waste time. Even more troublesome are notes that haven’t been checked. They seem to have the makings of a book, but, when you are ready to begin, you discover that you have copied the same thing a number of times. Not everyone can remember what he has already copied and what he hasn’t.

Having made order of his notes, Herbst tried to do the same with his notebooks and pads. He erased what was superfluous and discarded what was copied in another place. Seeing Herbst at work, double-checking, writing, erasing, reading, discarding, writing more, discarding more, one might think a pedantic impulse had overtaken the man. But this was not the case. He was taking such care because of a sense of reality.

Let me explain. A scholar sits in the midst of a heap of books, reading, writing, documenting, copying, preparing material for a book he is eager to complete. He does not put down a single volume without copying something from it, for a writer does well not to give anyone the opportunity to say he overlooked what someone or other wrote. He devotes most of his years to this process, and he keeps adding more and more notes; by now, there are many full boxes. His greatest satisfaction derives from surveying his notes, which he views as the core of several books. When he dies, all those notes don’t have the making of a single pamphlet to perpetuate his memory. Why? Because he has been so busy accumulating notes that he never took the time to see whether he hadn’t copied the same thing over and over.

Anyone who saw Dr. Herbst before he left for Kfar Ahinoam, sitting at his desk, surrounded by books, so that all one glimpsed of him was the smoke from his pipe, would regard him as the prototype of the scholar, renouncing himself for the sake of his work. To be truthful, in those days he was using his pipe more than his pen or pencil, puffing away, letting time go up in smoke.

His desk was now empty. There were only two or three books on it, along with the new box waiting to absorb new notes. It sat there chastely, without shouting: See how learned I am, how much wisdom I contain. Herbst’s desk was empty now, and Firadeus could brush off the dust.

The day his desk was dusted, the ashtray was emptied too. It was full of ashes from his pipe, as well as from the cigarettes he used to get from the peddler who considered Mimi and Julian Weltfremdt his patrons. They were brown and slender, as long as a small child’s pencil on his first day of school. These cigarettes lasted as long as a lit match, and they left behind a charred tip.

Herbst wished to behave in all his affairs, including those related to becoming a professor, as he had behaved with respect to his book. Like all the other lecturers at the university, Herbst was hoping for a promotion. But it was not his way to reach out for something unless it was close at hand. So he didn’t lift a finger for the sake of a promotion. He said to himself: I’ll finish my book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, the scholarly community will take notice, and their views will reach the patrons of the Hebrew University, who will promote me to the rank of professor. Such was the case with my first book, as a result of which I was invited to be a lecturer at the university. When two lecturers were made professors on one day, Herbst began to wonder. Apart from a dissertation that added nothing to the realm of scholarship, the older one had produced only a small pamphlet distinguished by its meagerness, plus three flimsy articles offering very little that could qualify as scholarship. They found their rightful place in those journals whose editors are publicists, not scholars. The other newly appointed professor, an author of many books, was merely the sum of what he himself had written about them. And there was nothing in his books beyond what was in earlier ones; if I don’t admit these books to my house, I am sure they won’t be missed.

Herbst began to speculate. Perhaps it was his turn to become a professor. Although he hadn’t produced another book, his articles were more important than several books.

Herbst was not a man of action, so he did not want to discuss this matter with Henrietta. Whenever Henrietta heard something congenial from him, she would press him to act on it instantly, as if it were up to him, as if he could declare himself a professor. Herbst knew one thing, and he stood by it: he must be careful not to say anything that might suggest he was eager for a promotion. Herbst did not want to be associated with those pathetic grumblers who considered themselves deprived because they weren’t professors.

After two or three days, he dismissed the matter. When he did think about it, he was surprised at himself, for he had come close to doing something that was close to pulling strings, which was close to the sort of manipulation that was so alien to him.

Chapter four

I will forgo the saga of the professorship in favor of a chapter on Shira. But first, let me make two or three comments about Herbst’s household.

Once again, Herbst surveyed his world and was amazed to find that all was well. This did not result in an emotional muddle, although surprise usually does muddle the emotions. On the contrary, that very surprise was a source of strength, making him feel fortunate, as if to say, “What applies to others doesn’t apply to me.” Since it’s not in my power to explain thought processes, I will begin with a pronouncement of my own: Herbst felt as if all the household winds were at one with him.

All the household winds were at one with him, and he was at one with the household. How far did this go? It was the custom at that time for Arab boys to hide behind a tree, a fence, or a pile of refuse and, when they saw a Jew walking alone, to shoot at him. Once, past midnight, Herbst was coming from Shira’s house. He was close to home when he heard a shot, felt the bullet whiz by, and realized it was intended for him. Herbst recognized that, as long as he lived in an Arab neighborhood, he was risking his life and the lives of his family. Since this never recurred, he regarded the event as chance and dismissed it from his mind.

Actually, it wasn’t chance. Those who threaten our lives were intimidated by the Haganah, and, in areas patrolled by Haganah forces, there had been no more shooting. Though Herbst suspected that many of his students were Haganah members, he did not know this for a fact. Since there were no further ambushes, he dismissed what had happened to him near his home that night, after midnight, on the way back from Shira’s.

So much for Dr. Herbst and his tranquility. We will now tell what happened to him during his tranquil days, as well as what happened to him when the tranquil days were over, and what happened to the people whose lives intersected with his, at home, at the university, and in several other places.

Since the day the Herbsts visited Bachlam, there was no longer a barrier between him and Herbst, and they grew close to one another. When they turned up in the same place, Herbst always asked how he was, and, if it was convenient, he would walk him home and go inside with him. Occasionally, he went to visit him on his own. Herbst, who was not in Bachlam’s camp, had always behaved like those of his colleagues who were not in that camp either. Now that he was a friend, he no longer mocked him. In fact, he praised him. Herbst would now say, “Those two people — Bachlam and his wife — are not what you think they are.” Having become accustomed to Bachlam’s ways, he didn’t notice what was ridiculous about him and tried to see his good side. Bachlam stopped hating Herbst, whom he used to include among the traitors, those professors and lecturers who came from Germany, took over the university, and deserved to be hanged. What is more, he began to treat him generously. He gave him a dozen offprints and wrote, on every single one, half a page or more in praise of his young friend, a man with a glowing future. He gave him a copy of one of his recent books, in which he wrote that he, too, was destined to produce fine and useful work. The phrase “he, too” was an allusion to the fond hope that Herbst might one day become like him. Because he was close to Bachlam, Herbst heard his friends defamed by Bachlam; he also heard Bachlam defamed by his friends. He would say, “What’s it to them if the old man lets off a little steam?” Or, “What’s it to the old man if they joke about him? They are both used to this.”

Herbst surveyed his world and saw that all was well. It had always seemed to him that there was an open pit at his feet, a raging surf about to sweep over him. Between yesterday and today, the pit was covered; the surf subsided. The books that had been stacked on his desk were back in place; what he had intended to copy was copied. The copied material was organized and sorted, as were his writing pads, as were his notebooks. As soon as he sat down to work on his book, the notes were going to leap into his hands and offer themselves to him. Herbst had enough material to begin writing the book, but his ideas had so many ramifications that he wasn’t sure they would lead to the conclusion he had had in mind at the beginning, before he started collecting material.

Let’s have a look at the rest of Herbst’s affairs.

His little daughter Sarah is growing up, and she is no trouble to her parents. Her teeth grew in like a mouse’s without causing her parents a single sleepless night. She caught the standard childhood illnesses and made short shrift of them. She was never really sick and didn’t need doctors. Whenever Henrietta saw that Sarah wasn’t well, she called the doctor, but, by the time he arrived, she would be all better. But what will we do when it’s time for her to start school? Here in Baka, which is an Arab neighborhood, there is no Jewish kindergarten. During the 1929 riots, all the Jews fled for their lives and didn’t return, except for the Herbst family. We’ll have to take the child to Talpiot, but how will we manage to get her from Baka to Talpiot and from Talpiot to Baka? We’ll have no choice but to move to a Jewish neighborhood. It would surely be nice to live among Jews, but how is one to give up the vegetable garden and the flower garden, in which Henrietta has invested so much effort all these years? Manfred says to her, “Don’t fret. We can get vegetables from the market, and there are flower vendors in the city from whom you’ll be able to buy whatever you like.”

So much for the vegetable garden and the flower garden; let’s turn our attention to the houses in the city. Two or three generations back, there was space between the buildings. Each one stood alone. Now they are crowded together on rocky terrain that produces no trees, no shrubs, no grass — only noise and clamor. New neighborhoods have been built, too. They have no trees yet, but saplings have been planted, which will grow into sturdy trees. Talpiot is the neighborhood closest to ours, so close to Baka that one bus serves them both. But I can tell you this: in Talpiot, the houses are small, with tiny rooms. The roads are in disrepair, and Arabs from nearby villages pass through, noisy and raucous, littering the street with food and animal dung. Its streets have no benches to sit on, not even trees in whose shade one could rest. True, there is a grove, but every tree in the grove is claimed by a British soldier and his slut, transacting their business while children watch, laugh, and make obscene comments. Jerusalem’s schoolchildren are brought to this grove to plant trees on Arbor Day. They set forth with great fanfare, bedecked with branches torn from trees that have just begun to grow, and carry scores of saplings, which they stick into the ground as they sing about the land. The next day, no one remembers the tender saplings, except the Arabs, who uproot them and use them to build cooking fires. What remains of that tree-planting celebration? Dozens of articles about the Jewish National Fund and the teachers who are engaged in reclaiming the land.

From the youngest of the girls, I move on to her big sister Tamara. Sarah is not yet of kindergarten age; Tamara is about to be rid of school or is, perhaps, already rid of it. We will now sing the praises of Tamara. Her tongue has lost its sting. She is no longer insolent to her father. She doesn’t call him by his name; she calls him “Father.” And she doesn’t say to him, “So, Manfred, you’ve made us a sister,” as she did after Sarah was born. Furthermore, she doesn’t malign her teachers, deride our great poets, or make silly remarks about Apollo bound up in tefillin straps. She has even changed her mind about Jewish history. She says many negative things about the British — that they have taken over the country, that it’s time for them to fold their tents and go. Some people are offended by her opinions; others nod in agreement. One can’t deny that there is a grain of truth in what she says. Even if we were to overlook the hardships imposed on us by Mandate officials, we must denounce them for shedding the blood of our brothers before our very eyes. Oppressed and tortured, escaping the Nazi sword aboard battered vessels that cast about for days, weeks, months on end, they finally reach the waters of the Land of Israel, only to be confronted by Mandate police brandishing rifles, barring them from the country, though it is open to Poles and to every other nation. The people that concluded an eternal covenant with this land is excluded from it.

So much for adversity; now we’ll tell a little bit about Tamara’s other affairs. She engages in volunteer work and does not earn enough to keep her shoes in repair. In any case, it’s good that she doesn’t interfere in the household routines. One might say she pitches in. We wouldn’t be aware of this if we hadn’t heard about it from her father, who said, “I’m grateful to you, my dear, for taking my letters to the post office.”

I’ll mention Firadeus too. Though she doesn’t count as part of the household, she counts because of the housework. She arrives in the morning and leaves in the afternoon. If, for some reason, she doesn’t come — because of the curfew, the perils of the road, or some other life-threatening situation — she doubles her efforts the next day and makes up what she has missed. On her own, she looks for and finds all sorts of tasks that never occurred to the lady of the house, whose grip on the household has relaxed, due to the stress of pregnancy, so that she no longer keeps her customary vigilant eye on things. This being the case, Firadeus does her best to spare Mrs. Herbst. Firadeus is devoted to Mrs. Herbst and to Mr. Herbst, too, because they are fine people. There are other fine people: Mr. Sacharson, for example, who pays her generously for putting wrappers on his pamphlets, even the ones her neighbors take and don’t return. When he sees her looking sad, for someone might suspect she took money for them, he laughs and says, “Silly girl, don’t worry. No need to get upset.” Still, she doubts that he is really a good man, for there is something about his laugh that isn’t right; the mockery in his eyes and his distorted face are signs that something isn’t right. The Herbsts are different. They are good and lovable. Firadeus once tried to describe what was so special about the Herbsts to her friends, but she failed. Her friends said to her, “Even you don’t know.” Firadeus knows that she knows, but she doesn’t know how to explain it to anyone else.

I have said so much about seemingly trivial matters that are not actually trivial, for they shed light on the people Herbst lived with. If I weren’t afraid to be too abstract, I would say that all the household winds were at one with the man of the house.

Chapter five

Herbst sits at home. He doesn’t go to Shira’s, so, obviously, he doesn’t stay there late. But he is at his desk late, with his books and his papers. Some of the papers are in the new box that was made for him; others are on the desk in front of him, so he can jot down ideas that will enhance his book. He is about to turn out a new book, a sequel to the first one. A true researcher — even if he turns out many books, each one brimming with new and different ideas — will relate them all to his very first book, the one that took shape in his mind when he first began to respond to intellectual stimulation, before he even knew why he was responding.

So Herbst is at his desk. He compares one text to another, one document to another, and studies photostats without a magnifier all day and into the night. Since he began to smoke less, his eyes have improved. And, since he began to smoke less, Henrietta comes in more often. When she comes, she brings a flower from the garden, fresh fruit from the tree, or any one of his favorite foods. When she comes, he clears a chair for her, and she sits down to talk to her husband. What does she talk about, and what doesn’t she talk about? Things she has talked about already, things Manfred himself knows about, such as the baby boy she expects to give birth to. How does she know it will be a boy? Because that’s what Manfred told her, and Manfred is dependable. When she was pregnant with Sarah, Manfred did not predict that she would give birth to a boy, and, in fact, she had a girl, not a boy. The night Sarah, their little daughter, was born was the night Herbst got to know Shira. Now that Henrietta is going to give birth to either a boy or a girl, Herbst has put Shira out of mind.

From the time Herbst first knew Shira to the present, he had never realized just how good it was for a man to be faithful to his wife. The poets have wrought splendid poems about love, yet not many of them celebrate a husband’s love for his wife.

Nevertheless, Herbst was surprised not to be tormenting himself over Shira. Was his connection with her such a casual matter? Everything is determined by agreement. If we agree that something is important, then it is; if we don’t, then it is of no consequence. This applies to his relationship with Shira.

Herbst makes no effort to see Shira, and Shira makes no effort to show herself to him. If Shira had come to visit Henrietta, as she had promised the day Sarah was born, he would not have minded. He would have welcomed her, asked how she was, spoken to her, as he did to most of the women who called on Henrietta.

He acted on his intentions. Not at home, but when he was out. Once, he was standing in front of a shoe store, considering whether to buy new sandals. His sandals were worn. He had brought them in for repair and retrieved them in worse shape than before, so he decided to get new ones. While he was standing in front of the store, Shira emerged, carrying some shoes in a paper bag. She saw him and said, “You disappeared from the horizon.” He said to her, “Would you like me to show myself on your horizon?” Whatever he said was said only to be polite, which was the tone of the entire conversation.

When they parted, she said to him, “I have moved to a new place. If you wish, you can write down my new address.” She also said to him, “You are going to buy yourself some shoes.” And he said, “I’m not going to buy myself any shoes.” She said, “But you’re standing here and looking in the window.” He said, “The window is full of children’s shoes.” Shira said, “Are you looking for shoes for your son?” He said, “You mean my daughter.” She said, “Your daughter’s son or the son your wife is about to give birth to.” Herbst said, “Nothing is hidden from you, Shira.” Shira said, “In any case, you may visit me in my new apartment.” He said, “With pleasure, with pleasure. Let me have your package, and I’ll carry it.” Shira held the package with one finger and said, “It’s light. I can carry it.” He said, “No is no.” She said, “I’m busy arranging furniture, or I would invite you to come this evening. This is your bus stop. If you’re not in a hurry, I’ll tell you something. You once asked me if I ever dreamed about you, and I told you I don’t dream. But, of all things, the night after I told you that, I dreamed I was in my bed, and near my bed, at an angle, under the Böcklin picture, some sort of creature was walking along jauntily. I looked more closely and saw a little hat. Do you understand, Manfred? A little hat was walking around the room. A little hat, walking, on its own. Here comes your bus. Goodbye now, and au revoir. You didn’t take down my new address. Too bad.”

Herbst boarded the bus, sat down, and thought: I was in town, and I didn’t buy anything for Henrietta’s birthday. If Zahara were here, I would consult her about what to buy. I could consult Mimi Weltfremdt, or maybe…Before he could think of anyone else to consult, he was at his stop. Herbst got off the bus and went home.

Chapter six

Even though Herbst had put Shira out of mind, he realized that he should have written down her new address. Not in order to visit her, but to be polite, especially since she had told him twice, “Write down my new address.” Actually, she had said, “Write it down,” only once. The second time, before she went off, she didn’t say, “You can write it down”; she said, “You didn’t take down my new address.” She also said, “Too bad.” It’s a bad sign when a man treats a woman he was once intimate with as if she no longer exists for him. But what’s left undone may be for the best. Why fill our notebooks with useless data? Shira’s name and address would take up only a single line, but, when you opened the book and saw the name, it would arouse all sorts of thoughts.

Time plays its part, and Shira plays hers. She doesn’t show herself in any of her usual haunts. Herbst is glad that she doesn’t show herself to him, but he is also puzzled.

The days proceed in orderly fashion; the household functions in its usual way. Henrietta does her work, and Manfred does his. He is busy with his books and his students, at home and at the university. She is busy in the house and garden. It should be mentioned that, were it not for the fact that Firadeus helped her, Henrietta’s work would not get done. Her body is enormously heavy, and her legs seem to be weighted down with stones. We will therefore sing the praises of Firadeus, who is a helpmate to Henrietta. You cannot imagine what a skilled worker Firadeus is. In addition, she has good sense. Henrietta recognized this even before she became pregnant, when she could manage without help. Now that she can no longer manage on her own, she gives herself credit for having recognized Firadeus’s special qualities early on. She often says, “What I observed earlier in my mind, I now observe with my eyes.” Henrietta is pleased with Firadeus, and Manfred is equally pleased with her. Actually, Manfred was always pleased with the household help, to the extent that he was aware of its existence, since his main needs were met by Henrietta. When Firadeus arrived, she took on some of the chores that had always been reserved for Henrietta, both in the house and garden, and in Herbst’s study. Since Firadeus has begun to do his room, he finds everything in place. Not just the smoking paraphernalia, the pens, and the ink, but slips of paper, blown under the furniture by the wind, are arranged neatly on his desk. Herbst admires Firadeus for not being lazy. Slips of paper he has lost track of, with notes on forgotten books, are set out in front of him, reminding him of material he didn’t remember, although he himself had copied it. For this reason, he is always very cordial to Firadeus, and, even if he is involved in reading or writing, he stops to say a kind word. Firadeus listens and makes an effort to satisfy her employers.

Firadeus has many thoughts in her heart. First about her father, who was killed by an Arab while on his way home from work in Talpiot. As he did every day, on that day he walked home after collecting the garbage from the houses of Talpiot, an empty sack on his shoulders and an Ashkenazi-style hat on his head — a hat he had found in a Talpiot garbage can. It was a fine hat, and, being unfamiliar with the Ashkenazi practice of throwing out something perfectly good, he assumed it had landed in the garbage by mistake. He picked up the hat and knocked on the door of the adjacent house. The man of the house appeared and asked, “What do you want?” He pointed to the hat he was holding and told the man, “I found it in the garbage, sir, and I am returning it to you.” The man laughed and said, “It’s all yours. You can wear it on Shabbat and holidays.” Father took another look at the hat and said to that gentleman, “May many blessings come your way.” Father used to wear the hat on Shabbat, on holidays, on all joyous occasions. A fine man and full of good cheer, Father was invited to every celebration that took place in our neighborhood. After a while, he began wearing the hat every day, but not when he was dealing with the garbage. After a further while, he began wearing it when he was working. The day he was killed was the third time he wore the hat to work. Firadeus was sitting in the bus, on her way to Talpiot. All of a sudden, a shot was heard. Everyone began shouting. The driver stopped the bus, and a body was carried in. Firadeus had never seen a dead body and had no wish to see one. But her eyes were drawn in its direction. Her heart stood still. She tore at her heart with her fingernails, shrieking — a terrible shriek that still rings in her ears. After that, she didn’t shriek at all; she was taken somewhere and given a drink to induce sleep and inhibit tears. To this day, her eyes remain inhibited, and only her heart murmurs: My sweet father, my sweet father. Unlike that moment when she saw that the dead man was her father and shrieked a single shriek: “Father!”

Mother is second only to Father. Like her neighbors, Mother works all day. At night, another mood takes over. She gets up from her mat and paces back and forth, her eyes closed tight, her spirit lamenting, wailing, mourning the father of these tender orphans, a blameless man whose innocent blood was spilled while God in heaven remained silent. He remained silent as an evil nation had the temerity to murder a righteous man in this land ruled by violence.

Third in the thoughts of Firadeus are her brothers and sisters, who have never known any kindness. She alone has found kindness, in the Herbst household.

Many people come to the Herbst home. Almost all of them are doctors, which is how it is with the Ashkenazim. They smoke a lot and talk a lot. The most peculiar one is the raving doctor whose name she has given up trying to pronounce. She calls him Dr. Felfrem. He is tall, broad shouldered, constantly swearing and cursing. As he rants, he holds the tip of his nose between his thumb and index finger, scowling at everything in sight. When he comes into the house, Firadeus feels as if he were placing his heavy arms on her shoulders, pushing her down to the floor, scowling at her. She is still surprised that he has never once done this. Mrs. Herbst says he’s not a bad person, that it’s just his way to be angry, which one should never say to his face, or he will become all the more angry.

Dr. Taglicht, the skinny man whose name means “daylight” in the language of the Ashkenazim, but whom Tamara calls Talglicht, meaning “tallow candle” in the language of the Ashkenazim, is the reverse of Dr. Felfrem. He is a fine man, and his manner is pleasant. Whenever he comes, he asks how she is; if he hasn’t seen her for a while, he asks about her mother, as well as her sisters and brothers. One Shabbat afternoon, walking with a girlfriend, she said hello to him, but he didn’t recognize her. When she told him her name, he reached out his hand and said, “Please introduce me to your friend.” This was before she knew about “introducing.” What did he do? He said to her friend, “Taglicht is my name, Dr. Taglicht.” She will never forget how he said “Taglicht is my name” — how he added “Dr. Taglicht,” so her friend knew that the gentleman who said hello to her was a doctor.

Apart from the doctors who come to the Herbst home, many young people come who aren’t doctors yet, but who will become doctors. They go to the room with all of Mr. Herbst’s books, the room Mr. Herbst works in. Some of the young men wear flamboyant clothes, but her perceptive eye discerns that they are worn. Often, there are no buttons on their coats. Were it not for fear of her mother, she would sign up at the youth center and sit in the corner examining coats and mending them as she had done for one of Herbst’s frequent visitors, a young man who forgot his coat. When Firadeus noticed that its buttons were missing, she took it in order to sew on buttons and saw it was torn as well. She sewed on new buttons, found similar material from which she made a patch, and brushed off the dust. Days later, the young man came to ask about his coat. Firadeus assumed he wouldn’t recognize the coat — that, if he recognized it, he would wonder about the transformation — but he took the coat and put it on without even noticing that it had new buttons and was no longer torn.

Along with the young men who come to Mr. Herbst is a young woman, also a student on Mount Scopus. Firadeus assumed she was like all the other young women studying at Mount Scopus, until she learned she was married, the mother of a baby. She leaves her little girl in Tel Aviv with her husband’s mother and comes to Jerusalem to study with the young men. We all know of women who abandon their children to go off with some scoundrel who steals other men’s wives. But never had she heard of a woman leaving her child to pursue academic studies. The one they call Dr. Krautmeir must have behaved in this fashion, which is how she became a doctor. Not merely a doctor, but a medical doctor — a real doctor, who is paid to see patients, whether they are brought to her or she goes to them. Her lips are always clenched. The whites of her eyes are bright. Her hand is large and plump, her face round and smooth. Her every hair stays in place out of fear of this mistress. Some of the women who call on Mrs. Herbst intimidate Firadeus, though she knows they have nothing against her. There are others she is fond of: the wife of the raving doctor, for example, whose name is Mimi, although Mrs. Herbst calls her Mi. Her blue-gray hair is like the soft feathers under a bird’s throat; her entire being suggests that she has no real substance. She is extremely thin; her face is transparent, her eyes bewildered. Everyone enjoys looking at her and listening to her voice, except for her husband, Dr. Felfrem. As soon as she opens her mouth, his attention wanders. Whenever Firadeus sees Mimi, she has an urge to smooth her sleeves, to touch her. Once, Firadeus heard her play the piano, and the sounds that came out of the instrument still vibrate in her ears, like the piano keys themselves when Mimi’s fingers darted across them. The same fingers do all the housework; she has no household help, because her husband can’t afford to pay the price.

It is not only Persians who are poor. Some Germans are poor too, because a villain named Hitler came and took their money. Some of the Germans came to the Land of Israel before Hitler came to power in Germany, and they have everything — oil and margarine and butter — unlike the recent arrivals, who spice their loaves with spit.

Having mentioned Mrs. Herbst, a few of the Herbsts’ callers, and a few of Firadeus’s thoughts about them, I will mention Zahara and Tamara, two of Manfred and Henrietta’s daughters. In fact, I will mention only Tamara, since Zahara lives in some kvutza far from Jerusalem, and, on those rare occasions when she visits, Firadeus isn’t always at the Herbsts’. As soon as her work is done, Mrs. Herbst dismisses her so she can go home. Mrs. Herbst knows that Firadeus’s mother is a hard woman, and sometimes, out of grief, she beats her children for sins they haven’t committed. It is better when Firadeus is there, as she knows how to placate her mother. The only one left for me to tell about is Tamara.

You are already acquainted with Tamara. She looks at you without acknowledging your existence. She probably treats Firadeus the same way. It wouldn’t be like Tamara to change her style for the household help. But two things she did for Firadeus ought to be noted: she gave her a fragrant lotion for the bruised skin on her hands, and she explained the workings of a particular object hanging on the wall — how the strip of red glass inside changes its position, jumping sometimes upward and sometimes downward, indicating shifts in temperature. Firadeus was thoroughly delighted to learn the function of that object. She doesn’t miss an opportunity to astonish her girlfriends by saying, “Do you know how hot it is today? It’s this many degrees.” More amazing, her mother was once very sick, so they called the doctor. Firadeus found a thermometer, took the patient’s temperature, and told the doctor how much fever her mother had. The doctor looked at her benignly and said, “If you’re not a doctor, you are surely a nurse.” If she were Ashkenazic, she would be in school. But she isn’t Ashkenazic, and she can’t be in school because she has to work. Since childhood, she has been working to support herself and her family. She has no great ambitions, although she would like to know about the fat letters in the newspaper from which one can tell in an instant just what is happening in the world. If Tamara would teach her, she would learn and know. But Tamara is busy and doesn’t have time to teach Firadeus. Many girls have come from the lands of exile without any knowledge of Hebrew, and they have to be taught. Because they are confined in a sanitarium for tuberculosis victims, in Mekor Hayim, Tamara goes there to teach them. These girls roamed from city to city, from country to country, pursued by border patrols because they didn’t have visas. Eluding the border patrols, they arrived at a port in the Land of Israel. But the Mandate police didn’t allow them to land, because they didn’t have certificates, and, once again, they roamed the seas in battered boats, without food or drink, until our young men took charge and arranged for them to land in secret places. Having been at sea so long, they were vulnerable to many diseases. Tamara volunteered to work with them, to teach them to speak and read the language. She goes there every day and stays into the night. It would be good for Tamara to find a paying job, so she could help her mother with household expenses. But this is good too. These are troubled times for our people, and anyone who can, should help. The Herbsts ought to be pleased with Tamara, with the fact that she has given up her earlier mode, turning away from café life and from dancing to devote herself to the advancement of young Jewish girls. What would they do if she joined one of those suspect organizations that endanger their members, like Herut, the Irgun, or the Stern Gang. It would be good if Tamara would find a job, earn a salary, and help her mother with household expenses. In any case, it’s good that she keeps busy, and her mind is no longer on cafés and on dancing with British soldiers.

There are times, when Herbst is with his books — a cup of coffee at his side, a cigarette in hand, new documents spread out before him on his desk, his notes arranged by subject — when it seems to him that all the world’s tangles are in the process of being unraveled. Even if he should have to move to another house and relocate his books, which he estimates at five thousand volumes, he has a strategy. What is it? You take out the books, row by row, tie a string around each row, put them in boxes, mark each box A, B, C, D, et cetera, and mark the bookcases with numbers and the shelves with letters, so, when it comes time to unpack them, there is no confusion. He has already had a word with Moshe the Assyrian, Jerusalem’s chief porter, who is intelligent and strong — who transports pianos from one end of Jerusalem to the other — and he nodded his beard at him to signify agreement.

As I noted, it sometimes seems to Herbst that the world has become less and less tangled. To confirm this, he would remind himself of what happened to him with Shira and be glad that his heart was purged of her. In which case, what did he see in her to begin with? Why was he ever attracted to her? It was an accident of fate. Just as a person can make a mistake, fate can also make a mistake. All those events were one extended accident. Some errors can never be purged, but Herbst’s error is not one of those. Just as he seeks nothing from Shira, so Shira seeks nothing from him. The fact that she doesn’t show herself to him is evidence. To celebrate his soul, now liberated from its delusion, Herbst goes to his wife and embraces her, whispering sweet nothings invented at that moment. He takes pleasure in his wife, and his wife takes pleasure in him. Those who assume that an older man is no longer capable of inventing an amorous phrase for his wife are mistaken. Seeing Manfred and Henrietta together, although he is past forty-three and she is about thirty-nine — perhaps forty-one — one cannot but marvel and acknowledge that the love displayed by this middle-aged couple may even surpass the love of youngsters. Subjecting himself to the ultimate test, Manfred repeats that verse in a whisper: “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” Whether or not you believe it, the verse is no longer associated with Shira.

Having observed that the world is being restored and that its tangles are in the process of being unraveled, I should get back to Tamara, whose footsteps don’t always lead her to Mekor Hayim. I wouldn’t be divulging secrets or gossiping if I were to disclose that I once saw her learning how to handle weapons with some comrades and that they were not from the Haganah, but from the Stern Gang. Her mother and father don’t know about this, but British Intelligence, from whom nothing is hidden, has her name in their files. They still pretend not to know, but, when it suits them, we will feel the impact of their knowledge. For the moment, I’ll say no more about Tamara’s activities. In fact, I might as well dismiss her entirely, rather than risk getting sidetracked, by her story, when my real purpose is to tell about Herbst and Shira. Similarly, I’ll say no more about Zahara, to whom so much has happened that, even if I were to write about her, I couldn’t cover everything. I’ll say no more about the daughters and get back to the father of these daughters.

Manfred’s life is in good order; Henrietta’s life is in good order too. His work is bearing fruit; her belly is bearing fruit. His manuscript continues to grow thicker; her body continues to expand. It’s a pleasure to see the two of them together. When they are together, his spiritual quality becomes physical compared to hers, and her physical quality becomes spiritual. That is to say, Manfred’s entire thick manuscript has physical reality compared to Henrietta’s baby. True, her face is drawn and very wrinkled, and her cheeks have several blotches of color, which are not attractive. She is wan, and her bearing is slovenly. But the new light shining from her eyes is the light that wells up in mothers, who are the foundation of the world and make it possible for the world to survive.

At about this time, it was Henrietta’s birthday. Manfred went to town and bought some pretty sandals, pretty and just right for Henrietta. True, the doctor had advised her to pay attention to her shoes, to wear only sturdy footwear, and, of course, to avoid high heels, as her arches were weak and she could become flat-footed. But is it possible to heed all medical advice? It was a lovely moment when Henrietta extended her feet so Manfred could help her slip into the new sandals he had bought her. Little Sarah laughed when she saw her mother suddenly turned into a baby, having her shoes put on for her.

I will say a word or two about little Sarah’s cleverness. After watching her mother, she asked whether the baby inside her mother was wearing sandals too. What’s so clever about this? She was such a clever little girl that she didn’t wait for anyone to come and tell her, “The stork is going to bring you a sister, a brother, a doll to play with.” She knew on her own that the baby was growing out of her mother’s heart, just as flowers grow out of the belly of the earth.

There are many more things to tell, but they might divert us from the story itself. I will therefore disregard them and tell about something that happened to Manfred. That night, after Manfred said goodnight to Henrietta and got into his bed, healthy and intact, his heart filled with good cheer and his soul content, he saw in his dream something he had heard about from Shira. A small object was walking around the room, but it wasn’t walking happily, and it made a sound like that of a new shoe. When Manfred looked to see what was walking around the room, he saw that it was a sandal. Startled out of his sleep, he looked up and saw that beggar, the Turk. He was there with Shira. They both entered the sandal and disappeared. Once again he was astonished, as he had been the day he brought Henrietta to the hospital to give birth to Sarah, when he observed the very same phenomenon. How can two people fit into a sandal, which is only one of the body’s trappings? Manfred’s dismay was exceeded by his sorrow over the fact that Shira had vanished.

In the morning, Manfred was sad. The dream he had dreamed that night disturbed him by day. Morning light was already beginning to shine, erasing all traces of the night, but his dream was not erased. A more painful consequence: while dreaming his dream, he had been lying in bed, his body seemingly relaxed. Now that he was out of bed, he had to drag himself around, his dream trailing behind him, allowing him no respite from either his body or his dream. For an instant, his dream seemed to be gone; the next instant, it recurred, and he couldn’t get his mind off it. When Henrietta saw he was depressed, she suggested that he go into town. She was wise enough not to ask why he was sad; she simply suggested that he go into town, where he would find distraction. On days when he didn’t have to go to the university, he used to spend the morning at home in his study, dressed in old clothes and slippers, so it was hard for him suddenly to mobilize, change his clothes, and go into town. Further, it would be a waste of time, and he didn’t even know what he would do in town. He began to look around his room for things to occupy himself with instead, which was his usual tactic when he couldn’t work any longer. As soon as he became involved in something, his passion for work was aroused, and he could get back to his routine. Henrietta, who knew him better than he knew himself, repeated, “Go into town and don’t wear yourself out needlessly.” He listened to her and went into town. Whether or not you believe it, on the way into town he met that blind beggar, the Turk, who stared at Herbst with his mocking, blind eyes. On the face of it, this was an ordinary event, for it is in the nature of beggars to wander everywhere seeking alms. But Herbst didn’t consider it an ordinary event. Because of it, he was even sadder than before. All of a sudden, it occurred to Herbst that this, too, was merely a dream. To test whether he was dreaming or awake, he took out a pack of cigarettes and approached the blind man, intending to say, “My friend, would you like a cigarette?”

Before he could reach him, he was jostled and swept along by the crowd, until he arrived wherever he arrived. Though he had never been there, he recognized the place. How? From the tragedy he had been working on before the visit to his daughter in Kfar Ahinoam. He took out his notebook and made a drawing of the place that was suddenly so real to him.

He returned the notebook to his pocket and began to think about the tragedy he had resolved to put aside when he was in Kfar Ahinoam. Though he had resolved not to pursue it, he was thinking about it again and considering: It may have been a mistake to add Basileios to the plot, since there was nothing in any of the notes or studies on Antonia and Yohanan about a manservant or maidservant at all similar to Basileios. On the one hand, Herbst was pleased to have added an original element, proving that, contrary to what he thought when he first began to write the tragedy, he wasn’t totally devoid of imagination, for he had added a character to those provided by history. On the other hand, although he had washed his hands of the play that night in Kfar Ahinoam, whatever a man touches, even if he washes his hands of it, retains a trace of this touch, a bit of life that continues to flutter, involuntarily.

We will now dwell on Basileios, the faithful servant. This Basileios was formed in Herbst’s imagination. Herbst didn’t know what he would do with him at first, but he was unwilling to relinquish him, since all the characters in the tragedy were historical and he alone was a product of Herbst’s imagination. It is truly no great feat to take something known and make a play out of it. Goethe used to tell poets: Don’t invent material. Use familiar stories. The essence does not lie in the plot, but in what a poet does with it. Herbst, however — and there were probably many others with him — did not agree. When Herbst saw Gerhart Hauptmann’s drama Heinrich the Unfortunate, he wondered why the poet had seen fit to take a lovely story told by an excellent storyteller and turn it into a play, which added nothing to the story. So, since Herbst didn’t know what to do with Basileios, in the end he made him into a leper, confined to the leper colony.

