Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  I still have Tamara to deal with. Tamara, as you know, is still single. Many young men are courting her, and there is no end or limit to the number of young men who seek her out, only to be rejected. In another context, I mentioned Schlesinger, who was a lapsed yeshiva student. Insofar as I can judge, he is not the mate she will append to the family. Since I hate to speculate, I won’t say anything about her other admirers. I won’t even mention names.

  The entire Herbst family is gathered together. They are all at home, with no outsiders present. Those who are in the habit of visiting the Herbst household know this isn’t the time to visit, that the mother of the house is busy with an infant less than two weeks old. Even Ursula isn’t at home. She went off on a trip. No one knows whether the trip will be long or short, but that is not what we’re worried about. We’re worried about the fact that Ursula is in Lebanon. As you well know, in these times, when the entire country is consumed by hate, it is hard to imagine a Jewish girl traveling through Lebanon – unless there is truth to the rumor that she went with a Lebanese doctor, who was taking her to see his birthplace and his family home. Darling Ursula, though we put ourselves out on her behalf, because of her rare beauty, because of her Zionist father, because she asked us for shelter, has taken up with a foreigner, whose country is an enemy. It turned out that her time with us was a brief episode, and, now that she has left us, we have no further dealings with her. Even if we have no dealings with her, her father’s sorrow persists. This long-standing Zionist, who devoted his life to Zionism, who went so far as to risk his life for Zionism while at the university, was privileged to see his daughter move to Israel, where she found a home with a good Zionist family. In the end, she abandoned all that was dear to her father to cling to the son of a nation known to be hostile to us. Now that Ursula was gone, Herbst began to think about Taglicht and Tamara again. Years back, before Zahara married Avraham-and-a-half, he had entertained similar thoughts about Zahara and about Lisbet Neu. Now, whether or not he still had Lisbet Neu in mind, he abandoned his schemes about Tamara and Taglicht. If I transmit his thoughts in my own language, they are roughly these: May the One who plots, plot these affairs as He wishes and sees fit. After Herbst undertook to write the tragedy of the woman of the court, Yohanan the nobleman, and the faithful slave Basileios, he realized and acknowledged how hard it is to connect event to event, action to action, so that they produce harmony or even pleasant disorder. Though he gave up on the tragedy, there is no end to what he learned from it.

  Back to Ursula. I meant to dismiss her without further attention, since her affairs are not relevant to the tale of Shira and Herbst, but, in the end, she requires attention. Ursula Katz was lovely and charming. Her ways were altogether pleasant. Even someone such as Taglicht, who isn’t taken in by surfaces, enjoyed talking to her and used to call her Droste, after Droste-Hulshoff, the delightful poet whose hairdo was like hers. Soon after arriving in the country, she found work. When she stopped working for Mustafa and Abdullah, she found a better job, with Jews. She walked out on them too, rather suddenly. When Henrietta asked her why she decided to give up such a good job, working for such fine Jews, she answered, “Jews aren’t gentlemen,” and would say no more. The day before the baby’s brit, she came to see Mrs. Herbst in the hospital, to take leave of her before setting off on her trip. Mrs. Herbst didn’t ask with whom she was going or other similar questions. The information we have was conveyed to us by an official at the Kupat Holim medical clinic. This, in brief, is the story of Ursula Katz. I won’t mention her again, to avoid entangling her in the story of Herbst and Shira or in that of the Herbst family. From the beginning, I hesitated to link her affairs with those of the Herbst household. I now see that what one hesitates about at the beginning is best put aside, that what isn’t put aside at the beginning will be put aside at the end, after creating disorder and confusion.

  Gabriel, who is called Gabi because he’s so small, fills the house with his presence. This chick, who hasn’t gotten off the ground yet, is everywhere. Here, water is being heated for Gabi’s bath; over there is Gabi’s crib; Firadeus is hanging out Gabi’s diapers; and that tall, skinny woman there, who looks half-male, would like to be Gabi’s wetnurse. Her chest is flat as a board; her eyes are dry and severe. Yet she insists she produces as much milk as two wetnurses. There is also a round, plump woman, sent by Sarini, who is so eager to nurse Gabi that her milk has become a pressing weight. Sarini herself is unable to nurse Gabi, because her milk has diminished because of her sorrow because of her mad husband, because he is planning a long trip, and, if he takes such a trip in times like these, she will end up an abandoned wife. But her eyes and heart are with Mistress Herberist, which is why she sent such a fine woman to nurse Mistress Herberist’s baby, as she herself had done for his sister Sarah and for her own children – the Lord alone knows how many.

