Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  “The next day, I didn’t stir from the house. I knew I would turn down the man Father had told me about. Still, I waited for him. Why? Just to say: ‘I don’t want you’! The day passed, and he didn’t come. When, after several more days, he still didn’t appear, I stopped thinking about him, and Father didn’t mention him either. One day, at sunset, I heard a knock at the door. I thought to myself: He has finally come. The door opened, and Pickwick came in. He flung his hat angrily and said, ‘I’m here to congratulate you.’ ‘What for?’ He sneered and said, ‘On your betrothal.’ ‘My betrothal?’ I cried in surprise. He repeated, ‘Your betrothal to that old lecher, the gigolo who carries on with the old duchess.’ I was silent. He changed his tone and began to address me tenderly. ‘Really, Shira, really, its unbecoming for a young Hebrew woman, the daughter of a distinguished Zionist, to marry someone like that, who has lived with gentile women. Listen, Shira, let’s go to the Land of Israel, let’s join a kibbutz, let’s live a pure life.’ I answered him, ‘As for your speech about a Hebrew woman and all the rest, the fact is that I now have the opportunity to rescue a Jew from Gentiles. As for its being unbecoming, there are many unbecoming things in the world, and I don’t believe the world will be any uglier if I add one more. As for the Land of Israel, it seems to me that the first two answers include an answer to that idyll.’ After he left, the one who wanted me to be his wife arrived. I answered him, saying yes. So I was married, then divorced. I was divorced from him because I married him. I’m not joking. I’m simply reporting what happened. Dr. Herbst has a question? No? Then I’ll get back to the subject. I must say, I don’t really like talking about myself, least of all about that chapter. If I were to be interrupted, I would not return to my story.”

  Chapter twelve

  “Where was I? I was telling that story. Although I was mature beyond my years, I had no concrete picture of married life. As long as we were engaged, he behaved like a rich uncle. He used to bring me presents and speak to me affectionately. I can’t deny that those days were pleasant, but they didn’t last. I was not quite seventeen when we were married.

  “The wedding was large and elegant. Zionist lumber merchants and householders came to share in our joy, and the flow of gifts and telegrams was a burden to me. Father had one drink too many and made a long speech about the apple of his eye and her chosen one. Other speeches followed in endless succession, after every speech a drink, and after every drink – joy. Everyone was happy, except for me. I was irritated and bored, the sort of boredom you feel at a gala concert. You sit there, stuck to your seat, not daring to stir. Meanwhile, something is bothering you, perhaps your skin, perhaps your clothes. Your eyelids droop. You strain to keep your eyes open. You watch the violin bow, make an effort to focus on it, but it looks menacing, and your mind is blank. I forgot I was at my own wedding, and all sorts of places where I had once been came together, lining up side by side, one after the other. Finally, all those places vanished, and I was in a forest with no way out. I was expecting a man in leather to come and lead me out, and I was surprised that he didn’t come. I heard the sound of a horse and looked up. I saw that very man seated beside me in fancy clothes, with another man standing over him, dressed like the one who had led me out of the forest. He pointed at the guests, most of whom were intoxicated. He pointed at them again, saying, ‘They need something, but who knows what? Get up, Shira. Put on some warm clothes, and let’s go out into the world.’ When I was outside, he covered me with fur and lifted me into a sleigh, which glided off into the forest.”

  Shira paused and said, “I’ll leave the rest for another night. Now, Dr. Herbst, let’s go back to town and find a restaurant, as Mrs. Herbst instructed.” Shira suddenly laughed and said, “Don’t be afraid I’ll be another Scheherazade. Even if I recount every detail, I won’t take a thousand and one nights.”

  Manfred Herbst was a curious person, like all those who deal with books and are so unfamiliar with the world that their ears perk up at any news of it. But now that he was out with Shira, he regretted every word she spoke, for she was involved with her story rather than with him. By and by, he relaxed and began to be intrigued by her words. When she paused, he started, expecting events to unfold as they had the previous night, when they were alone in her room. But, no. Shira returned to her story.

