Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  Henrietta glanced at her husband, suppressing laughter. It certainly was funny that that child had borne a child and they were on their way to see the child she had borne. Manfred felt he should say something. His mind shifted from birth to birth, from the birth of his daughter’s son to the birth of his own youngest child, the child of his old age; to that day when he found the nurse Shira, who attended Henrietta. And events transpired that couldn’t be explained logically or in any other way, for, though he had never known any woman other than Henrietta, he was drawn to her. Henrietta looked at her husband again and was puzzled. From the moment she received news of the birth of Zahara’s son, she had never stopped thinking of Zahara. Now, all of a sudden, she was thinking about Manfred. She shifted her mind back to Zahara, but her thoughts drifted to Manfred. He appeared again, bent over Zahara’s crib, his shoulders so broad that the baby was hidden and only he was visible. Now that they were on the way to see Zahara and her baby, Manfred was doing exactly what he had done then, when she was a baby.

  The car leaped down mountains, making its way through the valley. The mountains that had raised themselves along the way were no longer in sight. They were replaced by broad plains, brown and picturesque, dotted with gleaming red roofs. Over the rooftops, the sun was etched in the sky. Clouds of blue, silver, and a nameless whiteness unmatched on the earth below made shapes in the sky. A rare warmth, tempered by breezes, delicately scented, and embroidered in finely tinted color, encircled the earth. Sound, like a song, rose from the brush and bramble; from the wings of insects; from the branches of a solitary tree, a remnant of onetime abundance; from the bell of the ram leading the flock. Then, suddenly, everything was silent, but for the sound of a car with three passengers: a man, a woman, another man. The man was the Zionist leader who was touring the Emek. The woman was his secretary. Their companion lived in the Emek and was telling them what to report to our brothers-in-exile. The car raced ahead, because of the two events the Zionist leader was scheduled to attend before leaving the country. It vanished in a trail of exhaust, allowing the Herbsts to enjoy the sky above, the earth below, the sun, wind, scent, view, sounds, the tiny houses sprouting up from the midst of these Emek settlements. Their driver, who was from one of the houses in one of those settlements, turned toward the passengers, calling out the name of every cluster of gleaming roofs. He called out the name of the kvutza he had belonged to before becoming a driver and, with a lilt approaching song, told them when that kvutza was founded and by whom, what it had endured, and how many rounds of settlers had passed through. A kvutza is short on years but long on history. It isn’t years that make history, but what one does with them. The driver had a long history too, having spent time in every kvutza in the Emek, either as a member or a long-term guest, and he had earned the right to consider himself a founding father.

  The driver succeeded in doing what the road failed to do: distracting Herbst, so that all thoughts of Shira slipped away. When the driver fell silent, the sounds of the Emek – its vegetation and wildlife – took over. Herbst’s mind was flooded with memories of events that preceded Shira. How wonderful those days were. If he was occasionally disturbed by fantasies about women, they were short-lived, because it was clear to him that he had no interest in any other woman. Manfred took Henrietta’s hand, pressed it fondly, and said nothing. Henrietta sat, her hand in his, choosing not to intrude on him with conversation. Manfred remained rapt in thought. His thoughts were a muddle, but all of them were about Henrietta: how they got to know one another, how they confided their feelings to each other, how they happened to marry, how they were before coming to this country, and how they are now, here in the Land of Israel.

  Chapter twenty-one

  It was an hour before dark when they arrived at the gate. Those who worked in the fields were not back yet. There was no one in sight, not a voice to be heard. The entire village was still, the stillness broken only by a murmur from the water tower. Bright greenish light glowed, and a warm blue, contained in the light and held together by air, floated through the atmosphere. The scent of thistle infused with sunshine radiated from the bushes at the gate. Here I would find the leisure to write my book, Herbst thought, and, at the same time, he was happy that here he would not be burdened by his book or required to do any work. He turned to his wife and said, “So, Henrietta, here we are at Zahara’s.” “Yes,” Henrietta said, “here we are at Zahara’s.” Though the entire trip was because of Zahara, Henrietta was surprised to have arrived at Zahara’s home. She felt she ought to do something – sit up straight, for example; something, the nature of which was unclear to her. She made herself small and stammered, “Yes, here we are at Zahara’s.”

