8 Great Hebrew Short Novels

by Неизвестный

  The baker stared at Nimmer in astonishment and gave him what he asked with an expression of pity and awe. For a moment he wondered if he should give his visitor some alms. Apparently reaching a decision, he pulled a hot pitta out from under a rolling pin, waved it in the air to cool it, and offered it to Nimmer, at the same time asking him what town he came from and where he was going.

  Nimmer ignored the offering, and neither thanked him for his generosity nor answered his questions. With agitation in his face, with trembling hands, he was again busy over his bag, which he was trying to undo. He clutched it and shook it, emptying it all out on the ground, and was startled on hearing the rustle of the silk and the ringing of the golden crown as it fell out and rolled along the shelf. He ran after it with a scream, caught it as it was rolling, picked it up gently and, placing both hands around it, brought it to his lips and then his forehead, and affixed it on the pointed top of his staff.

  He unfolded the flag, which gave off greenish and reddish gleams in the light of the flames. He attached it by its loops to the rings on his staff, rolled it around the staff, and placed it on his shoulder. All his preparations completed, he walked out of the place, leaving the baker amazed and bewildered, with a heavy and unclear suspicion in his heart.

  From here, the Cave of Machpelah was only several streets away. Nimmer crossed the dirty, curving alleys quickly, with the remains of his strength, moving stealthily along the walls like a cat, sticking to the shadows, the cloud of incense rising from his censer and enveloping his face.

  Thus he pressed through among the paupers and the cripples thronging around the entrance of the charity kitchen at the outer gate of the Cave of Machpelah. With rising excitement, his heart pounding fearfully, he struggled up the stairs, stumbled along the corridor and, pale as a corpse, his eyes glazed, dragged his quaking legs into the mosque.

  The interior of the mosque was a square hall, tall and spacious, with arched ceilings and rows of marble columns and pillars. Its floor was lavishly covered with carpets from Damascus and Baghdad and fabrics from India, Persia, and Turkey, and lamps of silver and gold and crystal hung from its domes. At this hour the mosque was almost empty. The prayer of the last watch had concluded some time ago, and the men of affairs who rise early had long since completed their prostrations and gone about their business. The beggars had all hurried off to the charity kitchen to receive their daily bread, a double portion today because it was Friday. The dervishes and sheikhs, who had been up all this long winter night in the vigil of the Zeikar,1 had all gone to rest their weary eyelids in the side cubicles, where they had fallen on their mats like dead men. Only the attendants still ran anxiously and busily about, filling lamps, cleaning carpets, changing the sand spread over the tombstones parallel to the markings of the graves beneath them. Then, pulling hard at the iron rings stuck on both sides of the rock that covered the cave, they opened the aperture and lowered into its well-like depths the perpetual lamp with its dozens of burning lights, and left it open in honor of the day. Around the opening they lit the large wax candles, and prepared the hall for the Friday noon prayer.

  Nimmer traversed the entire length of the mosque, heading straight for the tombs. Here, at the central shelf, in a space where no tombstone stood, was the grave of the Proselyte. Nimmer put down his flag, set up his pails and his candles, and began to drop, first to his knees, and then prostrated his entire body on the ground. Lying there, he kissed the earth, pounded upon it with his head, moistened it with his tears and with the spittle dribbling from his mouth, and beat upon his heart with the palm of his hand. As he did so he wailed and groaned in a voice that sounded like the beating of a hammer against a hollow wall. All the attendants rushed over to him and stood around him, exchanging bewildered glances as they wondered what to do.

  The head attendant, Abu Hassan, formerly Abu Faris’s right-hand man, blind in one eye, his good eye always glinting with a pale watery light while his white eyebrows seemed to be blinking with venomous derision, now bent over Nimmer. He subjected Nimmer to a long, penetrating gaze, then suddenly jerked upright as if bitten by a snake, and placed his hand over his mouth as if to hold back the shout that was about to burst from his throat. Clenching his fists and repressing a malicious laugh behind his sparse beard, he turned around on tiptoe and moved hastily and stealthily toward the door leading out of the mosque, the ends of his caftan splaying out behind him and his green laffah swaying on the nape of his neck like the tail of a lizard when it runs.

  Not many minutes later he was running up Al-Sheikh Street, which still lay under straying mists in a dim and slumbering stillness. At the end of the street he turned into a broad open field that lay at the feet of the mountains. Hundreds of beheaded water skins lay in long rows across it, their open necks dripping drops of reddish water. They looked like living creatures bleeding and writhing in their dying pangs on the muddy clay earth. Here, at the large walled house that resembled a fortress with its round windows closed and shuttered, he stopped and knocked vigorously with the iron hand hanging on the gate.

  At his insistent knocking the bolt was finally drawn back, and to the sound of loud cries of fear and wonder, Abu Hassan burst inside to meet Abu Faris’s two brothers, who were running to the door barefooted, dressed only in short sleeveless gowns, followed by the rest of the young men and boys who hurried after them in their nightgowns and gathered in the entrance. Abu Hassan drew the two brothers aside into the courtyard, and with much self-importance and great detail told them his secret.