  A few days before Gabriel was born, Father Manfred transferred his bedding to his study, and, once again, he spends his days and nights amid his books. But he hasn’t achieved very much. He hasn’t added a single note to his files. While Henrietta was in the hospital, Herbst took time off from his major work and did other things, all of which he did well. Now that he is at it again, not only does no work get done, but other things remain undone too. His fingers are ineffectual; they accomplish nothing. His books are everywhere – piled on the table, on the chairs – making it difficult to tidy up the room and sweep the dust. He really ought to clear away the books and put them back in place, but he does no such thing. He merely moves them from one spot to another. Henrietta, who generally sees what is and isn’t happening, saw that he was in a bad mood, which is what tends to happen when he isn’t absorbed in his work. One day, Henrietta said to Manfred, “Fred, you have to get to work. You are idle so much of the time. It’s almost winter, and you have to prepare for your classes. You mustn’t waste a single hour on me. As you can see, I’m surrounded by helpers and assistants dedicated to my welfare. Even Krautmeir came to see if I need her. Yet you, Fred, have been stationed here as if it is your job to take care of me.” Manfred answered, “So, Mother, in your opinion, what should Fred be doing?” Henrietta answered, “In my opinion, you should sit in your room and pore over your work.” Manfred said, “From what you say, Mother, it would appear that I don’t sit at my desk, in my room. In that case, let me tell you this, Mother. All of last night – more precisely, most of last night – I didn’t stir from my desk. What did I achieve? Only boredom. The boredom begins to bore me. You laugh at that charming phrase, Mother. It’s not mine. It’s Ludwig Richter’s.” Henrietta said, “I won’t suggest ways to escape the boredom that is beginning to bore you, but I will say that you don’t belong here, in this room. We have a houseful of women, which is quite enough. Stand up, Fred. Let me have a look. You’ve put on weight. You ought to weigh yourself.” Fred said, “I, also, think I’ve gotten fatter. A dozen Shylocks could each take a pound of flesh from me, and it wouldn’t look as if anything were missing. Everything about me is becoming slovenly. It’s because I don’t smoke as much.” “Because you don’t smoke as much?” “Yes, Henriett. Yes. Because I’m not as much of a smoker. In the past, when I felt I was missing something – and when doesn’t a person feel he is missing something? – anyway, when I felt I was missing something, I used to stick a cigarette in my mouth and begin smoking. Now, Henriett, now I fill my mouth with chocolate or other sweets that turn into fat. What are you staring at?” Henrietta said, “What am I staring at? If I’m not mistaken, your belt is two holes looser than it used to be.” Manfred said, “You’re mistaken, Henriett, you’re mistaken. I’ve already made an extra hole in the belt. Unless God is a little less generous with me, my belt won’t have room for enough new holes. I’m already afraid I may have to make holes in the air. Most people would suggest that I work in the garden. They don’t realize that gardening stimulates the appetite.” Henrietta said, “You ought to walk.” Manfred said, “Do you mean a stroll around my belly? Believe it o
r not, I already tried that.” Henrietta said, “If not for the Arabs, I would tell you to go into the hills, as we used to do when we first came to Jerusalem. Oh, Fred, remember those days? On Shabbat, we used to spend six or seven hours hiking through the hills and come home jubilant and happy. I remember one Shabbat, before I had a chance to set up the burner and heat the food, you devoured everything I had prepared for dinner, except for a bottle of wine, which you drank down in one gulp. After that, you played drunk and insisted you were so hungry you would eat me. I was so silly at the time: even though I knew you were pretending, I was a little afraid you were really drunk, and, when you opened your mouth to bite me, I was afraid you really would bite me. And then the mouth that threatened to swallow me up began to overflow with kisses. Remember? It was the year I got pregnant with Tamara. Sometimes, when I think about her and her character, I wonder if she is the way she is because of how carefree we were on those walks. Fred, I don’t want to submerge myself in memories; past memories interfere with current pleasures. As I said before, if not for the Arabs, I would suggest that you go for a walk in the hills. Still, there are places in Jerusalem where you can walk safely. Why don’t you invite Tamara to go along? Tamara would be glad to accompany you, and you would be glad too. When it comes to bringing fathers and daughters together, there is nothing as effective as a walk.”

