by Agnon, S. Y.
“One day, my father took me to a poor neighborhood. We went into a crumbling building. I peered inside and saw shabbily dressed boys crowded together on narrow benches, reading in shrill voices from tattered books, their words a jumble of the holy tongue and ordinary jargon. A skinny man stood over them, wielding a cane and a strap, groaning, grunting, and spitting. He leaped up suddenly, pinched one of the boys on the arm, and shouted at him, ‘Villain, what are you looking at? Look at the book, not outside.’ The boy burst into tears and said, ‘I wasn’t looking outside.’ The teacher said scornfully, ‘Then tell me what the book says.’ The boy began to read, stammering. The teacher shouted, ‘Villain, then tell me what you saw outside. Was it perhaps a golden whip? I know all of you only too well, you scoundrels. When I’m done with you, you won’t have eyes to see with or a mouth to utter lies.’
“When we were outside, my father told me, ‘In this school, the children of the poor are taught the Torah and commandments. If you neglect your studies, I’ll send you there, and what the teachers in the government school failed to achieve, that teacher will achieve with his cane and whip.’“
What is the point of this tale? The Hebrew University in Jerusalem, where our good friend Manfred was appointed lecturer, is the point. I don’t suppose the university in Jerusalem is exactly like the school my father threatened me with in my childhood. But most likely it is similar; otherwise, why would the Zionists want to create a Hebrew university in Jerusalem, when they send their children to universities in Germany? What role is there for Hebrew in our time, our forefathers having renounced it? And what do we, the Jews of Germany, need with Jerusalem? Invoking his advanced age, this relative now begs to be brought to Jerusalem.
Henrietta thought to herself: I’ll go to those in charge of certificates, and they’ll give me as many as I need, for the certificates are in their hands. After all, they are Jews too, and they know what’s in store for German Jews. But she was not aware of the difference between those who seek a favor and those who have the power to grant it.
So Henrietta ran around in pursuit of certificates. She took on the job herself, rather than encroach on Manfred’s time, for Manfred was busy with the new book he was writing on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. The book was still unborn, except in his thoughts. She ran to the office she had been told to go to, only to be told, “This isn’t the place, and this isn’t the office.” She asked where she should go. The clerk said, “I’m not an information service, and it’s not my job to tell people where to go.” Henrietta stared at him, her blue eyes black with despair. The clerk relented and, departing from the letter of the law, told her where the right office was located, giving her several landmarks: the streets in Jerusalem change names from one day to the next, so you won’t necessarily find a street just because you know its name. He told her, “Go quickly, or they’ll all be gone for lunch, and you’ll find yourself facing a locked door.”
She managed to run, unimpeded by the ruts in those Jerusalem streets. The good Lord is not overindulgent; He seems content to have covered Jerusalem with a sky that is uniformly blue.
Henrietta arrived at her destination and found the office open, but it was so crowded that she couldn’t get in – either because she wasn’t the only one with relatives sighing and moaning in exile in Germany, or because the office was overflowing with clerks. She stood – who knows how long? – until the clerks got up and went home for dinner, locking up for the day. Early the next morning, she was back again. She found that others had preceded her. She stood with them – who knows how long? – and left with all the rest, empty-handed. This was how it was, one day, two days, three days, and many days more.
She was once at a university reception for Weizmann, where she happened to be seated next to a prominent Jewish Agency figure, the one in charge of certificates. There was a long series of speakers, and this eminent man was struggling to remain alert. He saw a well-dressed woman, neither old nor ugly, sitting next to him. He began to talk to her. She sat and listened. He said, “My dear lady, do you take me for one of the speakers?” “Why?” “Because you sit so quietly, without interrupting.” She found her tongue and told him about her relatives. He said to her, “It’s impossible to bring them all in at once, but they could be brought in one by one. In three months, there will be a new round of certificates, and one – maybe two – could be earmarked for your relatives.” The anticipated day arrived. He remembered her, was most cordial to her, and inquired about her health, as well as her husband’s. As for the certificates, he said that all the certificates that arrived had been for individuals from a designated country, and every certificate had someone’s name on it. “But, in three months from now, there will be more certificates, and, what we failed to accomplish with the certificates that are here, we will accomplish with those that are on the way.”