  “The sleigh stopped in a field in the forest, surrounded by snowy hills and snow-covered trees. That man leaped out of the sleigh, wrapped me in his arms, and said, ‘Here is our house.’ I saw no sign of a house, only smoke rising from the snow, sending forth the fragrance of burnt pine. He brought me to a heated room. My limbs were heavy with fatigue, and my eyes sought sleep. He looked at me strangely, pointed to the wide bed, and said, ‘You’re tired. Take off your clothes and get into bed.’ He saw I was ashamed to undress with him there, and he left. An old woman came to help me. I said, ‘Don’t bother, I’ll undress myself.’ She wished me well and left. I threw off my clothes and my shoes, everything but my stockings, which I didn’t have the strength to remove. I stood there, wondering what was going on, just what I was doing there. Exhausted, I flung myself on the bed, curled up in the feather quilt, and gave myself to sleep.

  “Hearing footsteps, I started. I assumed the old woman was coming to see if I needed anything. I closed my eyes, so she would think I was asleep. The quilt lifted itself, and a cold wind engulfed me. I opened my eyes and saw a naked man, totally undressed. I screamed in terror, ‘Get out!’ He whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m your husband.’ I screamed as loud as I could, ‘I’ll scream if you don’t get out!’ He said, ‘What’s the point, when you’re screaming already?’ And he began to caress me, to embrace me, his mouth dripping kisses. I freed myself from his embrace, leaped from the bed to the door and from the door to the hall. By the time he recovered from the shock, I was outside.

  “The woods were covered with snow, and the trees were totally still. The snow vibrated underfoot in the stillness. I ran through the snow, not knowing whether I was cold or warm. A hand gripped me, and in an instant I was in that man’s arms. He ran with me, yelling, ‘If I hadn’t found you immediately, you would have frozen to death. A babe in the woods on a freezing night, without clothes, without shoes.’ He brought me to the room I had escaped from and stood me on my feet, sighing and whispering, ‘Oh, my darling, my darling, I didn’t know how much I love you. Kill me, but let me have one hour with you.’

  “The old woman came with a hot drink, put me to bed, covered me with several blankets, and brought a hot brick wrapped in towels, which she placed at my feet. She sat beside me, singing sad and lovely songs about water creatures, wood sprites, and other sprites that assume human form and cohabit with the sprites, all of whom give birth to male children they hide in trees, where they grow up, unbeknownst to anyone. In springtime, when young girls go to the woods, these boys pop out, snatch the ones who are virgins, whisk them away, and marry them. When their babies are born, they deposit them in trees, unbeknownst to anyone. And when they grow up, the cycle is repeated. That’s how it is, that’s how it was, and that’s how it will be until the end of time.

  “Night passed and day came. That man appeared and began to coax me, to promise me everything if only I would relent. I sobbed, I cried, I begged. ‘Take me back to my father. I don’t want to stay here even a minute.’ He no longer kissed and hugged me. He spoke to me gently, then harshly. When he spoke gently, I asked myself why he was not harsh; when he spoke harshly, I asked myself why he was not gentle. In either case, my heart was bitter and hard. While he was trying to win me with words, he was told guests had come to congratulate him. His manner changed, and he went to greet his guests. When he left, the old woman he had provided to serve me appeared. This happened several times in the course of the day.

