Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  Zahara served herself and ate slowly, hoping to figure out just what was in the dish. As she ate, she abandoned her research, began eating for pleasure, and took another helping. Again she tried to analyze the dish. She stared at the plate, then at her mother, and stopped trying to guess the ingredients. With her mother’s cooking, it wasn’t the ingredients that determined the taste. Even when her mother told her how to prepare a particular dish and she passed on the recipe to her friends in Ahinoam, it never turned out like her mother’s.

  Herbst ate with pleasure too, but he was troubled. He picked up a spoon instead of a fork and assured himself that, if what was on his mind was important, it would make itself known; if not, it would slip away. But it didn’t make itself known, nor did it slip away. What could be troubling me so? Manfred wondered. Is it that I didn’t praise Henrietta’s cooking? If so, I’ll say something, and, even if she sees I’m not sincere, I’ll be in the clear. He put down the spoon and looked up. His eyes met Zahara’s. Affectionate joy flashed from his eyes to hers; identical joy flashed from Zahara’s eyes to those of her father. Herbst forgot his troubles and began talking to Zahara.

  Manfred said to his daughter, “Now, Zahara, we should ask what’s new back in Ahinoam. You ought to tell us without being asked, since we’re so citified that we’re total boors when it comes to kvutza affairs and our questions won’t be meaningful. Aren’t you pleased, my child, that your father knows himself so well?” Zahara said, “Wrong, Father. You ask and I’ll answer, since I don’t know what you would like to know.” Herbst said, “All your news is important to me.” Zahara said, “There are several sorts of news, and I don’t know which you have in mind.” Henrietta said to Manfred, “You start, Fred.”

  Father Manfred sat asking questions, and Zahara answered at length, as if it were vital for him to have thorough knowledge of all the things he asked about. She didn’t realize that this urban man, this bookworm, probably forgot his question before he finished asking it, that he hadn’t noticed she wasn’t finished answering and was already asking Henrietta what she had accomplished with regard to the certificates. Before Henrietta could answer, he asked Zahara questions he had already asked and she had already answered. Even things he knew and had no need to ask about, he asked. Zahara and Henrietta didn’t notice at first; when they noticed, they laughed about the absentminded professor whose great ideas left no room in his head for their trivial concerns.

  Zahara’s mind was somewhat like her father’s. Her brow was narrow and unwrinkled, but many ideas were spinning around in her brain. Some were the outcome of conversations with Avraham and Heinz; some were inspired by lecturers. She stored some of these ideas in her heart and imparted some of them to her parents. Herbst looked at his daughter fondly and said to his wife, “What do you think of our scholar, Henrietta?” Henrietta answered, “She’s your daughter; like father, like child.” Herbst was pleased with his wife’s words and wanted to say something about his daughter, such as “No need to be sorry that she left school.” But his own sorrow suppressed these words, for it was Berl Katznelson, his close friend, who had designed her workshops, bypassing him, neglecting to ask him to give even one lecture. Herbst had one consolation: his great work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. It was still a heap of notes, the skeleton of a book, but it would surely become a real book. When it appeared in print, those who ignored him now would be the first to seek him out. Herbst wasn’t thinking in terms of revenge: You underestimate me now; tomorrow, when I’m famous, you’ll be the first to honor me. But, remembering his book, he was comforted. The book was important, not only because of the sources he uncovered, but because of his ideas, which, at several points, approached the level of a study in religion. The burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, which at first glance, appear entirely opposed to Christian doctrine, were in fact derived from a philosophy that found itself a niche within that very religion. Now that Herbst was thinking about his book, he was determined to do whatever was in his power to complete it. Having reached this decision, his sorrow vanished. Although it vanished, he was not relieved. On the contrary, as he thought about his book he grew more and more angry that, with such a work in progress, he could be treated as if he didn’t exist. Actually, it was not because he wasn’t invited to the workshops that he was angry, but because of himself, because his mind was not on his work because of Shira.