As we have already observed, Herbst’s contribution was not essential to the tragedy. One could say about this: It’s tragic, but it’s not tragedy. Still, Herbst took pride in Basileios, the product of his imagination.

Chapter seven

As I noted, Herbst put Shira out of mind and didn’t feel compelled to see her; indeed, when she wanted to give him her new address, he didn’t even take his notebook from his pocket to write it down.

As it happens, it happened that what he could have gotten with no effort he could not get later even with considerable effort. But I won’t jump ahead; I’ll relate things in their proper order.

At about that time, Professor Bachlam became sick and was taken to the hospital. Herbst went to visit him there. As he sat with his sick friend, it occurred to Herbst that he might see Shira. He felt not a trace of joy, only some curiosity about her. When he left Bachlam without seeing Shira, he decided it must be her day off. Some days later, he went back to visit Professor Bachlam and spent a long time with him. He sat there thinking: I’ll see her today, I’ll surely see her today. I’ll see her soon. In just a little while, I’ll see her. There’s no doubt that I’ll see her. I hear her footsteps now. As time passed and she didn’t appear, he began to wonder: This is the hospital she works in, so why doesn’t she come? Why doesn’t she come to look after the patient?

He had already stayed too long, and he began to imagine: Now Shira will come and suggest that I leave, so the patient can rest. But Shira didn’t come, and he didn’t leave, because, when Bachlam has someone to talk to, he doesn’t let him get away. Herbst sat with Bachlam, annoyed at the hospital for ignoring the patient, for not coming to ask if he needed anything. Since his arrival, no nurse had been in to see to the patient. Once again, his thoughts were of Shira. It made no sense: he had been here twice, and he hadn’t seen her. He finally concluded that she must work on a ward, whereas Bachlam was in a private room. He was annoyed at Bachlam for being in a private room rather than with the ward patients. He pictured the various sections of the hospital, the different halls and rooms, with special attention to the general ward where most of the patients were, where the beds were lined up in row upon row. He searched the vast room in his mind’s eye, looking for Shira. But he did not find her. He concluded that she was working elsewhere, perhaps in the maternity section, which explained why she never came to Bachlam’s room.

Herbst’s thoughts were interrupted by noise from outside. But they resumed their flow. He mused: A patient is lying here in need of rest, and he gets no rest, because the hospital isn’t strict about resting. The noise stopped suddenly, and another sound was heard, the sound of footsteps in the hall on the other side of the door. Herbst bent his ears toward the sound, saying to himself: If those aren’t Shira’s footsteps, I don’t know whose they are. She’s about to come in. Here she comes. I’m about to see her. Shira won’t show her delight, but her eyes will reveal some of what is in her heart. She’s already knocking on the door. Her hand is on the doorknob. She has opened the door. Here she comes.

As it happened, it wasn’t Shira who came in, but an elderly nurse, the one who showed Sarah to him the day she was born. Herbst was encouraged. If this woman is here, Shira is here too. The two of them attended Henrietta when Sarah was born. This old woman, who worked in Obstetrics at the time, works here now, so Shira must be here too. On the other hand, could it be that, because the old woman works here, Shira does not?

The old woman saw and recognized him. With her sugary tongue, she asked after Mrs. Herbst and the darling baby, born with her assistance, with her hands, her very own hands, though that baby deserved to be carried into the world by golden hands bedecked in jewels. As she spoke, she displayed her little hands. Whether or not you believe it, her irritation at Herbst — for not appreciating how darling his daughter was the instant she showed her to him — had vanished, leaving no trace. She asked about the little one again. Herbst behaved appropriately, responding to every question. He even added comments of his own and reported several clever things the child had said. The old woman was thrilled, despite the fact that the child’s cleverness was not news to her. The minute the baby was born, it was obvious that she was extremely clever — so much so that one could say without exaggeration that nowhere in the world was there anyone as clever.

Luckily, none of the grumblers was present. If one of them had been there, he would have jested later that Bachlam was so jealous of the baby that he interrupted the old woman and began recounting his own clever remarks. This is what Herbst was thinking, and what unfolded before his eyes was not very different from what was in his mind. He could see that Bachlam was not very pleased by the old woman’s conversation, which was how he reacted whenever he heard someone else being praised. Herbst tried to avert his eyes, so as not to see what he saw. But he failed, for Bachlam’s eyes glared disapprovingly, the tip of his nose was flushed, and his thin lips trembled. His entire being seemed to proclaim: So they found someone to praise, so they found someone to praise. As if I don’t know what they mean, as if I don’t see what they mean. They do what they do to avoid praising the one who is truly praiseworthy. Herbst turned toward the old woman and gazed at her, like a person in pain seeking relief. Looking at her, he realized how very old she was, how very small, and he was surprised to have mistaken her footsteps for Shira’s. What could he have been thinking? But, because his mind was totally occupied with Shira, every rustle sounded to him like Shira’s footsteps.

The old woman was still there, singing Sarah’s praises. In addition to being clever, she was the most perfect child in the world. Beauty and wit have been linked together since the world was created, though beauty sometimes supersedes wit and wit sometimes supersedes beauty. In the case of that sweet baby, however, these two qualities were evenly matched, and this was the source of her rare and incomparable charm.

In deference to Bachlam, Herbst wanted to interrupt the old woman, but he couldn’t figure out how. All of a sudden, without forethought, without having any idea what his lips were about to utter, he whispered, “I’ll reveal something to you, something you will find very interesting. Mrs. Herbst will be coming to you, because she is soon going to have another baby.” The old woman clapped her small but vigorous hands. Her face was illuminated with joy, from her forehead to the roots of her hair, to the white kerchief on her head. As if to support an argument, she said, “I can tell you this, sir, doctor, you ought to be very happy. I have no doubt — in fact, it is clear to me — that the boy who is going to be born will be even more handsome and clever than his sister, since the world becomes more and more splendid, and each successive child outdoes its predecessors. This is what I tell all the mothers, most of whom are not pleased to be pregnant and bear children. ‘What are you after?’ I say to them. ‘Do you want to be like the dolls in a toy shop, dressed up in fine clothes, entertaining but producing nothing?’ My dear sir, you understand what I mean when I say ‘producing nothing.’ I mean that the dolls they sell in stores don’t even produce dolls like themselves. ‘Or,’ I say to them, ‘you might want to compare yourself to…’ Excuse me, professor. What would you like, sir, professor? If you would like lunch, I will bring lunch right away. But, before lunch, I would like to arrange the pillow. Only this pillow, the one on top. Excuse me, please, sir, professor, for daring to trouble you to raise your head just a bit. Head high! That’s a basic principle in life. Isn’t that so, professor? You are wise, you have written many wise books, and I don’t doubt — in fact, it is clear to me — that you have discovered this for yourself. Head high. Never let it droop. I commend Professor Bachlam. He obeys the doctors in every respect. I never saw such a wise patient, one who knows and understands that good health is based on hearing and following what the doctors say, for their sole aim is to cure the patient. I usually tell patients this, and it’s true: ‘If you listen to the doctor, then you don’t need a doctor.’ What I mean to say is that those who listen to the doctor and follow all his instructions will have no further need of a doctor. They’ll already be cured. Goodbye, goodbye, sir, Dr. Herbst. Goodbye to you, doctor. And please be so kind as to convey my good wishes to the sweet baby. And say to her, ‘My little sweetheart, try and guess who asked after you. The old nurse who had the privilege of showing you to your father right after you were born — she’s the one who asked after you.’ And if I may add a further request to that request, I would request that you convey my good wishes to that dear lady Mrs. Herbst. Tell her that a bed awaits her, a good bed with a rubber mattress, that lying on it is like — what shall I say? — it’s like…like floating on an ocean wave on a bright summer day. I’m already looking forward to having Mrs. Herbst with us anytime soon. Such a talent for childbirth! I never saw anything like it. If she would listen to me, I’d tell her that she ought to give birth every year. No, not once a year, but twice. The babies she produces have no equals anywhere in the world. If I weren’t so busy, with patients depending on me, I would take the time to draw them, so they could be in the Bezalel Museum. I once said to a famous woman painter, known throughout the world, ‘Why struggle to find subjects for your paintings? Wouldn’t you be better off having children of your own, so you would have live models?’ It seems to me that the professor wished to say something. I think the professor has something to say. Forgive me, sir, professor, for not hearing. Actually, I did hear, for I am totally intent on hearing what you have to say. But sometimes I am like a fish, immersed in the sea, who sticks out his head to catch a drop of rainwater as it falls from the sky, because it is only natural to be drawn to what comes from far away. I wouldn’t presume to interpret this to you, my dear professor, since no one is as wise as you, and you yourself know whatever anyone might say or want to say. Now, my dear professor, I will go and bring your lunch, and, in the meanwhile, I will say goodbye to dear Dr. Herbst. Goodbye, dear doctor. Say hello to Mrs. Herbst, and a special hello to the little princess. So, goodbye, dear Dr. Herbst, and once again goodbye. Now I’ll go and bring the dear professor his lunch. I’ll let you in on a secret: it’s not merely lunch but a symphony of treats.”

Herbst paid one more visit to Professor Bachlam. Professor Bachlam was feeling better, and he was about to leave the hospital. The room was filled with books, manuscripts, bundles of proofs to be read, and several kinds of flowers, because, of all the professors in Jerusalem, no one was as popular with students as Bachlam. Several of his female students had denied themselves food to buy flowers for their favorite professor.

Bachlam had no other visitors that day. His friends had received word that he was better and would soon be out of the hospital. Since there weren’t many visitors, Bachlam was glad to see Herbst, but he complained that all his limbs were defective and declared that there was no one in the entire world as sick as he, that all the known maladies had converged in him. Nonetheless, he wasn’t lying in bed idle; he wasn’t pampering himself. Sick as he was, he had managed to write more than a dozen pages, apart from reading the proofs of his latest book, which was about to go to press; preparing another manuscript for the printer; and reading dissertations by several of his students, including a comprehensive five-hundred-page work — yes, five hundred pages — on Nahum Sokolow. Not that Sokolow deserved it. But the student’s work on Sokolow was first rate. Then, for Herbst’s benefit, Bachlam listed the names of all the prominent individuals who had come to visit him, not to mention the ordinary people, for all who dwell in Zion were concerned about him. Bachlam showed Herbst the flowers he had received, referring to each by name. One of Bachlam’s many accomplishments was the naming of countless varieties of local flowers. He had found names for some of them in the Mishnah, forgotten names that he discovered and revived. Other flowers had never had a Hebrew name, and, if not for the names he assigned them, they would still be nameless. Then Bachlam began to talk about his illnesses again, how all the maladies of the world converged in his body, so one might say there was no one in the world as sick as he was. But he has overcome all these ills and recovered. When he looks at himself, he can’t help wondering: How could such a feeble body overcome so much sickness? It must be that his great spiritual power prevails over physical weakness. He must overcome it, because there is so much for him to do. If he doesn’t do it all, who will? Professor Weltfremdt, perhaps? Or Professor Lemner? Professor Kleiner? Or maybe Professor Wechsler? They are interested only in themselves, and they don’t respond to the people’s needs. If their advice had been heeded, there would be no Hebrew University. When Professor Wechsler was invited to teach for the English, wasn’t he willing to accept their offer? Is Lemner any different? Not to mention Weltfremdt. As far as Weltfremdt is concerned, the university could just as well be German. Such traitors. They would sell Israel’s birthright for a mess of pottage. If not for Bachlam, who stands in the breach, this would still be Palestine, not the Land of Israel, which is why those Germans hate him. But the people are not ungrateful. The people, with their healthy instinct, are aware, sensitive, and grateful. All these flowers, brought by those dear young women, provide ample evidence. No other nation can boast of souls as precious as these. Who gave them life and nurtured them? When he considers these students of his, he knows it’s worthwhile for him to struggle, to struggle and work.

After Herbst took leave of Bachlam, he stopped in the hall and looked all around, as though searching for something. Then he turned to see if anyone had noticed. A nurse appeared. She was young, her uniform was new, her shiny new kerchief seemed to retain the heat of the iron. She herself was new: her flesh was new, without wrinkles or signs of fatigue, and her thick blonde hair exulted in its freshness. She glanced up at him, her kind eyes aglow with fresh joy, and inquired pleasantly, “Are you looking for something, sir?” It took a minute for Herbst to realize she was asking him a question. Her manner was so correct that he missed the intonation. Herbst bowed ever so slightly and said, “I’m not looking for anything. I was visiting Professor Bachlam, and I’m on my way home. But since you ask, it occurs to me to ask if you happen to know where the nurse Shira is.” She lowered her head in sad confusion. She didn’t know the answer, since this was her first day at that hospital and she hadn’t met all the nurses. She looked at him apologetically and said, “If you will wait a minute, I’ll go and ask.” Herbst bowed again and said, “Many thanks, but there’s no need to bother. I can ask myself. Or I may leave the matter to my wife. She’ll be here any day now, and she’ll see the nurse I was asking about.”

Herbst left the hospital without seeing Shira. He had mixed feelings. He didn’t know whether he was pleased not to have seen Shira or whether he was displeased not to have seen Shira. Once again, a quality common not only to Herbst but to most people was manifest. When he decided he was pleased not to have seen Shira, an alternate view asserted itself: You could have seen her here. If you had searched, you would have found her. Because you asked that mere child, whose kerchief is still unwrinkled, who hasn’t dealt with patients yet, you assume you’ve done what you could. But, having said you are leaving it to your wife, it would be best to get out of here. Young nurses tend to be curious, and, if you hang around, she’ll ask about you, and who knows what that will lead to. Herbst adjusted his tie, imagining it had slipped out of place. Since he didn’t have a mirror and couldn’t see if the tie was in place, he adjusted it again. Since he wasn’t sure he had adjusted it properly, he pulled at the edges of his collar. By now, he was at the foot of the hospital steps, near the gate. At the gate, he saw Axelrod the clerk. He was hurrying. He was wrinkled; his skin looked old beyond its years. Unless his skin was created before he was born, I don’t know how to explain this fact. Axelrod raised his glasses all the way to his bald spot and eyed him in alarm. Whether or not you believe it, the glasses eyed him in alarm too. Herbst nodded and greeted him. He greeted him rather submissively. Axelrod looked back over his shoulder, as though a crowd were standing behind him, and said, “Did you want to have a word with me? Be brief and tell me what you want. You can see I’m busy.” Herbst said, “I don’t want anything.” Axelrod said, “It’s good you don’t want anything. I’m busy, and I don’t even have the time to chase a mosquito.” Herbst said, “There was a nurse here. If I’m not mistaken, her name was Shura.” Axelrod said, “You mean Shira. You are asking about the nurse Shira. Then why did you say ‘Shura’? The nurse Shira isn’t here. She isn’t here, as I said.” Herbst said, “Where is she?” Axelrod said, “If I knew, I would tell you.” Herbst looked around. He looked at Axelrod and whispered, “Allow me, sir, to ask: Shira works in this hospital, isn’t that right, Mr. Axelrod?” Axelrod said, “Who’s denying that she used to work in the hospital? On the contrary, everyone agrees that she performed well.” Herbst said, “But what?” Axelrod said, “But she quit.” “She quit?” “Yes, my dear sir. She quit and went off somewhere. These things happen. I don’t get excited over a nurse who quits her job.” “She didn’t say where she was going?” Axelrod said, “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. In any case, she didn’t say anything to me. Of course, I’m too busy to pay attention to everything people say. Come, I’ll see if she left an address.”

Herbst trailed after Axelrod, following him to the office. Axelrod took out a notebook and began to leaf through it. He finally took his head out of the book, turned to look over his shoulder, and said, “What did you want to know? Whether she left us her address? She didn’t leave us her address.” Herbst said, “And what if I need to speak with her?” Axelrod said, “If you have something to tell her, I can write it in this book. But make it brief, just a few words. You can see I’m busy and don’t have time for long speeches. I don’t see the point of endless words anyway.” Axelrod stuck his head back in his book and didn’t look up again, making it clear that the conversation was over and he had nothing more to say. Herbst posted himself in front of Axelrod and risked another question. “She left no clue as to her plans?” Axelrod turned his head toward Herbst again, stared at him in alarm, and asked, “Who left no clues?” Herbst answered in a whisper, “The nurse Shira.” “The nurse Shira? We already forgot she ever existed, and he is still talking about her. She left absolutely no clues. Who needs clues anyway? I like things to be clear. Clear facts, not clues.” Herbst said, “Then there is nothing more to do.” Axelrod said, “What do you mean, ‘nothing more to do’? There is a lot to do, but we never have a chance to do it.” Again, he stuck his head in the book, conveying the impression that, if the whole world were to come and say, “Lift up your head,” he would not lift it.

Herbst left the hospital and stood around for a time. He glanced in all four directions, looking this way and that. Then he followed his feet to the bus stop. When he was sitting in the bus, on the way home, the road became two roads, one leading home, the other leading elsewhere. In all the time since Herbst’s return from Kfar Ahinoam, it hadn’t occurred to him to visit Shira. At that moment, he was convinced that he had to see Shira, in order to find out why she had left the hospital she had worked in for several years and gone elsewhere — also, where had she gone?

He took out his notebook to look for her address. He knew it wasn’t there. When Shira had said to him, “Write down my new address,” he hadn’t written it down. Nevertheless, he looked for her address in his book. The bus stopped suddenly. A large group of Arabs were gathered for a funeral. An Arab dignitary, a rival of the Jerusalem mufti, had been murdered by the mufti’s supporters. The victim’s entire clan — his mother’s whole family and his father’s whole family — as well as many of the mufti’s enemies, came to escort him to his eternal rest. It’s true, Herbst reflected, that Shira has moved. In fact, she told me she has moved. When I was first getting to know her, she told me she was thinking about moving, and now she has succeeded and has made the move. Too bad I didn’t write down where she is. He looked in his notebook again and found nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and made a face, for he hadn’t behaved properly. If not for his own purposes, then in the name of good manners, he ought to have taken her address when Shira said to him, “You can write down my new address.”

The funeral cortege grew longer and longer. Some of the mourners were in cars and buses; others rode donkeys and horses. There were also those who came on foot. “Too bad he was killed,” a fellow passenger remarked. “He was a good goy. Last Passover, as soon as the holiday was over, he sent me a loaf of fresh bread.” Another passenger retorted, “Let them kill each other rather than us. Still, it’s puzzling that the best of them get killed, while the worst villains are spared. Are you by any chance a journalist, my friend?” “Why?” “Because I saw you take out a notebook. You probably want to write about the funeral.” “Is that so?” Herbst said, putting the notebook back in his pocket.

“The road is clear, and we can move on. They create a disturbance when they’re alive as well as when they die. A constant disturbance. I never saw such a people. Their days are idle. They do nothing. When we come and take action, they sound an alarm, as if we were depriving them of work. Please tell me, folks, what do these Arabs really want? If not for the Jews, they would still be what they were in Terah’s generation, in Terah’s time. What haven’t we done for them? Roads, water, orchards, electricity. Still they complain. You, my friend, are probably from Brit Shalom and find my words uncongenial.” Herbst looked at the interrogator and said, “What makes you think I’m from Brit Shalom?” He said, “If you aren’t from Brit Shalom, please forgive me for suspecting you.” Herbst smiled and said, “And if I am from Brit Shalom, what then?” “In that case, you shouldn’t have come to the Land of Israel.” “Be quiet!” the driver shouted. “This is not the place for arguments. Professor Herbst, we are here. This is your stop.”

Chapter eight

It’s possible that he would have found Shira’s apartment, and it’s possible that he wouldn’t have found Shira’s apartment; it’s possible that he would have found her in, and it’s possible that he wouldn’t have found her in. But he made no attempt to find her. When he felt the urge to see her, he overruled it with this rationale: If, at the hospital, where she worked for so many years, no one knows where she is, who am I to know? On the face of it, Herbst was at peace with the situation. Not merely in terms of himself, but in terms of Shira, too, he was at peace. If she were to come and reproach him for not showing himself to her, he could say, “I asked Axelrod about you, and he didn’t know where you were.”

Axelrod didn’t know where Shira was, and Herbst didn’t know where Shira was. They were different, however, in that one had forgotten her and the other had not.

Shira began to show herself to him again. He saw her dimly, in his imagination. The image was different from previous ones, earlier on, when his heart was aflutter and, more recently, when he was bitter, angry, and eager to be rid of her. Now, the image was ambiguous; even as he saw her, he knew she had vanished. He wanted to ask where she had vanished to and why she had left her job at the hospital, but he refrained, lest his voice disrupt the pleasure of his vision. His thoughts drifted, alighting on the climber, the ambitious young man who had pursued her in her youth and whom she had rejected. He speculated that this man had come to Jerusalem and was at the head of every public institution — perhaps he was even a trustee of the hospital — and that Shira had left her job to avoid having him see her in a subordinate role when his position was elevated and prominent.

One day, Herbst saw that climber’s name on a poster announcing a rally in Jerusalem, at which he was to be one of the speakers. Herbst took out his notebook and wrote down the date, the hour, the place. At the appointed time, he went to listen.

Whenever Herbst went to one of these gatherings, known as rallies, he was appalled at the number of people who pushed their way into a noisy, crowded space to hear the same message over and over again — a hundred times, a thousand times — a message that was trivial to begin with. Now that he was at the rally and saw the mob that had come to listen, he changed his mind and decided that the public wasn’t crazy after all: if the speaker attracted such a large crowd, he must have something to offer. Herbst had said roughly this about several orators, and he had turned out to be mistaken. But, in the case of this climber, it was clear to him that he was not mistaken. I refer to him as the climber, not because he was unique in his ambition, but because I’m not free to use his real name. Since I prefer not to invent names, I refer to him in terms of his character.

Let me return to the subject. That particular day was hot and hamsin — like, a day when the good Lord remembered His land unfavorably. The sky was yellow, gray, and dusty; the earth was gritty and hard. In between, the air was yellow and gritty, searing one’s eyes, scratching one’s skin, drying one’s mouth and lips. Throats and palates became irritated, as if they had been sprinkled with salty sand. There was no wind. The sun peered down with ugly eyes. The murky tar on the roads began to melt, sticking to everyone’s heels. Loose dust crawled about, rose up, and seeped into one’s pores, one’s eyes, and one’s nostrils. There were no birds in the sky. Jerusalem had suddenly reverted to an earlier era, before the Second Aliyah, when the only birds in the Jerusalem sky were birds of prey, who came in droves, occupied the land, and behaved as if it were their domain. But the streets of Jerusalem were filled with people, men and women, old and young. On that day, Jerusalem was demonstrating against the Mandate government, whose policies added villainy to villainy, heaped decree upon decree, and made Israel’s burden hard to bear. Those who had escaped the sword and eluded the raging madmen, who had wandered over the land, who had gone to sea in battered boats without bread, water, or medicine — with nothing — reached our shores only to be turned away by the authorities and forced to wander farther, until their boats were wrecked, leaving them to drown and be devoured by sharks. Even people who ordinarily shunned public events came to join this demonstration. Without words, without noise, without shouts, in total silence the community of Israel made its way through Jerusalem, with faces that bespoke grief, for there was no one present who did not have relatives at the bottom of the sea.

British policemen were stationed on every corner of every intersection, armed from head to toe. They wore helmets, and weapons were fastened to their uniforms. In addition, military vehicles stood ready and menacing, reflecting the attitude of those in charge, as such equipment tends to do. Some of the soldiers were on foot, some in vehicles. If I’m not mistaken, there were even some on horseback. We walked in silence, not saying a word. We didn’t lift our eyes to look up at those who inhibit life, inflict death, and rule the world — those conquerors, angels of fury, villains dispatched by others even more villainous. In our hearts, there was neither hatred nor resentment, but each face was covered with sadness, a sadness that begins in the heart and takes over the entire face. Little by little, whispered words began to be heard. People who were not in the habit of expressing themselves in public began to whisper to each other. One man told his neighbor, “My wife said to me, ‘This cannot be.’“ What that man said was strange. If that’s what his wife said, what of it? Actually, it was meaningful to us that even his wife, who was not interested in politics, said, “This cannot be.”

Herbst was swept along by the procession. When he left home in order to hear that climber’s speech, he didn’t know there would be such a huge crowd. All of a sudden, he was part of the crowd. One minute, he found himself among ordinary, anonymous people. A minute later, he found himself next to a friend or acquaintance. On that day, it made no difference. Everybody was of one mind. Though opinions might be expressed differently, the substance was the same. Only on rare occasions is there such agreement.

His mind was suddenly diverted from all this, because he saw Tamara. He realized immediately that he was mistaken, that it wasn’t Tamara, that it was a boy. How could a man mistake a stranger for his daughter, and a boy at that? Since it seemed to him that he had seen Tamara, he began to think about her. Where is Tamara? She is undoubtedly here. She certainly wouldn’t miss such an event. Tamara, who is always denouncing the British and deploring their actions in this country, is surely here. And it’s possible Shira is here too. Not really; Shira wouldn’t be here. She doesn’t involve herself in public affairs. The very first time he saw her, the day a young man from one of Jerusalem’s leading families was killed by Arabs and the entire city turned out to mourn, she stood on the sidelines, a cigarette in her mouth, as if to declare, “I’m not with you.” This would surely be the case now, when her rejected suitor, whom she would not enjoy seeing in such an honored public role, was scheduled to address the rally. On the other hand, since the crowd was large enough for an individual to be swallowed up in it, Shira might feel free to come, if not to hear his speech, then to see him.

Herbst suddenly found himself at Taglicht’s side. Taglicht’s face was grim, and his entire person was a mass of sorrow. “You are here too?” Herbst said to Taglicht. Taglicht whispered to him, “I hope it ends well.” Herbst heard what he said and was perplexed. What did he mean by “ends well”? What could prevent it from ending well? People were moving quietly and speaking softly; many were even silent. The police were maintaining order. Soldiers were on the alert. So what could go wrong? He meant to ask Taglicht, but they were swept in opposite directions, and Herbst found himself in the midst of a group of youngsters, dressed in special clothes of a sort he had never seen before. He had, perhaps, seen individuals in that sort of dress, but never a crowd of hundreds, like this one, with that climber in the lead, marching like a war hero, like a commander at the head of his regiment. He had a long face with bloated cheeks. His eyes were filled with rage; his lips were clenched. Even before he began to talk, he had everyone’s attention.

It took less than a minute for Herbst to size him up. He was of not quite medium height. His shoulders were curved so that his back and neck sometimes pulled away from each other and sometimes leaped toward each other. His head was egg-shaped; his hat wrinkled and erect, likewise his ears, likewise his nose. He had a thick mustache. His chin was sharp, smooth, and prominent. Though his mustache was thick, it didn’t cover his mouth. Not only his chin but his entire mouth protruded, likewise his tongue as it whirled around in his mouth. His tongue wasn’t visible, but one could picture it from the shape of his mouth. Nothing about him appealed to Herbst — not his appearance, not his manner, not anything about him. Still, he felt no antipathy toward him.

Pushed by the crowd, Herbst was now at some distance from him. That sort of person, Herbst thought, derives power from his words. His words are power, and his power is words. Words dominate him and allow him to dominate others. Herbst was pushed from place to place, as were his thoughts, and he couldn’t decide which was superior, words or power. Which takes precedence — does power precede speech, does speech precede power, or do they overlap? At times, one relies on words; at times, on sheer power. In either case, such a person is sure to appeal to this crowd, one that is moved by words. So why did Shira reject him? Shira is a one-of-a-kind creature.

Shira is a one-of-a-kind woman. Yet though he remembered her, he didn’t think about her. At that moment, Herbst was impelled not to think about anyone in particular. Being swept along with the crowd, everyone seemed equivalent to him.

He suddenly found himself in an empty lot, one he couldn’t identify, though it may have been the one that belongs to the high school. It was too congested to see anything, except for that man, the climber, soaring over everyone, swaying in midair; since this was impossible, the crowd must have been carrying him. How comfortable could it be for such a heavy person to be carried? As he began to orate, his booming voice interrupted Herbst’s thoughts. Herbst pricked up his ears, soaking in every word and straining to find the message. There was a message in the words, but not the trace of an idea. The voice became more and more excited, excited and inspired. Every phrase was accompanied by a gesture, a raised or lowered hand. If you would like a visual image for this speech, imagine nails being hammered into a wooden floor. With each stroke of the hammer, as it drives in the nail, the wood cries out.

By now, all the youngsters who stood listening were becoming agitated and restless. Every word the speaker said inflamed their blood, and each and every one of them was prepared to risk life and limb for his people and his land. Could they somehow be sure that their blood would not be shed in vain? This, he didn’t say. His thundering voice continued to arouse and enthrall, to arouse and inflame. There was no stemming the passion of these youngsters. There was not one among them unwilling to die for the people and the land. Since they didn’t know what to do, they became more and more enraged; their fury mounted, and their hearts seethed with wrath and the desire for vengeance.

The moderates listened and were upset. Others, too, who were hostile to the Mandate government, asked him with their disapproving eyes: What do you want from these youngsters? What are you suggesting that they do? Herbst was suddenly overcome with terror and with the fervent hope that all would end peacefully. What was there to worry about? He saw his daughter Tamara again. And again he saw he was mistaken. It was merely a young man who resembled Tamara. He was reminded of the girl at the train station in Leipzig, of the photographs of severed legs that had appeared in the newspaper, of the fact that one caption had said a boy was murdered while the other caption identified the victim as a girl. As it happened, his thoughts happened to be with Shira — what she was like when he visited her that first night and she was wearing slacks. His limbs suddenly felt weary, because of the hamsin, because he had been stuck in the crowd for several hours. He decided to stop in a café for some coffee, since he knew from experience that coffee has an invigorating effect in such weather. But the cafés, like all other businesses, were closed on account of the rally.

Again he was swept along by the crowd. He found himself in a small space between twin buildings. Wechsler was standing next to him. I wonder, Herbst mused, I wonder if he will tell me some new scheme for making portfolios; if not new ones, then old ones, antiques. Wechsler didn’t discuss either of the above. Even he was caught up in the public anguish.

Little by little, the crowd began to disperse, some going this way, others that way. Mostly, they were like a shepherdless flock, wandering off and returning, only to wander off once more, in circles. In any case, Herbst remarked to himself, in any case, the event has ended peacefully.

Herbst turned homeward in silence. But he didn’t feel like going home. After a hectic day, he, like most people, would have liked to find something else of interest to do. He didn’t find it, but he did find people with whom to spend an hour or two. Because there were so many to choose from, he didn’t choose any of them, thinking: I’d rather be alone, I’d rather be alone — doubling the message to reassure himself. Even as he reassured himself, he doubted that he really preferred to be alone. He was again joined by a stranger, who announced that a young man had been arrested for shooting a British officer. Before Herbst had a chance to digest this news, another bystander reported that a young girl had shot the Englishman. As he was talking, someone else informed them that she hadn’t shot but had been about to shoot, and that she hadn’t been arrested, since her friends appeared in time to spirit her away. As he was talking, someone else said, “I tend to agree that she didn’t shoot. I would have heard the shot, and, since I didn’t hear it, obviously she didn’t shoot.” Herbst stared at him, and he stared at Herbst, each imagining the other had something to say to him. Herbst finally took leave of them all, wishing them well, to which they responded, “May we meet again on a happier occasion.”

Herbst was suddenly alone. Only a little earlier, the streets had been mobbed. Now there was no one left outside. Had a curfew been declared? A curfew was likely, and Herbst didn’t have permission to be out. He could be stopped, taken to the police station, and detained until morning. Nevertheless, he did not hurry home. I’m all alone, I’m all alone, he reflected as he walked, feeling neither sad nor happy. But anyone who chose to join him would not have been unwelcome, so long as it wasn’t one of the people he was accustomed to — his friends, for example; not even Shira, Lisbet Neu, or any other young woman. Herbst, at this point, had in mind a type of person that most likely doesn’t exist. If this seems odd to you, it seems odd not because of Herbst but because of my inability to express it adequately.

In the past, when Herbst finished his business in town, he turned toward Shira’s. But, for a long time now, ever since he and his wife came back from Kfar Ahinoam, Herbst had not gone that way or even considered going that way. You know that Shira once ran into him somewhere and told him, “I’ve moved, so take out your notebook and write down my new address.” He didn’t take out his notebook, and he didn’t write in her address, because he knew it was superfluous, that he had no use for her address, that he had banished her from his mind. Now, after the rally, having had a chance to see the climber Shira had told him about, whom he found to be of no interest, it occurred to Herbst that it would be worthwhile to talk to Shira. Two things converged here. In and of themselves, they were unimportant; but together, they assumed importance. Shira was not important to Herbst; neither was that climber important to Herbst. But now that they were allied in his mind, he wished to discuss the man with Shira. For this reason, he turned toward Shira’s apartment. The earth was abandoned. All its children were gone, they had been plucked from the face of the earth. There was not a soul in sight, nor any vehicles either — not a bus, not a car, not a bicycle. Only implements of war filled the land, whose bulky parts looked malevolent and reeked of foul-smelling grease. A policeman, armed from head to toe, stood by, holding a rifle or a gun. A car, belonging to an Englishman or an Arab, suddenly loomed into view. It whizzed by, leaping, skimming the ground, leaving its fumes behind.

It was almost twilight when the hamsin, which had been so oppressive all day, finally relented. But no one remarked, “Thank God the hamsin is over,” for the entire city was enclosed in its houses. There was no sound from within. Those who had food were eating; those who had nothing to eat were hardly aware of hunger, because of the woes that burdened their hearts and because of their impotence. A radio was turned on. Perhaps there would be news of salvation and mercy. As was its wont, the radio offered the sort of news it is hard to hear when one’s heart is sore. After a minute or two, the radio was turned off. The city and its inhabitants were, once again, silent.

Herbst walked on in solitude. He had already disengaged his feet from the road that led to Shira’s house, but he hadn’t turned toward home. His soul was devoid of will; his feet had no direction. He wasn’t drawn toward Shira’s, nor was he drawn toward home.

Suddenly, a human figure emerged from the stillness, and Herbst heard a girlish voice addressing him. Herbst asked the girl, “Firadeus, what are you doing here?” Firadeus said, “I’m coming back from the pharmacy. I have some medicine for my mother.” Herbst said, “Yes, that’s right, I did hear that your mother was ill. Where do you live? Do you live in this neighborhood? Imagine, here I am. I have suddenly landed in your neighborhood. I don’t remember, did I ask about your mother’s illness? I may have asked and forgotten. Yes, yes, your mother’s illness is also due to the government of Palestine. The government’s vile politics. Today it seems to me that all our troubles are due to politics. Because of politics we die, because of politics we’re murdered, because of politics we get sick, and because of politics people make speeches and shoot at each other. You may have heard that a young girl shot a British officer. Did it ever occur to you that a girl — a Jewish girl, a daughter of Israel — would be capable of picking up a gun and killing someone? I myself cannot digest the news. Luckily, she didn’t hit him, and he wasn’t killed. Anyway, he was almost killed. If he has a wife, she would be mourning and lamenting. What are those voices I hear?” Firadeus answered, “That voice is my mother’s. She is mourning my father, who was killed by Arabs. Until today, she used to mourn at night. Today, she has been mourning all day. Some say she is this way because of the hamsin; others say it’s because of the rally.” “Yes, that’s right,” Herbst said. “It’s because of the rally. Go inside, Firadeus, and bring your mother her medicine.” Firadeus went in, and Herbst stood listening to the woman’s lament for her murdered husband.

This man who cleansed the streets of Jerusalem:

His spilled blood flowed like water through them.

This man who cleared the dusty roads of this quarter:

They spilled his blood like dirty water.

You, God, who are great, enlightened, supreme,

See them ravage his body, once sacred and clean.

Enlightened God, who reigns in the skies.

Do you hear orphans and widows when they cry?

Your right hand, our support, you have withdrawn from

us,

And we are at the mercy of the villainous.

I loathe my life, for he is gone whom I cherish.

Take my soul too and let me perish,

And perhaps I will again see my longtime mate.

Then will my heart rest and my suffering abate.

Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.

Now covered with earth in the grave he lies.

Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.

Now I see darkness by death, multiplied.

My heart yearns for you, to be dead at your side,

In your grave on the Mount where you now abide.

