by Agnon, S. Y.
Suddenly, all of a sudden, there were newcomers in the land. They were unexpected, and if anyone had said to them two or three years earlier that they would emigrate, they would have protested. Suddenly, all of a sudden, they were here. These people whose fathers and forefathers preferred the soil of Germany to that of the Land of Israel, loving Germany perhaps even more than the Germans did, felt the ground crumbling under them and could find no foothold anywhere in Germany. Some of them went from nation to nation, from exile to exile. Others sought refuge in the Land of Israel, waiting there for Germany’s rage to be spent, assuming Germany would soon recover. They came to the Land of Israel, continuing to refer to it as Palestine, as its detractors always do.
Among the recent newcomers from Germany were various scholars and their wives, their sons and daughters. Herbst had studied with some of them and had known their daughters when they were in high school, at the university, hiking together in the woods of Berlin. One elderly professor with a sharp tongue, who was hostile to women, hearing that the students were planning a hike, had offered this advice: “My dear colleagues, be sure to invite some women. If there are mosquitoes, they will attack the women, and you will be spared.” Many years had passed. Young women Herbst had known in Germany were now married, and he had a wife too. Hearing that some of them were in Jerusalem, he was stirred and began to recall each one, what she was like, or rather, what she had been like in those days. These thoughts led him to imagine ties of affection. He forgot that there had been nothing between them beyond prosaic words. Time plays odd tricks: what never was, pretends to have been. Some of these girls, who were once extremely beautiful, had lost their beauty and radiance. There were others whose beauty endured, but it was not the sort of beauty that revives the soul. Living in Germany, we regarded blonde hair, blue eyes, and the like as the ultimate in beauty. Having settled in the Land of Israel, another beauty arrests our eye, another sort of beauty is appealing. If he happened on one or another of these friends from the past and gathered from the conversation that she was unable to pay for lodging, he would tell Henrietta, and she would put her up. Even after the friend was settled in an apartment, Henrietta would invite her, as is the custom in this country, for lunch, dinner, sometimes for the weekend. If Manfred became deeply involved in conversation with the woman, Henrietta was never jealous. It happened that they invited one of these women for Shabbat. On the following day, Sunday, Henrietta had to go to Tel Aviv. She went to Tel Aviv, leaving her husband alone with the woman. Manfred thought to himself: I see that Henrietta trusts me. In the evening, she came home and put on the kettle. Then they had coffee with the cakes she had brought from Tel Aviv. Henrietta was not in the habit of buying baked goods. She and her family were accustomed to home baking, but, when she had occasion to be in Tel Aviv, she would bring all sorts of treats, for the confections one finds in Tel Aviv are unlike anything in Jerusalem, where pastries all taste alike. Though they come in many shapes, they have one taste.
Among the learned men who came from Germany, there were several distinguished scholars. Some were experienced medical doctors; some occupied academic chairs and were renowned throughout Germany and beyond. There were those who had been a thorn in the flesh of their Christian colleagues and those whose learning served them well, so that their Christian peers took note of their learning but not of their Jewishness. They now roamed the streets of Jerusa-lem, destitute, with no prospect of a livelihood. This country has only one university, and all its academic positions were occupied. Not many people would act as the scholars of Bathyra did, yielding to the authority of Rabbi Hillel. What an opportunity to make Jerusalem a metropolis of medicine and scholarship! But, because of financial calculations and narrow vision, these great men did not find a footing here. They left the country, and their wisdom was dispersed in other lands.
When these exiled scholars arrived from Germany, Manfred Herbst was like a man who wakes up and is unable to find his clothes.
Since the meaning is simple, I will not pursue the metaphor.
As we know, Herbst was one of the first lecturers at the first Hebrew university in the world, and, as such, he was honored, along with others who, being the first to be appointed lecturers and professors at the Hebrew University, were important in other people’s eyes as well as their own. They lived serenely, relishing this honor, delivering lectures, reading books, each man in his own field. They wrote books too. Those who produced many books rejoiced in them and displayed them prominently; those who produced only one or two maintained that more books do not equal more wisdom; and those who didn’t produce any books at all turned out the sort of dutiful papers that are referred to in the footnotes of scholarly journals and, after a certain number of years, become a monograph.