  Chapter twenty-five

  When they had finished eating, Zahara led her mother to the upholstered chair near the window and went to clear the table. As long as Zahara was clearing the dishes, Henrietta sat quietly. When Zahara didn’t come back, Henrietta understood that she must be washing them. But she had come for the workshops, not to do dishes, and she ought to rest before going to the lectures. Henrietta pulled herself together, got up, and went to the kitchen to relieve Zahara. Zahara refused to listen to her; she wouldn’t let her do household chores after being up most of the night and spending most of the day cooking, with no one to help. When Sarini came to nurse Sarah, she had asked if she could take the day off, as she was being offered the chance to assist at an important ritual – the ransoming of a firstborn donkey – to pour drinks for the guests and serve all sorts of sweets, since the wife of the celebrant, a kind and rich Bukharan, was all thumbs and so inept she couldn’t even manage the sugar cubes she sucked on, let alone the guests. And it was going to be a great ceremony, like the one with Balfour and Herbert Samuel when the Ashkenazim established a university. Manfred, when he heard Zahara and Henrietta arguing, leaped into the fray and declared, “I’ll wash the dishes.” Henrietta scolded him, saying, “You, go back to your room. Climb into bed. And after you’ve slept, you can get back to work.”

  Neither of them washed the dishes, nor did anyone go back to his room, since Zahara’s friend, the lanky young man called Avraham-and-a-half, appeared at that moment. He was as smart as he was tall, having come to the Land of Israel where the sky is tall too, and one’s head doesn’t scrape the clouds.

  Avraham-and-a-half is about twenty-two years old, but he looks younger. He is from a rich family that, generations back, cast off the yoke of the Torah and commandments, renouncing the Hebrew language and the Land of Israel. It was Avraham who rediscovered the Hebrew language and went to the Land of Israel. He is meticulous with language and meticulous in all his actions. His hair is wild, but his thoughts are orderly. His clothes are in tatters, but his soul is intact. Because his hair is golden, as are his eyebrows, and his eyes hide shyly behind long, smiling, golden lashes, bars of gold seem to pour forth from his eyes. He loves everyone, and everyone loves him. Since the time he was hiking with Zahara and she sprained her ankle so he had to carry her in his arms, he loves her twice as much as anyone else. Zahara loves him too, but she still isn’t sure whether she loves him or Heinz the Berliner more. It’s odd, but, as soon as she decides she loves one, the other appears and makes himself even more lovable; then she decides he is the one she loves more, and the first one appears, and so on, over and over again. Though she is in conflict with herself, Avraham and Heinz are on amicable terms. Affection for Zahara is very special, in that those who love her are not moved to hate one another.

  As soon as Avraham-and-a-half appeared, all the arguments about dishwashing came to an end. Zahara made coffee and Henrietta brought cake. They all sat down, drank coffee, and ate cake. Avraham-and-a-half told about several news items that were reported in the papers with essentials omitted. Then he told about the workshops and the lecturers, most of whom didn’t know how to accent words, handle grammar, or construct a proper sentence in Hebrew. They sometimes phrased their sentences in such a way that, if one weren’t already familiar with the subject, he would conclude the exact opposite of what was intended. Similarly, there were those renowned orators whose language was meager, whose vocabulary was like a child’s but without its charm. As he spoke, Avraham-and-a-half swallowed slice after slice of cake, which Zahara placed on his dish unnoticed, until the ninth or tent
h round, when he began wondering how there could still be half a slice in his hand when he had been eating constantly.

  Henrietta sat idly, enjoying the boy and his conversation. Even Manfred was aware of his fine qualities. But, if he could have exercised a fatherly prerogative over his daughter, he would have chosen another young man for Zahara, such as Taglicht. Though he already had Taglicht in mind for another young woman, he would have reconsidered on his daughter’s behalf.

  When there were no more cakes on the table, Zahara tapped Avraham on the shoulder and said, “Let’s get going, or we’ll be late to Aharaoni’s lecture on domestic and nomadic cultures.” They got up and left. Henrietta got up and went into the kitchen to wash the lunch dishes, as well as the additional ones from the coffee and cake. Herbst got up and went back to work.

