Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  Having mentioned Taglicht, let me mention Lisbet Neu, to whom Herbst planned to introduce Taglicht. Despite the fact that a number of years have passed since Herbst met Lisbet Neu, she is still at the peak of her charm, as she was when he first saw her. How old is she now? Probably about twenty-seven. She is older than Zahara, but Zahara is already a married woman and almost a mother, whereas Lisbet Neu is alone with her widowed mother, in a world circumscribed by her home and office, with nothing more in it. Living a religious life, fulfilling the commandments, dealing with financial concerns, she is deprived of life’s pleasures. If Lisbet Neu were to join a kvutza, would she behave like the other young women there? She may already be taking liberties and she may be different than she was to begin with. What do we know about other people’s lives? Her body conveys innocence. Still, one wonders about her. She had the hair above her lip removed. A girl doesn’t do that sort of thing on her own. Someone else must be influencing her. Who could it be? Herbst suddenly felt a sharp pang, a pang that comes of jealousy. Herbst was sitting with friends, discussing ethnography and similar subjects, imagining: Lisbet, if I ever have the privilege of kissing your mouth, I’ll say to you, “Whenever I saw those silken threads that shaded your lips, my own lip began to quiver with the wish to kiss you.” The slightest male quality can drive us wild in a woman. Shira, for example, seems part male; yet, when you are intimate with her, you know there is no one quite as female.

  My novel is becoming more and more complex. A woman, another woman, yet another woman. Like that preacher’s parable. As for the man whose actions I am recounting, he is lost in thought that doesn’t lead to action. I am eager to know what we will gain from this man and what more there is to tell. Having taken it upon myself to tell the story, I will shoulder the burden and continue.

  Chapter twenty

  A young woman arrived from the kvutza, bringing good news. The news came as a surprise. For Henrietta there could be no better news. Zahara had given birth to a boy. A boy was born to Zahara. Henrietta knew her daughter was about to give birth. Still, when the news came, it came as a surprise.

  Henrietta moves through the house, but her mind is with Zahara. From the moment Henrietta received word that Zahara’s son was born, she has been walking from room to room. At times, her heart is light; at others, it is heavy. In either case, the walls of her house are constricting. They keep her from flying off to Zahara. In spite of this, she is totally with Zahara. In a thousand ways that begin in the imagination and then become real, she is with Zahara, even though one of them is in Afula and the other in Jerusalem; one is in a valley, the other in a glen. Let it be known that this is how it is. She sees Zahara in bed, her face radiant with light from her firstborn. Zahara’s son lies at her side, wrapped in the tiny garments she gave Zahara for him. Henrietta picks him up and hands him to Zahara, so she can feed him. It would be good for Zahara to drink malt beer every day, for it stimulates the milk. But, with so many new mothers there, who has time to think about Zahara’s needs? If her own mother were there, Zahara would lack nothing.

  All of which suggests that she isn’t there. In truth, she is still in Jerusalem. Why? Because it’s a three-and-a-half-hour trip from Jerusalem to Afula. If you have a car for the trip. If you have no car, then it’s truly a problem. There are people with servants who call and order a car, and, when it comes, they let it wait as long as they like. Henrietta and Manfred, even now, when they are so eager to see their daughter, have to go to the telephone office and look up “Car Services” in the directory. If the directory is intact, it’s simple. Otherwise, they have to run to another office. There they find what they are looking for and ask about car service to Afula – when it leaves, whether there is room for two. By the time they get an answer, the car has left. They ask about the next one. A clerk answers, “Hey, take it easy.” They decide to try the bus. But the bus station isn’t listed in the directory. Why? Because two competing companies have suddenly merged into one and adopted a new name. They go into town to look for the bus and don’t find it. Even if they do find it, they don’t find the driver. They find the driver, but he doesn’t know when he’ll be leaving. Why? Because the road is closed. Why? Because of Arabs who are demonstrating against Jewish immigration. Until the speeches are over, the roads will be closed. They go to the office of the car service, because sometimes what can’t be dealt with on the telephone can be dealt with in person. The clerk in charge yawns in their faces and doesn’t dignify them with a straight answer, because he doesn’t need any more passengers, all the cars having already left. As for tomorrow, he lacks the imagination to think that far ahead, and, besides, it’s too much trouble.

