by Agnon, S. Y.
He came to Shira’s and found she was in good health. Her face showed annoyance at having an uninvited guest. But in her heart she was glad to see him. He didn’t see what was in her heart, only what was in her face. She was sitting near the light, reading a German magazine. When he came in, she took off her glasses, held the magazine in her right hand, and greeted him with the left. Her fingers were cool, and Shira herself was like her fingers. There was something about her that puzzled Herbst.
A man has his eye on a woman and is eager to see her. After a while, he goes to her. He wonders what he saw in her, what it was that attracted him to her. She is not his type, and he is not hers.
He peered at the magazine in her hand, his mouth twisted with contempt, and said, “Put down that rag.” Shira answered, “It’s not a rag, and I have no reason to put it down.” Herbst said, “Why so angry?” Shira answered him, “It’s not anger, and there’s no reason for you to ask me questions.” Herbst shrugged his shoulders and said, “All right, all right.” Shira said, “Could it be that Dr. Herbst has nothing to say?” Herbst said, “What, for example, should I say?” Shira said, “After not showing yourself to me for weeks – a number that adds up to months, in fact – you come and start a fight. But I won’t fight with you. On the contrary, I’ll prove how eager I am to know how you’re doing. So, how is Dr. Herbst doing? And how is Mrs. Herbst? And the baby? I think she’s called Sarah. If you change the vowels, her name is like mine. So you are all well? A man whose wife and children are well is truly fortunate. Please take a chair, Dr. Herbst, and sit down, rather than wear out your legs pacing. You might like to try a new kind of cigarette; they say it’s easy on the nerves.”
Herbst was pacing around the room in an agitated state. He didn’t look at Shira, but her evil presence was palpable wherever he turned. He encircled his left thumb with his right hand and pressed it hard. After a while, he went over to Shira, looked down at the magazine she was holding, and took her glasses. Shira said, “What are you doing? Give me my glasses and I’ll read you something nice.” Herbst said, “If that’s the verdict, I’ll sit and listen.” After she had read awhile, he got up and said, “There are people who write such nonsense, and there are people who read such nonsense. For the life of me, I can’t understand it.” Shira said, “Tell me, please, what’s so bad about this article?” Herbst said, “Tell me, please, what’s so good about it?” He recognized from these words that such an argument would not lead to a meeting of hearts. He shut his mouth and thought to himself: If I hadn’t lingered this long, we wouldn’t be arguing.
Shira saw that his face was becoming more and more gloomy. She looked up at him and asked, “What’s wrong, dear? Did something happen?” There was a trace of pity in her voice. Herbst answered, “It’s nothing.” Shira said, “Then why so sad?” Running her hand through his hair, she said, “A fine head of hair, no doubt about it. And a fine forehead, the forehead of a scholar. I suppose there are fine thoughts rumbling around in your head when you are at work. Manfred, will I ever see you at work?” Herbst stretched out his arms to embrace her. Shira said, “I’m making meaningful conversation, and you want to be silly.” He caught her and sat her on his lap. But he wasn’t happy. Although she seemed to be in his hands, she could slip away. And what was in his mind she acted upon. She slipped off his lap, stood up, arranged her blouse, and said, “I’ll go and make you tea. I could even make you supper. When did you leave home? Aren’t you hungry? You could sit and read the magazine while I go to the kitchen.”
Shira went off to the kitchen, while Herbst sat browsing through the magazine. What he read didn’t add up to anything of interest, nor did his thoughts add up to anything. Only one thing interested him: when would Shira be back, and how would she behave with him?
Shira has already been gone longer than it takes to put a kettle on the fire, boil water, and brew tea. What is taking so long? She must be preparing supper. Yes, Shira is preparing supper. She invited him to eat with her. All day she works with patients; when she gets home, she has household chores to do. In this respect, she is no different from most single people in Jerusalem and throughout the land. Some of these women are her betters, yet their fate is in no way better than Shira’s. Before looking to them, let’s look to Lisbet Neu. But Herbst was not faring so well either: when he took the time to come to Shira, she went off to the kitchen, leaving him all alone.
