Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  On the platform and close by sat the leaders of the yishuv, who arrived early, before the proceedings began, unlike those functionaries who make a point of coming late, so they can feast their eyes on the crowd rising to honor them. Suddenly all conversation ceased, the hall was silent. All eyes were on the president of the university, who had begun his speech. He had been a Reform rabbi in his youth and had been forced to leave his post because he was a Zionist. Although he retained some of the mannerisms of the Reform rabbinate, which are considered ridiculous in this country, his height, style, and dignity led even the cynics in the hall to listen to what he had to say.

  As he did every year, he expounded on the role of the Hebrew University, which is not merely the university of the Land of Israel, but belongs to Jews everywhere and is destined to break down the boundaries of Jewish learning, fusing Jewish studies with the humanities and natural sciences to form one single discipline – for everything human is Jewish, and everything Jewish is human.

  After outlining the future of the university, he enumerated the innovations of the past academic year, as well as those on the agenda for the coming year: who was appointed lecturer and who was promoted to the rank of senior lecturer, associate professor, or tenured professor. Although most of this information was already public knowledge, everyone listened attentively, for it is one thing to hear a rumor in the marketplace and another to hear it from the president of the university at the official opening of the new academic year.

  After listing the names of the faculty members and the promotions, he told how many buildings had been built and how many new students enrolled.

  After finishing this account, he spoke about the obligations of teachers and students. Their purpose was twofold and manifold, for, apart from coming to this institution for the sake of learning – some to study and some to teach – a further duty was thrust upon them: to fortify the Torah and the Jewish ethic, without which there could be no future for the nation and no basis for society.

  After mentioning all the lofty and exalted hopes invested in the university and in rebuilding the land, he lowered his voice and spoke of impending dangers, dangers we did not foresee, with the power to undermine the lofty and sublime hopes that had brought us here.

  Everyone sat and listened, not so much to the speech as to a voice from their own hearts that spoke without words and began to take form. Earlier, as long as there was peace in the world, in all the lands of our exile it was possible to dream of the return to Zion, the revival of the people and its language. Some unique individuals added a dream to this dream: the dream of a Hebrew University in Jerusalem. How? The dreamers never explained this dream. When they were awake, they could provide no key to it. Our holy language remained unsuited to scholarship; Hebrew-speaking professors were scarce, and Hebrew was as far from the lips as dreams from reality. The war suddenly erupted, the world was in chaos, and not one of the dreamers dreamed a good dream. The towns Jews lived in were eradicated, and hundreds of thousands of Jews were killed in the war and its aftermath. At last those at war were worn out and no longer able to fight. All weapons were at rest, and there was no more war. Some of those who survived the war thought about returning to their homes. They found no way to travel. There were no vehicles, no horses to ride. Highwaymen prowled the roads, which were in disrepair and difficult to traverse by foot. The survivors were pressed to leave those places in which they had found refuge from the sword of war, because of hardships and a shortage of food. So they plucked up their courage and, without regard for themselves, set off. They returned to their towns and found desolation, their houses burned to the ground. Anyone who found his home intact found it occupied by a vicious Christian, who held on to the house, shouting at him, “Jew, what do you want here? Go to Palestine!” During the war, Britain had issued a declaration and even published a letter saying that she viewed with favor the opening of the gates of the Land of Israel to the people of Israel. This message had not yet reached people’s hearts, though the hostile voices of those who stole our houses resounded wherever Jews sought their homes and property.

  They swallowed their pride and looked elsewhere. Walking from place to place, they found nothing. They began to despair and asked, “Could it be, God forbid, that Israel’s destruction has been decreed and that this is the beginning of the end?” A very few individuals overcame these misfortunes and said, “Salvation will come from these very misfortunes.” How? Salvation isn’t brought about by reason.