The anticipated day arrived. She went to the Jewish Agency and knocked on the proper door. An assistant appeared and said, “He’s away.” “When will he be back?” He said, “My boss, the chief, is not in the habit of reporting his plans to me.” She stood there, not knowing what to do. She peered in and saw the chief at his desk, polishing his fingernails, like a woman. She felt like screaming, “What use are these people, what good are their promises?” But her mouth failed her; it did not utter a sound. Henrietta didn’t know that it was wise not to utter a sound. As long as we don’t tell our benefactors what they are, there is still hope. The fact is, we depend on them, for those close to our hearts are crying out in distress.
Chapter two
Let us turn from the anguish of certificates to the joy of a son.
A son was born in Ahinoam. His parents didn’t bother about getting him a certificate from the Jewish Agency or the Mandate government, yet he has come, he is here, he lets his voice resound, unafraid that Mandate officials will hear and expel him from the country. When Maria Teresa sought to limit the descendants of our father Abraham, peace be unto him, she issued a clever decree allowing only one member of each Jewish family in her kingdom to marry. The Mandate government behaves in a superior fashion, setting out with rifles to confront our brothers and sisters when they arrive at our shores, the old and infirm among them, as well as babies born en route. They stand ready to fire at these survivors, already debilitated by their woes, so they won’t come into the country. But they have issued no decrees limiting births.
So we are happy that a child was born unto us. Rejoicing over this child, the grandmother, Henrietta, and the grandfather, Manfred, have come to celebrate with his mother and with Avraham-and-a-half, her mate. Despite the fact that he was conceived and born in Kfar Ahinoam in the Land of Israel, whereas they were born in another country, he allows them to approach him, even to hold him in their arms. If he kicks them, how much charm there is in his legs, how much power in his kicks! A thousand times a day, Grandpa would willingly subject his face to Dani’s kicks, not to mention Grandma Henrietta. She has never enjoyed anything as much, even when Zahara was at Dani’s stage of life. You assume Dani’s kicks are random? Then look and see. They are deliberate and deliberately delivered. Grandma Henrietta has a gold tooth in her mouth. She had it made when she was pregnant with Zahara; when Dani kicks her, he aims at the gold tooth. He is suggesting to Grandma Henrietta that, if not for his mother, she would still be stuck with a rotten tooth. Despite his modesty, there is something about the shape of Grandpa Manfred’s nose that conveys pride, so, when Dani kicks Grandpa, he aims for his nose. I am no expert in physiognomy. Dani, may he have long life, makes it clear that he still remembers the passages from the Zohar that are relevant to this subject. It would seem that the angel forgot to slap him on the mouth as he emerged from his mother’s womb, so he still remembers everything he learned there.
The Herbsts are in Kfar Ahinoam, eating, drinking, sleeping, walking, kissing the hands and feet of Zahara’s baby. Out of love for his daughter’s son, Grandfather doesn’t smoke in his presence, much less when he holds h
im in his arms. It’s lucky that Grandpa Manfred doesn’t wear glasses, as most professors do, the eyes being so close to the nose. And it’s lucky that Grandpa can do without his pipe. Dani isn’t accustomed to the smell of tobacco, for neither his progenitress nor her constant companion is a smoker, unlike some people we know, who are never without a cigarette – the fathers even when they hold their child, the mothers even during pregnancy and while they are nursing.
