Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  Now for Henrietta herself. Henrietta is at peace with herself and with her unborn baby. He is at rest in her womb, not troubling her at all. Not that she is absolved from all the troubles of pregnancy, but, since she tolerates these troubles well, it’s as if she were untroubled. When she has no household chores to do, she sits watching Sarah play with an insect, the lid of a jam jar, a toothpaste tube, singing to herself and not bothering anyone. At such a time, Henrietta says to herself: I was mistaken to avoid getting pregnant all those years.

  Chapter twelve

  Henrietta and Manfred are at dinner. The table is set; the salad provides a riot of color; the bread, made of sprouted wheat, is nutritious and tasty, as are all the other dishes. Henrietta didn’t cook artichokes, as she had planned, but she made several other dishes Manfred was fond of, which he would eat and enjoy. They are having dinner in the dining room, not outside, because of Henrietta’s fatigue, which prevented her from setting the table in the yard and dragging out whatever might be needed for dinner. Henrietta and Manfred are in the dining room, enjoying the bounty of their table.

  The windows to the garden are open. A pleasant scent wafts in from the bushes and flowers Manfred has watered. An oil lamp lights the table without producing soot. Why do I mention the oil lamp? Because there are people in Jerusalem who assume that, without electricity, there is no light. I mention the oil lamp for this reason. Although it is one of the old ones, it gives light that is modest and discreet, light that may even be more pleasant than electric light, so long as it doesn’t produce soot. All of a sudden, they hear a bird call. What is this call? It is the call of a bird returning to its nest and finding it changed. Or is it the bird himself who is the source of change, and is he apologizing to his mate for being so late? What do we know? All we can do is speculate, and we have offered two speculations as one.

  Henrietta got up and brought two bottles of tomato juice she had chilled – not on ice, though she has an icebox – but by hanging them from a rope attached to a pole placed over the water tank, which is what she is in the habit of doing with watermelons and other foods that are at their best when chilled. Some women are in despair if their ice isn’t delivered every day in the summer; some women feel that the world is about to end if their refrigerator breaks down. I therefore applaud Henrietta Herbst, who never loses her equilibrium. Along with the juice, Henrietta brought a pie filled with potatoes, squash, and eggs, and topped with sour cream. The Arabs are scheming to starve us, blocking the roads to prevent their women from bringing us poultry, eggs, fruit, and vegetables. As it turns out, they don’t know what to do with their poultry and eggs now, and we, because we are no longer supplied with Arab food, raise our own chickens, who lay eggs that are now on our tables. Arab shepherds send their sheep into the gardens in our towns to demolish the fruit and vegetables, but our rural communities make up for the loss, providing the produce that adorns our tables. I don’t mean to celebrate the kvutzot and moshavim, but merely to commend Henrietta Herbst, whose table is not wanting, whose meals are no less ample since the women from Bethlehem and Kfar Hashiloah stopped bringing in their eggs and produce. The eggs aren’t visible, because they are mixed into the potato pie I described, but anyone can see the vegetables and fruits. What is more, they are superior to those from Kfar Hashiloah, which are irrigated with sewage water from all over Jerusalem, whereas our settlements rely on the generosity of the good Lord, who seems personally to provide rain and dew for watering. Even when we don’t do His bidding, so that He causes the skies to withhold, His mercy is not depleted, nor is the water in the wells and cisterns depleted. We turn on the sprinklers, and they make the waters rain down. Rabbi Samuel Mohilever, of blessed memory, was asked the following question: A young Jew, a student at the university or perhaps at the Technion, invented a device that produces rain. Is he required to publicize his invention to advance humanity, or does he have the right to hide his secret in the interest of settling the Land of Israel, first buying land and installing Jews there? For, if the nations of the world were to discover that even such arid earth as ours could be reclaimed with the help of this device, they would refuse to sell us a single handful of soil. I don’t know how that wise man responded, nor do I know if the inventor disclosed his invention or how that device was constructed. In any case, as we see with our own eyes, as soon as Jews began returning to their land, subject as it is to drought and barely responsive to being worked, God was compassionate and imbued His sons with the wisdom to devise sprinklers that water the earth and soak it thoroughly, as needed.

