Shira

Chapter one

That same day, in the afternoon, Henrietta came home with her male child. After changing her clothes, she stood beside her son’s cradle. She studied the red, wrinkled face; the skull, oversized in proportion to the face; the little eyes, so blue in contrast to his white wrappings, and cooed at him, saying, “Now that we’re home, you are all mine. No one else has any right to you. Your father is a prophet. Before you were born, he foresaw that your mother would give birth to a male child, and his prophecy has been fulfilled. You are a male child, a man. A little man for now, but in time you will truly be a man.” That word, that concept, with all of its ramifications, amused Henrietta immeasurably and endlessly. Little by little, the amusement gave way to a sweet, delightful joy that soothed her soul. If I call it soul-felt joy, I think the phrase is apt.

Avraham-and-a-half came to congratulate Zahara’s mother and to take Zahara back to Ahinoam. Not because of Dani, who has already forgotten his mother and doesn’t mention her, who doesn’t need his mother, because there is good child care in Ahinoam, which makes mothers expendable. Nor did the economy suffer from Zahara’s absence, because Ahinoam’s lumber factory was so successful that a member with Zahara’s standing could be allowed to spend another day, and still another, away from Ahinoam. But it was Avraham who needed Zahara. He needed her, and he therefore constructed an entire philosophical scheme, roughly as follows: When a man takes a wife, he should avoid anything that suggests to him or to his wife that they can survive without each other.

So Avraham-and-a-half came to his wife in Jerusalem. He brought honey and cheese for the household, a snakeskin for his sister-in-law Sarah, and a lovely baby carriage made in the Ahinoam factory, a carriage made especially for Zahara’s little brother. The carriage is made of four panels, two long and two short, that can be taken apart and put together quite simply. Anyone who has seen fathers, mothers, and babies in Jerusalem on a Shabbat afternoon — the father carrying the baby in his arms because it is tired of lying in the carriage, while the struggling mother drags an empty carriage through the bumpy streets, filling the air with its shrill squeaks, collecting dirt from the road, along with dog and cat droppings — anyone who has seen this sight will appreciate a folding carriage made in segments that can be folded like the pages of book, with wheels that can also be separated from each other. It doesn’t require much imagination to see how smooth and comfortable Henrietta and Manfred’s walks with their little son will be. Apart from all the actual presents, Avraham brought regards from Dani, who instructed him to welcome his little uncle. He didn’t give explicit instructions, but, when Avraham went to kiss his son before leaving and told Dani that he was going to see Dani’s uncle, Dani had cried out, “Uncle, uncle,” referring not only to his uncle, but to his uncle’s mother as well. That’s really how it was, since he had also talked about “uncle’s grandma.”

Dr. Manfred Herbst’s house was full. In the crib was an infant, named Gabriel but called Gabi, because he was so small. His brother-in-law, Avraham-and-a-half, stood over him, trying to ascertain from the lines of his face just what he had in common with Dani. Henrietta was at his side, in all her fullness. If we didn’t know she gave birth nine days ago, we would think, from the fullness of her limbs and the fullness of her body, that she was about to deliver. Zahara was at Henrietta’s side, waiting for an opportunity to pick up her little brother. As soon as she saw her brother, her arms began to long for the infant. Father Manfred was wandering around at some distance from them. If I include Tamara, who went to her room, unable to tolerate this fetishism — meaning the worship of a tiny morsel of flesh known as Gabriel — then the entire Herbst family and its affiliate — meaning Zahara’s husband, Avraham-and-a-half — is accounted for. Herbst has expanded in every direction. He has generated four souls, augmented by two others: Henrietta at Manfred’s side and Avraham-and-a-half at Zahara’s side.

I’ll take the time to voice my opinion about all the members of the Herbst household, beginning with little Sarah and omitting Gabriel, whose existence is still limited to the space between his crib and his wetnurse’s bosom. Magicians, sorcerers, and fortune-tellers claim to be able to predict the future of such an infant. Those who judge by what they see can say about him only that he fills his mouth with milk, screams, cries, sleeps, wakes up, and fills the entire house with his screams. Henrietta and Zahara are impressed even by this; Herbst is impressed only when his son is quiet and doesn’t subject the ear to his shrieks.

I’ll get back to Sarah, which is where I began, though I won’t dwell on her. She is still small, and worries are remote from her mind. All one can say about her is that she is native to the land and true to its ways: her needs are minimal, and her concerns few. If she hurts a finger or upsets her stomach, by the time her mother provides a remedy, she is already cured. The sun that belongs to the Land of Israel loves those who live there and cures all of Sarah’s ills. Sarah put on a new dress and tore a hole in it. Her mother scolded her. She looked up at her mother with warm, astonished eyes, and pointed a finger at a patch of skin that poked through the hole, saying, “Mother, this is very much nice.” She means to say that the skin showing through the hole is nicer than the fabric the dress is made from. She sometimes says, “Mother, this is very much important.” I don’t know where she got this abstract phrase from. In any case, when it comes out of Sarah’s mouth, it is very concrete, and it unmistakably applies to skin and fabric. There are many other nice and important things to tell about her, but I’ll leave them for now and move on to Zahara and Tamara. I will add just one thing: whatever she sees in the sky and on the earth, indoors and out, makes her happy. A chicken crying, starlings flying, a turkey strutting, a young ram butting, a dog’s bark, cats’ eyes in the dark, a rooster’s cry, frogs leaping high, a bleating ewe, a cow’s soft moo, the wind’s force, a neighing horse, a porcupine’s bristles, a donkey eating thistles, a burning match, a firefly to catch, a butterfly just hatched — all these things make her thoroughly happy. As well as Mr. Sacharson, when he engages her in baby talk. Sacharson told us she once said to him, “You’re a grandpa, but you talk like a baby.” If you trust what he says, it’s possible that Sarah did say something of the sort. I will now turn to Zahara.

Zahara’s life is in very good order. She has no financial worries, nor does she have to worry about housing. She is a married woman and the mother of a child. If she doesn’t decide to follow the example of some of her friends, who leave their husbands for other men, the rest of her life will go well. Not many people are as kindhearted as Avraham. I have mentioned Avraham-and-a-half again and again in terms of spiritual qualities, such as devotion to Hebrew, integrity, and the like. Now I will mention some of his simpler qualities. I won’t mention them all, but I’ll single out one of them: devotion to the land, a positive quality that includes all others. He is attached to the land and to all that grows on it. You know that there is no higher value, because our entire community depends on agriculture, and, if not for the seductions of our time, it would be apparent to everyone that Israel’s salvation derives from the good Lord above and the earth below.

I still have Tamara to deal with. Tamara, as you know, is still single. Many young men are courting her, and there is no end or limit to the number of young men who seek her out, only to be rejected. In another context, I mentioned Schlesinger, who was a lapsed yeshiva student. Insofar as I can judge, he is not the mate she will append to the family. Since I hate to speculate, I won’t say anything about her other admirers. I won’t even mention names.

The entire Herbst family is gathered together. They are all at home, with no outsiders present. Those who are in the habit of visiting the Herbst household know this isn’t the time to visit, that the mother of the house is busy with an infant less than two weeks old. Even Ursula isn’t at home. She went off on a trip. No one knows whether the trip will be long or short, but that is not what we’re worried about. We’re worried about the fact that Ursula is in Lebanon. As you well know, in these times, when the entire country is consumed by hate, it is hard to imagine a Jewish girl traveling through Lebanon — unless there is truth to the rumor that she went with a Lebanese doctor, who was taking her to see his birthplace and his family home. Darling Ursula, though we put ourselves out on her behalf, because of her rare beauty, because of her Zionist father, because she asked us for shelter, has taken up with a foreigner, whose country is an enemy. It turned out that her time with us was a brief episode, and, now that she has left us, we have no further dealings with her. Even if we have no dealings with her, her father’s sorrow persists. This long-standing Zionist, who devoted his life to Zionism, who went so far as to risk his life for Zionism while at the university, was privileged to see his daughter move to Israel, where she found a home with a good Zionist family. In the end, she abandoned all that was dear to her father to cling to the son of a nation known to be hostile to us. Now that Ursula was gone, Herbst began to think about Taglicht and Tamara again. Years back, before Zahara married Avraham-and-a-half, he had entertained similar thoughts about Zahara and about Lisbet Neu. Now, whether or not he still had Lisbet Neu in mind, he abandoned his schemes about Tamara and Taglicht. If I transmit his thoughts in my own language, they are roughly these: May the One who plots, plot these affairs as He wishes and sees fit. After Herbst undertook to write the tragedy of the woman of the court, Yohanan the nobleman, and the faithful slave Basileios, he realized and acknowledged how hard it is to connect event to event, action to action, so that they produce harmony or even pleasant disorder. Though he gave up on the tragedy, there is no end to what he learned from it.

Back to Ursula. I meant to dismiss her without further attention, since her affairs are not relevant to the tale of Shira and Herbst, but, in the end, she requires attention. Ursula Katz was lovely and charming. Her ways were altogether pleasant. Even someone such as Taglicht, who isn’t taken in by surfaces, enjoyed talking to her and used to call her Droste, after Droste-Hulshoff, the delightful poet whose hairdo was like hers. Soon after arriving in the country, she found work. When she stopped working for Mustafa and Abdullah, she found a better job, with Jews. She walked out on them too, rather suddenly. When Henrietta asked her why she decided to give up such a good job, working for such fine Jews, she answered, “Jews aren’t gentlemen,” and would say no more. The day before the baby’s brit, she came to see Mrs. Herbst in the hospital, to take leave of her before setting off on her trip. Mrs. Herbst didn’t ask with whom she was going or other similar questions. The information we have was conveyed to us by an official at the Kupat Holim medical clinic. This, in brief, is the story of Ursula Katz. I won’t mention her again, to avoid entangling her in the story of Herbst and Shira or in that of the Herbst family. From the beginning, I hesitated to link her affairs with those of the Herbst household. I now see that what one hesitates about at the beginning is best put aside, that what isn’t put aside at the beginning will be put aside at the end, after creating disorder and confusion.

Gabriel, who is called Gabi because he’s so small, fills the house with his presence. This chick, who hasn’t gotten off the ground yet, is everywhere. Here, water is being heated for Gabi’s bath; over there is Gabi’s crib; Firadeus is hanging out Gabi’s diapers; and that tall, skinny woman there, who looks half-male, would like to be Gabi’s wetnurse. Her chest is flat as a board; her eyes are dry and severe. Yet she insists she produces as much milk as two wetnurses. There is also a round, plump woman, sent by Sarini, who is so eager to nurse Gabi that her milk has become a pressing weight. Sarini herself is unable to nurse Gabi, because her milk has diminished because of her sorrow because of her mad husband, because he is planning a long trip, and, if he takes such a trip in times like these, she will end up an abandoned wife. But her eyes and heart are with Mistress Herberist, which is why she sent such a fine woman to nurse Mistress Herberist’s baby, as she herself had done for his sister Sarah and for her own children — the Lord alone knows how many.

A few days before Gabriel was born, Father Manfred transferred his bedding to his study, and, once again, he spends his days and nights amid his books. But he hasn’t achieved very much. He hasn’t added a single note to his files. While Henrietta was in the hospital, Herbst took time off from his major work and did other things, all of which he did well. Now that he is at it again, not only does no work get done, but other things remain undone too. His fingers are ineffectual; they accomplish nothing. His books are everywhere — piled on the table, on the chairs — making it difficult to tidy up the room and sweep the dust. He really ought to clear away the books and put them back in place, but he does no such thing. He merely moves them from one spot to another. Henrietta, who generally sees what is and isn’t happening, saw that he was in a bad mood, which is what tends to happen when he isn’t absorbed in his work. One day, Henrietta said to Manfred, “Fred, you have to get to work. You are idle so much of the time. It’s almost winter, and you have to prepare for your classes. You mustn’t waste a single hour on me. As you can see, I’m surrounded by helpers and assistants dedicated to my welfare. Even Krautmeir came to see if I need her. Yet you, Fred, have been stationed here as if it is your job to take care of me.” Manfred answered, “So, Mother, in your opinion, what should Fred be doing?” Henrietta answered, “In my opinion, you should sit in your room and pore over your work.” Manfred said, “From what you say, Mother, it would appear that I don’t sit at my desk, in my room. In that case, let me tell you this, Mother. All of last night — more precisely, most of last night — I didn’t stir from my desk. What did I achieve? Only boredom. The boredom begins to bore me. You laugh at that charming phrase, Mother. It’s not mine. It’s Ludwig Richter’s.” Henrietta said, “I won’t suggest ways to escape the boredom that is beginning to bore you, but I will say that you don’t belong here, in this room. We have a houseful of women, which is quite enough. Stand up, Fred. Let me have a look. You’ve put on weight. You ought to weigh yourself.” Fred said, “I, also, think I’ve gotten fatter. A dozen Shylocks could each take a pound of flesh from me, and it wouldn’t look as if anything were missing. Everything about me is becoming slovenly. It’s because I don’t smoke as much.” “Because you don’t smoke as much?” “Yes, Henriett. Yes. Because I’m not as much of a smoker. In the past, when I felt I was missing something — and when doesn’t a person feel he is missing something? — anyway, when I felt I was missing something, I used to stick a cigarette in my mouth and begin smoking. Now, Henriett, now I fill my mouth with chocolate or other sweets that turn into fat. What are you staring at?” Henrietta said, “What am I staring at? If I’m not mistaken, your belt is two holes looser than it used to be.” Manfred said, “You’re mistaken, Henriett, you’re mistaken. I’ve already made an extra hole in the belt. Unless God is a little less generous with me, my belt won’t have room for enough new holes. I’m already afraid I may have to make holes in the air. Most people would suggest that I work in the garden. They don’t realize that gardening stimulates the appetite.” Henrietta said, “You ought to walk.” Manfred said, “Do you mean a stroll around my belly? Believe it or not, I already tried that.” Henrietta said, “If not for the Arabs, I would tell you to go into the hills, as we used to do when we first came to Jerusalem. Oh, Fred, remember those days? On Shabbat, we used to spend six or seven hours hiking through the hills and come home jubilant and happy. I remember one Shabbat, before I had a chance to set up the burner and heat the food, you devoured everything I had prepared for dinner, except for a bottle of wine, which you drank down in one gulp. After that, you played drunk and insisted you were so hungry you would eat me. I was so silly at the time: even though I knew you were pretending, I was a little afraid you were really drunk, and, when you opened your mouth to bite me, I was afraid you really would bite me. And then the mouth that threatened to swallow me up began to overflow with kisses. Remember? It was the year I got pregnant with Tamara. Sometimes, when I think about her and her character, I wonder if she is the way she is because of how carefree we were on those walks. Fred, I don’t want to submerge myself in memories; past memories interfere with current pleasures. As I said before, if not for the Arabs, I would suggest that you go for a walk in the hills. Still, there are places in Jerusalem where you can walk safely. Why don’t you invite Tamara to go along? Tamara would be glad to accompany you, and you would be glad too. When it comes to bringing fathers and daughters together, there is nothing as effective as a walk.”

Henrietta was silent, and Manfred was silent too. I don’t know what this silence was about. It wasn’t that he was tired of listening or that she was tired of talking. In any case, Manfred didn’t move away from Henrietta, and Henrietta didn’t move away from Manfred. After a while, she continued, “Since you mentioned Ludwig Richter, I was reminded of the walks I used to take with my father. At the time, he had been asked by Ullstein Verlag to do some drawings of the countryside around Berlin. Father, who loved Berlin and its environs more than any other piece of land in the world, didn’t linger to negotiate the fee or any other details. As soon as he left the publisher’s office, he filled his pack with paint and brushes, and set out to work. Father was wearing a hunting jacket; he had a small pipe in his mouth, like the one he gave you, perhaps the very same one; his eyes were fixed on his favorite landscapes. It was obvious to me at the time that Father was unaware of my existence, that he didn’t see me and didn’t know I was there, that I was superfluous. Just when I was convinced I was superfluous, Father took my arm and said, ‘Look, Henrietta, look at that drooping tree, that carcass of a tree. That particular tree is the one I mean to paint.’ He noticed that I was surprised by his words, by his emphasis on ‘that particular tree.’ So he began to elaborate: ‘I know the arbiters of taste will disapprove, but I will do what I like, and, if they don’t like it, they can…’ At this point, Father used one of those words that fathers don’t usually use in a daughter’s presence. I myself was delighted with that word, with the sense that Father was treating me as he would treat a friend. You remember Father, of course. At home he was very conventional, but I was told that he was totally transformed when with friends, that he became a different person. What do you want, Sarah? Why are you crying? Who put dirty water in your eyes? Let me wipe them, and tell me why you’re crying.” Sarah forgot she was crying and said, “That lady says Sarah is Sarini’s child, Sarah isn’t Mama’s child. Gabi is Sarini’s child too. Gabi isn’t Mama’s child. If she wants to, Sarini will put Gabi back inside her, and there won’t be any Gabi.” Henrietta smoothed Sarah’s cheek, kissed her, and said, “Go tell that lady, ‘Mama says Sarah is her best, best girl, and Gabi belongs to Mama too.’ Go call Firadeus to come here, so I can tell her to tell that lady never to say such things again. Sarah is definitely Mama’s own girl. Of course she is her Mama’s girl.” Sarah began to cry again, crying harder than at first. I don’t know what made her cry now. When she began talking to her mother, she had stopped crying. Her mother’s words may have made her aware of every possible sadness, which made her feel sorry for herself and brought on another round of tears. Henrietta picked her up, caressed her cheek, kissed and comforted her. “Why are you crying?” she asked. Sarah answered tearfully, “That lady, she took Gabi back inside her, into her heart.” Henrietta said, “Gabi is tough. Gabi took one leap, and out he came. Ask your father. He’ll tell you. Tell her, Father.” Father Manfred said, “You believe that other lady, but you don’t believe your own mother? If your mother says something to me, I listen and believe it. Isn’t that so, Mother?” Henrietta laughed and said, “Now you’ll see, Sarah, that what Father says is true. Tell Father this: ‘Mother says, “Go for a walk, Father,”‘ and, in a minute, Sarah, you’ll see Father going for a walk. Sarah, surely you’ve seen Father go for walks? What’s going on here? I say, ‘Go tell Father,’ and you don’t tell him.” Manfred asked Sarah, “Tell me, Sarah, what did Mother say?” Sarah said, “Mother said that Sarah should tell Father that Father should go for a walk.” Henrietta said, “Very good, Sarah. I see that I can count on you, that I can give you messages and you’ll deliver them. Now, Sarah, ask Father when he plans to take his walk.” Sarah said, “What do you mean, ‘when’?”

Before she could explain, there was a knock at the door. Before she could say, “Come in,” a man entered, dressed like an elder of the Sephardic community, an elder’s turban on his head and an elder’s staff in his hand. Manfred looked at him, bewildered. All sorts of odd creatures had appeared in his home, but never one like this. Henrietta peered suspiciously at the sage. She finally said, “You’re Sarini’s husband, aren’t you?” Sarini’s husband said, “I’m here not because of the woman called Sarini. I’m here because of something more wonderful than a thousand women.”