What about Herbst? After his book on the life of Leo iii, the Byzantine emperor, he published nothing except for several papers that appeared in various collections. But he continued to read widely, even outside of his field, to take notes, compare texts, and collect material for a new book he intended to write on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. With the arrival of the great academics in exile from Germany, he emerged from the complacency enjoyed by his colleagues, the professors of the Hebrew University.
Herbst began to examine his behavior and was forced to attribute his position to the fact that he had come to the country early, when the university was being established and there were many openings. He recognized that he had been recommended by his renowned professor, Alfred Neu, and made a lecturer on the basis of a book that he had by now fully exploited. Now he had only those tedious notes and references, which became more tedious as their number increased.
Out of habit, and because he had no proper plan, Herbst pored over his books, read prodigiously, took notes, and added more and more references, assuming that in time he would make them into a book – like those instructors who assume that in time they will be granted tenured positions. As the old saying goes: What reason doesn’t do is often done by time.
Herbst sits in his study, reading, writing, making note after note. His note box is filling up. The connection between the notes becomes less and less apparent, every additional part seeming to diminish the whole. Learning can become impotent; fed on its regular diet, in the end it loses its potency.
His reward came from an unexpected source. Herbst, as we know, in addition to reading everything in his field, also read books that were totally unrelated – even books one would be shocked to know he was reading.
Through one such book, Herbst made a discovery envied by more than one scholar of Italian church history. Even Professor Ernst Weltfremdt, who was not known to lavish praise on a friend, was moved to exclaim, “Bravo, dear colleague, you have made an important discovery!”
Since everyone conceded that Dr. Manfred Herbst had made an important discovery, we will go into some detail about it.
Scholars of Italian church history were struggling to determine when churches were first built to honor Prieguna the Meek, the duckeyed saint. As the earliest existing church in her name was known to have been built at the time of Pope Clement iv, it was assumed that churches were first built for her in his time. Dr. Herbst discovered that, in the very heart of Venice, there was a church named for her that predated Clement iv. How did he know this? From a collection of letters written by courtesans. He found one such document in which a courtesan reports to a friend that she has left her lover, the cardinal, because he scolded her for being late, although it was his fault that she was late rather than her own: she always took the shortcut through the courtyard of the Church of Prieguna the Meek, but on that day there was a detour, because of a woman in labor who was taken into the church and on whose account passersby were denied access to the courtyard. As His Eminence the Cardinal knew, it was he who made the unfortunate woman pregnant and caused the event that forced the courtesan to take the longer route.
Although the Holy See removed Prieguna the Meek from the Catholic calendar after the pope
’s committee on Catholic saints concluded that the Meek One herself as well as her story was a legend, and she was divested of her holiness, still and all, Herbst’s discovery remains important. For, even if Prieguna the Meek never existed, the churches built in her name surely do.
A greenish light shines on Herbst from the south window. Herbst looks away from the light, concentrating on the books at his side and the pencil in his hand. He sits copying out material that will pull his book together. His book is still but an embryo in the womb of scholarship; at full term, a book will emerge. Meanwhile, Henrietta was at full term and bore him a daughter.
You may remember that when Professor Ernst Weltfremdt was promoted to the rank of full professor, Herbst went to congratulate him and met a relative of Professor Alfred Neu’s, and a furtive love developed between the two of them, so that, whenever he saw her, it seemed to Herbst that he was suffused with a breath of innocence and in the end it turned out that when he meant to call her he found Shira. How do we relate to this incident, wherein innocence led to its opposite?
Herbst was already engaged in the struggle to eradicate the Shira episode from his heart. If he did remember it, he assured himself: It was an accident, involving no sequel; tomorrow I’ll be back at work, with no time for frivolous thoughts. Still, Herbst was curious about one thing. Did Shira plan to invite him to her room; did she do what she did deliberately and with forethought? In other words, Herbst wanted to analyze his acts, to know who had initiated them, he or Shira. Much as he thought about them, only one thing was clear: Shira was adept at lovemaking, and he was not the first of her lovers. Still, he had no wish to know who her lovers were and if she was still involved with them.
Thoughts are devious. Before his thought was complete, it turned to the dream he had had in the hospital, when Shira was with the women, and the blind Turk with the red turban on his head was with Shira, who offered him a pack of cigarettes. Thus far, everything is clear. From here on, one must look beyond the obvious – at Shira’s turban (when Herbst found her in the telephone booth, she was wearing a red turban), as well as the pack of cigarettes she handed him when they sat together in her room, the very pack she had handed to that blind Turk. Remembering the time he spent with Shira in her room, Herbst’s heart began to flutter longingly.