  The gate was closed. In front of the gate, on a crooked pole, a warning was posted: because of hoof-and-mouth disease, no guests will be admitted and all strangers are absolutely forbidden to enter. This was the announcement posted by all the communal settlements before a holiday, to discourage an onslaught of guests. Though the holiday was over and there were no others anytime soon, the announcement was still posted. Herbst, who was a disciplined person, accepted the decree regretfully and resigned himself to the fact that, despite the long trip, he wouldn’t see his daughter. Henrietta was also law-abiding, but it was clear to her that no power in the world was going to prevent her from seeing her daughter, especially now that she had given birth. The driver sounded his horn, a long drawn out blast, to get someone to open the gate. The Herbsts stared at him, bewildered. Didn’t he see the warning; couldn’t he read? They had noticed a book resting on the driver’s seat. It was a detective story; still, he must know how to read. The driver blew his horn again. The Herbsts stared at him again, not perplexed, but openly pleased and approving.

  A tall, thin young man, with a splendid shock of blond hair poking out from under a battered hat, made his way to the gate and opened it lazily, asking the bus driver in a whisper, “Which hotel garden are these two turnips from?” The driver laughed to himself and didn’t answer.

  Feigning graciousness, the young man asked, “How can I help you?” The driver answered, “You could, for example, tell Zahara’s son to run to his grandpa and grandma.” The young man studied the guests and said, “Perhaps you are Zahara’s parents?” Henrietta said, “Why ‘perhaps’?” The driver added, “If you don’t believe them, I can testify that I found them in the Herbst castle.” The young man lowered his head, brushed away the lock of hair that dangled over his eyes, and said, “Come to the dining room. You can have some tea while I go and tell Zahara.” Henrietta was puzzled. Why to the dining room rather than to Zahara’s? Before she had a chance to say anything, she and Manfred were in the dining room. Before they had a chance to catch their breath, a drink was set before them.

  Still in their travel clothes, the Herbsts sat at a long table on which there were a tray with a kettle, two glasses, bread, and jam. A plump and jolly girl stood by, with smiling eyes and black curls dancing around her rosy cheeks. She looked at both of the Herbsts and said, in a tone at once coquettish and absolute, “This jam is good in tea, as well as on bread. We make it ourselves. The fruit is grown here in Ahinoam. Please, try some. I’ve already poured your tea.”

  The Herbsts sat, tea in hand, their eyes on the door. Henrietta’s glass was already half-empty, and Zahara still hadn’t come. Other people came. But not Zahara, not Avraham-and-a-half, her husband, not the person who went to call Zahara. Some other young man came in, accompanied by a young woman. He was the driver who had brought the Herbsts to Ahinoam, and she was one of the kvutza members. Zahara, however, didn’t come. Henrietta looked around, nervous and irritated. She looked at Manfred, who was sitting there indifferently. Fred was odd; from the moment he set out on this trip, nothing seemed to matter to him except the pleasure of travel. The whole point of the trip was Zahara, yet, now that they had arrived, it didn’t matter to him whether Zahara appeared or not. Henrietta put down her tepid tea. The driver discarded what was left, took the kettle, an
d poured her fresh tea. Henrietta thought: I should offer the driver some tea. She also thought: I’m not even a tea drinker. It’s Fred who drinks tea. He quotes Goethe, who said he preferred a delicate drink such as tea to poisonous coffee; still, when it’s time for a drink, he asks for coffee. Henrietta was engrossed in her thoughts when Zahara came. She came running. She came suddenly. Henrietta didn’t see her coming, yet there she was. Avraham-and-a-half was with her – Avraham-and-a-half, who was Zahara’s husband and the father of Zahara’s son. In a flash, mother and daughter were embracing one another, entwined in each other’s arms, the daughter’s arms wrapped around her mother, the mother’s arms wrapped around her daughter. As they embraced, they kissed and kissed again, holding on to each other and kissing all over again. They clung and were so tightly entangled that it was hard to tell them apart. If this was not a manifestation of the wish to merge, to be one body again, I don’t know what it was. Zahara suddenly let go of her mother and flung herself on her father’s neck, hugging him and giving him a protracted kiss. After a time, she kissed him again and said, “Father, you’re here.” Manfred was enveloped in his daughter’s arms, unsure whether he had kissed her or not. After a moment’s reflection, he kissed her on the forehead. Then he offered his hand to Avraham-and-a-half. Taking his son-in-law’s hand, he felt weary, a weariness that irked him. He heard Zahara’s voice. She seemed to be saying something. He looked up at her, noting that her face glowed and her mouth was bright with happiness. She was saying, “Now, my dears, now come and I’ll show you my son.”