I will try to explain about this. The night of the day his son was circumcised (the son born to him of the woman Sarini), a year before Mr. Herberist’s son was born (the one Sarini was supposed to nurse), it was revealed to him that he had been appointed emissary to the Ten Tribes and to Bnei Moshe. At first he was reluctant and replied, “Who am I, et cetera …,” but his excuses were not accepted, and he was told not to be obstinate. He has been entrusted with spells against wild animals, highwaymen, and desert sands, for there are crazy sands in the desert that can swallow up an entire caravan, camels, riders, and all. But he will not be harmed, because of the spell he possesses. He is equipped with a spell to disarm those birds of prey that aren’t listed in the Torah on account of their wickedness — birds that emit fiery sparks when they encounter a human being, consuming him and turning him to dust. These are the very birds that destroyed some of Alexander’s armies. But they can’t harm him, because he has a spell that counteracts their power. When they open their mouths to spew their fire at him, the sparks will backfire and burn up their innards. They will be destroyed by this spell. He is protected against the perils of the road, savage animals, highwaymen, desert sands, birds that spit fire. So why has he come to Herbst? He isn’t asking for help in financing the trip, for, in addition to all sorts of trades by which he can support himself wherever he goes, he has learned to repair stoves and, in a pinch, can also repair a sewing machine. So what does he want? He wants a letter from the Jewish Agency, which is why he is here. He wants a letter from Mr. Herberist to the officials of the Agency, asking them to write a letter on his behalf, addressed to the Ten Tribes and to Bnei Moshe. If, for political reasons, it is necessary to conceal this matter from the English — either some or all of it — they can be assured that no information will be extracted from him, not with tongs of fire, not with tongs of gold. If Jewish Agency officials are afraid that he may get lost, leaving them answerable for the loss of a Jewish soul, he is willing to reveal parts of his route to Herberist Samuel or to one of the Ashkenazi elders — Rabbi Kook, for example. If the Jewish Agency insists on testing him to see whether he is familiar with the route from the Land of Israel to where the Ten Tribes are, he is willing to divulge all the roads, as long as they vow not to divulge the information to anyone else until he returns safely from the Ten Tribes and Bnei Moshe. If they are afraid he may, God forbid, partake of those magical grasses and roots that allow a man to see anything he wants to in his dream, he can swear on our teacher Moses, on the Holy Tablets, on the Ten Commandments that he won’t even touch any such roots or grasses. He received travel directions from an old Turk, who served in the Turkish army and was told by a high-ranking officer that it was good to befriend the Ten Tribes: they were fond of the Turks because Turks hated Arabs, and Arabs persecuted Jews.

In this period, while he was being pursued by Sarini’s husband, who was pressing him to write a letter to the Jewish Agency, Herbst received a letter from abroad inviting him to contribute to an anniversary volume in honor of Professor Neu, who was going to turn seventy the following year. Even before he was invited to contribute to this book, he himself had been thinking of putting out a slim volume for Neu’s birthday, and he had begun working on it. Because of Gabriel’s birth, he had put it aside. Now that the invitation had arrived, he had in mind to prepare a chapter from his own book for this volume. To this end, he planned to skim through various books and journals to see what was new in the field. These books and journals could be found in two places: in the National Library at the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus or at Ernst Weltfremdt’s. Normally, Herbst would go to Mount Scopus. Now he chose to go to Ernst Weltfremdt, though they had drifted apart, and he hadn’t even come to his son’s brit. But he had sent him a copy of his new book as a gift.

I am skipping over Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation, which was undoubtedly of a scholarly nature. The day his major work was published, he changed his ways. He no longer engaged in conversation that wasn’t scholarly, and, needless to say, he avoided conversation with anyone who wasn’t a scholar. If anyone tried to involve him in university disputes, political affairs, or any similarly ephemeral matters, he would respond floridly, “My dear, dear friend, let us leave such matters to those who have nothing in their world beyond these unreal concerns, while we, my dear, dear friend, deal with our own affairs, thus bringing far more benefit to the world than any statesman or public figure.” So much for Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation. I am now leaving Weltfremdt’s house with Herbst, who is laden with books borrowed for a month. Weltfremdt has instituted a time limit when lending books, which is an advantage to the borrower. Knowing that the books must be returned on a particular day, he will make a point of using them and be less likely to waste time.

After Herbst left Weltfremdt, he saw that he would have to take the bus to Baka, because he had so many books that it would be awkward to walk. Herbst was sorry that, now that he was in Rehavia, a neighborhood one could walk in, he had to go home, because of the books. His thoughts turned on many matters, and it crossed his mind that the entire course of his life would have been different if he didn’t live in Baka. Moreover, it was clear that he must move out of Baka. It is dangerous for a Jew to live among Arabs, and he is endangering his wife and daughters, as well as Firadeus and all those who come to his house. Years back, before Rehavia existed, he and all his acquaintances were young, and an hour’s walk was nothing to them, so it didn’t matter to him where he lived. Now, he and his acquaintances have grown old, the city has expanded in all directions, and the Arabs have restricted the movements of Jews and drawn lines that separate one street from another, so it is difficult for a Jew to live in Baka. Before he arrived at the stop, a bus passed him by. When he got there, the next bus hadn’t yet come. Herbst stood at the bus stop, his arms laden with books, his mind brimming with thoughts — among them, the foolish ones that are likely to concern a modern man, such as: My hands are full, and, if a woman I know comes by, I ought to ask how she is, but I won’t even be able to lift my hand and tip my hat to her. Oh, well, Herbst observed — perhaps joking, perhaps with an ounce of sincerity — one can carry big books and think small thoughts.

The bus finally came. Since it wasn’t full, Herbst could have found a seat if he hadn’t been intercepted by Sarini, who was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. She, Sarini, being a truthful person who isn’t in the habit of saying Vashti when she means Esther, was prepared, at that moment, to tell Mr. Herberist the whole truth about why she was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. This is how it was: That villain, that demon from hell, may his name be blotted out, who is her husband and the father of her children, may those who seek to count them lose their sight — that villain, that devil is possessed by madness and is determined to go to the mountains of darkness. Now that all the roads are imperiled by Ibn Saud’s wars, a disaster could, God forbid, befall him, and what would become of her? She would be an abandoned wife, doomed to remain desolate for the rest of her days, and her tender young ones would be orphans by default. So she is going to Mistress Herberist, who is probably a soulmate and intimate of the wife of the Englishman who occupies Herberist Samuel’s position, who can reproach that villainous husband of hers and forbid him to leave Jerusalem in a bus or a car, on a horse, donkey, camel, or mule, or on foot — not even with magic spells or the assistance of a guardian angel. Sarini interrupted herself and began shouting in a loud voice, “I stand here, my hands empty, my mouth full, while Mr. Herberist stands there, his hands so full. All because of that villain, may he be erased and defaced for having caused me such sorrow and deprived me of sense, so much so that I see Mr. Herberist, exhausted by the load he is carrying, yet make no move to help him. Give it to me, sir. The entire load. I’ll take it all home for you, in my arms and on my head. Nothing — not a single page of these books — will be missing. See, you need two hands for it, but when I put it all in my basket, one hand is enough.” He hesitated to entrust Sarini with books that weren’t his own, that belonged to Ernst Weltfremdt, who was so fussy about his property. Her baskets aren’t clean; they may even be dirty, he reasoned. She uses them to carry things home from the market, such things as meat, fish, oil — sometimes even a slaughtered chicken. What will that pedant say if he finds a speck on his book? Weltfremdt would never forgive him and, needless to say, would no longer grant him access to his bookshelves. While he was still considering, she took the books from him and put them in her basket. Sarini lifted the basket until it was at eye level and said to Herbst, “See, here they are. Like an infant in a cradle. I wish my children had found themselves such a cozy nest. You can go where you like. I’ll take the books to your room and put them on your desk, one by one, in the right order, not head to tail.” Herbst didn’t understand what heads and tails had to do with books, but he assumed it was a metaphor for order. He smiled benignly. She smiled back and said, “I won’t go with that madwoman,” pointing to the bus, which she regarded as a fierce female. Herbst smiled again, said goodbye to her, and repeated, “Goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye, and thank you for making it possible for me not to go home when I have things to do in town. What should you tell Mrs. Herbst? Tell her not to hold supper for me. Now goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye.”

Chapter two

As soon as his arms were emptied of his books, his mind was emptied too. He didn’t know where to turn, where to go. As long as the books were with him, he knew he had to go home. Now that he was clear of the books, several paths were cleared for him, none of which was useful. Herbst was still at the bus stop where he had been standing earlier, before he gave the books to Sarini. Buses arrived and departed, but he didn’t take any of them. Men and women pushed to the head of the line, and he found himself at the end of it. He let himself be pushed aside to make room for people who had to get on the bus. After standing around for a while, he realized he didn’t belong there, that he didn’t have to stay in line, that he didn’t have to stand and wait, that there was no reason to be concerned about finding a seat on the bus. Relieved of the discomforts of waiting, he felt liberated. He could set his legs in motion and go anywhere. Anywhere…. Which was a problem, because he didn’t want to go anywhere. He thought vaguely about going to see if Shira was at home, but he took no action. He mused: I won’t bother myself with something I can do some other time. If my curiosity about Shira has subsided, I won’t deliberately renew it.

The day was already dimming, and the entire earth changed its aspect. The streets suppressed their tumult, some roads turning white, others graying. The air close to the ground became black; closer to the sky, it was pink; and the air in between was nondescript, colorless. The trees on Maimon Boulevard, along with the men and women who strolled by, were engrossed in a secret they themselves were unaware of. Some of these strollers seemed to be saying: You don’t realize who we are. Not in so many words, yet whoever saw them wondered who they were. After circling several streets, Herbst turned onto the one named for Rav Saadia Gaon; actually, those who name streets had foolishly omitted the title Rav, though they generally bestowed it on Israel’s great men. Herbst looked down over the valley, surveyed the scene that twinkled up at him, and thought: Here we have a remnant of Jerusalem’s splendor, unblemished by new construction. How wonderful it used to be to go down into the valleys and up into the hills, but nowadays one would be exposed to Arab gunfire and Arab knives. He forced himself — yes, actually forced himself — to reject the fantasies he usually indulged in about Shira’s disappearance and the circumstances of her disappearance. He suddenly felt that this required no effort; that, having recurred so often, these fantasies had lost their intensity and no longer frightened him. I see, said Herbst, in an utterly peaceful and expansive mood, I see that when one fantasizes a great deal about something, it loses its intensity. If so, why hasn’t Shira lost her intensity? Is there anything in the world I have thought about as much as I’ve thought about Shira? Right now, her name doesn’t arouse any emotion, but it would be worthwhile to know where she is. Isn’t it odd? You begin to count on a person, on finding that person in the places you know he frequents. He suddenly vanishes, and you don’t find him anywhere. Someone will probably appear now and divert me. In any case, I shouldn’t have entrusted the books to Sarini. Someone else’s books should be safeguarded. I shouldn’t have let them out of my hands. But what’s done is done, so I won’t dwell on it. Having decided not to dwell on the fact that he had entrusted the books to Sarini, he began to think about Sarini’s husband: Even if his trip is a total fantasy, he gains something by leaving his home, as well as the orderly routines that make boredom inevitable. The world isn’t short on ideas, good deeds, ideals, and love, be it the love of men and women or the love of sublime ideals. But, when every day is identical, when everything is the outcome or sequel of something similar, then, whether we like it or not, ideas, ideals, and love begin to seem flawed. What can a man do to renew himself, to give meaning to actions whose meaning is lost, to disengage himself from routine? It may be that monks and ascetics choose to cast aside wealth and position, and settle in desert caves, in order to serve their gods, as our history books and our legends lead us to believe. But there may be another reason for this choice: a need to suspend their routines and renew their souls. Even such a simple person as Sarini’s husband, who does nothing but eat, drink, and beget children, may have felt the urge to renew his world when that divine hand directed him, in a dream, to seek out the Ten Tribes. How Henrietta laughed when I told her I was beginning to be bored with boredom. I, for one, don’t understand this: I went to Ernst Weltfremdt’s to get books for the article I’m writing for Neu’s anniversary volume, yet here I am, wasting my time on sheer nonsense. What is obvious is that what I ought to do now is review my article to ascertain if there is anything new in it, anything that will please Neu. Neu, Neu, Neu, Herbst cried inwardly, like someone in distress crying out for help. Herbst wasn’t in distress, and he cried out only because his heart was full and he had to express what was inside. Since he was thinking of Neu, he cried “Neu.” In such a circumstance, a naive person invokes God; a simple person cries “Mama, Mama.” Herbst, who was academically disciplined, invoked the name of the teacher from whom he had learned so much.

Herbst, like most people, found that, having invoked a particular name, others followed by association. Rightfully, he should have remembered Lisbet Neu. But he didn’t. Either he dismissed her from his mind, or his article was uppermost at that moment. Who can fathom a man’s mental processes? Since I mentioned Lisbet Neu, I will now dwell on her situation.

Lisbet Neu is still employed at the same place. She works in the store or the office eight or nine hours a day and is paid the same salary as before. Employers are difficult, whether they are shopkeepers or run offices. They are self-involved and don’t consider their employees’ needs, especially if the employee doesn’t belong to the Histadrut, in which case the union has no power over them. Even members of the new society in this old-new country, most of whom came here to live a new life — a proper and ethical one — fail to restate that old rule to themselves, the one we have to behold anew every day: “And your brother shall live with you.” If not for the threat of strikes and Histadrut disputes, most of our self-righteous brothers would be willing to ignore their employees’ way of life, expecting them to work until they expire but being careful to avoid getting stuck with the burial expenses. So Lisbet Neu works eight or nine hours out of the twenty-four in a day for a paltry salary, supporting herself meagerly. Lisbet Neu has already despaired of finding a man, so she works doubly hard. Her employer is pleased. He is generous with compliments, but he doesn’t raise her salary. Leaving the business in her hands, he sleeps late, stays at home entertaining guests, and goes abroad in the summer. Lisbet Neu is dependable, and he depends on her. Nothing seems to have changed in Lisbet Neu’s life, except that she has made friends with several young women, the daughters of parents who came from Germany, with whom she spends Shabbat evenings reading the weekly Bible portion along with the commentary of Samson Raphael Hirsch. Hirsch’s language is complex, and not everyone understands it. But Lisbet, who pored over his books back in Germany, interprets for them, drawing deep meaning from his well of ideas. Some young women pore over the magazines that come from abroad, studying the pictures to learn what dress one wears on which day, at which hour, in which company; what creams are suitable for skin and teeth; which cosmetics are used by the most genteel women. Lisbet Neu and her friends find contentment in the Torah and the commentaries. Believe it or not, they are well dressed; their teeth are bright, their scent appealing. When Herbst first knew Lisbet Neu, he responded to a scent of innocence that seemed to pervade her person.

Herbst had forgotten when he last saw Lisbet Neu. Other concerns burdened his memory, and there was no room in it for an Orthodox young woman with whom he was acquainted only because she was related to his mentor and guide, Professor Neu. But Lisbet Neu remembers Herbst and thinks of him. Two years ago, she heard that his daughter was married; a year ago, she heard that his daughter had a son; not long ago, she heard that he had a son. Each item led to emotional turmoil. According to convention, she ought to congratulate him, either orally or in writing. Since she wished him well, she surely ought to congratulate him. But, whenever she sat down to write, her hand began to falter, and she thought: Won’t it be a bother to him, as if I wanted to force him to relate to me? Once these thoughts crossed her mind, she decided that the less said, the better. But, after choosing not to write to him, she began to worry that this was rude. She did, after all, know him. They had gone on several walks together; he had invited her out for coffee and talked to her. And still she hadn’t found time to write two or three words to him. Her mother had even remarked, “Lisbet, you ought to write a note to Dr. Herbst.” Imagine this: Herbst remembered everyone who came to his son’s brit and exactly who came to congratulate Henrietta when she was in the hospital. He even remembered Dr. Krautmeir, who found it necessary to visit Henrietta at home and ask if she could be helpful, despite the fact that they were not on good terms with each other. Yet it didn’t occur to him that Lisbet Neu had not come to congratulate him. That’s how people are. One person thinks about another endlessly and interminably, yet there is no room at all for him in that other person’s mind.

Herbst strolled through Rehavia without going into anyone’s house. Two or three times, he sat down on those benches on Maimon Boulevard, but he didn’t stay long, because of the couples who needed no witness for their embraces. Hearing the echo of kisses all around him, he thought: These boys and girls imagine I am here to interfere with their lovemaking, but I don’t care about them at all. After a few hours, he decided he ought to go home. Even though Henrietta wasn’t holding dinner for him, he should have been home already. So he said to himself: We are going home. He wasn’t pleased to be going home, just as he hadn’t been pleased to be roaming around idly. He had been granted a certain number of hours and had done nothing with them. He felt a sudden weariness in his limbs. Not physical weariness, but emotional weariness — the kind that comes from idleness, from the fact that he had planned to do something and had allowed the time to pass, doing nothing with it because he didn’t know what to do. Despite his fatigue he had a desire to walk home, through Talbieh, through the vegetable patches, the fields, the gardens, past the lepers’ colony, around Mekor Hayim to Baka. He loved these roads, especially at night, when there was no one to disturb him and he could walk on and on, thinking while he walked. Here was the scent of a grass he knew by name and scent; here, the sound of a small animal; the stare of a dog who recognized him and didn’t bark, or barked to announce that he recognized him. Many other adventures, endless and infinite, occurred on the way. Even the telegraph wires in that area have a hum that is not metallic, and, without over-responding to this sound, it would not be far from the truth to compare it to that of rustling garden fences, to the chatter from rooftop nests. But woe unto him who strays from the populated territory, for, with every step, he endangers his life. For this reason, he turned away from all these pleasures and toward Jaffa Road, to wait for the bus to Baka.

Jaffa Road was quiet and serene, with no visible sign of the times. Perhaps this in itself was a sign of the times: the fact that this raucous street was quiet that night. Streetlamps gave off their dim, muted light. In a burst of romantic excess, the head of the municipality, who regarded himself as the last of the Crusaders, ordered streetlamps for Jerusalem with their glass panels divided into twelve sections, to match the tribes of Israel. Jews build synagogues with a window for each of the twelve gates of prayer, so each tribe’s prayers can enter the heavenly gates in comfort, while this chivalrous wouldbe Crusader designs Jerusalem’s streetlamps in a way that restricts our light. Here and there, two or three lights shone from windows in the two hotels across from the bus stop. Most of the windows were dark, however. The rooms were unoccupied. Not many people came to Jerusalem in those days, because the unrest brought on by the Arabs made the roads dangerous. What was true of the hotels was true of the stores. And of the entire street as well.

Herbst had been waiting for about half an hour, and no bus had come. Even more strange was the fact that there was no one else at the bus stop. What’s this, another curfew? He hadn’t heard a curfew being announced. Were his ears so used to it that it no longer registered? He had seen policemen on the street, and they hadn’t stopped him, which suggests that there is no curfew, that the streets just happened to be deserted. He was overwhelmed with another terror: that he would have to stand there — who knows for how long? — because the drivers, expecting no passengers, come at such infrequent intervals. It would be a long wait for the bus, if it came at all. These bus companies exist, not to serve the public, but to milk it. Now that the public is ineffectual and no longer fills their pockets with money, why bother? Herbst looked around for a taxi, even though his finances were tight, more so now that he has an added child who needs a wetnurse. Nevertheless, he decided to take a taxi. Sarini meant to do him a favor when she took his books. In the end, he was losing time and money because of her; he would have to spend fifteen grush on a taxi. Since he didn’t find a taxi, he continued to wait, contemplating Sarini’s favor, and from this subject his mind shifted to her husband.

So Sarini’s husband wants to travel to the Ten Tribes. He has a good life with Sarini. She prepares his food and makes his bed, and he has only to entertain himself with adventures. A man leaves home, not necessarily in pursuit of adventure, in pursuit of an ideal, in pursuit of God. A man might run off because he is too comfortable where he is. No bus is coming, is coming, Herbst said to himself, thinking: I sound like Ernst Weltfremdt, who repeats the ends of phrases over and over. However, I must admit that his book is good. Herbst strained to see if a bus was coming. There was no bus in sight.

