—The thought that there was something more eternal than our Jewish worries and Jewish commotions.
—Never mind. It does not matter. To get back to my story, there we were, striding along the streets of Basel with delegates who converged from all over the city—making for the Casino, where the congress was held—and indeed, we were gamblers of sorts, although most respectable ones. The bow ties and black tails blended quite nicely with the colorful outfits of the Swiss girls, the evening dresses, the bare arms of our Jewish delegatesses, the shopping baskets, the hansoms, the taverns—in a word, the local residents regarded us with such indifference—from such depths of normalcy—that it would hardly have made a difference had we been wearing Buddhist robes or Eskimo parkas. However you looked at it, we were Jews, here today and gone tomorrow ... while as for our Linka...
—Theaterstrasse ... so it was...
—Exactly as you described it a year ago ... and Linka...
—Most assuredly it was, Father, that tavern with the golden rooster ... exactly ... but listen ... our Linka...
—I was acutely aware of following in your footsteps all the time, Father ... and of feeling most sorry for you ... but our Linka, if I may be allowed to proceed
—Sorry that you could not be there yourself.
—Yes, the pastry shop with the whipped cream too...
—You gorged yourself there also? Ha ha, I like that...
—Of course ... the synagogue in the Eulerstrasse is still where you left it ... but our Linka...
—No, we had no time to visit it. If you will listen, you will hear everything. Because even there in the street our Linka stood out in festive splendor—she had about her a most portentous look that she had been practicing since Katowice and was clutching her delegate’s scroll in one hand like the Magna Carta—and a most bare-armed hand it was too, extending from a black dress that she secretly had made for herself without my knowledge. I do not know if you were privy to it, Father—a most flimsy, foolish, reckless, scandalous bit of sleeveless décolleté! And those arms, mind you, were still a child’s—still plump from a mother’s milk with their childhood freckles—those most discreet freckles, Father—now flaunted for all to see...
—No, no, I don’t mean the freckles themselves. They were simply a metaphor—something aggravating to think about during that grand walk to the Casino—which itself was but a brash overture to what followed—to that feminine promise she gave off wherever she went—you see, I am simply trying to help you to understand what happened later ... are you with me?
—Are you with me?
—Ate you listening to me? There was a great crowd by the entrance, and lots of applause and hurrahs, and even my Russians—I mean my revolutionary, conspiratorial observers—were wearing clean shirts and began to clap the minute they thought they made out Herzl’s beard. And meanwhile, two other young men from the train who were lying in wait fell upon Linka and began pulling her toward them while I tried tugging her back the other way ... except that at that very moment what did I see but the shining bald pate of Professor Steiner, from the pathology department of the university...
—Yes, he was. And Migolinsky was there too, decked out in black tie and looking quite splendid and earnest—and here I had thought he had baptized himself long ago...
—There was a rumor to that effect, anyway.
—Perhaps he had himself unbaptized again, ha ha...
—Who could have sent him? He was a delegate representing himself, as was everyone. But if a billiard-ball head like him could turn up at a Jewish congress and hug me enthusiastically—why, then, I tell you, there is hope—hope that infected even me—because the fact of the matter is that I was gnawed by doubt whether we were truly ready for this adventure—whether it was not premature to expose ourselves thus to the world—not a mistake, that is, to display the full extent of our weakness—because, after all, we could have gone on nuzzling a while longer at the Christian teat before deciding in all seriousness to rally round a flag and an anthem of our own...
—I believe one was chosen.
—Yes ... I’m almost positive ... blue and white on a field of gold stars...
—No. It is pointless to ask, because I do not remember. So much has happened since then—and of an entirely different nature—and all I recall is the crowd surging toward the entrance and Linka in her ridiculous dress being swept away by an ardent band of “observers,” with me trailing after her behind my bald professor, who was ushered to a balcony overlooking the stage while I was seated beside him directly in back of a column.
—No. Please, Father, don’t ask me now about the congress...
—An address? Of course ... isn’t there always? It was actually more of a report...
—No, I don’t remember.
—Yes. About his meeting with the German Kaiser in Palestine...
—As far as I could make out, nothing. It was all very vague. Rather evasive. Perhaps I did not really understand it...
—About the country itself he said hardly a word.
—Well, perhaps a word. Something or other about Jerusalem. Something poetic about the night there and the moonlight. Having been there myself, I can tell you how little he understood. He is living an idea, not a reality. He talks about the moon, not about the streets—about the ramparts, not about the houses—about the Germans and the Turks, not about the Jews—about the future, not about the present. He is in love with the recipe, Father, not with the ingredients...
—Just three nights in Jerusalem, two of which, it seems, were spent tossing and turning on a billiard table in an inn called the Hotel Kamenitz...
—Apparently there was no bed for him, and so they made one on top of a billiard table. Perfectly symbolic...