  Herbst, who had undertaken the search alone this time, was on the verge of despair when a passerby noticed him. He said, “Dr. Herbst, what are you doing here in town? I see you are about to take a trip. Are you, perhaps, leaving us forever? Just between us, I would run away too. If not because of the Arabs, then because of the English. If not because of both of them, then because of our leaders. Our orientation, Dr. Herbst, our orientation is truly – how shall I say? – defective. And it would be a waste of breath to say more.” Rather than waste his breath, he turned to other, more worthwhile, subjects. What did he say, what did he not say? Whom did Herbst’s daughter marry, and are both parents equally pleased? Often, the father is pleased and the mother isn’t, or the other way around. Sometimes both parents are pleased, but not the daughter. He stopped in mid-conversation. Why? Because a fly fell into his mouth because the city was full of flies because the streets were full of garbage, and, when garbage cans were placed on the streets, their lids were stolen. Before Herbst could escape, the man swallowed the fly and resumed his monologue, in the course of which he suggested taking the bus. But first, they had to find the bus stop, as the Mandate police favor the Arabs and are hostile toward us and our buses, so they move the bus stops on a whim.

  While Herbst was engaged in his struggles, Henrietta was busy packing. As she put their things in the suitcases, her mind drifted back to Zahara. Again, the two of them are together. One is in bed; one is near the bed. Why not on a chair? Because the chair is occupied. A young man has come to be with his wife, and he sits on the chair, paying no attention to Henrietta but hearing everything she says to Zahara. This prevents Henrietta from telling Zahara some of the things she would tell her if no one else were there.

  While Herbst was struggling to turn up a strip of space for himself and his wife, a new car drove by, with a man and woman inside. He was middle-aged; she was young. He was a Zionist official; she was his secretary. They were touring the Emek settlements, because he was going off to the lands of our dispersion to report on the accomplishments of our young men and women in the Emek. But first he was going to the Emek, taking his secretary along. He was traveling in a special car, so he could get back for a round of farewells tomorrow afternoon in Jerusalem and tomorrow evening in Tel Aviv. Or was it the reverse – Jerusalem in the evening and Tel Aviv in the afternoon? His secretary, of course, deserved the credit for writing things down and reminding him of everything in due time.

  Back to the Herbsts. I’ll leave Herbst outside, struggling to arrange transportation, and turn to his wife, who is busy packing. Henrietta used to go off for several days without much preparation, without luggage. Now, a day trip requires great preparation.

  While Henrietta considers every dress – whether to take it or not – her daughter Sarah clutches at her mother’s skirt and doesn’t let go. The mother studies this child of her old age – how she has grown, how much she needs her mother. She picks her up, as if to test her weight, as if that will determine whether she can leave her behind and go to Zahara. She can’t be left with Tamara, who is busy teaching the girls in Mekor Hayim writing and language. If Tamara takes time off, that will be the end of it. Even though she isn’t paid, she has many competitors, teachers in training who need experience. Henrietta can’t leave the child with Firadeus, because her mother doesn’
t allow her to sleep away from home.

  Henrietta was at a loss as to where to leave the child. She thought of Dr. Krautmeir, who had dealings with young women of every class and ethnic group, and had always found her helpers. But, because of what had transpired between her and Krautmeir, there was now a barrier between them. What happened was this. They met at a tea honoring a prominent woman who had been a social worker for many years. When Dr. Krautmeir arrived, her eyes were red. Since it was obvious that she had been crying, she smiled sadly and explained, “I’ve come from a condolence call to a mother whose daughter died, a girl of about fourteen. She died – actually, she was murdered. It was a double murder. I just hope the daughter’s death won’t lead to the mother’s death.” How did the girl die? In the summer, the mother and daughter exchanged their Jerusalem apartment for one in Tel Aviv and spent their vacation there. The girl was thrilled, after being closed in by the stones of Jerusalem for so long. She suddenly saw, stretched out before her, an endless expanse of soft sand, a sea full of water. She spent her days on the beach, running in the sand, bathing in the sea, enjoying the company of girlfriends, reading. Each afternoon and evening, she used to come home to eat with her mother. One evening, she didn’t come home. The police were informed. They searched for her all night. In the morning, they found her lying on the beach, without a breath of life. She was taken to Hadassah Hospital and revived. The girl couldn’t remember what had happened, other than that she had met a man, who spoke to her, said various things, and, in the course of the encounter, lit himself a cigarette and gave her one too. Beyond this, she remembered nothing. About three months later, she had an abortion, from which she never recovered. Shortly afterward, she died. It’s not clear if some medical quack was at fault, nor was the seducer and rapist tracked down, because the family preferred to protect its good name and hush up the affair. The story of this rape was followed by many others in which the family chose not to pursue the rapist, in order to protect its good name. These tales of rape were followed by tales of promiscuous young women, who make themselves available to anyone, and, when they become pregnant, find someone to go to for an abortion. Some of them continue on this course; others are permanently damaged, never regaining their health. One of the guests said, “If these girls knew that, when they get pregnant, no doctor will perform an abortion, they would behave less casually.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “In some cases, it is a medical responsibility to relieve a woman of her fetus.” Another woman said, “If it’s a matter of health, of course it’s a doctor’s responsibility to act.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “Not only in the interest of health, but whenever an unmarried woman is involved. Otherwise, she’ll put herself in the hands of some quack and risk her life. Until society changes its attitude toward a single mother, she is lost. It is the duty of every doctor, especially a female doctor, to relieve these women of their fetuses, not only because of health considerations, but because not every woman can bear the shame. And it is society that should be ashamed of its shameful attitude.”