A woman appeared, holding two baskets, with a cigarette vendor’s box stuffed inside of each one. The woman addressed him in Yiddish. “Why are you standing here, Uncle?” Herbst looked at her in surprise. What sort of question is that? If someone is standing at a bus stop, it’s a sign that he wants to go somewhere. He answered her pleasantly, in Yiddish, making an effort to match his manner of speaking to hers, in style as well as language. This is what he said to her: “My dear Auntie, this uncle of yours would like to go to Mekor Hayim. Not actually to Mekor Hayim, but to a place on the way to Mekor Hayim, and he is waiting for the bus to come and pick him up.” The woman said, “You might as well be waiting for the downfall of villains. The bus you are waiting for won’t come.” Herbst said, “Why won’t it come?” The woman said, “Because the Englishman doesn’t want it to.” Herbst said, “The Englishman doesn’t want it to? Why not?” The woman said, “Because. Who can fathom the mind of an Englishman? He himself may not know why. All he knows is that he has to issue decrees, so he issues decrees. Maybe you know why it bothered him that the bus stop was here, why he suddenly decreed that it had to be moved? Come with me, neighbor, and I’ll show you the new bus stop. It’s not far, but you’ll never find it without me.” Herbst said, “We’re probably late.” The woman said, “Late? Late for the bus? I’m sorry I don’t have the energy to laugh. We’ll never be late, we’ll never be late. The driver waits for the bus to fill up, and still he doesn’t budge. Why? Because, even if the bus is full, another passenger or two might come. Otherwise, it’s not worth his while. Now that there are so few passengers, he even waits for a poor woman like me.” Herbst asked the woman, “Do you come home this late every night?” She answered, “You think you’ve found yourself someone who is out late every night? Most nights, dear Uncle, I’ve said my bedtime prayers by now. You might ask, ‘Wherefore is this night different from all other nights?’ so I will answer that question. We used to be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt; now we are slaves to the English. A policeman found me peddling my wares without a permit. Tell me this, neighbor: if I had bought a permit for a lira, would the English queen be able to afford an extra feather for her Shabbat bonnet? But I won’t be silent. I already saw Moshkeli Royt. I’m hoping he’ll use his influence with the Englishman to have my fine revoked. I know you call him Rabbi Royt, but he is as much a rabbi as I am a rabbi’s wife. Rav Samuel, of blessed memory, was a genuine rabbi. He was a rav in Jerusalem for seventy years, but did anyone call him Rabbi? He was known as Rav Samuel, a title that applies to any proper Jew. Now, anyone who wants to calls himself a rabbi. In any case, it’s Royt’s duty to keep them from stealing a poor woman’s money, though he thinks he does his duty when he feuds with the Zionists. Oy, oy, dear neighbor of mine, the Zionists are the source of all our troubles. It’s because of them that the English are here. Here is the stop, and here is the bus. What did I tell you? It’s waiting for us. No need to hurry. You can board slowly. By the time he decides to move, you could have walked home at least twice.” Though she was still talking to Herbst, she turned to the driver and said, “Getzel, did you hear me? It’s true, isn’t it?” Getzel said, “When don’t you tell the truth? When the policeman stopped you with two boxes full of cigarettes, and you told him they were for your husband, weren’t you telling the truth? What did that goy say? ‘Do you have so many husbands that you need so many cigarettes?’ In the end, you were punished for your version of the truth.” The woman said, “Is it truth they’re after? They want lies. If I told him the truth, how would that help? Try telling him I’m a poor woman with a houseful of orphans, whom I–I alone — am responsible to feed, dress, shoe, educate. I slave and struggle, drag myself around with these boxes of cigarettes. Maybe you could get your bus to move on, sweetie, so we don’t have to wait until tomorrow. What are you waiting for? The bus is full.”

Chapter three

Herbst sat on the bus, compressing himself so as not to impinge on his neighbors’ space. The bus was very old, one of the oldest, a survivor from the country’s first generation of buses. The seats were arranged with two rows running along the sides of the coach and one across its width. They were tattered and worn, with springs that popped out and poked the passengers. The bus company knew that in bad times people are so pleased to be able to go home that they don’t notice what they are riding in. Herbst was pleased, too, that he had found himself an inch of space, and especially pleased that he was going home with no secret to conceal from Henrietta.

Henrietta was awake. She still hadn’t accustomed her son to do without a ten o’clock feeding. She didn’t actually feed him; a wetnurse, brought in by Sarini, performed that function. But it was Henrietta who prepared the baby for his feeding, then waited until it was time for him to eat.

Manfred came in quietly, so as not to wake the baby. But he wanted Henrietta to hear that he was back. Not because he had anything to say to her, not because he wanted to ask about her or the baby, but for the following reason: if she asked, “Where were you,” he could answer honestly, “I was in a certain place, on a certain bench, on a particular boulevard,” and so on. He was in a position to enumerate all the places he had been; they were all legitimate and in no way suspect. This was one purpose. Another purpose: should he have occasion to go to a place he wouldn’t choose to tell his wife about, the present information would compensate for what he would conceal from her in the future.

The table was set with a light meal, covered by netting, and a thermos bottle. Before Manfred had a chance to take a bite, Henrietta began talking. She reported that Sarini had brought the books and left them in his room. When she said “the books,” he detected a note of complaint about money wasted on luxuries, when she needed every penny for the household. When she heard that the books were borrowed from Ernst Weltfremdt, she was startled, remembering the poem Rika Weltfremdt had composed for her and the new baby. She had forgotten to tell Manfred about it. If Rika had asked him about the poem, he wouldn’t have known anything about it, which would imply that she had so little regard for it that she hadn’t thought to mention it to her husband. But there was no cause for worry. Herbst had spent about an hour and a half with Ernst Weltfremdt, but Rika Weltfremdt didn’t show her face. Ernst Weltfremdt makes a point of not having his wife appear in his room when he has a guest, because, when she comes in, the guest feels obliged to ask how she is, and this interrupts his conversation.

Manfred wasn’t pleased — not with himself and not with Henrietta’s conversation. Though he had every reason to know that Henrietta wouldn’t burden him with Rika Weltfremdt’s verses, he was afraid she intended to read them to him. Determined to spare himself, he said to her, “I’m not willing to waste even a minute on them.” Henrietta looked at him, bewildered. She was about to respond, but she kept her mouth shut and was silent, knowing that, if she began talking, they would end up quarreling. And, after months of peace, it didn’t make sense to have a fight. She looked at him again, trying to find a reason for his sullenness. One minute, she wanted to scold him, to say that, if he was in a bad mood, he needn’t take it out on her. A minute later, she felt sorry that he was in such a state. Manfred himself knew that he hadn’t behaved well and tried to placate her, but he didn’t want to say anything openly conciliatory, for that might call attention to his foul humor. He changed his manner abruptly and said in a firm voice, “Your boy is taking the lifeblood out of you.” Henrietta understood that he meant to placate her, but his words were irritating, for he had said “your boy.” Henrietta said, “You talk about ‘your boy’ as if he were some street child I took in just to annoy you.” Manfred said, “That’s not so, Mother. I said that only…How can I explain it? Only…for no reason. Just like that.” Henrietta said, “Besides, I have the impression something is not right.” “Not right?” Henrietta said, “Everything is all right with me. I’m talking about you, Manfred. I suspect that something is not so right with you.” Manfred said, “When I look at myself, I see that I’ve never been in better shape. I don’t have a mirror, but I’m certain that even my tie is straight and in place. Isn’t it, Mother?” Henrietta laughed and said, “You’re wrong about that. Your tie happens to be disheveled and askew. I hope you yourself are in better shape.” Manfred said, “If it hadn’t been a present from you, I would say I myself am in better shape. Since it was a present from you, I would say I’m a rag by comparison.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Don’t exaggerate, Fred. Hand me my handkerchief.” He gave her the handkerchief. She knotted it and said, “Many thanks, Fred. Unless I forget to look at the knot, I’ll buy you a new tie, even before your birthday.” “Why all of a sudden?” Henrietta said, “So when you say that, compared to your tie, you look like a rag, there will be some truth to your words.” Manfred said, “That’s what I like about you, Henriett. It’s really possible for a person to talk to you, Henriett.” Henrietta looked at him and said, “With whom isn’t it possible for you to talk?” “With whom isn’t it possible for me to talk? You want me to list everyone, beginning with Adam and Eve?” Henrietta said, “And I assumed you had a particular person in mind. A particular woman, to be precise.” “A woman?” Manfred cried in alarm. “Is there a woman in the world I have any wish to waste a single word on?” Henrietta said, “If I weren’t your wife, I would be interested in talking to you.” “Since I am, alas, your husband, you aren’t interested in talking to me? Well, it’s already ten o’clock, and I’m keeping you from resting your weary bones. If I weren’t afraid of offending you, I would leave right now and go off to my room.” Henrietta said angrily, “You can go if you like. I’m not stopping you.” Herbst said, “That’s not how it is, Mother. Don’t be angry. You have an odd way of getting upset, all of a sudden. I had your welfare in mind, your need for rest, and you are offended. You tell me: would I want to hurt you?” “You wouldn’t want to hurt me, but you’ve gotten into the habit of saying things that are irritating and painful.” “From here on, I will weigh every word before I utter it. Incidentally, has your boy gained any weight?” “My boy is upholstered with fat; he no longer gets cold, as he did a week ago.” “It all comes from milk?” “Fred, you don’t know how cute you are with your questions. Where does the fat come from? Your cigarettes, perhaps. Mimi was here again. I assumed she wasn’t satisfied with seeing me in the hospital, then again on the day of the brit — that she wanted to see more of me. But this time she came on your behalf.” “On my behalf? I don’t feel…How shall I say it? I don’t feel there is anything about me that would attract her.” “But you would like to attract her?” “Why not?” “You old sinner, is that how it is?” “So she came on my behalf. Why does she want me in particular, when I won’t scold or abuse her? Isn’t she content with Julian’s scolding and abuse? Some women are peculiar: the more a man scolds them, the more attached they are to him. All he needs is a whip to beat her with.” “Phew, Fred, I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would be attracted to a man who beats her.” “I don’t think so either. I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would tolerate a whip. Now, back to the subject of Mimi. So Mimi was here, and she came on my behalf. What does a woman like that want from me?” “What does she want from you? She wants something that doesn’t please me. I told her in no uncertain terms that you are cutting down on smoking.” “Now I understand. She’s trying to help that fellow again, that cigarette merchant of hers! Don’t you think Tamara smokes too much? I think I hear a cough coming from her room.” “It doesn’t sound like Tamara.” “Then who is it?” “The woman who nurses the baby. It’s time for you to go now, Fred. She just woke up, and she’ll be here in a minute.” “Good night, Henriett.” “Is that it, Fred? I need a kiss first, then a l’hayim, then a goodbye.” “May you have many long years, Henriett. I could learn a lot more from a woman like you.” Herbst went up to his room, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with heightened passion, having refrained from smoking the entire time he was with Henrietta, so as not to pollute the baby’s air. As he smoked, he surveyed the two heaps of books on his desk. He laughed derisively, reflecting to himself: When it comes to spiritual matters, women and illiterates make the most trustworthy agents. Sarini arranged the books precisely as they were when she took them from under my arm. This woman doesn’t know the alphabet, but her memory is formidable. She remembered what order the books were in and placed them on my desk accordingly. Here they are, in two piles, one large and one small, precisely as they were before she took them from me to put in her basket; the large pile is on the right, the smaller one on the left. At that moment, he had no desire to look at the books he had borrowed. But, out of habit, he opened one, then another, and glanced at them without reading them. Meanwhile, he finished his cigarette, discarded it, took another, and began pacing the room, as though troubled by his thoughts. Actually, he wasn’t troubled by any thought, but, as he paced back and forth, it seemed to him that there was something he could have done but didn’t do. He lit the cigarette and reviewed what he had done that day, including the fact that he had been near the alley where Shira’s new apartment was and hadn’t stopped by to see if her door was open. He smiled that derisive smile again, directing it at himself. If so, he observed, I am a hero, one of those heroes who control their own impulses. He crushed the cigarette with his fingers and disposed of it. He set his watch, undressed, and looked at his watch again, because he wasn’t sure he had set it. After a while, he went to bed, taking a book, as usual, but turning out the light even before he opened the book, which was not usual. He observed to himself: Tonight, having done nothing but walk a lot, I’ll fall asleep without a book and without the preoccupations that disrupt sleep. However, something did disrupt his sleep. It seemed to him that it was the anniversary of his father’s death, that he ought to say Kaddish for him, but he didn’t have a minyan, a prayer quorum of ten. Bachlam appeared, and Herbst considered asking him to join the minyan. Bachlam began to enumerate his aches, his books, his admirers, his enemies. Herbst didn’t have the nerve to interrupt, in order to say Kaddish for his father, which upset him very much. When he woke up, he was still disturbed, and he began to scrutinize himself and to have misgivings about his own behavior. He searches for Shira, but, when he is near her apartment, he doesn’t go to see if she is in. He then returns to his wife and considers himself innocent, pleased to have earned a night’s credit to be applied toward a future act that would have to be concealed from her. Even his transactions with Bachlam were improper, for he had begun to court him in the hope of winning his support for a promotion. These thoughts about the Kaddish he should have said for his father reminded him of a verse from a Heine poem on the subject, which reminded him of yet another poem that goes roughly like this: “Darf man die Welt belügen / Ich sage nicht nein / Doch willst du sie betrügen / So mach es nicht fein.”

It was already lunchtime, but he hadn’t been called for lunch. He had already smoked a cigarette, meaning to allay his hunger, and still he wasn’t called. He thought of going downstairs to remind Henrietta that it was lunchtime; that he was hungry; that, even before it was lunchtime, he had been hungry, very, very hungry, really hungry; and, now that it was in fact lunchtime, it was surely time to eat. That’s how Henrietta is: she is so orderly and meticulous about having things done on time, yet, when he is hungry and it’s time to eat, it doesn’t matter to her that it’s lunchtime. Is she so busy with the baby that she lost track of time? He may have to go down to the kitchen and remind her that it’s time for him to eat. He knows it won’t help; that, until he is called to eat, nothing will help; that he might, on the contrary, confuse Henrietta and delay her further. He doesn’t really mind about confusing her, except that confusion might lead to anger, and he doesn’t want to make her angry. Anyone who has enjoyed several months of domestic harmony isn’t eager to get involved in strife. He reached for the cigarettes again, meaning to take one, but he took two. It was because he was so befuddled that he took two. Seeing what he had done, he meant to put one down and light the other. Because he was so befuddled, he put them both down. Meanwhile, he heard footsteps. Firadeus was on the way to his room, leaping up the steps. Then, remembering that was not the proper way, she slowed down. Herbst thought: They’re finally coming to call me. My fingers were better informed than I was. They put down the cigarettes even before I heard anyone coming.

Firadeus appeared. She was small, young, weary; weary from the troubles in her mother’s house, weary from the work in her mistress’s house, which was compounded the day they brought the baby home. Two shining eyes, a fiery mix of reticence and humility, illuminated her pale, dark face. Rarely do eyes convey a message and its reverse at one and the same time; where there is reticence and humility, how can there be such fire? She entered, accompanied by the good smell of peaches, which she brought on a small tray that had been made in Damascus. Herbst gazed at the peaches and inhaled their fragrances, hoping it would quell his hunger. It didn’t occur to him that the fruit was for him, because Henrietta was strict about not eating before meals. If fruit was being brought to his room, he couldn’t assume it was to be eaten, for Henrietta was not likely suddenly to change her ways. “What is this?” Herbst asked. “You’re bringing fruit? Your mistress knows I love fruit, so she sent me some. But it isn’t time for fruit now, is it?” He consulted his wristwatch to see if he had misjudged the time. He looked up at Firadeus and said, “It isn’t really time for fruit now. Do you, by chance, know what moved our mistress to send up such a thriving garden? I have never seen such splendid peaches, not this year, not the year before. Do you know, Firadeus, if not for Persia, there would be no peaches in the world. Persia is a country that cultivates peaches. I can tell from these peaches that we won’t be eating lunch today. Do you happen to know how lunch has sinned to keep us from eating it today?” Firadeus said, “I was told to say we’ll be eating later.” “Later? Why not now?” Firadeus said, “A guest has arrived.” “A guest? Who is the guest?” Firadeus said, “A nurse from the hospital.” Even before Herbst heard what Firadeus was saying, he heard himself whisper, “She has finally come.” Even before he heard himself whisper, he felt his heart begin to flutter with yearning. He was quick to relax his left hand, so he wouldn’t place it on his heart and let Firadeus see he was upset. He looked up at her boldly, eyed her fiercely, to inform and forewarn her that she was to tell the truth, that he would countenance no deception. He finally asked, in a voice that was neither bold nor fierce, “What does the nurse look like?” Firadeus repeated his question, without understanding what he wanted to know. Herbst stared at the new apron Firadeus was wearing. He stared at the wildflower pattern on the apron and asked, “Is she old or young?” Before she could answer him, he twisted his lips in a mock smile and added, “Is she very old?” Firadeus answered, “She’s not young or old. Just some woman who works with the sick.” Herbst said, “Maybe you can describe her to me. You did see her; what does she look like?” Firadeus said, “She wears a nurse’s kerchief that covers her head, as well as her hair, and white clothes. A nurse’s uniform, like the ones Ashkenazi nurses wear.” Though Firadeus tried to describe everything about that nurse, she was very sorry not to be able to describe the nurse’s face to her master’s satisfaction. Herbst asked Firadeus, “Was she invited to have lunch with us?” Firadeus said, “The mistress didn’t say anything to me.” “The mistress didn’t say anything to you? She didn’t say anything to you about the nurse, such as, ‘Add a dish, a spoon, a fork’? When a guest is invited to a meal, you add a plate, a bowl, a knife, a fork. But what do I know about these matters? You, Firadeus, can’t tell me who the guest is?” Firadeus turned a bewildered face to her master and stared at him, bewildered and distraught, distraught and bewildered. She had told him explicitly that the guest was a nurse from the hospital. Why did Mr. Herbst persist in questioning her, when he had already heard the answer. She wanted so much to please him by telling him what he wanted to know, but what was there for her to do when this was impossible? An Ashkenazi girl would know how to answer, but she doesn’t. Now, when Mr. Herbst wants to know, she can’t tell him, and, even if Mr. Herbst doesn’t hold it against her, he probably regrets the fact that she can’t do what would be simple for an Ashkenazi to do. She was saddened by the fact that there was something she couldn’t do for her master, something that seemed so simple to him. She stood reticent and humble, her eyes seething with sadness, like her father when he found a hat in the trash near a house in Talpiot and took the hat to the owner, who told him what he told him. Herbst suddenly altered his tone and said; “I shouldn’t be keeping you, Firadeus. You are probably needed downstairs. Did the nurse just happen to come, or was there something wrong with the baby? Do you know if that nurse was ever in our house before?” Herbst knew that no nurse had ever been in the house, and he knew that Firadeus could answer that she had never seen a nurse in his house. He therefore altered his tone again and said, “Now, Firadeus, it’s time to eat some of these splendid peaches. I’ve never seen peaches like these. If I were to examine them with a magnifying glass, I wouldn’t find any freckles on them. Tell me this: does that nurse have freckles on her face? You don’t know what freckles are? The singular is freckle; in the plural, we say freckles. I see that I’m detaining you, and they are probably missing you by now.”

When Firadeus left, Herbst sat alone, pondering: Henrietta has a guest, a nurse from the hospital. Anyone who has no illusions would know the guest is not Shira. She is just some nurse who attended Henrietta in the hospital, who no doubt promised to visit and came today, keeping her promise, which Shira didn’t do. Shira might have also done so, if there had been nothing between us. Once again, he reviewed the incident in the telephone booth, when he spoke with her there, as well as his visit to her house and her room, which took a turn he wouldn’t have thought possible, as well as what transpired the following day, when Henrietta herself put them in each other’s hands. Herbst sat reviewing everything that had transpired with Shira. There wasn’t anything that he didn’t remember, nor was there anything he forgot. He didn’t omit anything that transpired with Shira, and he especially didn’t omit those things that did not occur between them. He was even more keenly aware of what did not occur between them than of what did, as if what did not occur was the essence. And, that being what he lacked, he would be keenly aware of this lack forever. Now Shira has exceeded everything. She doesn’t show herself; she simply doesn’t show herself. She has absented herself from the places she used to frequent. She has vanished, vanished so that she can no longer be found. It would be worthwhile to know where she is. He said it would be worthwhile, and his heart began to flutter with yearning, so that he knew he would have no rest until he finds her. He reached for the tray, to take another peach, not realizing he had finished them all, that there was no fruit left. But the fruit he had eaten did not satisfy him. As a matter of fact, it stimulated his appetite. He deliberated awhile and told himself: If I go downstairs, I’ll surely find her. He knew clearly that the guest wasn’t Shira; that, since she wasn’t Shira, he had no interest in her; that all nurses were the same to him, and he had no need to go and see which one was sitting with Henrietta. Nonetheless, he got up to go downstairs.

