by Agnon, S. Y.
This is how Herbst and his daughter spent the time on the one occasion in their lives when they were together in a café. Herbst suddenly said, “Time to go. Mother might worry about us. You didn’t finish your ice cream. It’s all melted. I’ll order another. You don’t want it? Then let’s go.”
On the way, Tamara said to her father, “We didn’t even mention Alfreda Weltfremdt, who just got engaged.” “Engaged? To whom is she engaged?” “You didn’t see the notice? She’s engaged to someone whose name I forget.” Herbst said, “Mrs. Ernst Weltfremdt must be very happy.” Tamara said, “Why single her out?” Herbst said, “Because now she has something to write a poem or a play about. But we, who will be invited to hear her verses, are not to be envied.
Taglicht was always careful not to lie, because one lie leads to another, ad infinitum. There is no end to the pile of lies, and, even if there was no choice about the initial one, you end up with an appetite for lying. Now that he had told Herbst and Tamara that he had promised Julian Weltfremdt to stop in, he wished to sweeten the lie with a dose of truth.
Julian Weltfremdt was not used to having guests. Since the death of his little girl and the loss of his library, he no longer invited people to his home. If a guest did stop by, it was a red-letter day for Mimi. Apart from her piano and the pretense that she was a protector of the needy, she had nothing to be happy about.
That day, she had bought artichokes for supper. When she saw Taglicht in her house, she was elated and invited him to eat with them. Julian, who knew Taglicht would refuse, remained silent. He could see in her eyes how eager she was to share the pleasures of her table with a guest. He said to Taglicht, “I know you pharisees don’t give an inch on ritual, even when it’s a matter of pleasing someone. But, if I promise to make sure Mimi doesn’t feed you anything unkosher, will you perhaps indulge her and eat with us? What can a kosher Jew eat in the home of an infidel such as me? Mimi, what did your grandmother feed that merchant from Galicia, the one your grandfather used to deal with? Pickled fish and whiskey. We don’t have any pickled fish and whiskey, but we have sardines and some superb cognac. But I don’t know if it’s kosher – it was a gift from an Englishman I rescued from an Arab shepherd who was about to thrust a knife in his back.”
Taglicht knew it would be right for him to accommodate these two solitary people and eat with them. Since the day their daughter died, they had lived together like two mutes. But he had promised Herbst and Tamara that he would come there for supper, so he couldn’t do the decent thing; he did what was required to keep his promise. Mimi gazed at him, her lovely eyes veiled by a film of grief. Julian, like most men who cause their wives sorrow without knowing it, noticed this and was annoyed at Taglicht, a gentle man who had suddenly become harsh. Taglicht stammered a bit and took leave of them.
When he left, Julian followed him out and said, “Wait, and I’ll show you a shortcut.” Taglicht said to him, “When did you last see Herbst? I wanted to talk to you about him. I don’t know anything specific. I know only what I see on his face. He looks tormented. If you see him, pay attention.”