  Dr. Krautmeir was not usually talkative, especially in matters that call for silence. But she was overcome with the zeal of a professional woman who has renounced family life, speaking openly and from the depths of her heart. Dr. Krautmeir said, “Instead of abstractions, it would be worthwhile to have some examples. If you like, I will tell you a bit about my practice. One evening, two strange women came to see me, their eyes darting about nervously, looking into every corner of the room, as though they were being chased by their shadow. One of them looked not quite like a lay person and not quite like a nun. It was hard to judge the other one, who was swaddled from head to toe. I could tell from her shoes that she was young. The young woman’s companion began to mutter words that didn’t connect, and each series of words was punctuated by curses and imprecations. After the initial torrent, I said to her, ‘I can’t figure out what you’re saying.’ She continued to chatter without making sense. I said to her, ‘I beg you both, please go. I have no time for fantasies. If you can tell me what really happened, well and good. Otherwise, please leave.’ She continued to spout nonsense. I got up, went to the door, and said, ‘The door is open. Please go, and take along your swaddled madonna.’ She grabbed my knees and said, ‘Don’t be angry, doctor. This girl comes to the convent sometimes.’ I said, ‘All right, I understand.’ Then I said, ‘Take off your dress, my child, and I’ll examine you.’ Her companion said, ‘I told you she comes to the convent, but I didn’t mean to say she’s one of the nuns. She’s from the village, just a village girl whom the nuns feel sorry for. They sometimes pay her to help with the menial work.’ I said, ‘Very well. Let me see what’s what with her.’ The girl wept as she undressed. I examined her and said, ‘At such-and-such a time, you will enrich the world with a new life.’ She began to sob, and the older woman shouted, ‘That’s impossible!’ I said to her, ‘Why is it impossible? Everything is all right.’ She made some response, swallowing her words. I listened in silence. Finally she said, ‘She can’t just wait and have the baby. She is a nun. She lives in the convent, and, unless she has an abortion, she will take her own life.’ Having confessed this much, she proceeded to tell the whole story. It was not very romantic. One of the gardeners – not one of the young ones – used to hang around the convent garden, and they got to know each other. And so on. Now, I ask you, ladies, what should a doctor do in such a case? Should the mother be abandoned for the sake of a fetus, or should the girl be rescued from certain death?” One of the women responded, “To tell you the truth, Dr. Krautmeir, my interests are somewhat limited, and they don’t extend to Christian girls.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “Since your altruism is reserved for Jewish girls, I’ll tell you another story, not about one Jewish girl but about two or three of them. And if that isn’t enough for you ladies, let me assure you that these girls came to me in a single week – not a special week, but a perfectly typical one.” Henrietta Herbst stood up and said, “You are worse than Hitler. He destroys the Jews in his domain, and you destroy Jews who are even beyond his domain.” Since this exchange, the two women had avoided each other and were not on speaking terms. How did Henrietta Herbst, who was usually so reserved, come to say such things? Once, when Firadeus took sick, she sent one of her neighbors, an attractive young girl, to fill in for her. Mrs. Herbst was pleased with her, but she wondered about the sad look on her face, unusual for a girl of her age. At lunch, she asked why she was so sad. She told her that her husband played cards, drank too much, and sometimes spent his whole week’s salary in one night on arrack and cards – all because they were in such distress over the fact that they were childless. Why were they childless? Because, before they were married, she became pregnant by him and was afraid that, if her brothers found out, they would kill her. She heard there was an Ashkenazic woman, a doctor from Germany, where all Germans come from, who could arrange things so no one would know what the girl didn’t want to have known. She found out where the woman was and went to her. The woman doctor asked, “What do you want?” Being too shy to answer, she was silent. The doctor looked at her and said, “In that case, this is what you have to pay.” She gave her all the money she had. The doctor counted the money and said, “Is that all?” She said, “I have more.” She said, “How much?” She told her. She said, “And where is the money?” She told her about a Sephardic woman, the wife of a government official, who owed her two months’ salary and refused to pay; this woman was so mean that she took back all the gifts she had given her previously. The doctor said what she said. Then she did what she did and said, “From now on, you don’t have to worry.” Now that she was properly married, she wanted to have a child but couldn’t become pregnant. She was miserable, and her husband shared her misery. When he recovered from his drunkenness, he would cry and bemoan his fate. Sometimes, because this was so hard for her to bear, she would run and bring him arrack, so he could drown his sorrow. When he was sober, he was likely to go and kill that woman doctor, then take his own life.