When he opened his door, the downstairs door opened and the nurse came out. She was taking leave of Henrietta. Herbst already knew she wasn’t Shira, but he wanted to see and be convinced that she wasn’t Shira. He alerted his ears to listen to the nurse’s voice as she said goodbye to Henrietta. Hearing it, he immediately knew her voice wasn’t Shira’s voice. But he held his breath so he could hear. Was she Shira or was she not Shira? After a while, Firadeus came back again. She came to tell him, “The mistress says lunch will soon be ready.”

Chapter four

So as not to delay Sarah and Firadeus, one of whom had to nap after lunch, while the other had to go home and prepare a meal for her mother and brothers and sisters, Henrietta instructed Firadeus to serve herself and Sarah, to sit down and eat, rather than wait for the nurse to leave. Which is why he found Henrietta alone when he came down to lunch. Manfred glanced at Sarah’s empty chair and said, “Where is the little one? Did she misbehave? Is she not being allowed to eat with the grownups because of something she did?” Henrietta said, “Sarah’s napping.” Manfred repeated, “She’s napping?” Henrietta said, “She has already eaten. It didn’t make sense to have her wait for us to sit down and eat.” Manfred rolled his eyelids comically and said, in a tone that made it clear he was anxious to know who had been visiting Henrietta, “So you had important company?” Henrietta said, “How do you know it was important company?” Manfred extended the palm of his hand and said, “There are several clues.” He flexed one finger and said: “Because, one, you postponed lunch on account of the visit; two, the guest must be very special if our meal was deemed unworthy of him.” Henrietta gazed at him questioningly, “And three?” Manfred said, “Anyone who takes the liberty of calling on Mrs. Herbst is an important person. Who was here — who is he, that you starve your heart’s chosen mate because of him?” Henrietta said, “Not because of him; because of her. If I starved you, I did at least send you peaches. If not for that guest, you would never get to see such splendid fruit outside of a display case.” Manfred said, “So how did you get the peaches? Did you smash the display case to get them for me?” Henrietta said, “At least you enjoyed them?” Herbst said, “I didn’t enjoy them, I didn’t enjoy them at all. How could I take pleasure in food, knowing someone was with you, tormenting you with conversation?” Henrietta said, “As it happens, Fred, the guest’s conversation didn’t torment me at all. As a matter of fact, the entire conversation was a revelation of sorts.” Manfred stretched his neck from right to left, peered at her, and said, in a tone that conveyed curiosity, “Is that so? Is that so? It would be nice to hear about that conversation, which was so pleasant that you found it to be ‘a revelation of sorts.’ I ought to admit that I myself don’t know what ‘a revelation of sorts’ is. In any case, I imagine the guest told you great and important things. If it doesn’t involve divulging secrets, maybe you could tell me what that gentleman told you.” Henrietta said, “You sound exactly like your daughter.” Manfred said, “I sound like Zahara?” Henrietta said, “Is Zahara your only daughter? It seems to me that, apart from Zahara, you have two other daughters.” She extended her hand, as Manfred had done earlier, and flexed a finger, saying, “One, Tamara.” She flexed another finger and said, “Two, Sarah.” Manfred said, “In what way do I sound like Tamara?” Henrietta said, “Why do you pick Tamara? I’m thinking of Sarah.” “Sarah? Do I stammer like a child?” Henrietta said, “One, Sarah doesn’t stammer; two, it’s not a stammer I’m referring to. I’m referring to grammar.” “Grammar? You’ve been studying grammar? Hurray, Henrietta. Hurray. You know my views: one cannot know a language without knowing its grammar. Which is to say that any language that isn’t native cannot be acquired without studying its grammar. Who is teaching you? Taglicht? He knows Hebrew, but he surely doesn’t know grammar. Let me tell you a paradox of sorts. Grammar is our province — the province of Germans. Among East European Jews, there are those who know grammar. But their knowledge is intuitive; it comes from the heart. They can’t externalize it and teach it to others. So, what is all this grammar talk about?” Henrietta said, “Are you thinking of Sarah’s grammar? When Sarah wants to say, ‘Sarah loves Daddy,’ she says, ‘Sarah loves his Daddy.’“ “What? She still doesn’t distinguish between masculine and feminine?” “As a matter of fact, she does distinguish. When she refers to Zahara, she says, ‘Sarah loves her Zahara’; when she refers to Zahara’s husband, she says, ‘Sarah loves his Avraham.’ This also applies to hate. Referring to a male, she uses the masculine form of the pronoun for herself; referring to a female, she uses the feminine form.” “And for her brother?” “She doesn’t mention her brother at all. It’s as though he didn’t exist.” “She ignores him?” “She doesn’t ignore him, but she would like us to ignore him.” Manfred said, “It’s hard on a woman who is used to be being the center of the universe to have her place usurped.” Henrietta said, “A woman! You consider Sarah a woman and assume my visitor was a man. My dear Fred, what is happening to you?” Manfred said, “So it was a woman who was here. Someone I know?” Henrietta said, “I don’t keep a catalogue of all the women you know.” Manfred said, “Bravo, Henriett, bravo. If I were to adopt Sarah’s language, I would say, ‘Manfred loves her Henriett.’ How gracious you are, Henriett, to assume I know women other than my own Henriett. That woman couldn’t have found a better time to visit? She had to come at a time when company is unwelcome?” Henrietta said, “She truly couldn’t find another time. Nurses who work in hospitals are busy. She had a bit of free time and wanted to see how I am doing. Needless to say, she especially wanted to see the baby. She was the one who brought us the peaches. An effendi, whose wife bore him a live child in Hadassah Hospital, brought her fruit from his garden, and she brought some to us.” “What do you mean, ‘a live child’?” Henrietta said, “A live child and not a dead one. Year after year, she bore dead babies. Thanks to Hadassah and thanks to our doctors, his wife finally bore him a living child. Fred, we’re developing to the point where very soon we won’t be able to talk to each other. You don’t seem to understand what I say anymore, and you question every word. I wanted to tell you some of what the nurse told me, Fred, but I see I won’t even get to begin.” “Why?” “Why? There you go again. I can’t say a word without being asked a thousand questions.” “A thousand questions? That’s an exaggeration.” “Nine hundred and ninety-nine may be more precise. My dear Fred, go and have a rest.” “And the story the nurse told you will keep until I get up?” “I’ll have to decide whether to tell it to you.” Manfred said, “I see you’re cross with me. Incidentally, I meant to ask: considering the animosity between the two of you, how did Dr. Krautmeir explain her visit?” Henrietta was stunned and surveyed her husband in wonderment tinged with suspicion. Manfred felt uneasy, without knowing why. Henrietta remained silent. Manfred remained silent too. Henrietta broke the silence and said, “Then you didn’t hear any of what the nurse told me? No, no, no. Upstairs, it’s impossible to hear what goes on down below.” Manfred said, “Of course, it’s always been my habit to stand up there and listen to what goes on down here.” Henrietta said, “That’s not what I meant. Anyway, it’s interesting that you mention Krautmeir. The story I wanted to tell you happens to be about her — a spicy story inspired by Balzac’s familiar tales. Too bad, Fred. Too bad. Even before I began, you stole the sting.” Manfred said, “Tell me.” Henrietta said, “How does one begin? I doubt that I can tell it right. In any case, I learned from this story that Dr. Krautmeir, who devotes herself to limiting our population, sometimes demonstrates — personally — how babies are made. Oh, Fred, I’ve given it away. What I’m about to say to you is: let’s save the story for another time. Because the elements are so good, the story itself suffers.” Manfred said, “Curiosity is not a virtue, but neither is it a virtue to stir up curiosity.” Henrietta said, “Will you be able to sit and listen without a cigarette in your mouth?” Manfred said, “In your honor, in honor of that lady, Dr. Krautmeir, in honor of all the genteel ladies who don’t smoke, I’m willing to forgo a cigarette for a while. Tell me, Henriett, are there many storytellers who have been so royally compensated? Now then, either you begin or I smoke two cigarettes at a time.” Henrietta said, “I really don’t know how to begin, but I’ll try.

“A young woman from Mea Shearim lived with her husband for a number of years without bearing him any children. They were both very sad, for a man of the ultra-Orthodox community takes a wife to beget children. They heard about a woman doctor from Germany, here in Jerusalem, and that many women beat a path to her door. They weren’t aware that those women go to Krautmeir in order not to give birth. One day, they both went to her, the woman and the man. She was about twenty, and so was he. Their longing for a child exceeded their years. Krautmeir undertook to treat the woman. She began coming to Krautmeir, accompanied by her husband. She was a shy and lovely girl. He was handsome, appealing, and as shy as his wife. They were dressed in the old Mea Shearim style, which makes those lovely, demure people all the more attractive. In short, Krautmeir treated the woman, while her husband sat in the adjacent room, looking at the pictures in the magazines one finds in doctors’ waiting rooms. Several months passed, perhaps a year. One day, the young man plucked up the courage to go to Krautmeir alone and ask if there was a prospect of children from his wife. Krautmeir’s answer is not known. One can assume she addressed him in her usual manner — in simple words, without much empathy — and explained the secrets of sex. The man was interested in what she said. He began to call on her more and more frequently, especially on Shabbat afternoons, when she didn’t normally see patients. Krautmeir was interested in this naive young man from the old community, in his long earlocks, in everything about him. Only one thing is unclear, the nurse told me. What language did they speak? He didn’t know German; she knew barely any Yiddish. Being one of those fanatics who regard spoken Hebrew as heresy, would he allow himself to speak Hebrew to her? It would still be a problem, because Krautmeir’s Hebrew is too limited to allow for much conversation. So much for Krautmeir, for the young man and the young woman. Let’s turn our attention to a small fish bone.

“An old man was eating his Shabbat dinner when a fish bone got stuck in his throat. There was a great commotion in his house, and they began shouting, ‘Get a doctor!’ They remembered that some woman doctor lived nearby and ran to her house. When people from that community go to a doctor, they are usually joined by a large entourage. By the time they arrived at Krautmeir’s house, a crowd had collected. To avoid desecrating the Shabbat, and because they were in such a panic, they didn’t ring the bell. They merely pushed on the door. Luckily for them, the door opened instantly. Luckily for them — but not for that young man. The crowd was so panicked that someone knocked over a bottle of medicine and stained the young man’s shtreimel, which was resting on the table near Krautmeir’s bed. Not only did it soil his shtreimel, but it stained his caftan as well, his elegant Shabbat caftan. He himself was not spared; he was assaulted by many pairs of eyes that wondered just why he was in the doctor’s bed, and why she was there in the bed with him. She was probably teaching him what a man does to beget children. Now tell me, Fred, did you expect to hear such a story from me? If you’re not astonished, I certainly am.”

Manfred said, “Now I know what nurses talk about when they come to visit a respected lady such as Henrietta Herbst.” Henrietta said, “Now you know about the ingratitude of respected gentlemen such as Dr. Herbst.” “How is that?” “He sits and listens attentively, eager not to miss a single word. Then he expresses disapproval. You got what you deserved, Manfred.” Manfred said, “Mother, shouldn’t you lie down? I really think you ought to lie down after lunch.” Henrietta said, “Don’t mind me. If you want to go to your room, go ahead.” Manfred said, “I’m going up to my room, but not to lie down.” Henrietta said, “Do whatever you like.” Manfred said, “I would like to go into town. Believe it or not, I have no specific reason to go. But I’d like to, with nothing specific in mind.” Henrietta said, “That’s the best reason. A man shouldn’t always have specific things to do. As a matter of fact, why not go into town and amuse yourself? You’ll come home in a better mood.” Manfred said, “I’ll try.”

As soon as he entered his room, he saw the woven tray with the peach pits on it. Because the household routines had been disrupted by the nurse who chose to visit at lunchtime, Firadeus had forgotten to clear away the tray. Herbst didn’t mind. As a matter of fact, he was pleased that the peach pits were still there, so he could crack them open and eat the insides. But a peach pit is tough. It takes a hammer to crack it, and there was no hammer in his room. The hammer was downstairs with all the other tools. He didn’t want to go downstairs, preferring not to get involved in conversation with Henrietta, who would hear him and come, or else call to him. He looked around for a hard object or a rock to use to split open the pit. Not finding it, he went over to the window with the pit in his hand. He aimed it at a bush whose roses had wilted. As it happened, he hit the target. He smiled to himself, musing: Too bad I had no scheme for this game. For example: if the pit hits the bush, it’s a sign that I’ll find Shira today. Again he thought: Too bad. Then he reconsidered, noting to himself: There are five more pits here; what I didn’t do with the first one, I can now do with these. He picked up a pit, aimed at the bush, and hit it. He smiled and thought: What do I gain from this activity, if I don’t see a sign in it? He picked up another pit and thought: My hand is trained to hit that particular bush; now I’ll set myself a different target. He surveyed the garden and noticed a starling, its beak stuck in the ground. Herbst thought: I’ll test my power on him. Before he had a chance to pick up the pit, the starling took off with a screech and flew away. Herbst laughed heartily and mused: That starling knew what I was up to and didn’t want to oblige me with his body. He looked at the plate and counted the remaining pits. There were three left. He took another pit and was going to throw it. Before he could decide on a target, he saw Sarah ambling through the garden. He called to her. As soon as he called to her, he regretted it. He didn’t want to get involved with her, because, if he meant to go into town and find Shira, this was the time to go. It was possible that, at such an hour, when people don’t usually visit each other, he might find her at home. It occurred to him to wonder why she would be hiding in her house, having just said that, at this particular hour, when people don’t usually visit each other, he might find her in. He looked at his watch and saw that it was four o’clock. It would be good to have some coffee, but that would delay him. He left his room, thinking that it would be good to have coffee first, but that he would get some in town.

Chapter five

Though he guessed that this would be an opportune time to find Shira at home, he nevertheless went on foot rather than take the bus, for he had noticed that he was getting fat from too much food and too few walks. Jerusalem had been reduced to about half its size because of Arab snipers, and there were fewer and fewer areas a Jew could walk in without risking his life. Even in Baka, a Jew’s life was not secure, but, as nothing had ever happened to him in daylight, he didn’t worry about walking the streets by day.

At about five o’clock, he reached Rehavia. He had encountered no delays along the way. It’s not every day that one spends threequarters of an hour walking in Jerusalem without being delayed.

Herbst was pleased and displeased. He didn’t know why he was pleased and displeased. Since he was in the habit of looking for reasons for his behavior and emotions, he pondered awhile and realized he was pleased because he had arrived in town without being delayed and displeased because he foresaw further disappointment. He assumed he would find Shira’s door locked once again. But this was not the source of these two contrasting emotions, which were actually one and its reverse. He was displeased because he was sure there was nothing more between him and Shira, so why seek her out? He was pleased with the walk itself and the exercise it provided.

Everything turned out as expected. Shira’s door was locked, and he couldn’t tell from the windows whether she had been home since he was last there. After looking at the door and the windows again, he began to believe she might have been home in the interim. As for the fact that he saw no perceptible change, did he have photographs to compare the two visits? He was depending on his own eyes, and eyes that have suffered disappointment are biased and untrustworthy. Herbst walked the alley from beginning to end, backtracked, and walked it from beginning to end again. He repeated this course three or four times. Whenever he came close to her house, he hoped he would and wouldn’t find her door open. He circled so many times that he began to feel dizzy. He decided to leave. As people tend to do when they want something, although they know it’s hopeless, Herbst went back to the house. Once again, he left despondent. Like most people who modify their actions, this way and that, this way and that, to no avail, Herbst became extremely despondent.

Several days earlier, when Herbst had gone there, he had been aware of a person whose eyes seemed to be tracking his every footstep. Though he sensed this, he pretended not to notice, as if they were both pedestrians, passing through the alley with no particular interest in each other. Which was not true of that other person, who sensed that the gentleman had come because of the new tenant, who wasn’t living in the apartment he had rented to her; who had, in fact, already put it back in his hands; who had left several days after she moved in and hadn’t returned. She left and hadn’t returned. The landlord was absolutely confident that the gentleman would return, so he put off talking to him. Whether he was too lazy to initiate a conversation or whether it was wisdom, the landlord assumed that, coming back again and not finding the lady, the gentleman would be interested in chatting about her.

Herbst left the alley despondent and perplexed. He was also annoyed to be wasting time. Having concluded his business with Shira, what did he care if her door was locked? Why did he go back again and again? Did he have such a great need to satisfy his curiosity? And if what was involved was not curiosity, then what was it? For it was clear to him that he had no further business with Shira. Whether or not he knew precisely when his business with Shira had been concluded, he knows that it was concluded and that it makes no sense to revive such things out of curiosity, for there is no telling where that might lead. At the very least, it might lead to wasted time and despondency.

Herbst left the alley without having decided where to go or which way to turn. He didn’t feel like taking up his books; he wasn’t eager for conversation; it wasn’t a good time to call on people about his prospects for a promotion. When your mind is hollow and your heart is troubled, your mouth is not likely to spout words that will impress a listener. Herbst asked himself: Am I so troubled because of Shira? I’m troubled by her because I haven’t been able to find her. If I were to find her, how would it be? At least one thing is clear: I wouldn’t be happy. I would be relieved of the curiosity that sometimes torments me, but I certainly wouldn’t be happy.

To get rid of those thoughts, which were not happy ones, he shifted his mind to the tragedy he meant to write but never wrote. The tragedy unfolded before him, vivid and clear, scene by scene. It seemed to him that, if he were to sit down and write, he would write one scene after another. He might write the entire tragedy. But he had some doubts. Was it a tragedy, or merely a story with tragic events? Herbst, who was a reader, student, and theatergoer, who had analyzed modern tragedies — those that were updated to make them contemporary, as well as those that dealt with the issues of their time — knew and recognized the distinction between tragic events and tragedy. Modern poets are adept at defining tragedy. Some are even more adept than the early poets were. But those early poets were believers, so the creation of tragedy was entrusted to them. He nonetheless began to reconsider the content, along with the overall scheme, and, again, it seemed to him that, if he sat down to write, he would keep writing and finish. Even if he lacked the excitement that inspires poets to write, he did not lack diligence. He had trained himself to work step by step, note by note, whereas the poetic process demands a different work style, because, when a poet’s inspiration is arrested, it cannot be retrieved. This does not apply to those faithful workers who forge ahead relentlessly, whether or not they feel inspired. Fragmentary scenes were already written and recorded in his notebooks, along with an outline of locales, such as the home of Basileios, the faithful servant. It would surely be worthwhile for him to begin; what followed, as well as the conclusion, would take shape on their own. Once again, Herbst imagined himself leaving the university; leaving his colleagues and students; going to some remote place, where he would rent a wooden hut or find an abandoned stone house and live alone, solitary, for weeks and months, days and nights. There, he would write the tragedy of the woman of the court, the nobleman Yohanan, and their faithful servant Basileios, emerging from his seclusion only when he finished the tragedy. Out of a concern for modesty, truth, and to avoid deception, he observed to himself: I call it tragedy, not because I believe I’m writing tragedy, but out of academic habit. So he observed, imagining this was the reason, when actually there was another reason that will seem absurd if I write it. At that moment, Herbst was intimidated by the word tragedy, afraid it would provoke the gods. By degrees, his enthusiasm waned. At first, he told himself: No need to give everything up; I could take time off and go to live in Ahinoam for a while, where my daughter is. I could surely find an empty room there, eat in the dining hall, and be free from all the concerns of my household. Then he said to himself: I have no particular reason to live in the country. I could compose the tragedy in my own home, in my study, at my desk. After which, he said to himself: Nonsense, this man is destined to write essays. One of these days, he may even finish his great work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. He scrutinized his soul, examined his heart, and reflected: You are not the sort of person who can change his way of life. You’ll be doing well if you succeed in improving it to some extent.

