by S. Y. Agnon
Hirshl and Mina passed a house that was under construction and Hirshl stepped into it for a look at its new walls, rooms, doorways, and window frames. Having been born in a house that was finished, he was curious to see one that was not. Once, he reflected, when the world was young, men had built whole cities, whereas today the building of a single house was considered an event. He was still in the middle of this thought when more people entered the skeleton of the house to inspect and discuss it. Now that Dreyfus was finally acquitted and no longer the sole subject of conversation, Szybuszians could talk of other things, such as local and state politics, the health of the Kaiser Franz Josef, who was a great friend to the Jews, the Catholic priests who were said to waylay Jewish girls and entice them into convents, and the Alliance Israelite, which had recently opened an office in Vienna. While most Jews in Szybusz were enthusiastic about this organization for the advancement of their people, which was run by Jewish barons and plutocrats who, while thoroughly at home in the royal houses of Europe, were not ashamed of their origins, there were also unabashed dissenters like Hayyim Yehoshua Bleiberg who claimed that it did more harm than good. Why, Bleiberg declared, just look at the anti-Semitism in Rumania! Had not the House of Rothschild floated the Rumanians a loan, their government would have collapsed long ago instead of persecuting the Jews—which just proved that the Rothschilds of the world valued their profits more than their people.
Bleiberg was a queer duck and had queer opinions. When the whole of Szybusz was ecstatic over the repainting of the Great Synagogue, he alone had raised a rumpus over the disappearance of the moon and the twelve signs of the zodiac from its ceiling, which Schleien had painted over with something that looked like an open umbrella. After all, the drawings that Bleiberg was up in arms about were two hundred and fifty-six years old and had not been retouched since the synagogue was built; with justice the imperial representatives who came to pay the Kaiser’s respects on Yom Kippur eve could have accused the Jews of Szybusz of lacking even the piety to maintain their own house of worship. It was a lucky thing that the synagogue sextons had been able to get hold of Schleien, even if he did paint the interior walls with gold and silver polka dots like those in the buffet of the railway station. And besides, the buffet was done in cheap watercolors, whereas Schleien had used real oil paint donated by Boruch Meir and Tsirl, thus ensuring that his work would endure for generations to come.
Saturday afternoons were short in autumn. The town was still walking and talking when the evening mail arrived.
The clipped notes of a bugle sounded, heralding a yellowish carriage that drew up in the courtyard of the post office. From it emerged the postman, who strode to the street with his pouch slung around his neck, his eyes as hard as a charity warden’s. Yet though his was the power to deliver or withhold the fates of men, he was only too glad to get rid of his load and let everyone have his mail.
Silently the townsmen stood facing him, each of them waiting to hear his name called. Sometimes, if the postman was in the mood for a joke, he might call someone’s name, then say, “Sorry, there’s nothing for you today, better luck tomorrow,” then hand him a packet of letters just as he was turning disappointedly to go. Yet the letters were sealed; one had no way of knowing what was in them, or, if one could guess, of knowing it all; there was no choice but to wait for the three stars in the sky that meant that God had put away his Sabbath; and God was in no hurry to light stars. Either He was fonder of the last wee hour of the Sabbath than of all the six days of Creation combined, or else He was piqued with His children for being so eager to get on with the new week.
Still, if the sealed letters could not be torn open until the Sabbath was over, there were postcards and newspapers that could be read right away.
Many different newspapers reached Szybusz, some in German, some in Polish, and some in Yiddish, several of which were sent to their families by emigrants in America. There, thousands of miles away, sat encyclopedically knowledgeable men who wished only to transmit their knowledge to Szybusz, so that every Szybuszian could know what his great-grandfathers had never guessed at and be far wiser than they. His own father might have studied each page of the thirty-six volumes of the Talmud seven times; his grandfather, seven times seven; yet what had they known in the end? A whole lot of fairy tales, whereas after an hour of reading the newspaper one was an encyclopedia on two legs oneself.
Besides the German, Polish, and Yiddish papers, there were Hebrew ones too. Yet while once many Hebrew newspapers were subscribed to in Szybusz, there were now only two, one for the Society of Zion, and one for a certain young man who wrote Hebrew poems. God in heaven knew what made a young fellow like him care for Hebrew. Did he think it was a ticket to riches or fame?