Chapter nineteen
When Taglicht left the Weltfremdts’, he was haunted by the bleakness that prevailed there, even though it was overshadowed by the happy face of the lady of the house when a guest arrived at her long-forsaken door. Taglicht, true to character, tried to ignore what he had seen, to avoid thinking about his friends, but he didn’t succeed. He found himself reflecting on these two solitary people, who had suffered a double blow. After their furnishings and books were lost, their daughter died. When the child was alive, she had sweetened their plight and linked their souls. When she died, the link was severed and their souls became separate. They live together now, like the piano she brought with her from her father’s house and the crumbling box of books, the remains of his collection. Julian has no use for the tunes, and Mimi has no use for the books. What connects Julian and Mimi? Fear of change, habit, compassion, and sadness. Mimi’s sadness adds to her charm; Julian’s sadness makes him angry. They are alike in one respect: they are both kind. But they are different in that he communicates through reproaches, whereas she uses her lovely voice. Taglicht was feeling more and more troubled, until his thoughts shifted back to the Mount Carmel victims. They had been in his mind from the time he left Herbst until he entered the Weltfremdt house. There was no end to the murder, no limit to the massacre. Jews were killed in other countries; Jews were killed in this country too. Before a boy could distinguish between death and murder, he heard about Jews being killed. Taglicht himself remembered that one day he went to school and saw the city weeping. He learned that a Jew, a milkman, had been murdered. After a while, the culprit was found, and he told how he had killed the milkman. They were both early risers. The milkman used to get up early to cart milk from the country to the city, while he used to get up early to cut firewood and bring it to the city. That day the Gentile said to the milkman, “Jew, give me your head, so I can test out my axe.” The Jew laughed. The Gentile swung his axe and chopped off the milkman’s head. Everyone was still in shock about the milkman when another incident occurred. A Jewish midwife was called to some village by a local gentlewoman and didn’t return. The area was searched, but she wasn’t found. After a while, the gentlewoman got married. She hired workers to renovate her palace. One day they went to check something in the cellar. They noticed a barrel filled with honey, opened the barrel, and found the body of a woman, the missing midwife. While everyone was still in shock about the midwife, another incident occurred, involving a family of nine, all of whom were murdered. In each of these cases, Jews had been murdered secretly, and everyone – Jew and Gentile alike – was upset by the bloodshed. Suddenly, the events of Kishinev occurred: Jews were killed openly. From then on, it seemed to be acceptable to spill Jewish blood, and pogroms became common.
The massacre continues, and there is no end to the horrors that have transpired in the world, with Jews the principal victims. A Jew seeking refuge from trouble is pursued by trouble wherever he goes. Even here, there is no respite. What can one do to avoid being murdered? Some of what has to be done is being done by the Haganah, teaching us to defend ourselves, to protect our property, to prevent our enemies from destroying us. Taglicht doesn’t want revenge; he wants to contain the trouble. He enlisted in the Haganah as soon as he arrived in the Land of Israel. He goes where he is sent, without concern for his own safety, never avoiding danger. But the Haganah’s approach has to be scrutinized, because it protects and defends but never attacks, and, as long as you don’t attack, the enemy has the upper hand. If he kills, he kills; and if he fails to kill, what has he lost? He is merely driven off, unharmed. This subverts the Haganah. If we were to show the enemy that we can be like them, they wouldn’t be so eager for our blood, and we could prevent the murder of countless Jews. Until it becomes clear to the Arabs that Jewish blood does not come cheap, we have to act on the talmudic principle: “When someone comes to kill you, beat him to the draw.”
Taglicht did not arrive at this conclusion through his conversation with Tamara. On several occasions, when he was standing guard alone at night in Mekor Hayim, Beit Yisrael, or some other Jewish neighborhood, he had thought to himself: It’s good that we’re guarding the neighborhood; it would be even better if we were to make the first move.
These thoughts were difficult for him to accept, for they were contrary to the opinions with which he had grown up and which governed most of his actions. Not only calculated actions, based on consciousness and understanding, but the simple actions one engages in unconsciously. If he was ambivalent about some issue, when it was time to act, he followed the logic he had grown up with rather than the dictates of his heart, gleaned through his own experience. One night, while he was guarding Mekor Hayim, he had sensed that the enemy was approaching. He had not responded on the basis of “when someone comes to kill you, beat him to the draw.” He had fired into the air, allowing the enemy to escape. An enemy that es
capes returns again. The trouble is averted for a time, but it isn’t eradicated. Raising his eyes, Taglicht looked around, like someone in conflict who seeks advice from others. The street was empty. There was no one in sight. Whether or not a curfew was in force, Jerusalem was shut in. Jerusalem was accustomed to the fact that its citizens stayed in at night unless there was an emergency. Only Taglicht was out on the street – because he had to go to Herbst because he had promised to have supper with him because he had left so abruptly because he had said he had to go to Julian Weltfremdt’s when he didn’t really have to go and it was just an excuse. And later, when he got to Julian’s, he left quickly, because he had promised Herbst he would come there.
This muddle compounded his weariness. His soul was already worn down by the news of the Mount Carmel attack. In his heart, the eight victims killed together did not constitute the number reported in the headlines and announced by the newsboys. To him, every one of them stood alone, distinct and alive, until he was struck by the murderers’ gunfire and fell dead in a pool of his own blood and the blood of unborn generations.