  “Gird your loins!” called Abu Faris’s brothers. “Hurry, bring your daggers and your staves, and catch up with us, boys!” Roaring more commands, they rushed out into the street, their clenched fists raised high and their protruding eyes blazing a threat. Abu Hassan ran to the Cave of Machpelah by a shorter route to stand guard and to prevent his treachery being discovered, which might mean his dismissal from his post.

  Abu Faris’s brothers ran breathlessly to the bottom of the street. When they reached the open square they climbed on top of the tall dome of the wayfarers’ bathhouse, from which the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer. They bent their heads backward a little toward the upper stories, pressed their fingers to their temples, walked to and fro, and, howling like frantic wolves rallying the pack to the prey, burst out in a loud prolonged cry:

  “Come! Come, brothers, come!”

  Twice, three times, they called, louder and louder each time, and a large crowd began to gather. From all the streets and lanes and alleyways shadows of running men came charging, all of them armed with sticks, staves, swords, and daggers. Ignorant of what had happened, they ran about in alarm, listening in suspicion and anxiety to the sounds and calls around them, their faces bespeaking their bewilderment and fear.

  “Muslims! Nimmer Abu Il-Shawarab of Nablus, who tore the flag of the Sheriff, and murdered your flag-master, is inside the tomb!” roared Abu Faris’s brothers to the packed crowd. “The task has been placed in your hands, all praise and gratitude to Allah!”

  Calling thus, they hastily jumped down from the bathhouse, approached the elders who stood at the front of the crowd, stopped before them, and fixed their gazes on them, expectantly waiting to hear what they would say.

  “Get him! Get him! Where are all the brave men now? Block off all paths of escape! Catch him! Smash him!” Many cries of this sort now came from all sides, rolling like thunder over the heads of the crowd, penetrating all their hearts and inflaming their blood. Agitated now, all burst into violent uproar. Like a herd of bulls which, having smelled the blood of one of their number, pack together in a circle around the place, bellowing, raising their noses and their horns and then bursting into stampede, so they all packed around the brothers of Abu Faris with dreadful cries, brandishing their staves and clubs and swords, and then moved forward like an advancing storm.

  And like the torrents that pour down from the mountains to the king’s lower pool, the mob made its way to the Cave of Machpelah along
numerous routes, until they filled its main entrance and overflowed onto its outer slopes. Like hungry wolves lurking around a closed pen they besieged the four gates of the shrine and ran around its ancient walls.

  As they stood there panting and staring toward the deep tunnel-like openings, as if intent on smashing and destroying all the walls with their gazes, a man came hurriedly out of the mosque and ran down the stairs, blinking and making strange movements with his head as he forcibly pushed a way through the milling people in his path. Then he pulled the scarf of his laffah off his tarbush, waved it around above his head as if giving a final signal, and ran back to the mosque.

  All the people there craned their necks and stood up on their toes, and a silence of anticipation lasted for a long moment. Then they all saw how from the upper gate there emerged a bent old man, thin, exhausted, bare of foot and head, the white hair of his head and beard descending in long unkempt braids on both sides of his face. He swayed as he walked, as if borne on the waves of a dream, slowly dragging his feet and knocking on the ground before him with his staff like a blind man seeking his way. It was clear to everyone that he had sensed nothing of what was going on around him.

  He had descended some three or four steps when the sudden outcry of angry hostile voices erupted. As if waking from a dream he swayed on the spot, raised his head slightly, and looked around him. He saw wave upon wave of heads approaching him with snakelike movements, and above them gleamed glittering sword blades and spiked clubs. A heavy darkness descended upon his spirit, his blood pounded in his temples and burst like a torrent through his head.

  Without knowing what he was doing, he turned his head as if hoping to retrace his steps, drew himself back to the wall, and leaned against its smooth cold stones. As he stood there it seemed to him as if the ground had dropped from under his feet and that he was falling into a pit as deep as the abyss.

  “My God! My God!” his lips muttered, and he thrust out his thin hairy arm. The next minute he collapsed, falling on his side with a hoarse snort that escaped from the opening of his frothing mouth. All his limbs began to tremble and contract in convulsions, his eyes bulged out of their sockets, and his mouth writhed in a terrible manner. His thin fingers quivered and shook, and grasped at empty space as if trying to touch the secret unknown. Then they clenched in a spasm. His eyes became covered with a murky whiteness like smoked glass, and turned to the ground to which his body was now attached forever…

  “The vengeance of the Fathers! The vengeance of the Fathers!” cried Abu Faris’s two brothers, and the mob turned about and fled in dread and terror…

  S.Y. Agnon

  In the Prime of her Life

  Translated by Gabriel Levin

  Chapter one

  My mother died in the prime of her life. She was barely thirty-one years old. Few and harsh were the days of her life. She sat at home the entire day and never stirred from within. Her friends and neighbors did not visit, nor did my father welcome guests. Our house stood hushed in sorrow, its doors did not open to a stranger. Lying on her bed my mother spoke scarcely a word. But when she did speak it was as though limpid wings had spread forth and led me to the hall of blessing. How I loved her voice. Often I would open her door just to hear her ask, Who’s there? I was still a child. Sometimes she rose from her bed to sit by the window. She would sit by the window dressed in white. She always wore white. Once a relative of my father’s was called into town and seeing my mother, took her for a nurse, for her clothes misled him and he did not realize she was the one who was unwell.