Chapter nine

Let’s return to Herbst’s household and family. As I mentioned, Henrietta is going to give birth, either to a boy, as Manfred believes, or to a girl, as is her habit, for Henrietta is in the habit of giving birth to girls. We will know in due time. For the time being, Henrietta tolerates the indignities of pregnancy rather gracefully. This woman takes great pride in her pregnancy, unlike most women in this country, except for those in the older communities, who welcome children. Firadeus is Henrietta’s mainstay. Firadeus knows what her mistress wants. Not merely from the heaviness of her movements, but from her face as well. Every line of her mistress’s face communicates her needs. Henrietta smiles and says, “You are a prophet, Firadeus. You know what’s hidden in my heart. You guess what I want, and I don’t have to bother with words.” Firadeus tells her mistress, “I only did as I was told. It seems to me that I was given an instruction, which I fulfilled.” Henrietta thinks to herself: I may have whispered something without realizing it. But this was not the case. It was love that whispered to Firadeus, conveying the wishes of her mistress.

Tamara treats her mother with affection too. She doesn’t contradict her, avoids arguing, and stays home a lot, so her mother won’t be alone and Tamara will be available should she be needed. She herself, rather than remain idle, corrects her students’ notebooks. Just between us, they aren’t really notebooks; they are the proclamations of youth leaders not yet fluent in Hebrew, written in other languages and translated into Hebrew by Tamara, so they can be posted in public places and circulated among prominent members of the yishuv community. To prevent British Intelligence from discovering these proclamations and confiscating them, they are sent out under fictitious names, like those of nonexistent businesses, charitable institutions, and schools. When every name had been used, they resorted to Mekitzei Nirdamim (We Wake Those Who Sleep), after a publisher of classical Hebrew manuscripts that were never in print before, an enterprise that goes back about four generations and was directed by some of our greatest leaders. British Intelligence, from whom nothing is hidden, were unaware that various highly respected Englishmen (Moses Montefiore, for example, as well as the chief rabbi of Great Britain) once led this enterprise. When one of these proclamations fell into the hands of Intelligence agents, who read the text and realized its goal was to wake those who were asleep so that they would rebel against the government of Palestine, they decided to bring the directors of this venerable publishing house to trial. If the actual nature of the enterprise and its history hadn’t been uncovered just in time, the eminent persons at the head of the publishing house would have had their peace disturbed. Since this error adds nothing to the story, I’ll say no more about the activities of British Intelligence and get back to the Herbst household.

A further miracle befell the Herbst household. The day Jerusalem demonstrated against the Palestine government, Tamara had undertaken a mission. Perhaps you took notice when I related that twice it seemed to Herbst that he saw Tamara, that in the end he realized he was mistaken, that it wasn’t Tamara, that in fact it was a boy. And when I related this, I commented: Isn’t it odd for a father not to recognize his daughter? Now that it has all ended well and there’s no need to worry about saying too much, I can tell the whole story. A handsome officer worked with the Jerusalem police. He was known as the Bloodhound, for anyone who fell into his hands came to a bloody end. There was a plan to take revenge. Tamara, who was especially hostile to him, because whenever he saw her he greeted her warmly — as in the old days, when they used to see each other in cafés and dance together — was determined to retaliate. That day, she dressed as a man, so she wouldn’t be recognized, took a pistol, and set out to do away with him. Someone had preceded her, firing at the Englishman but missing his mark. The police also missed the mark. Before they could seize the culprit, his friends managed to snatch him and hide him away.

Having told about Henrietta, Firadeus, and Tamara, it’s time to tell about Sarah. But it’s easier to write a long book about adults in this country than to write a short page about a child. Our eyes are still not trained to observe the behavior of the children here, which calls for a new approach. Some people consider them extremely primitive; to others they are like children anywhere else in the world, the product of a particular education. I disagree. They are not primitive, nor is it a matter of education. It is the land and sky that form them. Our children are like the land and the sky above. The land is sometimes parched and brittle; it is sometimes saturated with pleasing dew and bountiful rain. It is sometimes violent, like a raging wind; and sometimes it is sweet and amiable, like a breeze from the north. This applies to the sky and to our children.

So much for comparisons. I’d like to get back to the Herbst household now. But first, a brief tour of Kfar Ahinoam to look in on Zahara and her son, Dani.

Kfar Ahinoam is expanding. Not in farm produce or cattle and poultry — that is to say, in barns and coops — but in the realm of woodwork. A new carpentry shop has been set up. Wood is brought in from Hadera and from abroad, and made into bulletin boards, which bring in more revenue than agricultural products. A friend of the nurse who replaced Temima Kutchinsky when she left Ahinoam is supervising the work. Since I won’t be mentioning him again in this book, I won’t mention his name or the name of the place Temima Kutchinsky went to. But I will say a few words about the carpentry shop. Some kvutza members are dissatisfied, for this was not their purpose in coming here. They came to work the land. Other members argue that, though the land needs agriculture, it needs industry too. Both factions benefit from the carpentry shop. It adds sugar to their tea and meat to their stew. Having given Zahara’s environment its due, I will dwell on Zahara.

Zahara is a good mother to her son and a good wife to her husband. She is loved by all her friends. Manfred’s mild, gentle nature and Henrietta’s talent for action were both transmitted to Zahara, engendering several fine new qualities. She suspends her own needs for the sake of others and exerts herself in matters others are casual about. I was once visiting Kfar Ahinoam on a miserable hamsin night. We set up our bedding out of doors, since it was too hot to sleep inside. The walls, floor, and ceiling emitted heat that had been accumulating all day. When I lay down outside, I heard a woman saying to her husband, “The water tank is dripping. We’re wasting water. Go and turn off the faucet.” He answered her, “Do you think I’m fool enough to get out of bed now that I finally found a comfortable spot?” Zahara got up and went to turn off the faucet, though no one told her to do it and it wasn’t her job. She has another fine quality: patience. You know how hard it is to be hospitable in these times, and you know how scrupulously kvutza members fulfill this obligation. It often happens that a worker comes back from the field hungry and tired, expecting to sit down and eat, only to enter the dining room and see a guest occupying his place. He has to stand and starve, waiting for the guest to finish eating and relinquish his spot. But guests are often leisurely; they eat slowly, and, after concluding their meal, they tend to sit around and listen to the conversation of kvutza members. So much for mealtimes. As for the intimate questions many guests are in the habit of asking, which even someone as tolerant as Hillel the Sage would be reluctant to answer — even when they are endless and absurd, Zahara responds graciously. Finally, the guest goes off to tell his wife how smart he is, what good questions he asked, how he impressed the young lady with these questions. This is a fine quality, isn’t it? As for Avraham-and-a-half, the Avraham-and-a-half we met in Jerusalem, the Avraham-and-a-half we met when the Herbsts visited Kfar Ahinoam after Dani was born — he hasn’t changed at all, except that he shaves regularly, so his whiskers won’t scratch his baby’s cheeks. Something else is new: he is now amused by those who devote themselves to guarding the language. The newspapers allot them a great deal of space. Avraham says their rigors will undo them, that Hebrew is still developing, and when they rule out a usage, why, one should be sure to use it — one should assume that what they rule out is, by definition, acceptable. Enough about these guardians of language, for better or for worse. I prefer to concentrate on Dani. Dani is still indifferent to language. When he starts talking, he will talk proper Hebrew.

What can I add about Dani? You know as well as I do what kvutza children are like. He is healthy and vigorous, free of even the slightest blemish. I won’t compare him to his aunt Sarah, who reflects Jerusalem’s charm. Still, compared to his peers in the kvutza, I would say he is as superb as the most superb of them.

Now, a word about Herbst. There is nothing new in Herbst’s world. He still hasn’t been promoted. Those who have the power to appoint professors are not as diligent as the candidates would like them to be. So Herbst is still a lecturer, like all the others. As for Shira? He spoke to Axelrod at the hospital that day and asked about Shira, but he hasn’t found Shira yet, and he seems to be making no attempt to find her.

Chapter ten

One day Herbst was walking down Ben Yehuda Street, going to the French Library to see if any new novels had come in. Although he had resumed his academic work, happily and unequivocally, putting out of mind the tragedy he wanted to write, he nonetheless had a desire to indulge himself with a new novel. Some of Herbst’s friends boast that, since they became adults, they haven’t read a novel, a story, a poem; some claim they read only detective stories; some make do with the literary supplement of the newspaper, others with what they find on their children’s bookshelves. There are those with still other odd reading habits — collecting words for crossword puzzles, for example. Herbst is different. He reads poems, stories, novels, plays — whatever happens to be in his house, as well as what has to be brought in from elsewhere, even if this involves effort and expense.

I don’t know how you feel about poetry. Most people like poems with a patriotic theme, an ethical message, a pathos that stirs the soul and inspires the heart. Herbst loves poetry even when it has none of those qualities, even poems Bachlam or Ernst Weltfremdt would reject because they don’t make sense. This is equally true of stories, novels, and plays. Most people like books that enrich the reader, enhance his character, add to his wisdom, or teach about the way of a man with a maid. Some readers look for a well-developed plot, shrewd argumentation, refined speech, clever dialogue, and rich language. Others read to pass the time or to acquire an understanding of problems that engage the world. There are idealists searching for a cause, who scorn everything new in favor of what they read in their youth, when novels had genuine heroes with genuine ideals. As far as Herbst is concerned, the essence of a book lies in its poetic intensity, its vitality, the imaginative power and truth it contains. This is how he behaves when he is trying to assess a book before taking it home: he opens it at random and reads half a page or so, from which he generalizes about the entire book, on the theory that a true author leaves his mark on every page, in every line.

Herbst walks down Ben Yehuda Street with all the other pedestrians, past stores, business offices, printing houses, cafés, peddlers’ stalls, newspaper stands, offices. The street noise becomes more and more intrusive. One sound fuses with another. Each and every sound generates another sound, and these sounds, compounded by one another, make an infinite number of sounds. They fill the ear as well as the eye, which was created for vision and flinches before the noise. When Herbst came to Jerusalem, the entire space this street occupies was empty. Herbst was fond of the spot because of its restful silence; because of the olive, almond, and eucalyptus trees that cheered the eye on a winter day and provided shade in the summer; because of the mossy stones; because of a lizard sunning itself; because of a bird flying through the sky; because of a chicken pecking at the garbage near the hovel of a contented pauper. Now all the plants have been uprooted, all the fruit trees cut down, the stone walls destroyed. The birds and fowl have migrated. Instead, there are houses, built of stone and concrete, raising the noise level, increasing the tumult, adding to the din, producing dust, din, and tumult. The air is filled with the aroma of coffee, cocoa, baked goods, warm butter, grilled cheese, fruit preserves. It is the coffee hour; cafés are bustling with men, women, and children. Not every mother who wants to be out in the world can hire a maid to leave her children with, so she has no choice but to bring the child along, feed him ice cream and all sorts of sweets, soda, ice water — anything to entertain the child, so the mother can have a cigarette and conversation with a friend, male or female. Several years ago, Herbst ran into Lisbet Neu and went to the Café Zichel with her. He had coffee, and she had cocoa without milk. She told him many things that were new to him. Afterward, he walked her home and promised he would call her. By and by, intending to keep his promise, he went to call. He got to the telephone booth and found Shira. When was this? After he left Henrietta when she was about to give birth to Sarah. Many days have passed since, and many things have happened. If we were to try to recount them, we would not be able to. The events consume time, and time consumes memory. Which is to suggest that not everyone must always remember what is best forgotten.

Herbst had already put the past out of mind and was trying to picture what he hoped to find in one of the new books he planned to borrow. This was not too difficult, because he had read some reviews and recognized the names of some authors, and because of the powerful imagination to which he occasionally had access. Before he could conjure up a clear image, he found that he was standing on a rug that was spread out in front of an antiquities store. Before he could get his bearings, he was studying the window display. The objects on display had been thrown together with no connection to each other except physical proximity. Surely the dealer knew why he had placed a portrait of a monk next to a statue of a nude woman, the idols of some extinct people next to a mezuzah case, a Torah cover near a piece of needlework found in the tomb of an Egyptian king. We can only note this arrangement and wonder about it. Whoever is equipped to do so will invent a rationale suited to his sensibilities and talent. When he turned away from the window, Herbst heard someone say hello to him. He looked around, but, since the street was so crowded, he couldn’t see who was greeting him. He did, however, recognize the voice. It was the voice of Anita Brik, whose two poems he had read.

As it happened, it happened that Anita Brik had reason to retrace her steps. When she came back, she noticed that Herbst was looking somewhat bewildered. She approached him and said, “You don’t recognize me, Dr. Herbst.” He seized both of her hands, clasped them warmly, and said, “Not recognize you! Is it at all remarkable to recognize a young lady such as you? Believe me, even among black women or red-skinned women, I would recognize a woman such as you. How are you, Anita? It’s so noisy here. Let’s find a café to go to. The cafés are hectic too, but, when you have something in your cup, the noise is less irritating. How are you? What have you been doing? Idle questions. I ask them only to pass the time until we can sit down together. Have you written any new poems? Let’s sit down and read them. Which do you prefer, Zichel or Atara? Perhaps you know the utopia of cafés, a place that surpasses them both? Wasn’t it you who said that in Jerusalem new cafés open every day? If you have no preference, we can go to Zichel.” Herbst chose Zichel because, never having heard Tamara mention the place, he concluded that she was not in the habit of going there.

They went in, found a table, and sat down. Anita said to Herbst, “You asked me, Dr. Herbst, whether I have written any new poems. I haven’t written any poems. I stopped writing poems. If you don’t have language, you can’t produce poems. I have almost forgotten my German, and I haven’t learned Hebrew yet. If the present is any indication of the future, I can truthfully say that I won’t ever learn Hebrew, and I never will write in Hebrew either. I never considered my poems essential, but it’s a pleasure to find words — even rhymes — for what is in your heart. In the course of time, my heart began to be empty, and I was no longer confronted with this task. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think it was a mistake to write poems. The most vile reality is more powerful than fantasy, and it doesn’t promote delusions of grandeur.”

Herbst sat in silence. He looked straight ahead, rather than directly at her. Twice he wanted to light a cigarette, but he didn’t light it. Twice people came to look for lost eyeglasses and the like. Anita kept on talking. Her voice was feeble, but her words had vigor.

The waitress appeared. She was small, blonde, and pretty. Her golden hair encircled her head like a golden tiara, and her dainty cheeks had a golden cast about them. Herbst assumed she was a student, of either music or art, who was waiting on tables temporarily. When she appeared, she forgot about her job and stood chatting with Anita. She asked Anita how she was, and Anita congratulated her for having dealt with the Arab so successfully. Herbst was puzzled by their conversation. Anita said, “I see that Dr. Herbst is puzzled, so, with your permission, Trudel, I will tell the story. Just a few days ago Trudel was walking to work, as she does every morning. She encountered an Arab, who wanted to have his way with her. She was carrying a copper kettle that needed to be repaired. She smashed his nose with the kettle, and, while he was occupied with his nose, she fled. Isn’t Trudel a hero?”

Trudel laughed and said, “Woe unto this hero. She had to pay for her heroics. In that transaction, I lost the kettle I had borrowed from a neighbor so I could make something warm for my little girl to drink. My Zigi is out of work, as usual, earning nothing. And you, Anita? I hear you’re working with children now.” Anita said, “‘Children’ is an exaggeration. Only one child, the son of Professor Weltfremdt’s daughter. Let me introduce you: this gentleman is Dr. Herbst, and this is Trudel, my good friend Trudel. We both worked in that restaurant where you first saw me, Dr. Herbst.” Trudel said, “I’m standing here as if I were on my own time, when, in fact, everyone is after me. So many parched throats demanding something to drink, and the boss, who sees me standing idle, is glaring at me. What can I bring for the doctor? And you, Anita, what would you like? If your tastes are unchanged, I know you would like…” Herbst said, “Pull over a chair and join us. Bring three cups of coffee, cakes, cookies, tarts, pastries — everything good. And if there is something beyond good, bring that too. Not in one of those little dishes meant for the misers you usually serve, but on a platter. And if it gets too heavy for you, we can call Moshe the porter, the he-man who carries pianos from the center of town to Montefiore as easily as I carry this chair.” Trudel laughed and said, “If it were up to me, I would certainly choose to sit with you.” As she spoke, she turned in several directions, calling out, “Right away, right away. I would bring your coffee now, but you asked for café au lait. Yes, madam, I’m bringing ice cream. Yes, yes, vanilla. Also strawberry. Made from fresh strawberries, not preserves. Coffee with cream or without? With cream. Yes, yes, I’m bringing it. Right away.”

When Trudel went off to serve the other customers, Anita Brik said to Herbst, “Trudel and I worked in the same hotel, and we had the same dream: to create a children’s book. I would write some stories, and she would illustrate them. She has golden hands, and her drawings are real drawings. Those who know say she is an artist.” “And what do you say?” “Me? I’m not in that class.” “Why not?” “Why not? That’s how it is. Most of my friends are proficient in one of the arts. They write poems and stories, they draw; some are involved in music, some sculpt. Our parents were wealthy. They provided us with fine teachers in literature, music, the graphic arts. Since we didn’t have to bother about supporting ourselves, we could afford to open our minds and train our hands. How does one distinguish between craft and work, talent and proficiency? I hope you won’t dismiss my words as mere fanciful phrases, Dr. Herbst, but what we need is an expert on experts. I’ll relate something that happened to me. I was once in Haifa. I went to visit a woman who had been my mother’s friend and was from one of the country’s older families, having arrived here even before the war. One of her grandchildren was sick. She sent for the doctor, an Italian Christian. I said to her, ‘Are there no Jewish doctors in Haifa?’ She answered, ‘There are as many doctors as patients, but, let me tell you, most of the Jewish doctors studied medicine, not because they were interested in it and not because they wished to devote themselves to curing the sick, but because their parents wanted them to be doctors. And since they were well-to-do and could attend the university, they divided up the professions, assigning medicine to one, law to another, and so on. This was not the case with gentile doctors, who chose a profession because of their interests, not because of their parents’ wishes.” Herbst made a face and said, “How did you answer that woman, that old-timer who was living in this country even before the war?” Anita said, “It’s not my way to moralize or argue. Besides, there was someone sick in the house, and she was occupied with him, so how could I challenge her?” Herbst said, “And what is your opinion?” “About what?” “About that very subject, about that woman and what she said, that woman who believes that most Jewish doctors studied medicine because their parents wanted them to? I can tell you a story too, if you like. I knew a rabbi once — a traditional rabbi, not a modern rabbi — who had such a passionate interest in medicine that he gave up his position and walked to Berlin. He learned both German and enough science to be admitted to the university to study medicine. All those years, while he was a student, he lived meagerly, on a diet of bread and tea, in a space so small that, when he lay down to sleep, he had to leave the door open in order to have room to stretch out. I have him to thank for the fact that I live here, because, even as a confirmed Zionist, I, like most other Zionists, didn’t feel compelled to come to this country. Although this rabbi was unique, he was not the only Jew to choose medicine out of personal inclination and interest, just as I was not alone in choosing a profession without consulting my father. To get back to the subject, you wanted to write stories, which your friend would illustrate. Why didn’t it work out?”

Anita said, “Trudel didn’t have time to draw because she had so much to do, and I didn’t have time to write because another dream took over, the dream of all who labor: to sleep without dreams and to be able to withstand another day’s work without mental stupor or physical collapse. If you are puzzled, Dr. Herbst, I should repeat what I already said: truth is more powerful than fantasy. Truth is reality, and reality is truth.” Herbst said, “In what language did you plan to write the stories?” Anita said, “As you know, sir, I have no language other than German. I don’t know French or English well enough to write stories in them. I assumed I would write them in German and have them translated into Hebrew. I would be able to find someone to translate the stories. Trudel, however, wouldn’t be able to find anyone to translate her drawings. You are wondering how drawings are translated. The fact is, when I see the picture books that are given to children here, I see that Trudel’s drawings are not for them. She has talent and good taste, whereas our children have become accustomed to kitsch.” Herbst laughed wholeheartedly, clasped Anita’s hands in his own, and said, “Apart from being a poet, you are a perceptive critic.” Anita said, “Being a critic is easy. When you’re young, you criticize the bad things you encounter; as you get older, you criticize the good ones. All the bad things you see influence your taste.” “For better or for worse?” Anita said, “I’m getting older too, and how will I be able to tell good from bad?” Herbst said, “A pity we don’t meet more often. I have no chance to hear what you have to say.” Anita said, “From that point of view, it’s best that you don’t see more of me, since one’s tastes change with age, and, if you hear something tolerable from me today, you will hear something intolerable tomorrow.” Herbst said, “If taste declines with age, I have surely been affected.” Anita said, “I would guess that Dr. Herbst’s sensibilities are constant, impervious to change.” Herbst said, “You consider me so old that my mind is totally calcified.” Anita blushed and said, “Believe me, sir, that’s not what I meant. Trudel, it was good of you to bring our coffee. I’m thirsty. What is that, Trudel? That mountain of cakes. Who is it for?” Trudel said, “They’re for you, because they’re tasty and good.” Anita said, “And whatever is tasty is also good for me?” Trudel said, “There are many good things that even a girl such as you can indulge in.” Herbst said, “Many blessings, Mademoiselle Trudel, for fathoming my mind and bringing something tasty. Though it wasn’t intended for me, I will allow myself to enjoy it.” Trudel said, “I intended it for both you and Anita. Eat while it’s still warm. Anita, you must come and tell me all about your job. I have to go now and fill the gullets of the other customers. They’re beginning to get angry with me.”

After Trudel left, Anita told Herbst about her work. She works for Professor Ernst Weltfremdt’s daughter. They are good people, who don’t expect too much of her. They maintain an efficient household and insist on having everything done on time, according to a schedule. She tries to meet their demands, and they pay her a full salary, regardless. Even when she breaks something, they never deduct it from her pay. Once a week, on Wednesday, she has the afternoon off. If she wishes, she can go out; if she wishes, she can stay in her room. The old woman, the professor’s wife, is especially warm and affectionate. When she visits, she always takes the trouble to come all the way up to her room and ask how she is. But even a good turn is not altogether good. The old woman is addicted to writing. She composes poems, plays, and the like, and, since she has no one to read them to, she has made Anita Brik her audience. A week doesn’t pass without a new play or fantasy in verse. Because of these plays and fantasies, Anita Brik has no time to get involved in a book. The old woman comes every single Wednesday, before Anita has a chance to leave. She comes directly to her room, takes out her notebooks, and begins reading to her. If not for the fact that the professor’s birthday happened to fall on a Wednesday — today, to be precise — so the dear old lady had to stay home and receive well-wishers, Anita would not have been free to go out today either, and she wouldn’t be sitting with Dr. Herbst, who is asking her about the poems she no longer writes. Instead, she would be captive to Mrs. Weltfremdt and her poems.

To mitigate the anecdote, which could be construed as a complaint, Anita began to describe the house she was working in — its elegance; the cleverness of the baby she was taking care of; the room she had been given, which was on the roof, a small room with a large terrace overlooking the Judean hills. When she sat alone at night, looking out at those hills, at the moon and the stars, she was in a state of euphoria, lacking nothing. But the better off she was, the worse she felt, remembering her father and mother, trapped in Berlin, bemoaning their miserable fate. Yet she could do nothing for them. She sometimes asked herself: What are we? If we are human, how can we be so heartless? We enjoy every advantage here, without responding to the distress of our brethren in Germany and in other lands where they are oppressed. Anita concluded her tirade against Hitler and his followers, savage animals who behave like savage animals. “But,” she continued, “we in the Land of Israel — Jews with Jewish hearts — how can we sit complacently, eating, drinking, sleeping, as if nothing has occurred? I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the urge to scream, ‘How can we be so complacent? Doesn’t anyone hear the cries of our brothers and sisters?’ I step outside, search the four corners of the sky, and ask, ‘Whence will our help come?’ All of a sudden, I hear a voice calling, ‘Wake up, hurry, bestir yourselves.’ I see light in windows and Jews coming out of their houses, quickly, on the run. I think: They hear the cries, and they are responding. Then I realize they’re hurrying to the synagogue, so they can finish praying and be free to pursue their business, like yesterday and the day before.”

While Anita was talking, Herbst sat with one finger bent to help him remember the question he wished to ask. When Anita stopped her monologue, he didn’t relax his finger, nor did he ask his question, because she seemed sad and because of the people at the adjacent table. When most of the tables were empty, Herbst placed his hand on hers, looked at her somewhat evasively, and said, “What I’ve been thinking…What it occurred to me, by association, is that I might ask you…You may remember that once, when you were sick, I came to visit you with the nurse Shira. If I’m not mistaken, she brought you flowers that made you very happy.” Anita said, “How could I not remember her? I have never met as fine a woman.” Herbst said, “What I mean is, I wonder…I haven’t seen her in several months.” Anita said, “As a matter of fact, I’m in the same situation. I’ve looked for her several times, but I haven’t been able to find her. When I asked her neighbors, they couldn’t say when they had last seen her.” Herbst said, “She probably moved, and you were at her old apartment.” Anita said, “No, I’m talking about her new apartment. I even asked about her in the hospital, but she apparently didn’t say where she was going. She really doesn’t have to account for herself, but I’m sorry she didn’t say where she was going. I don’t think she’s left the country. If she left Jerusalem, she may have gone to Tel Aviv, to Haifa, or to some kvutza, and she may return just as suddenly as she left. If you would like, Dr. Herbst, I could tell you where she lives now.”

All this time, Herbst sat thinking a variety of thoughts. One thought was: Something could have happened to Shira; she could have become pregnant and gone off to a place where she is unknown. When was he last with her? He did the calculation more than once. She had been putting him off for years. If she was pregnant, he wasn’t responsible. He felt gloomy. He sat with Anita, unaware of her and of everyone. But he was aware that something had happened to him.

He smoothed his hair with his hand. Then he looked at the hand and extended it toward Anita. He had the impression that his hair had turned gray, and he thought about asking Anita for a mirror. Seeing that he had extended his hand to her, Anita said, “Dr. Herbst, would you like me to write down Shira’s new address?” Herbst looked at her and said, “Shira’s address? I might as well write down Shira’s address.” But his face indicated that the gesture would be wasted, that, even if he knew where she lived, he would not find her.

He took out a notebook and pen, and handed them to Anita. She wrote down the address and drew a map of the street, on which she marked the position of the house. Herbst took back his pen and notebook, and stuck them in his pocket, looking neither at the address nor at Anita. After a while, he stole a sideward glance at her, to see if she had seen that he was keeping Shira’s address. After a further while, he took a spoon and began tapping on the glass. Trudel appeared and gave him the check. He stood up, then sat down again. All of a sudden, he roused himself, looked at Anita Brik, and said, “How are you, my dear?” As he spoke, he realized that, in light of their lengthy conversation, the question was superfluous. He smiled, an odd smile, and said, “Actually, you have told me everything, but is all of everything really everything? I talked so much without mentioning that my wife asked about you. You know where we live. We are still in Baka. You can take either the number six or the number seven bus. If you’re ready to leave now, I’m ready too. I’m sorry I troubled you to write down the address of Shira the nurse. It was a waste. If I show you my book, you’ll find a thousand addresses in it, and I doubt that I’ve used a single one. I wrote down the nurse Shira’s address out of sheer habit. In this country, we do so much writing. I was told about a consul who said he had never been in a country where people write as much as they do in Palestine. It is common that, when a child begins to write, he writes a lot, his hands become skilled, and he learns to write nicely. It’s the same with a young nation. What I just said doesn’t pertain to writing good poems. So, goodbye, my dear. Oh, I have inundated you with words, as if I were some sort of a Bachlam-and-a-half. I did actually visit Bachlam a few days ago. I suspect his manner is contagious. Goodbye, my dear. Goodbye.”

Chapter eleven

The shock that had overwhelmed him began to dissipate. By the time he took leave of Anita, there was no discernible trace of what had agitated him a short time earlier. Herbst found some consolation in the new address he had written in his notebook; should he want to, he could go to Shira. There was no need to go immediately, but, whenever he wanted to, he could go.

He left Ben Yehuda Street, turned to the left, and walked as far as the Café Europa. Before the shoeshine boys who were stationed there had a chance to grab his feet and begin shining his shoes, he himself placed one foot on the box that was set up for the purpose. While the boy was at work, Herbst took out his little book, noted the new address, and studied the drawing, picturing the precise location of Shira’s new apartment, the place where she now resided. It was easy for Herbst to imagine the place, but it was hard for him to imagine what sort of people lived there. Jerusalem is unlike cities in other countries, where rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods are distinct, so that where one lives is predetermined. In Jerusalem, people live anywhere, without such distinctions, and the population is not segregated. In fact, one actually finds, in all the older alleys of the new city, dilapidated structures alongside new ones. Here, the rich and the poor — all the social classes — are considered equal. There are areas where we assume no one we know would live; still, when we happen to be there, we are sure to run into two or three familiar faces, the ones we least expected to see. Herbst, who had been trying for years to hide his affair with Shira from his friends, was interested in knowing who her neighbors were, as a precaution. But, as I said, he was after the impossible.

The shoeshine boy pressed the bell on his stand to announce that one shoe was done and he was ready for the next one. Herbst put the notebook back in his pocket and switched feet. The shoeshine boy began again, dipped his finger in polish, smeared it on the shoe, spread it all around, and rubbed it with a rag, until the shoe began to shine. The bell sounded again, announcing that it was shined too, but that the gentleman should put the first foot up again so both of his shoes would have the same amount of shine. Meanwhile, being fond of experiments, Herbst tried to test himself, to see to what extent he was capable of taking his mind off Shira, who was troubling him once again. He began to chat with the shoeshine boy, asking him what he earns in a day. He told Herbst his earnings, as well as his expenses. He earns up to forty grush a day; sometimes more, sometimes less. Before Shabbat and on holidays, he makes more than seventy grush. But expenses are high: six lirot for rent, six grush for six tins of water. And now that his wife has given birth to a new daughter, there are even more expenses. He has to buy seven tins of water, because the nurse at the clinic instructed his wife to bathe the child every day. So they have to buy an extra tin of water in addition to the first six. Herbst made many errors in the course of that conversation. He assumed that the six lirot for rent covered a quarter of the year, whereas actually they covered the entire year. He assumed the boy was a boy, and it turned out that he was married and burdened with sons and daughters. He thought the six or seven tins of water were for a day, not realizing they were for the week. But all of this is beside the point, the point being that Herbst was testing himself to see how capable he was, at that moment, of occupying his mind with remote matters. The bell sounded again, not a signal to shift shoes but a jubilant sound, for the job was done. The gentleman could now display his shoes to the sun, the moon, the stars, to all of Jerusalem, including the rival shoeshine boys. Herbst gazed at his shoes and at the boy’s face, which came close to outshining his handiwork. Herbst paid him double his price and moved on. He stopped to take out his notebook and copy Shira’s address in his own hand. Then he turned and walked on.

The day grew dusky. A disorderly stream of workers emerged from those offices that close before sunset and mingled with the passersby. They were dressed in all sorts of finery, and their leather shoes glistened. Their skin, however, was not fine. Their manner was not fine. In fact, there was nothing fine about them: for example, the woman with black hair that had suddenly turned brown, the smooth-shaven gentleman who now sported a mustache very much like Hitler’s. The details are hardly worth mentioning, but because these people were so invested in them, I have chosen to mention them.

The French Library was still open. If Herbst wanted to, he could go there and get the novels he was after. But he gave this up for Henrietta’s sake, having promised her he would be home before dark. She was making artichokes with butter sauce for dinner, which they usually ate out of doors. And when they ate out of doors, they usually ate before sunset. Actually, Herbst had changed, in that he was no longer enthusiastic about artichokes and butter. It was a bother to deal with them, leaf by leaf, before getting to the heart. Those outdoor meals were also a bother, because Henrietta always forgot to serve at least one dish, which she remembered after he had had his fill, so he ended up overeating and not enjoying it. But, since he hadn’t said anything to her, he must get back. He hurried to catch the bus and arrived home before sunset.

When he got home, he changed his clothes, took the watering can, and went out to the garden. He watered and watered. Each bush and every flower thanked him for each and every drop. He thanked them too, for their scent and beauty, for helping him collect his scattered thoughts. Now that he was busy watering, he began to feel more collected.

The sun was setting, and the garden began to grow dark. A flock of birds appeared, on the way back to their nests. They were followed by other birds, who appeared one at a time, their chirps ringing out from the branches themselves. From the branches themselves — how could this be? Because it was dark now, no bird, not even the wing of a bird, could be seen, and the branches themselves seemed to be chirping. A sudden hush enveloped the trees, the branches, the birds in their nests, the garden, and the house. In the hush, only Sarah’s voice was heard. She was lying in bed, singing a song without words.

Warmth, lush and lively, rose from the moist earth and from the water that hadn’t soaked in yet and continued to bubble up between the clods of dirt. Underground waters became one with the swelling earth; surface waters gazed upward at the waters of the sky above until they were covered by darkness, then continued to peer through the darkness till their eyes were lost in earth and air. The smell of wood and fire blew in from nearby yards where supper was being cooked. Henrietta turned on the lights and set the table in the dining room rather than outside. She served freshly baked bread, fragrant with the aroma of contentment and peace, making this seem like the domain of tranquility and peace. But in Manfred’s heart there was no peace, no tranquility. His heart was in turmoil. At any given moment, it seemed to him, he would now be able to find Shira at home. Why didn’t he go to her? He moved his lips, to form the name of the alley she had moved to. The alley itself had no name. But the apartment was marked on the drawing in his notebook, along with the name of the landlord, and so on. He put all this together and tried to form an image. Since the image was vague, he rejected it. He summoned up her first apartment instead, his mind’s eye feasting on it. He was startled by Henrietta’s voice, asking, “Where are you, Fred?” He picked up the watering can and answered, “I’m watering the garden.” He lifted it high, so she wouldn’t say, “You’re a liar.” Henrietta said, “You are pampering our garden. You’ve already given it enough water. Get ready for dinner.” Manfred answered, “I’ll do just that, Henriett.” He put down the empty watering can, went into the bathroom, showered, changed his clothes, and sat down to dinner with Henrietta.

The meal was light and pleasant, as was the conversation. Henrietta was through with the anguish of certificates, of officials who speak but don’t act, who promise but don’t perform, and her heart was at one with the world again. Henrietta had not succeeded in bringing even one relative to the country, but, when she began to be aware she was pregnant, she had stopped running around for certificates. As soon as she stopped running, her worries diminished. When a letter arrived from abroad, inscribed with grief, misery, woe, she responded with a sigh and returned to her own affairs, as most people did at the time.

As soon as Henrietta stopped running around to arrange for certificates, Manfred felt compelled to do something on behalf of their relatives. Since he did nothing, I have nothing to report, and I’ll get back to Henrietta.

Once again, Henrietta’s heart was at one with the world and all its creatures, as in the old days, when she first knew Manfred. Except that then she was worry-free, and now she had daughters to worry about, though worry was inappropriate in the case of two daughters such as hers. Zahara lives happily with her husband, and they will continue to be happy as long as it suits her. Being a steady sort, she isn’t likely to jeopardize her own well-being or the well-being of others, all the more so now that she has a son, who serves as a new bond between his parents.

And Tamara? She is somewhat more problematic. Unlike most girls, she has a piquant intelligence, a sharp tongue, and an audacious spirit that would endanger anyone else. She was once walking down the hill from Talpiot with one of her friends. They encountered an Arab, who attacked the young man, hoping to snatch his leather briefcase. While the Arab wrestled with him, Tamara picked up a rock and threw it at his head. She did this two or three times, until he fell in a puddle of blood, half-dead. When he managed to pick himself up and crawl back to his village, Tamara followed him to see where he lived and bring him to justice. Those villagers — heroes when it comes to attacking aged Jews and solitary women — saw her, yet didn’t dare lift a finger. But it’s unfortunate that she hasn’t found a job yet and still works without pay. In fact, there is a real job awaiting her. She herself says that the superintendent of schools, who observed her at work in Mekor Hayim, has given her a glowing reference and told her she could have a job in one of the settlements in the Sharon. She would have to teach somewhere else first, until the end of the term, substituting for a teacher who went to Scandinavia on a Histadrut mission. The Histadrut, of course, considers only its own needs and feels free to pull out a teacher in midyear. It is they who end up paying. In this case, for instance, a teacher of their political persuasion will be replaced by Tamara, who detests the Histadrut as much as she detests the British.