The Herbsts spent three days and three nights in Kfar Ahinoam. They stayed in a single room that belonged to the nurse who had gone to Jerusalem with a young woman who was distraught because of the doctor who had refused to do what she had asked him to do for her. The doctor had said, “How many nights do I spend without sleep to keep a patient alive; how many times do I risk my life, exposed to the hazards of the road, the weather, and Arab gunfire – and you ask me to kill the baby in your womb.” Since the local doctor wouldn’t accommodate her, she went where she went, to someone who did what he did, causing what he caused. And the nurse had to take her to Jerusalem, because that local doctor had gone off to earn his livelihood elsewhere, for no one had the right to demand that he do what he didn’t want to do, what no doctor wants to do. But it’s doubtful that he will find work, since the country is full of doctors, among them some esteemed and famous men who escaped the Nazi sword but now have no means of support. Female doctors fare better: they can support themselves doing housework.
So the Herbsts spent their nights in the nurse’s room in the infirmary building, a second bed having been brought in for them. Because she was preoccupied with her son, Zahara had forgotten to say that her father and mother should be given separate quarters, as at home in Jerusalem. After the birth of Sarah, the child of his old age, Manfred had moved his bed to his study. So the Herbsts slept in one room, in adjoining beds, and this became their custom thereafter, at home in Jerusalem.
Chapter three
When Henrietta saw that she could no longer conceal what was becoming more and more obvious, she decided to tell her husband. Manfred listened, his face taut from end to end, his eyes altering their aspect. After a moment, he laughed, every limb laughing with him. After another moment, he reached for his wife, embraced her, placed his head on her heart, and was silent. She was silent too. The two of them sat in absolute silence, clinging to one another. Then Manfred looked up at her, afraid he had done some harm when he embraced her. Henrietta, reading his mind, laughed to herself. He saw her face aglow with serene joy. Putting together his assorted thoughts, he saw they contradicted each other. He tried to figure out just how, and found only this: Henriett, who produces female babies, will produce a male; although there is no evidence for this, it would be right and appropriate, since her three other pregnancies brought forth only girls. Which was not the case with Zahara. The very first time, she gave birth to a son.
Let us think and consider, what was it like for Zahara when she discovered she was pregnant and what was it like for him when Henrietta told him, in a whisper, that Zahara was pregnant. So many thoughts darted through his mind that he dismissed them all and concentrated on Sarah, child of his old age, who was born suddenly, arriving in the world suddenly, without his knowing she was on the way. Now that this pregnancy was conferred on her mother, Sarah no longer occupied her previous position.
What happened to him the night Sarah was born? It’s impossible to say nothing happened, but it is possible to say it was an error. Now that Shira no longer shows herself to him and he makes no effort to see her, he considers himself liberated.
Herbst was glad to be free of those things whose very goodness is bad. If he still had his youthful energy, he would devote it to his book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. He would finish that book and write more. Not because a man’s wisdom is measured by the number of books he writes; not because of Weltfremdt, who reminded him that such-and-such a number of years had elapsed since his first book was published, the one that led to his appointment by the university, and in the interim he had written only articles. He would write books for his own sake, because of his ideas, which were so prolific that they could fill several volumes and were already inscribed in notebooks, in papers, and in his heart.
Among the books he meant to write, we will mention the tragedy of the court woman, the nobleman, and his slave, as well as the book about the craft of tragedy. Even before he began, he renounced these plans.
He gave up the idea of writing about the craft of tragedy because he looked at the books others had written and saw that they were written only because their authors had read so much, and, having read a lot, they wrote a lot. He didn’t write the tragedy in order to avoid being troubled by those dreadful events, for a great calamity befell the woman of the court, the nobleman, and his slave, sweeping others along in its wake, and they all vanished from the world.
During this period, Herbst took things in hand, got back to work, and achieved in a small number of days what he hadn’t achieved in many months. There had been books on his desk, piled half a meter high and extending all around. Suddenly, in two or three days, all the books were cleared away, as if a magic wand had been at work.
