Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

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

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

  Chapter ten

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

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

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

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

  Chapter eleven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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