Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  After taking Henrietta to her bed, he sneaked back to the dining room, cleared the dishes, took them to the kitchen, and washed them thoroughly, examining each piece inside and out to be sure it was clean, so as not to give Henrietta reason to reject his work. Then he set the dishes on the slatted shelf to drain, moving about stealthily, so as not to disturb Henrietta and arouse her anger at him for intruding on her territory. Even though she had already allowed him to take on some of the chores, she would, no doubt, scold him. Having finished all the kitchen work, he inverted the dishpans and scanned the room, to be sure he hadn’t left anything undone. When he saw everything was in place, he turned out the light. When the light was off, he saw that one burner was still lit. Henrietta had forgotten about it, but it was serving no purpose. He turned it off and went to Henrietta, thinking: If I had left it on, Henrietta would surely complain. But when she does it, it’s all right.

  Henrietta was lying in bed in her clothes. He began coaxing her to undress. When she was ready to comply, he helped her take off her clothes, just as he used to do when she was pregnant with Zahara.

  I have something to say about Shira. That was a good question Shira had asked: “Do you help your wife, too?” Yes, Shira. Dr. Herbst helps his wife take off her clothes, and he does it expertly. His hands don’t tremble at all. But Shira is far away. In fact, she has moved. But we won’t be looking for you. Not today. It’s enough, Shira, that Herbst asked about you in the hospital. He also asked Anita Brik about you. Tomorrow afternoon, we might perhaps go and see where you live. If we find you, good. If we don’t find you, it’s your fault for not sitting and waiting for us.

  After arranging his wife’s clothes, he embraced her and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed him too, if not on his mouth, then on his forehead. Manfred’s forehead is an integral part of him, you might say his finest part, with all his great thoughts plainly written on it. Henrietta assumes that these thoughts derive from the major essay he is working on. We will allow her this error, rather than divulge one or two of the schemes he is considering. Henrietta asked Manfred to go and see if Sarah was asleep and if she was perspiring. After he had done so, he took leave of his wife, with a kiss, and went to his room to read some papal history and find out just when Damasus became pope. This wasn’t actually why he went back to his room. He wanted to be alone for a while. He was worn out by the day’s concerns. He hadn’t had a moment’s rest. In the morning, he had lectured on the earliest known Byzantine coins with Greek inscriptions, as well as on the coins associated with Heraclius, which we assume were minted so they could be used by soldiers during the war against Persia. After the lecture, a guest, who had come to hear a Hebrew lecture at the Hebrew University, arrived and offered a somewhat dated insight. He stated that, even after Constantine became Christian, he continued to be attracted to idolatry, which is evident from the motifs on many artifacts from the Constantine period. Herbst wore himself out conveying to this genius, without being disrespectful, that, with coins, as in various other areas, such motifs are not always conclusive, because they often continue to appear even after they have lost their significance. When he got rid of the guest, he was joined by two of his students, who needed books they couldn’t find in the National Library. If I’m not mistaken, they were looking for the works of G. Finelli and W. Schultze. They went home with Herbst, and, like all bright students who are full of their own wisdom, they were eager to impart it to their teacher and enhance his wisdom. In the end, after they came home with him and he gave them the books, they found that the wording was ambiguous and Herbst had to confirm whether or not what they said was right. He was left with only a small portion of the afternoon break, time for lunch but not for a rest. Because he was so tired, he was afraid Henrietta would be talkative, which made him unable to rest. We would imagine that he did try resting right after lunch, but what use is such an attempt? As soon as he stretched out on his bed, he heard a sound at the door. He hurried to open it, so no one would ring the bell and wake Henrietta. He found a man at the door, a leather briefcase on his arm, his face like the face of a thousand other solicitors from national institutions. He began to barrage him with words about a particular individual who had just reached the age of fifty and in whose honor a grove of trees was being planted. Dr. Herbst was asked to contribute a tree. After the solicitor left, Herbst went back to bed, but he found no rest. He got up and went into town, to the French Library, hoping to find comfort in a new book. On the way, he met Anita Brik and went with her to Zichel’s, where they had a long chat. After leaving her, he took the bus home and heard news about some of the unfortunate events that had occurred that day. When he was finally home, he sat down to eat and had a long chat with his wife. If his mouth and mind had been with his wife, all would have been well. But his mouth was in one place, and his mind was elsewhere. This is why he was exhausted and eager to be alone.

