Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  After Herbst left Weltfremdt, he saw that he would have to take the bus to Baka, because he had so many books that it would be awkward to walk. Herbst was sorry that, now that he was in Rehavia, a neighborhood one could walk in, he had to go home, because of the books. His thoughts turned on many matters, and it crossed his mind that the entire course of his life would have been different if he didn’t live in Baka. Moreover, it was clear that he must move out of Baka. It is dangerous for a Jew to live among Arabs, and he is endangering his wife and daughters, as well as Firadeus and all those who come to his house. Years back, before Rehavia existed, he and all his acquaintances were young, and an hour’s walk was nothing to them, so it didn’t matter to him where he lived. Now, he and his acquaintances have grown old, the city has expanded in all directions, and the Arabs have restricted the movements of Jews and drawn lines that separate one street from another, so it is difficult for a Jew to live in Baka. Before he arrived at the stop, a bus passed him by. When he got there, the next bus hadn’t yet come. Herbst stood at the bus stop, his arms laden with books, his mind brimming with thoughts – among them, the foolish ones that are likely to concern a modern man, such as: My hands are full, and, if a woman I know comes by, I ought to ask how she is, but I won’t even be able to lift my hand and tip my hat to her. Oh, well, Herbst observed – perhaps joking, perhaps with an ounce of sincerity – one can carry big books and think small thoughts.

  The bus finally came. Since it wasn’t full, Herbst could have found a seat if he hadn’t been intercepted by Sarini, who was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. She, Sarini, being a truthful person who isn’t in the habit of saying Vashti when she means Esther, was prepared, at that moment, to tell Mr. Herberist the whole truth about why she was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. This is how it was: That villain, that demon from hell, may his name be blotted out, who is her husband and the father of her children, may those who seek to count them lose their sight – that villain, that devil is possessed by madness and is determined to go to the mountains of darkness. Now that all the roads are imperiled by Ibn Saud’s wars, a disaster could, God forbid, befall him, and what would become of her? She would be an abandoned wife, doomed to remain desolate for the rest of her days, and her tender young ones would be orphans by default. So she is going to Mistress Herberist, who is probably a soulmate and intimate of the wife of the Englishman who occupies Herberist Samuel’s position, who can reproach that villainous husband of hers and forbid him to leave Jerusalem in a bus or a car, on a horse, donkey, camel, or mule, or on foot – not even with magic spells or the assistance of a guardian angel. Sarini interrupted herself and began shouting in a loud voice, “I stand here, my hands empty, my mouth full, while Mr. Herberist stands there, his hands so full. All because of that villain, may he be erased and defaced for having caused me such sorrow and deprived me of sense, so much so that I see Mr. Herberist, exhausted by the load he is carrying, yet make no move to help him. Give it to me, sir. The entire load. I’ll take it all home for you, in my arms and on my head. Nothing – not a single page of these books – will be missing. See, you need two hands for it, but when I put it all in my basket, one hand is enough.” He hesitated to entrust Sarini with books that weren’t his own, that belonged to Ernst Weltfremdt, who was so fussy about his property. Her baskets aren’t clean; they may even be dirty, he reasoned. She uses them to carry things home from the market, such things as meat, fish, oil – sometimes even a slaughtered chicken. What will that pedant say if he finds a speck on his book? Weltfremdt would never forgive him and, needless to say, would no longer grant him access to his bookshelves. While he was still considering, she took the books from him and put them in her basket. Sarini lifted the basket until it was at eye level and said to Herbst, “See, here they are. Like an infant in a cradle. I wish my children had found themselves such a cozy nest. You can go where you like. I’ll take the books to your room and put them on your desk, one by one, in the right order, not head to tail.” Herbst didn’t understand what heads and tails had to do with books, but he assumed it was a metaphor for order. He smiled benignly. She smiled back and said, “I won’t go with that madwoman,” pointing to the bus, which she regarded as a fierce female. Herbst smiled again, said goodbye to her, and repeated, “Goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye, and thank you for making it possible for me not to go home when I have things to do in town. What should you tell Mrs. Herbst? Tell her not to hold supper for me. Now goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye.”