More about Tamara. She has found herself a boyfriend, a lapsed yeshiva student. Whether or not he is worthy of her, it’s too soon to consider him her mate. Many of Tamara’s friends are attracted to her, and there is no reason to single out anyone in particular as her mate. Furthermore, an impulsive approach to marriage suits neither Henrietta nor Manfred, though Henrietta, with a mother’s intuition, is sure that such a mate would always be faithful to his wife, despite their differences in education, origin, and background. His parents are from one of those renowned Jewish communities, whereas her parents are from Germany. Though they themselves were both born in Jerusalem, it is doubtful that their characters are similar. Actually, Tamara’s views are not contingent on her parents’, and she does as she pleases. In any case, I have presented her parents’ view.

And then there is Sarah. For the time being, she is little and hasn’t arrived at the age of worry, but she is ever so clever. She has never been to nursery school and hasn’t heard a teacher’s voice, but she gains knowledge constantly. From what source? Father Manfred doesn’t teach her, because he is occupied with his students, and Tamara doesn’t teach her, because of her concerns. Henrietta, who would like to teach her, is hampered by the discomforts of pregnancy. So, from whom does she learn? She learns from everyone she sees and from everything she sees, even from the cat, the dog, and the chickens; most of all, from Firadeus, whose knowledge is very limited. Firadeus can’t even read the prayerbook, but she knows things not everyone knows, such as why the moon and stars give light by night while the sun gives light by day: because the night was made for sleep, for which the moon and stars provide sufficient light. This is not the case by day, when workers need abundant light, which is why the sun shines all day, giving abundant light. Similarly, on Yom Kippur night, when a lot of light is needed for prayers, many candles are lit in the synagogue. And why did the sea choose to locate itself in Tel Aviv rather than Jerusalem? Because Jerusalem is high up, and the sea prefers not to undertake the climb. And why are there wild animals in the world? So wicked people, when they see us running away from wild animals because of their wickedness, will realize it’s not good to be wicked. Sarah learns many other things from Firadeus. Since she loves Firadeus, she loves her teachings as well.

Now for Henrietta herself. Henrietta is at peace with herself and with her unborn baby. He is at rest in her womb, not troubling her at all. Not that she is absolved from all the troubles of pregnancy, but, since she tolerates these troubles well, it’s as if she were untroubled. When she has no household chores to do, she sits watching Sarah play with an insect, the lid of a jam jar, a toothpaste tube, singing to herself and not bothering anyone. At such a time, Henrietta says to herself: I was mistaken to avoid getting pregnant all those years.

Chapter twelve

Henrietta and Manfred are at dinner. The table is set; the salad provides a riot of color; the bread, made of sprouted wheat, is nutritious and tasty, as are all the other dishes. Henrietta didn’t cook artichokes, as she had planned, but she made several other dishes Manfred was fond of, which he would eat and enjoy. They are having dinner in the dining room, not outside, because of Henrietta’s fatigue, which prevented her from setting the table in the yard and dragging out whatever might be needed for dinner. Henrietta and Manfred are in the dining room, enjoying the bounty of their table.

The windows to the garden are open. A pleasant scent wafts in from the bushes and flowers Manfred has watered. An oil lamp lights the table without producing soot. Why do I mention the oil lamp? Because there are people in Jerusalem who assume that, without electricity, there is no light. I mention the oil lamp for this reason. Although it is one of the old ones, it gives light that is modest and discreet, light that may even be more pleasant than electric light, so long as it doesn’t produce soot. All of a sudden, they hear a bird call. What is this call? It is the call of a bird returning to its nest and finding it changed. Or is it the bird himself who is the source of change, and is he apologizing to his mate for being so late? What do we know? All we can do is speculate, and we have offered two speculations as one.

Henrietta got up and brought two bottles of tomato juice she had chilled — not on ice, though she has an icebox — but by hanging them from a rope attached to a pole placed over the water tank, which is what she is in the habit of doing with watermelons and other foods that are at their best when chilled. Some women are in despair if their ice isn’t delivered every day in the summer; some women feel that the world is about to end if their refrigerator breaks down. I therefore applaud Henrietta Herbst, who never loses her equilibrium. Along with the juice, Henrietta brought a pie filled with potatoes, squash, and eggs, and topped with sour cream. The Arabs are scheming to starve us, blocking the roads to prevent their women from bringing us poultry, eggs, fruit, and vegetables. As it turns out, they don’t know what to do with their poultry and eggs now, and we, because we are no longer supplied with Arab food, raise our own chickens, who lay eggs that are now on our tables. Arab shepherds send their sheep into the gardens in our towns to demolish the fruit and vegetables, but our rural communities make up for the loss, providing the produce that adorns our tables. I don’t mean to celebrate the kvutzot and moshavim, but merely to commend Henrietta Herbst, whose table is not wanting, whose meals are no less ample since the women from Bethlehem and Kfar Hashiloah stopped bringing in their eggs and produce. The eggs aren’t visible, because they are mixed into the potato pie I described, but anyone can see the vegetables and fruits. What is more, they are superior to those from Kfar Hashiloah, which are irrigated with sewage water from all over Jerusalem, whereas our settlements rely on the generosity of the good Lord, who seems personally to provide rain and dew for watering. Even when we don’t do His bidding, so that He causes the skies to withhold, His mercy is not depleted, nor is the water in the wells and cisterns depleted. We turn on the sprinklers, and they make the waters rain down. Rabbi Samuel Mohilever, of blessed memory, was asked the following question: A young Jew, a student at the university or perhaps at the Technion, invented a device that produces rain. Is he required to publicize his invention to advance humanity, or does he have the right to hide his secret in the interest of settling the Land of Israel, first buying land and installing Jews there? For, if the nations of the world were to discover that even such arid earth as ours could be reclaimed with the help of this device, they would refuse to sell us a single handful of soil. I don’t know how that wise man responded, nor do I know if the inventor disclosed his invention or how that device was constructed. In any case, as we see with our own eyes, as soon as Jews began returning to their land, subject as it is to drought and barely responsive to being worked, God was compassionate and imbued His sons with the wisdom to devise sprinklers that water the earth and soak it thoroughly, as needed.

Summer evenings in Jerusalem are delightful; summer dinners are delightful too. One eats, enjoys, is satisfied. To whom does this apply? To a man with a wife such as Henrietta, who is attuned to her husband’s wishes. If only Manfred were as attuned to his wife’s wishes. I must nonetheless state that he didn’t upset his wife, nor did he reveal his innermost thoughts to her. Which was both good and not good. It was good for Henrietta not to know; it was not good for Manfred to withhold his innermost thoughts. They began to press on his heart, with a force that was intense and unrelenting.

Henrietta sat holding a slice of buttered bread with white cheese on it. She gazed at Manfred and, adding a dollop of honey as thick as a coin to her bread, remarked, “Fred, I’m also convinced that our new baby will be a boy.” Manfred answered, “You’re telling me something new? I already know that, but what is your source?” Henrietta said, “This appetite of mine informs me that there’s a male child inside.” Manfred said, “How can you consider such a small slice of bread a sign of appetite?” Henrietta said, “Small, but brimming over. Have a bite. Here, from this end.” She handed him the bread, and he bit into it, but not where his wife had suggested. She said to him, “It’s sweet and good, isn’t it?” Manfred said, “I meant to ask you before: did you notice the song Sarah’s been singing? At first there were no words. Then I thought I heard some sort of refrain, the words ‘graves, graves.’ Isn’t it odd to hear such a song from a child?” Henrietta laughed and said, “She’s been singing ‘graves, graves’ all day. I suppose you want to know where she got that song from. She got it from Firadeus. One day I heard Firadeus singing a song. At first I thought it was a love song. Doesn’t this sound like a love song: ‘Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes / Now covered with earth in the grave he lies’?” Manfred said, “How lovely it is, and how sad.” Henrietta said, “It’s a woman’s dirge for her slain husband.” Manfred said, “A eulogy for a hero.” Henrietta said, “A eulogy for the garbage collector of Talpiot, who was killed by an Arab on his way from Talpiot to the city, right at the railroad station. And who composed the song? The victim’s wife composed it. This is what Firadeus told me: every night my mother gets up from her bed, paces back and forth, and laments our murdered father. She sometimes repeats the same verses and sometimes recites new ones.” Manfred said to Henrietta, “Do you happen to remember another verse or two?” Henrietta said, “I knew you would ask that, so I asked Firadeus to tell me some other verses. Before she had a chance to say anything further, we were interrupted by a guest. See if you can guess, my dear. Who do you think it was? You can ask ten questions, then you’ll be able to figure out for yourself who was here. Now, begin with question one.” “A man or a woman?” “A woman.” “A woman?” “That’s another question.” “Where is the question?” Henrietta laughed and said, “That’s a question too.” “Young or old?” “Ummm. What shall I say? Not young, not old.” A middle-aged woman?” “Ummm. Middle-aged.” “A woman, right?” Henrietta said, “How can you be so devoid of intelligence — you just gave up one entire question!” “How? I hope the word how doesn’t count.” Henrietta said, “If I were being strict with you, I would count it as a question.” “Which question are you thinking of?” “Another question.” Herbst let his head droop to the left, extended his hands, and sighed, saying, “I’m not good for anything, Henriett. I give up. I’m a birdbrain.” Henrietta laughed and said, “You have no brains, but you do have intuition. Where did you learn that word?” “Which word?” “Another question.” “What question?” “All right, now it’s my turn. Where did you hear the word birdbrain?” “Where did I hear it? I don’t mind admitting that I haven’t applied myself to the question.” Henrietta said, “Then I’ll tell you where you first heard it.” “Where?” “Wasn’t it our Sarini?” “Sarini? Sarini visited you? Why did she come all of a sudden?” Henrietta said, “First, I should inform you that she has a wetnurse in mind for our son.” “What son?” Henrietta laughed and said, “You’re the one who’s so confident, who says, ‘I’m certain that you’re going to have a boy.’“ “Ah…Ah …,” said Manfred. “And who is the wetnurse?” Henrietta said, “Guess. Five or six questions, and you’ll be able to guess.” Manfred said, “Haven’t you learned from experience that I’m no good at this game? If you don’t tell me, Henrietta, I’m likely to go to my grave in ignorance. Graves, graves. I want to tell you something. I myself heard Firadeus’s mother singing ‘Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes / Now covered with earth in the grave he lies.’“ “You heard and you didn’t tell me?” Manfred said, “If I didn’t tell you before, I’m telling you now. On the day of the big rally, I met Firadeus on her way back from the pharmacy. I walked her home, thinking that, if she was stopped by the police, I could tell them she had to get medicine for her sick mother. When I approached her house, I heard her mother singing as she paced back and forth in her room. Now, Henriett, tell me who the wetnurse is.” Henrietta said, “In any case, you must admit that the whole thing is strange.” “What thing?” Henrietta said, “You have so little regard for me that you forget what we were talking about.” Manfred said, “Either I didn’t consider the entire subject worthwhile, or I wanted to tell you but I forgot. Now, Henriett, you tell me. About that wetnurse, who is she?” Henrietta looked at him with suspicious eyes but answered affectionately, “So you won’t wear out your mind, I’ll tell you.” “So?” “Summon up all your patience, my dearest, and don’t let your curiosity show.” Manfred said, “It’s not curiosity.” Henrietta said, “Then let’s forget the whole thing.” “What thing?” “That very thing.” Manfred said, “You keep saying the same thing in different words. If our Avraham were to hear you talking like that, he would say, ‘Too bad she didn’t become an orator.’ Is there any news from Zahara’s household?” Henrietta said, “The vegetables you ate are from their gardens.” Manfred said, “Instead of letters, they send us lettuce. They have become real farmers; they would rather dig herbs than verbs. And Tamara? Tamara is idle, as usual. She’s not even looking for work.” Henrietta said, “You always complain about Tamara. First of all, she isn’t idle. She still goes to Mekor Hayim every day. But if what you have in mind is salaried work, what can she do? She’s waiting for word from the Education Department. The officials there treat her the way her mother was treated when she was clamoring for certificates.” Manfred said, “All officials are alike. But I have reason to suspect Tamara has been telling us tales — outright fictions. From the very beginning, we should have understood the mysterious saga of Mekor Hayim, the tubercular girls, and all the rest. But not now. Not now, my dear, when your eyes are drooping. It’s time to lay your head on the pillow, to put the rest of you in your bed. Listen, Henrietta, I have one request. I know that if I say I’ll do the dishes, you won’t let me, so I won’t ask anything that major. All I ask is that you leave them for tomorrow. When Firadeus comes, she can wash them. That verse is not bad. I didn’t know goats’ eyes were sweet. It would be interesting to investigate that image. Is it common among the Persians, or is it original? I’ll look it up tomorrow in the poetry of Rückert.” “Rückert? I forgot he existed.” Manfred said, “A few months ago, I came upon a biography of Moses Lazarus, written by his wife. She reports what he said about Rückert: that if the world were destroyed by a flood and only Rückert’s poems survived, they would make it possible to reconstruct the world.” “He was that great? And you, Fred, remember everything. Whatever you read sticks in your mind.” Manfred said, “I could have remembered that statement, or I could have forgotten it. But that very day I heard it again, not about Rückert and not from Lazarus, but from a Hebrew writer who was referring to a Hebrew storyteller. I have a student, part clerk and part critic, who enjoys enlightening me with his remarks. That day I was applauding Neu for having restored so many forgotten worlds to us. To which my student said, ‘If we applaud those who restore forgotten worlds, we should applaud the storytellers.’ And he proceeded to quote a Hebrew writer who wrote about a Hebrew storyteller, ‘If there should be a flood that restores the world to chaos, with only Mendele Mocher Sforim’s stories surviving, it would be possible to reconstruct Jewish life.’ These Hebrews, in their excessive narcissism, don’t notice that there are countries outside of Poland, Lithuania, and Russia where Jews have lived and endured, that they too are a vital force.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Which is an offense to your German patriotism, Fred.” Manfred laughed and said, “No offense to my German patriotism, but an offense to the truth. Even someone like me is sometimes moved to protest against truisms that are grounded in nothing. Now, my dearest, rise up, come along. Let me lead you to the bedroom. I’ll settle you in your cradle, and you can close your weary eyes and sleep until Firadeus brings you breakfast.”

Henrietta’s eyes were closed, her tongue weary. She spoke fitfully. If I were to put the words together and interpret her allusions, this is roughly what they would add up to: When a woman is young, in full bloom, capable of filling the earth with sons and daughters, she isn’t always pleased to be producing children. When she ages, when her energies diminish and her sons and daughters leave home, her lot is bitter, ever so bitter. Because she is lonely, she would love to bear a child, but this is something she no longer has the strength to do.

I am omitting the rest of Henrietta’s remarks, censuring those women who make no use of what the Creator granted them and giving credit to the Oriental communities: “If they didn’t behave like human beings, increasing and multiplying in a natural fashion, the land would soon be empty. But,” Henrietta added, “even they have begun to act like Ashkenazim.” At this point, Henrietta told about a pretty young Sephardic woman, about twenty-four years old, who had given her husband four handsome sons. After weaning the fourth one, she became pregnant. Her neighbor said, “If you keep up at this rate, you won’t have room for all your children.” They deliberated and went to a certain woman doctor. The doctor did what she did, and the woman aborted. After a while, she began to yearn for an infant to clasp in her arms. She was consumed with longing, but she was no longer able to become pregnant, and she was not fit to give birth again.

The very same doctor has set up a clinic, and her pace is tireless. The country is full of British soldiers, as well as impoverished young girls. Feeling confined by the narrow walls of their homes, these girls go out for a little while, seeking escape. The soldiers who see them are struck by their beauty and entice them to go to a café or a movie. Some are intrigued and respond, at first to scold the soldiers for their impudence, then because of curiosity, then because there’s no harm in talking, then because of habit. In the end, some of the girls are seduced by them, and, when they become pregnant, they go to this doctor to get rid of their unborn babies.

So much for those evils and the troubles they bring on. Now let’s get back to the Herbst household. Manfred and Henrietta finished their supper, and it was already Henrietta’s bedtime. But, like most women at leisure, she didn’t tend to look ahead. Henrietta remained seated, though Manfred stood beside her, taking her hand and attempting to get her out of the chair and lead her to her room. Henrietta, who was comfortable where she was, didn’t stir. She was thinking about her daughters. Zahara and Tamara are not here. One lives with Avraham and Dani in the country; the other has gone to see about the teaching position she was promised; Sarah is lying asleep in her little bed. Yet another child is inside his mother, Henrietta, who didn’t prevent the Creator from creating a person in her womb. Should the Creator of man alter His ways ever so slightly, He would give her a male child, now that she has produced three females. The world needs daughters too, but it would be nice for this mother of daughters to produce a son.

Henrietta’s eyes remained closed, and her hand was in Manfred’s. He held his wife’s hand and gazed at her. Her eyes were still closed, her face was bloated, and her nose cast its shadow all around. Now I’ll say something it would be nicer not to say, but truth goes beyond the niceties. Manfred noted her wrinkled cheeks, flushed and lined with bluish veins, and her body, bloated and slovenly. He also noted how she luxuriated before him, like a bride during the seven-day marriage feast, and he turned his eyes away, commenting to himself: How grotesque. He said nothing, except in his heart, and, like a man who respects his wife, he smoothed her cheek and tried to help her up.

After taking Henrietta to her bed, he sneaked back to the dining room, cleared the dishes, took them to the kitchen, and washed them thoroughly, examining each piece inside and out to be sure it was clean, so as not to give Henrietta reason to reject his work. Then he set the dishes on the slatted shelf to drain, moving about stealthily, so as not to disturb Henrietta and arouse her anger at him for intruding on her territory. Even though she had already allowed him to take on some of the chores, she would, no doubt, scold him. Having finished all the kitchen work, he inverted the dishpans and scanned the room, to be sure he hadn’t left anything undone. When he saw everything was in place, he turned out the light. When the light was off, he saw that one burner was still lit. Henrietta had forgotten about it, but it was serving no purpose. He turned it off and went to Henrietta, thinking: If I had left it on, Henrietta would surely complain. But when she does it, it’s all right.

Henrietta was lying in bed in her clothes. He began coaxing her to undress. When she was ready to comply, he helped her take off her clothes, just as he used to do when she was pregnant with Zahara.

I have something to say about Shira. That was a good question Shira had asked: “Do you help your wife, too?” Yes, Shira. Dr. Herbst helps his wife take off her clothes, and he does it expertly. His hands don’t tremble at all. But Shira is far away. In fact, she has moved. But we won’t be looking for you. Not today. It’s enough, Shira, that Herbst asked about you in the hospital. He also asked Anita Brik about you. Tomorrow afternoon, we might perhaps go and see where you live. If we find you, good. If we don’t find you, it’s your fault for not sitting and waiting for us.

After arranging his wife’s clothes, he embraced her and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed him too, if not on his mouth, then on his forehead. Manfred’s forehead is an integral part of him, you might say his finest part, with all his great thoughts plainly written on it. Henrietta assumes that these thoughts derive from the major essay he is working on. We will allow her this error, rather than divulge one or two of the schemes he is considering. Henrietta asked Manfred to go and see if Sarah was asleep and if she was perspiring. After he had done so, he took leave of his wife, with a kiss, and went to his room to read some papal history and find out just when Damasus became pope. This wasn’t actually why he went back to his room. He wanted to be alone for a while. He was worn out by the day’s concerns. He hadn’t had a moment’s rest. In the morning, he had lectured on the earliest known Byzantine coins with Greek inscriptions, as well as on the coins associated with Heraclius, which we assume were minted so they could be used by soldiers during the war against Persia. After the lecture, a guest, who had come to hear a Hebrew lecture at the Hebrew University, arrived and offered a somewhat dated insight. He stated that, even after Constantine became Christian, he continued to be attracted to idolatry, which is evident from the motifs on many artifacts from the Constantine period. Herbst wore himself out conveying to this genius, without being disrespectful, that, with coins, as in various other areas, such motifs are not always conclusive, because they often continue to appear even after they have lost their significance. When he got rid of the guest, he was joined by two of his students, who needed books they couldn’t find in the National Library. If I’m not mistaken, they were looking for the works of G. Finelli and W. Schultze. They went home with Herbst, and, like all bright students who are full of their own wisdom, they were eager to impart it to their teacher and enhance his wisdom. In the end, after they came home with him and he gave them the books, they found that the wording was ambiguous and Herbst had to confirm whether or not what they said was right. He was left with only a small portion of the afternoon break, time for lunch but not for a rest. Because he was so tired, he was afraid Henrietta would be talkative, which made him unable to rest. We would imagine that he did try resting right after lunch, but what use is such an attempt? As soon as he stretched out on his bed, he heard a sound at the door. He hurried to open it, so no one would ring the bell and wake Henrietta. He found a man at the door, a leather briefcase on his arm, his face like the face of a thousand other solicitors from national institutions. He began to barrage him with words about a particular individual who had just reached the age of fifty and in whose honor a grove of trees was being planted. Dr. Herbst was asked to contribute a tree. After the solicitor left, Herbst went back to bed, but he found no rest. He got up and went into town, to the French Library, hoping to find comfort in a new book. On the way, he met Anita Brik and went with her to Zichel’s, where they had a long chat. After leaving her, he took the bus home and heard news about some of the unfortunate events that had occurred that day. When he was finally home, he sat down to eat and had a long chat with his wife. If his mouth and mind had been with his wife, all would have been well. But his mouth was in one place, and his mind was elsewhere. This is why he was exhausted and eager to be alone.

He went up to his room, turned on the lamp, and surveyed his books. He stood there, closed his eyes, and concentrated, straining to remember what he was looking for. He opened his eyes and moved toward the row of books on the Church Fathers. He took down Tseckler’s book about Saint Jerome, not because he was interested in Tseckler, but because of an article in manuscript that was appended to the book. Since the article had no name, I’ll relay its subject: how Saint Jerome contributed to the work of Damasus on religious texts. It is very likely that the news Herbst heard on the bus, about a young scholar who was killed by Arabs, was what reminded him of that article, for Herbst had inherited the book, with all its appendices, from a young researcher who fell in battle.

Herbst sat with the book, studying the shape of the letters, scrutinizing them as if to analyze the writer’s character. He studied each letter, searched every line for a sign that the author was destined to die young. Several years had passed since his friend’s death. Others had died, others had been killed, others had committed suicide. But, whenever he thought of him, he felt his death anew. Why was this? Because he was killed at the beginning of the war, when people were not so accustomed to casualties. Now that the book was in his hand, he was overcome with fatigue, which led to a desire for sleep. He glanced at his bed, thinking: I’ll stretch out. I’ll have a rest. Actually, there’s no reason not to spend the night here, as I used to do before I went to Ahinoam with Henrietta to welcome Dani. He put Tseckler’s book on the table near his bed and slipped off his shoes to prepare himself for sleep. He was holding one of his shoes, inspecting it for traces of the shoeshine boy’s labor, when he realized that Tseckler’s book was not the right one for now. He returned it to its spot, scanned the shelf, and took down a book of Saint Jerome’s letters to read in bed. He undressed and climbed into bed.

After reading for a while, he came upon the letter in which Jerome tells about a chaste Christian woman who was falsely accused of betraying her husband, of the brutal torture to which she was subjected to force her to confess to a sin she hadn’t committed. The great event that occurred after she was tortured was also described. The ghost of a smile spread across Herbst’s lips, the smile of a literate person responding to an eloquent passage. He put down the book, placed his hand on it, and pursued his own train of thought: Jerome was a great writer. He succeeded in portraying all sorts of vicious tortures to achieve a desired end. Torture has been a common phenomenon since men first began to seek dominance over others. Still, the agonies described by Jerome were merely figments of his imagination. That broad-minded, saintly Christian concocted all those tortures. Gentiles! What an example of their corruption and brutality. Corruption and brutality that culminated in Hitler.

The light suddenly began to flicker, as an oil lamp does when it is about to go out. He blinked his eyes and was baffled, for he had just filled it with oil the day before. In fact, it was more than half full, but the wick was too short to reach the oil. He was too lazy to get up and add oil for the wick to draw on. He lay there, abandoning himself to all sorts of thoughts.

His mind wandered, settling on the last war. As he tended to do whenever he was reminded of it, he made an effort to forget what he had seen during the war, as well as the fact that he had actually fought in it. To some extent, he succeeded; to some extent, he failed. In any case, he didn’t really succeed in getting rid of war thoughts. Kings are at war with kings, nations with nations, religions with religions. A destroys B, B destroys C; they are all, finally, destroyed. If at first there was some logic to this scheme, it soon vanished, leaving only devastation in its wake. Herbst fixed his gaze on the wick that could no longer reach the oil because the fire had consumed it, and yet its light continued to flicker.

I am not one to infer connections, and I don’t mean to suggest that the sight of the lamp, et cetera, led him to think about Israel and the nations of the world. But I do allude to it, because it is appropriate. He gazed at the wick that didn’t reach the oil, thinking: The nations of the world berate Israel for considering itself a chosen people, and, in truth, it must be admitted that, compared to other nations, we have superior qualities. I don’t mean that every single one of us is virtuous and just, but, overall, the people as a whole are truly fine. There are intellectual women, concerned with the Jewish religion, who say, “Before, while we were in Germany, we didn’t doubt that the Jews were a chosen people. When we came to the Land of Israel, we saw that Jews are like everyone else, no better and no worse. Now that we have lived here several years, having seen what we have seen, we see that we are inferior to other nations.” These women have arrived at this conclusion because, when they lived elsewhere, they saw many Gentiles and knew very few Jews. Here, they see the entire people. Despite this, Herbst reflected, despite this, I believe that we are finer than other nations. What is so fine about the people of Israel? I, in any case, am not especially fine. The pursuit of bodily pleasure and the drive to create books are surely not fine, nor are these Jewish qualities. In this respect, I am no different from my peers. Yet I stand by what I said earlier: If a man sins once and doesn’t sin again, I don’t claim the sin is erased, but at least it isn’t compounded.

When did he make that statement? The day he got to know Shira. All his dealings with Shira have since been suspended. Only her address is written in his notebook. Should he want to, he could erase her address, and he could erase Shira from his heart, as if she no longer exists, as if she never existed, as if she would never return. If they should meet somewhere, and if she should say to him, “Why don’t you show yourself to me?” he could say, “You moved to a new place and didn’t tell me where you live. When I asked about you at the hospital, they said they didn’t know either.” Though he was feeling peaceful, on the brink of sleep, he took the trouble to get up and erase Shira’s address. He went back to bed, blew out the light, and delivered himself to sleep.

Sleep took over, all at once, wielding its power over each and every limb. You might remember that, when Henrietta was about to give birth to Sarah, Manfred brought her to the hospital, and he was sitting in the waiting room with her when the nurse Shira, whom he called Nadia, appeared and sat down with the women. At one point, a blind beggar from Istanbul appeared, and the limbs of that Shira-Nadia woman enveloped that beggar, as if to embrace him. The two of them finally began to dwindle and dissolve, until all that was left of them was a sandal. In the end, they were both enclosed in that sandal and vanished, never to emerge again. What had happened to that blind Turkish beggar was now happening to Herbst. His limbs were dwindling, until all that was left of them was sleep. From the depths of sleep, the hint of a human face seemed to surface. At first, it was hard to recognize. Little by little, the face became sharper, and Herbst realized that it belonged to one of the early monks who appear in so many Christian legends. This monk went into a place that resembled the building Shira’s new apartment was in, though it didn’t resemble the building Anita Brik had drawn. The monk was transformed too, and he began to resemble a certain monk from Gethsemane with whom Herbst had become acquainted at the post office, when he was mailing out offprints of his articles. There is something I should have mentioned earlier; not having done so, I will mention it now. When Herbst, who was mailing out his offprints, was standing at the window in the post office, there happened to be a monk in line behind him with whom he struck up a conversation, at the end of which the monk invited him to visit his monastery. Herbst promised to do so. I didn’t mention this event at the time, because it wasn’t relevant. Now that it has come up again, though only in a dream, I may as well mention it.

In the morning, Herbst appeared in the dining room with an armful of thick Latin books in pigskin bindings. While he was waiting for Henrietta to bring his coffee, he glanced through the books. “Such diligence,” Henrietta remarked, with a show of laughter and concealed admiration. Manfred answered, “Diligence that doesn’t do me any good. The very thing I need is missing.” Henrietta asked, “And where can it be found? In the National Library?” Manfred said derisively, “The National Library, the National Library. Whatever we don’t need is there, and whatever we do need is not there. Even Ernst Weltfremdt has more good books than that warehouse they call the National and University Libraries. But Professor Weltfremdt doesn’t have the volume I need either.” Henrietta asked in a worried tone, “So what will you do?” Manfred said, “I’ll do what one does in such cases. I’ll do without.”

During breakfast, Manfred said to Henrietta, “I have the urge to go to Gethsemane, to the monastery there.” Henrietta said, “To look for that book?” Manfred said, “I doubt that those monks are familiar with the book I’m looking for, but I would like to go, because I once promised to visit a monk who lives there. It’s not urgent, and the visit isn’t essential, but for those very reasons I think I ought to go. I don’t know if you grasp my meaning. Those things that aren’t really essential are often particularly appealing. Going there is just such a thing. Several months ago, I became acquainted with a monk, who invited me to visit him. I promised I would come. He didn’t expect me to keep my word, nor did I intend to keep it. Suddenly, all of a sudden, I see that I must keep my promise. What do you think about this?” Henrietta said, “I assume you won’t be back for lunch.” Manfred said, “I see from your response that you approve.” Henrietta said, “To be sure you don’t get hungry, you ought to have an egg for breakfast — one of the eggs Zahara sent us.” Manfred said, “You have a one-track mind, Mother. Give me your lips, you monster, you.”

Chapter thirteen

When Herbst got off the bus and found himself on the street, in the midst of a bustling throng, under a sky full of heat and light that blazed, stretched, and expanded with each person, where each structure and each sound took on the whiteness of light, like some substance that dims the eye and deafens the ear — when this happened, his will began to diminish and fade away. He was sorry to have left home on such a hot day, at such an hour. Though he had promised whomever he had promised that he would visit him, though he felt obliged to keep his word and fulfill his promise, he hadn’t set a time and wasn’t obliged to visit on any particular day. He took off his hat and wiped his brow, as well as the inner band of his hat and his sunglasses, scanning all four directions to find the Gethsemane bus stop. As in the case of all quests that are undertaken without conviction, he only half stirred, and he would have remained in his spot if he hadn’t been swept up by people going to the post office and the bank, and by other pedestrians whose swift pace stemmed from the same source as his stationary position: they, too, were unsure of their direction. Time passed, and he didn’t remember where the bus stop was, but he realized that he didn’t have to make the trip. He decided not to go. Having decided not to go, he was pleased; for, even if he had found the bus, he would have had a long wait. Buses from the outlying districts make the return trip only after their riders have concluded their business in town, which they never seem to do until the day is nearly over.

Having ruled out Gethsemane, he didn’t know what to do. Unless their work compels them to go into town early in the day, those who live in outlying neighborhoods tend to make the trip only for a specific purpose. This was true of Herbst. If not for the trip to Gethsemane, he wouldn’t have come. Now that the trip was off, he had no purpose. He didn’t really belong in town. Here he was, with three or four sizzling stones underfoot and a blazing sun overhead. Actually, he could have been standing in the shade of the bus from Talpiot that had arrived in the interim and could have taken him home to his books. But, since he was in town, it seemed a shame to go right back. After all, it isn’t every day that he stops working without some sense of guilt. So what should he do? He can’t very well visit a friend, because everyone is at work. Anyone who isn’t lecturing is either in the library, looking for material for an article, or engaged in writing a book. There are people who sense when a friend is at work, and, in a flash, they are there to interrupt. Herbst was not that sort. He was simply looking for a place to spend an hour.

There are very few places in Jerusalem where one can spend an hour at that time of day. If I list them, there won’t be more than two: the Bezalel Museum and the B’nai B’rith Library. In the past, before the National and University Libraries were built on Mount Scopus, the B’nai B’rith building was always buzzing with people. Herbst went there quite frequently, and he used to bring guests from abroad, though he was embarrassed that the collection didn’t live up to its reputation. When the university was built on Mount Scopus, all the good books were transferred to its new libraries, and the one in town began to be forgotten. Now that he was looking for a place to spend an hour, he didn’t remember it. He forgot about the museum, too. This forgetfulness of his is probably puzzling, so I will explain it. In the early days, when he first came to the country, these two institutions were his favorite haunts. Now that the population had grown larger and the city’s limits had expanded, he himself was taking smaller steps, and it was not as easy to come and go. He began to go to those places less and less often, then not at all. Since he no longer frequented them, they began to fade from his memory and were soon forgotten.

Herbst stood on the street near the post office and was astonished to be looking for a place to go and unable to find one. Only a few years back, this would not have happened. Even before he could quite picture a place, he would find himself there, whether it was night or day, sunny or rainy. If someone tells you, “We used to take night walks along the top of Jerusalem’s walls, and outside of the city as well,” you will think that’s a fairy tale. Let me tell you, it’s absolutely true. What is more, we used to walk through the Old City to the Western Wall and find Hasidim and other pious men standing there, bemoaning the exile of the Divine Presence. At what hour? At midnight. From there, we used to go to an Arab café, drink coffee, and smoke narghiles, to the accompaniment of their singing or their gramophones. The Arabs welcomed us, and we weren’t afraid to go anywhere. Isn’t it amazing? Our community was small then, but its horizons were broad. Now that it has expanded, its horizons are narrow, and no Jew is safe from the murderous assault of a knife or a bullet. At any rate, in the area between the post office, Mahane Yehuda, and Beit Hakerem, there is nothing to fear.

Herbst abandoned his spot near the post office and went to look at the window display in one of the stores while debating where to go. The windows were covered, to shield them from the sun. This was true of all the other stores, too. He had no choice but to go to a café. Herbst didn’t usually go to cafés. If we saw him there, it was not because of him, but because of Anita Brik, because of Lisbet Neu, because of Shira. Moreover, it seemed odd to him to do today what he had done the day before; he had spent several hours at Zichel’s just yesterday. There are, of course, people who spend a great deal of time in cafés. Julian Weltfremdt, for example, who goes to two cafés every day. Herbst met Julian Weltfremdt, who was leaving one café on his way to another.

Herbst asked Julian Weltfremdt, “Are you in a hurry?” He said, “Not at all. I’m running away from the noise. What a nation we are! Each individual makes as much noise as an entire people. Why so much noise? Remember the teachers in our German elementary school? When a Jewish student raised his voice, they used to scold and say reproachfully, ‘Not so much noise — this isn’t a Jewish school.’ If they were exaggerating about the noise there, here it’s no exaggeration. What brings you to town? You are ordering a new sign, I suppose?” “A new sign?” “A sign saying Professor Dr. Manfred Herbst. I heard the faculty senate is considering your promotion. Since they are considering it, they’ll promote you. Not because you deserve it, but to show the world that they’re not idle, that they accomplish something. Good luck and congratulations, Herbstlein. From the depths of my heart, I hope you get a full professorship. Did you see my cousin’s book? No? You can see it in any bookstore window. It’s as fat as a watermelon. In another country, such a book would earn professorships for generations to come. Here, he’ll have to make do with a title that’s good only for himself. Poor fellow.”

They went into the café and sat down together. Weltfremdt took his cigarettes from his pocket, placed them in front of him on the table, and sat talking about the things he had talked about yesterday and the day before: how there is never anything new in Jerusalem; that, if you do find something new, it’s a second-rate copy of something old. Nonetheless, he had some news. He had found a job. He would soon be teaching in a secondary school, either Blumenkohl or Lilienblum.