Times had changed. For centuries Jews had loved the Hebrew language and made it the jewel in their crown. Indeed, not only Yona Toyber, but even Sebastian Montag, our town’s leading citizen, had written an article in it in his youth. Even now he beamed when recalling this piece that had appeared in the journal HaMaggid under the title, borrowed from the prophet Isaiah, “By His Magnanimity Shall a Man Stand.” But who in the younger generation still knew the holy tongue at all? Nowadays one studied only what was practical, even if one was a Zionist or a socialist.
In any case, Zionism was spreading and its popularity was on the rise. Still, it was far from a tactical error on Sebastian Montag’s part to have clung to his universalist views, for supposing even that in fifty or a hundred years there might be Zionist politicians as powerful as himself, one of whom was sure to be his own second or third reincarnation, what room did Zionism allow for his talents in the meantime? None of which, of course, kept him from fraternizing with the Zionists, drinking Carmel wine from Palestine with their leaders, and joking with them in his fashion—or from telling better jokes than they did, since his were steeped in Jewish learning and delivered in a sonorous voice. So musical was Sebastian in fact that he occasionally served as the cantor of the Great Synagogue—something, it was rumored in Szybusz, that gave him more satisfaction than all his “nebbichlach.” In a word, if Sebastian had reason to fear anyone, it was not the Zionists but the socialists.
As small and spry as a leprechaun and as smoothly shaven as a matinee idol, Dr. Knabenhut darted about town organizing the workingmen. Ever since his arrest by the authorities for spreading illegal propaganda, he was brimming over with confidence. Once, running into Sebastian Montag, he said to him, “There are two honest men in all of Szybusz, and both of us belong in jail. The only difference is that I should be locked up for making a better world, and you for cheating at cards.”
The whole of Szybusz felt Knabenhut’s knout and lucky was the man whom it spared, though if it came down hard on the well-to-do it seemed soft as a caress to the poor. When he had finished his Saturday lectures at the socialist club Knabenhut liked to go for a walk, followed by a peripatetic crowd of his students who never took their eyes off him. His own eyes took in a good deal more, for while keeping one of them on his entourage he let the other rove freely. Sometimes indeed, spying a certain young lady walking by herself, he even left his disciples to join her. One might have thought that she should have been his follower also, since being a housemaid was proletarian work. One would, however, have thought wrongly.
Hirshl gazed straight ahead, his animated conversation with Mina suddenly forgotten. Six months had passed since last he saw Blume—and now there she was. Mina too, though generally not in the habit of staring at strangers, stopped to look. Something about the girl with Dr. Knabenhut made her want to ask who she was, but her lips trembled too hard for her to speak.
Hirshl stood as perfectly still as if the Angel of Dreams had waved his magic wand before his eyes. And indeed, just as one dreams of one’s beloved without seeing her, so one sees her and thinks it is a dream.
Sophia Gildenhorn, who had joined Hirshl and Mina on their walk, saw Blume with Knabenhut too. Ordinarily she would have made some comment, but she was fee
ling too low to take notice. What made Sophia so low? Not knowing which was worse, her loneliness when her husband was away or all the hoopla when he was home. Not every woman could go from one extreme to the other without hysterics. Mina did all she could for her former counselor, who now needed counseling herself, and Sophia spent long hours in Mina’s house, where she no longer feared intruding, as Hirshl and Mina had been married for over a year. Yet neither did she spend her time there anymore whispering gossip that left Mina wide-eyed. All she wanted to do was to be with Mina’s baby. Though God in heaven had not given her a child of her own, He had at least given her best friend one that she could play with.
