Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

by S. Y. Agnon

The Additions to the Zohar / Tikkunei Zohar, a collection of mystical hymns, part of the collection of early kabbalistic literature.

  Woman who is waiting for him to marry… / Cf. Deut. 25:9.

  Isaac Luria / Known by the acronym Arizal (1534-1572), preeminent medieval kabbalist.

  Moshe ben Nahman / Nahmanides or Ramban (1194-1270), leading Spanish rabbi, philosopher, halakhist and exegete. Arrrived in the Holy Land in 1267.

  Rakkath / Cf. Josh. 19:35.

  May it be my lot… / Shabbat 118b.

  Sea of Kinnereth / Sea of Galilee.

  Revival of the dead will commence at Tiberias / Rosh HaShanah 31b.

  Midnight Mourning / Tikkun Hatzot. Elegies of kabbalistic orientation recited at midnight in mourning for the destroyed Temple and in hopes of Redemption from exile.

  Cast away their sins / The Tashlich ritual prayer recited on the first day of Rosh HaShanah near a body of water, symbolizing the casting away of sins.

  Rabbi Nahman of Horodanki / Disciple of the Baal Shem Tov and grandfather of Rabbi Nahman of Breslov; arrived in the land of Israel in 1764.

  Who shall ascend… / Psalms 24:3.

  Rabbi Shmelke / Shmuel Horowitz (d. 1778), rabbi in Nickolsburg.

  Song of the Red Sea / Exodus 15.

  Leviathan / According to rabbinic legend this will be the meal served to the righteous at the feast of the End of Days.

  We shall go up at once! / cf. Numbers 13:30.

  River of Fire / Rabbinic metaphor for the Milky Way, cf. Hagigah 14a.

  Sons of the Heavenly Hall / Bnei heikhala – Aramaic hymn composed by Isaac Luria, about the longings for revelation. Commonly sung at the final Sabbath meal.

  I rejoiced when they said… / Psalms 122:1.

  The Lord loveth the gates of Zion… / Psalms 87:2.

  The third day of the week / Gen 1:10 and 1:12 – Tuesday (third day of creation) is only day twice indicated as “good”.

  Place below Jerusalem called Motza… / Mishnah Sukkah 4:5.

  Who are these that fly as a cloud? / Isaiah 60:8.

  Abraham ibn Ezra / 1089-1164, Spanish exegete, philosopher and poet.

  Bought the parcel of land / Genesis 33:19.

  Sabbath eve feast before a circumcision / Custom of Shalom Zakhar, visiting with the newborn on the Friday evening prior to circumcision.

  Mine eyes and My heart… / Chronicles II 7:16.

  Priestly blessing / Numbers 6:24-26.

  I am the Lord… / Isaiah 49:23.

  The Lord is good… / Lam. 3:25.

  Ten sanctities whereby the Land of Israel is sanctified / Mishnah Kelim 1:6.

  And His feet shall stand… / Zach. 14:4.

  The heavens are the heavens… / Psalms 115:16, from the Hallel prayer recited on the first of the New Month.

  But a good word… / Prov. 12:25.

  But those who wait for the Lord… / Psalms 37:9.

  In the Prime of Her Life

  “My father sighed. We walked on and skirted the town, and my father placed his hand in my own and said, This way. As we approached the outer limits of the town we suddenly came upon an old woman digging in her yard. My father greeted her and said, Please tell us, good lady, is Mr. Mazal home?”

  Illustration of Szybusz by Yosl Bergner for A Simple Story

  My mother died in the prime of her life. She was barely thirty-one years old. Few and harsh were the days of her life. She sat at home the entire day and never stirred from within. Her friends and neighbors did not visit, nor did my father welcome guests. Our house stood hushed in sorrow, its doors did not open to a stranger. Lying on her bed my mother spoke scarcely a word. But when she did speak it was as though limpid wings had spread forth and led me to the hall of blessing. How I loved her voice. Often I would open her door just to hear her ask, Who’s there? I was still a child. Sometimes she rose from her bed to sit by the window. She would sit by the window dressed in white. She always wore white. Once a relative of my father’s was called into town and seeing my mother, took her for a nurse, for her clothes misled him and he did not realize it was she who was unwell.