“This is the story of the school,” Weltfremdt told Herbst. “There was a land speculator, a stupid and ignorant man, who made a fortune. He put up a building that was large and not especially ugly. If it were ugly, I would suggest to the authorities that they turn it into a prison in which they should install the builder, his partners, his partners’ partners, and all the high officials who accepted bribes from him openly and secretly. When it was built, he didn’t find tenants that suited him, so it remained uninhabited. It upset him not to have any tenants — to have no one to oppress, no one to skin alive — so he decided to set up a school. In this country, schools are a lucrative enterprise. Everyone is after an education and a degree, and those who are too stupid to achieve this for themselves want their offspring to be educated. Where does one acquire an education? In schools. There are new ones everywhere. Anyone who lacks the competence to open a kindergarten opens a secondary school. For the moment, they are content to call the school a gymnasia. Before long, they will all become universities. The Jews are not a people known to be content with the minimum. As long as the university is more highly regarded than the gymnasia, every gymnasia is destined to become a university. And you, Mr. Innocent, aren’t you wondering why the headmaster saw fit to have me teach in his gymnasia. It’s because of my name. He can boast that Weltfremdt is one of his teachers, and people will assume he means Professor Weltfremdt. So you see, Herbstlein, one can do a good turn without lifting a finger. Whom do I have in mind? I’m thinking of my cousin.”

The waitress came and asked, “What would you gentlemen like?” Weltfremdt deliberated and said, “I would like an ashtray.” “And what else would the gentleman like?” Weltfremdt said, “Just a minute, I’ll see if I forgot matches. I forgot. Yes, I forgot. I truly forgot, so please bring me some matches, too.” The waitress laughed and asked Herbst, “Tea or coffee, sir?” Weltfremdt said, “I would like to have some coffee, but make it iced coffee. Take my advice, Herbst, and have some iced coffee. You’ll be eternally grateful to me. Miss, bring two glasses of iced coffee — but iced, truly iced, not the kind that’s called iced and isn’t iced. I found matches. Forgetfulness is an unfortunate trait, but memory is even more of a misfortune, as it includes remembering and forgetting in one, for, if you hadn’t forgotten, you would have no need to remember. Do you or do you not understand? I assume you don’t. So let’s go back to the beginning. The idiot who set up that gymnasium had never, in his entire life, seen a school. But he was a skilled merchant and a good businessman. He understood that the parents’ goal was to acquire good credentials for their children. For this reason, he instructed the staff to ignore the stupidity of the students. This is how they prepare students for the university. My dear Herbstlein, I’m talking, but you’re not listening. What’s that in your hand?”

Herbst was holding his notebook, but he wasn’t looking inside it. He was repeating Shira’s address to himself, having erased it the night before. Startled by Weltfremdt’s rebuke, Herbst tucked away the notebook, stared at Weltfremdt, then surveyed the café. A few years earlier, he had been here with Shira. Someone else had owned the place at the time. He had been here another time with Shira and found yet a different owner. Cafés change hands often. A proprietor who serves his customers well, who provides good coffee, ends up selling the business and leaving the country.

All of a sudden, Herbst took Weltfremdt’s hand, looked at him — either at him or through him — and said, “I have to go.” Weltfremdt collected his things and stood up. Herbst remained seated. Weltfremdt noted this and laughed. Herbst said, “Why are you laughing? Is it because I’m sitting down? I really have to go. Yes, I have to go.” Weltfremdt said, “I would assume, dear Herbstlein, that need is determined by desire and desire by need.” Herbst smiled, a confused smile, pretending not to understand, as if he had been about to do something but was interrupted and was now making every effort to recover. Herbst looked down at the table and called out after Weltfremdt, “You forgot your matches.” “It’s an empty box,” Weltfremdt explained. Herbst picked up the matchbox, looked inside, and said, with a confused chuckle, “That’s right, the box is empty. You’re going already?” “Yes,” Weltfremdt answered, “I have to go too.” The two friends took leave of each other and went their separate ways. Weltfremdt went to another café to glance at some newspapers, and Herbst turned toward the bus stop, meaning to go home.

On the way to the bus, he thought: Henrietta isn’t expecting me for lunch, because I told her I was going to Gethsemane. If I come home now, I’ll disrupt her routines. She probably hasn’t prepared lunch, or she has prepared it but plans to serve it for dinner, so she can have time to pursue some of her other interests. I really should stay in town as long as possible. What if I did tell Julian I had to go? Herbst arrived at the corner and stood in the shade of an awning that was shielding a display window from the sun. He looked at his wristwatch and pondered, wondering why he had left the café in full knowledge that, at this hour, there was no better place to be and no better conversationalist than Julian Weltfremdt. He looked at his watch again. No, the French Library wouldn’t be open yet. He suddenly cried out, “Fool! How could you forget …?”

Like a person who remembers something he has to do and regrets every wasted moment, he didn’t say just what he had forgotten. But he directed his steps toward a store that sold foreign books, one of many that sprang up when German immigrants arrived, bringing with them many books but not enough money for spacious apartments with room for bookcases, like the ones they were accustomed to in Germany. Thus, they were compelled to sell their books for next to nothing. Herbst’s interest at that particular moment was not in those books, but in the collection of a certain orange-grove owner from Petah Tikva, which the proprietor had recently purchased from his heirs. True, for the most part these books were German classics, the best of which he already owned, and the lesser ones were unappealing. But these were elegant editions, bound in leather, and Herbst was considering an exchange. He wanted to trade his ordinary editions for these handsome ones, adding to the deal a number of books he was ready to dispose of anyway.

This is how these collectors operate. A wealthy man, of German origin, settled in Petah Tikva, where he owned fields, vineyards, citrus groves, houses — assorted liquid and non-liquid assets. He married a woman from the Hungarian community. They each received a stipend. They didn’t know what to do with these funds, provided by Jews all over the world to support their counterparts in the Holy Land, for they were self-supporting. They decided to order the works of Germany’s great writers, and, since the communities in Germany and Hungary had such ample resources, they were able to include handsome and elegant bindings for the books, beyond anything anywhere else in this country. The couple also ordered various novels for their own pleasure. This was their practice until the outbreak of the Great War. After the war, the English language began to enjoy the respect that had once belonged to German, because the English were now in charge. This man and woman died, leaving their collection of German books to their children. As the number of newcomers grew and apartments became expensive, the heirs began to resent the books their parents had collected. They took up an entire room, and space was worth money. So they decided to call in a book dealer, who appraised the books and gave them what he gave them for their collection of German classics and novels. This is the tale of the books Herbst had in mind to pursue.

Chapter fourteen

Herbst remembered the books that were brought from Petah Tikva, and he was glad to have remembered them while he was in town, so that he might see them first, before anyone else. At this time of day, most people were occupied and not free to deal with books. He consulted his watch and turned toward Jaffa Road, which he would follow to Hasollel Street. He took one shortcut, then another, from Haneviim Street to Harav Kook Street. He passed the big bakery, as well as the offices of the rabbinate at the beginning of the street, and went as far as the flower garden near the entrance to Doctor Ticho’s eye clinic; then he veered toward Jaffa Road. Remembering that, to the left of Harav Kook Street, there was another cut one could take, he turned back, followed it up three or four steps, and came to a narrow lane. A boy with a basket full of baked goods was coming toward him. Herbst saw the boy and was reassured that he was on the right track, for these streets were not to be trusted. They could have been closed off since the last time you were there, making the route longer rather than shorter, as intended. The boy pressed himself to the wall to let Herbst pass, since the road was too narrow for two bodies moving in opposite directions. Herbst nodded in gratitude and surprise that the boy was so polite as to let him pass first. The boy laughed. Herbst asked him, “Why are you laughing?” The boy answered, “Because.” Herbst said, “‘Because’ is no answer. Tell me, please, why were you laughing?” The boy answered, “I remembered a funny story, so I laughed.” He said, “What funny story did you remember?” He said, “Something I learned last night.” He said, “You go to night school?” The boy nodded, with the basket still on his head. Herbst said, “What are you studying, and what was the story you remembered? Isn’t that basket heavy? I’ll take it down, and you can tell me the story.” The boy said, “Heavy? If I wanted to, I could dance the hora without letting the basket fall, without losing a single cake or one sesame seed.” Herbst said, “Is that so? But don’t you want to tell me the funny story? Tell it, and I’ll listen.” The boy said, “If I want, I can tell it word for word.” Herbst said, “Word for word? Does the teacher expect you to know it word for word?” The boy said, “I wanted to learn it.” “Word for word? How did you arrive at that?” The boy stared at him and said, “It happened, all by itself.” “By itself? How come?” The boy said, “I thought it was such a good story that I read it again and again and again. Meanwhile, the book slipped out of my hand, and the words kept coming out of my mouth, just like in the book. I picked up the book, glanced at it, and saw that every word I said was in the book.” Herbst said, “Meanwhile, you probably forgot half of the story.” The boy said, “If you like, you can test me.” Herbst said, “I’m not a teacher, so I won’t test you. I just want to hear whether you really still remember the whole story.” The boy said, “But if someone comes, we’ll have to get out of the way.” Herbst said, “Then we’ll get out of the way.” The boy said, “I’ll move backward. Which way will you move? Forward or backward?” Herbst said, “What would you suggest?” The boy laughed again. Herbst said, “When the time comes, we’ll worry. Now for your story. But put down the basket. It must be heavy.” The boy shook his head back and forth, studying Herbst’s face to see if he noticed that the cakes in the basket hadn’t stirred at all. He said to him, “I could stick one arm on the ground and stretch the other toward the sky without disturbing the basket. Want to see?” Herbst said, “If you tell the story first.” The boy said, “Good. I’ll tell it.

“There was once a river. There was a bridge over the river so one could cross to the other side. It was such a narrow bridge that only one person could cross at a time. One day, two billy goats approached the bridge, one at each end. Each one of them stood his ground — one on this side of the river, the other on the other side of the river. When they finally got to the middle of the bridge, one goat insisted that he had seniority and should be allowed to pass first, that he was greater and more distinguished than his brother, being descended from a herd that originated on Mount Gilead. The other goat, goaded by his lineage, claimed seniority too. He considered himself especially distinguished because of the verse in Exodus ‘Those women whose hearts were stirred by wisdom spun goat’s hair,’ a reference to the very goats he was descended from, whose hair adorned the tabernacle. They stood confronting each other, making no move to back away. They stood there interminably. One of the goats became enraged and goaded the other goat, trying to provoke him. ‘You haven’t made a move yet. Bestir yourself and get going, before I reduce you to goat dung.’ To which his rival answered, ‘How dare you speak so brazenly?’ They fought, seizing each other’s heads and locking horns, until they both fell into the depths of the river.”

While Herbst stood listening to the tale of the goats, he heard the sound of young legs and saw a courtyard, half-obstructed by boxes and battered crates, half-screened by woven wire that formed a shedlike structure, which was draped with sacks and branches. Inside the shed were six or seven girls in exercise clothes. A woman, wearing a summer dress and a straw hat, seemed to be in charge. With one hand, she issued orders; with the other, she wiped her sweaty brow. An old man in hospital clothes surveyed the scene from a window in the wall that overlooked the shed. Putting these elements together, you realized that the courtyard was next to the hospital and that next to it was a girl’s school with no facilities for calisthenics, so this spot was used for that purpose.

Herbst wiped his eyes and his forehead. Then he turned onto Hasollel Street. He came to the offices of the Palestine Post at the head of the street and scanned the newspaper in the display case on the wall, making an effort to avoid the bad news, such as reports of those distressing events known as “riots” that were occurring at the time. He heard the noise of the printing press, which was on the ground floor of the building, duplicating the news. Herbst stood there, his eyes tightly clenched, listening with his feet. He was straining to remember something, but he didn’t know what. He found himself at the window of Bamberger and Wahrmann, the bookstore, where he saw Samuel Karweiss’s book on the history of the Jews in Byzantium and remembered that it had been recommended to him several days earlier. In fact, this is what he had been trying to remember. But he didn’t linger, because he was eager to be the first one to get to see those German classics, and he had wasted too much time on the boy and his story, which wasn’t worth hearing after all, even had he been at leisure, and all the more so when he was in a hurry. At that moment, the barber was stationed outside of his shop, waiting for someone to appear for a haircut or a chat. The barber saw Herbst and said to him, “I see, Dr. Herbst, that you’re in a hurry. You probably don’t want to be detained. Still, it occurs to me to tell you something that pertains to delay. I ask that you listen, not on my behalf, but on behalf of the man who is credited with these remarks. I don’t know if you were already here when Balfour came to this country to celebrate the founding of the university. I don’t imagine you were here yet. The English weren’t allowing Jews from Germany to come in, because they were too German. This doesn’t affect the story itself. As you can imagine, I would have liked to see Balfour; not merely to see him, but to be near him, on the great day of the opening of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I wasn’t among the guests. Even in my dreams, I didn’t see a way to get a ticket. But how could I give up? I said, ‘It would be enough for someone like me to stand in proximity to Balfour, who was granted what no king or nobleman since Cyrus was granted. If not in proximity, then in the same territory.’ I put on my best clothes and was ready to go. I say ‘to go’ when I should say ‘to run.’ If someone had come and said, ‘Bernhardt, would you like a mule to ride on?’ I would have given him the very shirt off my back right after the celebration. No such person appeared. But my neighbor did appear, a Breslover Hasid, God-fearing, happy, and innocent. I love all Jews, especially the Hasidim of Breslov, whose manner is so pious, and most of all my neighbor the Hasid, for the very fringes of his coat trail good conduct and righteous ways, not to mention what comes out of his mouth. At any time, on any occasion, for any event, he has a phrase of his rebbe’s to offer, or some other pleasantry. Every person has his moment, but not every moment is equivalent for all people. I told him, ‘I can’t stop now, not even for one breath.’ He smiled, a bewildered smile, and said, ‘What’s the hurry?’ I knew that if I told him I was running to see Balfour, he, in his great innocence, would not be able to grasp the importance of the event. I told him I was going on a trip and was in a rush. He smiled broadly, rubbed his hands together, and said, ‘You’re going on a trip. Then let me tell you something relevant. Our holy rebbe, may his merit protect us, used to say that when someone is going on a trip, no one should interfere; he should be allowed to fix his attention on it, lest he forget something.’ Now you tell me, Dr. Herbst, wasn’t it worth your while to linger for the sake of that pronouncement?”

As it happened, after he took leave of the barber, it happened that he was needlessly delayed once again. How did this come about? I won’t refrain from telling all about it, though it compounds the delay.

For about half a generation, most of Jerusalem’s porters have had their headquarters on Hasollel Street, because most of the stores and businesses in the city are located on Jaffa Road. Hasollel Street cuts into the center of Jaffa Road, which is why the porters chose Hasollel. When they are needed to transport something, they are accessible.

Here they are, our redeemed brethren from Persia and its environs. The younger ones sit at the upper end of the street, the old-timers at the lower end, a scheme that predates the houses and the road, going back to a time when the entire street, as well as the section of Jaffa Road that faces Nahlat Shiva, was a heap of rubble, and it didn’t occur to anyone that houses would be built there and stores would open. The older men sit cross-legged, with colorful turbans on their heads. Their beards are black, with a glint of silver that inspires respect. Their trousers are floppy; their waists are girdled with heavy ropes; and on their backs is a small pillow. Their faces are like the face of some ancient king. On any given workday, they are there, many or a few, depending on the volume of business in town. And they offer their backs — lovingly, willingly, happily, skillfully, in heat, chill, rain, wind — to carry any burden. No load is too heavy, even if it has to be transported from one end of Jerusalem to the other. Why did our brethren from Persia elect this particular line of work? Because they derive from the tribe of Dan, and it was the Danites who carried Micah’s idol on their shoulders and worshiped it, though God’s house was in Shiloh. David, king of Israel, and his son Solomon rooted out the idol, but only temporarily, for the people continued to transgress and behave corruptly until the first exile. Now that the era of Israel’s redemption has arrived, and David’s son, the Messiah, will not appear until all the exiles are gathered together in Jerusalem, our people pour in from all over. They have come too, ready to shoulder any burden, because of the sins of their fathers, who were weighted down with idolatry until the first exile. Now that they do their job lovingly and willingly, they are hastening the final redemption.

Our brethren, who are the porters in Jerusalem, take on any load, yet they themselves are totally self-effacing when they work. You find a large oak chest with three heavy doors, the sort of chest one uses for clothes and linens, ambling from yard to yard, from alley to alley, from street to street, neighborhood to neighborhood. Its three mirrors are smiling. All this is unnatural, for the chest is made of wood and glass, both of which are inanimate. How is it possible for a lifeless and inanimate object to amble from place to place? If you look very, very carefully, you see that the chest is balanced on someone’s back, that a man is under the chest, transporting it, that he is bowed by its weight and effaced because he is so small in proportion to this mammoth object. This is also true of barrels, lumber, rocks, and other movable goods that are several times broader and larger than a person. When a porter has no work, he sits among his ropes. If he is a contemplative sort, he begins to contemplate, taking delight in his wife, his sons, his daughters, his home and sleeping mat, the foods and beverages that give strength to those who eat and life to those who drink. And if, because of sins, the Angel of Death should take charge and bring on untimely death to someone, he has the good sense to deal with the orphans and raise them, so they don’t fall into the clutches of secularists who would steer them away from the laws that express the will of our holy Torah, which was brought down from God by our teacher Moses, peace be unto him, with thunder and lightning, at Mount Sinai. When these thoughts begin to spill over, he shares them with a neighbor. Not everything that is on your mind can be conveyed. We can convey some of our thoughts, and, because the subject is timely, we can discuss the Arabs — how misguided they are to be making trouble, for they, too, are in exile under English rule. As for us, our king, the Messiah, is on the way, and every single one of us will rule one hundred and twenty-seven realms, like old Ahasuerus. As for the Arabs, if one of them is ever king, he will be a minor king, enthroned by us, by our Herbert Samuel, who called in Abdullah and told him, “I’m giving you a thousand pounds a year to rule the Bedouin in the desert. Be clever and crafty, so Weissman, the head of the Zionists, has no pretext to cast you out and overthrow your kingdom.” Among these porters, there are those whose minds reach no further than their eyes can see. They reflect on the Ashkenazim, who spend their days running around in an agitated state, trading apartments, trading possessions, casual with money, as if it showers down from heaven, many of them as cruel as the idols Gentiles worship. If a porter asks two or three pennies more than what was agreed, the Ashkenazim roll their eyes in anger, curse, and abuse him as if his offense were on the scale of the golden calf. The porters’ leader, Moshe, is unique. He knows how to get along with all the Ashkenazim. With a smile on his lips, a hand on his heart, he can deal with them. Even those who come from the land of Hitler, that depraved son of a she-devil — they also seek out Moshe.

There is a special relationship between Moshe and Herbst. Since their consultation about the books — transporting, organizing, packing them, et cetera — Moshe has remained fond of him, even devoted to him. As soon as he saw Herbst, he approached him and asked if he was now ready to have his books transported. Moshe stationed himself in front of Herbst and stuck his hands back into the ropes on his hip. Herbst realized he was expected to say something to him. Meaning to be polite, he asked him how he was doing. Moshe extricated his right hand, placed it on his heart, and began relating some of the troubles that had befallen him, some of the troubles he had been involved in because of bad luck, some of the troubles he was subjected to as a test, and yet other troubles whose nature was still unclear, for there are troubles that turn out to be for the good. As he listed each and every trouble, Moshe either turned his face to heaven and then closed his eyes or closed his eyes and then turned his face to heaven, saying, “May the Lord have mercy.” It was strange to Herbst that this mighty man was so tormented. And what torments! A chronically ill wife, who, because of her condition, was constantly bearing children only to bury them, bearing and burying, so that, after the last of her children was buried and she didn’t give birth again, they adopted two orphans, a boy and a girl. The boy was one of those children whose parents had died en route from Persia to Jerusalem; the girl was the daughter of a relative who was crushed under a safe he was carrying to a bank. They raised the orphans, indulged them with fine food and clothes, bought them shoes to fit their feet, even toys like those the Ashkenazim buy, making no distinction between the two orphans, though the girl was a relative and the boy was not. Moshe and his wife were contented, and they didn’t ask themselves, “Where are our own children?” It was decided that, when the two orphans grew up and were of age, they would marry each other. The boy suddenly took sick. He recovered, but he was unable to walk, because he had infantile paralysis. They carried him from Jerusalem to Tiberias for the holiday of Rabbi Meir the Miracle Worker, and from Tiberias to Meron on the festival of Lag Ba’omer. He was brought to the cave there and placed next to the resting place of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai. Three wise men were hired to stay with him and recite the Zohar. After they recited the entire Zohar, he was taken back to Jerusalem to be married, so the demons would realize he was no longer a child and it was time to release him from that illness, which was, after all, an illness of childhood. Wedding clothes were ordered for him and for the girl. The girl went outside in her finest dress and new shoes. A vile and loathsome Yemenite saw her. That villain cast a spell on her, and, on the Shabbat of Lamentations — three weeks before the Shabbat of Compassion, when the wedding was to take place — he carried her off to one of the new settlements, where they were married. The boy remained crippled. An elderly divorcée appeared — actually, she was not so old — and said, “I’m willing to marry him.” Moshe’s wife said, “Go marry the Angel of Death.” She had a grudge against her because, when they were both girls, that witch had poured bird bile on her, which arrests childbirth. If she hadn’t washed herself with the urine of a woman giving birth for the first time, she wouldn’t have been able to bear children at all. Even so, all her children had died.

The boy lay in the house, on his mat, with no one to lift him and carry him outside to warm up in the sun. When they came back from Meron, Moshe’s wife was stricken with yet another disease, compounding her ills, so that now she herself had to be tended. This is roughly what Moshe told Herbst. If Moshe’s fellow workers hadn’t come to tell him he was needed to move a piano, Moshe would still be talking. A man’s troubles give him eloquence, and Herbst, who was anxious about the books, would have stood there listening.

Chapter fifteen

It took Herbst half a minute to get where he was going. By the time he got there, he had forgotten about all the delays and was reminded of Ernst Weltfremdt’s book. He peered in the bookstore window and saw the book there, open. Weltfremdt was a lucky man. In these troubled times, when books by Jews were being publicly burned all over Germany, he had found a respected Swiss publisher, who put out a splendid edition of his book. Neither of them will suffer. All over the world, scholars who read German will welcome the book. Even in Germany, scholars will not ignore Weltfremdt’s theories. They will take his book into their homes, if not openly, because of government intimidation, then discreetly. Zealots in the Land of Israel shriek that we ought to do unto Germany as it has done to us — that, just as Germany has issued a ban on Jewish books, so should we ban all German books, without recognizing or realizing that whoever deprives himself of intellectual discourse jeopardizes his own soul.

Herbst stood and studied Ernst Weltfremdt’s book, thinking: What about my own book? In Germany, they probably burned it. And here, in this country? I never once saw it in a bookstore here, and, if I hadn’t contributed it to the National Library and to some of my colleagues, I doubt they would know I wrote a book. Some authors put their books in the parlor, so whoever comes in will see them, and they do the same with offprints. That’s not my way. True, I haven’t produced many books, but I have published a great many articles, and they could be made into a bound volume and placed on the bookshelf. Why haven’t I done this? Why not? Herbstlein, Herbstlein, Herbst said, using Julian Weltfremdt’s language. From the depths of my heart, I wish you get a full professorship.

Manfred Herbst was not like Julian Weltfremdt. Julian Weltfremdt disparaged Ernst Weltfremdt’s scholarship; Herbst did not. Many of Ernst Weltfremdt’s qualities were distasteful to him. Those we might call Prussian were particularly ridiculous in this country, yet he admired Weltfremdt’s research. In every single study he undertook, he came up with something new; if not actually new, then at least illuminating. Now that a new book of his was out, Herbst wanted to see what was in it.

What he wanted to see, he didn’t see. What he didn’t want to see is what he saw. He wanted to see the book, but he saw the author. He wore a summer suit of the whitest white silk. His heavy walking stick — yellowish brown, shiny, and heavily knotted — and his soft gray hat were lying on a stack of music books. Of all the well-dressed people in Jerusalem, Ernst Weltfremdt alone knew that hats are in a class of their own and should not be expected to match the rest of one’s outfit. He was standing next to a skinny, long-legged old man wearing colorful clothes and an altogether festive air. He was the painter who had attracted attention at the artists’ Winter Exhibit with a not very large oil painting: a portrait of Weltfremdt’s grandchild, the son of Professor Weltfremdt’s daughter. Now that the painter had run into the professor in the bookstore, he took the opportunity to convey in words what he hoped to convey in paint. The painter described to the professor, in painterly terms, his own image of the professor holding his little grandson on his lap, with the professor’s hand on the baby’s head. In an even lovelier scene, the baby is on the lap of his grandfather, the professor; they are seated at the professor’s desk; the professor’s book is open; the baby’s little hands are fingering the book, and his angelic eyes are fixed on it. Professor Weltfremdt listened, studying the scene in his mind’s eye as the painter formed it in his imagination. He didn’t interrupt. On the contrary, he gave him every chance to embellish the picture. Influenced by the expression on the professor’s face and by his eloquent silence, the painter took on something of the professor’s expression, looking back at him with visionary eyes. All of a sudden, he stepped back, ever so slightly, turned his head to the left, lowered his eyelids halfway, leaned over, and gazed at the professor with eyes that dismissed what they had previously seen and were enthralled by a new vision.

While the painter was standing with the professor, an old woman who had emigrated from Germany was in the store too, in a corner. She was dressed in faded finery, and her entire presence bespoke onetime splendor. Her mouth was agape, either to express reproach, as she had learned in her former life, or to ask for pity, as she had learned more recently, for she was sorely grieved by the fact that a hat and walking stick had been placed on top of her vocal scores. Her circumstances were such that she was forced to sell them, and she had come to see if a buyer had been found. They used to be kept in her mansion, in an ebony case with hinges, locks, bolts, and pegs made of pure silver. It had been crafted by a skilled artist commissioned by the bishop of Mainz and was originally designed to contain a sacred bone of the Christian saint known as the Miracle Worker of Gaza. The bishop had sent this case, with the bone in it, to one of the German princes as a gift. The case, as well as the bone, remained in the prince’s bedroom and performed many miracles. In time, dissension took its toll, and the ideas of the Reformation prevailed. The bone refused to perform for an unworthy generation. It lay idle and forgotten, until, finally, it vanished. The case was then used for cosmetics and jewelry. Eight generations later, it fell into the hands of a singer famed for her beauty and remarkable voice. In it, she placed a vocal score given to her by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, who had been her teacher, as well as letters from Schleiermacher, who had converted her to Christianity. This singer’s grandson had Zionist friends and was attracted to a Jewish girl, whom he married, abandoning his parents’ religion and returning to the religion of his forefathers. His wife gave birth to a daughter, who also became a celebrated singer — the old woman now standing in the corner of the store, noting the ravages of time in the form of a walking stick and a hat deposited on top of a vocal score handwritten by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy.

Professor Weltfremdt was engaged in conversation with the painter and didn’t notice that Manfred Herbst had entered the store. But Herbst noticed him and slipped away, so as not to intrude on Weltfremdt and the painter.

Herbst went upstairs to the inner rooms. He inhaled the scent of old books — dust, aging paper, leather, linen — with the added smell of all those generations that had handled the books. He was overcome, like any booklover entering a store full of old books, with an emotion akin to yearning, a yearning that turns into a passion all the books in the world can never satisfy. He closed his eyes, tightening his eyelids so that they pressed down on his cheeks to the point of pain. He groped in his pocket and took out a crushed cigarette that had fallen out of the case. He lit the cigarette, took a puff, and made an effort to collect himself. Little by little, he began to feel more composed, and his anxiety receded. Since he woke up, he hadn’t been as comfortable as he was at that moment. In the presence of these ancient volumes that dominate the heart, he assumed a blank expression, so no one would recognize how much he coveted the book whose price he was asking. Herbst flung the cigarette in the ashtray, took out his case, and offered a cigarette to the clerk who was standing by to serve him. The clerk noticed that the cigarette was brown and longer than most cigarettes in the country. He began to discuss the various types of cigarettes he had smoked, arriving at the subject of wartime smoking. Many times, when he was at the front and couldn’t find a cigarette, he used to wrap grass in newspaper and smoke it. He moved on from newspaper to books. Soldiers used to tear out a page, wrap some grass in it, and make cigarettes. He once saw a soldier tearing up a book to use as toilet paper. He looked and saw that it was a first edition of Schiller’s The Mission of Moses. He scolded him and yelled, “You idiot, how can you be that scornful of our great poet Schiller!” The soldier said, “I thought it was one of those Jew books, written by one of their little rabbis.” Herbst suddenly lost his composure. His face turned pale, and his nerves were on edge. Could it be that, even as he was dealing with those German classics for the sake of their fine bindings, he was losing out on first editions of rare books? Hadn’t it already happened to him once that bibliographers denied the existence of a book even though it was mentioned by its author? Why did they deny its existence? Either because they thought the author was exaggerating or because they were trying to outsmart everyone — to show that they trusted only what they saw with their own eyes. Three hundred years later, the book was discovered here in Jerusalem, by a tourist who acquired it, along with considerable fame, for some paltry sum. The ludicrous, perhaps even tragic, part was that, only an hour before, it had been in Herbst’s hand. Why hadn’t he bought it? Because he had never opened it. Why hadn’t he opened it? Because it was bound with another book whose title was displayed on the cover. He, however, knew very well that the volume was too thick for its title, and he should have realized that there must be another book in the same binding. Nine years had passed, but there was hardly a day when he didn’t think about that event. It remained unresolved in his mind, like a wound that doesn’t heal. He took out another cigarette and reviewed the entire incident: how he himself brought the tourist to the bookstore, how he led him to the special room rare books were kept in, how he praised this man to the owner and arranged to have the clerks show him all their treasures. And, finally, it happened — a book that he himself had been holding only an hour earlier fell into another’s hands, making Herbst’s loss his gain. Herbst was not a grudging person, nor did he make a pretense of friendship. It is no exaggeration to say that, among the scholars we know, there are few as generous as Herbst, as ready to enjoy a colleague’s success. Nevertheless, he remained haunted by the saga of that book.

Herbst put the German classics out of mind and went into the other room. He began to sort through familiar and unfamiliar books, with his eyes and with his hands. Some were books he had been looking for; some, he began to covet as soon as he saw them. If he had had seven eyes and ten hands at each of his fingertips, he would not have been able to satisfy his desires. It didn’t occur to him that each additional book would require further effort and strain, especially on moving day, and it was essential that he move because of the riots, which were becoming more and more severe. It was impossible to remain in Baka, hemmed in by Arabs. Once again, he recalled the night he was ambushed and nearly killed right near his home. The bullet came so close; what a close brush with death. Had he been hit by the bullet, all the books in his house, the ones he had let friends borrow, and the ones he had sent to be rebound would have remained unclaimed by heirs. His wife and daughters — even Avraham, his son-in-law — don’t recognize the value of his books. All of the city’s book dealers would come — those vultures who prey on corpses, who run to the widow and orphans as soon as a man dies and offer next to nothing for his valuable books.

We ought to picture the anonymous person who borrowed books and never returned them, as well as the bookbinder who kept some of the books he was to have rebound. When we are dead, will the books be returned? Or will the borrower say to himself: That fellow is dead, and no one is demanding the books; why should I be virtuous and return them? Books are a commodity, and not everyone realizes that it is a crime to take a book and not return it to its owner. Herbst suddenly blushed in embarrassment, recalling something that had happened in his childhood. A young doctor, the son of a widow, lived in Herbst’s neighborhood. One day, he was told that the young doctor had hanged himself in the woods. Herbst had a book he had borrowed from the doctor, but he didn’t return it to the doctor’s mother. The book was part of Nietzsche’s Collected Works, so he was responsible for spoiling the set. To take revenge on those scoundrels who might behave as he had, Herbst decided that he would make a comprehensive list of all the books that had been borrowed, and, in the future, when lending a book, he would add it to the list. For further revenge, he decided to keep the list in a sealed envelope labeled “To be opened twelve months after my death,” in order to expose those individuals who, given the chance, would choose to ignore the fact that they possessed someone else’s property. What is this all about? Herbst asked himself. Why am I suddenly thinking such awful thoughts? Again, I’m involved in books; again, I’m eager to add books to books I won’t have time to read, leaving me less air to breathe.

He stuck another cigarette in his mouth, shook the book dust from his clothes, and turned away to wash his hands and be off. As for the pile of books he had chosen, they could sit there until the clerk decided to put them away. Which was also true of the splendid editions of those German classics. While he was washing his hands and intending to go home, the clerk who had served him was replaced by a former student of Herbst’s, who had abandoned academia to earn a living. Most university students in the early days tended to be drawn to one or another of their teachers; he had been drawn to Herbst. He whispered whatever he whispered. Herbst peered at him as if he had heard something he wished to believe, although it was unbelievable. The clerk smiled and said, “Yes, yes, Dr. Herbst. What I told you is absolutely true.” Herbst asked, “When did it happen?” The clerk answered, “They’re already here. They haven’t been sorted yet, or priced. In any case, if you want to have a look, I’ll get the key and open the room.”

Let me explain what the clerk whispered to Herbst and why it was hard for Herbst to believe it, the meaning of “They’re already here,” and all the rest. He had told him, “We succeeded in buying a major library that belonged to that scholar who was murdered by his Arab driver. The books are already here, in a special room. They haven’t been sorted or priced, and, if Dr. Herbst wants to have a look, I’ll unlock the room so he can see what’s there.” Herbst’s heart was unlocked by this news and he trailed behind the’ clerk as he went to get the key. The clerk came back and opened the door. The room was so full that it was hard for them to find a place to stand. Herbst contemplated the books, pile after pile, bundled and tied together with twine. His heart began to pound. His hands were eager to touch whatever his eyes lit on. His eyes were naming; his brow was ablaze; his hands were hot. His arms, shoulders — his entire body responded similarly. Which is no surprise. How could anyone, confronted with such a treasure, remain calm?

I’ll put aside Herbst’s story and tell about the owner of the books.

When the Great War was over, in which England triumphed over Germany, subjecting the Land of Israel to English rule, various people from various lands came to Jerusalem. Among them was Sir Davis Birkenthal, a wealthy man and a scholar with an international reputation, the author of Strange Gods in the Land, an exhaustive study of idolatry in the Land of Israel from earliest times and considered a useful source to this day. When he arrived, he bought himself a large house on the road to the Mount of Olives, brought in many books that filled several rooms, surrounded himself with Arab maids and menservants, and, in that entire period, had no contact with any Jews, not even Jewish scholars.

He gave money to several young Arabs and sent them to study abroad at his expense. He was especially generous to his Arab driver, a handsome young man. On the first day of the ‘29 riots, he took his car and went to see what was going on. He arrived at the Damascus Gate. The Arabs who saw Lord Birkenthal, thinking he was an Englishman, suspended the violence to give him safe conduct. The driver made a sign and whispered to them that he was Jewish. They shot him immediately. He fell out of the car, steeped in blood. The driver took the car and set off in it to have his way with the Jews. After the riots subsided, when Birkenthal was buried, his relatives arrived to deal with the inheritance. They divided everything up, leaving the books until they could agree on a plan for them. They wanted to donate them to Oxford or Cambridge in his name. It was even suggested that they be given as a memorial to the National Library in Jerusalem, since the English libraries were willing to accept only the volumes they didn’t already own. Over a period of time, an impasse was reached. Still, many Jewish scholars remembered his books with a sigh. They, too, finally despaired.

All of a sudden — I don’t know why — most of the books were sold. To whom were they sold? To a Jerusalem book dealer. And now Herbst had the privilege of being perhaps the first of Jerusalem’s scholars to be informed.

Little by little, his limbs began to falter, to be overcome with an odd weariness. He felt another sort of weariness in his shoulders. He turned his head and looked behind him, as if someone had placed a heavy load on his back and he was trying to make it lighter. Feeling sick to his stomach, he snuffed out his cigarette with his fingers, crushed it, discarded it, and tried to open a window to let in some air. The window wouldn’t open, and no air came in. Some old books, along with a bunch of pamphlets that were piled on the sill, fell to the floor in a shower of dark yellow dust that gave off a foul smell. The clerk didn’t notice what was happening to Herbst. He was busy extricating a particular pile of books from the larger mass. It was tied with twine, like the others; the letters on the spine of each volume announced its title. Any single one would make a collector proud; all of them together were extraordinarily rare. The clerk stood there, casually dropping names of world-famous dealers and the books each one had inquired about. They had touched on only a small part of the collection, which included books it didn’t occur to them to ask about, as they had been searching for them for so long that they had despaired of ever finding them. The clerk talked on and on. Herbst stood listening, but it is doubtful that a single word registered. He felt extremely faint. He turned to the door and, on his way out, jokingly tossed off the Latin equivalent of “everything depends on luck, even a Torah scroll in the Ark.” He added, “These books are unlucky; I don’t mean to buy them.”