  “The old woman was the mother of the girl he had made pregnant, who was beaten to death by the duchess. The old woman used to sit and talk with me. ‘He’s a real man,’ she would say. ‘A real man. No girl can re
sist him. And you, my dove, are trying to run away. How will you do it? None of the farmers will give you a ride, for fear of your husband. If you walk, your little feet will sink into the snow. These darling feet were out on a snowy night; it’s a miracle the skin didn’t peel right off. Your dead mother probably came and put her good hands under the soles of your feet. The dead know the sorrows of the living and share them, though we are sometimes too stingy to light a candle in their memory. Give me one of your feet, my dove, and I’ll kiss it. My daughter didn’t have feet like yours, though she was lovely and good. Alas, she wasn’t favored by the Mother of God, who could have saved her from our mistress, the duchess. Probably because my daughter was born Christian and our lord, your husband, is a Jewish man. You, my dove, are Jewish too, so why resist your husband? You won’t find another man as powerful as he is. Be still, my dove, be still. Don’t look so enraged. The rage of the Lord God is enough, why add to it? You are, after all, a woman, and a woman’s heart is soft and good. Why be defiant? You are an orphan with no mother, and I am a mother with no daughter. Let’s live in peace, rather than upset each other. The Lord God and all those with him make enough trouble. Wouldn’t it be better if my daughter had lived and I had died, like your good mother who died, leaving you alive? She left you a kind father, too. Listen, my dove, listen: I hear the sound of a sleigh. Your kind father is coming. He will make peace between you and your husband.’

  “The door opened, and Father came in. I fell on his neck and sobbed, ‘Father, Father.’ He pushed me away and said, ‘You’ve brought us shame, you’ve brought us shame.’ I was stunned. My tears dried up. I stopped crying and didn’t say a word. Father began to praise the man he called my husband, to describe all the good things he would be able to give me. I didn’t answer. I was as mute as a tree in the snow, but for the fact that a tree is alive on the inside though covered with snow, whereas I was like snow through and through. At night, that man gave a big party for Father, who had one drink too many and began muttering, ‘It will work out, it will work out.’ He kissed me and kissed the one they called my groom.

  “It didn’t work out. On the contrary, it became more complex. At first, I had nothing against the man, but, in the end, my heart was filled with seething hatred. When he came near me, I shouted, ‘Get away from me, you wretch!’ I called him every vile name, and he loved me all the more. I was a captive in his house, seeking escape. Because of the snow, it was impossible to escape. Once, while he was drinking with friends who came to congratulate him on his marriage, I sneaked out of the house, hid in a sleigh belonging to a gentleman from my town, and rode off. Father was not happy to see me. Having married off his only daughter, he had his eye on a wife. Whom did he have in mind? The mother of the young man I had rejected. Knowing this, she hated me doubly – once for her son, once for herself – for I was interfering with the pleasure she sought from my father. Fate is a clown, and when he clowns, he doubles the laughs.

  “Father hardly spoke to me. By day he was busy at the bank, and in the evening he was with the widow. I was on my own. I invited friends. They didn’t come. When I went to meetings, they avoided me, and those who didn’t avoid me spoke with feigned respect and addressed me as Madame So-and-so, wife of that man. When I was first betrothed, my friends began to keep some distance. Now they treated me as a stranger. I went home humiliated and swore I would never go back, nor would I forgive them. I stayed at home, without father or friends, without joy, without anything.

  “One day the old woman appeared. She came in and said, ‘You don’t come to us, so I am coming to you.’ She sat with me, singing the praises of her master, my husband, who had always been a good man but, since I ran away, had become evil. ‘You must, therefore, go back to him, if not for my sake, then for the sake of others. Considering how little goodness there is, every good soul should promote goodness with his own body, all the more so women, who were created solely for the pleasure and benefit of men.’ This is how the old woman spoke. She mentioned the Son of God, who died for mankind and doesn’t harm even those who sin against him. He is generous even with the sinful duchess, so much so that her children, who were assumed to have been killed by the Bolsheviks, were, in fact, alive. Then the old woman praised my husband again and said, ‘What a pity to see this powerful man declining, all because my mistress, his wife, has left him.’