  He went up to his room, turned on the lamp, and surveyed his books. He stood there, closed his eyes, and concentrated, straining to remember what he was looking for. He opened his eyes and moved toward the row of books on the Church Fathers. He took down Tseckler’s book about Saint Jerome, not because he was interested in Tseckler, but because of an article in manuscript that was appended to the book. Since the article had no name, I’ll relay its subject: how Saint Jerome contributed to the work of Damasus on religious texts. It is very likely that the news Herbst heard on the bus, about a young scholar who was killed by Arabs, was what reminded him of that article, for Herbst had inherited the book, with all its appendices, from a young researcher who fell in battle.

  Herbst sat with the book, studying the shape of the letters, scrutinizing them as if to analyze the writer’s character. He studied each letter, searched every line for a sign that the author was destined to die young. Several years had passed since his friend’s death. Others had died, others had been killed, others had committed suicide. But, whenever he thought of him, he felt his death anew. Why was this? Because he was killed at the beginning of the war, when people were not so accustomed to casualties. Now that the book was in his hand, he was overcome with fatigue, which led to a desire for sleep. He glanced at his bed, thinking: I’ll stretch out. I’ll have a rest. Actually, there’s no reason not to spend the night here, as I used to do before I went to Ahinoam with Henrietta to welcome Dani. He put Tseckler’s book on the table near his bed and slipped off his shoes to prepare himself for sleep. He was holding one of his shoes, inspecting it for traces of the shoeshine boy’s labor, when he realized that Tseckler’s book was not the right one for now. He returned it to its spot, scanned the shelf, and took down a book of Saint Jerome’s letters to read in bed. He undressed and climbed into bed.

  After reading for a while, he came upon the letter in which Jerome tells about a chaste Christian woman who was falsely accused of betraying her husband, of the brutal torture to which she was subjected to force her to confess to a sin she hadn’t committed. The great event that occurred after she was tortured was also described. The ghost of a smile spread across Herbst’s lips, the smile of a literate person responding to an eloquent passage. He put down the book, placed his hand on it, and pursued his own train of thought: Jerome was a great writer. He succeeded in portraying all sorts of vicious tortures to achieve a desired end. Torture has been a common phenomenon since men first began to seek dominance over others. Still, the agonies described by Jerome were merely figments of his imagination. That broad-minded, saintly Christian concocted all those tortures. Gentiles! What an example of their corruption and brutality. Corruption and brutality that culminated in Hitler.

  The light suddenly began to flicker, as an oil lamp does when it is about to go out. He blinked his eyes and was baffled, for he had just filled it with oil the day before. In fact, it was more than half full, but the wick was too short to reach the oil. He was too lazy to get up and add oil for the wick to draw on. He lay there, abandoning himself to all sorts of thoughts.

  His mind wandered
, settling on the last war. As he tended to do whenever he was reminded of it, he made an effort to forget what he had seen during the war, as well as the fact that he had actually fought in it. To some extent, he succeeded; to some extent, he failed. In any case, he didn’t really succeed in getting rid of war thoughts. Kings are at war with kings, nations with nations, religions with religions. A destroys B, B destroys C; they are all, finally, destroyed. If at first there was some logic to this scheme, it soon vanished, leaving only devastation in its wake. Herbst fixed his gaze on the wick that could no longer reach the oil because the fire had consumed it, and yet its light continued to flicker.