Chapter twenty
Shira returned and set the dishes on the table, along with butter, cheese, tomatoes, cocoa, grapes, and berries. She moved slowly, singing some inane song. Her voice was not pleasant, and the words were banal. Herbst was irritated by the voice, the words, and most of all her pace. Such a leisurely pace would provoke even the most easygoing person, such as myself, to murder. In the interests of peace, he shut his mouth, rather than risk saying a harsh word.
When the dishes and food were arranged, Shira went to bring a jar of pickled olives. She sniffed them and said, “You don’t have to worry about garlic. I’ll bring us some cognac. I’ll have mine with the meal, and you can drink yours before, during, after – however you like, my dear. There’s no rule.” Then, with a start, she tapped her forehead and said, “What a fool I am. I have gin, and I didn’t bring it. Do you like gin?”
Herbst sat silently, thinking to himself: The devil take you, gin and all. He remembered that night when he was in her room for the first time; he remembered suggesting that she change her clothes, and he remembered everything that followed. He wouldn’t offer such a suggestion now – if she went to change her clothes, she would be sure to linger, and his chief desire was to be with her.
By now, the many kinds of food and drink that Shira had were arranged on the table. Nothing was missing, not a fork, a knife, a bowl, a glass. By all reason, it was time for her to sit down. What did Nadia do? She went behind the curtain to the sink and washed her hands, singing that same song. Her voice, like the song, was not pleasant, not lovely. When she had dried her hands, she came to Herbst and said, “There’s water, soap, a towel. Wash your hands and we’ll eat.” Herbst answered, “I don’t want to wash my hands.” Shira said, “You don’t want to wash your hands? One should wash before eating.” Herbst said, “I don’t want to eat.” Shira said, “As a nurse, an expert in health, I tell you that a person must eat. If he doesn’t eat, he’ll be hungry; if he’s hungry, he’ll have no strength; and if he has no strength, he’ll end up sick. Hurry up, sweetheart, and wash your hands. I’m hungry, and I want to eat.” As she spoke, she sliced some bread, buttered it, and began to eat. Then she put down her bread and asked, “Why aren’t you eating?” He said, “Because I don’t want to.” She said, “You’re acting like a baby – not a good baby, but an obstinate one. Do you know how we handle obstinate children? We make them eat.” She took the bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and said in a singsong, in baby talk, “A bite for Mommy, a bite for Daddy, and a bite for little Fredchen. Chew it well, my little one, or an ogre will come to put you in his sack and carry you off to a place where they make you eat porridge every day. Be good, my sweet. Eat up, and don’t make Mommy sad. You’re angry, my child. A good boy shouldn’t be angry. Now you’re smiling. Smile, my boy, smile. A smile is good for the heart. Tomorrow, my boy, we’ll take you to the barber and ask him to make a part in your hair. But first, eat well.” She brushed his head with her hand, took a pinch of hair, leaned over his head, and sniffed. As she stood there, he encircled her hips with his arms. She didn’t make a move, nor did she seem to object to his gesture. Suddenly she slipped away and fled. He muttered under his breath, “Damn!” Shira put her hand to her nose and said, “Didn’t they teach you not to swear, my child?” She moved close to him again, brushed her hand over his head, and said, “Eat, my friend. The cocoa will get cold.” Herbst said, “The light is blinding.” Shira said, “Which light?” He pointed to the lamp. “What do you mean, doctor? Should we sit in the dark?” Herbst said, “I didn’t mean the lamp. I meant the light from the neighbors
’ houses. Please, Shira, lower the blinds.” Shira said, “The more light, the more joy.” Herbst made a wry face and said, “The light of your eyes is enough for me.” Shira said, “I beg you, don’t talk nonsense. I know my own eyes, and I know they don’t glow. Unless you’re referring to my glasses.” Herbst went to the window and rattled the blind. Shira said, “Easy, easy, you’re breaking it.” Herbst said, “Then you lower it.” She went to the window, singing that same song, stood looking outside, and said, “Enlightened professor, all the houses are dark. You’ve wrecked the pulley, and I can’t lower the blind. What a schlemiel! Everything he touches breaks.” She tugged at it, this way and that, over and over again. Then, turning her head, she said, “It’s hopeless.” Just then, the blind lowered itself. She went to the other window and lowered the blind in one move, turned her head again, and said, “Are you satisfied, my friend?” He nodded and closed his eyes. She said, “Do you have a headache?” He looked at her and said, “Why do you ask?” Shira said, “I saw you squinting, as if you were in pain.” He said, “No, it’s nothing.” She said, “Good.” He said: “Not good.” She said, “Not good?” He said, “Good, good.” She said, “When someone feels good, he doesn’t yell, ‘Good, good.’“He said, “Good, good.” Shira laughed and said, “There you go again. Please tell me, just who is feeling good?”