  Henrietta was silent, and Manfred was silent too. I don’t know what this silence was about. It wasn’t that he was tired of listening or that she was tired of talking. In any case, Manfred didn’t move away from Henrietta, and Henrietta didn’t move away from Manfred. After a while, she continued, “Since you mentioned Ludwig Richter, I was reminded of the walks I used to take with my father. At the time, he had been asked by Ullstein Verlag to do some drawings of the countryside around Berlin. Father, who loved Berlin and its environs more than any other piece of land in the world, didn’t linger to negotiate the fee or any other details. As soon as he left the publisher’s office, he filled his pack with paint and brushes, and set out to work. Father was wearing a hunting jacket; he had a small pipe in his mouth, like the one he gave you, perhaps the very same one; his eyes were fixed on his favorite landscapes. It was obvious to me at the time that Father was unaware of my existence, that he didn’t see me and didn’t know I was there, that I was superfluous. Just when I was convinced I was superfluous, Father took my arm and said, ‘Look, Henrietta, look at that drooping tree, that carcass of a tree. That particular tree is the one I mean to paint.’ He noticed that I was surprised by his words, by his emphasis on ‘that particular tree.’ So he began to elaborate: ‘I know the arbiters of taste will disapprove, but I will do what I like, and, if they don’t like it, they can…’ At this point, Father used one of those words that fathers don’t usually use in a daughter’s presence. I myself was delighted with that word, with the sense that Father was treating me as he would treat a friend. You remember Father, of course. At home he was very conventional, but I was told that he was totally transformed when with friends, that he became a different person. What do you want, Sarah? Why are you crying? Who put dirty water in your eyes? Let me wipe them, and tell me why you’re crying.” Sarah forgot she was crying and said, “That lady says Sarah is Sarini’s child, Sarah isn’t Mama’s child. Gabi is Sarini’s child too. Gabi isn’t Mama’s child. If she wants to, Sarini will put Gabi back inside her, and there won’t be any Gabi.” Henrietta smoothed Sarah’s cheek, kissed her, and said, “Go tell that lady, ‘Mama says Sarah is her best, best girl, and Gabi belongs to Mama too.’ Go call Firadeus to come here, so I can tell her to tell that lady never to say such things again. Sarah is definitely Mama’s own girl. Of course she is her Mama’s girl.” Sarah began to cry again, crying harder than at first. I don’t know what made her cry now. When she began talking to her mother, she had stopped crying. Her mother’s words may have made her aware of every possible sadness, which made her feel sorry for herself and brought on another round of tears. Henrietta picked her up, caressed her cheek, kissed and comforted her. “Why are you crying?” she asked. Sarah answered tearfully, “That lady, she took Gabi back inside her, into her heart.” Henrietta said, “Gabi is tough. Gabi took one leap, and out he came. Ask your father. He’ll tell you. Tell her, Father.” Father Manfred said, “You believe that other lady, but you don’t believe your own mother? If your mother says something to me, I listen and believe it. Isn’t that so, Mother?” Henrietta laughed and said, “Now you’ll see, Sarah, that what Father says is true. Tell Father this: ‘Mother says, “Go for a walk, Father,”‘ and, in a minute, Sarah, you’ll see Father going for a walk. Sarah, surely you’ve seen Father go for walks? What’s going on here? I say, ‘Go tell Father,’ and you don’t tell him.” Manfred asked Sarah, “Tell me, Sarah, what did Mother say?” Sarah said, “Mother said that Sarah should tell Father that Father should go for a walk.” Henrietta said, “Very good, Sarah. I see that I can count on you, that I can give you messages and you’ll deliver them. Now, Sarah, ask Father when he plans to take his walk.” Sarah said, “What do you mean, ‘when’?”

  Before she could explain, there was a knock at the door. Before she could say, “Come in,” a man entered, dressed like an elder of the Sephardic community, an elder’s turban on his head and an elder’s staff in his hand. Manfred looked at him, bewildered. All sorts of odd creatures had appeared in his home, but never one like this. Henrietta peered suspiciously at the sage. She finally said, “You’re Sarini’s husband, aren’t you?” Sarini’s husband said, “I’m here not because of the woman called Sarini. I’m here because of something more wonderful than a thousand women.”