  “A little later, that man came himself and talked to me like a merchant discussing business. He said roughly this: ‘Come back to me and stay; I won’t ask anything of you. I want only to be able to see you.’ He sent relatives, men and women, to urge me to go back to him. All this occurred again and again. Sometimes the old woman came, sometimes he came, sometimes all sorts of relatives came. In all this time, Father showed no sympathy. I’m not angry, I’m not complaining. He, of course, had my good in mind, as would any father with an only daughter. Scorning his efforts, I not only caused him pain and torment but prevented him from pursuing his own interests, for, as long as I was at home, the woman was unwilling to move in. And living with her would have been difficult for both of them, because of her son.

  “Once Father brought a man home, took him into his room, and closed the door. When they emerged, Father’s face was dark. Father turned to me and said, ‘A splendid turn of events. If he runs off to America, you’ll be lost forever. Do you know what it is to be an abandoned wife? You don’t know, so I’ll tell you. If your husband goes to America, you will never be free as long as you live.’ I wasn’t very familiar with religious law, so I answered Father calmly, ‘What do I care? Let him go wherever he likes, as long as I don’t have to see him.’ Father began pulling at his beard and shouting, ‘God in heaven, isn’t it enough that You plagued me with such a daughter, did You have to impair her intelligence too?’

  “The guest calmed Father down and said, ‘Why all the excitement? He’s not running off empty-handed, and if his wife goes with him, she won’t lack for anything either.’ Father repeated this to me: ‘Listen, he’s not empty-handed. Come to terms with him and go along.’

  “After the guest left, Father sat for about an hour, in a state of shock. Then he said, ‘Come, let me tell you what made your husband decide to go to America. He was managing the property of the duchess as if it were his own, assuming that her sons were killed by the Bolsheviks. They are actually alive and are on their way here. When they come, they will demand an accounting, which he cannot and does not wish to provide. For him, escape is the best solution. If you don’t go with him, you will be an abandoned wife.’ As I said, I was not familiar with religious law, and I didn’t know that, until my husband handed me a piece of paper called a get, I was, by religious law, his wife. When Father realized I was firm in my decision and determined not to go with that man, he didn’t rest until he had prevailed upon him to give me a get. I was finally rid of him by Jewish law, having already rid myself of him on my own.

  “What happened next? Did the professor want to ask me something? No? I’m surprised. I thought I was about to be interrupted. About six months after the get, I decided to come to this country. I didn’t come with my father, who was too deeply involved in his work and various other activities. I didn’t come with my friends from the youth movement, as we were no longer in touch with each other. But my mother’s mother lived in Jerusalem, so I went to stay with her.

  “I’ll make a brief digression to explain some things that had happened several years earlier. A Russian boy was arrested for revolutionary activities and escaped to Galicia. He came to a town where he began teaching Hebrew. He set his heart on a student of his, who was the only daughter of a well-to-do family, and married her despite her parents’ objections. That man was my father and the woman was my mother. After a while, Father heard that conditions had improved in Russia. He took me and my mother back to Russia. Mother was homesick. She missed her parents, as well as her town. They sent her money for the fare. She went to visit them. One day, Mother was sitting in the park. A cavalry officer saw her,
and, in the course of events, she went off with him. Not long afterward, she died. Her father and mother, wishing to atone for her sin, went up to Jerusalem.

  “When I came to Jerusalem, my grandfather was already dead and my grandmother was living in an old-age home. I couldn’t stay with her, since she was in the home, nor could I find myself a room, as I had very little money. I decided to go to a kibbutz. My grandmother began to weep and begged me not to do anything so shameful.

  “A rich woman from Hamburg lived next door. She took sick and was planning to leave the country. I looked after her in exchange for room and board. When she left, she took me along as a companion. I went with her to Hamburg. In Hamburg, once again I didn’t know what to do. The woman’s daughters-in-law advised me to study nursing. They helped me out while I was in school. When I completed the course, I was sent to Jerusalem to work in the hospital where Dr. Herbst made my acquaintance.”