  In any case, there were a few individuals who ignored logic and didn’t wait for salvation. They banded together and went up to this land. They wandered from nation to nation, from country to country, along with those hordes returning from the war, its disabled victims, wounded human fragments, thieves, and murderers. At last they came to a port and hired leaky vessels that took them up to heaven and down to the abyss. Some reached the gates of death, and some reached the gates of this land. When they arrived, they engaged in hard labor. All day they were consumed by the sun; at night, by insects and other ills with which God blighted the land. Without regard for themselves, they paved roads, made settlements, and cured the ills of the land, preparing it for the next generation and for all our brothers-in-exile. Today they are here in Jerusalem, our glorious city, capital of our land, the Land of Israel, at our sanctuary-university at the opening ceremonies of the academic year. They sit at the Hebrew University, on benches like the ones in a real university. And what is the language of instruction? Hebrew. Disregard the fact that some of the professors are not very learned. You could say that they are like clay shards placed between beams, that great men will come tomorrow and fill the house with scholarship. Do you ask, “Who needs a university in an age such as this, when books are widely available and anyone who wishes can open a book and learn?” As long as other countries support universities, it is fitting for us to have one too.

  When the ceremony was over, Herbst left for home. There were many cars at the university gate, waiting to take the guests back to town. But what always happens, on any day, at any hour, happened then. Those who value time, love work, and behave decently are shoved aside by loudmouthed idlers in noisy pursuit of nothing, who push and shove, occupying every space without leaving an inch, preventing you from getting home and back to the work that was interrupted by these ceremonies. All the cars were occupied and would be filled again when they returned by those who jump lines and are stronger than you. This being the case, Herbst chose to go back on foot.

  He turned away from the vehicles, toward the edge of the road, stopping to adjust the elegant tie he had worn for the occasion and to decide which road to take, for there were many roads branching off this way and that, each one scenically special, so that it was hard to choose one over the others. Before Herbst had a chance to decide which he would take, he heard the sound of a car behind him. He moved aside, turned toward the car, and saw four or five of his friends in it, among them Professor Wechsler, who invited him to join them. When Herbst noticed that Axelrod was driving, he had no wish to get in, for Axelrod might mention that he had given him a lift the other night, and it would be best if they knew nothing about it. He thanked them for the invitation and went on.

  Twilight. All over the mountain and in the valley, everything was still. The sky above was overlaid with an array of shifting colors throwing light on each other, blending, modulating, appearing, and disappearing in a flash, only to be succeeded by others, still others. Before these settle in, another round appears, and they swallow each other up. Dirt and rock take shape, as do shrubs and grass, fragrant grass which, along with thorns, briars, and wild brush, fills the arid land with its good smell as the day dims. Each step bestows peace, each breath cures, taking in the scent of field grass, a remnant of summer, born of the early rains. Suddenly, the lights were turned on and the whole city glowed. Over the city, in the skies above, the moon could be seen beginning its tour.

  The evening was fine and pleasant, the air clear and fresh,
like most autumn evenings in Jerusalem after the first rains. Herbst was in a similar state. The days spent at home, in his study, in the garden with Henrietta, peaceful and quiet, had a favorable effect. But for the somber thoughts that wrinkled his brow, Herbst was like a young man.

  Herbst was already at the foot of the mountain, near town. Those who live in outlying neighborhoods, who come to town and are not in a hurry to get home, spend an hour or two roaming Jerusalem’s streets or seeing friends. Herbst, who had had his fill of society even before the ceremonies, wasn’t eager for his colleagues or their conversation. But he had an urge to see the whole city, to go beyond the wall, which he didn’t do. If he were to go there, he would become involved, endlessly so and without limits. Yet much as he resists, he is drawn there, because of a place he never saw, though he knew he was already there many times.

  He took himself toward the post office, from there to the Jewish Agency, from there to Zion Square, and from there to a small department store. He looked in all the windows and came back to the one with fountain pens that sprang forward as if from inside a mirror. Actually, there was a large mirror beneath the pens, which were suspended over it on invisible string. A tiny light was attached to every pen, shining on it, on its shadow, and on the face of anyone who happened to be studying the display. While Herbst was considering which pen he would like to buy, his reflection peered out at him from the mirror, decked out in the finery he had worn for the opening ceremonies of the new academic year. It was a long time since Herbst had been so elegantly dressed and a long time since he had felt so fresh. He stopped to adjust the tie Henrietta had bought him for his birthday, with money held back from household expenses, and gazed into the mirror.