  Chapter two

  As soon as his arms were emptied of his books, his mind was emptied too. He didn’t know where to turn, where to go. As long as the books were with him, he knew he had to go home. Now that he was clear of the books, several paths were cleared for him, none of which was useful. Herbst was still at the bus stop where he had been standing earlier, before he gave the books to Sarini. Buses arrived and departed, but he didn’t take any of them. Men and women pushed to the head of the line, and he found himself at the end of it. He let himself be pushed aside to make room for people who had to get on the bus. After standing around for a while, he realized he didn’t belong there, that he didn’t have to stay in line, that he didn’t have to stand and wait, that there was no reason to be concerned about finding a seat on the bus. Relieved of the discomforts of waiting, he felt liberated. He could set his legs in motion and go anywhere. Anywhere…. Which was a problem, because he didn’t want to go anywhere. He thought vaguely about going to see if Shira was at home, but he took no action. He mused: I won’t bother myself with something I can do some other time. If my curiosity about Shira has subsided, I won’t deliberately renew it.

  The day was already dimming, and the entire earth changed its aspect. The streets suppressed their tumult, some roads turning white, others graying. The air close to the ground became black; closer to the sky, it was pink; and the air in between was nondescript, colorless. The trees on Maimon Boulevard, along with the men and women who strolled by, were engrossed in a secret they themselves were unaware of. Some of these strollers seemed to be saying: You don’t realize who we are. Not in so many words, yet whoever saw them wondered who they were. After circling several streets, Herbst turned onto the one named for Rav Saadia Gaon; actually, those who name streets had foolishly omitted the title Rav, though they generally bestowed it on Israel’s great men. Herbst looked down over the valley, surveyed the scene that twinkled up at him, and thought: Here we have a remnant of Jerusalem’s splendor, unblemished by new construction. How wonderful it used to be to go down into the valleys and up into the hills, but nowadays one would be exposed to Arab gunfire and Arab knives. He forced himself – yes, actually forced himself – to reject the fantasies he usually indulged in about Shira’s disappearance and the circumstances of her disappearance. He suddenly felt that this required no effort; that, having recurred so often, these fantasies had lost their intensity and no longer frightened him. I see, said Herbst, in an utterly peaceful and expansive mood, I see that when one fantasizes a great deal about something, it loses its intensity. If so, why hasn’t Shira lost her intensity? Is there anything in the world I have thought about as much as I’ve thought about Shira? Right now, her name doesn’t arouse any emotion, but it would be worthwhile to know where she is. Isn’t it odd? You begin to count on a person, on finding that person in the places you know he frequents. He suddenly vanishes, and you don’t find him anywhere. Someone will probably appear now and divert me. In any case, I shouldn’t have entrusted the books to Sarini. Someone else’s books should be safeguarded. I shouldn’t have let them out of my hands. But what’s done is done, so I won’t dwell on it. Having decided not to dwell on the fact that he had entrusted the books to Sarini, he began to think about Sarini’s husband: Even if his trip is a total fantasy, he gains something by leaving his home, as well as the orderly routines that make boredom inevitable. The world isn’t short on ideas, good deeds, ideals, and love, be it the love of men and women or the love of sublime ideals. But, when every
day is identical, when everything is the outcome or sequel of something similar, then, whether we like it or not, ideas, ideals, and love begin to seem flawed. What can a man do to renew himself, to give meaning to actions whose meaning is lost, to disengage himself from routine? It may be that monks and ascetics choose to cast aside wealth and position, and settle in desert caves, in order to serve their gods, as our history books and our legends lead us to believe. But there may be another reason for this choice: a need to suspend their routines and renew their souls. Even such a simple person as Sarini’s husband, who does nothing but eat, drink, and beget children, may have felt the urge to renew his world when that divine hand directed him, in a dream, to seek out the Ten Tribes. How Henrietta laughed when I told her I was beginning to be bored with boredom. I, for one, don’t understand this: I went to Ernst Weltfremdt’s to get books for the article I’m writing for Neu’s anniversary volume, yet here I am, wasting my time on sheer nonsense. What is obvious is that what I ought to do now is review my article to ascertain if there is anything new in it, anything that will please Neu. Neu, Neu, Neu, Herbst cried inwardly, like someone in distress crying out for help. Herbst wasn’t in distress, and he cried out only because his heart was full and he had to express what was inside. Since he was thinking of Neu, he cried “Neu.” In such a circumstance, a naive person invokes God; a simple person cries “Mama, Mama.” Herbst, who was academically disciplined, invoked the name of the teacher from whom he had learned so much.