The magic wand was a long, thick pencil, the kind factories distribute to advertise themselves. When Henrietta bought a portable stove for Zahara, the shopkeeper gave her the pencil to give to Dr. Herbst. As he read, Dr. Herbst marked what was of interest, copying the material into his notes immediately. When his mind was distracted by thoughts of Shira, he became ineffectual, stopped copying, and placed a scrap of paper between the pages as a marker, hoping to get back to work soon and continue copying. He didn’t get back to work soon, and he didn’t continue copying. His desk remained full of books, which were piled like two pillars designed to support the ceiling. I may be exaggerating; nevertheless, there is some truth to the description. The space between the books and the ceiling was minimal. Suddenly, all at once, the books were gone and the desk was clear. Herbst managed to copy in two or three days what he had failed to copy in many days. The blank scraps placed in books to mark material to be copied, he now wrote on in pencil. He began copying, continuing to work until everything was copied onto his note papers.
These papers were placed in a box about as thick as a mediumsized book. The enormous pile of books that had occupied the desk was replaced by a box, not large, not long. A box with several sections divided by colored pages – reddish, greenish, pink, dark brown, yellowish – in which his notes were arranged by subject. At the top of each page was a heading to indicate the subject. When there were no books left on the desk, the note box was full. Not one more note could have been stuffed in.
He went to Asher the bookbinder on Ben Yehuda Street to order a new box, so many centimeters long and so many centimeters wide, to match the first one, which he had brought from Germany along with his books. He went to Shiryon, a shop on Jaffa Road, to buy paper for new notes. He took the paper back to Asher the bookbinder and gave it to him to cut, so the notes would be the right size. Asher the bookbinder cut the paper according to Dr. Herbst’s specifications, like those of a publisher who indicates the length and width of every manuscript he sends to the printer.
What is more, before placing a note in the box, Dr. Herbst examined it carefully to determine how important it was. He arranged the notes by subject, then he grouped them, tying a string around each group, for the quantity of notes matters less than the range of categories. And what matters even more is that they be in good order.
Some notes are an asset and some are a liability. If they are orderly and well sorted, all is well. If you are looking for material for a book or an article, you reach into the box of notes, and they fall into your hand. But they can be a liability. If the notes aren’t orderly and well sorted, they confuse you. The more you use them, the more they divert you from your purpose, pulling you in their direction and causing you to waste time. Even more troublesome are notes that haven’t been checked. They seem to have the makings of a book,
but, when you are ready to begin, you discover that you have copied the same thing a number of times. Not everyone can remember what he has already copied and what he hasn’t.
Having made order of his notes, Herbst tried to do the same with his notebooks and pads. He erased what was superfluous and discarded what was copied in another place. Seeing Herbst at work, double-checking, writing, erasing, reading, discarding, writing more, discarding more, one might think a pedantic impulse had overtaken the man. But this was not the case. He was taking such care because of a sense of reality.
Let me explain. A scholar sits in the midst of a heap of books, reading, writing, documenting, copying, preparing material for a book he is eager to complete. He does not put down a single volume without copying something from it, for a writer does well not to give anyone the opportunity to say he overlooked what someone or other wrote. He devotes most of his years to this process, and he keeps adding more and more notes; by now, there are many full boxes. His greatest satisfaction derives from surveying his notes, which he views as the core of several books. When he dies, all those notes don’t have the making of a single pamphlet to perpetuate his memory. Why? Because he has been so busy accumulating notes that he never took the time to see whether he hadn’t copied the same thing over and over.
Anyone who saw Dr. Herbst before he left for Kfar Ahinoam, sitting at his desk, surrounded by books, so that all one glimpsed of him was the smoke from his pipe, would regard him as the prototype of the scholar, renouncing himself for the sake of his work. To be truthful, in those days he was using his pipe more than his pen or pencil, puffing away, letting time go up in smoke.
His desk was now empty. There were only two or three books on it, along with the new box waiting to absorb new notes. It sat there chastely, without shouting: See how learned I am, how much wisdom I contain. Herbst’s desk was empty now, and Firadeus could brush off the dust.