  Summer evenings in Jerusalem are delightful; summer dinners are delightful too. One eats, enjoys, is satisfied. To whom does this apply? To a man with a wife such as Henrietta, who is attuned to her husband’s wishes. If only Manfred were as attuned to his wife’s wishes. I must nonetheless state that he didn’t upset his wife, nor did he reveal his innermost thoughts to her. Which was both good and not good. It was good for Henrietta not to know; it was not good for Manfred to withhold his innermost thoughts. They began to press on his heart, with a force that was intense and unrelenting.

  Henrietta sat holding a slice of buttered bread with white cheese on it. She gazed at Manfred and, adding a dollop of honey as thick as a coin to her bread, remarked, “Fred, I’m also convinced that our new baby will be a boy.” Manfred answered, “You’re telling me something new? I already know that, but what is your source?” Henrietta said, “This appetite of mine informs me that there’s a male child inside.” Manfred said, “How can you consider such a small slice of bread a sign of appetite?” Henrietta said, “Small, but brimming over. Have a bite. Here, from this end.” She handed him the bread, and he bit into it, but not where his wife had suggested. She said to him, “It’s sweet and good, isn’t it?” Manfred said, “I meant to ask you before: did you notice the song Sarah’s been singing? At first there were no words. Then I thought I heard some sort of refrain, the words ‘graves, graves.’ Isn’t it odd to hear such a song from a child?” Henrietta laughed and said, “She’s been singing ‘graves, graves’ all day. I suppose you want to know where she got that song from. She got it from Firadeus. One day I heard Firadeus singing a song. At first I thought it was a love song. Doesn’t this sound like a love song: ‘Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes / Now covered with earth in the grave he lies’?” Manfred said, “How lovely it is, and how sad.” Henrietta said, “It’s a woman’s dirge for her slain husband.” Manfred said, “A eulogy for a hero.” Henrietta said, “A eulogy for the garbage collector of Talpiot, who was killed by an Arab on his way from Talpiot to the city, right at the railroad station. And who composed the song? The victim’s wife composed it. This is what Firadeus told me: every night my mother gets up from her bed, paces back and forth, and laments our murdered father. She sometimes repeats the same verses and sometimes recites new ones.” Manfred said to Henrietta, “Do you happen to remember another verse or two?” Henrietta said, “I knew you would ask that, so I asked Firadeus to tell me some other verses. Before she had a chance to say anything further, we were interrupted by a guest. See if you can guess, my dear. Who do you think it was? You can ask ten questions, then you’ll be able to figure out for yourself who was here. Now, begin with question one.” “A man or a woman?” “A woman.” “A woman?” “That’s another question.” “Where is the question?” Henrietta laughed and said, “That’s a question too.” “Young or old?” “Ummm. What shall I say? Not young, not old.” A middle-aged woman?” “Ummm. Middle-aged.” “A woman, right?” Henrietta said, “How can you be so devoid of intelligence – you just gave up one entire question!” “How? I hope the word how doesn’t count.” Henrietta said, “If I were being strict with you, I would count it as a question.” “Which question are you thinking of?” “Another question.” Herbst let his head droop to the left, extended his hands, and sighed, saying, “I’m not good for anything, Henriett. I give up. I’m a birdbrain.” Henrietta laughed and said, “You have no brains, but
you do have intuition. Where did you learn that word?” “Which word?” “Another question.” “What question?” “All right, now it’s my turn. Where did you hear the word birdbrain?” “Where did I hear it? I don’t mind admitting that I haven’t applied myself to the question.” Henrietta said, “Then I’ll tell you where you first heard it.” “Where?” “Wasn’t it our Sarini?” “Sarini? Sarini visited you? Why did she come all of a sudden?” Henrietta said, “First, I should inform you that she has a wetnurse in mind for our son.” “What son?” Henrietta laughed and said, “You’re the one who’s so confident, who says, ‘I’m certain that you’re going to have a boy.’“ “Ah…Ah …,” said Manfred. “And who is the wetnurse?” Henrietta said, “Guess. Five or six questions, and you’ll be able to guess.” Manfred said, “Haven’t you learned from experience that I’m no good at this game? If you don’t tell me, Henrietta, I’m likely to go to my grave in ignorance. Graves, graves. I want to tell you something. I myself heard Firadeus’s mother singing ‘Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes / Now covered with earth in the grave he lies.’