  Her illness, a heart ailment, bowed her life down. Every summer the doctors would send her to the hot springs, but she would turn back shortly after leaving, for she said her longing gave her no peace, and once again she would sit by the window or lie on her bed.

  My father began to ply his trade less and less. He no longer left for Germany where, as a bean merchant, he had traveled year after year to deal with his clients. In those days and at that time he forgot the ways of the world. Returning home at dusk he would sit by my mother’s side, his left hand tucked behind his head and her right hand held in his own. And every so often she would lean forward and kiss his hand.

  The winter my mother died our home fell silent seven times over. My mother forsook her bed only when Kaila went in to tidy up. A carpet was placed in the hallway to absorb the sound of each and every footfall, and the odor of medicine wafted from one room to another. Every room was encumbered with grief.

  The doctors arrived unsummoned and refused to leave, and whenever we asked whether her health had improved all they said was, With God’s help. Meaning all hope was lost—there was no cure. But my mother didn’t sigh or complain, nor did she shed any tears. She lay quietly on her bed and her strength fled like a shadow.

  But there were days when hope tugged at our hearts and we believed that she would live. Winter had come and gone and the earth was arrayed in the first days of spring. My mother seemed to forget her pain and we saw with our own eyes how her illness abated. Even the doctors consoled us, claiming there was hope: spring was drawing near and the sun’s rays would soon reinvigorate her body.

  Passover was at our doorstep and Kaila made the necessary preparations for the holiday, while as mistress of the house my mother attended to her duties and ensured nothing was amiss. She even made herself a new dress.

  Several days before the holiday my mother, having left her bed, stood before the looking-glass and put on her new dress. Shadows glimmered over her body in the mirror and the light of the living illumined her face. My heart beat with joy. How beautiful was her face in that dress. And yet the new dress was not that different from the old one. Both were white and the dress she now discarded was good as new, for being bedridden all winter she had had little use for clothes. I’m not sure in what I discerned a sign of hope. Perhaps a scent of hope blossomed from the spring bloom she pinned above her heart—or was it that the medicinal odors had faded away? A new fragrance freshened our home. I was familiar with a variety of perfumes but had never before come across one so delicate. Once though, I inhaled the scent of such sweetness in a dream. Where could this fragrance have come from? For my mother did not dab herself with feminine perfumes.

  My mother rose from her bed and sat by the window where there was a small table with a drawer. The drawer was locked and the key to the drawer hung from my mother’s neck. My mother opened the drawer without making a sound and removed a bundle of letters which she then spent the rest of the day reading. She read until evening. The door opened twice, three times, but she did not ask who was there, and when I spoke to her she did not answer. When she was reminded to drink her medicine she swallowed the contents of the spoon without making a face or uttering a word. It was as though their bitterness had vanished. And no sooner had she drained her medicine than she returned to her letters.

  The letters were written on thin paper in a clear, immaculate hand. They were written in short and long lines. Seeing my mother reading I told myself she would never relinquish the letters, for she was bound to them and the drawer by the string around her neck. Later that afternoon she took the bundle, secured it with the string hanging around her neck, kissed the letters and the key and tossed them into the wood stove. The flue, however, was blocked and only one ember flickered in the stove. The ember gnawed through the thin paper, the letters burned in the fire and the house filled with smoke. Kaila hastened to open the windo
w, but my mother forbade her to do so. The letters burned and the house filled with smoke. And my mother sat by the open drawer and inhaled the smoke from the letters until evening.

  That night Mintshi Gottlieb came to inquire about my mother’s health. Mintshi was her close friend. As young girls they had studied together under Akaviah Mazal. For close to three hours Mintshi sat by my mother’s bedside. “Mintshi,” my mother said, “this will be the last time I see you.” Drying her tears, Mintshi said, “Leah, take heart, you will soon regain your strength.” My mother remained silent, a solemn smile playing over her feverish lips. Suddenly she clasped Mintshi’s right hand in her own and said, “Go home, Mintshi, and prepare for the Sabbath. Tomorrow afternoon you will accompany me to my resting place.” This occurred on a Thursday night, which is the dawn of Friday, the Sabbath eve. Taking hold of my mother’s right hand, Mrs. Gottlieb spread out her fingers and said, “Leah.” A stifled sob held back her words. Our spirits sank.