A bell was ringing at the top of a tower. Taglicht heard it and hurried to the bus stop. He wanted to ride to Herbst’s house, since it was almost suppertime. When he got to the bus stop, it was empty. No people, no buses. He looked in all directions, hoping to find a taxi. He saw a small car. It was hard to tell whether it belonged to a Jew, an Englishman, or an Arab. Then, all of a sudden, he heard drums and dancing. He looked up and saw that one of the two Rabinowitz hotels was brightly lit, that the porches and the entire building were crowded with men and women. He realized there was a wedding in town.
Taglicht was a frequent caller at the Herbst home. Julian Weltfremdt was not. That night, Weltfremdt called on the Herbsts. This was a novelty, since he didn’t visit very much, because of the comedies and tragedies: the comedies couples perform for guests and the tragedies a guest sees for himself.
At this point, it seems appropriate to tell about Julian Weltfremdt, as I have done about most of his friends. Though I already told about his books, I didn’t tell very much. Still, I’ll skip the major part of his life story and relate a most trivial detail, one that was on the lips of everyone in Jerusalem. It’s about those long brown cigarettes that took over the mouths of Jerusalem’s intelligentsia. If I were to go to Tel Aviv or Haifa, I wouldn’t be surprised to find them there, poking out of countless mouths.
Previously, Julian didn’t smoke or even touch a cigarette, because he needed his fingers for his books – to straighten their edges, to collect hairs he might find between the pages, to brush away specks of tobacco. As you surely know, it is not only the elders of Israel who keep every hair that falls out of their beard in a book, but the nations of the world behave similarly. Not with hair from their beard, as Jews do because of its holiness, but with the hair of the woman they love, which they keep in a favorite book. This also applies to the tobacco that drops into a book while they read.
Previously, Julian Weltfremdt didn’t smoke, nor did it occur to him to smoke. As the number of immigrants from Germany increased, each seeking a means of support, one such immigrant began peddling cigarettes. He called on Julian Weltfremdt with his wares. Julian Weltfremdt said to him, “I smoke only those long brown ones.” Julian assumed they were unavailable in the Land of Israel. The following day, the peddler brought what he had asked for. Julian Weltfremdt said to the peddler, “I see you are conscientious and dependable. Every morning, at 6:30, I would like you to bring me two packs. If you are a minute late or a minute early, you won’t find me in.” From then on, the peddler came at 6:30 and brought him cigarettes. Weltfremdt would take his two packs, put them in his pockets, and, when the time came, go to teach his students the wisdom he was hired to teach. Then he went to dinner, after which he stopped in a café, where he sat until he had finished the cigarettes in one pocket. He would then go to another café and sit there until he had finished the last cigarette in the other pocket. This is a tale of cigarettes and of Julian Weltfremdt, who was not originally a smoker. But, once he became one, many smokers were influenced by what was on his lips. If I hadn’t become so involved in this trivial tale, I would comment on the dynamics of influence. It does seem odd that we set up conferences, arrange meetings, speak, mumble, orate, preach, lecture, publish newspapers, and write articles, pamphlets, and books – and all of these enterprises don’t affect even the shadow of a cloud. Yet someone appears, does what he does, quite casually, and attracts a host of followers.
Now, to get back to Herbst.
Herbst stayed at home much of the time. On days when he had no classes, he worked at his desk, with his box of notes at his side. Sometimes out of interest; other times out of habit. Herbst discovered nothing new, but his slips of paper proliferated just the same. These papers seemed to procreate and produce more of their kind. Their offspring were similarly productive. By degrees, he disengaged his mind from Shira, as though she had no reality. He hadn’t come across her since that night when he had become alarmed by the idea that she was sick, because he tended to stay home and didn’t roam in those places where one might run into her. Nor did he go to her. In that period, Herbst was free of terror, no longer preoccupied by dread of the maladies that can overcome a person. He was working again, not with the great enthusiasm of former days, but as a scholar with work to do.