  The tie was in place; it hadn’t stirred, not this way, not that. His thoughts, however, were stirring this way and that. He dismissed the pen he had in mind to buy for himself, as well as his thoughts about what he would write with the pen, and began listing the names of the lecturers and professors the president of the university had mentioned in his address. He repeated the names of all those who had been promoted. He considered each one of them – the books they had produced, the articles they had written. He envied neither them nor their works. He would have enjoyed discussing academic politics with his colleagues, but he wasn’t drawn to any one of them. This one never makes a clear statement; that one has a wife who doesn’t let him get a word in, and, before he has a chance to answer you, the house is brimming with her conversation. This fellow is even worse than the other two. He takes what you say and twists it, so you wear yourself out explaining what you meant, and you can never be sure he won’t quote you on something you never said. Still worse is the one who talks only about himself – what Mrs. So-and-so said to him after visiting him with a group of tourists, who felt deeply honored by his hospitality, and what Professor So-and-so wrote to him about his new book. Julian Weltfremdt is the one person worth listening to, but, not being a member of its inner circle, he tends to demolish the university and its professors with every breath. Also, if you come at night, you find him and his wife sitting across from each other at one table with one light. She is reading the novels she reads, while he covers his face with a newspaper or book to avoid seeing them. You begin talking, and, as soon as she says a word, Julian gets up, takes his hat, puts a hand on your shoulder, and says, “How about a walk?”

  A man has many friends and no preference about which one to go to, so he doesn’t go to any of them. While Herbst was deliberating, he arrived at a point where several roads intersect. One of them leads to Shira. I will waste no words. Of all the roads, Herbst chose the one that leads to Shira.

  Chapter twenty-two

  Shira was dressed in warm, unattractive clothes. Her face was tired, her cheeks smooth. Only her freckles were prominent, so enlarged that it seemed as if a part of her right cheek had been taken away. The room smelled of some liniment, the kind you apply to a bruise. Either she had been tending patients’ bruises or she herself was bruised. Herbst stared at her with probing eyes, like a man studying a woman he dislikes in order to identify the power that draws him to her. He saw again what he had already seen: although she wasn’t ugly, she certainly wasn’t beautiful. He had called her Nadia in the beginning, before he really knew her. Actually, this name suggests no particular image; still, it suits her better than Shira.

  Herbst changed his face to register fury and considered: Maybe I won’t address her in the familiar second person. He hadn’t arrived at a decision when he said, “I’ve interrupted you.” He was prepared to hear her say, “I’m busy,” and to answer, “If so, I won’t keep you. I’ll be on my way.” But rather than answer his implied question, she said, “So you got home all right.” Herbst said, “That’s an old story. It’s been almost a month.” Shira said, “A month and a half. Still, you haven’t forgotten me, and you took the trouble to stop by. One can’t say the man has no curiosity.” Herbst said, “It’s not a question of curiosity. I’ve been busy. I had to prepare first-rate lectures for the winter semester. Students are beginning to come from all over; many have been at European universities and can’t be offered rubbish.” Shira said, “And you stopped working to come here.” Herbst said, “You want to know how I could stop working to come here? Because, I already prepared some of the lectures, so I’m able to take the time.” Shira answered in a relaxed tone, “You prepared your lessons and found yourself with a little time, some of which you’ve decided to donate to me. Now I need some time to arrange my thoughts and consider what to do with the gift of time you were kind enough to give me. If I were sure I would be able to arrange my thoughts in a single evening, I would tell you to take a chair and sit down. But I’m afraid I, too, might need a month and a half to arrange my thoughts, and that may be too long for you to wait.” Herbst said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down.” He thought to himself: I’ll stay until she finishes complaining, then I’ll be on my way.