Chapter eight
Wishing to please his wife, Herbst stepped into a restaurant known for its fine food and ordered a meat meal. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal as much since Henrietta checked into the hospital. A wife knows more about her husband than he does. He imagined he would be revolted by meat, and here he was, enjoying it thoroughly. When he finished his coffee, he leaned his head against the back of the chair and began composing letters to his daughters.
As he sat there, his mind wandering from Zahara to Tamara and from Tamara to Zahara, he lifted his eyes and looked around. The waitress noticed and came over, assuming he wanted something. Since she was there, he asked for paper and envelopes, which she brought him. They sent off a pleasing fragrance. He sniffed them and said, “If I could find this fragrance, I would take some to my wife in the hospital.” The waitress asked in a hush, “Is your wife sick?” He ran his hand through his hair, laughing heartily, and said, “She’s not sick, she wasn’t sick, and she won’t be sick. She has given birth to a daughter. She has given me a sweet new baby, whom all the boys are already after.” The waitress said, “When you came in, I said to myself: This man is celebrating. Mazel tov, sir. Mazel tov.” To which Herbst said, “And what sort of good wishes may I offer in return? I could wish for a husband for you, but such a fine young woman has probably been spoken for already.”
The restaurant owner strutted over, bowed perfunctorily, glanced harshly at the waitress, and was off. Herbst asked the waitress, “Who is that absurd-looking man?” “He owns the restaurant,” she replied. “And it annoys him to see us talking,” Herbst said. “Even nurses in a hospital are allowed to talk to visitors, and this yekke doesn’t want you to talk to me. In fact, your words have more of an effect than any of this yekke’s delicacies.” The waitress smiled and said, “But, sir, aren’t you from Germany too?” Herbst said, “True, I was born in Germany, but I left before you were born.” “An exaggeration, sir! What an exaggeration!” Herbst said, “Then let’s say I left Germany while lullabies were still being sung to you.”
The proprietor was back, glaring darkly at the waitress. Herbst gathered up the paper and envelopes, and said, “Rather than arouse that fool’s envy, I will just sit here and write to my daughters. Many thanks for the paper, the envelopes, for everything.”
The waitress left, and Herbst began to write. The scented paper reminded him of its owner. He thought to himself: Too bad about that man and all that befell him. He had a further thought: A man becomes intimate with a woman, and, in a flash, all her sisters begin to notice him. He found some newspapers to lean on and composed this letter to Zahara or Tamara: “Our mother fair / To whom poems are dear / Wishing to spare poets the effort / Has added to Zahara and Tamara / A new rhyme, namely, Sarah.”
After writing this, he glanced at the newspapers that were under the letters. He saw a puzzle, which he tried solving. While working on it, he noticed a poem. He put down the puzzle and looked at the poem. He read: “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten….” He folded his letters and left.
Every day after lunch, Herbst used to lie down on his bed, read, and doze. On this day, having eaten in town, he was far from home, and there wasn’t time to go back and forth. He was planning to go back to the hospital to see his wife. But the hospital would not be open for two more hours. What was he to do in the meanwhile?
He saw a pharmacy sign and remembered that he meant to take his wife some perfume, the scent that had been on the envelopes given to him by the charming waitress. He went into the drugstore and handed the druggist the envelope, so he could smell it and give him the same perfume. The druggist thought he wanted envelopes. He glared at him pompously and said, “This is a pharmacy, not a stationery store.” Herbst explained and said, “I will surely find what I want here.” The druggist clapped his hands to call his wife to come and sniff, since he himself had no sense of smell. She came, sniffed, and handed Herbst a bottle of perfume. He said, “I trust you to give me the right thing.” Hearing this, the pharmacist began to celebrate her sensibilities. “She is so sensitive, especially about smells. Once our daughter came from the kibbutz, stopped in to use the phone, and left immediately. A little later, her mother came back from marketing and had to phone one of the stores she had been in to see if her keys, which she had left somewhere – she didn’t know where – had been found. As soon as she picked up the receiver, she asked me, ‘Was our daughter here.’ I said, ‘Did you see her?’ She said to me, ‘No, I didn’t see her.’ I said to her, ‘Then how do you know?’ She said, ‘From the smell on the receiver.’” Herbst said, “You mentioned the telephone and I remembered that I must make a call. May I use your phone?” He picked up the receiver and said what he said. Believe it or not, before long, the telephone was answered in the kvutza.