Improving his life? If he were to try to take stock of his way of life, he would find that he had never once thought it needed improvement. He thought about creating books, about writing criticism, about acquiring books, about becoming a professor, about social connections, about Henrietta. He also thought about Shira. So as not to confound the woman who confounded his heart with respect to his wife, who had only his welfare at heart, he stopped speculating about different ways of life. Although he hadn’t thought of personal reform until now, he had thought of educational reform for his son. As I already related, the night his son was admitted to the covenant of Abraham, he sketched out some rules and specifications for the boy’s education. Once again, he outlined a general scheme for his son’s education, and, once again, he pondered the fact that women are in charge of man’s education. Even one’s earliest nourishment comes from woman. One thought led to another. He remembered the tale of the man whose wife died, leaving him an infant to rear; since he couldn’t afford to hire a wetnurse, his two nipples provided milk, so he could suckle his son. Again Herbst’s response was: What a shame, what a shame that the legend doesn’t tell us the outcome — whether that baby fared any better than the rest of humanity, reared on mother’s milk.

He suddenly remembered the time he went into his daughter Zahara’s room and she covered her bosom in shame. This may have been the first time the girl herself was conscious of being a woman. What about Tamara? When was she first conscious of being a woman? How would it be with Sarah? Sarah is still a baby. Her mother still bathes her in his presence; she is naked and unashamed. As a matter of fact, she often calls to him, “Father, see Sarah, he’s washing.” She means, “See Sarah, she’s washing.” And Firadeus: in all the time he’s known her, it never occurred to him that she was a woman. He regards her as a vessel filled with sorrow and anguish, waiting to serve him, reticent, submissive, compliant. Still, when she was upset by the nurse who came to visit Henrietta, she neglected to clear away the dish, which is what caused him to throw the pits. He threw two at the wilted rosebush and one at a starling that took flight, without seeing any sign about Shira in this game. When he finally went to Shira, he didn’t find her. But he found someone else, whose eyes tracked his every footstep. Were their circumstances similar? Was he also on intimate terms with Shira? Only the devil knows her ways. That woman is capable of actions and relationships that would be bizarre for any other woman, but not for Shira. Even if there was nothing between that man and Shira, it was good that he didn’t speak with him. They would surely have hidden the truth from each other, so what was there to gain from such a conversation?

Herbst was not fanatical about the truth, but he avoided lies, and he had never lied until the night he visited Shira for the first time. What was there for him to do after that night? He had no choice but to superimpose one lie on another, to camouflage his lies with lies, because, in his mind, he was bound to that woman, compelled to seek her out again and again. Marriage is a respected and fine institution which humanity has, no doubt, arrived at as a result of many difficult experiments, but not all marriages promote truth. In the interest of peace and tranquility, one sometimes finds it necessary to heap lie upon lie. What happened to that pious young man who was found in bed with Dr. Krautmeir? What was Henrietta referring to when she called it a Balzacian tale? She was referring to those young people who came to their elders before the wedding ceremony to learn the secrets of sex and were taught on their own bodies. Try to picture that frosty, deliberate woman, without an erotic line on her face, without a tremor of desire, about whose intimate life nothing is known. Picture her in the arms of a young Hasid, half her age, a poor fellow who pays for his love by soiling his black hat, his elegant caftan, and his good name. It’s very odd. As Henrietta heard it from the nurse, the fellow’s wife is a freshly blooming rose. As for Krautmeir, we all know about her. She isn’t ugly, but she certainly isn’t attractive. She’s quite tall. Her body isn’t gross, but it certainly isn’t delicate. Her conversation is always deliberate. She probably has some spiritual needs; she might read a nonprofessional text on occasion. What we know about her is very limited. What can we know about a woman we aren’t close to? And, even if we were close, we wouldn’t know very much. If we were to put together all our information about Shira, it would not be very enlightening. Rika Weltfremdt’s life seems accessible to us, but what we see may be the surface. It is possible that even that woman, whose way of life is simple and obvious, is concealing a monumental secret, the secret of someone who craves poetry and pursues it, only to turn out insipid verse. Though he would have liked to laugh at her verse, he felt melancholy and was depressed by the suspicion that he was remembering her and her verse only because he had once dared to regard himself as the author of a tragedy.

Chapter six

Once again, life’s routines are orderly, without any exceptional events. Gabi keeps growing. Gabi, like his sister Sarah, isn’t very much trouble to his mother, not to mention his father. It’s good that he doesn’t trouble his father, because he is busy preparing lectures for the winter semester, and it wouldn’t do to confound his mind with irrelevant concerns. Sarah had one advantage: Sarini, who was already mentioned, was her only wetnurse, whereas Gabi has already had to adjust to four sets of nipples, and no one knows how many changes are ahead before he is weaned, because of diminished milk, because of childbirth, because of Arab terror. If Herbst doesn’t move, I don’t know what’s in store for him and his family. The Arabs are insolent. They are a menace to any Jew who shows his face in Baka. By day, they are menacing; by night, they shoot. Sacharson is already planning to move out of Baka, so as not to cause an Arab to kill a Christian when he really means to kill a Jew. The shohet who used to come from Mekor Hayim every week to slaughter chickens no longer appears at the Herbsts’ home. Unless Henrietta follows the example of other ladies, who wring the chicken’s neck themselves, she will have to deal with the Arab butcher. She doesn’t want to get meat from the Arabs, because, as her father used to say, if we give up the slaughterer and the butcher, what aspects of Judaism will we be left with? It’s enough that she gets other food from the Arabs. If she orders from a Jewish storekeeper, he won’t deliver to her home, because he is afraid. She begins to see herself as someone whose support comes from Jews, without a penny of it reverting to them. How is this? They live in an Arab house. They buy bread from a German bakery; meat from an Arab butcher; fruit, vegetables, and eggs from Arab women; staples from the English. Their books and newspapers are foreign, and, when they want a rest, they go to Father Miller’s pension. Whatever Jews earn through their efforts, they hand over to Gentiles, retaining no benefit for themselves. Tamara is not pleased to be living in Baka either. At least once, she didn’t come home at night. Not because she was out of Jerusalem, but because she was afraid. If this is how it is for Tamara, who is usually accompanied by two dozen young men, what is an ordinary person to do?

Back to Gabi. He keeps growing. And, when you pick him up, you feel his weight. So far, his magnitude derives from weight, not might or valor. For this reason, he needs to be protected from Sarah’s doll and from Sarah. One tries to get her hands on him; the other attacks him with a slipper. Luckily, the doll’s slipper is made of silk. Envy is characteristic of all living things, including this child of old age, who was indulged by everyone until a new creature appeared and appropriated some of the attention. A few days earlier, she had cried because some woman said Sarini would put Gabi back in her belly, and today she incited her doll to throw a slipper at him.

Henrietta was occupied with the son of her old age. He occupied her twenty-four hours a day. This is not an exaggeration nor is it hyperbole, for even in her dreams she was occupied with him. Henrietta had so many dreams, and they were so strange. They had no end, no limits, no boundary. A dreaming soul can flit from Jerusalem to Berlin, then reverse its direction, so that the Land of Israel and Germany blend with each other, along with their populations, mountains, rivers, local produce. Sometimes a vegetable that couldn’t exist in Germany is offered to her in a Berlin hotel, served up in a Shabbat hat soiled by Dr. Krautmeir’s medicines. On what occasion was that vegetable served to her? At her son Gabi’s bar mitzvah. You are aware that Henrietta and her family have no commitment to faith and religion. I doubt that she ever saw a pair of tefillin, except in drawings and pictures. Henrietta knows that, when a boy reaches the age of thirteen, his father hires a teacher, who is half from the old community and half from who knows where, to teach the boy a chapter from the prophets, sung with monotonous vocal trills no ear would tolerate if it were not for the sweetness of the boy’s voice. On Shabbat, the boy comes to the synagogue with his father and his relatives, wearing a strip of silk around his neck, a tallit. He is called to the Torah to read the chapter he learned from his teacher. Then friends of the family come, bringing presents — a book, a picture, a penknife, a camera, and whatever other objects a boy covets. The guests all eat cake and drink an assortment of beverages. Knowing all this, it is strange to us that Henrietta saw her son with tefillin on his head. Though I try to avoid the bizarre, I will recount the plot of the dream.

One night, Henrietta cried out in her sleep, because she saw her son’s head dripping blood. She wanted to dress the wound but couldn’t get a bandage, because the chest was locked. She went to him just as she was, empty-handed, and saw that one of his curls was parted; that there, in the center of the curl, was a small box with curlicues. A four-headed bird was carved on the box, and she knew that she was at her son’s bar mitzvah and that those were tefillin on his head. This is why I said Henrietta was occupied with her son, not only by day, but by night as well. When his sisters were small, Henrietta used to find time for everything. She managed the household, tended the garden, took in guests from abroad, entertained, wrote letters, negotiated certificates, challenged the accounts of fundraisers from charitable institutions, legitimate and otherwise. By now, Henrietta’s hands had begun to falter, and she devoted her remaining energies to the son of her old age. Though she wasn’t able to nurse the baby, she was wholly occupied with him; it was as if he never stirred from between her breasts. Difficult as it is to jest about this, just to sweeten the bitterness, I’ll lighten the mood with a little humor. The Nazis, knowing that Henrietta Herbst wasn’t free to write to her relatives, destroyed some of them and imprisoned others, so they wouldn’t bother her with their letters.

Because of Ernst Weltfremdt’s new book, Herbst decided to replan his lectures for the winter semester. He had originally intended to lecture on Arcadius ii. After reading Weltfremdt’s book, he was moved to lecture about the rise of the Goths. By way of thanks, Herbst prefaced his lectures with a comprehensive survey of what was known and what was unknown about the subject before Professor Weltfremdt appeared on the scene with his new book. Some scholars, when they find new material in a colleague’s book, respond with silence or drown it out so that the listener can’t hear it; there are other scholars who make the new material the cornerstone of their own thinking. Manfred Herbst was unique in this respect. When his friends offered valuable insights, he presented them to his students; when they were misguided, he didn’t mention them. He argued that, unless their errors begin to be accepted, there is no reason to point them out, even in the interests of challenging them. He had another virtue. He didn’t boast to his friends and report to them, “I mentioned you in my lecture.” I recount all this not to elevate Herbst or to discredit others by praising him. But, recalling one of his finer qualities, I am calling attention to it. This quality is praiseworthy. Still, if I should recall a quality that is to his discredit, I won’t conceal it either.

Chapter seven

The nurse came again. She came to see how the baby was doing and, incidentally, to see Mrs. Herbst. She had been fond of Mrs. Herbst from the outset. Now that they were better acquainted, she had come back for a brief visit, intending to see how she was doing and be on her way. She had an urgent need to know how Mrs. Herbst was doing, because Mrs. Herbst was so exceptional in her charm, good sense, intellect, virtue, manners, and other qualities too numerous to list while standing on one foot. The popular notion that it is a nurse’s duty to love everyone and to sacrifice herself on the altar of love is misguided, as it overlooks the fact that nurses are also flesh and blood, that the same good and bad qualities that exist in other people exist in nurses as well. A nurse who is loyal to the truth, who doesn’t embellish her outward image, will not deny the natural feelings with which nature has endowed her. But she can assert about herself that, whether or not she has any affection for a particular patient, when she is in charge, she does everything in her power to promote that patient’s welfare, health, and recovery. She even forgoes sleep and gives up her private life on his behalf. There are patients she detests when they are in good health, “who are as hateful as mice in the cream.” Still, when they come to the hospital and are entrusted to her care, her hostility is suspended. She tends them, tries to please them as though they were loved ones, and stands ready to give her life for them at any moment. When they leave the hospital, even before they have a chance to say, “Goodbye, Nurse Ludmilla,” she reverts to hostility, detesting them again, “like mice in the cream.”

So, if she calls on Mrs. Herbst, she calls on her because she is fond of her; in fact, she loves her. Love is a simple word that doesn’t encompass even a fraction of the feelings that stir her heart. She has loved her for ten years now, or more. Mrs. Herbst knows nothing about this. But this love is engraved in her heart, her skin, her flesh, her bones. On the surface, the reason is simple and uncomplicated. True love doesn’t require complicated reasoning. Sometimes a drop of eau de cologne is sufficient to create a sea of love. This is not as odd as it sounds, and not so much odd as bizarre. It is an example taken from life, the sort of life that is typical of the Land of Israel. Ten years ago — to be precise, ten years and one day ago — two ladies were traveling in a train from Haifa to Jerusalem. In those days, it was common to take long trips in a train rather than a car. Though lighter vehicles go faster, it is more pleasant to travel in a train than in a car. In a train, the passenger is in control, free to get up and walk around or to remain seated; in a car, you are required to stay in your seat, as if you were strapped in. If you have an open mind, you wonder why a free and intelligent person would surrender his freedom and pay a price for it. In short, the train moved ahead. The two ladies were in the same car, but, like modern ladies, they kept to themselves. As long as they don’t know each other, modern ladies remain subdued, though their hearts are full and their tongues all but leap out of their mouths because they are so eager to talk. All of a sudden, something happened. One of these two ladies, Ludmilla the nurse, was traveling with a young girl, who, having suffered what she suffered, was being taken from Haifa to Jerusalem for a psychological consultation with Heinz Hermann. Her mind had been affected by what she had to undergo to rid herself of nature’s gift to womankind. In short, the lady traveler was in her seat; Ludmilla the nurse was in hers. She had closed her eyes, hoping for sleep. Nature denied her the sleep she craved. She thought to herself: Nature is cruel. Would it matter if I were granted a drop of sleep, when my brain is empty and boredom is gnawing at my heart? She was still young and unaware that there is nothing as kind as nature, nothing as sensible as nature, that we ought to depend on nature in every realm, for nature alone knows what is good and what isn’t. All of a sudden, there was a great noise, and the train came to a sudden halt. What happened? That young girl had opened the door and was about to jump. If she hadn’t been restrained, she would have been crushed. Ludmilla the nurse was in shock and about to faint. She was about to faint, and then she fainted. There was no one to look after her, because everyone was busy with the girl who had tried to commit suicide. If not for the lady who was sitting near her on the train, who rubbed her forehead and the veins of her wrist with eau de cologne, Ludmilla the nurse would have continued to feel more and more faint. What had happened was no small thing: a patient who needs special care is entrusted to you, and you try to nap. And who was the lady? Mrs. Herbst was the lady. Mrs. Herbst forgot the event. She so completely forgot it that she was convinced she had never been on the train from Haifa to Jerusalem and had never used eau de cologne.

But Ludmilla the nurse is trustworthy. Nature has endowed her with a powerful memory. She even remembers the shape of the smile that graced Mrs. Herbst’s face when she asked the nurse how she was feeling. Were we to speak truly, Ludmilla the nurse calls on Mrs. Herbst more for the past than the present, because she has an intense need occasionally to see herself as she was ten years ago. When she sees Mrs. Herbst, she imagines herself on the train, with Mrs. Herbst rubbing eau de cologne on her forehead. All of this is so vivid that she actually smells the eau de cologne. Despite the fact that Mrs. Herbst no longer uses eau de cologne, she experiences its wonderful fragrance — the fragrance reminding her of the event; the event reminding her of the fragrance. When she comes, she offers advice and guidance for the baby and his mother, for the two of them together. Even though the baby is already separated from his mother’s womb and doesn’t nurse at her breast, he is attached to his mother, and his mother is attached to him. The bond is powerful: physical and concrete, not merely spiritual. Anyone who has mastered the secrets of creation, who knows what birth is, knows about the nature of the bond between a mother and the fruit of her womb. There are women, even doctors, who regard the embryo inside its mother as something you can get rid of, as long as none of its limbs has emerged into the world. They believe that a girl who has strayed from the proper path can deal with the consequences by getting rid of the embryo, that she can be restored to her former state, which I will describe as youth, rather than use an abstract term like maidenhood. If she meets up with a naive man, she leads him to the bridal canopy without any misgivings or regrets. For that type of shrewd woman, we have something akin to a folktale or ballad to tell, without ruling out the possibility that the events described in it actually transpired. Those shrewd women who dismiss the procedure as simply physical, cosmetic, or the like would do well to listen. I am coming to the heart of the story, which I will tell approximately as Ludmilla the nurse told it. Approximately — not word for word — because at first it didn’t occur to me that it would be worth conveying. I suddenly remembered the story and realized that Ludmilla the nurse had imparted something very significant. I struggled to recall the details, but without success. I asked myself: Why wear myself out over a story someone has told? We hear so much, and, if we were to try to report it all, we would never succeed. I renounced the story, but the story didn’t renounce me. It kept coming back to mind, sometimes on its own, sometimes suggested by other events. So much so that I began to wonder whether the events were meant to remind me of the story or whether the story was meant to help me understand the events. In either case, I couldn’t escape it, though I continued to try. It was stronger than I was. If not for the fact that I don’t believe in magic, I would say I was under its spell. Every day, every single day, something transpired that reminded me of the story. Seeing that this was how it was, I reviewed it again and again, until the story was gone.

Chapter eight

Whenever Ludmilla the nurse appears, Henrietta is happy to see her. Manfred isn’t happy to see her, and he is frank with Henrietta about the fact that he isn’t pleased by the visits of that mouse in the cream. Ludmilla the nurse isn’t a mouse, and Herbst’s home isn’t cream, but, since Herbst resents her, he gives her a demeaning name. His resentment, which is what leads him to demean her, stems from the fact that, when he sees how often she visits Henrietta, he remembers that Shira never visited Henrietta, not even once. When he remembers Shira, what he remembers torments him. Also, though it is evident from her face that Ludmilla the nurse doesn’t dissemble, she causes him to dissemble. He says demeaning things about her in her absence, but he is gracious when she appears. Why does he do this? Because he needs to be on good terms with her. There is no way of knowing what such a woman is capable of. She might even know something of what was between him and Shira. It is common for nurses to keep track of each other’s lives, so it is best to be on good terms with her. Otherwise, she could gossip about him and tell Henrietta things it would be better for her not to know. Human beings are surely flawed; they flatter one another for professional advancement and domestic harmony. What else is in store for ignoble mankind? Let us hope that the future, which is an outcome of the present, will be no uglier than the present.

Ludmilla the nurse came again. She came at about noon, as she had done the first time, just as Firadeus was about to spread the cloth and set the table. Ludmilla didn’t want to join them for lunch. She turned down their invitation, as she had done the first time. She barely agreed to have a sip of coffee and barely agreed to have a bite of cake, an old cake Mrs. Herbst had baked for Shabbat. Henrietta says these leftovers can’t really be called cake, but Ludmilla the nurse says they aren’t just leftovers, they are the equivalent of a cake and a half, since each and every crumb has a unique flavor, and no two crumbs are alike; these are not crumbs, but entire cakes. In fact, she uses the term crumbs only to avoid contradicting Mrs. Herbst, who calls those large slices crumbs out of excessive modesty, just as she calls the cake old, when, actually, it just came out of the oven. If three or four days have elapsed since the cake came out of the oven, it still retains its warmth — if not the warmth of the oven, then the warmth of a generous heart. Herein lies the greatness of Mrs. Herbst. She offers you the best and most superb delicacy, understating its quality, so you’ll feel free to eat as much as you want. But Ludmilla the nurse doesn’t want very much. Two or three crumbs satisfy her to such an extent that she is happy not to eat or drink anything else until the next time she comes, if Mrs. Herbst doesn’t lock her out. As for the fact that she comes at lunchtime, an hour when people are not in the habit of dropping in, she regrets this more than anyone in the world, because she may be delaying lunch and interfering with household routines. But what is she to do when, suddenly, at midnight — yes, it was midnight and even earlier; of course it was earlier, as she hadn’t heard the rooster crow yet — her heart yearned to see Mrs. Herbst and Gabi, sweet Gabi. She assumed this would pass, but the yearning became more and more intense. Then she began to be afraid she would be swept out of the world by these yearnings. Swept out of the world is an exaggeration, but an exaggeration that is close to the truth. Since she had some time off — just a little earlier, she had unexpectedly been told that she could take some time off — she leaped at the chance to come. She came right over without consulting her watch to see if it was a good time for visiting. It’s just as well that she didn’t consult her watch. If she had, she wouldn’t have come, and her heart would have expired with longing. When she arrived, Herbst stepped out of his room and came downstairs. If a man appears in the dining room at mealtime, even his wife doesn’t suspect he is there because of his interest in her guest. So Manfred appeared in the dining room, found Ludmilla the nurse sitting with his wife, was taken aback, and made a move to go. But didn’t go, because it was only proper for him to welcome the guest first. Then he asked permission to join the ladies, promising not to interfere with their conversation.