  My father returned from work at the store and sat by the bed. My mother’s solemn lips hovered over his face like a shadow as she bent forward and kissed him. Mrs. Gottlieb rose, wrapped herself in her coat, and left. My mother got out of bed and Kaila entered to change the sheets. The hem of the white dress rustled in the semi- darkness of the room.

  My mother returned to her bed and swallowed the medicinal syrup my father offered her. And she took his hand and placed it above her heart, and said, “Thank you.” The drops of syrup trickled one by one on his hand like tears. My mother took a deep breath. “Rise now,” she said, “go and have some dinner.” “I cannot eat,” he replied. Again she urged him to eat until he finally withdrew to the dining-room. And he ate the bread of tears and returned to my mother’s bedside.

  Regaining some of her strength, my mother sat up and held his hand a second time. She then had the nurse sent home and instructed my father to inform her not to return. And she lowered the wick in the lamp and lay still. “If only I could sleep,” my father said, “I would do so. But since God has deprived me of sleep, I will sit, if I may, by your side. Should you ask for me I will be here, and if not I will know that all is well with you.” But my mother would not hear of it. So he returned to his room and lay down. He had not slept for many nights and as soon as his head touched the pillow he fell asleep. I too lay down and slept. But suddenly I awoke in alarm. I leapt out of bed to tend to my mother. She lay peacefully in bed, but, ah, she had ceased to breathe. I woke my father up and he cried with a great and exceedingly bitter cry, “Leah!”

  My mother rested peacefully on her bed, for her soul had returned to the Almighty. My mother yielded up her soul and on the Sabbath eve at twilight she was borne to the cemetery. She died a righteous woman, on the Sabbath eve.

  Throughout the seven days of mourning my father sat in silence. In front of him was my mother’s footstool, and on it lay the book of Job and the Laws of Mourning. People I had never seen came to comfort us. Not until the days of mourning had I known there were so many people in our town. Those who came to comfort us suggested my father prepare the headstone. My father, however, remained silent, he didn’t say a thing. On the third day, Mr. Gottlieb arrived. “Here,” he said, “I have brought the epitaph for the headstone.” Everyone stared in surprise, for my mother’s name was formed out of the first letter of each verse and the year of her death was inscribed in every line. Gottlieb then spoke to my father about the stone, but my father barely listened to his words. And so the days of mourning passed.

  The days of mourning passed and the year of mourning drew to an end. A somber grief hung over us and lingered that entire year. My father resumed his work, and when he returned from his store he ate his food without uttering a word. And in my misery I said to myself, My father has forgotten me; he has forgotten his daughter is alive.

  Around that time my father stopped reciting the Kaddish, and approaching me he said, “Come, let us go and choose a headstone for our mother.” I put on my hat and gloves. “Here I am, Father,” I answered. My father drew back in surprise, as though noticing for the first time that I was wearing mourning. He opened the door and we left the house.

  Once on our way, my father stopped in his tracks and said, “Spring has arrived early.” And he passed his hand over his brow as he spoke. “If spring had not been late a year ago she would still be alive.” My father sighed. We walked on and skirted the town, and my father placed his hand in my own and said, “This way.”

  As we approached the outer limits of the town we suddenly came upon an old woman digging in her yard. My father greeted her and said, “Please tell us, good lady, is Mr. Mazal home?” The woman set aside the spade she had been digging with and answered, “Yes, Mr. Mazal is at home.” My father grasped my hand firmly. “Come, my daughter, let us go in.”

  A man in his mid-thirties opened the door. The room was small and pleasant-looking and sheaves of paper were piled on the table. The man’s face was veiled in sorrow. “I have come to ask you to write the epitaph for the headstone,” my father said. And it suddenly dawned on him who we were, and he covered the sheaves of paper and welcomed us, and he stroked my cheek and said, “You have grown a great deal.” Looking at him I was reminded of my mother, for the way he moved his hands resembled my mother’s gestures. And my father stood before the man; each facing his brother. “Who knew then,” my father said, “that Leah would leave us.” The man’s face brightened for a moment as my father appeared to encompass him in his grief, but little did he know that my father had directed his words at me. The man extracted a sheaf from under the heap of papers and handed it to my father. My father took the sheaf and as he read his tears blotted the tearstains on the page. I stared at the sheaf and the script and was astonished. I had seen such a page and such writing before. Even so, upon seeing something, I often feel that I have already seen that very same thing before. Nor were the tearstains foreign to me.