“ “You heard and you didn’t tell me?” Manfred said, “If I didn’t tell you before, I’m telling you now. On the day of the big rally, I met Firadeus on her way back from the pharmacy. I walked her home, thinking that, if she was stopped by the police, I could tell them she had to get medicine for her sick mother. When I approached her house, I heard her mother singing as she paced back and forth in her room. Now, Henriett, tell me who the wetnurse is.” Henrietta said, “In any case, you must admit that the whole thing is strange.” “What thing?” Henrietta said, “You have so little regard for me that you forget what we were talking about.” Manfred said, “Either I didn’t consider the entire subject worthwhile, or I wanted to tell you but I forgot. Now, Henriett, you tell me. About that wetnurse, who is she?” Henrietta looked at him with suspicious eyes but answered affectionately, “So you won’t wear out your mind, I’ll tell you.” “So?” “Summon up all your patience, my dearest, and don’t let your curiosity show.” Manfred said, “It’s not curiosity.” Henrietta said, “Then let’s forget the whole thing.” “What thing?” “That very thing.” Manfred said, “You keep saying the same thing in different words. If our Avraham were to hear you talking like that, he would say, ‘Too bad she didn’t become an orator.’ Is there any news from Zahara’s household?” Henrietta said, “The vegetables you ate are from their gardens.” Manfred said, “Instead of letters, they send us lettuce. They have become real farmers; they would rather dig herbs than verbs. And Tamara? Tamara is idle, as usual. She’s not even looking for work.” Henrietta said, “You always complain about Tamara. First of all, she isn’t idle. She still goes to Mekor Hayim every day. But if what you have in mind is salaried work, what can she do? She’s waiting for word from the Education Department. The officials there treat her the way her mother was treated when she was clamoring for certificates.” Manfred said, “All officials are alike. But I have reason to suspect Tamara has been telling us tales – outright fictions. From the very beginning, we should have understood the mysterious saga of Mekor Hayim, the tubercular girls, and all the rest. But not now. Not now, my dear, when your eyes are drooping. It’s time to lay your head on the pillow, to put the rest of you in your bed. Listen, Henrietta, I have one request. I know that if I say I’ll do the dishes, you won’t let me, so I won’t ask anything that major. All I ask is that you leave them for tomorrow. When Firadeus comes, she can wash them. That verse is not bad. I didn’t know goats’ eyes were sweet. It would be interesting to investigate that image. Is it common among the Persians, or is it original? I’ll look it up tomorrow in the poetry of Rückert.” “Rückert? I forgot he existed.” Manfred said, “A few months ago, I came upon a biography of Moses Lazarus, written by his wife. She reports what he said about Rückert: that if the world were destroyed by a flood and only Rückert’s poems survived, they would make it possible to reconstruct the world.” “He was that great? And you, Fred, remember everything. Whatever you read sticks in your mind.” Manfred said, “I could have remembered that statement, or I could have forgotten it. But that very day I heard it again, not about Rückert and not from Lazarus, but from a Hebrew writer who was referring to a Hebrew storyteller. I have a student, part clerk and part critic, who enjoys enlightening me with his remarks. That day I was applauding Neu for having restored so many forgotten worlds to us. To which my student said, ‘If we applaud those who restore forgotten worlds, we should applaud the storytellers.’ And he proceeded to quote a Hebrew writer who wrote about a Hebrew storyteller, ‘If there should be a flood that restores the world to chaos, with only Mendele Mocher Sforim’s stories surviving, it would be possible to reconstruct Jewish life.’ These Hebrews, in their excessive narcissism, don’t notice that there are countries outside of Poland, Lithuania, and Russia where Jews have lived and endured, that they too are a vital force.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Which is an offense to your German patriotism, Fred.” Manfred laughed and said, “No offense to my German patriotism, but an offense to the truth. Even someone like me is sometimes moved to protest against truisms that are grounded in nothing. Now, my dearest, rise up, come along. Let me lead you to the bedroom. I’ll settle you in your cradle, and you can close your weary eyes and sleep until Firadeus brings you breakfast.”