As soon as he left the room, his pain vanished, his shoulders relaxed, and his stomach no longer bothered him. He felt not a trace of faintness. He was on the verge of going back to that room, back to those books, especially the ones every collector was after. The telephone rang, and the clerk ran to answer it. Herbst stood and waited for him to finish talking. When Herbst saw that it was likely to be a long conversation, he wandered into a room he was unfamiliar with, because there were art books in it, and he wasn’t an art collector. Herbst didn’t collect works of art. In his home, he had no drawings, no sketches, no art folios, because he knew himself well enough to realize that, if he allowed even one piece of art into his house, many more would soon follow. He was the sort of man who was moved by anything artistic, and he had to be very careful not to let himself be captivated by whatever he saw, to leave time for his work, for his research, for the things he was required to do. This is why he gave up chess in his youth; this is why he had put his poems aside and resolved not to write any more of them; this is why he had renounced various pastimes he once enjoyed. Now that he was waiting for the clerk to finish talking, because he was interested in the books left behind by the murdered scholar, which had led him to relinquish those German classics, he wasn’t afraid to go into the fine-arts room and pass the time there.

So Herbst went into the room with the art books. He glanced at the shelves before catching a glimpse of the paintings and drawings that hung on the walls between the bookcases. Without having so much as picked up a folio yet, he remembered that, before he came to this country, he used to say, “I could give up anything to settle in the Land of Israel, even theater and concerts, but not the sculpture and paintings I can see in the lands of exile.” By now, he had been in the country quite a number of years, and it hadn’t occurred to him that he had given up things he once thought he could never do without.

He took a folio of drawings off the shelf and leafed through it aimlessly, not bothering to see who the artist was. Putting down one folio and opening another, his mind wandered back to Ernst Weltfremdt’s book. He found himself thinking about a chapter that had already appeared in some collection, the chapter about the major forces that impelled Valens to allow thirty thousand Goths to cross… As he examined Ernst Weltfremdt’s argument, he began to wonder why he hadn’t emphasized the fact that Valens had allowed the Goths to enter Roman territory so that some of their regiments could fight the Persians. While he was considering this idea, he opened a folio containing the work of several artists. He gazed at the drawings and muttered: “They’re from Bruegel’s school, but, unlike Bruegel, they don’t give one pleasure. Now I’ll go and see what the clerk is doing.”

His eyes were pulled in several directions. He stood trembling and astonished. What is this? A leper. A painting of a leper standing at the city gate, ringing a bell to warn the people to keep their distance. Herbst picked up the picture and stood it up so he could see it better. The eyes were awesome and sad. Their sockets had, for the most part, been consumed by leprosy, yet they were alive and wished to live. Sadder and more awesome was the hand holding the bell, a hand consumed by disease that could not be reversed. Even sadder and more awesome was the bell, warning people to keep their distance. The painter was a great artist to see the bell as the source of pestilence. Why? This cannot be explained, but it is surely correct.

Herbst stood before the picture, examining it first from one angle, then from another, looking into the leper’s eyes, at his hands, at the open city gates. Within the city, on one side of the gate, people were milling about, on the way to church, to a tavern, to do business, or just to pass the time. The infected man stood on the other side. In his leprous hand, he held a little bell, and it alone was unblighted, although it was the source of all blight. Who painted this picture? What is the name of the great painter who imbued the inanimate with the breath of life? The men and women of the town fade in and out of view, yet the figure of the afflicted man is extremely clear; he, his hand, his bell. The entire city — the men, the women, the houses, the marketplace, the well — are serene and unconcerned. But the sound of the bell is already disengaged from it, rattling, tinkling, moving out of the afflicted man’s hand. A great calamity is imminent. Herbst looked at the picture once again; at the leper, at his hand, but not at the bell, because by now he recognized that the blight was not in the bell. All this time, Herbst had avoided touching the picture, as if it were alive and afflicted. Readers, you know me by now. You know that I don’t exaggerate. And if I tell you something, don’t say, “What an exaggeration!” At that instant, it was clear to Herbst that he heard a voice from within the bell the leper was holding, cautioning, “Go away, don’t touch me.” Herbst listened to the cautionary voice and didn’t touch the picture. But he looked at it, again and again, with panic in his eyes and desire in his heart. Then he took down another folio, which he placed on top of the picture of the leper, and left. He came back again, exposed the picture, but didn’t look at it. Then he took down a folio of Rembrandt drawings. He looked at several reproductions, then took out The Night Watch and studied it. What happens to anyone with a discerning eye happened to Herbst. The melancholy that emanates from Rembrandt’s work soothed his spirit and brought on tranquility — a tranquility known as harmony, though I call it understanding and certainty.

The clerk appeared and apologized to Herbst for having abandoned him in mid-conversation. Some consulate or other called about some dictionary or other for some language or other. When the conversation with the consulate was over, the phone had rung again, and someone from the high commissioner’s office inquired about the new location of a certain bookbinder, a woman to whom the high commissioner always sent his books.

“The high commissioner is a celebrated collector. He haunts the bookstores, especially this one. His car swallows up an infinite number of volumes. He doesn’t admit Jews to Palestine, but he craves their books. I see you have been leafing through the pictures, Dr. Herbst.” Herbst pointed to The Night Watch and asked the price. He told him. He said, “Wrap it up and add it to my account. I want to send a gift to a doctor I once consulted, who refused to accept a fee. I’ll leave it with you for now. Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll pick it up.”

Herbst lit another cigarette. After putting the case back in his pocket, he took it out again and offered the clerk a cigarette. “They’re black,” he said. “Since I came to this country, I haven’t smoked a black cigarette.” The clerk put down The Night Watch and lit his cigarette. He studied it, then he said, “Actually, it’s not black, it’s dark brown.” Herbst stood in front of The Night Watch, considering: Shira told me she wanted a reproduction of The Night Watch but couldn’t find one. I’ll take it to her tomorrow; she’ll be pleased. Henrietta is eating lunch now. Firadeus is eating with her, watching Mrs. Herbst’s gestures to learn how to handle herself. Firadeus is a good student. She learns the manners of the Ashkenazim very fast and regards them as the only truly well-mannered people. If I were to go back now, Henrietta would say, “But, Fred, you told me you wouldn’t be back for lunch, so I wasn’t expecting you and I didn’t prepare anything. But, if you give me a minute, I’ll fix something for you.” Herbst looked at his watch and considered: It’s lunchtime, and I really ought to leave. The clerk is probably eager to be rid of me, so he can have his lunch. He looked at his watch again, not that he had forgotten what time it was, but to be sure he was right. It crossed his mind that he ought to go to Gethsemane, not because of the monk, but because he had told Henrietta he was going to Gethsemane. He knew he wouldn’t go to Gethsemane, that, if he did set out, he would turn back midway. In that case, Herbst told himself, I won’t go, and I won’t have to turn back. I’ll go to a café, have some coffee, and look at the newspapers. Then I’ll go home and get back to my work. Work that follows leisure is twice as pleasant.

He left the old books and went down the steps to the main store below. Like all modern establishments, it was closed for lunch, but the display windows were exposed to view. He stood looking at Weltfremdt’s book, thinking: I suppose I’ll have to buy it. He had another thought: I have mentioned Gethsemane a hundred times without thinking of those two brothers, the brothers who were killed together near Gethsemane. It wouldn’t surprise me to find a study of this phenomenon: certain place-names evoke memories of events that have occurred there, while other places can be mentioned without evoking any such events. With regard to Gethsemane and the murdered brothers, I blame Sacharson, whose name I don’t like to invoke. Having mentioned him only in order to resolve a dilemma, he has been mentioned, and I won’t pursue the paradox any further. I’ll just go into the café, sit down, and have some coffee.

He went into the café and ordered hot, not iced, coffee. He waited for it to cool, then drank it up all at once, took out his cigarette case, and sat smoking and reading the paper he had found on the table. He was watching the office girls who were taking a break. They wore good clothes that they couldn’t afford to buy on an office salary. They sat over coffee, tea, or cocoa. Their faces, dimmed by clouds of cigarette smoke, were weary from work and from the weight of the fine clothes on their backs.

One of them approached Herbst and asked for the newspaper that was next to him. He handed her the one he was reading, assuming that was the one she meant, when actually she had meant the one on the table. She returned his paper to him and picked up the other one. As soon as she was gone, Herbst went back to his paper, but he didn’t continue to read, because his mind was now on her. He hadn’t had occasion to talk to her, but he knew she was married and had children, maybe two, maybe three. She spends eight hours in the office, leaving her husband and children to depend on a housekeeper, who, one imagines, behaves as if she were the lady of the house. What moves this woman to leave her husband and children, to wear herself out eight hours a day in an office, surrounded by the rattle of typewriters, shrieking telephones, squabbles with office mates? If she is competent, her friends are annoyed. And the males in an office still find it hard to accept a woman who surpasses them in skill or earnings. He looked at her and saw that she was sitting with her cup in front of her, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, the newspaper slipping out of her hands as her eyes opened and closed, opened and closed, eager for sleep but afraid to doze off, lest she be late getting back to the office. Herbst looked at his watch and was overwhelmed by sympathy for her and for all the weary workers who would soon have to go back to work. He, too, went back to what he was occupied with earlier: Weltfremdt’s book, the spread of the Goths into Roman territory, and the famine they were confronted with almost as soon as they arrived. The famine was so great that, after the Germans had used up all their resources, offering their cash, carriages, and armor in return for food, Syrian merchants brought emaciated dogs to their camp and traded them for a male or female child.

Herbst suddenly found himself watching a particular young woman, though there was nothing special about her that would account for his interest, except for her face, which was quite childlike. This young woman, Herbst thought, works for a printer; she works in the office of a printing press. She looks German, but she isn’t. Anyway, I’m clearly right about the work she does. She works in the office of a printing press, and I can even describe what she does there. Henrietta would say, “You have such great intuition, Fred.” While he was celebrating the fact that he had guessed her line of work from her face, she was called to the telephone. Now that she was gone, Herbst turned to the waitress and asked who she was. She told him. Herbst said, “A lawyer, just as I thought. It’s perfectly obvious. What was I about to say?” The waitress stood waiting for him to say it. Herbst noticed and said, “Excuse me. I was going to say something to myself, not to you.” Because she was so tired, she wasn’t paying attention and didn’t find this odd. When she left, he whispered to himself, without letting the words reach any ears other than his own, “Another day is gone. What did I accomplish today? I didn’t accomplish anything. I got up in the morning, picked up half a donkey’s load of books, took them in to breakfast, and told Henrietta I was going to Gethsemane. Henrietta didn’t say, ‘Why go to Gethsemane on such a hot day?’ When I arrived in town, I didn’t go to Gethsemane, because I had no wish to go to Gethsemane. When I met Julian Weltfremdt, I went to a café with him and drank iced coffee. While we sat over the iced coffee, he mentioned that he had heard I was being considered for a promotion. When he said that the kindergartens in this country will become universities, did he mean to irritate me, because I may be about to be promoted? Another day is gone, one of those days that give us nothing beyond the knowledge that our lifetime is now one day shorter. What significance does this have for a man like me whose days have been decreased by one? How did I use this day? I looked at pictures. True, it’s good for a person to look at a fine picture every now and then. How successful that painter was, how vivid the colors on the dead flesh. However, I should say this: I was exaggerating when I said I could hear the voice of the bell in the leper’s hand. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll get The Night Watch and take it to Shira. If I find her, good. If I don’t find her, I’ll leave the picture with one of her neighbors. In any case, I can say one thing: It doesn’t matter if I find her or not. Wait a minute! Shira was looking for that picture of a doctor, some students, and the patient who is the object of their lesson while all this time I’ve been thinking of The Night Watch.”

He suddenly began to feel the pinch of hunger. He called the waitress and asked for some food that could be considered lunch. “As for bread,” he said, “it doesn’t matter whether it’s black or white.” Though he preferred black bread, he had found that, in this country, one often has to make do with wheat bread, wheat being one of the native species. He learned about this from Gandhi, who wrote that every land produces the bread best suited to its inhabitants. He ate, drank, paid his bill, lit another cigarette, and left.

His limbs were light, as they tend to be after a light meal and two cups of coffee. The air outside was not light; burnt gasoline, scorched dust, human sweat, the stench of garbage and tobacco produced a mess of smells; the din that filled the air included traffic noise, the clatter of typewriters, the shouts of newspaper boys, the malevolent eyes of policemen, the bold footsteps of young Arabs, the howl of stray dogs, the anguish of human beings wondering what to do next. All this had the potential to unsettle one’s mind, but Herbst’s mind remained composed. His mind was on many things, even on the waitress who had served him in the café, who must have left work by now, put on good clothes, and looked so different that one would barely recognize her. Finally, he too was unsettled. His capacity to be a simple observer was lost, along with his physical lightness, a lightness he used to enjoy without being quite aware of it, a lightness that was once his characteristic mode. Once, before he knew Shira.

What began to unsettle him again was the tragedy he had wanted to write but never wrote. When he was with Henrietta in Kfar Ahinoam, after the birth of Dani, his daughter’s son, he had decided to abandon the project, and he had done so. Suddenly, all of a sudden, it was on his mind again, suggesting that he take it on. Isn’t it odd that, the minute I give up the idea of writing the tragedy, just then I happen to see a painting of a leper, a painting that could serve as a model for the faithful slave Basileios?

Chapter sixteen

The day passed, as most days do, partly in eating, drinking, and sleeping; partly in reading books, articles, and dissertations, and adding to the body of notes. Some notes are definitive; others, tentative, in that the writer jots them down and stores them in a box until he finds better ones. There are days when the writing process demands a certain note, even points it out. On that particular day, most of the new notes were problematic from the outset. Some, he labored over both before and while writing them down, only to tear them up and write them over again, and then continue to vacillate about putting them in the box. We don’t know how he benefited from such a day. Only that his book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium gained nothing.

On the other hand, his library was enriched — perhaps his range of knowledge, too — for he acquired an additional book. How? Professor Ernst Weltfremdt learned that Herbst wanted his book but didn’t buy it because of the price. What did Professor Weltfremdt do? He sent Herbst a copy of the book, by special messenger, as a present. We have heard that it was Professor Weltfremdt’s way to honor people with his offprints, but not with a book that costs enough to pay for a night in a hotel, even such a place as Bodenheimer’s in Haifa. Herbst was delighted with the book, for he wanted to acquire it but couldn’t afford the price. A lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem earns only thirty-five lirot a month, from which he has to contribute to the national funds, the cultural funds, charitable institutions, and so on.

Henrietta noticed how pleased Manfred was and said, “I’ll tell you what I think, Fred. I would have preferred for you to buy Weltfremdt’s book, rather than receive it from him as a gift. I don’t know what moves Weltfremdt to send you presents, but I’m sure he has his own interests at heart. You had better be ready to repay his kindness.” Manfred said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have an odd habit, Henriett. Whenever I’m in a good mood, you can’t resist throwing cold water on me. What do you mean, ‘his own interests’? If you mean that he’ll ask me to write about his book, I certainly wouldn’t mind.” Henrietta said, “That’s just fine. But, tell me, Fred, are you sure Weltfremdt will be satisfied with whatever you write about his book?” Manfred said, “Satisfied or not, if I find a misguided opinion in the book, I won’t overlook it, and if I find reason to disagree with him, I won’t hesitate. Let me make this clear to you: I have never gone in for flattery. To this day, I take responsibility for all the reviews I have ever written. As for Ernst Weltfremdt’s book, if I don’t write about it, who will? His cousin Julian, whose anger turns him into a madman, or one of countless others whose intelligence could be deposited on a fly’s wing without weighing it down. Those who acquired a smattering of knowledge managed to forget it, and those who never studied had nothing to forget. There are some reviewers who figure out from the book itself how to take issue with it, though they know nothing about the subject.” Henrietta said, “Then it would be good if you were to review Weltfremdt’s book. But, tell me, Fred, are you sure Weltfremdt will be pleased with what you write about his book?” Manfred said, “Whether or not he is pleased, I already told you that, if I find a misguided opinion or an unfounded premise, I certainly won’t overlook it. In our generation, there is no scholar I admire as much as Professor Neu. Everything I know, the half a million words I have incorporated from teachers and books — all of this is material I can evaluate because of Neu. Nonetheless, when I found an unvalidated premise in his book, I didn’t hesitate to comment on it. Remember the letter he sent me at the time? You don’t remember? I remember. I remember what he wrote, word for word. ‘My dear Herbst,’ Neu wrote. ‘You were right to point out the weak spot in my book. I know that I am right, but, unfortunately, I can’t offer more support for my position. Nor do I expect to be able to do so. I’m too old to return to that subject. I do hope that what I wrote will lead our younger colleagues to persist and find ways to validate my premise, which is true, though it is beyond my power to prove it.’ Anyway, Henriett, you reminded me of something one should beware of. Not for your reason, Henrietta, but for another reason. This country is small, and the Jews in it are crowded together. Especially the academic community, which is like a ghetto within a ghetto. I already see the problems when a review appears in print. The day the review is published, on that very day the critic and the author are likely to run into each other, in the library, at the university, at another professor’s home. Now, imagine what the critic feels when he sees the author right in front of him. Or, reversing it, what the author feels when he sees the critic. Just last Saturday, in Beit Hakerem, an artist saw a critic sitting in an outdoor café with his fiancée. The artist went up to him and slapped his face, because he had criticized his work, and it wasn’t until the critic beat him with his cane that he calmed down. Academics don’t behave that way, but sometimes words can have more of an impact than a strong arm or a cane. Now that scholars and researchers are coming here from all over, I worry about criticism and critics. In the preceding generation, scholars were well off in Jerusalem. They sat comfortably, playing with ideas while they sipped black coffee and smoked narghiles, enjoying each other’s insights, with no breach, with no outcry. Now, my dear Henriett, the idyll is over. Now that so many scholars live in such close quarters, criticism is destined to become less honest. Whether the critic likes it or not, the author’s face will confront him as he writes, and he will adjust his words accordingly. I have often asked myself what the main factors are that lead someone like me, if not to lie, then to use words that camouflage the truth.” Henrietta regarded her husband fondly and said with surprise, “Why, Fred, you aren’t not telling the truth. Because you don’t contaminate your mouth by slandering friends, as Julian Weltfremdt does, you consider yourself a traitor to the truth. You know, Fred, I was never impressed with that secret adviser Mr. Ernst Weltfremdt. Nor was I impressed by the sharp pronouncements of our beloved Dr. Julian Weltfremdt. Having mentioned his name, let me tell you something else. I resent the way he treats Mimi. What does he want from his wife? She is charming and artistic. If she isn’t an expert at cleaning pots, she has many other talents to make up for this deficiency.” Manfred said, “The same is true of our daughter, Tamara, though no one would say she is charming.” Henrietta said, “But she is artistic.” Manfred was annoyed and said, “Forgive me, my dear, forgive me if I have another view. You call her artistic because of the insipid rhymes she makes up when she’s bored. If I’m not mistaken, you already know my view of her rhymes; also, of the rhymes of many others who are considered poets. In my youth, I was exposed to some dreadful rhymed prose. Even when there was an idea or a narrative, those were hardly poems. Hardly, my dear, hardly. I am referring to the poets of the world, not to the Hebrew poets, for whom any trace of a political, nationalist, ethical, or social idea embodied in rhyme constitutes a poem. A favorite student of mine, his name is Elyakum Zuf — maybe you know him: the one with dark curls and black eyes — used to show me poems of that sort regularly, in an effort to convince me of their lyrical quality. I like that young man very much, my dear. And I would like to make him happy. But to accept such poems as poetry is impossible for me, though I know that what I say causes him pain. What is there for fine young men like him to do? The earth they came to redeem doesn’t respond to them, because their strength is meager. What goes on here is hard on them. Not merely the actions of the English and the Arabs, but those of the Jews as well. Men of action fulfill themselves in the Haganah, the Irgun, Lehi. Those who are not men of action find comfort in poetry. In the end, their teachers and mentors come and say, ‘That’s not a poem.’ I’m willing to close an eye to a researcher’s errors. A researcher does his work according to his talent and ability, summarizes his research in terms of his conclusions, and has no special biases. He is content to be given space in some journal so he can publish his findings and have them read by others in his field. Poets are different. If one of them succeeds in arranging his words in rhymed form, it’s as if he has created new heavens, as if all the creatures of his world are in place under his sun and moon. Forgive me, Henriett. I don’t know what suddenly made me so cross. I’m afraid it’s my own fault: because I’m angry at myself, I’m angry at everyone who writes poems.” Henrietta said, “Because you’re angry at yourself? Why at yourself? Do you write poems? Since our wedding day, you haven’t turned out a single poem. Even for my birthday, which was about a week after our wedding, you didn’t write a poem. That entire day, Fred, until we went to sleep that night, I was expecting you to present me with a poem or a sonnet. What did that scoundrel do? He pursed his lips and discharged his duty with kisses to match the number of years I was carrying on my back.” Manfred said, “I don’t write poems. But…” “But what?” Manfred said, “If I were to tell you what I am doing, you would laugh.” Henrietta said, “Am I allowed to ask?” Manfred said, “You are allowed to ask, but it would be better if you didn’t.” Henrietta said, “Then I won’t ask. I can count on you to tell me yourself.” Manfred answered, “I hope you won’t be sorry you made me tell you. I’m composing a tragedy. A tragedy, Henriett, a tragedy.” Henrietta said, “A tragedy?” Manfred said, “Yes, Henriett. A tragedy.” Henrietta said, “Your forehead please, my dearest. Let me kiss your forehead. How did you suddenly come to be writing a tragedy? And what is the content of this tragedy?” Manfred passed his hand over his forehead and rested it there, fingers outstretched, first looking at Henrietta, then turning away from her. Then he began, “I don’t recall exactly how I came to be writing the tragedy. But I can outline the plot to you. Believe me, Henriett, I forgot the reason. What I haven’t forgotten is the content of the tragedy. But allow me first to finish what I was saying before. It isn’t always good to have scholars crowded together. Still, it could add to the spiritual intensity to have them all struggling to outdo each other’s scholarship and, when they can’t quite outdo the others, struggling so as not to be lost in the crowd. I already see myself, Henriett, my dear, being stingy with my time, to avoid scattering it to the wind.” Henrietta said, “I’m surprised to hear you say that. In all of Jerusalem, is there anyone as busy and involved as you? Lectures, seminars, discussions with students. Also, the book you are writing. Judging by the amount of activity and the number of notes you have amassed, it will surely measure up to Weltfremdt’s book. Please, Fred, don’t look so indignant. Of course I know that books aren’t measured by their thickness. In any case…” Henrietta laughed and said, “I might as well admit it. The truth is, I said ‘in any case’ without having anything to add.” Herbst laughed and said, “That’s what I love about you, Henriett. You’re not afraid to admit the truth, even when it’s not to your credit. And if you have nothing to add to that ‘in any case,’ I’ll add to it. In any case, it’s to your credit that you tell the truth even when it discredits you. And have you forgotten all about my tragedy?” Henrietta said, “I didn’t forget. I’m waiting for you to begin telling me about it.” Manfred said, “No, you forgot. And, since you forgot, I’m not required to tell you.” Henrietta said, “Please, Fred, don’t tease me. Tell me what that tragedy is about.” Manfred said, “I once went to get a haircut. While I was waiting my turn in the barbershop, I picked up a magazine and saw a cartoon about a playwright who used to instruct his wife to plan menus to match the plots of his plays. One day he told her, ‘My dear wife, cook something happy today. I’m finishing an amusing play.’ Henriett, I trust you to understand. Bring on the cognac, and I’ll have a drop to match the bitterness of my tragedy.”

Because of a solicitor from one of Jerusalem’s charitable institutions, Herbst couldn’t tell his tale, and Henrietta couldn’t hear it. I will therefore take the matter into my own hands and relate the plot of the tragedy Herbst hoped to compose, though I won’t break it down into acts and scenes. I’ll include the entire plot. I’ll tell the story. I’ll choose tender language suited to such a tale.

There was once a sweet and fetching girl. She was motherless, and her father was a high-ranking officer in the emperor’s army. Because he was busy fighting the emperor’s enemies and the like, he couldn’t keep an eye on his daughter. The wife of — , a childhood friend, took her under her wing, invited her to live in her home, and hired teachers and tutors to endow her with knowledge, wisdom, religion, music. In all these endeavors, she was successful. And her success was matched by charm, which increased from day to day.

The wife of — had a stepbrother, the son of a woman her father had married after her own mother’s death. His name was Yohanan, and he was a nobleman, who served in the emperor’s court. When this Yohanan came to visit his sister and saw the girl his sister was raising, he fell deeply in love with her. His sister didn’t interfere, for she loved her brother Yohanan and was eager to make him happy. Yohanan loved the girl, and she responded with love. They didn’t see each other as often as they wished, because he lived in the capital, far away. But fortune smiled on him, as she often does on those she favors. The emperor’s wife was impressed with the girl. She invited her to live in her home and join the other young girls who were members of her court.

When the girl left to serve the empress in the capital city, her mother-guardian sent along a slave she had bought, whose name was Basileios.

Basileios was a God-fearing man who served his mistress faithfully. He knew that God works wisely on behalf of His sons, on behalf of their souls, to be redeemed through the suffering of Christ. He was tied by bonds of gratitude to his mistress and her entire family, who had bought him to be a slave in their household but didn’t castrate him, allowing him to remain as he was, as God had created him. Yet that which is a blessing to all men can be a stumbling block to a man in bondage. He had cast an eye on his mistress. Being so close to her, seeing her beauty and charm every minute of every day, he was consumed with desire for her, and his love for her became more intense from day to day.

When the girl arrived at the court of the empress, she hoped to see her true love. And he expected to see her. How despondent they were, how baffled and sad, for, whenever they were about to meet, a sudden obstacle prevented them from seeing each other.

The obstacles were numerous and varied. As the obstacles multiplied, so did their love. They didn’t know or understand how it was and why it was that they weren’t seeing each other.

All the obstacles and accidents were contrived by Basileios. Basileios devised these schemes to keep the other servants from learning about the relationship between his young mistress and Yohanan the nobleman. Not because he considered himself a rival, for no slave could compete with noblemen and respected citizens. But Basileios knew full well that the emperor had noticed the girl and coveted her, that he was waiting for the day when the empress would be in labor, occupied with the pains of childbirth, oblivious to everything else around her. Then the emperor would have the girl brought to him. If the emperor were to learn of the relationship between her and the nobleman Yohanan, he would have Yohanan sent to the battlefield, never to return. The girl would not see her true love ever again. This was the source of the obstacles that littered the lovers’ path. No one other than Basileios, the girl’s faithful servant, knew any of this or guessed that anything was amiss.

But every strategy has its limits. Basileios took sick. He was stricken with leprosy, for which there is no cure, and quarantined. He couldn’t come into the city, nor was he allowed into the royal court. He wished to warn the girl, his mistress, that it would be very risky to meet with Yohanan the nobleman. The emperor would seek to avenge his lust, not merely through Yohanan the nobleman, but, should he discover that the girl had given her heart to someone else, even as he, the emperor, lusted after her, his powerful hand would strike out at her as well. So Basileios, the faithful servant, sat in solitude, thinking only of his mistress and how to save her from the misfortune in store for her should the emperor discover her connection with the nobleman Yohanan.

Basileios devised many schemes to enable him to sneak into the city and into the emperor’s court, so he could see either his mistress or the nobleman Yohanan and warn them that, should their love be discovered, the emperor would have them killed because of his own love for the girl.

One day, Basileios heard about a holy man who lived in the desert, in a home he had made for himself in a broom plant. He was a great and holy man, whose name was celebrated throughout the land. Long before he settled in the desert, making himself a nest in a hollow broom plant, he had served the emperor. He had been a leading general and one of the emperor’s favorites. But then he began to disdain the ways of the world and to reject temporal life, in order to secure a place for his soul in a world that is totally good — the afterworld. He traded this world and all its goods for the afterworld, for the infinite bliss it offered to those who fear God and choose to trade this fleeting existence for a timeless one. He left the emperor’s court, the city and all its diversions, and all those who loved him — friends and intimates — for the desert wastes. There, he sustained his body with wild grasses and swamp water, so he would be able to sustain his soul with eternal pleasure, for the sake of the Redeemer who saves the souls of those Christians who are true to Him.

Basileios devised many plans in an effort to contact this man of God, to tell him about the emperor’s designs on the girl, so that the man of God could rescue her and the nobleman Yohanan, who loved the girl but didn’t know what was in store for him because of his love. Basileios had many fine plans. But what use are such plans when a man isn’t free and is forbidden to leave his quarters? Basilieos, the faithful servant, was not like all the other lepers, who were permitted to come as far as the city limits to collect bread thrown to them by individuals with compassion for those stricken by God. This was not the case with Basilieos, the girl’s servant. For this gracious girl, wishing to be kind to her servant Basileios, had bought a house for him to live in and arranged for him to be taken care of and provided for. Those who were in charge of him assumed the girl wouldn’t want him to leave the house and guarded him so vigilantly that what was meant to serve his interests became a hindrance. Now, it happened, just by chance, that the Arians in the state became more and more powerful, and the Christians were afraid they would win the emperor’s support and take over. The bishops and other leading clerics decided to approach him (the man of God) and to urge him to have a word with the king. He (the holy man) had seen no other human being in twenty years. He had received no one in all this time. Whenever he heard footsteps approaching his shelter, he quickly hid himself away, so he wouldn’t be found. Now that the bishops had decided to turn to the holy man, they didn’t know how to approach him, for he had isolated himself from human society and allowed no one an audience. When Basileios found out about this from the servants who looked after him, he decided to undertake to convey the bishops’ request to the holy man. He was certain that, when he saw his affliction, the holy man would pity him and allow him to approach.

Chapter seventeen

What had happened to Anita Brik happened to Manfred Herbst. When he arrived at Shira’s, he found the door locked. The door was locked, and there was no sound from inside. Where is she? She isn’t at the hospital. Then where is she? His question recurred like a gnawing refrain. He didn’t realize that he had asked the same question many times. He had certainly knocked on the door, but he probably hadn’t knocked hard enough, which explains why she didn’t open it. Perhaps she was asleep and didn’t hear, and, if he were to knock again, she would hear and get out of bed to open the door, as she had done that Shabbat when they went to visit Anita Brik. Until that day, Herbst wasn’t aware that Anita Brik knew Shira. That day, he discovered that she knew Shira, and today that information was very useful, for it was she who had told him where Shira lived, at a time when no one knew Shira’s whereabouts. But what use is it to us to know where Shira lives if we don’t find her in. Still, though we didn’t succeed today, we will surely succeed tomorrow. Was it excessive optimism or fear of the truth, was it the suspicion that even tomorrow we wouldn’t really know where Shira is, that led Herbst to say what he said? In either case, we must take our mind off Shira, so we will be free to attend to our real concerns, our work and our book, which we have so frivolously postponed. Now that something has come up, reminding us of our work, let us put Shira out of mind and get back to it.

What was it that led Herbst to turn his thoughts to his work once again? It was Ernst Weltfremdt’s book that led Herbst’s mind back to his work and his book. There are many books one can read and emerge from with nothing; then there are books whose very name stirs the heart. Not because we find something in them that engages us. There are certainly many books that occupy the mind but leave a vacuum in the heart. This is a secret that remains concealed from us. Since it can’t be revealed, let us return to our story, which both conceals and reveals.

Herbst tried to put Shira out of mind, along with her new apartment and locked door, as he muttered to himself, “It’s good that I didn’t leave a note. The witch will never know I came knocking at her door. She has the capacity to observe a person and know what is in his heart. Since she hasn’t seen me, since she hasn’t observed me, since she doesn’t know I was looking for her, she can’t see or know what is in my heart. In fact, if I were to analyze the matter, I was merely curious to know where she is.”

Herbst left that alley, which was nameless, like most alleys in Jerusalem in those days. In order to give it an identity, we’ll refer to it as Shira’s Alley. In those days, most alleys in Jerusalem were known by the name of a man or woman who lived there.

And so, Herbst left Shira’s Alley, whispering, “I called her a witch. She is truly a witch, seeing how tormented I am because of her and not lifting a finger to relieve me. She’s not a coquette or a sadist. She’s not one of those women who torture their lovers, only to cast them aside. I’m no expert when it comes to women, but, judging by the ones I know, whether from history, fiction, or at first hand, I see that Shira is different. I say this not to praise Shira nor to disparage her, but because her character makes her different from the rest of her sex.”

Throughout the ages, poets have created many characters and imbued them with spirit and soul. The men and women who were created from the verbal breath of poetry have produced offspring of their own. Not only in literature, but in life. A man meets a woman who seems familiar to him, although he has never met anyone like her. But he knows her from the work of some poet. That woman found a woman, described in a book, who was so attractive that she decided to fashion herself after her; she found a model and followed it. Where was Shira created? Shira is a totally new creature, created out of her very own essence.

Herbst remembered some of the things he had heard from her about her early life, things she had told him when they were getting to know each other, when she was still open with him. She didn’t say that much about herself. What she did say came out in pieces, and she never repeated the facts or provided further details. Nonetheless, he was able to put the pieces together and extract the story of her life, though many chapters were missing. The facts were not pleasant. They didn’t add to her glory, but they hung together and were consistent. What emerged from the facts was a coherent image.

Much as we contemplate the facts Shira related about herself, we find nothing pleasant. Only a question: Is it Shira’s self-confidence that allows her to relate such unflattering facts, or is it out of disdain for us that she reveals what any other woman would conceal? Is what she has told us largely invented, things she wishes were true? In that case, we can learn about her feelings from these inventions, the sort of life she desires. If this is the case, the life you have chosen is ugly, Nurse Shira.

I will continue to do what I have been doing. I will transmit the rest of Herbst’s thoughts in words. If they themselves aren’t new, then they are new in form, sometimes leaping beyond the realm of thought to sight, becoming elevated and transformed into a vision. But he didn’t begin to intone that poem again, “Flesh such as yours, et cetera.”

The life force is very powerful. Each and every event generates new ways to interpret human experience. Sometimes to one’s regret, sometimes to one’s relief. How did Herbst interpret Shira’s willingness to present herself in a bad light? It is clever of her, he thought. Shira knows her way of life is not exactly proper, that those who hear about it will disapprove. So she takes the initiative and tells her version of the facts, adjusting them to suit herself. What does Shira gain? When someone hears her life story, it won’t make quite such an impact; having already heard it, it will have less of a sting. When it comes to rumor, the old can’t compare to the new. One is already stale; the other grips our heart.

Chapter eighteen

The next day, he went back and knocked on the door again. The door was locked, and no one opened it. Did I make a mistake? Is this the wrong house? He stood looking at the house, scrutinizing it intently, then took out his notebook and strained to decode the address under the erasures. The address was gone. He couldn’t discern the shape of a single letter. But the building took shape, as Anita had described it: there it was, in all its reality. It stood there, in all its reality, solid and unmovable. So this is the building. This is where she lives. I couldn’t be mistaken; there’s no way to make a mistake. This is the house, and this is where she lives. He bent down and peered through the keyhole. He went to each window and looked inside. The curtains were drawn. All he could see was the shape of a skull and a strip of neck. It was his own skull and a strip of his own neck that were visible to him. The shape of his skull was inside the house, and he was outside. He went back to the door and banged on it. No response. Not a sound was heard from the house, except for a hollow echo. He turned away from the door and left, with faltering knees and a dejected heart. I’ll find her, I’ll find her, Herbst assured himself. I’ll have no rest, no peace, until I find her. If not today, then tomorrow. He suddenly shifted pronouns and said: I’ll find you, I’ll find you. But he didn’t find her. Not the next day and not the day after.

As it happened, he happened to meet a young man when he was coming back from Shira’s, one of the young men one meets on the streets of Jerusalem who are not from the new communities. It wasn’t obvious, at first glance, whether the coat he was wrapped in was long or short. He himself was long. His shoulders were broad and his stance self-assured. He was blond, with golden yellow hair. But the black hat on his head, the zeal in his face, the tightness in his eyes gave the misleading impression that his mind and mood tended toward darkness. Herbst didn’t recognize him, although he recognized Herbst. Herbst really should have recognized him; it would have been only right. Since he didn’t recognize him, I’ll let him remain puzzled until he does.