—Sad? I would not say so. Not even pessimistic. Rather delirious, however. I was able to observe him from up close, even though I was not concentrating on what he said, because I had trouble following his Viennese accent—and suddenly, dear Papa, I felt a great wave of pity for him. He has not long to live, Father...
—Consider it a medical intuition.
—It is only an intuition—but why scoff?
—The way he perspires—his pallor—the barely restrained tremor of his arms—the black bags under his sunken eyes ... If a patient came to me looking like that, I would be alarmed. I would send him at once for a blood examination, for a lung auscultation ... he won’t last long—he is living on borrowed time—and who knows if the whole business will not simply go poof when he dies...
—Fine, call it a medical fantasy ... Scoff...
—It was purely my own private diagnosis. I stole a glance at Steiner, to see if he was of the same opinion, but he did not seem to be thinking along medical lines. He was following the speech—he was quite carried away by it—there was something almost violent about the way he applauded...
—Wait, Father.
—Wait...
—It was just a thought ... don’t be angry ... perhaps I’m wrong...
—Then I am wrong.
—I most certainly hope that it is not a one-man movement.
—But wait...
—You? Hah!
—You will outlive us all, don’t you worry...
—Palestine did not affect my mind. Although if someone had told me that night at the congress that twelve days later I would be in Jerusalem, I would have thought him deranged...
—But wait ... don’t be angry ... it was just a thought...
—You make it sound as if I have already killed him! On the contrary, Father, the session went on and on—there were more speeches, and greetings, and even a few challenges from the floor—and all this time I was wedged between my column and my professor—until finally, late at night, we dispersed and I rushed off to look for my Linka, whom I had lost sight of earlier in the evening, still with my pathologist at my side, now delivering an oration of his own that was replete with original if rather brutal ideas. And so slowly the crowd jostled us ou
t to the street with its din of people and carriages that made me quite dizzy, since I was not accustomed to the proximity of so many Jews, let alone to wearing evening dress. I began to look for Linka and finally spied her in that mob scene surrounded by a swarm of Russians—of pogrom-and-Pobedonostsev survivors—with her ridiculous dress all wrinkled—the very clasps were falling off—and her feverish arms piled high with papers. And on her shoulder, Father, quite nonchalantly but firmly planted—I can still see it perfectly clearly—was a male hand ... Well, before I could come to our budding young leader’s rescue, up popped an angry little old man in a top hat, straight out of the sidewalk, and shouted in Yiddish right under my nose: “Is there a doctor here? We need a doctor! Who here is a doctor?” I stepped up automatically, and he gripped my hand fiercely and led me back into the hall that had still pulsed madly with people and lights when I had left it a few moments before. It was already dim and deserted; only a few Swiss help were still there, sweeping up the waste paper with large brooms, snuffing out the last candles, and opening the windows to air out all those moldy speeches. The little old man flew between the chairs with great vigor, pulling me after him to the proscenium—where suddenly he stopped and asked quite forwardly: “Where are you from, young man?” Naturally, when I told him, he had no idea where it was, but when I added that it was near Cracow, his face lit up at once. “But what kind of a doctor are you?” he asked, still standing with me there on the stage. “What do you specialize in?” “Pediatrics,” I replied with a smile. You should have seen his crestfallen look! “Pediatrics?” He mulled it over for a while and then mumbled: “Well, never mind. Come with me.” “But what is the matter?” I asked. “Come quick, someone has fainted,” he said rather mysteriously. He commenced dragging me after him again, opened a door that led backstage into a large, dark billiard parlor, and started up an ornate staircase, pulling me down several long corridors into a room full of cigarette smoke, in which two men were standing by an easy chair. And who do you think, Father, was sitting in it? Herzl.
—Herzl in person, very pale and small—without his tie—without his frock coat—his white shirt open at the neck—but perfectly calm. He was holding a glass of water and speaking French with some friends, although the old man who brought me addressed him most familiarly in German. “I’ve found a young physician from Cracow,” he said. “For God’s sake, Dr. Herzl, please allow him to examine you.” Herzl simply waved an impatient, a dismissive hand; but at once everyone joined the old man in cajoling him to agree, until at last he gave in and dropped his beard on his chest in a most touching gesture of acquiescence. The vigorous old man pushed me toward the easy chair—so hard, in fact, that I almost stumbled, for he appeared to be afraid that if I did not make haste Herzl would change his mind—at which point, Father, listen—listen to me!—I forgot all about my diagnosis. In fact, the same man who had struck me as being little more than a mummy on the stage now seemed terribly vital and real—even the bags under his eyes now looked like an inspired form of makeup. I had no idea what to examine him for. I assumed he had had an attack of vertigo—perhaps a slight syncope —the whites of his eyes were prominent and there was nystagmus. I looked to see if there were any signs of regurgitation—I am quite used to children vomiting in such cases—but there were none; nor was there any smell. I was at a loss. I had no idea what was expected of me. I leaned over until I was close to him, quite overwrought with anxiety—and as I did he looked up at me and threw me a rather merry glance. He spoke in German, and I in a Yiddish that I hoped would pass for German. In an unsteady voice, I asked him what was the matter. He laughed, made some jest to his friends about the doctor feeling faint himself, and held out his hand to me—whether to take my own or in an expression of surprise, I could not say—and so I seized it and quickly began to seek—what else could I do?—the pulse.