At last the stars come out and the shops opened. Mina and Hirshl went home, and then Hirshl went to the store to bring his father the mail from the post office. There was lots of it: business letters, bills, personal letters, charity appeals, official letters, wedding invitations, and two more letters besides, one from Szybusz and one from abroad. In addition, there was a letter to Hirshl written in Hebrew. This came from the town’s former rabbi, who now had a position elsewhere and had written a book on Jewish law, a copy of which he had sent to Boruch Meir with a request for a donation to help defray the cost of publication. Seeing the book at his father’s, Hirshl had ordered another copy for himself, enclosing a contribution of his own, and now its author had written back to thank him for his love of learning and support of its practitioners. Not that Hirshl had needed another book on Jewish law. He could not even remember what was in the books he had already read. He had simply wanted to help a worthy cause, which the appearance of a new legal commentary was.
As for the letter from abroad, it came from Gedalia’s cousin Arnold Ziemlich, who, not knowing if there was a post office in Malikrowik or even how to spell the village’s name, wished Boruch Meir to tell Mina’s father that he was planning to come for a visit during the winter holidays. Although Tsirl doubted whether he really would, Boruch Meir was sure of it, for a German Jew always kept his word and could be counted on to do what he said.
One last letter remained, that sent from Szybusz to Szybusz. Never before in the history of Szybusz had one Szybuszian written another, but as the crazy druggist now demonstrated, there was always a first time. Just a few months ago he had taken the Hurvitzes to court for selling smelling salts without a license—and here he was informing them by mail that he had decided to withdraw his complaint! Perhaps Sebastian Montag had gently hinted that he should, or perhaps he had given up hope of winning the case. In any event, it was one less worry for Boruch Meir, who had every reason to be pleased.
Besides having one less minor worry, Boruch Meir had one less major one. After all he had been through, including his fear that Hirshl would never be the same again, here was his son wholly occupied with the store once more. In fact, Hirshl made the most of every day: he knew when to be in the store and when to be with his wife, when to do business and when to put it aside for the sake of a friendly conversation.
Chapter thirty-five
Once more Hirshl’s home was full of guests. Yet if once he had invited them in order to be hospitable, now it was for the pleasure of their company.
Not all of the old crowd had returned. Once, when Hirshl had asked Mottshi Shaynbart why he had stopped visiting, Mottshi had replied, “The old crutch can’t take the stairs anymore.” That had been a joke, of course, but now Mottshi’s real leg was acting up too. He still frequented the Gildenhorns, who lived on the ground floor, but Hirshl’s stairs were too much for him to climb.
Life could go on without Mottshi Shaynbart, however. A town of over fifteen thousand people, more than half of them Jews, had more legs than one. And while Leibush Tshortkover no longer came to see Hirshl either, his son Vovi, the resident newspaper correspondent who had put Szybusz on the map, had taken his place. What was Szybusz doing on the map? It was, after all, a town like any other, with geese waddling in its streets and poor folk going barefoot beside them. But Szybusz had a man named Knabenhut, who made first-rate newspaper copy, so that not a month went by without a story by Vovi about him. Vovi’s new friendship with Hirshl worried Tsirl. One might have thought that she feared her son turning into a dangerous radical. Boruch Meir, on the other hand, treated Vovi with respect, not because he was afraid of being written up in the newspapers, but because he believed in getting along with everyone.
Once a week Hirshl’s friends all dropped in on him. The large lamp was lit, a clean cloth adorned with a diagonal strip of embroidery lay on the table, and the wet nurse and Mina served coffee that was more than half cream along with heart- and crescent-shaped pastries. Seated among friends, one’s coffee cup in one’s hand, a person felt cozy all over. Though the men all wore hats or skullcaps and might have talked about godlier things, they preferred such mundane topics of conversation as the new shop opened by the local Catholic priest who wished to undercut Jewish business or the newly appointed judge Mr. Szmuelowicz, a Karaite who took bribes like a Christian but went to the Jewish bathhouse once a week.
The wet nurse’s coffee was not as strong as the brew that Hirshl had drunk before his stay in Lemberg. On the contrary, it had a soothing, pleasantly lethargic effect. One was free to talk or to listen, to try a crescent-shaped cake or a heart. Not that Blume’s cakes had not been delicious. These, however, were too.
When Gildenhorn was in town he came to see Hirshl also. Hirshl would break out two or three bottles of his best liquor in Gildenhorn’s honor and Gildenhorn would sip from a little glass of each without finishing it. Men’s tastes are said to follow the seven-year itch. (True, seven years had yet to go by since Gildenhorn began hitting the bottle, but most likely he did not do so for the taste of it even then.)