Herbst opened his arms and said, “Come, Shira, come.” Shira said, “But I’m here.” He said, “Come, sit on my lap.” She said, “He can barely hold himself up, and he wants to hold this heavy load – freckles, eyeglasses, and all. Eat first. It might make you stronger.” Herbst said, “I don’t need food.” “You don’t need food, but you do need this dismal load on your lap. You’re swaying like a windmill. I wonder if you have a fever. Give me your hand; I’ll check your pulse. The pulse is all right, but Fredchen isn’t. Let me listen to your heart.” After she listened to his heart, he said, “Now let me listen to yours.” Shira said, “I, my friend, am normal. I don’t need to be examined.” Meanwhile, he reached out and put his hand on her heart. She shouted at him, “You’re out of your mind! Anyone could peek in and see.” Alarmed, he looked around and then began to shout, “That’s a lie, Shira! A lie! No one is looking.” Shira said, “But someone could look.” Herbst said, “You pulled down the blinds, so no one can see.” Shira said, “But they can guess what you’re doing.” Herbst said, “If they can guess, let them guess.” Shira said, “It doesn’t matter at all to you, my friend, but it matters to me.” Herbst said, “Don’t be – “ Shira said, “What is my Manfredchen asking me not to be?” Herbst said, “I’m not asking anything.” Shira laughed and said, “If you were asking nothing, you’d be doing nothing.” Herbst said, “So what am I doing?” As he spoke, he put his arm around her hips. She loosened his grip. His head drooped, and he was silent.
Shira said, “You’re tired. Lie down for a while, then you can get up and go home.” Herbst stretched out on her bed, closed his eyes, and waited, expecting Shira to come and sit near him. When she didn’t come, he opened his eyes and discovered she was nowhere in sight. He muttered, “The hell with her, where did she go?” He looked around and saw that the table was bare: Damn; she went to do the dishes. She has to do them now, when I feel as if I was flung into a blazing furnace.
And, in truth, the fire had already taken hold. He was like fire within fire, flaming and enflaming; he was overwhelmed by a sweetness that melts the whole body. He no longer existed; nor did any part of him exist, other than that mounting sweetness. When he stirred and realized he was alone, he pricked up his ears but heard nothing. He began to wonder. When some time had passed and she wasn’t back, he began to worry: What if she doesn’t come back? If she didn’t come back and he were found stretched out on her bed, he’d be in trouble. Anyway, she certainly hadn’t gone far. If she had, she wouldn’t have left her purse and her powder. Then he saw his shadow on the wall, and his blood froze. Shira returned.
Shira came back, dressed in light clothes, giving off the good scent of lavender. Herbst reached out to her and whispered, “Come, Shira, come.” She sat beside him, her body quivering. He thought to himself: If I had any sense, I would lie here and let her quiver, let her know what it’s like. But he had no sense, and he didn’t lie calmly. Shira said gently, “You’re in such a frenzy, so stormy and wild. Take off your jacket and cool off.” She got off the bed to make room. As he struggled to get his jacket off, with her standing by, there was an uproar outside and the sound of running. Shira opened a window, stuck her head out, then turned back toward Herbst, saying, “It’s the curfew. They’ve announced another curfew until six in the morning.” Herbst was in a panic. He didn’t know what he would do, but he knew he had to get back immediately, that he couldn’t not go home.