The three of them sit together: Dr. Manfred Herbst, a lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem; Mrs. Henrietta Herbst, his wife; and the registered nurse Ludmilla. Each of them has a history of his own. Herbst and his wife come from the same country, the same city, the same cultural milieu. But Ludmilla the nurse comes from another place, from a city at the border of three countries, and when a rooster announced the dawn in any one of these countries, the people in the other two knew it was morning. This is how it was before the Great War. Now, after the war, it’s different. The rooster is no different. The rooster has not changed his nature, but it doesn’t matter that he has not changed his nature when he no longer exists. Roosters have been eradicated from the world, and the meat we eat comes from tins. If there is still such a thing as a live rooster, crowing as usual, there is no one to hear him, because human beings have already been eradicated from the world. And if there are still a few people left, most of them are Bolsheviks or Communists. There is no point elaborating on this, for we don’t know whom we might offend. Even in the Land of Israel, there is no shortage of Bolsheviks, and it is not in our nature to offend anyone, even someone opposed to our ideals. Before she came to the Land of Israel, she thought the entire country was inhabited by Zionists. Now she sees that the Land of Israel is like other countries. What we find in the lands of dispersion, we find here too: Zionists, Socialists, and so on. Even the Zionists themselves aren’t genuine Zionists. There are Labor Zionists and General Zionists. There are probably other types of Zionists from parties she can’t name. Her father was unique. He was a genuine Zionist, an outright Zionist. If the concept “simple” hadn’t been oversimplified, she would say her father was simply a Zionist. He didn’t have the good fortune to emigrate to the Land of Israel, which may be just as well. If he were here, he wouldn’t be able to survive. He was a simple Zionist, when what we need here are Zionists who are extremely clever, and even that isn’t adequate, because, all of a sudden, a new breed of Zionists surfaces, with new types of cleverness. Does anyone have what it takes to devise new types of cleverness every day? In fact, she admits that she herself has lost interest in Zionism. The day she set foot in the Land of Israel, her heart shed its Zionist sentiments. Spiritual functions are very much like physical functions. A man who is thirsty to the point of madness finds water,’ and drinks it, and his thirst is gone. Similarly, a man who is starved to the point of madness finds bread and eats it, and his hunger vanishes.

The three of them sit together, engrossed in their conversation. I said “their conversation,” though it is actually her conversation. She does all the talking. What does she talk about, and what doesn’t she talk about? What does she tell about? What doesn’t she tell about? All of Jerusalem rolls off her tongue: Jews, Ishmaelites, Christians alike. She has something to say about them all, a story to tell about everyone. It is the convention to assume that doctors are on the most intimate terms with their fellow human beings, because a sick person is likely to open his heart and reveal what he wouldn’t otherwise reveal, not even to himself. But how much time does a doctor spend with a patient? A famous doctor, who has many patients, is short on time, whereas doctors who aren’t famous pretend to be busy and in great demand. As it turns out, doctors spend very little time with patients. But a nurse is with the patient all the time, always, even longer. Patients get bored and are eager to extract hidden information from the nurse, such as, Is there a chance they will recover? Is there hope they will live? In this context, they talk to the nurse and tell her things they themselves were not aware of before. They do this to stir her heart, so she will reveal what they want to know, which allows a nurse to hear things not everyone gets to hear. Ludmilla the nurse doesn’t say very much about Jews. First of all, because Jewish patients are so preoccupied with their illnesses that, though the illnesses vary, they talk about them in one and the same way. Second, if she were to report what they say, it would sound like gossip and slander. But she tells about Muslims and Christians, because, to the general Jewish society, they are mere names, like those in the tales of A Thousand and One Nights and the Brothers Grimm. She admits that she doesn’t have the talent of either Scheherazade or the Grimm brothers, but her stories have one advantage. They are true. True, not concocted. True, without a particle of fantasy.

It’s impossible to tell all of her stories, but some of them can be told. So I will tell two of them that add up to a little less than two segments of a thousand and one stories. The young wife of Ibn Saud’s hangman was both very pretty and very sick. In all of Saudi Arabia, there was no doctor who could cure her. They put her in a bed, which was lifted onto a camel’s back, and carried her from land to land, from country to country, to each of the seven Arab kingdoms, but they found no cure for her illness. They took her to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. Back in Ibn Saud’s country, that hangman had a title equivalent to vizier, and his wife was nobility, true nobility. He had achieved rank because of his occupation, but her nobility derived from her person. It was the custom there that, once a year, all the noblewomen in the kingdom would come to kiss Ibn Saud’s hand. She, too, came to kiss his hand. Hearing she was sick, he commanded that no effort be spared to cure her, which is why she was finally taken to Hadassah. It was obvious to Ludmilla the nurse, who was in charge of her, that, apart from being sick, she was a delicate and well-mannered woman. Having mentioned hand kissing, she mentioned another incident that revolved around this custom. Every year, around the time of the Muslim holidays, Master Salomiac used to bring a gift to the old mufti, who was the father of Amin Husseini, the current mufti. Master Salomiac was the Russian emissary, and, as such, he had dealings with Muslim leaders as well as with the mufti. His relationship with them was one of great affection. Whenever he came to the mufti, he was offered the seat of honor and was served coffee, sweets, and a narghile, in accordance with Ishmaelite custom. While they were discussing politics, Amin Husseini entered and bowed to the guest. His father scolded him and said, “You insect, why haven’t you kissed his honor’s hand?” Amin Husseini bowed to Master Salomiac and kissed his hand. The two of them remember that exchange to this day. Ludmilla the nurse once went to the Old City to watch the Nebi Mussa celebrations and found herself standing next to Master Salomiac. He said to her, “Come, I have something to show you. See the mufti over there, riding on his white mule, facing the crowd of celebrants? You’re about to see him turn his face away.” Master Salomiac positioned himself in front of the mufti, who immediately turned his face in the other direction. Master Salomiac moved so that, once again, he was directly in front of the mufti. Once again, the mufti turned his face away. This was enacted several times. Master Salomiac said to Ludmilla the nurse, “It’s hard for that villain to look me in the face from such an elevated position. He still remembers that he once kissed my hand.”

Manfred sits there, his heart pounding with hunger and dread, for Ludmilla the nurse might mention Shira. She doesn’t mention Shira. Is it because she is determined not to talk about Jews, or is it to avoid upsetting Herbst? Who can fathom a woman’s heart? All our speculations about women are inherently contradictory. Ludmilla the nurse has visited Mrs. Herbst many times. She has consumed a keg of coffee and a mound of cakes; she has told a thousand and one stories, none of them about Shira. For this reason, I will say no more about Ludmilla the nurse and return to Herbst’s essential concerns.

Herbst returned to his own concerns, concerns that have been essential to him since the day he was imbued with an inquiring soul. True, he has made other concerns his concern, but these are not relevant to his essential concern, which is the history of Byzantium. In any case, it is baffling: what does such a man, such a scholar, have in common with Shira? Even if we grant that no scholar can survive on his work alone, in what way are they compatible? Scholarship is totally alien to her. She neither understands it nor wishes to understand it. If he had become involved with Lisbet Neu, I would have said it was because of her uncle. But why does he cling to Shira? Is it because professionals are attracted to the nonprofessional world? I may be mistaken, just as I was mistaken about Ludmilla the nurse, to whom I have devoted so much attention, although she is not connected to the story of Herbst and the nurse Shira. On the other hand, whatever surrounds the core may be essential, just as the whiteness around a letter sustains its shape. Without a context, we wouldn’t recognize the text. So much for the irrelevant; now on to essentials.

We are familiar with Dr. Manfred Herbst’s work habits, which are probably no different from those of most scholars. He sits at his desk, in his study, bent over his books and his notes, reading, adding notes to his notes, which are filed in a special box. Sometimes, the box fills up before he has a chance to use them. At other times, the hour passes before the box is full. When it’s time to write a chapter or an article, he takes out his notes, puts them together, organizes them by subject, ties them in a bundle, then reads them, and writes what he writes. I’m not mentioning the cigarettes and the pipe, because they don’t apply to all scholars. He sometimes succeeds in writing a page or two at one sitting; at other times, he barely manages to produce two or three lines. But he adds one line, then another line, until, in time, he can put together half a chapter or even a whole chapter. All this relates to the actual work, to the work process itself.

I will now attempt to clarify just how he handles ideas. A learned man’s mind isn’t always filled with ideas. Even if his brain is as busy as a beehive, when he looks into it, he might find it empty. Sometimes, inadvertently, suddenly and inadvertently, when he least expects it, a good idea comes to him. When he’s alert, he follows through with an action: he writes it in his notebook. When he’s less alert, he tosses it around until it floats away. Then, later, when he is ready to write it down, he finds his hands are empty, unless it was replaced by a similar idea while he was hesitating. If I’m not mistaken, I have outlined most of Herbst’s habits with respect to his work.

I will now note the fact that Herbst has devised a new approach to his work. He no longer sits for long periods laboring over books, nor does he take notes. He does his work outside, on the streets of Jerusalem, in its open spaces. This is roughly his routine: He eats, drinks, smokes, gets up from the table, says, “Time for a little walk,” and goes out. Some days, he boards the bus and rides into town; other days, he goes on foot. When he gets to town, he turns toward one of the relatively uncrowded streets. Not that he avoids those places that hum with activity, for a person’s thoughts reflect the person. At times, he seeks silence and tranquility; at times, he prefers the human bustle.

Herbst is tall and hardy. His head is somewhat bowed. He has a cigarette in his mouth, a walking stick in his hand. His mind roves from Jerusalem to Byzantium. All the emperors of that Rome-of-the-East flit through his mind. He drives them away sometimes, as an emperor would drive away irritating ministers. But he sometimes welcomes one of them and responds, even to the extent of dealing with matters of the heart. The story of Arcadius and Eudoxia is a case in point. Arcadius was a young emperor with many fantasies when he married the beautiful Eudoxia. But the beautiful Eudoxia was a cold woman, with no love in her heart. She cloistered herself in her room or in a secluded chapel, isolated from people, where she prostrated herself before her God. The emperor knocked on her door many times, but she didn’t open it. The affairs of Byzantium were in a state of neglect, dire neglect; that great kingdom was in a state of neglect. The emperor ignored his city, his people, his entire realm. His mind was totally taken up with Eudoxia, who rejected him. Why did she reject him? There are many opinions, but not much truth. Herbst’s opinions on this subject are no more valid than anyone else’s. How can we arrive at the truth? How can we eliminate doubt? How can we eliminate theories that, for the most part, derive from an impulse to innovate and from a wish to demonstrate that everything is clear and obvious to us, that we have solved all the mysteries, though in our hearts we know these theories have no substance? Not only do they themselves lack substance, but they generate other theories, upon which entire new systems are built. Meanwhile, there is a mess of documents, hidden away and ensconced in storage vaults somewhere, unread and untouched. A scholar or researcher appears, unrolls the documents, reads them, studies and analyzes them to the best of his ability, and, finally, publishes a paper. Those who read it imagine that they are now holding the truth in their hand. Another document is suddenly discovered, different from the preceding ones, and what was accepted as definitive truth turns out to be totally invalid. Who can but sympathize with the learned men of the past, who labored, toiled, and lived out their lives under basic misconceptions.

Herbst walks the streets of Jerusalem, responding to greetings, exchanging pleasantries, studying a store window, reviewing his relationship to his own research. One doesn’t always know the truth about himself, what he is like at a given moment. But, if he is a person who seeks the truth, he can know, to some extent, what he was once like in specific respects. Manfred Herbst was like a deep well, filled with errors — errors that ensued from one another, engendering still more errors, ad infinitum. He had argued about them with friends, based several theories on them, taught them to his students, built his reputation on them, since they were widely accepted and, presumably, reliable. Suddenly, a photocopy of an unknown document fell into his hands. He read it. He saw and recognized that what was considered definitive truth wasn’t true at all. This is not the place to explain why this document was more convincing than the earlier ones. But it is the place to say what Herbst did after he discovered what he discovered and arrived at the truth. Herbst made no effort to protect himself. He wrote, “I made a mistake, which I retract.” When he was invited to republish some of his early papers, he declined, because most of them were based on those errors. There are famous scholars who, once they have made a statement, refuse to retract it, despite an abundance of evidence to the contrary. Even when they themselves are aware of their error, they don’t admit it. They maintain their position, dismissing the opinion of peers if it suggests they themselves are in error. If they could, they would burn any manuscript that challenges their views. Needless to say, this isn’t Herbst’s way. In fact, Herbst lives by this axiom: I uphold this view today, because this is what my research suggests. If I see tomorrow that I’m mistaken, I will undo all the structures that are based on this error. Scholarship itself is more important than an individual scholar, and the essence of scholarship is precision. This remains true even if we concede that there are no absolutes in the realm of scholarship, since what was true until today is no longer true in the light of new discoveries, and what we learn from today’s discoveries may be a fleeting truth, because further discoveries remain to be discovered, and, when these further discoveries are discovered, earlier truths will be invalidated. But there is one ultimate truth, forever valid: the quest for truth itself, directing our hearts to explore the truth without political or social bias. As long as we have no evidence about the past other than the texts left to us by preceding generations, it is our mandate to examine them thoroughly and meticulously, to be very cautious about offering new theories that can’t be supported. In the future, when new data are discovered, more authentic than before, we must discard what is outdated in favor of the new. Herbst repeated this message to his students every semester, in his opening lecture. Needless to say, he repeated it to himself as well. He used to add: Who among us has read travel stories as a child without being stirred by explorers who traveled to remote lands; crossed seas, deserts, uncharted forests; risked life and limb; exposed themselves to harsh environments, deadly disease, savage animals, in order to investigate nature and life in its varied forms — unintimidated by all these perils? We who work in the serenity of our homes, who are guaranteed food, drink, and sleep — will we cling to distorted opinions and be distorted by them ourselves, because of habit, for the sake of our so-called honor? Neu, whose errors are superior to other scholars’ certainties, didn’t spare himself. On the eve of a gala event celebrating his sixtieth birthday, he published a paper entitled “My Errors,” in which he listed every error, every suspicion of an error, that he had ever perpetrated.

Chapter nine

In those days, with Jerusalem’s area diminished by Arab gunfire, Herbst would meet a growing number of friends on his walks. There is nothing remarkable about this, since most of his walks were in Rehavia and its environs, where many of his friends lived. And those who didn’t live there were visiting others who did. Whom did he find there, and whom didn’t he find there? Everyone, except for Julian Weltfremdt, who deprived Rehavia of his company because of his cousin and because so many other university scholars lived in Rehavia. There wasn’t a day when Herbst came to Rehavia without meeting a friend or acquaintance. If I were to list them all, it would turn into a lexicon of Jerusalem’s leaders and learned men. Believe it or not, he even met Gavriel Gamzu. I don’t know when this meeting occurred, whether it was before or after Gemula’s death. For our purposes, it doesn’t matter when it was. What did Gamzu tell him, and what didn’t Gamzu tell him? No one has ever talked to Gamzu without hearing something unforgettable from him. As for Gamzu’s story, I won’t pursue it now, since its subject is remote, but I will tell about someone else whose story is more immediate.

Now then, in this period, when Herbst was working out of doors, when he used to amble back and forth, strolling, pondering, thinking his thoughts, he ran into a friend, a fellow professor at the university who had just recovered from a serious illness. He was an epidemiologist, who used to travel everywhere to study the course of contagious diseases. When the unrest in the world was such that he could no longer travel, he stayed in Jerusalem and worked at home. Now I will reveal in a whisper what was whispered to me. One day, he wanted to study a particularly deadly tropical disease. But, in all of the Land of Israel, he couldn’t find anyone suffering from it. He exposed his own body to the disease and tried to cure himself with the drug he had invented. Great German doctors report in their memoirs that, when they were trying to fathom the secret of a disease and its cure, they would expose one of their patients to it. Not this Jerusalem scientist. He tested the disease and the cure personally, on his own body, and in so doing he almost died. Now that he was recovering, he often went out for walks. When Herbst first heard this story, tears rolled down his cheeks. One day, he spotted the doctor in the park at the end of Rashba Street, at the very edge of Rehavia. He and Herbst were not closely connected. One of them worked in the humanities; the other worked in science. But, since they worked in the same institution, they did know each other. When Herbst saw him, he bowed, kissed his hand, and went on his way.

Now I must get back to something I have already given too much time to, namely, the realm of thought. As long as I have no alternative way to get to the essence of the story, I can’t give it up. Herbst invested a lot of thought in the scientist who experimented on his own body. Even if we assume that he didn’t realize he was endangering his life, he surely knew that he would suffer extreme agony by infecting himself with the disease. He inflicted it on himself in the interest of science and for the sake of those afflicted with the disease. These observations led Herbst to ask himself: Would I do anything comparable? Who, in my field, would willingly risk his life to advance knowledge? Julian Weltfremdt calls our type of scholarship “coffee-and-cake scholarship.” What that nihilist means to say is: The person we call a professor sits around with a coffee cup in his hand, his mouth filled with cake, an open book before him. He drinks the coffee, chews the cake, and reads the book, deciding what to copy and put in his note box for the book he is writing. Because of his wrinkled soul, because of his need to deprecate himself and his profession, Herbst forgot about all the true scholars, even Neu, whose entire lives are devoted, truly devoted, to their work. If need be, they would no doubt take risks in order to achieve their end — their sole end being true scholarship. Herbst suddenly remembered something Gamzu had told him, and he began to quake. When he heard the story, he didn’t make anything of it, but, remembering it, his entire body began to quake.

I don’t know if this story is based on reality or if it stems from the imagination. If it stems from the imagination, it seems to me that it evolved from a real event: some number of years back, a young immigrant from Germany called on Herbst, bringing letters from Herbst’s friends, in which they praised this young man and described him as a gifted person with a promising future. Herbst took an interest in him and invited him to come again. He came once, but that was all. If these had been ordinary times, if Herbst hadn’t been busy with so many things, he would surely have noted his absence and asked after him. Since these were not ordinary times and Herbst was extremely busy, he forgot the young man. If he did remember him briefly, he soon forgot him for long periods. One day, while Herbst was walking along, thinking about the emperor Arcadius and the empress Eudoxia, he met Taglicht, who was in the company of this young man. Though he had matured in the interim, he was still essentially the same. Herbst asked how he was doing …*

This conversation, which was apparently meant to arouse Taglicht, was displeasing to him. I don’t know why Taglicht, who spent all of his time with the authors of books, renounced this role himself: whether it was because he preferred to read other people’s books that he didn’t create one himself, or whether it was laziness — the legacy of rabbinical forebears who had others write books in their name — that discouraged him from setting down his own words in a book. Although he didn’t write books, he didn’t refrain from editing them. He used to rewrite lectures for various professors. Even famous authors asked him to correct their work. Since he read a lot, studied a lot, and had good judgment, these books may have gained more from his efforts than from those of their authors. He earned a meager livelihood, but, by doing without many luxuries, he could meet all his needs. And, since he didn’t have it in mind to marry, he made no attempt to find other work. I said earlier that he came because of Tamara. As a matter of fact, it was by chance that Tamara met him when she was getting off the bus with her friend at the Egged bus station and invited him to come with them, which he did.

We won’t dwell on Taglicht and Tamara. Novelists allow Amnon to die a thousand deaths before he marries Tamar, linking one thing to another, and another, and still another. Which takes a lot of time. And, because I am occupied with another matter — with Manfred Herbst and Shira the nurse — I will say no more about Taglicht and Tamara, and get back to Manfred Herbst and Shira the nurse. I will show you Manfred Herbst. I won’t show you Shira, whose tracks have not been uncovered, whose whereabouts remain unknown.

* See p. 759, “Another Version.”