  I will try to explain about this. The night of the day his son was circumcised (the son born to him of the woman Sarini), a year before Mr. Herberist’s son was born (the one Sarini was supposed to nurse), it was revealed to him that he had been appointed emissary to the Ten Tribes and to Bnei Moshe. At first he was reluctant and replied, “Who am I, et cetera …,” but his excuses were not accepted, and he was told not to be obstinate. He has been entrusted with spells against wild animals, highwaymen, and desert sands, for there are crazy sands in the desert that can swallow up an entire caravan, camels, riders, and all. But he will not be harmed, because of the spell he possesses. He is equipped with a spell to disarm those birds of prey that aren’t listed in the Torah on account of their wickedness – birds that emit fiery sparks when they encounter a human being, consuming him and turning him to dust. These are the very birds that destroyed some of Alexander’s armies. But they can’t harm him, because he has a spell that counteracts their power. When they open their mouths to spew their fire at him, the sparks will backfire and burn up their innards. They will be destroyed by this spell. He is protected against the perils of the road, savage animals, highwaymen, desert sands, birds that spit fire. So why has he come to Herbst? He isn’t asking for help in financing the trip, for, in addition to all sorts of trades by which he can support himself wherever he goes, he has learned to repair stoves and, in a pinch, can also repair a sewing machine. So what does he want? He wants a letter from the Jewish Agency, which is why he is here. He wants a letter from Mr. Herberist to the officials of the Agency, asking them to write a letter on his behalf, addressed to the Ten Tribes and to Bnei Moshe. If, for political reasons, it is necessary to conceal this matter from the English – either some or all of it – they can be assured that no information will be extracted from him, not with tongs of fire, not with tongs of gold. If Jewish Agency officials are afraid that he may get lost, leaving them answerable for the loss of a Jewish soul, he is willing to reveal parts of his route to Herberist Samuel or to one of the Ashkenazi elders – Rabbi Kook, for example. If the Jewish Agency insists on testing him to see whether he is familiar with the route from the Land of Israel to where the Ten Tribes are, he is willing to divulge all the roads, as long as they vow not to divulge the information to anyone else until he returns safely from the Ten Tribes and Bnei Moshe. If they are afraid he
may, God forbid, partake of those magical grasses and roots that allow a man to see anything he wants to in his dream, he can swear on our teacher Moses, on the Holy Tablets, on the Ten Commandments that he won’t even touch any such roots or grasses. He received travel directions from an old Turk, who served in the Turkish army and was told by a high-ranking officer that it was good to befriend the Ten Tribes: they were fond of the Turks because Turks hated Arabs, and Arabs persecuted Jews.

  In this period, while he was being pursued by Sarini’s husband, who was pressing him to write a letter to the Jewish Agency, Herbst received a letter from abroad inviting him to contribute to an anniversary volume in honor of Professor Neu, who was going to turn seventy the following year. Even before he was invited to contribute to this book, he himself had been thinking of putting out a slim volume for Neu’s birthday, and he had begun working on it. Because of Gabriel’s birth, he had put it aside. Now that the invitation had arrived, he had in mind to prepare a chapter from his own book for this volume. To this end, he planned to skim through various books and journals to see what was new in the field. These books and journals could be found in two places: in the National Library at the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus or at Ernst Weltfremdt’s. Normally, Herbst would go to Mount Scopus. Now he chose to go to Ernst Weltfremdt, though they had drifted apart, and he hadn’t even come to his son’s brit. But he had sent him a copy of his new book as a gift.

  I am skipping over Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation, which was undoubtedly of a scholarly nature. The day his major work was published, he changed his ways. He no longer engaged in conversation that wasn’t scholarly, and, needless to say, he avoided conversation with anyone who wasn’t a scholar. If anyone tried to involve him in university disputes, political affairs, or any similarly ephemeral matters, he would respond floridly, “My dear, dear friend, let us leave such matters to those who have nothing in their world beyond these unreal concerns, while we, my dear, dear friend, deal with our own affairs, thus bringing far more benefit to the world than any statesman or public figure.” So much for Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation. I am now leaving Weltfremdt’s house with Herbst, who is laden with books borrowed for a month. Weltfremdt has instituted a time limit when lending books, which is an advantage to the borrower. Knowing that the books must be returned on a particular day, he will make a point of using them and be less likely to waste time.