“When does it start?” he asked in alarm. Shira said, “It starts now and is in effect until morning. You want to go? Do you have a pass?” Herbst said, “I don’t have any such thing.” Shira said, “Then how will you go? The police will stop you.” Herbst said, “But I must get home.” Shira said, “You must get home, but how? If you go out, a policeman will stop you immediately and take you to the station. You’ll have to spend the night there.” Herbst said, “I’m sure you understand, Shira, that I have to go. Think of something, Shira. I’m dying, I’m going crazy.” Shira looked at him irately and said, “No need to go crazy. I’ll talk to Axelrod, my neighbor. He may agree to take you home.” Herbst said, “Go on, Shira. Ask Axelrod to take me home. Who’s Axelrod?” Shira said, “Axelrod is Axelrod’s son.” Herbst said, “You’re teasing me.” Shira said, “It’s as I said. This Axelrod is the son of the Axelrod you met at the hospital when you brought Mrs. Herbst to the maternity section. Papa Axelrod is a pest of the first water, but the son is a daring young man who drives a bus for Hamekasher. I’ll see if he’s in.” Herbst looked at her imploringly and said, “Go on, Shira, go. But can you allow yourself to be seen in those clothes?” A few minutes later, he heard the sound of a car. A broad-shouldered young man came in and said, “Hop in, professor. Don’t worry, I’ll take you home.”
Herbst parted from Shira on the run. He got into the car and sat on the edge of the seat, compressing himself into his body, his mouth agape with wonder that, at an hour when no one was allowed to be out, a driver had agreed to take him home. He watched the driver, who held the steering wheel in his hand and made the car move. Herbst realized what a great favor the driver was doing for him and wanted to thank him, but he couldn’t find the words. He sat gaping, his lips on fire, dismayed to find himself in a car in the heart of the dark night. He sank into the cushions, listening to the wheels of the car turning and rolling onward. He began to reflect: It’s good that I’m going home, but the essence of the matter isn’t good. He covered his eyes with both hands and reviewed what had happened to him with Shira. Actually, nothing at all had happened, so why the embarrassment and regret? After a while, he uncovered his eyes. He looked at his hands and was surprised to find that the darkness had not clung to them.
Again he buried himself in the cushions, alerting his ears to the sound of the car wheels clattering through the silent city, the silence receding before them as he approached his home.
Near the Allenby Barracks, two armed Syrian policemen popped out and stopped the car. They were so short that their rifles overshadowed them. They rattled their weapons to intimidate the passengers, made menacing faces, and spoke menacingly – like warriors seizing captives. Axelrod eyed them calmly, like a customer examining toy soldiers to see whether they are made of lead or tin. He said to them, “The man I am driving is a great professor, one of our great university professors, and he can’t be detained.” Whether or not the policemen knew what a professor was, they understood from the driver’s tone that his passenger was important and to be treated with respect. They signaled with their rifles and cleared the road for him. Shortly thereafter, Herbst found himself at home.
Chapter twenty-one
On the twenty-first of Hes
hvan, Herbst went up to Mount Scopus for the opening ceremonies of the academic year. It was his habit to go to these ceremonies without his wife, as Henrietta had trained him to go alone whenever he could manage without her.
The main hall of the Rosenblum Building was full. In addition to professors, lecturers, advisers, students, and university officials, there were guests from Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa, and the rest of the country’s towns and settlements – invited guests who were guaranteed a seat, as well as uninvited guests, the sort who push their way into every public place and grab the reserved seats.
It was past three in the afternoon. Early autumn permeated the spacious, high-ceilinged room with air for which any attire was suitable. One would not feel chilly in summer clothes, nor would winter clothes be too heavy. Similarly with the doors: when they were open, they didn’t let in a chill and when they were closed, it wasn’t too warm. The guests chatted with one another about the university, its buildings, the courses for which there were still no teachers, and Mount Scopus and its environs. They didn’t raise their voices as they talked; even those who were in the habit of making themselves heard, at any time and in any place, behaved respectfully. The windows drew light directly from the sky itself, with nothing intervening. There were many people present who felt, at that moment, that this structure was unique among structures and this setting unique among settings. Individuals who tended to respond only to what was created to be useful to man were astonished by what they saw from Mount Scopus: the city, the Temple Mount, the wilderness inhabited by infinite colors, the Dead Sea, whose quiet blue flows up from the bottom of the deep, capped by hills and valleys that soar and dip and wrinkle, with every wind etching shapes above like those below, from which a breeze ripples upward and flutters overhead.