Gildenhorn no longer seemed so tall to Hirshl either. Perhaps he had only looked big next to Kurtz, whose leaving town had shortened him by several inches. It takes a dwarf to make a giant, as the old saying goes.
What had happened to Kurtz? He had taken a fancy to the Hurvitzes’ latest housemaid, who was a wonder in the kitchen, and had married the woman. One day, when some officials of the Baron de Hirsch arrived to inspect the school that bore his name in Szybusz, which was on the verge of firing Kurtz, Kurtz’s new wife invited the delegation head to dinner and so impressed the man with her cooking that right then and there he appointed Kurtz headmaster of the Baron de Hirsch School in his own city. Though not everyone in Szybusz believed in miracles, the skeptics were hard-pressed to explain how Kurtz, who was the worst teacher imaginable, had been made a headmaster solely on the strength of a dinner served by his wife.
After closing time Boruch Meir and Tsirl occasionally stopped by Hirshl and Mina’s to see how Meshulam was doing and to hear what was new in the world. Boruch Meir sat in a wicker chair, holding his watch chain. Whether it was from constant mental concentration or from the palsy he had developed in his hand, he now gripped the chain all the time. No longer did he rub his two hands together when feeling pleased. Was the world no longer treating him right, or had Boruch Meir changed with time?
Boruch Meir had changed with time. He had grown heavier and rounder, and, though not a native son of Szybusz, he had Szybusz written all over him. Sitting in the store all day long was fattening. Boruch Meir was so busy with his ledgers that he had no time to stretch his legs. Besides which, neither he nor Tsirl liked walking. When the shopboys and Hirshl went home, the two of them exercised by counting the contents of the cash register. At such times, no walk in the world could have enticed them.
In silence they sat as one person, not troubling to talk. Nor did God in heaven trouble them to thank Him for having given them back a healthy son. A store was not a synagogue in which one prayed and said Psalms all day long. It was enough that they had given the paint for Schleien’s renovation and that God had signaled His acceptance of their offering by making Hirshl better. Why, even Dr. Langsam had said that there was no danger of a relapse. And the proof of this was that when it said in the newspaper one day tha
t the police were searching for a dangerous escaped mental patient by the name of Feibush Vinkler, Hirshl read the item as though it did not concern him in the least, even though his parents were afraid that it would bring back upsetting memories. What concerned Hirshl was the store. He was wholly occupied with it and did his job well.
The shopboys grew used to Hirshl’s ways and no more raised an eyebrow over them than they did over Boruch Meir’s or Tsirl’s. Nothing in the world remains the same. Whereas once Hirshl had stood lost in thought while the shopboys did their work, now he went about his work while the shopboys stood around thinking.
Or rather, one shopboy did: Feyvel, the assistant clerk. As though it were not bad enough in this world, he reflected, that the rich had it over the poor, some poor had it over others. Not only did Getzel act a cut above him, though the two of them worked in the same store, but he had gone and started his own Zionist club and had himself elected president. Even the fact that the owner’s son, Hirshl, treated Feyvel better than Getzel could not make up for what Feyvel believed Getzel to have that he himself did not.
Getzel paid Feyvel no attention. He had other things on his mind. After all, Boruch Meir Hurvitz had been a shopboy like himself and had married the owner’s daughter in the end. Getzel knew, of course, that history never repeats itself—but then it was not the owner’s daughter that he wished to marry but only the owner’s cousin. Socially speaking, indeed, he was not sure he did not outrank her. He, for instance, had been invited to Hirshl’s wedding, whereas Blume either had not been or had been made to sit with the other housemaids in the kitchen. Life had no end of puzzlements.
And yet though Getzel earned more money than she did, had a savings account in the bank, and was president of the Workers of Zion Society of Szybusz, Blume would not even look at him. She was certainly a strange one: the more anyone ran after her, the less interested in him she became. When it was Hirshl who had wanted to marry her, she had turned a deaf ear, and now that it was Getzel, he could not get a kind word out of her.