  They went down the dining-room steps, which were lined with two rows of well-trimmed myrtles, and past an old cistern on which Shomron, the watchman’s partner, was stretched out. Shomron eyed the two creatures who trailed behind Zahara. They looked weird, their clothes were weird, their speech was weird; everything about them was weird. He was debating whether or not to bark at them. He jumped toward Zahara and looked into her eyes for a clue. Zahara didn’t notice. He began scratching with his right hind leg, as he always did when he couldn’t figure out what to do. He shook his ears and considered: Does Zahara want me to bark at these twolegged creatures who have latched onto her, so she can scold me, thus demonstrating that she is protecting them from me? But no, I won’t raise my voice, and I won’t abandon my good manners. That may be how Zahara is, but that’s not how I am. He flexed his ears, relaxed his leg, and continued to watch the odd pair that tagged along at Zahara’s heels, their mouths in constant motion, producing incessant noise. He understood that she was ignoring him because of them. He stood up on all fours, rounded his tail, and opened his mouth wide but made no sound, observing to himself: They deserve to be bitten rather than barked at. He settled down again at the other end of the cistern, keeping an eye on Zahara’s retinue.

  Zahara pointed out two matching structures, more attractive than the others and somewhat separate from them, surrounded by an expanse of green grass spread with diapers and other such items. Zahara said to her father and mother, “See that house there, to the left, with the red roof? Father, if you insist on looking down, you can’t see it.” Father Manfred said, “What is that over there, in that box that looks like a hut? Rabbits? There really are rabbits? I haven’t seen a rabbit since I came to this country. The red roof you were talking about – what is it? Didn’t you mention a red roof?” Zahara laughed gaily and said, “That red roof is the roof of the house chosen by all four village babies – among them your grandchild, who happens to be my son – as their home. Now, Father, you know what I’m showing you. Mother already understands.” Henrietta nodded and walked briskly toward the porch, where there were four cribs covered with netting.

  Zahara ran to one of the cribs, took out a tiny creature, held him in her arms, and lifted him up so her parents could see him, saying, “This is my son.” She took him out quickly, picked him up quickly, lifted him quickly, showed him to her parents quickly, said he was her son quickly – all before her parents could make a mistake and look at some other baby. Henrietta handed her purse to her husband. Manfred looked at her questioningly. Why had she handed him the purse, and what was he supposed to do with it? Henrietta took her daughter’s child and stared at him as hard as she could. Then she leaned over him, lifting him close to her eyes, and bent her head over him until his eyes met hers. Anyone who saw his stare would say it was no random stare, that it was deliberate, that Dan knew who she was. Henrietta said nothing. She watched him without a word. As she watched, something occurred in her heart that she had never been aware of before and could not identify. Days later, she understood that a new love had possessed her at that moment. Grandma Henrietta stood gazing at her daughter’s son, with no thought of relinquishing him, ever. Zahara stood across from her, gazing at her son cradled in her mother’s arms. After a bit, she cooed to him, “Dandani, this is your grandma. And here, on the sidelines, is your grandpa. How about you, Grandpa, aren’t you interested in your grandson?” “Me?” Manfred retorted in alarm, “I’m afraid to hold him. He might cry.” Zahara laughed and said, “If he cries, let him cry. He’s used to it. Take him, Father. You’ll see how delightful he is.” Manfred stretched out his arms and said, “Come, come to Grandpa.” Zahara laughed. “He’s clever, but he doesn’t know grandfather language, and he doesn’t know how to walk either. Put down the purse, Father. I’ll hand Dan to you.” Zahara took her son from her mother’s arms and handed him to her father. Grandfather Manfred was trembling. He finally said, “I’m afraid he’ll fall. You take him, Mother.” Zahara said, “Which mother do you mean, my mother or his mother? Come, Dani. If you want Grandpa Manfred to pay attention to you, you’ll have to enroll in the university.”

  The dog suddenly leaped out of his spot and, with a yelp of excitement and pleasure, began to run. As he ran, he turned his head to announce that the workers were coming back from the fields. The paths were soon humming with voices.

  The woman in charge came out of the children’s house and stationed herself on the grass, holding an infant in each arm. Children stood behind and in front of her, waiting for their parents, who were returning from the fields. Some stamped their feet impatiently; others did tricks to show Mommy and Daddy what they could do. Before they knew it, these children were scooped up. One was on his father’s shoulders and another on his father’s head, having appropriated his father’s hat for himself. One was buried in his mother’s arms. A little girl was stroking her mother’s cheeks and saying, “Love your mommy?” All sorts of pet names and personal dialects were heard.