  I am not one to infer connections, and I don’t mean to suggest that the sight of the lamp, et cetera, led him to think about Israel and the nations of the world. But I do allude to it, because it is appropriate. He gazed at the wick that didn’t reach the oil, thinking: The nations of the world berate Israel for considering itself a chosen people, and, in truth, it must be admitted that, compared to other nations, we have superior qualities. I don’t mean that every single one of us is virtuous and just, but, overall, the people as a whole are truly fine. There are intellectual women, concerned with the Jewish religion, who say, “Before, while we were in Germany, we didn’t doubt that the Jews were a chosen people. When we came to the Land of Israel, we saw that Jews are like everyone else, no better and no worse. Now that we have lived here several years, having seen what we have seen, we see that we are inferior to other nations.” These women have arrived at this conclusion because, when they lived elsewhere, they saw many Gentiles and knew very few Jews. Here, they see the entire people. Despite this, Herbst reflected, despite this, I believe that we are finer than other nations. What is so fine about the people of Israel? I, in any case, am not especially fine. The pursuit of bodily pleasure and the drive to create books are surely not fine, nor are these Jewish qualities. In this respect, I am no different from my peers. Yet I stand by what I said earlier: If a man sins once and doesn’t sin again, I don’t claim the sin is erased, but at least it isn’t compounded.

  When did he make that statement? The day he got to know Shira. All his dealings with Shira have since been suspended. Only her address is written in his notebook. Should he want to, he could erase her address, and he could erase Shira from his heart, as if she no longer exists, as if she never existed, as if she would never return. If they should meet somewhere, and if she should say to him, “Why don’t you show yourself to me?” he could say, “You moved to a new place and didn’t tell me where you live. When I asked about you at the hospital, they said they didn’t know either.” Though he was feeling peaceful, on the brink of sleep, he took the trouble to get up and erase Shira’s address. He went back to bed, blew out the light, and delivered himself to sleep.

  Sleep took over, all at once, wielding its power over each and every limb. You might remember that, when Henrietta was about to give birth to Sarah, Manfred brought her to the hospital, and he was sitting in the waiting room with her when the nurse Shira, whom he called Nadia, appeared and sat down with the women. At one point, a blind beggar from Istanbul appeared, and the limbs of that Shira-Nadia woman enveloped that beggar, as if to embrace him. The two of them finally began to dwindle and dissolve, until all that was left of them was a sandal. In the end, they were both enclosed in that sandal and vanished, never to emerge again. What had happened to that blind Turkish beggar was now happening to Herbst. His limbs were dwindling, until all that was left of them was sleep. From the depths of sleep, the hint of a human face seemed to surface. At first, it was hard to recognize. Little by little, the face became sharper, and Herbst realized that it belonged to one of the early monks who appear in so many Christian legends. This monk went into a place that resembled the building Shira’s new apartment was in, though it didn’t resemble the building Anita Brik had drawn. The monk was transformed too, and he began to resemble a certain monk from Gethsemane with whom Herbst had become acquainted at the post office, when he was mailing out offprints of his articles. There is something I should have mentioned earlier; not having done so, I will mention it now. When Herbst, who was mailing out his offprints, was standing at the window in the post office, there happened to be a monk in line behind him with whom he struck up a conversation, at the end of which the monk invited him to visit his monastery. Herbst promised to do so. I didn’t mention this event at the time, because it wasn’t relevant. Now that it has come up again, though only in a dream, I may as well mention it.

  In the morning, Herbst appeared in the dining room with an armful of thick Latin books in pigskin bindings. While he was waiting for Henrietta to bring his coffee, he glanced through the books. “Such diligence,” Henrietta remarked, with a show of laughter and concealed admiration. Manfred answered, “Diligence that doesn’t do me any good. The very thing I need is missing.” Henrietta asked, “And where can it be found? In the National Library?” Manfred said derisively, “The National Library, the National Library. Whatever we don’t need is there, and whatever we do need is not there. Even Ernst Weltfremdt has more good books than that warehouse they call the National and University Libraries. But Professor Weltfremdt doesn’t have the volume I need either.” Henrietta asked in a worried tone, “So what will you do?” Manfred said, “I’ll do what one does in such cases. I’ll do without.”