  My father read the poem to its end without saying a thing, for his words were held back in his mouth. And he put on his hat and we departed. We walked into town and arrived home just as Kaila was lighting the lamp. I prepared my lessons and my father read the epitaph for the headstone.

  The stonecutter arrived and carved the headstone according to my father’s wishes. And he copied down Akaviah Mazal’s epitaph on large sheets of paper. And my father and I stood on either side of the stonecutter in order to choose the lettering for the headstone. But none of the letters seemed right to my father. And there was a bookshelf in our home, and one day, after sifting in vain through the sheaves of paper, my father went to fetch a book from the shelf and his eyes lit up as he leafed through his books. In those days our home was shrouded in a merciful melancholy. And at that time, as my father searched for the right lettering for the headstone, he all but forgot my mother. And he never grew weary, as a bird collecting twigs for its nest never tires in flight.

  And the stone engraver arrived and thumbing through the books and letters, he found a script for the headstone. That was during the first days of spring. The stone engraver set about his work outside. As he struck the stone the letters clustered into rhymes, like bees drawn to the sound of their companions swarming among fieldstones. The headstone was made of marble. And the stone engraver filled in the letters in black. In this way he shaped the letters on the headstone. And he coated the heading in gold. And once the work was completed the headstone stood over her grave on the appointed day. My father then rose and went to the cemetery along with the townsfolk to recite the Kaddish. He rested his head against the stone and grasped Mazal’s hand. And since the time we went to the cemetery to raise the headstone, my father and I have visited her grave daily—apart from the Passover holidays, for one must not enter a graveyard on the holy days.

  “Shall we go for a walk,” my father said one day during the intermediate days of Passover. I put on my festive dress and approached him. “You have a new dress,” he said. “It is for special occasions,” I answered as we set out.
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br />   Once on our way, I thought to myself, What have I done, for I have made myself a new dress. Suddenly I felt God stirring my conscience and I stood still. “Why have you stopped?” my father asked. “I couldn’t help thinking, why have I put on my holiday dress,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come.” I removed my gloves and rejoiced as a gust of cold air enveloped my hands. We continued on our way.

  As we reached the outskirts of town, my father turned off the road in the direction of Mazal’s home. Mazal hurried towards us as we entered. Removing his hat, my father said, “I have searched through all her belongings.” After falling silent for a moment he sighed and conceded, “I have labored in vain, I sought, but did not find.”

  My father saw that Mazal did not grasp the meaning of his words. “I thought to publish your poems and I looked through all her drawers, but I could not find a thing.” Mazal shuddered. His shoulders shook, and he didn’t say a word. Shifting from one foot to the other, my father stretched out his hand and asked, “Do you have a copy?” “There is no copy,” Mazal answered. My father drew back, frightened. “I wrote the poems for her, that is why I did not make any copies for myself,” Mazal added. My father sighed and raised his palm to his head. Mazal then grasped the corners of the table and said, “She is dead.” “Dead,” my father answered, and fell silent. The day waned. The servant entered and lit the lamp. My father bade Mazal good day. And as we left, Mazal extinguished the lamp.

  In those days classes resumed at school and I applied myself to my lessons all day long. In the evening my father returned from his work at the store and we supped together. We sat hushed over our food and neither spoke a word.

  “Tirtza, what are you doing?” my father asked one spring evening as we sat by the table. “I am preparing my lessons,” I replied. “And have you forgotten your Hebrew?” he asked. “I haven’t forgotten.” And he said, “I will find you a teacher and you will learn Hebrew.” My father then found me a teacher to his liking and brought him home. The teacher, at my father’s urging, taught me grammar, for as with most of our people, my father believed grammar was the soul of the Hebrew language. The teacher taught me the Hebrew tongue, the rules of logic, and the meaning of “What profit hath man.” I was left breathless. And in addition to grammar, a melamed—a teacher for beginners—instructed me in the Bible and prayerbook. For my father had me study under the teacher’s guidance subjects that other young girls did not know, while the melamed came and taught me all that they did know. He appeared daily and Kaila would bring him a glass of tea and cream cake. If the evil eye had taken hold of her she would approach the melamed and he would whisper into her ear. And when he spoke, a smile in the depth of his beard glimmered as in a mirror.