And, believe it or not, Herbst was not satisfied. He still had almost two hours and didn’t know how to spend them. He went to a florist and bought a bouquet of red roses. From there, he went and bought some chocolate. If Henrietta didn’t eat it, the nurses would. He bought another box for the old nurse who had first showed him Sarah.
He left the store, holding two boxes under his arm and a bottle of perfume in his hand. He looked at his watch. It still wasn’t time to go to the hospital. When one’s patience is short and the time is long, the clock seems to slow down. He took a short walk, then a long walk, and turned into another street. He noticed a locked store with a sign on the door explaining that the family was in mourning. He recognized from the sign that this was where Lisbet Neu was employed, and he knew she would not be working for seven days. If she wasn’t at work, she was sitting at home with her mother and had most likely been home the previous night
as well, perhaps even expecting his call. For his own sake, he was sorry he hadn’t called her. And he was sorry that when he went to call her events unfolded as they did. He rolled his lips and slipped his finger between the watch strap and his wrist. He looked and saw it was time to go to his wife. He stopped at the locked door and put down the flowers and perfume, so he could adjust his tie. Then he picked up his packages and was on his way.
Chapter nine
While he was sitting with his wife, hand in hand, the door opened and the nurse Shira came in. Henrietta looked at her warmly and said, “If my husband hasn’t already done so, let me thank you doubly for taking the trouble to ask about me on the telephone last night.” Shira answered, “It was no trouble at all, but Dr. Herbst has already thanked me beyond what I deserve.” Henrietta said, “Men do tend to be ungrateful, and I wouldn’t pretend that my husband is any different in this regard. Isn’t that so, Fred? Now, let me ask you this, Fred. Did you do as I ordered?” “What did you order?” Fred asked in alarm. “What did I order? Nothing. I asked you to eat a decent meal.” Manfred replied, “I did as I was told. I filled up on meat, left nothing on my plate, and I don’t know when I’ll ever have room for food again.” Henrietta said, “Don’t talk like that. When it’s time for supper, you should have supper and eat solid food, not nonsense such as salads. Now, listen to me, my sweet. I hear that the nurse Shira doesn’t work nights, and, if she has no plans, I will give her some good advice: I suggest that she have dinner with my husband tonight. Look at him, Miss Shira, the father of three daughters blushing like a schoolboy. So, Miss Shira, what do you say? But you must take him to a big restaurant and see that he has a solid meal, since he has learned to make do with fruits and vegetables. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t become a vegetarian. I have nothing against vegetable dishes if they come with meat, but as for grazing in a meadow, I leave that to the goats. By the way, how is our garden doing? Did you water the plants? Is the mallow growing? You look as if you’re sitting on hot coals. I know, my sweet, that you’re longing for your desk, but our little Sarah deserves another evening of your time. Isn’t that so, Nurse Shira? Where is that nurse? She’s disappeared.” When Henrietta realized she was alone with her husband, she took his hand and said, “Don’t be annoyed that I’m troubling you to take Shira to dinner. You don’t know what a wonderful woman she is, how she puts herself out on my behalf, beyond the call of duty. The mysterious hand that brought these flowers was hers. If you take her to a restaurant, it won’t pay even half the debt…. You’re embarrassed to be seen with her? Don’t be embarrassed. When she takes off her uniform and puts on her own clothes, she’s like any other woman…. You’re afraid you’ll have to go out with her again? Don’t worry. She’s the sort of woman who doesn’t ask for more than she’s offered. And if you’re afraid you’ll be bored, don’t worry, my sweet. Light conversation will help you sleep.” “Good, good,” Manfred said. “You have a new habit,” Henrietta observed. “You say, ‘Good, good,’ all the time.” Manfred said, “Good, good.” Henrietta said, “There you go again, it must mean you’re feeling good.” Manfred said, “I feel good. Yes, I feel good.” Henrietta said, “If you feel good, then I feel good.” Manfred answered, “Good, good.” Henrietta smiled and said, “You said it again: ‘Good, good.’“ There was a smile on her lips, but inwardly she wasn’t smiling.