  Having had three cups of hot coffee, as well as another halfcup at the end, which was cold by then, he was alert and decided to forgo an afternoon nap and get right to work. He had not slept enough the previous night, and his hands were clumsy and awkward as a result, so that, when he began sorting his notes, not only did he add nothing, but he disturbed the ones that were in good order. It was hard for him to continue working and hard for him to stop, for it was barely two or three hours since he had resolved to keep working until he finished his book. He sat fingering his papers and notecards. He read a bit here, a bit there, and was not pleased with anything. He put down the papers and began looking for something else to occupy himself with.

  There are many things asking for attention. One has only to glance at the books piled on the desk, the chairs, and the floor, asking to be put in place. What a waste of time, what a bother to run into them when you don’t need them and not be able to find them when you do. This goes for borrowed books as well. They should be returned to their owners, but he hasn’t even looked at them yet. And the collections of scholarly papers that, presumably, contain new material, although they must be examined to see if they say anything really new, as well as dissertations that sometimes refer to an unfamiliar book or article. Over and above these are the letters, those written to him that require answers, as well as those he has to write. These are aspects of his work that he deals with regularly, but now his soul seeks replenishment. He glances harshly at the room that has attached itself to him, clinging to him like a skin, unchanged since he first occupied it. Just then, the strip of greenish pink light that shines in from the garden between the rains, just before dark, begins to glow through the window. He goes to the window and gazes out at the garden in amazement, like a man who sees something lovely and is amazed that it still exists. He soon leaves the room and everything in it, and goes out to the garden.

  Before he could catch his breath, he saw Sacharson, his neighbor. Last night, when Herbst needed an excuse for Henrietta, he found one. Now that he was looking for a way to escape Sacharson, he couldn’t find one. So he prepared himself for the worst. Sacharson glanced at him and, seeing he was upset, slipped away. Herbst forgot about Sacharson, kneeled down to pull up a weed that was growing in Henrietta’s flower bed, and cleared some pebbles flung by a shepherd to call back sheep he had sent into the garden. Having begun to tend the garden, Herbst threw himself into the task. He pulled off wilted leaves, evened out a mound of dirt, fixed a furrow, adjusted some stakes that were beginning to slip. Finally he went to get the watering can, happy to have a chance to spare Henrietta the chore. On his way, he stopped in the kitchen to see if there was any dishwater to use for the garden.

  He found Sarah lying in her crib, with a fat housefly circling above her nose. He chased the fly and chirped at the baby. She fixed her eyes on him and stared, wondering where the sound was coming from. It seemed she thought the buzz was from his hands and was wondering how hands could have the strength and wisdom to make such a sound.

  The fly disappeared somewhere, and still Herbst did not stir from his daughter’s crib. He stood chirping through his lips. It occurred to him that he might entertain her by clapping. He began clapping his hands and chirping. It occurred to him that he could dance, and this would surely please her. He began to dance for her while he clapped and chirped. It occurred to him that he could walk on all fours for her. He bent down and began walking on his hands and knees. He jumped around like a rabbit or a hare, only to realize that her crib was too high for her to see what he was doing. He straightened up and stood alongside the crib, clapping and chirping. It occurred to him that all these games were outdated and not very exciting, that, if he wanted to amuse her, he should invent something new. He puffed up his cheeks and tapped them with his fingers so the air would burst out. The baby laughed and reached out to him.

  Henrietta came in and saw him playing, the baby laughing. Her throat tightened and she felt like crying with joy at the sight of this child of their old age, lying in the crib, contemplating her father with such perceptive eyes. Henrietta took her husband’s hand, pressed it, and said, “Fred, is there anything in the world that we lack?” Suddenly, a sigh was plucked from her heart on behalf of the relatives stranded in that German hell. Her face darkened; she made a fist and said angrily, “What are they up to at the Jewish Agency? They pretend to be working for Zionism, and they’re not working at anything. Every day I knock on their doors and list all the calamities, and either their ears are shut tight or their hearts are stone. Fred, my love, I haven’t told you even the tiniest fraction of what I go through dealing with those blocks of ice. I know, my love, that I mustn’t keep you from your work and I shouldn’t distract you from your business. Still, I need advice. Tell me, my love, tell me what to do. I don’t expect you to tell me immediately. With your insight, you’ll surely find the answer. Don’t cry, Sarah. Don’t cry, my sweet. I’ll feed you in a minute. You’re lucky to have been born in this country, so you don’t need a certificate.”