Something else was new. The colleagues Herbst had thought would undermine his promotion made no effort to harm him, while those he had assumed would be his champions did not lift a finger on his behalf. In a second hearing, things could change and the situation could turn around. It isn’t only world history that changes, hostile nations becoming allies and vice versa. This is true of individuals as well. Those we count on to be loyal supporters don’t put in a good word for us, and those we consider thoroughly hostile make no attempt to undermine us. This statement may sound severe, but its truth remains undiminished. Since wars have become more frequent, murders more violent, and bloodshed more common, man’s value has declined, the power of principles has dwindled, hate has lost its sting, love has forfeited its honeyed flavor, and all things are determined by the impulse of the moment.
Henrietta, a sensible, composed woman, heard that Manfred’s promotion was being discussed again, but she was not especially excited, just as her stewpot wouldn’t care whether it belonged to the wife of a lecturer or that of a professor. Herbst himself wasn’t very excited either. Over the years, he had come to accept that ageold wisdom: when a man becomes a professor, it doesn’t add to his happiness.
After his article (“Must We Accept As Truth…”) was published, Herbst went back to the heart of his book. The vacuum created in his note box because of the article began to fill up. But not his heart. He considered abandoning the central thesis on which his book was to be based and using the vast amount of material for separate articles. When a man is young, he reaches out in all directions, collecting endless data, filling boxes, crates, drawers, pads, notebooks. When he is older, he surveys the array of material and sees that he won’t live long enough to make anything of it. Herbst began sorting his papers and saying, “These notes are appropriate for this article, the others for another article.” One article, properly written and complete, is more significant than a mass of material over which you have no control. It is a fact that many scholars build their reputations on heavy books, dense with quotations, but a perceptive reader realizes that his conclusions were obvious from the beginning.
Herbst and Weltfremdt were once sitting and discussing the major work of a renowned scholar whose broad knowledge was astonishing. Taglicht, who was also there, didn’t say a word. Herbst said to Taglicht, “Dr. Taglicht, either you haven’t read the book or you don’t realize how great it is.” Taglicht said, “I read it, and it reminds me of something.” “Of what? What does it remind you of? But let’s not get off the subject.” Taglicht said, “As a matter of fact, this story makes the subject even more immediate.” “All r
ight.” “So, it’s about a preacher interpreting a text. After twisting several verses, making a muddle of them, and confounding the words of our living God, he wished to validate his ideas and prove them reasonable. How? With a parable. He turned to his audience. ‘Gentlemen and scholars, I’ll tell you a parable. Once there was a great and awesome king, like Alexander of Macedon. This king attacked his enemies. He mobilized all his forces and defeated them. Now, gentlemen and scholars, another parable to support my ideas. Once there was another great and awesome king, like Napoleon, who attacked his enemies. He mobilized his forces and won the war. Now, gentlemen and scholars, one further parable to support these ideas. There was once a great king, also awesome, like Nicholas, czar of Russia, who was attacked by his enemies. What did this Nicholas do? He mobilized his forces, sent them to war, and defeated his enemies.’“
Herbst and Weltfremdt were totally bewildered. Where was the parable and where was the message? Weltfremdt suddenly leaped up, embraced Taglicht, and said, “My dear friend, come, let me embrace you. I would give a thousand and one of my years to anyone willing to tell those scholars that their books are constructed exactly like that preacher’s lesson. He cites one proof after another, though the second one adds nothing to the first. Dear Taglicht, you are such a treasure. Whatever the subject, you have a comment that eclipses it. I would trade all the folklorists for one of your parables. You should write it all down in a book. That would be a good book, and I could find good things in it.” Taglicht said, “In Galicia, where I come from, they would probably say, ‘An ordinary pharmacist is a fool.’“ Weltfremdt said, “I assume you brought up pharmacists to make a point. So, where you come from, in Galicia, they would say that an ordinary pharmacist is a fool. Why?” Taglicht said, “A man who spends all those years in school and is content to be a pharmacist rather than study medicine is foolish, right? This applies to folklorists, who have so much material and are content to present it as folklore rather than make it into a story.” Weltfremdt said, “Then why don’t you write stories?” Taglicht said, “I’m like those philosophy professors who aren’t capable of being philosophers.”