—Sometimes it enables you to detect irregularities in the heartbeat.
—That was just it. I could not find any pulse. Perhaps I was not gripping his wrist tightly enough, or perhaps his pulse was too weak. Meanwhile, the door opened and in came two more men with another doctor they had hunted down, a handsome, brown-skinned, stocky man wearing a white frock coat. He bowed to us all with a great show of feeling, and—blushing with emotion, although quite freely and winningly—went over to Herzl and introduced himself in English as Dr. Mani. He made some reference to Jerusalem, where it seemed that he had met Herzl before, but Herzl—who regarded him in the same slightly jocular manner—did not remember him. And mind you, all this time I was standing there holding his wrist and trying desperately—with my heart in my boots—to undo his gold cufflink and find his vanished pulse while more and more people filled the room with more and more doctors, all urgently summoned by Herzl’s entourage—each of whom had gone out to find a physician and some of whom had found more than one. It was beginning to seem more of a medical convention than a Zionist congress. Of course, all the doctors stopped in their tracks the minute they saw me standing by the easy chair and stubbornly clinging to Herzl’s wrist in search of his lost heartbeat—which, even if I had found it, could not possibly have been counted in all that commotion—especially since the patient, who seemed quite delighted at the sight of all those people come to treat him, would not sit still. By now he had his color back and everyone was beginning to relax since the great man was clearly alive and even laughing as if he had simply played a prank on all the doctors to assemble them in one room. But although I had no reason to keep groping for his pulse, I could not let go of his hand; it was as though glued to mine. The more doctors poured into the room, the more paralyzed I became. Everyone was waiting impatiently—although I must say, with collegial politeness—for the impertinent young physician—for I obviously felt nothing and was not counting anything—to finish his absurd examination. And yet I would not give up—not until I saw the shiny crown of my professor of pathology come floating into the room too and grew so genuinely terrified that I finally let the hand drop—whereupon Herzl, with the most magnificent gallantry, rose, took my hand once more in his own, and shook it most heartily in a grateful adieu, ha ha ha ha ha...
—Ha ha ha ha ha...
—Most thoroughly amusing, Father, was it not? Ha ha ha ha...
—Sometimes the artery is collapsed.
—Of course it has a name. Why should it not? Everything in our body has a name.
—Why do you ask?
—The radial artery, or something of the sort...
—Absurd ... perfectly ... and yet there you are...
—To think that I, of all people, who am so accustomed to weak pulses ... in the case of children it is quite common...
—Well, don’t take it to heart ... in any case, no one will ever remember it was me...
—Fiendish luck? Come, now, that is putting it a bit strongly ... why be so upset by it? I am not about to have my license revoked, ha ha ha...
—No, no one else tried to examine him. They all just wanted to meet him. They were some quite famous professors there who spoke a wicked German, and before long a group of them had formed around him while I retired to a corner—where, if you must know, I was thinking not of Herzl but of Linka, who was no doubt worrying what had happened to me—the lord only knew if she had not already returned to our hotel and lost her way in its dark corridors! And in that same corner—to which he too had retreated from that boisterous outbreak of German—was the doctor from Jerusalem, feeling rejected and rather shamefaced that Herzl had not recognized him—so much so that, when we were given the hint to leave the room and let our pulseless leader rest, he slipped out a back door and disappeared, while I—no doubt attracted to his mortification by my own—ran after him. I found myself in a long, dark hallway, which I realized at once was not the way I had come; but not wishing to retrace my steps, I groped my way onward in pursuit of the shadow ahead of me. He sensed that he was being followed and halted; took a little candle from his pocket and lit it; and held it up to light m
y way while waiting for me politely ... from which moment, Father, you may if you like draw a straight and ghastly line to his death ten days ago in the train station of Beirut, even though in my heart I know well that the two of us, Linka and myself, were only a pretext...
—A pretext.
—A pretext ... a pretext for an entirely different reckoning. That is, I was a pretext for Linka, and Linka was a pretext for someone else, perhaps even another woman...
—I ask myself the same question.
—I cannot stop thinking about it; cannot stanch the grief of it...
—No.
—No...
—You aren’t tired?
—I? I have just begun to wake up. Beware of me, dear Papa, because the story and I have become one—my soul has been smelted to it by this fire, which has bewitched me since childhood—so that—who knows—perhaps when I finish this story I will leap into it and vanish in a heap of ashes ... brrrr...
—I do not know why, but I have had this chill in my bones since crossing the Bosporus. I feel as though I were levitating.
—That may be so. For a Palestinian like me, though, the autumn here is like winter...
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