  During breakfast, Manfred said to Henrietta, “I have the urge to go to Gethsemane, to the monastery there.” Henrietta said, “To look for that book?” Manfred said, “I doubt that those monks are familiar with the book I’m looking for, but I would like to go, because I once promised to visit a monk who lives there. It’s not urgent, and the visit isn’t essential, but for those very reasons I think I ought to go. I don’t know if you grasp my meaning. Those things that aren’t really essential are often particularly appealing. Going there is just such a thing. Several months ago, I became acquainted with a monk, who invited me to visit him. I promised I would come. He didn’t expect me to keep my word, nor did I intend to keep it. Suddenly, all of a sudden, I see that I must keep my promise. What do you think about this?” Henrietta said, “I assume you won’t be back for lunch.” Manfred said, “I see from your response that you approve.” Henrietta said, “To be sure you don’t get hungry, you ought to have an egg for breakfast – one of the eggs Zahara sent us.” Manfred said, “You have a one-track mind, Mother. Give me your lips, you monster, you.”

  Chapter thirteen

  When Herbst got off the bus and found himself on the street, in the midst of a bustling throng, under a sky full of heat and light that blazed, stretched, and expanded with each person, where each structure and each sound took on the whiteness of light, like some substance that dims the eye and deafens the ear – when this happened, his will began to diminish and fade away. He was sorry to have left home on such a hot day, at such an hour. Though he had promised whomever he had promised that he would visit him, though he felt obliged to keep his word and fulfill his promise, he hadn’t set a time and wasn’t obliged to visit on any particular day. He took off his hat and wiped his brow, as well as the inner band of his hat and his sunglasses, scanning all four directions to find the Gethsemane bus stop. As in the case of all quests that are undertaken without conviction, he only half stirred, and he would have remained in his spot if he hadn’t been swept up by people going to the post office and the bank, and by other pedestrians whose swift pace stemmed from the same source as his stationary position: they, too, were unsure of their direction. Time passed, and he didn’t remember where the bus stop was, but he realized that he didn’t have to make the trip. He decided not to go. Having decided not to go, he was pleased; for, even if he had found the bus, he would have had a long wait. Buses from the outlying districts make the return trip only after their riders have concluded their business in town, which they never seem to do until the day is nearly over.

  Having ruled out Gethsemane, he didn’t know what to do. Unless their work compels them to go into t
own early in the day, those who live in outlying neighborhoods tend to make the trip only for a specific purpose. This was true of Herbst. If not for the trip to Gethsemane, he wouldn’t have come. Now that the trip was off, he had no purpose. He didn’t really belong in town. Here he was, with three or four sizzling stones underfoot and a blazing sun overhead. Actually, he could have been standing in the shade of the bus from Talpiot that had arrived in the interim and could have taken him home to his books. But, since he was in town, it seemed a shame to go right back. After all, it isn’t every day that he stops working without some sense of guilt. So what should he do? He can’t very well visit a friend, because everyone is at work. Anyone who isn’t lecturing is either in the library, looking for material for an article, or engaged in writing a book. There are people who sense when a friend is at work, and, in a flash, they are there to interrupt. Herbst was not that sort. He was simply looking for a place to spend an hour.

  There are very few places in Jerusalem where one can spend an hour at that time of day. If I list them, there won’t be more than two: the Bezalel Museum and the B’nai B’rith Library. In the past, before the National and University Libraries were built on Mount Scopus, the B’nai B’rith building was always buzzing with people. Herbst went there quite frequently, and he used to bring guests from abroad, though he was embarrassed that the collection didn’t live up to its reputation. When the university was built on Mount Scopus, all the good books were transferred to its new libraries, and the one in town began to be forgotten. Now that he was looking for a place to spend an hour, he didn’t remember it. He forgot about the museum, too. This forgetfulness of his is probably puzzling, so I will explain it. In the early days, when he first came to the country, these two institutions were his favorite haunts. Now that the population had grown larger and the city’s limits had expanded, he himself was taking smaller steps, and it was not as easy to come and go. He began to go to those places less and less often, then not at all. Since he no longer frequented them, they began to fade from his memory and were soon forgotten.