  Remembering the certificates, she pictured all the people she was negotiating with, to no avail. Some of them put her off with “Come back tomorrow”; some didn’t even take the trouble to put her off and treated her with total disrespect. Suddenly, they all appeared before her eyes, in a single horde, and, since her heart was bitter, they looked to her like monsters. She was frightened and covered the baby’s eyes with her hands, so she wouldn’t see them and be afraid.

  Chapter twenty-six

  That night, Taglicht came. He had no particular reason to come, other than to see how the Herbsts were doing, but once he was there, he asked to see Zahara, having heard she was in Jerusalem. To be precise, he had seen her on the street in the company of an extremely tall young man.

  As soon as Taglicht appeared, Herbst became uneasy. He was worried that Henrietta might ask what she hadn’t asked the night before. He glanced at Henrietta, then at Taglicht, who was unaware of what he could unleash with one wrong word. He envied Taglicht. As a bachelor, he was not accountable to any woman, nor was he afraid she might learn things it would be best to conceal from her. Yet this man, who was free to do as he pleased, was not engaged in any acts that had to be concealed. But what do we know about our friends? Would it have occurred to Wechsler, to Weltfremdt, to Lemner that Herbst was involved with another woman? Even Professor Bachlam, whose nose was everywhere, would never have suspected that a lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem – someone who ought to be a model of the Jewish ethic proclaimed by prophets of truth and justice – might covet a woman not lawfully his. Who knew about him and Shira? Other than the driver Axelrod, son of Axelrod at the hospital, and the café owner from Berlin, no one has seen him with Shira. How different Herbst had been that night when he spoke with Axelrod the clerk, after bringing Henrietta to the hospital when she was about to give birth. With regard to Henrietta, he had still been free of guilt; with regard to Shira, that evening in the café had been so splendid because he was free of hateful envy.

  Taglicht sat at the Herbsts’, saying things Herbst would have relished at another time, for Herbst preferred Taglicht’s conversation to that of his other friends. Those
who go in for paradox say there is one sin even a good man can indulge in: gossip. Not Herbst; he still hadn’t acquired a taste for it. Taglicht still hadn’t learned the art either. So they discussed those matters that a wise soul can enjoy. Taglicht’s words always seem to be transmitted from his heart to his tongue and carefully arranged before they are uttered. Those who are impressed are impressed, and those who are unimpressed say, “If Taglicht had to produce books and write articles, he wouldn’t be so free to play with words.”

  This is true and untrue. It is true that Taglicht does not produce books or write articles, but also untrue, because he did write a dissertation for which he was awarded a doctorate.

  We will tell about the dissertation and his years at the university. Taglicht, a perpetual student, spent year after year at the university. There wasn’t a subject he failed to explore. After many years, he was still not working on a doctorate. If asked, “When do you expect to complete your studies?” he would answer, “I seem to be just beginning.” During those years he made a meager living producing dissertations for doctoral candidates with the ability to pay but without the ability to do the work.

  His favorite teacher once asked, “When will you present your own dissertation, so we can grant you a degree?” Taglicht blushed, thinking the professor was suggesting he was engaged in fraud. He stopped working on other people’s dissertations and began taking notes and writing for himself. After several months, he produced a fine manuscript on the names of the angels in the poems of Rabbi Amitai, son of Rabbi Shefatyahu, and how these names were interpreted by our sages, as well as in the writings of early German Hasidim.

  One night, his professor invited him to his home. They sat for a while and said what they said. As he was leaving, he handed the professor a manuscript. When he was gone, the professor began to read it. He didn’t stir until he reached the end of it, at which point he thought: If I knew where Taglicht lived, I would go to him, knock on his door, and say, “You have written a great book.”