The young man addressed Herbst. “Dr. Herbst, what are you doing in this neighborhood? You must be lost. You are probably looking for an address and unable to find it. If you would allow me, I would be glad to take you wherever you want to go. I know Jerusalem well. I’m familiar with every byway.” Herbst pondered: How do I answer him? If I don’t say anything, will he realize that I don’t welcome his company? When these people ask a question, they don’t notice if you don’t answer. But Herbst was polite, and his heart was more generous than his mind. Having decided to be silent, he went on to answer him, “I’m out for a walk. I’m not looking for anything. I see there is nothing new here. This alley looks as it always did, no different. Or am I mistaken?” As he talked, he was thinking: All these alibis won’t convince him that I’m simply out for a walk. I’ll say something to convince him that I’m here because of my work. He continued, “I have to prepare a lecture that demands concentration, and I expected that here, where I don’t know anyone, I would be able to concentrate.” The young man laughed abruptly and said, “In the end, professor, in the very place you were so sure you wouldn’t be stopped by an acquaintance, some joker intercepts you. I’ll be gone, leaving you to enjoy this neutral territory.” Herbst was thinking: If only he would go without any further talk. But if I were to let him go now, my conscience would plague me for offending him. I might as well let him keep chattering until he gets tired and moves on. Hard as I try to figure out who he is, I can’t remember. I don’t even know which set of people he belongs to. But I won’t ask, for, like most people in this country, who make things harder when they ought to make them easier, he might say, “Imagine not recognizing me. We were together once, and we had such-and-such a conversation.” If, after all that, I ask him his name, he will surely be offended that I have so little regard for him that I don’t remember it. As he continued to search his mind, he remembered seeing him with Tamara. If so, Herbst thought, he must be the yeshiva student Henrietta told me about. In any case, I won’t change my manner with him; then he won’t realize I didn’t recognize him from the start. To extricate the young man from his confusion, for he was still standing there, silent, making no move to go, he added, “There are so many different patterns of concentration. Some people need total inactivity to concentrate; others could be stuck between two millstones, and their concentration would remain unaffected. Wallenstein used to close down half of Prague, lest the echo of an echo of a sound disturb his mental processes. On the other hand, some old man told me about a Reform rabbi in Berlin, who used to preach in their temple. He delivered marvelous sermons that he planned as he walked through the city, choosing to follow the most crowded streets. A Reform rabbi doesn’t have much work to do. His congregants don’t ask for rulings on milk and meat or ritual baths. Apart from saying a few words at weddings and delivering eulogies for the dead, his main task is the sermon on Shabbat, which they observe on Sunday, the Christian Sabbath. And he did very well with these sermons. He was a great scholar, an expert in Midrash, kabbalah, and philosophy. He had a head full of ideas. One thing was missing: the ability to suspend most of his learning and, at the same time, organize the remainder. Such an enterprise demands enormous concentration. At home, he was unable to marshal his thoughts and organize a sermon, as every corner of his home was filled with books, and he loved to read good books. Some people love science; some love poetry, even if it’s their own. So what did he do? Every Shabbat, after lunch, when it was time to plan the Shabbat sermon to be delivered on Sunday, he left home. Where did he go? To Friedrichstrasse, near the train station, the busiest spot in Berlin. This is what he used to do: He used to go to the cigar store, choose the thickest cigar, stick it in his mouth, light it up, and venture into that endless and infinitely bustling throng. He would then choose a verse from the prophets, or a line from Goethe or Angelus Silesius, to which he would give a timely turn, rephrasing it to catch the ear of his listeners. Old-timers, who were there, report that he himself was the size of a dwarf, that his top hat was as tall as half of his body, that his cigar was as long as the other half, that he moved like a squirrel, that, in this manner, he forged himself a path, advancing through the bustle of Berlin. They report that they had never heard sermons as magnificent as his, though Berlin was not short on great preachers. As you see, Mr. Schlesinger,” Herbst said with a flourish, having finally managed to identify the young man, “there are all kinds of people with all kinds of ways. Insofar as I am a Berlin Jew, I ought to behave like that Berlin rabbi, my compatriot, but I am more like the Gentile, Wallenstein. And because I don’t, alas, have the power to close off half the city, I have come to this quiet spot to organize my lecture.”

It was already dark, so it was impossible to see how Schlesinger reacted to all this. However, it was obvious that he was surprised. Schlesinger had given up all things related to religion, yet there was no subject that interested him as deeply. He regarded religion as an impediment to Israel’s freedom, and, if not for the immediate urgency of fighting the English and the Arabs, he would have devoted all his energies to the fight against religious coercion. Now that Herbst had brought up the subject of Reform Judaism, he was mystified. What was the point of a synagogue, a preacher, and all those trappings for Jews who had discarded the yoke of religion to the extent of trading the Jewish Shabbat for the Christian Sabbath? While one talked and the other listened and pondered, they continued walking and, before long, arrived at the Baka bus stop.

There was no one in sight. A bus had left only a minute earlier. Who knows how long it would be before another one arrived and was ready to leave? In those days, a time of unrest and confusion, people didn’t come and go very much, and there weren’t very many buses in service. Herbst, who had put Shira’s place out of mind for a while, was thinking about it again. He pictured it as it was when he stood peering through the keyhole. According to Anita Brik’s description, that was definitely Shira’s place. It was definitely the place Anita Brik had described, but Shira wasn’t there. He gazed at his fingertips and would have liked to be thinking about Shira, but he felt a barrier between himself and his thoughts. He glanced at his companion, who was standing beside him, and it seemed to him that a moment earlier he had been thinking, but he couldn’t remember exactly what he had been thinking. His mind drifted to Tamara, his daughter, and this is roughly what he thought: My daughter, Tamara, isn’t enthusiastic about talking to me, whereas this young man, whose only significance is his link to Tamara, detains me for a chat, unlike Avraham-and-a-half, who never bestows his presence on me. If I didn’t know Oriental Jews, I would think his was an Oriental manner, attaching himself to a person, being so persistent. Unless I dispel the mood with wellchosen words, he’ll be offended. He expects me to say something, but I remain silent. Herbst began searching for something to say and found nothing. He thought to himself: I’ll discuss the yeshiva with him. Since he used to be part of that world, he must know all about it, and he probably enjoys discussing it.

Herbst said to Schlesinger, “I’ve lived in Jerusalem so many years, and nothing is as close to me as education. Still, when I get the annual announcements of various yeshivas, I never stop to wonder how they are different from each other or what their curricula are like. One announcement is from the Great Yeshiva; another is from the Institute for Advanced Talmudic Studies; yet another is from the Central Yeshiva. They have endless titles, expressing glory, grandeur, eminence. Please, Mr. Schlesinger, tell me how to distinguish between them. Are they organized in classes on different levels — some as secondary schools for Talmud study, others as Talmud universities? I’m totally ignorant about the educational affairs of the older communities. I’m familiar with such terms as heder, Talmud Torah, yeshiva, but I’m not familiar with the curriculum.”

Schlesinger’s lips were tightly pursed, and his face communicated distaste for Herbst’s conversation. Herbst took no notice and continued, “What is the difference between the Grand Yeshiva and the Greater Yeshiva, and how are they different from the Most Revered Yeshiva?” Herbst wanted to ask about other yeshivas, but, being unsure of their names, he didn’t want to say anything ridiculous, lest Schlesinger think he was making fun of him. He included them all in a general question: “What is the curriculum of these yeshivas? I’ve heard it said that the main difference lies in the fundraisers, who know which names contributors respond to, guaranteeing the flow of money into their own pockets. I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Schlesinger, that I am not of that opinion.” When, after a few minutes, he still hadn’t received an answer, he said to Schlesinger, “I have no luck with my questions. An idiot’s questions are hard to answer. Would you rather give me your own version of the ways of the yeshivas?” Schlesinger answered, “As it says in the Gemara, ‘Never throw stones in a well that once gave you water.’ Since I left the yeshiva, I make a point of not discussing it.” “Why?” “Why? How can I explain it? Because I have nothing good to tell about it, and it’s pointless to tell about its evils. If one were to tell about evils, he should tell about the evil that comes from the source of all evil.” “The source of all evil? Are you suggesting that there is a place that all evil comes from?” “Of course.” “And what is it?” “What is it? Is that a real question?” Herbst laughed and said, “As you know, my friend, my path was always orderly. I first studied in an elementary school, then in a high school, then at a university. What I mean is that all my knowledge comes from what I was taught; I know only what I was taught. If my life depended on it, I couldn’t come up with anything I wasn’t taught.” Schlesinger stared at Herbst to see if he was teasing or if he was, truly, just a naive German. He finally decided not to divulge his thoughts to him, for, if he knew what he thought about England, he would surely disapprove of his relationship with his daughter. Herbst was German, after all. And, being German, he probably adhered to the program of Brit Shalom, a covenant of peace.

Other passengers were assembling. Most of them were young men, who didn’t look familiar to Herbst. He was sure they didn’t live in Talpiot or Mekor Hayim; certainly not in Baka, whose inhabitants were Arabs. He noticed that one of them was nodding to him. He looked more closely and realized that he was a student of his. Herbst asked him, “Where’s everybody going?” Someone answered, “To a brit.” “A brit? A circumcision? I never heard of a brit at night.” “This brit will be a covenant of blood, all right.” Most of the young men laughed, and the one who was his student whispered something to Herbst. Herbst said, “Now I realize that I shouldn’t have asked.” “Not at all. It’s just that there was no need for such a brash answer. I see, Professor Herbst, that you still live in Baka. That sort of courage is not to be commended. In truth, other neighborhoods are no more secure. It would take two hundred people to protect Mekor Hayim. Neighborhoods are established without much thought, expanding the sphere of danger.” As he spoke, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “The air has ears.” He raised his voice again and said, “All right, everybody, let the turtle crawl at its own pace. We’ll go on foot.” Someone else said, “Not on foot, not on foot.” “Why not on foot?” “Why? Because the roads are dangerous.” “Quiet, quiet. I can already hear the brakes of the bus. Please, everyone, not so much noise.” “Is silence any better? Lord only knows what’s good and what isn’t. When we’re finally rid of them, we’ll know what’s good.”

From the moment Herbst got on the bus until he got off, he was alone with his thoughts. They were no different than the ones he had been thinking before he met Schlesinger. Anyway, it was good that he had an opportunity to think his thoughts without being interrupted. The young men were engaged in their own affairs, ignoring him. I won’t repeat his dialogue with himself, having already outlined it, but I will relay something that becomes relevant later on. Why advance the sequence now? Because what follows later cannot be interrupted.

From here on, he began to be tormented by lurid fantasies. He saw Shira walking in the mountains, sometimes alone, sometimes with a companion. Arabs assault her, then take her life. He saw her bathing in the sea, swept under by a wave, and drowned. The death throes, on sea and on land, were vivid to him. Her soul, struggling to expire, is unable to withdraw from her body because of its intense vitality. As she agonizes, her escort on these walks abandons her to the waves, to the murderer’s assault, in order to save his own life. The murderer finally prevails and thrusts a knife into her heart. Her soul expires and she is dead. It is not clear whether he did what he did to her before she died or whether it was after she was dead that he did what he did. Her companion stands among the rocks, observing the scene. Who is he? The engineer with the whip, who returned because he couldn’t forget her, and, when he returned, she was afraid he would hit her with the whip again, so she told him she had to go somewhere. He said, “I’ll go with you.” She said, “Only if you leave your whip behind.” He agreed. They went walking together in the mountains, and a murderer appeared. The engineer, having nothing with which to scare off the murderer, ran and hid among the rocks, from where he could watch and see everything the Arab did to Shira. Finally, all that remained of her was two legs, left by the murderer. Not the legs in the notice at the train station in Leipzig, but Shira’s legs, the legs he first saw that night when he went home with her and sat with her while she put on the dark blue slacks. Herbst cried out in a whisper, “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” He pictured her room as it was the night he first visited her, when he sat there looking at everything in the room, with the dead skull peering down at him from one of the walls. As for The Night Watch, which he intended to bring her, it was still wrapped and waiting in the store. When he tried to bring her The Night Watch, he found a locked door. He didn’t find Shira. Where is Shira? He had asked this question at least a thousand times. Each time he asked, the visions I have already described provided an answer. For example: She was out walking with someone when a murderer came and stuck a knife in her heart, for these are not good times; the roads are all dangerous, and those who walk them risk their lives. Herbst, too, is risking his life when he walks alone. He ought to go home. Otherwise, he risks being attacked by murderers.

As he walked home from the bus stop, he stopped at every wall and at each post to read all the notices. None of the notices pertained to Shira. Unless one concludes that a total lack of information prevented the authorities from posting a notice about her, then she still exists. If she exists, he will see her. Still, the question stands: Where is she? No one at the hospital knows where she is. Anita Brik doesn’t know where she is, but she knows where she lives, and, when he went there, he found the door locked. The question recurs: Where is Shira?

Chapter nineteen

When Herbst entered his house, he was like a man depressed by dreadful anguish who wakes up only to realize that what depressed him was a dream. The house was bright. Gay voices were heard from the dining room. Along with Tamara’s voice, hoarse from smoking, was the sharp voice, the clear voice, of a girl speaking German, though not as it is spoken in Germany, and a voice like Taglicht’s. In fact, it was Taglicht, as you are about to discover. But first, I’ll tell just how this evolved. Tamara came back from her trip and brought a new friend, a lovely girl she met on the way. She made her acquaintance on the bus and enjoyed her company so much that she offered to put her up until she could find a room.

Her name is Ursula Katz, and she comes from Vienna. Her eyes are large and kind, assuming a blue cast when they laugh. Her cheeks are fresh and full; she is altogether fresh and vibrant. She has soft, blonde hair, not shorn or bobbed, but arranged in four curly braids. Her lips are somewhat fleshy, but they are permeated by a smile that tempers their sensual quality and makes the flesh seem delicate. She is wearing a soft, brown blouse, embroidered with gold thread, open at the top to bare her graceful neck, which is circled by a thin, black chain. The beads are linked by dots of silver, whose glow rises up to meet the laughter in her eyes that turn all things blue, then plunges downward to be reflected in her fingernails. Her shoulders are covered, not exposed; what is exposed about her is a refreshing warmth that clings to her shoulders. But for the fact that she is skilled in office work — typing, shorthand, and the like — we would connect her with another time, three or four generations back, when a girl’s honor derived from her beauty, modesty, and reserve.

Across from her, on the upholstered chair that looks out to the garden, sat Dr. Taglicht. He was there because of Ursula, which involved a bit of magic. This is the story. When they were on the bus coming into town, Tamara asked Ursula, “Do you have any friends or acquaintances in Jerusalem?” Ursula said, “No one I know personally, but my father knows someone here who was at the university with him, or in some similar situation. He told me to look him up when I get to Jerusalem.” Tamara said, “I suppose your father told you his name?” Ursula laughed and said, “What you suppose is not far from the truth. Father did tell me the name.” Tamara said, “Perhaps you remember his name?” Ursula said, “I remember his name.” Tamara said, “If it isn’t one of those Russian or Polish names, like those of the Zionist leaders that very few people here can pronounce without great difficulty, perhaps it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to tell me his name.” Ursula said, “His name is simple and bright, like the light of day.” Tamara said, “Could his name be Taglicht?” Ursula said, “I see, Tamara, that you know even more than I’ve told you. His name is Taglicht, Dr. Taglicht.” As they continued this bantering exchange, the bus arrived at the station, and they got off. Tamara saw Dr. Taglicht strolling by and called to him. Dr. Taglicht came over. She said to him, “Here’s your chance to be chivalrous. You can help two distinguished ladies get their luggage off the bus.” Taglicht said, “At your service, mademoiselle.” Tamara said, “And at the service of this lady as well. Meet Ursula Katz.” “Ursula Katz…Ursula Katz. Are you by any chance related to Dr. Ferdinand Katz, a lawyer and notary?” Tamara said, “If it’s not beneath your dignity, doctor, she is the daughter of that gentleman.” Taglicht joined them immediately and accompanied them to the Herbst home. The three of them sat talking incessantly. Taglicht had many questions about Ursula’s father and how he was faring in these dreadful times. Ursula gave leisurely answers. Having expended all her cleverness on Tamara, she was giving straightforward answers now, responses that fit the questions. She wasn’t enraged by Nazi actions; she didn’t bemoan her fate. She and her entire family had left their home and had stayed in hiding for months, until she succeeded in escaping from Vienna, getting on a boat, and entering this country. Taglicht had already heard stories like those Ursula had to tell. She told them everything, and if he asked more questions, he would gain no new knowledge. Ursula had a simple view of things. She saw only the surface of events, making no attempt to look inside. And, if I’m not mistaken, she repeated the same ideas in the very same words. Nevertheless, from what she said, one could reconstruct the development of events. So Taglicht already knew what he wanted to know. Isn’t it amazing — just a short time before I met Ursula, it didn’t occur to me that someone like that existed. Now, all of a sudden, my heart is full…. Actually, that’s not how it was. The fact is, she and her entire family slipped out of his mind immediately. Even as they were engaged in conversation, she had already slipped out of his mind, because of other things. If I were to put them into words, this is roughly how it would be: Tamara is candid and open, but she also has an opaque and elusive aspect. These traits, all of which include their opposites, should be investigated. Most young women in this country are open and candid, having been born and raised under the bright and open skies of the Land of Israel. Tamara’s opaque and elusive quality is self-generated and derives from many sources, not necessarily related to the fact that she belongs to an underground group, be it the Irgun or Lehi.

Having mentioned that Tamara went back to her parents’ home, that she belongs to an underground group, and that she brought home a friend, this is the appropriate place to note that the trips Tamara referred to, such as the one to negotiate a teaching job, are fictions she fabricated to hide her activities from her parents; this is true of her classes in Mekor Hayim and of various other activities. As for Ursula, Ursula has no connection with these matters. Tamara befriended Ursula with no practical motive. Tamara befriended Ursula because of Ursula’s beauty, kindness, freshness — because of all the qualities one finds in those who have no dealings ‘with politics.

They sat there talking. Tamara, Ursula, and Taglicht. Tamara said, “Wasn’t it good that I invited you, Dr. Taglicht? When Ursula told me her father had told her about you, I called out to you right away. As soon as Ursula and I got off the bus, I called to you. When did you know her father? When you were in Vienna? Yes, Ursula is Viennese, like all the Viennese whose parents came from Galicia. You’re Galician too, aren’t you? I don’t mean to embarrass you, doctor. I’m sure there are some decent people among the Galicians. Please, doctor, don’t get the idea that I mean to compliment you. What do you actually do? You’re not a lecturer. You don’t publish books. So why do they say you’re a scholar? Papa Manfred says so too. Isn’t that so, Manfred? I call him Manfred. I can’t call him Fred, because Mother has a monopoly on that name. I call Mother Mother, because the name Henrietta is too long, and it doesn’t fit the environment here in the Land of Israel.” Henrietta said, “Please, Tamara, don’t talk nonsense.” Tamara said, “Do you think, Mother, that Dr. Taglicht is here to glean wisdom from me? If he wanted wisdom, he wouldn’t have come. Isn’t that true, doctor? Be honest and tell the truth.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Dr. Taglicht, did you ever see such a strange creature? I don’t know whom she resembles. Not me, not Herbst.” Tamara said, “If I resembled others, they would bore me. Tell me, Ursula, whom do you resemble?” Herbst said, “Could we change the subject?” Tamara said, “Yes, of course. Say something, and we’ll listen. I read your article, Papa. About a certain empress whose name I forget. I have nothing against scholarship, and I have nothing against history. Still, I have to tell you, dear Manfred, if I were to sit and repeat the sort of things historians write, you would scold me for engaging in gossip and slander. I used to think our history was boring, until I began to be a good daughter, took your advice, and began reading world history, as you suggested. I think that particular enterprise induces all sorts of bad habits. Dr. Taglicht probably disagrees, but that doesn’t change anything.” Herbst said, “And the romances you pore over?” Tamara said, “Which romances are you referring to? The ones I read or the ones I create?” Herbst said, “You’re writing a romance?” Tamara said, “Scholars are strange. In their minds, anything you do takes the form of writing. There are romances, dear Papa, that aren’t written, and let me confide to you, in a whisper, that they are the most interesting ones.” Herbst said, “Then you are involved in romances there with those teachers?” Tamara laughed and said, “Have you ever seen the likes of these people? They think the entire globe is occupied by teachers. Papa, my sweet, there are other types in the world, apart from teachers, lecturers, professors. Dr. Taglicht, are you a teacher too?” Taglicht said, “I am a teacher, a reluctant one.” Tamara looked at him and asked, “What do you mean, ‘reluctant’?” Taglicht said, “Like you.” Tamara said, “I’m actually happy to be a teacher, but a teacher’s wife — that’s an honor I would decline.” Taglicht asked, “Whose wife would you like to be?” Tamara answered, “Only time will tell. Those who write good romances let Amnon die a thousand deaths before he marries Tamar.” “And Tamar sits tight, calm, and confident, waiting.” “Why shouldn’t she be confident? She knows from the start that Amnon is totally committed to her.” “And if Amnon finds someone else, someone more attractive?” “Ursula, you answer him.” “Me?” Ursula answered in alarm. “In your place, I would have said, ‘If Amnon is such a fool, he doesn’t deserve my attention, not even for a moment.’“ “It’s that extreme, Tamara? Excuse me, I meant to say Tamar. Tamar is so rational from the beginning that she is capable of resolving to renounce Amnon?” “I don’t know whether or not she is rational, but I know that, even if all the others, whose names I have forgotten, even if all the others, are more attractive than Tamar, Amnon won’t forget Tamar.” “That’s enough!” Herbst shouted in a rage. Henrietta looked at him, surprised. Herbst caught her gaze and brushed his hand over his face, as if to brush away his rage. Tamara said, “Mother, what did you prepare for these honorable guests who have honored you with their presence?” Henrietta said, “A good daughter goes into the kitchen and prepares something for the honorable guests.” “And what does the good daughter do if she herself is an honorable guest?” Henrietta laughed and said, “If only we had such a daughter.” Tamara said, “It’s possible that just such a daughter is fluttering around inside, eager to emerge.” Henrietta said, “Stop babbling. Come, let’s get supper ready.” “Who will take charge of Dr. Taglicht? Who will take charge of Ursula? Isn’t it my job to make sure our guests aren’t bored? Come, Ursula, let’s help the lady of the house prepare us a feast. I’m really hungry. Surely you’re hungry too, Ursula. Good conversation is a good thing, but it doesn’t satisfy hunger.”

Henrietta and Tamara left the room and went to the kitchen with Ursula to prepare the meal, leaving Herbst and Taglicht alone. Herbst looked at Taglicht for a while. Then he said, “I read the newspapers, and every day I read names of men and women who were killed by the Arabs. Tell me, Taglicht, aren’t the newspapers hiding the names of some of the victims? In a country like this, where we don’t have accurate statistics, don’t people disappear, leaving no trace? It’s easy to imagine a person who has no written identification, a person like you or me, stabbed by an Arab knife, murdered, without its being announced. All the more so in the case of someone who has no relatives in the country. How can I explain my question? I imagine something similar has already occurred to you, considering what’s been going on in this country. When will there be an end to the murders you people call ‘riots’? I must get back to my original question. Can we really trust the newspapers to list every single man and woman who is killed? I said ‘woman,’ because women are more likely to be killed. Even in normal times, there were incidents in which women were raped and murdered. Quiet! I think the women are coming back, and I don’t want them to hear what we’re talking about. It’s not a pleasant subject for a woman’s ear. I don’t like talking about it either. Let’s change the subject. What are you up to these days, Dr. Taglicht? Are you still wasting your time correcting other people’s papers? Everything is, to a great extent, predetermined. We entrust our professors with the keys to wisdom, so they can teach and instruct. In the end, they have to ask others to correct, their language, transforming themselves into students. Those elevated professors are lucky to have you for a teacher, but it is high time you began to look after yourself. I don’t suggest that you get involved in folklore. I heard what you said to Weltfremdt, and I agree with you. But I have to say that I don’t share your views in every area. Small matters, when properly pursued, can be a key to larger issues. My mentor, Neu, has no use at all for folklore. Back to that other subject. You are involved in the Haganah, as you told me earlier. We certainly have to defend ourselves, and anyone who can handle a gun must not turn his back. Still, roles must be assigned, so that some people wield guns while others wield pens. When I see what we are doing, I am suspicious of those who don’t align themselves with us. In the end, what choice is there? People like us are doomed to continue to do what they have always done. Whether they like it or not, habit rules. Here come the women.”

Herbst sat in the dining room with his wife, his daughter, Ursula Katz, and Dr. Taglicht. He discussed, talked, argued, was silent, smoked, listened, rubbed the tips of his fingernails — continuing, all the while, to picture himself roaming from alley to alley, from lane to lane, turning toward a certain house, surveying it with his eyes, approaching the entry, going into the building, coming to a door, knocking on it with his fingertips, receiving no response. As he sat there, he gazed at Henrietta again and again, thinking: Henrietta is pregnant, but what connection is there between her pregnancy and the locked door? He found no connection. And, because he didn’t find it, he was uneasy. He had another grievance: he wanted to find out where Shira had disappeared to, and he wasn’t being permitted to investigate. When he left Shira’s apartment, Schlesinger had latched onto him; when he came home, he found a house full of people. He wasn’t free to think about Shira, except on the bus among those Haganah people. Now that Tamara had brought a friend home, she, too, would take up his time. And Henrietta? Her baby was already visible. Now what is the actual connection between Henrietta’s pregnant state and…Before Herbst could pursue these thoughts to their end, supper was served.

Chapter twenty

Herbst’s fears about Ursula were unfounded. In no way did she infringe on his thoughts about Shira. She was no trouble at all to him, and she even had a positive effect. She came to stay with Tamara, and, as a result, Tamara doesn’t go out very often. The two of them stay in, and Henrietta no longer needs him, so he is free to come and go as he pleases. But he doesn’t go out very often either. He sits in his room, alone, adding cigarette to cigarette, smoking one, then another. We are used to this. It’s in no way new.

Ursula still doesn’t know what she’ll be doing in this country and how she will support herself. She is running out of money, and there is no way for her father to send more. His property was confiscated, and he is not allowed to work. All he can expect is a dry crust and a hard bed. As for her mother, her mother is safe, beyond the reach of any foe or enemy. She is in the Tyrol with her sister, who is married to a Nazi poet. No one there knows the poet’s wife is Jewish, and, of course, no one there knows her sister is Jewish. She both looks and sounds German.

Ursula sits with Tamara, and Tamara doesn’t allow her to break her head over money concerns. If she finds a job and can support herself, well and good; if not, she can stay on and help with the housework. To relieve her mother of the household chores, Tamara has taken them all on herself, and she is teaching Firadeus how to do things. Firadeus listens and straightens out whatever mess the two girls create. When Tamara sees how much has been accomplished, she is delighted and declares in her pleasant, rasping voice, “Now you see, honey, how these things are done. This is how to do them. The way I told you, honey, not the way you thought.” Firadeus gazes at Tamara, her eyes sweet as a mountain goat’s, without a trace of bitterness.

Ursula suddenly found a job. She was to work four hours a day. I don’t know exactly how it evolved, how the employer found her, or if it was the other way around. In short, Ursula was employed by an Arab importer. The Arab had been looking for a secretary who could write letters for him in German. Even in these dreadful times, when Arabs view Jews with disfavor, claim the Jews are displacing them, and try to dispose of the Jews through violent attacks and murder, they seek them out, because they can’t survive without them.

Ursula found a job with which to support herself, and her employer found her to be a peerless secretary. He had hired her to write letters, but she took on other tasks that contributed to his welfare and pleasure. He was an agent for foreign goods, which he also imported. He bought them from wholesalers, who obtained the goods from the factories. It was she who advised him to get the goods from the producers, i.e., from the factories the wholesalers dealt with. Among the products he imported were some thin tea biscuits, produced in the factory of an uncle of hers, her father’s brother. When the Nazis came, they confiscated the factory but allowed him to stay on, albeit in a minor position, because they couldn’t find anyone to replace him. Ursula wrote to him in the name of her employer, offering to represent him in Palestine and all the neighboring countries. In Jerusalem and throughout the land, these biscuits were already popular. When a customer asked for biscuits, the shopkeeper would suggest that brand. If not for the Orthodox, who are meticulous about dietary laws, all the biscuit factories in this country would have closed down. Even Orthodox shopkeepers can’t afford to ignore these Viennese biscuits, because the English have grown so fond of them.

Tamara invited Ursula out of friendship. When Ursula began to earn money, she began paying for room and board. She pays ten lirot a month for room and board, and she gives Firadeus half a lira for her services, apart from presents, such as a dress or shoes she no longer wears. These presents, which seem small, are significant to Firadeus and her friends. Even things that are not passed on directly — the things Firadeus finds in the trash or in the garbage after Ursula discards them — are noteworthy. Here is one example with many counterparts. Firadeus once found a small case made of soft, bright leather in the trash basket. When she opened it, she found a mirror set in a red frame. Assuming it had been thrown away by mistake, Firadeus put it on the table near Ursula’s bed. The next day, she found the mirror in the basket again. Firadeus wondered how such a lovely mirror got into the basket. She went and talked to Henrietta about it. She couldn’t talk to Ursula, because Ursula didn’t speak Hebrew and she herself didn’t speak German. Henrietta asked Ursula. Ursula said, “I have a better one, so I have no use for it.” Firadeus ended up with a mirror unlike anything her friends possessed. Even Tamara didn’t have such a mirror. Firadeus finds many treasures discarded by Ursula. She feels she must tell the lady of the house about some of these finds, because it doesn’t make sense to discard such lovely things. When Ursula values an object, of course, she holds on to it; otherwise, she throws it out.

Meanwhile, events are transpiring in the Herbst household that not everyone in the household is pleased with. It’s time for lunch. Everyone is hungry and anxious to eat, but lunch can’t be served, because Ursula isn’t there. They sit and wait until they can wait no longer, because of hunger and because of the dishes. If they put off eating, Henrietta or Tamara will have to do the dishes, since it’s impossible to ask Firadeus to stay and do them. They suddenly hear the sound of a car stopping at the house. A driver comes in and brings a note from Ursula, informing them that she won’t be back for lunch: her employer has invited her to eat with him at the King David Hotel. She hopes they will enjoy their meal without her. Ursula returns in the evening, in her employer’s car. She comes in and tells them what she ate and drank and everything that gentleman told her. He didn’t discuss politics, but his conversation was very pleasant. The Arabs have such elegant ways. They know how to order dinner, and they are equally adept with drinks. When you sit with a gentleman of that sort, watching him lift his glass and drink his fill, you are convinced that the notion that Arabs are forbidden to drink wine was fabricated by Christians or Jews. There is one problem: his brother-in-law, Abdullah, a partner in the business, who is trying to take it over and would like her to come and work for him. This would not be fair at all, since it was Mr. Mustafa who hired her, not Mr. Abdullah.

Meanwhile, everything proceeds in an orderly fashion. Ursula spends a given number of hours in Mustafa Effendi’s office, and they spend a given number of hours taking trips in his new car, which is more splendid than any other in the country. He shows her the city, its environs, his vineyards and gardens which produce fruit the likes of which she has never eaten before. She now understands that this is a truly blessed land. Despite all this, Ursula isn’t happy, because of Abdullah, Mustafa’s brother-in-law, who is trying to turn her against Mustafa and to convince her to come and work for him. She loathes the intrigue between the brothers-in-law and has decided that, unless the situation improves, she will quit. Even before she could quit, Tamara took her to the Histadrut, and she became a member. Which was extraordinary, for she was admitted, without excessive questioning, by an official who declared that such a competent worker should be working for us, not for others — certainly not for Arabs. This official was right to say that Ursula ought to be working for one of our institutions. But our institutions are, in fact, overstaffed, employing many useless individuals who aren’t fired only because they might disclose information against whoever fires them, forcing those in charge to resign rather than risk public humiliation. Another reason why more officials aren’t fired: because the general population detests our institutions, and officials who are fired tend to make trouble. It has already happened that an official was caught cheating and was fired on ethical grounds. He was snatched up by another company, which he now directs, using his position to damage the institution he originally served.

After Ursula was admitted to the Histadrut, Tamara took her to a café. They sat drinking cocoa and were joined by one of Tamara’s friends, a writer and journalist. Tamara told him that Ursula had been admitted to the organization and reported what the official had said about her: that Ursula should be working in our institutions, but that the jobs were all taken by lazy idlers. The writer said to them, “If I were writing a novel about this community, I would call it The Cake Eaters. I would describe all the gatherings attended by officials whose main function is to impress guests and to overeat. No doubt they do something between gatherings, but the real accomplishments are not theirs.”

Between the two events, between the time Ursula arrived at the Herbst household and the time Ursula was admitted to the Histadrut, Henrietta arrived at full term and was ready to give birth. Because I don’t know if I’ll get back to Ursula, I’ve told all about her, insofar as her affairs are linked to the tale of the Herbst household, which is an essential link in the tale of Dr. Herbst and the nurse Shira. Now I’ll return to the Herbst household and Henrietta Herbst’s delivery.

This delivery was different from the earlier ones, because, in this case, Tamara took her mother to Hadassah Hospital and arranged everything, sparing Manfred, the father, the excitement that is inevitable for a man when his wife gives birth. Father and daughter had agreed to this. It began in this way: Tamara heard about a woman who had read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and was so affected by the description of Levin’s torments the day his wife gave birth that, when it was time to deliver her own child, she hid the event from her husband, went to the hospital alone, gave birth, and informed her husband afterward. When Tamara heard this story, she decided she would do just that when she was married and about to give birth. Meanwhile, she did for her mother what she had decided she would do for herself.

As it happened, just when Henrietta and Tamara left for Hadassah Hospital, at one and the same time it happened that Herbst set out to look for Shira. It would have been better if these events hadn’t occurred at one and the same time — because of the moral aspects of this coincidence, because of its sensational aspects, because the affair of Herbst and Shira had begun similarly and its course had not run smoothly. So, just when Henrietta was admitted to the hospital, at that precise hour Manfred was walking down the alley Anita Brik had described to him. He was hesitant and hadn’t approached Shira’s place yet, but now he was ready to approach. He suddenly realized how bizarre it was, how ugly it was: a man’s wife is about to bear his child, and he is groveling at another woman’s door. But between consciousness and action, there are many twists and turns. Before long, Herbst was knocking at Shira’s door. The door, however, was new, and it didn’t respond. Six or seven times he knocked on the door, and no one opened it for him.

Chapter twenty-one

Henrietta presented her husband with a healthy and sound baby. It was almost daylight when her son was born. She gave birth to her son with none of the anguish associated with childbirth, though he was large when he emerged from his mother. He weighed eight and a half pounds, unlike his sisters, who were successively smaller than each other and all smaller than he was. The obstetrician, who was afraid Mrs. Herbst might have a difficult birth, instructed the nurses to notify him as soon as she went into labor, as she would need special attention. Before they had time to inform him, the baby was born. The midwife, a young girl of about twenty-two, and two other young nurses were the only ones with her, except for the night nurse, who came to the delivery room after the birth.

Henrietta is the sort of woman who remains composed at all times and doesn’t like to indulge herself, even when she gives birth. As soon as she woke up from her sleep, she asked that a special messenger be sent to her home to announce that she had given birth to a son. If the messenger would like to take a taxi, he could take a taxi. If he is content with a bus, let him take a bus. It isn’t essential that they know instantly; it will be fine if they get the news even after an hour’s delay. As long as the messenger arrives by noon, which is when they generally leave the house.

An hour later, Papa Manfred appeared with Tamara. Or, to reverse it, Tamara appeared with Papa Manfred for Papa Manfred was bizarre. He actually didn’t know his left from his right, and, if not for Tamara, he wouldn’t have found the door to his wife’s room. Manfred was truly bizarre standing before his wife. His eyes were fixed less on his wife than on the door, and, when the door opened, he seemed anxious, pale, disappointed, desperate. They were allowed to spend a limited amount of time with the new mother, and even less time with the son. They probably weren’t allowed in to see him at all, but were led to a small opening from the hall to the nursery, where they could stand and peer at the newborn infant, swaddled in a white garment, lying in a woven cradle. It was hard to be sure he was human. In any case, Papa Manfred didn’t look at him and didn’t notice anything, as if determined to deprive his eyes of whatever they might see. But he was aware of the young nurse’s glance as she led him toward the nursery, and, when he became aware of her, he tried to dismiss her from his memory, along with the memory of the day he visited Bachlam when Bachlam was sick, when he asked that young nurse about Shira. To prevent these memories from taunting him, as they often did, he turned his mind to other days and other eras. First, to the time of Emperor Theodosius and his chamberlain Cocolus; then to Arcadius, who succeeded his father, Theodosius. Then back to that chamberlain, Cocolus, on whom they both depended, each for his own reasons. Herbst suddenly began to doubt that the chamberlain’s name was really Cocolus, because he didn’t remember an l in his name, and, if there was no l, then it surely wasn’t Cocolus. Now how does this relate to Theodosia? But was I actually thinking about Theodosia?