  Her illness, a heart ailment, bowed her life down. Every summer the doctors would send her to the hot springs, but no sooner gone than she returned, for she said her longing gave her no peace, and once again she would sit by the window or lie on her bed.

  My father began to ply his trade less and less. He no longer left for Germany where, as a bean merchant, he had traveled year after year to deal with his clients. In those days and at that time he forgot the ways of the world. Returning home at dusk he would sit by my mother’s side, his left hand behind his head and her right hand held in his own. And every so often she would lean forward and kiss his hand.

  The winter my mother died our home fell silent seven times over. My mother forsook her bed only when Kaila went in to tidy up. A carpet was placed in the hallway to absorb the sound of each and every footfall, and the odor of medicine wafted from one room to another. Every room was encumbered with grief.

  The doctors arrived unsummoned and refused to leave, and whenever we asked about her health all they said was, With God’s help. Meaning all hope was lost—there was no cure. But my mother didn’t sigh or complain, nor did she shed any tears. She lay quietly on her bed and her strength fled like a shadow.

  But there were days when hope tugged at our hearts and we believed that she would live. Winter had come and gone and the earth was arrayed in the first days of spring. My mother seemed to forget her pain and we saw with our own eyes how her illness abated. Even the doctors consoled us, claiming there was hope: spring was drawing near and the sun’s rays would soon reinvigorate her body.

  Passover was at our doorstep and Kaila made the necessary preparations for the holiday, while as mistress of the house my mother attended to her duties and made sure nothing was amiss. She even sewed herself a new dress.

  Several days before the holiday my mother, having left her bed, stood before the looking-glass and put on her new dress. Shadows glimmered over her body in the mirror and the light of the living illumined her face. My heart beat with joy. How beautiful was her face in that dress. And yet the new dress was not that different from the old one. Both were white and the dress she now discarded was good as new, for being bedridden all winter she had had little use for clothes. I’m not sure in what I discerned a sign of hope. Perhaps a scent of hope blossomed from the spring flower she pinned above her heart—or was it that the medicinal odors had faded away? A new fragrance refreshed our home. I was familiar with a variety of perfumes but had never before come across one so delicate. Once though, I inhaled the scent of such sweetness in a dream. Where could this fragrance have come from? For my mother did not dab herself with feminine perfumes.

  My mother rose from her bed and sat by the window where there was a small table with a drawer. The drawer was locked and the key to the drawer hung from my mother’s neck. My mother opened the drawer without making a sound and removed a bundle of letters which she then spent the rest of the day reading. She read until evening. The door opened twice, three times, but she did not ask who was there, and when I spoke to her she did not answer. When she was reminded to drink her medicine she swallowed the contents of the spoon without making a face or uttering a word. It was as though their bitterness had vanished. And no sooner had she drained her medicine than she returned to her letters.

  The letters were written on thin paper in a clear, immaculate hand. They were written in short and long lines. Seeing my mother reading I told myself she would never relinquish the letters, for she was bound to them and the drawer by the string around her neck. Later that afternoon she took the bundle, secured it with the string hanging around her neck, kissed the letters and the key and tossed them into the wood stove. The flue, however, was blocked and only one ember flickered in the stove. The ember gnawed through the thin paper, the letters burned in the fire and the house filled with smoke. Kaila hastened to open the window, but my mother forbade her to do so. The letters burned and the house filled with smoke. And my mother sat by the open drawer and inhaled the smoke from the letters until evening.

  That night Mintshi Gottlieb came to inquire about my mother’s health. Mintshi was her close friend. As young girls they had studied together under Akaviah Mazal. For close to three hours Mintshi sat by my mother’s bedside. “Mintshi,” my mother said, “this will be the last time I see you.” Drying her tears, Mintshi said, “Leah, take heart, you will soon regain your strength.” My mother remained silent, a solemn smile playing o
ver her feverish lips. Suddenly she clasped Mintshi’s right hand in her own and said, “Go home, Mintshi, and prepare for the Sabbath. Tomorrow afternoon you will accompany me to my resting place.” This occurred on a Thursday night, which is the dawn of Friday, the Sabbath eve. Taking hold of my mother’s right hand, Mrs. Gottlieb spread out her fingers and said, “Leah.” A stifled sob held back her words. Our hearts sank.

  My father returned from work at the store and sat by the bed. My mother’s solemn lips hovered over his face like a shadow as she bent forward and kissed him. Mrs. Gottlieb rose, wrapped herself in her coat, and left. My mother got out of bed and Kaila entered to change the sheets. The hem of the white dress rustled in the semi-darkness of the room.