  Herbst, like most people, found that, having invoked a particular name, others followed by association. Rightfully, he should have remembered Lisbet Neu. But he didn’t. Either he dismissed her from his mind, or his article was uppermost at that moment. Who can fathom a man’s mental processes? Since I mentioned Lisbet Neu, I will now dwell on her situation.

  Lisbet Neu is still employed at the same place. She works in the store or the office eight or nine hours a day and is paid the same salary as before. Employers are difficult, whether they are shopkeepers or run offices. They are self-involved and don’t consider their employees’ needs, especially if the employee doesn’t belong to the Histadrut, in which case the union has no power over them. Even members of the new society in this old-new country, most of whom came here to live a new life – a proper and ethical one – fail to restate that old rule to themselves, the one we have to behold anew every day: “And your brother shall live with you.” If not for the threat of strikes and Histadrut disputes, most of our self-righteous brothers would be willing to ignore their employees’ way of life, expecting them to work until they expire but being careful to avoid getting stuck with the burial expenses. So Lisbet Neu works eight or nine hours out of the twenty-four in a day for a paltry salary, supporting herself meagerly. Lisbet Neu has already despaired of finding a man, so she works doubly hard. Her employer is pleased. He is generous with compliments, but he doesn’t raise her salary. Leaving the business in her hands, he sleeps late, stays at home entertaining guests, and goes abroad in the summer. Lisbet Neu is dependable, and he depends on her. Nothing seems to have changed in Lisbet Neu’s life, except that she has made friends with several young women, the daughters of parents who came from Germany, with whom she spends Shabbat evenings reading the weekly Bible portion along with the commentary of Samson Raphael Hirsch. Hirsch’s language is complex, and not everyone understands it. But Lisbet, who pored over his books back in Germany, interprets for them, drawing deep meaning from his well of ideas. Some young women pore over the magazines that come from abroad, studying the pictures to learn what dress one wears on which day, at which hour, in which company; what creams are suitable for skin and teeth; which cosmetics are used by the most genteel women. Lisbet Neu and her friends find contentment in the Torah and the commentaries. Believe it or not, they are well dressed; their teeth are bright, their scent appealing. When Herbst first knew Lisbet Neu, he responded to a scent of innocence that seemed to pervade her person.

  Herbst had forgotten when he last saw Lisbet Neu. Other concerns burdened his memory, and there was no room in it for an Orthodox young woman with whom he was acquainted only because she was related to his mentor and guide, Professor Neu. But Lisbet Neu remembers Herbst and thinks of him. Two years ago, she heard that his daughter was married; a year ago, she heard that his daughter had a son; not long ago, she heard that he had a son. Each item led to emotional turmoil. According to convention, she ought to congratulate him, either orally or in writing. Since she wished him well, she surely ought to congratulate him. But, whenever she sat down to write, her hand began to falter, and she thought: Won’t it be a bother to him, as if I wanted to force him to relate to me? Once these thoughts crossed her mind, she decided that the less said, the better. But, after choosing not to write to him, she began to worry that this was rude. She did, after all, know him. They had gone on several walks together; he had invited her out for coffee and talked to her. And still she hadn’t found time to write two or three words to him. Her mother had even remarked, “Lisbet, you ought to write a note to Dr. Herbst.” Imagine this: Herbst remembered everyone who came to his son’s brit and exactly who came to congratulate Henrietta when she was in the hospital. He even remembered Dr. Krautmeir, who found it necessary to visit Henrietta at home and ask if she could be helpful, despite the fact that they were not on good terms with each other. Yet it didn’t occur to him that Lisbet Neu had not come to congratulate him. That’s how people are. One person thinks about another endlessly and interminably, yet there is no room at all for him in that other person’s mind.