At Professor Bachlam’s

[This chapter was meant to follow Book II Chapter 5, as is evident from the beginning of Chapter 6. While this segment, based on archival material, was included by Agnon’s daughter, Emuna Yaron, in the second posthumous edition of the novel, it had, in fact, been left out by Agnon himself. It is presented here for the first time in English translation. The chapter is high farce and a bitter skewering of the pompous academic, Professor Bachlam, and one senses that Agnon set it aside because he knew that he had gone over the top in the satire. Bachlam was widely considered to have been based on Prof. Joseph Klausner (1874–1958), a Lithuanian-born Hebrew University professor, chief editor of the Hebrew Encyclopedia, and losing candidate in the first election for President of Israel. Agnon and Klausner were neighbors in Jerusalem’s Talpiot suburb, and had a famously chilly relationship, as documented by Klausner’s nephew, novelist Amos Oz, in his memoir A Tale of Love and Darkness, chapters 6 and 11.]

The visit with Professor Bachlam went well. He opened the door with a cold greeting, nor was he particularly cordial toward Mrs. Herbst. And quite right that he should offer a cold greeting, for Herbst had never praised a single one of Bachlam’s books — and he’d authored over sixty books, and each and every one deserved sixtyfold measures of praise. And besides, Herbst was unliked by him, like all the other academics who were unliked by Bachlam. Some were unliked for one reason, and others for some other reason, but of all these reasons the bottom line was the unspoken praise they should have showered on him instead of remaining silent.

He began discussing the day’s news as broadcast on the radio, and criticized the lead story in Ha’aretz, which was written in ink, not blood, like all the other articles, which don’t contain even the tiniest drop of blood. After that he mentioned the lecture of a visiting professor, who had acquired quite a reputation in the scholarly world, despite never having innovated a thing. If one were to find something noteworthy in any of his books it would be that he hadn’t mentioned that this had already been mentioned by Professor Bachlam in this or that book. Having mentioned his own books, Bachlam began listing them one by one, and their various editions in multiple translations, some having been translated into the same language by two different publishers. Even though the world’s greatest professors have already declared that Professor Bachlam’s insights are unparalleled among those of other scholars, here the world spins on with nary a mention, save for two or three lines about his newest book. But he pays no attention to such things, for these things don’t interest him, and he has no spare time to dwell on such matters, for he is busy with his next great, seven-hundred page book, to say nothing of the footnotes and indices which will take up many printer’s galleys. He does all this on his own, with his own hands, despite his many illnesses and pains and anguishes — quite literally every bone in his body aches. But he overcomes his pains, just as he overcomes his adversaries, through his unnaturally great spiritual strength. Having mentioned his adversaries he began to disparage them. They work in Jewish studies, yet are ashamed to be known as Jews. So-and-so calls himself Ludwig, while another calls himself Wolfgang, this one Walter and that one Kilian. Oh, you scoundrels, shouldn’t your first patriotic duty be to go by Hebrew names? It’s the least you can do in the name of Jewish people! Mrs. Bachlam had a very nice non-Jewish name, yet exchanged it for a Hebrew one. I say to you, madam and sir, isn’t the nice Jewish name Hannah more suited for a Jewish woman than the name Janette, which Mrs. Bachlam had at the start?

Mrs. Bachlam rose and brought tea and cakes, and was praised for her homemade cakes — both the large and the small ones. In general, said Mrs. Bachlam, I enjoy doing things by myself. By myself I bake, by myself I cook, by myself I look after the house, and by myself I take care of the garden. The professor always asks, Hannah, how can you do so much all by yourself, with just ten fingers? And I answer him: Issacher, how can you write so many books with just ten fingers? And not just that — you also give so many lectures, and write essays, and travel to Tel Aviv to lecture at Ohel Shem, and at dinners for the Jewish National Fund, and conferences of Brit Rishonim, and at gatherings of the Veteran Zionists and at so many other conferences and committees, and he answers me, You’re right Hanitshki, you’re right, but since I’m so busy I have no time to think about how I manage to do so much. But I worry that I won’t be able to complete my magnum opus which I’ve been toiling at day and night for over twenty years. I tell him: Issacher, you’ll finish it, you’ll finish it, and he smiles his charming smile at me and says, Without you, Hanitshki, what would I do in these times which are so strange to me? I tell him, Issacher, don’t be foolish. You say the world is strange to you, but the whole world is pressing to get near to you, and nothing happens in this world without you. Mrs. Herbst, there’s no day that ten messengers aren’t coming to see him — ten did I say? Really it’s twenty or thirty. They come from the Jewish National Fund and the United Israel Appeal, and from the General Zionist Party and the Veteran Zionists and from Brit Rishonim, and from the Nationalist Student Union, and they all come and beg him to speak. He smiles, my professor, his good smile and says, Hanitshki, perhaps you’re right. I shout and tell him, Issacher, you say “perhaps”, and I say if I’m not right there is no right in the world! Since she mentioned “right in the world” Professor Bachlam begins discussing worldwide righteousness, as described by our Righteous Prophets and by the Greek philosophers, and on the phrase “flourishing of righteousness” as mentioned in the Prophets, a phrase we find in cuneiform inscriptions especially in the context of the Assyrian Kings, without diminishing the original Israelite meaning, for such is the way of intellectual trends, that nations and languages are impacted and nourished one from the next. There are turns of phrase in Bialik’s poetry which everyone thinks are original, that he coined them, when in fact they appear in the poems of Pushkin. My dear Mrs. Herbst doesn’t know Russian, so I will translate for her and she’ll hear. Tchernichovsky is unique, he’s completely original. We Jews can’t fully appreciate this giant, who thanks to me has become a Hebrew poet, but originally wrote in Russian, lyrical poems in Russian, but through my influence began writing in Hebrew. Madam, you should take Tchernichovsky’s poetry and read it day and night. Day and night! A poet like this in any other nation would be raised on high. Ah, but we are a downtrodden folk, with no need of poets — we need money. Money and more money! The national funds want money, more money! And what do we get in return? I asked Ussishkin this; what did he say? Nothing. He had nothing to say. I don’t deny the value of money. Certainly the world needs money. I myself pay membership to forty different societies, and don’t even remember their names. Even though I am a rememberer, that is, I have a phenomenal memory. I coined this word — “rememberer” — myself. One of my four hundred linguistic innovations. In two weeks I will mark the forty-seventh anniversary of my first publication, which revolutionized our world — and many of my linguistic inventions have entered our vocabulary, even though no one asks, who coined this phrase, or who came up with that word. So it is with all living things — they go about living without asking or wondering who birthed them. Madam, every day you use this… or that…(*) new Hebrew word — did you ever consider who created them? If I were to count up all the words I coined I could write a book of twenty printer’s galleys-length — and that’s just the words, aside from the footnotes which would take another thirty galleys. Twenty galleys plus thirty galleys — that’s fifty printer’s galleys. Tell, me, madam, how many professors from our university have produced books of that length? And that’s nothing compared to the books I’ve already published. Please, if madam will follow me for a moment I will show her something which will amaze her for the rest of her days. Does she see these binders? Seventy-one volumes, each containing an article I myself wrote. And if madam will just raise her head a bit to look up at the top shelf, she’ll see the stack of newspapers my articles appeared in. When I gaze at the bounty of articles that have flowed from my pen I am amazed — how did I manage to write it all?

Mrs. Herbst rose from her chair while Professor Bachlam led her by the arm to the book shelf. While they stood there Bachlam said, Please, madam, stretch your arms out wide to each side. You see the books in that arm-span? I wrote them all, and still there are some that don’t fit between your arms. I doubt that even our friend Adjunct Professor Herbst could encompass all the books I’ve written between his outstretched arms. I’ve invested my whole life — and that of my wife — and haven’t gained a drop of benefit in this world from all these books, while to them — pardon me Adjunct Professor Herbst that I include you with the German crowd — to them authoring one small footnote the size of a lizard tail qualifies a man as a scholar. I am not speaking of the Gentile scholars, who write, and print, and publish great fat books. Why just yesterday I received a book from Professor Meier — six hundred folio pages — folio pages, madam, not mere single-sided pages. If we count pages it comes to one-thousand-twohundred, aside from the footnotes and references and bibliography which take another hundred pages. And you wouldn’t believe your ears about what the book is about — it’s about …. (*) Hanitschki, is that the doorbell? Where’s the maid? Go see who it is. Sit, madam, sit, you needn’t go. The guests who have arrived are just neighbors. Allow me to introduce you, Mrs. and Mr. Kattakibo, this is Mrs. Herbst and Mr. Adjunct Professor Dr. Herbst.

Since the neighbors weren’t intellectual folks the professor changed topics to news of the day, goings on in the country, and public affairs. He scratched the end of his nose, and rubbed his hands together, and said, From a reliable source, but of course I cannot say who, I’ve heard the Allies already have plans in place for what to do with Germany after the war.

Mrs. Bachlam looked adoringly at her all-knowing husband, from whom nothing escapes, yet she grew bored by the political talk. Turning to Mrs. Herbst, who was known as an industrious house-wife, she asked about her apricot preserves and what she does with grapes, if she makes puddings, and why hadn’t she brought her small daughter along. Professor Bachlam loves small children like life itself. Having overheard something about children, Bachlam jumped up and said, Madam, madam, grownups are worthless, but the children are our hope — only through them will we build our nation…Mrs. Bachlam chimed in detailing the professor’s great love for children. He eyed her with resentment for having interrupted him, plotting to regain control of the conversation as soon as she let up, and when she paused to inhale a breath, he began speaking, but she again broke in to his words. So unfolded their dialogue of praise, his-for-her and hers-for him, until other guests arrived — neighbors, academics, and students. Bachlam greeted them, gave them refreshments, and had an interesting word for each and every one suited to his interest, until the day grew dark.

Professor Bachlam was a religious man. While he had sharp criticism for various Jewish practices, and wrote critically of various superstitious customs, he was strict about most mitzvot and never violated the Sabbath. Therefore he didn’t put the light on in the room, but hinted to his wife that she might turn it on. When the light was lit the Herbsts got up to leave, but the professor detained them, first in the room, then in the hallway, and finally in the foyer. In the end he escorted them out, asking them to return soon for another visit. Outside there remained a bit of daylight, with cars carrying Sabbath travelers filling the street. Mrs. Herbst wanted to walk back to town on foot, but along the way felt very weary and wished to take a taxi, which Herbst agreed to do, since while talking with Professor Bachlam he thought of various things he wanted to fix in his article, and feared the long walk by foot would cause him to forget.

Sitting in the car Mrs. Herbst remarked to her husband, This man we were visiting has no love in his heart, not for a single person in this world. Herbst replied, But he has great love for the greatest man in Israel. Mrs. Herbst asked, Who is the greatest man in Israel that Professor Bachlam loves? Herbst answered, He is the one! Professor Bachlam himself is the great man in all his glory. In any case, it’s good that we made the visit. Perhaps on account of it he won’t stand in my way, or at least he’ll soften his objection to me. Mrs. Herbst sighed and said, If only!

— Translated by Jeffrey Saks

(* Agnon had left these facts — particular newly coined Hebrew words, or topic of Meier’s 1,200 page book — blank in the MS., apparently planning on filling in at a later point.)

Final Chapter

[This chapter, which originally appeared at the end of Book Three, was meant to be the final one. However, at a later date, Agnon put it aside and began writing Book Four.]

Shira came and stood in the tree, looking straight ahead with bewildered eyes. When she saw Manfred, she shrieked, a fierce and bitter shriek: “What are you doing here?” Manfred answered her and said, “Shira, I’m here because of you.” Shira raised her voice and said, “What madness! You had better get out while you can.” Manfred said, “Let me tell you something.” Shira shouted, “Madman, get out!” Manfred said, “I beg of you, calm down, and I’ll tell you something.” Shira said, “I don’t want to hear what a fool has to tell.” Manfred whispered, “Shira.” Shira turned away from him and was about to go. Manfred said, “Stay a minute and listen. Then you can go.”

Shira watched him and waited. Manfred said, “Give me your hand, Shira.” Shira said, “You must have lost your mind. Don’t you know what you’re risking here?” Manfred nodded and said, “I know, I know.” Shira said, “And you still want to take the risk?” Manfred sighed and said, “Whether I want to or not, I have no choice.” Shira studied him with her searching gaze and inquired, “How is one to understand your words?” Manfred said, “It doesn’t require much wisdom to understand. What I am saying is simple and obvious. I need to be with you, Shira. Even if…” Shira said, “What do you mean, ‘even if?” Manfred said, “Even if I end up in your situation.” Shira said, “What will your wife say? What will your daughters say?” Manfred said, “You ask what my wife will say and what my daughters will say. I have thought about all that. I have also thought about the son borne to me by my wife.” Shira said, “You have a son? Mazel tov.” She extended her hand to congratulate him, but, before touching him, she withdrew it.

Manfred continued, “Yes, Shira. A child was born to me; I was granted a son. He was admitted to the covenant of Abraham today. Do you remember, Shira, the night my daughter Sarah was born? After three daughters, my wife bore me a son, and the brit was today.” Shira said, “And you couldn’t find a time to visit me other than today?” Manfred said, “Shira, if it had been in my hands, I would have come sooner.” Shira said, “The last time I saw you, you didn’t seem especially enthralled with me. Remember, the day I bought new shoes?” Manfred nodded and said, “Yes, I remember.” Shira leaned against the wall and lifted her leg to display a lovely, graceful shoe, shaped rather like a sandal. Herbst studied the shoe for a while and said, “Yes, a sandal.” For a while he was silent. Then he sighed, a deep sigh, and asked, “Shira, how did you get here?” Shira said, “How did I get here? I came willingly. I may have come, not on my own and not willingly, but through the will of a power whose decrees determine our fate. Do you remember, Manfred, that I once told you I had been the companion of a Spanish prince and that I took him to the leper colony in Breslau?” Manfred nodded and said, “Yes, yes, Shira, I know. I have often thought about that. I assume that it’s because of him that you are where you are.” Shira said, “So you had better get out while you still can, my friend.” Manfred said, “My dear Shira, I have decided otherwise.” Shira fixed her eyes on him and asked, “Just what did you decide?” Manfred laughed sadly and said, “Can’t you see?” Shira said, “I can’t see anything, and I don’t want to see anything. But I can tell you this — get out! Get out of here, get out immediately!” Manfred said, “If I do go, I’ll come right back. Immediately.” Shira was mystified and asked, “Why? Why do you say that if you go you’ll come back?” Manfred said, “Why? As if I know why. Perhaps this too is the decree of that power whose will determines our actions.”

Shira stood gazing at him in silence. Manfred said, “When I was a child, I read a story about an Indian holy man. There was a beautiful woman living in this holy man’s town, who was pursued by all the men. I won’t prolong the tale, nor will I try to tell you about her beauty and about all the men and their attempts to approach her. But I can tell you this: that monk, that holy man, was the only one in the entire land who had no interest in approaching her, even in looking at her. She sent a message inviting him to visit her, but he didn’t come. She sent another message, but he didn’t come. In time, she was stricken with leprosy, and all her admirers kept their distance. He, however, went to see her. She said to him, ‘My beloved, my holy one, you are too late. I can’t be anything to you now.’ Do you hear me, Shira?” Shira said, “I hear you. And what was that holy man’s response?” Manfred said, “I don’t remember his response, but I remember the end of the story.” Shira said, “What is the end of the story?” Manfred said, “Wait, Shira. I already recalled the end of the story.” Shira said, “Then what is the end of the story?” Manfred said, “In the end, though she had so many admirers, only he stayed with her.” Shira said, “And what did he say to her?” Manfred said, “He said this to her: ‘In your days of glory, I could already foresee your end.” Shira said, “And you saw in me just what that holy man saw?” Manfred said, “I didn’t see those things but…How can I tell you? I once read a poem, and I found a line in it that sticks to my tongue.” “What is it?” “‘Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.’“

While they were standing there, a nurse came and said to Dr. Herbst, “Doctor, it’s time to take leave of the lady.” Manfred said, “Dear nurse, would you allow me to stay just a few minutes more?” The nurse said, “You can stay another five minutes. Five minutes, and no more.” Manfred bowed to the nurse and stood before her in an attitude of mock reverence, saying, “Many thanks to you, kind lady. May the Lord respond to your prayers.” He turned back to Shira rather suddenly and said, “He — that is to say, the Indian — stayed on with her.” Then he said to her, in an altered voice, “And I intend to do what that Indian did. I’m going to stay with you, Shira.” He seized Shira’s hand and held on to it. Shira tried to extricate her hand from his. But he held on to it, fervently, until her hand and his were both bathed in sweat. As he held her hand, he leaned his mouth over hers and kissed it. For a long time, her lips clung to his, of their own accord. She suddenly slipped her mouth away from his and brushed his lips with her hand. Then she brushed her own lips. He, in the meanwhile, embraced her lovingly and exclaimed, “Shira, Shira.”

Another Version [This fragment seems to fit into the final chapter (at the break on p. 745), though the chronology is problematic.]

Herbst asked how he was and what he was doing. The young man smiled with characteristic shyness and thanked Herbst for taking an interest in him and asking about his affairs. But, being too shy to talk about himself, he fell silent. Herbst took no note of this and resumed his conversation with Taglicht. Taglicht interrupted and said to Herbst, “I see that you two are acquainted.” Herbst nodded, as if to indicate that there was no need for elaboration, and once more resumed his conversation. Taglicht placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and said to Herbst, “Let’s hear what our friend has to say.” Herbst gazed at the young man, somewhat surprised, as one might gaze at a person he knows well enough to be certain he has nothing to offer.

At this point, it is worth mentioning that this young man, whose name was Heinrich Reiner, had come to Jerusalem a year earlier to enroll in the university, bringing with him letters to several professors and lecturers, including Dr. Herbst, from colleagues abroad, along with the request that they take him under their wing, et cetera. They may have taken him under their wing; they may have not. In any case, each and every one of these professors invited him to attend his lectures. He may have attended one or two lectures, but he didn’t become a university student. Herbst saw him once or twice, after the first time, when he came to his home to deliver regards from a friend. It was not that the young man didn’t appeal to Herbst. But Herbst didn’t especially welcome him and didn’t ask him to come again, because the relationship with that mutual friend was outdated, or perhaps for other reasons. In the interim, Herbst dismissed the young man from his mind and took no interest in him. Being somewhat shy, he didn’t presume to call on Herbst again. Now that he was with Taglicht, they met Herbst, and Taglicht said, “Let’s hear what our friend here has to say.” Herbst seemed surprised but willing to listen. Let me present the substance of his story, some of it in his language and some in my own.

