by Agnon, S. Y.
When Firadeus left, Herbst sat alone, pondering: Henrietta has a guest, a nurse from the hospital. Anyone who has no illusions would know the guest is not Shira. She is just some nurse who attended Henrietta in the hospital, who no doubt promised to visit and came today, keeping her promise, which Shira didn’t do. Shira might have also done so, if there had been nothing between us. Once again, he reviewed the incident in the telephone booth, when he spoke with her there, as well as his visit to her house and her room, which took a turn he wouldn’t have thought possible, as well as what transpired the following day, when Henrietta herself put them in each other’s hands. Herbst sat reviewing everything that had transpired with Shira. There wasn’t anything that he didn’t remember, nor was there anything he forgot. He didn’t omit anything that transpired with Shira, and he especially didn’t omit those things that did not occur between them. He was even more keenly aware of what did not occur between them than of what did, as if what did not occur was the essence. And, that being what he lacked, he would be keenly aware of this lack forever. Now Shira has exceeded everything. She doesn’t show herself; she simply doesn’t show herself. She has absented herself from the places she used to frequent. She has vanished, vanished so that she can no longer be found. It would be worthwhile to know where she is. He said it would be worthwhile, and his heart began to flutter with yearning, so that he knew he would have no rest until he finds her. He reached for the tray, to take another peach, not realizing he had finished them all, that there was no fruit left. But the fruit he had eaten did not satisfy him. As a matter of fact, it stimulated his appetite. He deliberated awhile and told himself: If I go downstairs, I’ll surely find her. He knew clearly that the guest wasn’t Shira; that, since she wasn’t Shira, he had no interest in her; that all nurses were the same to him, and he had no need to go and see which one was sitting with Henrietta. Nonetheless, he got up to go downstairs.
When he opened his door, the downstairs door opened and the nurse came out. She was taking leave of Henrietta. Herbst already knew she wasn’t Shira, but he wanted to see and be convinced that she wasn’t Shira. He alerted his ears to listen to the nurse’s voice as she said goodbye to Henrietta. Hearing it, he immediately knew her voice wasn’t Shira’s voice. But he held his breath so he could hear. Was she Shira or was she not Shira? After a while, Firadeus came back again. She came to tell him, “The mistress says lunch will soon be ready.”
Chapter four
So as not to delay Sarah and Firadeus, one of whom had to nap after lunch, while the other had to go home and prepare a meal for her mother and brothers and sisters, Henrietta instructed Firadeus to serve herself and Sarah, to sit down and eat, rather than wait for the nurse to leave. Which is why he found Henrietta alone when he came down to lunch. Manfred glanced at Sarah’s empty chair and said, “Where is the little one? Did she misbehave? Is she not being allowed to eat with the grownups because of something she did?” Henrietta said, “Sarah’s napping.” Manfred repeated, “She’s napping?” Henrietta said, “She has already eaten. It didn’t make sense to have her wait for us to sit down and eat.” Manfred rolled his eyelids comically and said, in a tone that made it clear he was anxious to know who had been visiting Henrietta, “So you had important company?” Henrietta said, “How do you know it was important company?” Manfred extended the palm of his hand and said, “There are several clues.” He flexed one finger and said: “Because, one, you postponed lunch on account of the visit; two, the guest must be very special if our meal was deemed unworthy of him.” Henrietta gazed at him questioningly, “And three?” Manfred said, “Anyone who takes the liberty of calling on Mrs. Herbst is an important person. Who was here – who is he, that you starve your heart’s chosen mate because of him?” Henrietta said, “Not because of him; because of her. If I starved you, I did at least send you peaches. If not for that guest, you would never get to see such splendid fruit outside of a display case.” Manfred said, “So how did you get the peaches? Did you smash the display case to get them for me?” Henrietta said, “At least you enjoyed them?” Herbst said, “I didn’t enjoy them, I didn’t enjoy them at all. How could I take pleasure in food, knowing someone was with you, tormenting you with conversation?” Henrietta said, “As it happens, Fred, the guest’s conversation didn’t torment me at all. As a matter of fact, the entire conversation was a revelation of sorts.” Manfred stretched his neck from right to left, peered at her, and said, in a tone that conveyed curiosity, “Is that so? Is that so? It would be nice to hear about that conversation, which was so pleasant that you found it to be ‘a revelation of sorts.’ I ought to admit that I myself don’t know what ‘a revelation of sorts’ is. In any case, I imagine the guest told you great and important things. If it doesn’t involve divulging secrets, maybe you could tell me what that gentleman told you.” Henrietta said, “You sound exactly like your daughter.” Manfred said, “I sound like Zahara?” Henrietta said, “Is Zahara your only daughter? It seems to me that, apart from Zahara, you have two other daughters.” She extended her hand, as Manfred had done earlier, and flexed a finger, saying, “One, Tamara.” She flexed another finger and said, “Two, Sarah.” Manfred said, “In what way do I sound like Tamara?” Henrietta said, “Why do you pick Tamara? I’m thinking of Sarah.” “Sarah? Do I stammer like a child?” Henrietta said, “One, Sarah doesn’t stammer; two, it’s not a stammer I’m referring to. I’m referring to grammar.” “Grammar? You’ve been studying grammar? Hurray, Henrietta. Hurray. You know my views: one cannot know a language without knowing its grammar. Which is to say that any language that isn’t native cannot be acquired without studying its grammar. Who is teaching you? Taglicht? He knows Hebrew, but he surely doesn’t know grammar. Let me tell you a paradox of sorts. Grammar is our province – the province of Germans. Among East European Jews, there are those who know grammar. But their knowledge is intuitive; it comes from the heart. They can’t externalize it and teach it to others. So, what is all this grammar talk about?” Henrietta said, “Are you thinking of Sarah’s grammar? When Sarah wants to say, ‘Sarah loves Daddy,’ she says, ‘Sarah loves his Daddy.’“ “What? She still doesn’t distinguish between masculine and feminine?” “As a matter of fact, she does distinguish. When she refers to Zahara, she says, ‘Sarah loves her Zahara’; when she refers to Zahara’s husband, she says, ‘Sarah loves his Avraham.’ This also applies to hate. Referring to a male, she uses the masculine form of the pronoun for herself; referring to a female, she uses the feminine form.” “And for her brother?” “She doesn’t mention her brother at all. It’s as though he didn’t exist.” “She ignores him?” “She doesn’t ignore him, but she would like us to ignore him.” Manfred said, “It’s hard on a woman who is used to be being the center of the universe to have her place usurped.” Henrietta said, “A woman! You consider Sarah a woman and assume my visitor was a man. My dear Fred, what is happening to you?” Manfred said, “So it was a woman who was here. Someone I know?” Henrietta said, “I don’t keep a catalogue of all the women you know.” Manfred said, “Bravo, Henriett, bravo. If I were to adopt Sarah’s language, I would say, ‘Manfred loves her Henriett.’ How gracious you are, Henriett, to assume I know women other than my own Henriett. That woman couldn’t have found a better time to visit? She had to come at a time when company is unwelcome?” Henrietta said, “She truly couldn’t find another time. Nurses who work in hospitals are busy. She had a bit of free time and wanted to see how I am doing. Needless to say, she especially wanted to see the baby. She was the one who brought us the peaches. An effendi, whose wife bore him a live child in Hadassah Hospital, brought her fruit from his garden, and she brought some to us.” “What do you mean, ‘a live child’?” Henrietta said, “A live child and not a dead one. Year after year, she bore dead babies. Thanks to Hadassah and thanks to our doctors, his wife finally bore him a living child. Fred, we’re developing to the point where very soon we won’t be able to talk to each other. You don’t seem to understand what I say
anymore, and you question every word. I wanted to tell you some of what the nurse told me, Fred, but I see I won’t even get to begin.” “Why?” “Why? There you go again. I can’t say a word without being asked a thousand questions.” “A thousand questions? That’s an exaggeration.” “Nine hundred and ninety-nine may be more precise. My dear Fred, go and have a rest.” “And the story the nurse told you will keep until I get up?” “I’ll have to decide whether to tell it to you.” Manfred said, “I see you’re cross with me. Incidentally, I meant to ask: considering the animosity between the two of you, how did Dr. Krautmeir explain her visit?” Henrietta was stunned and surveyed her husband in wonderment tinged with suspicion. Manfred felt uneasy, without knowing why. Henrietta remained silent. Manfred remained silent too. Henrietta broke the silence and said, “Then you didn’t hear