The Mount Scopus bus arrived at its stop, near the workers’ kitchen. The entire square was full of students, young men and women who were hurrying to the university, to the library, to meet each other, and so on. All around them, a mass of individuals — men, women, babies — pressed forward toward Hadassah Hospital, on their way to visit sick relatives. Herbst and his daughter barely managed to make their way through the crowd, and they barely managed to wriggle out of the line. “Papa,” Tamara said in a tender voice, “let’s write a letter to Zahara now, informing her that all is well and that Mother gave birth to a boy.” “Good,” Papa Manfred said, feeling that was not the right word. But, having already said “Good,” he said it again, so she would take it as a deliberate and sober response. Nevertheless, it surprised him that Tamara had said, “Let’s write a letter to Zahara now.” How could you stop and write a letter on such a noisy street? He couldn’t imagine how it was possible to stand and write a letter on a city street, in a sea of pedestrians.

Herbst followed his daughter in a hush. They were surrounded on all sides, in front and in back, by all sorts of people in varied dress, by stores, vehicles, newspaper vendors, kids distributing flyers, policemen, Arabs, dogs, flying insects — whatever is typical of such a street on a summer day before noon. All this was fused into a single raucous mass that couldn’t be taken apart, whose segments had no life of their own, existing only as a crowd, emitting an incessant murmur. Tamara said to her father, after they sat down in the café, “I assume that, at a time like this, a cup of coffee would suit you.” “And you?” Papa Manfred said, with a sense of shared fate. “Yes,” said Tamara, “I’ll have coffee, too. Until that dunce brings our coffee, I’ll have a cigarette. I left my cigarettes at home, Papa. If you would like to contribute a cigarette, I would be happy to accept it. What, you left your cigarettes at home too? Two people and one blunder.”

The waiter brought two black coffees and some milk. He didn’t bring any sugar. In those days, there was a sugar shortage in the Land of Israel. Cafés and restaurants no longer served sugar with coffee and tea. “Pigs,” said Tamara. “The goyim need sugar for their wars, so we have to drink coffee without sugar.” “Without sugar,” Herbst said. It clearly didn’t matter to him whether he had coffee with or without sugar. “Didn’t we want to write to Zahara?” “We did, yes, we did,” said Tamara. “And what we wanted to do, we will do. I’ll get paper and an envelope. You, Papa, dear, will contribute two or three drops of ink from your blessed pen, along with your pen itself. I promise not to violate the sanctity of scholarship. I’ll merely inform Zahara that Mother gave birth to a boy and that they are both well.” Herbst handed her his pen and said, “Here. You can write to Zahara.” Tamara said, “I’ll get some paper and an envelope.” “Yes, yes,” Herbst said. “Bring paper and an envelope.” He suddenly noticed there was something odd either in his voice or in his words. He wanted to prove to his daughter that he was entirely composed and began searching for a subject that would prove he wasn’t merely babbling. It occurred to him to tell her that they could just as soon call Zahara, since there was obviously a telephone in Ahinoam; that, oddly, if they were to call, Zahara would have the news in Ahinoam even before Sarah, who was at home in Jerusalem. While he thought about his two daughters, that the one who was geographically closer would get the news after the one who was far away, Tamara went to get paper and an envelope. After she returned, with paper, an envelope, and a plate full of warm cakes filled with cheese, fruit, and jam, she said to her father, “Why write? Wouldn’t it be better to find a telephone and call her? No letter in the world could satisfy a daughter’s soul as much as hearing the news directly. They have a telephone here, and at this hour it isn’t being used by couples calling each other. No one will disturb us. There may even be someone in the office in Ahinoam by now, willing to pick up the phone out of idleness and curiosity.” “Yes, yes,” Herbst was about to say to his daughter. “Yes, yes, let’s call her.” But he was afraid she might consider these words odd. He could just as soon say, “Good, good,” but those words had a similarly odd ring. So he restrained himself and didn’t say anything, counting on his daughter to know what was in his heart, which would make all words superfluous. Superfluous! He was suddenly overcome with terror. If Tamara knows what is in his heart, then she knows…Before he could follow the thought to its conclusion, he was confronted with another wave of terror. Tamara laughed and said, “So that’s it. That’s how a man looks when his wife gives him a son. I want to know: does it make a difference whether she gives birth to a male or a female?” “That’s a silly question. Of course there’s a difference.” “Papa, dear, you have probably forgotten what you were like when I was born. But you probably haven’t forgotten what you were like when Sarah was born.” Herbst gazed at her, replaying what was in his own mind: I wasn’t thinking about Theodosia, I’m sure I wasn’t thinking about Theodosia. There was no reason to think about Theodosia, so why does my mind persist in tormenting me with her? Until I find another reason, it’s because her name begins with T, like Tamara’s. I know that’s not the real reason, but, until I find another, this one will have to do. I already said that, so why repeat myself?

When they left the café, Tamara said to her father, “We’ve informed Zahara; what else is there for us to do?” Papa Manfred said, “What else is there for us to do? Believe it or not, I don’t know. I simply don’t know.” He suddenly looked at her with affection and said warmly, “You’ve been treating me like a child who needs a nursemaid. I stand around, not knowing what to do, until you tell me. Very simply, I don’t know what to do. You see, Tamara, there’s material for a tragedy here. A sensible man, father of daughters, suddenly loses his mind, and, if not for his young daughter, he would be desolate. If not for you, Tamara, I would be like King Lear in his time. You never heard of King Lear? I would normally be furious about that, but I’ll let it go for now. So, Tamara, what should we be doing? What, in your opinion, should we be doing? It seems to me that all we have to do is hop on the bus, go home, and tell Sarah that they brought her mother a baby. I leave it to you to figure out how to construct the story about the baby — whether it was delivered by an angel or a stork. They both have wings. Whom did we leave Sarah with? I think that, when we left home, Firadeus wasn’t there. No, she wasn’t. She definitely wasn’t there, and we left the child with no one to look after her! As you see, Tamara, there are times when a sane person has a lapse and does something he shouldn’t do. I’m philosophizing while the poor child is home alone! It’s possible that Firadeus didn’t come at all.” Tamara said, “Don’t worry, Papa. Sarah isn’t home alone.” Father Manfred said, “She isn’t home alone? How can you say she isn’t home alone? If Firadeus didn’t come, then the child is surely there alone. How come I didn’t think of it sooner? I’ll call a taxi, so we can hurry home.” Tamara said, “It’s not necessary to hurry, and we don’t need a taxi.” Father Manfred said, “How can you say it’s not necessary? I really have to admit that I don’t understand you. A little girl is home alone, and you say, ‘It’s not necessary.’ Please, why isn’t it necessary?” Tamara said, “Because she isn’t alone.” Father Manfred said, “You already told me that.” Tamara said, “That’s what I said, and that’s how it is.” Father Manfred said, “Please, Tamara, help me understand. I don’t have much imagination. We left the house, and there was no one home but Sarah, yet you insist — “ Tamara said, “I asked Ursula not to go to her office, so she could be with Sarah.” Manfred said, “You asked Ursula to stay with Sarah, but you didn’t tell me?” Tamara said, “I did tell you.” Father Manfred said, “You told me just now, but earlier, when I was frantic, you didn’t say a word.” Tamara said, “Until you were frantic, there was no reason to tell you.” Father Manfred said, “If you had told me earlier, I wouldn’t have become frantic. What do you think, Tamara? Is there something between her and Taglicht?” Tamara glanced at her father questioningly and said, “Her? Whom do you have in mind?” Father Manfred said, “Between Ursula and Taglicht.” Tamara said, “I didn’t notice.” Father Manfred said, “You didn’t notice?” Tamara said, “I don’t view the world in terms of what goes on between males and females.” Father Manfred smiled and gazed at his daughter with a mix of affection, surprise, and envy, and said, “How do you view the world?” Tamara said, “The world? How do I view it? The entire world concerns me about as much as a single nit in an Arab’s keffiyah. Father Manfred asked his daughter, “What are you concerned with?” “What am I concerned with? Our immediate world.” Father Manfred asked his daughter, “What about our immediate world?” Tamara said, “The issues that concern me are liberty, freedom, casting off the foreign yoke.” Father Manfred said, “What does freedom mean?” Tamara said, “Freedom from the English and their Zionist agents, from Weizmann and his agents, from those who head the Jewish Agency and the Labor Party. Some monstrous Englishman, from some dingy cellar in London or from the House of Lords, appoints himself master of our fate, ruling our world according to the decrees of some other monster, possibly just like him. One well-aimed kick and they’ll be out of this country.” Manfred said, “The Arabs want to throw us into the sea, and you want to throw out the English.” Tamara said, “Out of the country, not into the sea. That’s the difference between us and those desert savages. We’ve improved their lives in so many ways — raised them out of their filth, supplied them with food, replaced their rags with real clothes, provided doctors to cure their eyes — yet they want to throw us into the sea. But they relate to the English like servile dogs. I promise you this, Papa, the Arabs won’t throw us into the sea. In fact, they ought to praise Allah and thank him for the fact that the Jews won’t throw them into the sea.” Herbst pursed his lips and said, “Is that so?” Tamara said, “Yes, Papa. Yes. That’s how it is, and more so.” Father Manfred said, “Jews are merciful; they’re not cruel. But I can tell you this, my child: when a Jew becomes cruel, woe unto his people. When the merciful become cruel, they are worse than those who were born cruel. But back to our subject: how do you expect to get both the Arabs and the English out of this country? Tell me, please, how will you do it?” “How?” Tamara said. “If I were clever, I would answer you. Anyway, it won’t happen the way I imagine it. But what I have told you is definite, guaranteed. I promise that you will see it for yourself.” Father Manfred said, “And can you promise that I’ll enjoy it?” Tamara said, “That depends on you. I myself can imagine no greater pleasure than national power, a people that is vigorous and mighty.” Manfred said, “That Englishman from a dank cellar in London will be replaced by a Revisionist from Odessa, or from some village in Poland, Lithuania, Galicia, or Mea Shearim, and he will tell me what to do. This is what I think: a powerful Gentile, from a powerful country accustomed to power, so that its lust for power has been modulated, is to be preferred to a young Jew whose evil ambitions remain unbridled. Dear Tamara, don’t look so menacing. I won’t say another word, if you wish. But if you have the fortitude to hear the opinion of a man who has seen an orderly world, who has seen war, who has seen revolution follow in its wake, who has read books, I am willing to share my opinions with you, based on what I have seen in books and what I understand from life. I assume, Tamara, that you prefer life to books. Let me begin with my childhood. Will it be hard for you if we walk?” Tamara said, “And you, Papa. Will it be hard for you if we walk?” Father Manfred said, “I don’t credit myself with having taught you many things, so let me teach you one thing that is worth learning.” “What is it?” Father Manfred said, “If someone asks you a question, don’t use the same words when questioning him.” “Why not?” Father Manfred said, “As an exception to the rule, I will begin my answer using your words. Why not? Because that proves to the person you are arguing with that he has influence, if not on your ideas, then on your style. Now, my child, we can go back to the beginning, if you like. But tell me first, do you mind if we walk?” Tamara laughed and said, “What do you want to know first, whether I’m a good student or whether you’re a good teacher?” Father Manfred said, “It’s all the same, isn’t it? A good student learns from his teacher, and a good teacher turns out a decent student. I’m afraid that, with so many asides, we’ll never get to the heart of the matter. If you’re ready to hear, I’ll get back to the subject.”

But Manfred didn’t get back to the subject, not because of all the asides, but because they were home.

Chapter twenty-two

Sarah already knew that she had acquired a brother, but she wasn’t impressed — not by the little brother who was going to be a present from her mother and not by all the pet names bestowed on the newborn baby. None of what Ursula told her in broken Hebrew, none of what Firadeus told her had entered her ears. And if it entered her ears, it didn’t enter her heart. If it entered her heart, she showed no joy or excitement. Actually, the news did make an impression, but not the one the Herbst family had in mind. Attached as she was to her mother, she never asked where she was or even mentioned her. When they brought a message from her mother and told her that she had sent kisses, she didn’t offer her cheek, as she usually did when anyone asked to kiss her. On the other hand, she began to be affectionate to her father, clasping his knees, giving him presents — an eggshell, a bird’s feather, and the like. His heart was stirred to love her anew.

Again, I’ll do something similar to what I have done before. I’ll find words for Father Manfred’s thoughts about Sarah and her brother. They were roughly this: Until now, Sarah was the child of our old age, enjoying years of privilege. Now that she has a brother, Sarah is losing out. Her privileges will be passed on to her brother and multiplied because he is male. I don’t know if Henrietta will be able to restrain herself and keep from depriving the little girl out of fondness for the boy. In any case, as for me, I will do whatever I can to keep Sarah from feeling deprived by her brother. I have heard that, in such cases, people buy entertaining toys and say, “Your little brother sent you these things,” as a way to erase the rivalry. I don’t think that material objects buy love. When love is strong, there is no need for devices, such as presents. Herbst was suddenly in a panic. Though his mind had been totally occupied with his son and daughter, it began to grapple with an issue he should not have been considering now.

Again, I will do what I did before. I will find words for the thoughts he was grappling with, but I won’t dwell on them, for I find that the birth of a son is more important than anything, certainly another woman. This is roughly what was running through his mind about her, about that other woman, about Shira. All that time, when we loved each other, it never occurred to me to woo her with gifts. All the gifts in the world don’t draw hearts any closer. They don’t have the power to change anything. As for The Night Watch, I bought it to give her pleasure. The skull that hangs on her wall is there because she couldn’t find a good Rembrandt reproduction. In any case, she never received The Night Watch, because her door was locked. Once again, the visions and scenes I already mentioned were repeated, in which she drowned or was murdered. But this is no time to elaborate, for he must concern himself with the son his wife has borne for him.

I am now confronted with two separate matters, and I don’t know which to deal with first: his visit to Henrietta or his conversations with Tamara, also his friends and acquaintances, and how they responded to news of his son’s birth. I would like to add to this some reflections on education. It would have been better if these matters had come up separately, so I could take the time to give each one its due. But it is in the nature of events to occur in a disorderly fashion, and it would require considerable effort to isolate them and establish the importance of each one. I don’t presume that I could do this, but I count on them to find their rightful positions themselves; even if one of them is displaced in the process, it can surface elsewhere, nonchalant and essentially intact. First, I will recount his actions in general; then I will break them down, recounting each and every detail.

While Henrietta was in the hospital, Herbst never left home except to visit her, regarding himself as the center of a household that couldn’t be left without someone in charge. During this period, he put aside his central work and took on tasks he either hadn’t considered before or had considered and rejected. Having put aside his central work because of his son’s birth, his conscience no longer plagued him with guilt about wasted time, and he worked out of love and joy. Among other things, he was busy with his books, checking for duplications, discards, alternate possibilities; setting some aside to be read soon. Because he did all this voluntarily, and because he had put aside his work consciously, he was not plagued by guilt over wasted time, and he was utterly happy.

Now I will begin with his daily routine. He used to wake up an hour before the girls got out of bed, move to the kitchen, light the kerosene stove, put on the kettle, make himself coffee, turn off the fire, and go out to the garden to rake the soil and dig hollows around the seedlings, tending the plants until he heard Tamara calling him to the table. Breakfast, which was seemingly no different than ever, amused him now, because Tamara assumed her mother’s tone, urging him to eat an egg. And her responses to Sarah — when she rejected her cereal and left milk in her glass, only to be grabbed by Tamara and prevented from clasping Manfred’s knees with hands, still dirty from breakfast — were so like Henrietta’s. Ursula’s conversations with Sarah were most entertaining, one of them speaking Hebrew that isn’t quite Hebrew and the other answering in German that isn’t quite German — spicing it with Arabic, on the theory that since it, too, is a gentile language, Arabic must be like German.

After breakfast, sometimes during breakfast, Ursula rushes off to work. Tamara turns to her work, correcting the notebooks of her Mekor Hayim students, which serve as camouflage for writing proclamations and sending them out. Because of the proclamations, she didn’t go to Mekor Hayim. She said, “I’m taking time off to look after my little sister.” I don’t know what is involved in looking after her. As for dressing, Sarah dresses herself; as for bathing, Firadeus bathes her; as for looking after her, in the sense of protection, the good Lord protects her, and no other protection is needed. This little Jewish girl spends most of her time outside, surrounded by enemies, yet no harm comes to her. All this time, Herbst is busy in his room, taking books out, putting books in, cutting snips of paper to use as markers in the books he means to read. This would seem to be a simple task; actually, it is quite difficult. Having decided on a book he would like to read and placed a snip of paper in it as a sign, when he comes back to it, he no longer recalls why he had decided it was worth reading. He is about to put the book back on the shelf when he finds himself deliberating: So why do you need it at all? Just to gather dust or to add to your book count. While he is engaged with his books, a voice is heard. Firadeus appears, stands in the doorway, and says softly, “The table is set, and lunch is ready.” If Tamara fails to notice, Sarah jumps up, runs to clasp her father’s knees, and presents her cheek for him to kiss. Again, I should mention that, in this situation, offering a cheek to be kissed is equivalent to granting a kiss. And what about this? Herbst, who is fussy about cleanliness, doesn’t look to see if Sarah’s hands are clean. Even if her mouth is sticky from the colorful candies Firadeus brings her, it doesn’t prevent him from kissing her on the mouth. She asks, “Is it sweet?” and he answers, “Very sweet.” She runs to Firadeus and reports that her mouth is sweet. Then she comes back to her father, not for a hug and a kiss, for her love has been elevated. It is now spiritual love, and she is content to have her father near her. Father asks, “What would you like me to tell your mother? What should I say to your little brother?” She instantly becomes silent and doesn’t answer.

When he is finished eating, Herbst goes back to his room, stretches out on the couch, and reads a book. Not one of the books he had set aside to read, but a book that appeals to him at that moment. After reading for a while and dozing for a bit, he gets up, showers, has some coffee, and goes to visit his wife. If she is alone, he sits with her. He asks her questions, and she asks him questions. She asks what he ate, what he drank, how he slept, what Sarah said, what Tamara is doing, how the garden is doing, what Firadeus is doing, how they are treating Ursula in her office, and so on. He asks how she is, how the baby is, what name she wants to give the child — having already agreed not to name him after one of their relatives with long, old-fashioned German names and not to construct one of those modern names that will sound banal in no time. If he finds some woman friend is visiting, he makes a point of being brief, to give them a chance to talk.

One day, he found a woman there who told a story. Since her story is relevant to the event, namely, the birth of a little brother and a circumcision ceremony, I will repeat what she said, adding a word of my own. “I was six years old when my little brother was born. On the day of his brit, I said to my teacher, ‘Mrs. Foiese,’ which was her name, ‘please, Mrs. Foiese, may I go home an hour early?’ The teacher said, ‘Why?’ I said, ‘I have a new brother.’ The teacher asked, ‘What do you people do when a baby boy is born?’ I told her, ‘We have a brit and the baby is circumcised.’ ‘What?’ the teacher asked. I repeated, ‘We have him circumcised.’ The teacher said, ‘What’s that? You mean baptized?’ I was terrified. I began to shake and tremble. I was overcome with fear. I knew baptism was a Christian term, and I was afraid that, God forbid, they intended to convert my little brother. The teacher saw my tears and said, ‘All right, all right, you can go home.’ Another thing happened. A girl of about twelve said to me, ‘You should be ashamed. You crucified the Christ child.’ I didn’t know who the Christ child was, nor did I know anything about crucifying. But I realized that my friend was connecting me with some dreadful event, an event I had nothing to do with. The teacher, trying to make amends, said, ‘She wasn’t the one who crucified the Christ child; it was her ancestors who did it.’ I went home crying and said I couldn’t stay in a gentile school. My parents sent me to a Jewish school. These events led me to Judaism, to Zionism, to the Land of Israel.”

I will mention one more woman who came to visit Henrietta: Mrs. Rika Weltfremdt, the wife of Professor Ernst Weltfremdt. I don’t remember if I have already said what she is like, and I don’t imagine she adds to the saga of Shira and Herbst. Though this is the case, I won’t neglect her. I’ll tell a little bit about her, as an act of charity toward this unfortunate soul, removed from her source of vitality, ending up here with us, where no one pays attention to her poems, and even her family ignores them. Through deception and insipid compliments, they avoid reading her poetry.

Rika Weltfremdt is a small, thin woman, graceful and delicate. Her eyes are kind and lovely, brown and direct, viewing the world with deep yearning that tempts others to abuse her sensitivity. Because of her size, she is overshadowed by her husband. His limbs are gross, his eyebrows heavy. He deals with words as if he were dealing out new provinces and adding them to the universe. She relates to her husband as she relates to everyone else, as she used to relate to her father, her brothers, her sisters. Her father, who owned two shoe factories and was especially fond of her, gave her a dowry that exceeded her sisters’ by one part and found her a husband who was a doctor and a lecturer, and, if not for the horrors that befell the world, he would have been a professor in a German university by now. Because of these horrors, he was compelled to move to the Land of Israel. But even here he is recognized. Though scholarship is not valued here unless it contributes to nationalist interests, Zionist leaders acknowledge that he is a genuine scholar. Since he has an international reputation, those in the Land of Israel take credit for him when it suits them. However, as he becomes more ample, Rikchen becomes even more slight. No one is left to listen to her poems, except for a young lady who helps out in her daughter’s household. Now, having heard that Mrs. Herbst did a wonderful thing — that she gave birth to a son — she was inspired to produce a poem, which she brought to Mrs. Herbst. She was so modest that she made it seem secondary to the perfume she brought as a gift. It was good that she brought the poem, to perpetuate the fine and worthy sentiments of our sisters, and to convey her feelings about the birth of a Jewish child at a time when the seed of Israel is, God forbid, in danger of being eliminated from the earth. If the poem isn’t really a poem, the sentiments in it are truly sentiments, and those of us who look for opinions and sentiments in poetry regard those lines as poetry and accept their author as a poet. Since I’m not capable of translating her poem, I will put it aside and get back to Henrietta and to Zahara, who has come to see her mother.

Zahara came, bringing with her produce from the earth of Ahinoam, along with a hat and booties that were her own handiwork. Zahara’s delight in her little brother was beyond all measure. It was the delight we note in a woman who has been waiting for years and finally achieves what she achieves. The two women, mother and daughter, sit together, one in the bed, the other on the chair in front of it. One has graying hair and wrinkles on her face, her upper lip, and the corners of her mouth; the other has smooth skin, not a wrinkle on her face, an unwrinkled soul. They sit saying things to each other that they have never said before, accompanying their words with exclamations of joy and affection, emotions so powerful that they infect the nurses in charge of the new mother and her son. When they bring him to Henrietta so she can give him her milk, Zahara says, “How lucky you are to have such an adorable baby. If only I could nurse him, I would snatch him away and run off to Ahinoam with him. Tell me the truth, Mother, would you give him to me? I already told Dani that Grandma has a baby uncle for him. I think he actually understood. All day he was chirping ‘baby grandpa,’ and at night, before he fell asleep, he said ‘baby uncle.’ Oh, Mother, if you could hear him, you would be so pleased, so pleased. I can’t begin to tell you how pleased you would be. I tell you, Mother, Dani already loves his uncle. Really, Mother. He really loves him. And I love him too. But, Mother, I thought I had used up my supply of love. You brought me a brother, and new love was created. Where does it come from? I really don’t know, but I feel it stirring inside me, setting my heart in motion, and I love him. I love you and Father and Sarah and Tamara, all of you. I love you all. When they came and told me Father was on the phone, when I ran and heard the news, I was so excited I wept with joy. You know, Mother, that I don’t get excited. But I was so excited that I said to Avraham, ‘Avraham, I’m going to Jerusalem.’ Avraham said, ‘If you want to go, go.’ So I collected myself, took off, and here I am. Tell me, Mother, isn’t it good that I came? Make me be quiet, Mother. My heart is full because…because…How shall I say it? My heart…I won’t say anything. Here comes Father. Mazel tov, Father. I’ll go out for a minute and wash my eyes. When I come back, we can go home together. They won’t let me spend the night with you, Mother. Don’t worry about my eyes. They’re stinging because of the dusty road. I made our driver go as fast as he could. At that speed, all I could see was the dust in my eyes.”

Once again, Manfred sat with Henrietta, and they said things we are familiar with, adding some words about Zahara — that, as she gets older, she gets more and more emotional. But her life seems to be in good order. Would that Tamara’s course were as smooth. While Henrietta and Manfred were talking, Zahara managed to wash her tear-stained eyes, to go back to look at her little brother, and to find he had features like those of her Dani. Manfred had already concluded his conversation with Henrietta. If he had sat with her a thousand years, he wouldn’t have added anything. For this reason, when Zahara knocked and entered, he leaped up to join her. If not for the nurse, who gave a sign indicating that Zahara must leave too, she would have stayed with her mother another hour and yet another hour — a thousand years, at least.

Father and daughter left for home. Because Zahara wanted to see Sarah and because she wanted to get to see her an hour sooner, she prevailed on her father to waste his money on a taxi that happened by, rather than wait for the bus, since there was no way of knowing when it might be in the mood to come. They arrived with the speed of an arrow and were home before they had a chance to exchange a word. They came home and found Sarah alone. Firadeus had washed the dishes, given Sarah a bath, and gone home. Tamara had gone off, for just a few minutes, to the German colony. Unless my hypothesis is incorrect, she went to the post office to send off some of her proclamations. Tamara is clever, and she knows no one would suspect that mail from the German colony comes from Jews seeking freedom.

Chapter twenty-three

From the moment Zahara entered the house, all household procedures were set on end. This applied to the food, to the cleaning, and especially to Sarah. She examined her from head to toe, changed her clothes, and combed her hair, arranging it in two braids tied with red elastics that emphasized its shiny golden lights. As soon as Herbst came home with his daughter, he realized he had someone he could depend on, that he was no longer needed to supervise. But, since he had become accustomed to staying in during the past four days, except for the hours spent visiting his wife, he chose to continue in this mode until Henrietta’s return from the hospital. Herbst hadn’t spent that much time at home in years. Whatever he did found favor in his daughter’s eyes. Her voice was never harsh; she never said anything that irritated him. I must admit — smart as Henrietta was, and concerned as she was with her husband’s welfare and peace of mind — she sometimes irritated him with her pedantic ways, which were thoroughly irrational. Much as Herbst tried to defend her, he regarded her behavior toward him in those petty matters as obstinate and cruel. As soon as Zahara came and took charge of the household, not a harsh sound was heard. On the contrary, Zahara accepted every foolish act of Manfred’s, even when he himself felt he had done something improperly, as if it were meant to be done that way and as if it had been done well. Tamara, who made a pretense, at first, of keeping an eye on household affairs and on Sarah, was only too happy to pass the reins to her sister. In fact, she said to her, “From here on, it’s all yours.” Manfred roamed through his house and garden, books and bushes, in a state of absolute repose. He knew that he could now go to Shira and spend the whole night there, without having to invent alibis. Still, he chose to stay home. Moving from activities in his room to those in the garden, he played with Sarah, sharing her bread (actually a mud pie), listening to music made by her wind-up doll, rocking either Sarah or the doll on his lap, singing jingles learned from Ursula. Playing with little Sarah, Father Manfred browsed through the nursery rhymes he found among Tamara’s books, as well as other assorted literature written for children. As he rummaged through these volumes, he was astonished to have lived in the country for so many years without considering the spiritual nourishment provided to children in the Land of Israel. His two elder daughters were raised here, so he should have taken an interest in this matter. If he happened to hear a children’s poem or to pick up a children’s book, he would discharge his duty with an outburst of intellectual ire: To think that they feed children such drivel, that they expect them to develop taste with these contrived rhymes! He was moved to ire rather than to serious study or an attempt at reform. Though I don’t mean to compare one thing to another, or, for that matter, one man to another, I will make an exception and say that, in this respect, Manfred Herbst was very much like Julian Weltfremdt. But one of these gentlemen denounced the scholars in the Land of Israel, while the other denounced its educators. In fact, had one of them found a job, he might have instituted some educational reforms, whereas the other was content to rail against educators and their inane practices, becoming particularly irate at the poems written for children and at the entire contrived body of literature designed for young readers. He was irritated to the point of despising that entire body of literature and those who produced it.

Manfred Herbst was a man of integrity, who didn’t tend to involve himself in a subject unless he was thoroughly familiar with it. Which may be why he had avoided the area of education all those years. With the birth of his son — because of which he happened to be playing with his little daughter — he begin to think about education. Hear this: he didn’t pick up a book to investigate the opinions of educators in other times, but he began, on his own, to consider what would be an appropriate education for his son. I’ll try to outline his opinions, what he pictured to himself in terms of how he would like to educate his son. (1) Total control of the body: the ability to fall asleep at any time and in any place, as well as a total ability to wake up whenever he likes. (2) To eat whatever he finds, without elaborate preparation, with no fuss. (3) To pronounce all words correctly. (4) To acquire an aesthetic and readable handwriting. (5) To choose a profession that will not make him dependent on others’ opinions and, similarly, to avoid any individual or enterprise that leads to dependence on others’ opinions. (6) To learn languages and their grammar. (7) To be meticulous in everything, to stand by his word, to keep every promise, to tell the truth even if it hurts. Manfred included many other matters in the fundamentals of education. I have chosen only a small number of them and have made no attempt to present them in any order, beyond the one in which they occurred to him.

I will now try to transmit some of his thoughts about human affairs and education. Again, I will take up each item in the order in which it occurred to him. Humanity suffers from the fact that the earliest education is in the hands of women. From birth, human beings cling to their mother’s breast, and, as they nurse, they become dependent on a woman. If this was the Creator’s goal, He was very successful. It is in the nature of man to be drawn toward a woman. In Sefer Haggadah, our compilation of ancient legends, I found the tale of a man whose wife died, leaving him an infant son. The Holy and Blessed One granted him teats, so he could nurse the child. In this splendid legend, a free-thinking storyteller proceeds to depict an ideal person: someone who doesn’t depend on mother’s milk. Alas, he did not tell us about this baby’s subsequent development and how he related to women.

Herbst’s thoughts about education were interrupted, and once again they settled on a subject I assumed he had already put out of mind. What had happened to him some time back happened that night. He lay in bed, seeing himself either with Shira in her new apartment or in the role of the man with the whip, walking with her, far away. Suddenly, an Arab approached her and did what he did. He himself had been hiding in a hollow, his eyes closed, so he wouldn’t see. He fell fast asleep, only to be startled by the bite of an animal or an insect. He tried to get up and escape, but the creature’s teeth were in his flesh. He was dripping blood and didn’t have the energy to defend himself, let alone get up and take flight. If not for Zahara, who knocked on the door and asked if he was up yet, he would have been late to his son’s circumcision.

Before I tell about this event, I should say that Herbst had announced in the newspaper that a son was born to him and his wife, giving the day, the hour, and the place of the brit, the ceremony that admits a male child to the covenant of our father Abraham. Actually, Herbst had considered putting an announcement in the paper as soon as the baby was born, but he reasoned: When I read in the paper that Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so announce the birth of a son, whether it says “announce” or “are happy to announce,” the information is of no interest to me; this is not the case when they announce that there will be a brit, at a given time and place, and invite their friends to come. I can see that they mean to ask me to take part in their celebration, so I figure out what the invitation has to do with me and whether or not I should go. Tamara had said, “I don’t understand these things, but, if you want to put an announcement in the newspaper, I assume you want to put it in Ha’aretz. Here we are, right near the office. We can stop in, if you like.” Herbst said, “But I still don’t know exactly when the brit will be. When I know the day and the hour, I’ll arrange it. Why make two announcements?”

Henrietta presented her husband with a healthy and sound son. Many of her acquaintances, who hadn’t seen her while she was pregnant, read on the front page of Ha’aretz, “Henrietta and Dr. Manfred Herbst are happy to announce the birth of a son,” and were surprised that such a smart woman, at such an age, had done such a thing. When they read the rest of the announcement — “Friends are invited to the ceremony admitting their son to the covenant of Abraham” — anyone who was not otherwise occupied decided to come. Some were dressed in holiday finery, others in everyday clothes. Some brought flowers for the new mother; some sent flowers by messenger, either to Hadassah Hospital or to the Herbst home.

The circumcision ceremony, or brit, as it is usually called, was like all such ceremonies performed in Jerusalem and in most of our cities. Men and women were gathered in one of the ugliest rooms of Hadassah Hospital, huddled together because the space was so tight. The room was bisected by two tables filled with all sorts of cakes — large ones, small ones, tall ones, short ones — in a variety of shapes, with white, red, and green icing. There were also tarts and cookies and other kinds of baked goods. Alongside the cakes and assorted confections was a row of bottles — wines, cognac, arrack, and other beverages, both sharp and sweet — adorned with seasonal flowers. Men and women who hadn’t seen each other for months were now in one place, eager to talk to one another. What often happens happened here: neighbors they saw every day kept interrupting them. But this was not a loss to everyone. You can often learn something new from a person you see every day.

Meanwhile, the mohel, who was to perform the circumcision, was preparing the instruments. He was a young man, a yeshiva student, skilled and expert at the job. At first, he used to perform this mitzvah for its own sake, without expecting a reward, in accordance with the age-old custom. In time, he began to consider it a skill, like any other, and charged a fee. He was of less than medium height, blond, with a tendency to plumpness, due to so many ceremonial feasts. His eyes were small, blue, and watery; his voice was slightly hoarse; his earlocks were curly, fluffy around the edges but for the most part pressed flat. He wore a clean white robe and a shiny black yarmulke. He did his job carefully, inspecting and testing the knife, the cotton, the alcohol, turning neither to the left nor to the right. But it was clear that he wished to be noticed. In fact, in his heart, he hoped that those doctors and professors, who made a point of scorning the Orthodox, were watching him and observing his hygienic procedures — unlike those of that old man, a partner in a contracting firm, who comes to perform a circumcision in plaster-stained work clothes, with a rag wrapped around an injured finger. Go and understand the workings of the mind! In Jerusalem, people are especially fond of this old man. A certain pediatrician says that, even with the dirty rag on his finger, he is more careful and more sanitary than all the other people who handle babies. The mohel finally turned to the crowd, inspected his fingernails in the light from the window, and inquired, disapprovingly, “Why are we putting off the mitzvah? Why not bring in the baby?”

A young nurse entered, carrying an infant enveloped in fine and delicate wrappings. Only the mohel noticed her. He shouted and cried out, “Welcome and many blessings.” He shouted and cried out, “Elijah, angel of the covenant…” Everyone turned and noticed the sweet nurse with the baby in her arms. They made way for her, and Tamara came and stood in front of the nurse, to protect her little brother from harm. The mohel elevated the knife, inspected it again in the light from the window, and told the sandak, whose job it was to hold the baby, exactly how to sit, how to position his knees, how and how and how. Like most people who perform a mitzvah for pay, the mohel made himself conspicuous, whether or not this was necessary. Since Herbst didn’t know he could have bestowed this honor on one of his guests, the mohel took it upon himself to recite the blessings over the wine. His voice was hoarse and hard on the ears, but most of the guests were attentive and gaped at this miracle worker, who recites prayers from memory as fluently as a cantor reading from the prayerbook.

After the circumcision, he handed the infant to his mother. All those who had come to the brit sat down at the brimming tables, ate, drank, and ate more. Tamara had prepared an enormous amount of food and drink, along with an assortment of things to smoke. After the first glass, the mohel wiped his mouth with an oddly rapid gesture, pounded on the table, and began to chant traditional verses in his hoarse voice. He then whispered something to Herbst. Herbst got up, left the room with him, and gave him the sum the nurse had suggested as payment for his services. The mohel demanded that he double it, arguing that he ought to be treated like a professor and paid on the same scale.