Heinrich Reiner took on a job with a salary that didn’t quite support him but supplemented the allowance his father had provided. What sort of job? One could consider it a job or a mission. There is a place in Jerusalem called a leper colony, inhabited by those whose affliction is incurable. Reiner took it upon himself to visit them, and he made a special point of visiting the newcomers, who did not yet accept their fate and were unwilling to be shut in forever. At this point, Reiner recounted what we already know from the newspapers: that thirteen lepers had been found in an old-age home, that most of them had mild cases of leprosy, but that there was one advanced case among them that seemed to be the source of the contagion. From which ethnic group and from which social class did the patients derive? From every group and every class. Men and women, old and young, Orthodox and free-thinking, poor and rich. Yes, even the rich. There was a young girl there from a rich family. How did she contract leprosy? Until yesterday, no one knew. Her mother visited her yesterday. She saw a woman there who looked familiar, but she didn’t know where she had seen her. She asked her who she was, but the woman couldn’t answer, because half of her tongue and also her lips were so severely infected that she could no longer speak. But the girl’s mother couldn’t rest until she discovered who this woman was. She went to the office to inquire and was told who she was. She remembered that this woman had worked in her house fifteen years earlier, when her daughter was born. Reiner said many other things about those wretchedly afflicted individuals, who are betwixt the living and the dead, who are not quite alive and not quite dead. What he related he related so vividly that one could actually picture it. Now, imagine Manfred Herbst: Manfred Herbst, who could barely tolerate a leper drawn on canvas, was now standing with this man who mingles freely with lepers, speaks with them, and talks about them. True, there are ways to protect oneself from leprosy. Some people spend their vacations in that place. Professor Dalman, for example, spends all his vacations in the leper colony, because his wife is a nurse there. Herbst kept conjuring up images of every deformity, of each disintegrating limb, and the like. He responded with a revulsion that superseded any sort of compassion for these living corpses. At home, he found no respite from this sensation. He washed his face and hands many times with soap and eau de cologne, as if they had the power to erase the filth that filled his imagination. The next day, Herbst still could find no respite. He washed his hands several times that day, and, if he touched a book, he washed again. He didn’t go out for two days and didn’t go to Shira’s apartment. He pictured all sorts of ways to contract that affliction. On the third day, when he went out, he met one of the clerks from the home for the aged, who was strolling with Axelrod, the hospital clerk. Herbst was overcome with terror, for the clerk was from the old-age home where those thirteen lepers had been discovered. And Axelrod, who, after all, worked in a hospital, was walking with him. Who knew if the other clerk had the disease, if he would infect Axelrod, if all the patients in the hospital would then be infected, including women in labor and newborns? But Herbst succeeded in controlling himself and resisted making a fool of himself by scolding Axelrod. He walked on, speculating: What do we know about these living corpses, and what don’t we know about them? Apart from several myths and inane tales, Herbst knew nothing about lepers. He proceeded to collect all his knowledge about them and to consider it detail by detail. They say that, in days past, yet not so distant, when the Turks ruled the country, lepers used to walk through the city, and the people who lived there would fling them food. Herbst remembered this too: he had once read in the newspaper that some lepers in Rumania, who had been contained in a leper colony, escaped and went to a dentist’s office. Several gentlewomen were there at the time. The doctor called the police, who came quickly, aimed their pistols at them, and returned them to the leper colony. Among this profusion of memories, he became aware of the drawing he had seen in the bookstore, with the leper peering at him, studying him, the bell in his hand rattling continually. As it happened, Herbst happened to recall the night he sat with Shira, when she showed him her picture album with an empty space where there had originally been a picture. When Herbst asked about the missing picture, she explained that, when she lived abroad, she had tended a patient who was a Spanish prince, that the prince had befriended her, giving her many gifts, as well as his picture. When, in the end, it turned out that he had leprosy, she was asked to accompany him to the leper colony in Breslau. At this point, she burned all his gifts, removed his picture from the album, and flung it into the fire.

Once again, I will say what I already said. Imagine this: Manfred Herbst enters a bookstore, finds a picture of a leper, hears references to a leper colony, suddenly remembers what he heard from Shira. Could such a chain of events fail to have an impact? Henceforth, Herbst was haunted by these concerns. Although he didn’t put them into words, they remained fixed in his mind, so that, when he woke up knowing he hadn’t dreamed about lepers, he felt that they had done him a favor.

One Shabbat morning, Herbst went out for a walk. It was one of those delightful Jerusalem mornings, with a lull between rains. Since the day was so delightful, the roads were a delight, his heart was filled with delight, and all his thoughts were delightful too. He wasn’t thinking of Shira or of anything else that might confound him. He was seeing every tree, every rock that was there, all basking in the sweet Shabbat morning sunshine. Since he wanted to enjoy these pleasures fully, he turned toward the less frequented spots, where he found himself alone, like in the old days, when he had just come to the country. He kneeled down to collect some of the colored pebbles that were scattered along the road. Now that most areas have been built up, these delightful pebbles have all but disappeared. But, in those days, they were everywhere. If you were clever, you could collect them and make yourself a floor, which probably would not be a source of delight, because mosaic design was already a forgotten art. It’s a fact that the territory he was walking in that day was right next to the leper colony. I don’t know if Herbst realized this, but, even if he did, he would not have been upset. Because on that particular day he was utterly composed and untroubled.

He returned from his walk refreshed and happy. Henrietta was seated in her chair, all bundled up. Herbst looked at her, at her bloated face, at her belly, and said, “I’m hungry, Mother, hungry as a dozen wolves. I could eat you up, along with the baby that’s inside you.” Henrietta smiled and said, “I’ll set the table right away, and we can have lunch. Please, dear, don’t eat anything now, so you’re sure to be hungry when you come to the table.” Henrietta got up and went to the kitchen. Manfred went to the icebox, which had no ice in it because summer was over, took out the table wine, and poured some into a glass. The cool drink revived him. Meanwhile, little Sarah appeared, with the pipe Henrietta had given him for his birthday dangling from her mouth. That child is so adorable, she makes such delightful noises holding the pipe in her mouth and pretending to smoke it. “Mother, Mother,” Manfred shouted. “Come and have a look.” Now that she realized she was doing something special, the child continued to perform. Manfred lifted her up, sat down, and placed her on his lap, contemplating the small pleasures a man can enjoy in his own home, reflecting on the cleverness of Sarah, and of Zahara and Tamara when they were small. Now that they were both grown, distant and remote from him, though they caused him no pain, they didn’t add to his pleasure. But he expected pleasure from the child Henrietta was about to produce. The fact is, before Sarah was born, it didn’t occur to him that she would give him pleasure. But, now that he took pleasure in her, he was also pleased about the baby Henrietta was going to present him with very soon. What should we name the child? If it’s a girl, we won’t call her Atara. A three-way rhyme, Zahara-Tamara-Sarah, is quite enough.

While they were waiting, Manfred took Henrietta’s hand and said, “Now, Mother, it’s time you gave us a boy. Do you hear, Mother? I want a boy.” Henrietta was quiet. Then she said, “I’ll try.” Manfred said, “Do you know something, Mother? I have a nice name for a boy.” “What is it?” “Shlomo Yehuda.” Henrietta said, “The name Shlomo is enough for me. Was your father’s name Shlomo Yehuda?” Manfred said, “My father didn’t have a Hebrew name.” Henrietta said, “Then why is your heart set on Shlomo Yehuda?” Manfred said, “Let me tell you. The very first modern Jewish scholar was named Shlomo Yehuda Rappaport, the Shlomo Yehuda Rappaport who is known by the acronym Shir.” Henrietta said, “Why do you suddenly look so downcast?” “Downcast? I didn’t notice. Hand me the mirror,” he said, pretending to joke. Manfred was immersed in thought. To keep his wife from noticing, he got up from the chair and said, “It was a mistake to drink wine, especially when I was overheated from my walk.” Henrietta said, “Don’t worry, Manfred. A healthy man like you can allow himself a glass of wine. In any case, don’t have any more today.” Manfred said, “Unless you give it to me, I won’t have any more.” He suddenly looked up at his wife and addressed her with affection, “Just say the word, and I’ll abstain until the brit.” Henrietta said, “You’re certain it will be a boy?” Manfred said, “You must admit, we’ve had more than enough of this Weiblichkeit [femininity]. You yourself, Mother, and Zahara and Tamara and Sarah, as well as Zahara’s daughter Arlozora. I am amazed that no one suspects Arlozoroff was killed by Germans. It’s logical that he would have been killed by Germans.”

Manfred put his head on the table and smoothed the cloth with his chin. He continued the gesture for a while. Then he lifted his head and stared at Henrietta for a long time. Henrietta felt his eyes on her and returned the stare, waiting for him to speak. Manfred said, “Do you remember the day I brought you to the hospital when Sarah was about to be born?” Henrietta smiled and said, “Now, Father, no woman is likely to forget such a day. Why do you ask if I remember it?” Manfred said, “You may remember the nurse who brought you flowers.” Henrietta said, “Her name was Shira, wasn’t it?” Manfred said, “If you say her name was Shira, let’s assume it was Shira. I want to tell you something now. No one knows where she is.” Henrietta said, “What do you mean, ‘no one knows where she is’?” Manfred said, “If I say so, you can believe me. She left the hospital three months ago. She didn’t say where she was going. She left no trace.” Mrs. Herbst shuddered. After a brief pause, she said, “She probably went away and doesn’t want anyone to know her whereabouts.” Manfred said, “I know what you’re thinking. You think she got pregnant and is hiding until after the birth.” Henrietta said, “I really didn’t think of that, but what you say is logical.” Manfred said, “Actually not, Mother. There is reason to suspect she was killed or kidnapped by Bedouins.” “And what is the government doing? Is it searching for her?” Manfred said, “The government! What an inspired idea! People are disappearing, and the government doesn’t lift a finger to find them.” Henrietta said, “Why did you push away the dish? Try some meat. It’s very good, Father.” Manfred said, “So, in your opinion, she is pregnant, and she’ll suddenly reappear on the scene. I am of the opinion that someone like Shira, if she were pregnant, wouldn’t be ashamed and wouldn’t go into hiding.” Henrietta said, “You know, Father, there are women who are daring in theory but timid in practice.” Manfred lowered his head, fixed his eyes on Henrietta’s feet, and said, “Mother, I must tell you something. I’m not pleased that you wear sandals all the time. True, sandals are comfortable. But, in your condition, there is reason to worry about flat feet, or, to use a more respectful term, fallen arches. When did you buy those sandals?” “When? If I’m not mistaken, I bought them before Tamara was born.” Manfred said, “We calculate time by births, don’t we, Mother. By now, even Tamara has left home. She is on her own and doesn’t need us. In a few years, Sarah won’t be dependent on us either. Where is the pipe? Where did it go?” Henrietta said, “Do you want to smoke the pipe?” “I don’t want to smoke the pipe, but I don’t like it when things disappear.” Henrietta said, “We’ll find it, we’ll find it.” Manfred said, “I already told you, the government doesn’t lift a finger.” Henrietta said, “I thought you were referring to the pipe, but I see you were referring to the nurse Shira.” Manfred said, “I wasn’t really thinking about her, but, now that you mention her, I remember.” Henrietta said, “If we were to think about everything there is to think about, we wouldn’t manage at all. Have some pudding. I made it from a recipe in the WIZO cookbook.” Manfred said, “You yourself are quite a whizz-o.” Henrietta smiled and said, “There are other women who are whizzes too.” Manfred said, “I shouldn’t have had wine, certainly not a whole glass, and on an empty stomach.” Henrietta was amazed. “You had a whole glass?” Manfred nodded. “A whole glass, to the last drop. I was thirsty from my walk.” Henrietta said, “You didn’t tell me where you walked today.” Manfred cried out in surprise, “I didn’t tell you? I told you, and you forgot. I definitely told you that I went up to Mount Zion, circled the entire wall, and came down at the Dung Gate. Then I made my way back via the shelters, which is where I met the old printer, the one who printed my article and made the offprints for me. You might have a dress or a blouse you have no use for, Mother. I promised the printer’s wife I would find something for one of her acquaintances, a Polish aristocrat who has nothing to wear. I think the wine is wearing off. At any rate, I learned my lesson. A man tries to snatch some pleasure, and it retaliates for hours on end. After dinner, I’ll lie down and sober up. Why didn’t I loosen my tie before dinner? I’ve been sitting here feeling this burden on me, as if there were a noose around my neck, as if I were going to be hung from the gallows. Remember the night we spent in Ahinoam, Mother? When Zahara was waiting to give birth?”

Henrietta smiled contentedly and said, “No woman is likely to forget such a night.” Manfred said, “I haven’t forgotten it either. I didn’t tell you the dream I had, nor did you urge me to tell it. If you like, I’ll tell it to you now.” A tremor passed through his flesh; a similar tremor passed through her flesh as well. Manfred took his wife’s hand, caressed it, and said to her, “There aren’t many women like you. You don’t burden me with questions, for which I am always very grateful.” Henrietta said, “Didn’t you want to tell me your dream?” Manfred caressed her again and said, “Yes, I did. I will tell it now. That night, I was being led to the gallows.” “My God, how awful,” Henrietta cried, burying her face in her hands. “Yes, it was awful; it was dreadful,” Manfred echoed. “But not for your reason, Mother. For another reason. I knew there was one person who could have saved me. But that person didn’t lift a finger on my behalf.” Henrietta asked Manfred, “Do you remember who that person was?” Manfred said, “Don’t ask, Mother. Don’t ask.” Henrietta said, “I’m not asking, and I don’t want to know.” Manfred said, “I don’t actually remember who it was. But that night, at that moment, I knew who it was.” “That’s odd.” “Even more odd is the fact that, in my dream, I was upset by the idea that if you — meaning you and our daughters — should hear this news, you would also be upset.” Henrietta looked at him in astonishment and said, “Did you doubt that — “ Manfred interrupted her and said, “That’s not what seemed odd to me. What seemed odd was that I thought I wouldn’t be upset if I were to vanish from the face of the earth, though I was aware of the pain it would cause the rest of you. Don’t be angry with me, Mother. It’s not that you taught me at all times, to be truthful with you, Mother. But your proper life and your upright opinions lead me to tell you the truth, whether I want to or not.”

Henrietta took Manfred’s hand, placed it on her heart, and said, “Life is so hard for you, Manfred.” “Hard for me?” Manfred exclaimed in surprise, as if he had been addressed by a name other than his own. Henrietta said, “What brings on these sad thoughts?” Manfred answered, laughing, “The sad thoughts bring themselves on. It’s not a paradox, Mother. That’s really how it is. You may think I am sad because I failed to finish my book. Believe me, even if I had finished two arm-lengths worth of books, nothing would change for me. Do you remember what Goethe said about writing Werther? I don’t remember the precise words, but I do remember the message. Even if I had a tenured professorship, that wouldn’t change anything. My daughters don’t need me. You, Mother, don’t need me either. I myself have no need of me. So…” “So …?” “Now, Mother, don’t worry that I’ll put a bullet through my heart. People like me don’t take their own life. They go on living, even when their strength gives out and they don’t have what it takes to live. They live on, to the point of total decay, through all sorts of situations, by any means.”

Henrietta gazed at her husband with a cold, analytical eye, with neither animosity nor empathy, and said, “Has something happened to you?” Manfred said, “Nothing happened to me.” Henrietta said, “The kind of things you’ve been saying don’t occur to a person all of a sudden.” “All of a sudden?” “Henrietta added, “And their cause isn’t simple.” “Simple?” Herbst already regretted what he had said to his wife and hoped to blur his words. He looked at his wife, searching her face for a sign of affection. Her face looked harsh and was glazed with contempt. She got up, but she didn’t clear the empty dishes, nor did she collect the remnants of the meal. Manfred got up, too, and went to his room. He paced back and forth, looked out the window, and resumed his pacing, as though there were no chair or couch in the room. After a while, he lit a cigarette and went to the window. The ashes fell on the rug, but he took no notice. When the cigarette began to burn his fingers, he started, dumped it in an ashtray, and crushed it with a book. Then he went to the bookcase, extended his arms, and, with a sweeping gesture, declared, in the style of Professor Bachlam, “I am not the author of these books. I don’t wish to be an Author of Many Books. I’m willing to disavow what I’ve already written, if you like.” He gazed at the two bookcases again and calculated: What will you be worth to my wife when I’m dead? He pictured his friends coming to her, feigning virtue to acquire valuable books at bargain prices. “Damn it!” he shouted, spitting angrily. He began to pace the room again, scanning the walls, which were lined with photographs of himself and his friends, each face expressing genius that would be everlasting and eternal, all of them learned, involved in scholarship and in the pursuit of wisdom, maintaining contact with scholars throughout the world. She’s first rate, Herbst reflected, contemplating the picture of his wife that was on his desk. If not for her, I would run away to the ends of the earth, to far-off isles, leaving you, all of you, to your own devices, to make a mess of your own — to paraphrase the words of Augustus, king of Saxony, when he was about to be deposed.

Henrietta opened the door quietly and came in. She said, “So you’re not asleep.” She placed her hand on his shoulders and said, “I see you were working.” He glanced at the bundle of notes and offprints, and said with disdain, “You’re deceiving yourself, just as I have deceived myself. If I were an honest man, I would burn this entire heap of garbage and scatter it to the winds.” “Don’t be so harsh. Not everyone has the privilege of being an outstanding scholar. Who was it you wanted to name our son after? It was Shlomo, and there was another name too.” “It doesn’t matter now.” “But it matters to me. Tell me.” “Shlomo Yehuda Rappaport.” “I thought it over, and I realize that Shlomo Yehuda is a fine name.” “How could you think it over if you didn’t even remember the second name? We must be honest rather than deceive ourselves, even in trivial matters. If one allows himself to cheat in trivial matters, he ends up deceiving himself in important matters as well.” She smoothed his hair and said, “Is that what you think of me, Manfred? You think I deceive myself?” “You’re first rate, but anything that gets dragged in the mud all the time ends up damaged. It’s good that you’ve changed your shoes. In my childhood, I never pictured a respectable woman in house slippers, certainly not in sandals. All these young women in their odd costumes — in pants, even work pants — are defacing the Jerusalem landscape. Don’t you agree?” He took her hand in his and studied her face. Then he withdrew his hand and said, “I have something awful to tell you.” Mrs. Herbst was alarmed and said, “You’ve had some news about the girls?” “Calm down, Mother. Calm down. I didn’t hear anything about the girls. There’s no reason to think anything bad has happened to them. What I want to tell you is entirely unrelated to our daughters.” “You frighten me so,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. It’s best that you know the truth. We were talking about the nurse Shira today. You ought to know that, the very night you were in the hospital, in the throes of labor, I made love to her. Why are you silent, Henrietta?” “And this fills you with the sadness of remorse, though in fact she didn’t bear your child.” “I expected you to fling your sandal in my face.” “But I’m wearing shoes.” “You’re teasing me. If you knew how much I’ve suffered and agonized over this.” She smoothed his brow and said, “Calm down, Manfred. Calm down. In our generation, men are no longer angels.” “But women are all angels. They’re all like you, right?” Manfred screamed, a terrifying scream. “I’m no angel either. If I have restricted myself to this company there are other reasons: because I don’t follow my heart.” “If I could reproach you in this matter, it would be easier for me to bear my sorrow. You don’t want to hear how it happened.” “I can imagine. You were without a woman for several months. Then a woman appeared, and you were seduced.” “That’s exactly how it was. You don’t hate her? But I hate her. My heart seethes with repressed hate for that woman, because…” “Because she was your downfall.” “Yes. But, to tell the truth, because she didn’t want to be my downfall any longer.” “So you continued to pursue her, but she didn’t respond. And, as I understand it, you still want her.” “How can you say such a thing, when she is dead?” “Dead? Didn’t you say she disappeared?” “Whether or not she disappeared, in any case she doesn’t exist for me.” “But you think about her?” “Is there anyone I don’t think about? If I told you all the women I think about, you would be shocked.” “Thoughts are permitted.” “In your opinion, actions are permitted too.” “This doesn’t apply to everyone, or to every situation. Let’s have some coffee.” “Actually, Henrietta, I ought to be pleased that you accepted the news without rage or anger. But, to tell the truth, it would be better if you had thrown me out, if you had called me a villain, slapped my face, spat on me.” She took his hand, slapped his fingers, and said, “You’re a glutton. That’s what we do to gluttons.” “You’re making a farce out of this.” “Would you rather I made it into a tragedy?” she said, somewhat sternly, so that Manfred began to regret having challenged her. She seemed suddenly upset, but then her face was overcome with joy, and she said, “Shlomo Yehuda is announcing himself. See, I also think it’s a boy.” “I hear someone coming. To hell with whomever is coming. I don’t want to see anyone.” “Manfred, brace yourself. Here’s the cologne. Sprinkle a few drops on your forehead, Oh, you spilled it on your papers.” “Then it will be easier to set fire to them.” “That’s how much regard you have for years of work.” She, too, grew sad, which she hadn’t been in a long time.

Never were guests as welcome to Mrs. Herbst as they were at that moment. She knew it was Herbst’s way to be angry when someone came, because of the interruption; that, as soon as he saw the guests, he would enjoy them; that he was looking for an excuse to stop working and would welcome them for relieving him of the choice.

(Describe the various guests as well as their conversations. The young man may be one of them.)*

* [The sentence in parentheses was added by Agnon in pencil at the end of the chapter. The guests, and the young man Herbst is expecting, are mentioned in another fragment, not included here. — Emuna Agnon Yaron]