  Herbst strolled through Rehavia without going into anyone’s house. Two or three times, he sat down on those benches on Maimon Boulevard, but he didn’t stay long, because of the couples who needed no witness for their embraces. Hearing the echo of kisses all around him, he thought: These boys and girls imagine I am here to interfere with their lovemaking, but I don’t care about them at all. After a few hours, he decided he ought to go home. Even though Henrietta wasn’t holding dinner for him, he should have been home already. So he said to himself: We are going home. He wasn’t pleased to be going home, just as he hadn’t been pleased to be roaming around idly. He had been granted a certain number of hours and had done nothing with them. He felt a sudden weariness in his limbs. Not physical weariness, but emotional weariness – the kind that comes from idleness, from the fact that he had planned to do something and had allowed the time to pass, doing nothing with it because he didn’t know what to do. Despite his fatigue he had a desire to walk home, through Talbieh, through the vegetable patches, the fields, the gardens, past the lepers’ colony, around Mekor Hayim to Baka. He loved these roads, especially at night, when there was no one to disturb him and he could walk on and on, thinking while he walked. Here was the scent of a grass he knew by name and scent; here, the sound of a small animal; the stare of a dog who recognized him and didn’t bark, or barked to announce that he recognized him. Many other adventures, endless and infinite, occurred on the way. Even the telegraph wires in that area have a hum that is not metallic, and, without over-responding to this sound, it would not be far from the truth to compare it to that of rustling garden fences, to the chatter from rooftop nests. But woe unto him who strays from the populated territory, for, with every step, he endangers his life. For this reason, he turned away from all these pleasures and toward Jaffa Road, to wait for the bus to Baka.

  Jaffa Road was quiet and serene, with no visible sign of the times. Perhaps this in itself was a sign of the times: the fact that this raucous street was quiet that night. Streetlamps gave off their dim, muted light. In a burst of romantic excess, the head of the municipality, who regarded himself as the last of the Crusaders, ordered streetlamps for Jerusalem with their glass panels divided into twelve sections, to match the tribes of Israel. Jews build synagogues with a window for each of the twelve gates of prayer, so each tribe’s prayers can enter the heavenly gates in comfort, while this chivalrous wouldbe Crusader designs Jerusalem’s street
lamps in a way that restricts our light. Here and there, two or three lights shone from windows in the two hotels across from the bus stop. Most of the windows were dark, however. The rooms were unoccupied. Not many people came to Jerusalem in those days, because the unrest brought on by the Arabs made the roads dangerous. What was true of the hotels was true of the stores. And of the entire street as well.

  Herbst had been waiting for about half an hour, and no bus had come. Even more strange was the fact that there was no one else at the bus stop. What’s this, another curfew? He hadn’t heard a curfew being announced. Were his ears so used to it that it no longer registered? He had seen policemen on the street, and they hadn’t stopped him, which suggests that there is no curfew, that the streets just happened to be deserted. He was overwhelmed with another terror: that he would have to stand there – who knows for how long? – because the drivers, expecting no passengers, come at such infrequent intervals. It would be a long wait for the bus, if it came at all. These bus companies exist, not to serve the public, but to milk it. Now that the public is ineffectual and no longer fills their pockets with money, why bother? Herbst looked around for a taxi, even though his finances were tight, more so now that he has an added child who needs a wetnurse. Nevertheless, he decided to take a taxi. Sarini meant to do him a favor when she took his books. In the end, he was losing time and money because of her; he would have to spend fifteen grush on a taxi. Since he didn’t find a taxi, he continued to wait, contemplating Sarini’s favor, and from this subject his mind shifted to her husband.