 
So much for Dr. Krautmeir. Now I might as well get back to our friend from the kvutza. While Henrietta was tormented because she was determined to get to Zahara, although she had no one to leave Sarah with, help appeared from an unanticipated source. The very person who brought news of her grandchild’s birth offered to look after Sarah for however much time Zahara’s mother and father wished to spend with Zahara. She had come to Jerusalem to spend some time in a rest home in Motza, and, if she stayed there three or four days less, it would be no great loss to the Jewish people.

  Zahara’s friend stayed to take care of Zahara’s sister so Zahara’s parents could visit Zahara and welcome Zahara’s child. Henrietta hadn’t been out of Jerusalem since the day she went to the Dead Sea with Manfred and Tamara. Now that she was leaving town, she was surprised at how easy it was to go and how easy it was to leave Sarah. She remembered what Manfred had said the day they came back from the Dead Sea: “We should go on a trip such as this once a month.” How many months ago was that? Not only had she not left Jerusalem in all that time, but even in Jerusalem itself she hadn’t been out for a walk, either alone or with Manfred. Now they were going off together for a number of days to see Zahara and her child. Henrietta was comfortable and relaxed, and so was Manfred. He, too, was surprised to be able to detach himself from all his commitments. Herbst was not one of those scholars who believe the world won’t survive without their writings, but he believed he wouldn’t survive without his work. It was suddenly demonstrated to him that he could leave his work in the middle. When they received word that Zahara had given birth, he was in the process of copying notes out of a book. He abandoned this task in the very middle, yet his mind didn’t wander back to it. When he did think about it again, he couldn’t remember where he had stopped. No sooner did he remember than he forgot again, although, when he sat copying, it seemed to him that he was making a great discovery. He put all that out of mind and watched the mountains, hills, and valleys unfurling and changing shape as they unfurled. A single color was smeared across the sky, mixing a variety of hues and altering them continually. Everything is subject to change – earth, sky, people. Henrietta glanced at her husband, wondering about him. He looked so boyish; his face glowed happily, just as it used to when he and she were young. Manfred was vigorous and happy in those days. He carried a heavy stick in his hand, and he sported a Rembrandt-like hat and a small mustache that was something of a joke. His manner was light and easy. She was not unattractive either. Her limbs were light; her entire body was lithe and lovely. Her blonde hair attracted considerable attention. When she walked into the municipal train station, with her briefcase tucked under her arm, more than one young man watched to see which car she went into and followed her. But she had eyes only for Fred, whom she still called Manfred. They were seeing a lot of each other when the war broke out and Manfred had to go to fight. She was convinced that this would be the end for her, because there were already rumors that not everyone who went to war came back alive. Her parents were also convinced that it was time for her to give up Manfred, for, when the sword of war hangs over a man’s head, his attachment to any young woman will surely wither. Manfred was of another mind. Two days before he left for the war, he married her. It was a hasty wedding, because he had to leave. As soon as they got up from their wedding bed, he went off to fight. But his steadfast love earned him the goodwill of guardian angels, and he returned from the front safe and sound. Whenever he had leave, he spent the entire time with her. Have a look at Dr. Herbst: here in the Land of Israel, he has not enrolled in the Haganah, but, there in Germany, he performed heroic deeds for which he earned extra time at home. It was still the custom, there in Germany, to reward such deeds, even in the case of Jews. He has already forgotten most of the feats that earned him extra time with his wife, but Henrietta never forgot. He came home in uniform, a dashing hero. Other soldiers saluted him, and when he saluted a superior, the response was respectful, as though they were equals. Until the revolution, when he discarded his arms and came home a free man. They were sure the trouble was over. Eternal joy was on the horizon. But in fact the end of the war ushered in a series of revolutions, making life even more difficult. Before one ended, a more violent one began. Because of these upheavals, life was disrupted. There was no electricity, no fuel for heat or cooking, no milk and bread deliveries. The baker didn’t respond to those who needed him. Food was scarce, and shopkeepers either closed their doors or opened them and said, “Come in and see the empty shelves.” There wasn’t even water in the faucets. Worst of all, the world was ravaged by many serious epidemics, all of which spread to Germany. Many young women died; Henrietta lost quite a number of relatives and close friends. They say that more people died from disease than from combat. When man is cruel to his kind, nature is cruel to mankind. Henrietta was not affected. Except by the shortages. There was no money shortage. On the contrary, they had millions, even billions. But the millions and billions didn’t buy food. At about this time, Zahara was born. No one who saw her then could believe that little worm would grow limbs and put on flesh. But she grew, exceeding her parents’ expectations. Now that child has borne a child.