any of what the nurse told me? No, no, no. Upstairs, it’s impossible to hear what goes on down below.” Manfred said, “Of course, it’s always been my habit to stand up there and listen to what goes on down here.” Henrietta said, “That’s not what I meant. Anyway, it’s interesting that you mention Krautmeir. The story I wanted to tell you happens to be about her – a spicy story inspired by Balzac’s familiar tales. Too bad, Fred. Too bad. Even before I began, you stole the sting.” Manfred said, “Tell me.” Henrietta said, “How does one begin? I doubt that I can tell it right. In any case, I learned from this story that Dr. Krautmeir, who devotes herself to limiting our population, sometimes demonstrates – personally – how babies are made. Oh, Fred, I’ve given it away. What I’m about to say to you is: let’s save the story for another time. Because the elements are so good, the story itself suffers.” Manfred said, “Curiosity is not a virtue, but neither is it a virtue to stir up curiosity.” Henrietta said, “Will you be able to sit and listen without a cigarette in your mouth?” Manfred said, “In your honor, in honor of that lady, Dr. Krautmeir, in honor of all the genteel ladies who don’t smoke, I’m willing to forgo a cigarette for a while. Tell me, Henriett, are there many storytellers who have been so royally compensated? Now then, either you begin or I smoke two cigarettes at a time.” Henrietta said, “I really don’t know how to begin, but I’ll try.
“A young woman from Mea Shearim lived with her husband for a number of years without bearing him any children. They were both very sad, for a man of the ultra-Orthodox community takes a wife to beget children. They heard about a woman doctor from Germany, here in Jerusalem, and that many women beat a path to her door. They weren’t aware that those women go to Krautmeir in order not to give birth. One day, they both went to her, the woman and the man. She was about twenty, and so was he. Their longing for a child exceeded their years. Krautmeir undertook to treat the woman. She began coming to Krautmeir, accompanied by her husband. She was a shy and lovely girl. He was handsome, appealing, and as shy as his wife. They were dressed in the old Mea Shearim style, which makes those lovely, demure people all the more attractive. In short, Krautmeir treated the woman, while her husband sat in the adjacent room, looking at the pictures in the magazines one finds in doctors’ waiting rooms. Several months passed, perhaps a year. One day, the young man plucked up the courage to go to Krautmeir alone and ask if there was a prospect of children from his wife. Krautmeir’s answer is not known. One can assume she addressed him in her usual manner – in simple words, without much empathy – and explained the secrets of sex. The man was interested in what she said. He began to call on her more and more frequently, especially on Shabbat afternoons, when she didn’t normally see patients. Krautmeir was interested in this naive young man from the old community, in his long earlocks, in everything about him. Only one thing is unclear, the nurse told me. What language did they speak? He didn’t know German; she knew barely any Yiddish. Being one of those fanatics who regard spoken Hebrew as heresy, would he allow himself to speak Hebrew to her? It would still be a problem, because Krautmeir’s Hebrew is too limited to allow for much conversation. So much for Krautmeir, for the young man and the young woman. Let’s turn our attention to a small fish bone.
“An old man was eating his Shabbat dinner when a fish bone got stuck in his throat. There was a great commotion in his house, and they began shouting, ‘Get a doctor!’ They remembered that some woman doctor lived nearby and ran to her house. When people from that community go to a doctor, they are usually joined by a large entourage. By the time they arrived at Krautmeir’s house, a crowd had collected. To avoid desecrating the Shabbat, and because they were in such a panic, they didn’t ring the bell. They merely pushed on the door. Luckily for them, the door opened instantly. Luckily for them – but not for that young man. The crowd was so panicked that someone knocked over a bottle of medicine and stained the young man’s shtreimel, which was resting on the table near Krautmeir’s bed. Not only did it soil his shtreimel, but it stained his caftan as well, his elegant Shabbat caftan. He himself was not spared; he was assaulted by many pairs of eyes that wondered just why he was in the doctor’s bed, and why she was there in the bed with him. She was probably teaching him what a man does to beget children. Now tell me, Fred, did you expect to hear such a story from me? If you’re not astonished, I certainly am.”