  Henrietta’s eyes were closed, her tongue weary. She spoke fitfully. If I were to put the words together and interpret her allusions, this is roughly what they would add up to: When a woman is young, in full bloom, capable of filling the earth with sons and daughters, she isn’t always pleased to be producing children. When she ages, when her energies diminish and her sons and daughters leave home, her lot is bitter, ever so bitter. Because she is lonely, she would love to bear a child, but this is something she no longer has the strength to do.

  I am omitting the rest of Henrietta’s remarks, censuring those women who make no use of what the Creator granted them and giving credit to the Oriental communities: “If they didn’t behave like human beings, increasing and multiplying in a natural fashion, the land would soon be empty. But,” Henrietta added, “even they have begun to act like Ashkenazim.” At this point, Henrietta told about a pretty young Sephardic woman, about twenty-four years old, who had given her husband four handsome sons. After weaning the fourth one, she became pregnant. Her neighbor said, “If you keep up at this rate, you won’t have room for all your children.” They deliberated and went to a certain woman doctor. The doctor did what she did, and the woman aborted. After a while, she began to yearn for an infant to clasp in her arms. She was consumed with longing, but she was no longer able to become pregnant, and she was not fit to give birth again.

  The very same doctor has set up a clinic, and her pace is tireless. The country is full of British soldiers, as well as impoverished young girls. Feeling confined by the narrow walls of their homes, these girls go out for a little while, seeking escape. The soldiers who see them are struck by their beauty and entice them to go to a café or a movie. Some are intrigued and respond, at first to scold the soldiers for their impudence, then because of curiosity, then because there’s no harm in talking, then because of habit. In the end, some of the girls are seduced by them, and, when they become pregnant, they go to this doctor to get rid of their unborn babies.

  So much for those evils and the troubles they bring on. Now let’s get back to the Herbst household. Manfred and Henrietta finished their supper, and it was already Henrietta’s bedtime. But, like most women at leisure, she didn’t tend to look ahead. Henrietta remained seated, though Manfred stood beside her, taking her hand and attempting to get her out of the chair and lead her to her room. Henrietta, who was comfortable where she was, didn’t stir. She was thinking about her daughters. Zahara and Tamara are not here. One lives with Avraham and Dani in the country; the other has gone to see about the teaching position she was promised; Sarah is lying asleep in her little bed. Yet another child is inside his mother, Henrietta, who didn’
t prevent the Creator from creating a person in her womb. Should the Creator of man alter His ways ever so slightly, He would give her a male child, now that she has produced three females. The world needs daughters too, but it would be nice for this mother of daughters to produce a son.

  Henrietta’s eyes remained closed, and her hand was in Manfred’s. He held his wife’s hand and gazed at her. Her eyes were still closed, her face was bloated, and her nose cast its shadow all around. Now I’ll say something it would be nicer not to say, but truth goes beyond the niceties. Manfred noted her wrinkled cheeks, flushed and lined with bluish veins, and her body, bloated and slovenly. He also noted how she luxuriated before him, like a bride during the seven-day marriage feast, and he turned his eyes away, commenting to himself: How grotesque. He said nothing, except in his heart, and, like a man who respects his wife, he smoothed her cheek and tried to help her up.