  Herbst sat and Shira sat, making no move to change her clothes. Didn’t she realize such clothes were not likely to win hearts? Not to mention her complaints, or the look on her face. He thought of asking if she was sick but decided not to, for she would surely notice from his tone of voice that he was unsympathetic. He took a cigarette from the pack on the table and began smoking fiercely, to create his own atmosphere. As he smoked, he took out his own cigarettes and offered them to Shira. “I don’t want to smoke,” she said. Herbst blew smoke rings and said, “You don’t want to smoke? Then what do you want?” Shira stared at him and said, “What do I want? I want to know how Mrs. Herbst is doing.” Herbst growled a response. “She’s fine.” Shira said, “She’s fine. And how is the baby? Her name is Sarah, isn’t it?” Herbst growled at her again, “She’s fine.” Shira continued to question him. “And Dr. Herbst himself, how is he?” “Me? Yes, I’m fine.” Shira stared at him and said, “Then you, the baby, and Mrs. Herbst are all healthy and sound. You are such a successful man, Dr. Herbst. A man whose entire family is in good health, lacks nothing. What else did I want to ask you? What are your views, doctor, about men who beat women?” He looked at her in alarm and said, “What was that?” Shira looked at him with malice and affection, and said, “I asked for Dr. Herbst’s views on men who beat women.” Herbst answered, “They are depraved, absolutely depraved.” Shira looked at him with smiling eyes and said, “I think so too, and I knew that’s how you would answer. Tell me, my friend, are you not capable of beating a woman?” Herbst cried out in alarm, “No!” and realized he was on the verge of slapping her face. Shira said, “Well said, my boy. You must never strike a woman. Women are fragile, and one must be gentle with them.”

  Shira sat on her chair, becoming one with it, her shoulders contracting, while Herbst sat crushing the cigarette with his fingers. The lines on his palms began to jump and were covered by dry, searing heat. His temples throbbed and sweated. Once or twice he was about to speak, but the words remained on the tip of his tongue. He stared with enmity at the remain
s of the cigarette in his hand, its embers singeing his fingernails. Again he wanted to say something and didn’t know how to begin, although he knew that, if only he could begin, words would come. He got up and moved his chair, put the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray, snuffed it out, sat down again, passed his tongue over his lips, and asked in a whisper, “What were you talking about and what did you have in mind, Shira?” Shira looked at him, lowering her head and speaking from deep in her chest. “And if I tell you, will you understand?” Herbst said, “Why wouldn’t I understand?” Shira said, “Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Even if you do, I don’t know why I asked such an odd question. Tell me, don’t you think it’s an odd question?” Herbst said, “It is an odd question, but allow me to ask what led to such a question.” Shira said, “You think I know?” Herbst said, “Don’t you know?” Shira said, “I don’t really know, but, because you asked, I will tell you something.”

  Shira touched the tip of her nose, which was colored by the powder she had sprinkled on it, and asked in a leisurely tone, “What was I going to say?” Herbst said, “You were going to answer my question.” Shira said, “You mean about that odd question? I’ll tell you, if you like.”

  Shira said, “The event took place a month and a half ago plus two days. Why did I say ‘plus two days,’ when actually it was a month and a half ago plus three days, exactly one night after the curfew. Remember, you were here the night they declared the curfew. So, one night later, a certain person happened by, not to my room but to the landlord’s apartment. A respectable person, healthy, not young but not old. In any case, his age didn’t show. He was an engineer by profession. A marine engineer, or some such thing. What do I know? Until that day, I never knew there were such engineers, though it’s logical that, if there are boats, they didn’t build themselves, and, just as you need someone to build houses, you need someone to build boats. Anyway, the engineer I’m telling about was related to the landlady, or maybe the landlord. For the life of me, I couldn’t say whose relative he was, hers or his. It happened that he came to visit his relatives, but they had gone to some kvutza because of a tragedy involving their daughter. The night before, her son, a child of about five and a half, had wandered off and encountered a jackal that devoured him, leaving only a headless skeleton. The architect was alone in his relatives’ home. What am I saying? I said ‘architect’ when, in fact, he was an engineer, a marine engineer. That gentleman, the engineer, was here in the home of his relatives, and I was in my room, paying no attention to him. It’s possible that I didn’t even know such a person was in the house with me. After dinner I said to myself: Why sit in the room when I could sit on the balcony? Hadn’t the landlady given me permission to sit out there whenever she and her husband were out? I put on comfortable clothes and went up to the landlady’s apartment and out onto the balcony, where I sat on a chair, allowing the wind to curl my hair and the moon to play hide-and-seek with me. I thought how lucky it was to have such a balcony, and now I was the lucky one. I heard footsteps. I’m not saying the footsteps concerned me. If someone was there, it was his right to move around. After a while, the architect appeared. Manfred, I’m talking, but you’re not listening. Are you listening? If so, I’ll tell you what followed.”