Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  Shira continued. “The engineer came in, straight as a mast. And his shoulders – such shoulders! How can I describe them? Let me just say that, if he were to put me on his shoulders, I wouldn’t say, ‘There’s no room,’ although I would hope he wouldn’t try to add one more like me. He bowed and said, ‘If the lady will allow me, I’ll sit for a while.’ I answered, ‘You have more right to be here than I do.’ He bowed again and said, ‘With your permission.’ And he sat down. I sat as if he weren’t there. He began talking and said roughly this: ‘You don’t seem to be busy, so if I talk, I won’t really be interrupting.’ I looked at my hands, which were idle, and said, ‘I’m not really doing anything.’ He sat in silence, and I was silent too. I thought: Why sit idly? I’ll go get a sock to darn, or the wool I bought when the curfew began, and I can work on my sweater. I was too lazy to get up. I sat staring straight ahead, making a point of not looking at him, so he wouldn’t think I meant to engage him in conversation. I assumed he would take out a thick cigar, which is what that type of powerful man usually smokes. He didn’t take out a cigar but began talking again. What did he talk about? If you like, I could repeat every word, but neither you nor I would be enthralled by his words, would we? So I’ll summarize the whole conversation in two or three words. What did he say?

  “He really didn’t say anything. But his voice, Manfred! His voice swept me off to distant places. After sailing with me from sea to sea and from continent to continent, he took me to Paris, which that gentleman was in the habit of visiting every year. To be more concrete let me tell you this: he sat and talked, and I sat and listened. Manfred, anyone who saw us would have said, ‘They’re like a young man and his maid when their time is ripe.’ Manfred, those scowls are uncalled for! What was I saying? He was like a youth courting his girl with engaging words. But I knew that words are one thing, the heart another. After touring those places with me, we were back in Jerusalem. Extending his hand toward Jerusalem, he said, ‘This is no city. It’s a desert, an eternal desert that sprouts earlocks, old men in frock coats stiff as Jerusalem stone, and even its sun is arid as stone.’ After he finished what he had to say about Jerusalem, he started on me. He shook his head at me and said, ‘Imagine, a young girl sitting here, lonely and solitary in this arid desert, under this arid sun, not enjoying what’s been created for her.’ I wanted to say, ‘No, sir, I’m neither young nor lonely,’ but his voice was so lulling that I didn’t say a word. Manfred, I see you are bored. No? Then I’ll continue. So I sat in silence while he sat and talked. He said roughly this: ‘The lady is alone because she ignores those who seek her company.’ All the time he was talking, he held something in his hand – not a cigar, for a cigar is quite thick, but this object was even thicker. All the time, the object kept swinging. Not on its own; the one who held it kept swinging it. I said to myself: I’ll look and see what’s in his hand. I looked and saw it was a whip – a small whip, but even a small whip is a whip. I began to be afraid he would strike me with the whip. He swings the whip without noticing that I’m afraid. I become more and more terrified that he may strike me – more precisely that he will surely strike me. He has only to extend his hand, swing the whip, and strike. With all my strength, I stare at the whip. He leads the whip this way, then that way and I am in terror. I didn’t have the strength to get up. I was too weak to run. What could I do? I could call for help, but even if I was saved from his clutches, I wouldn’t be saved from gossip. If he wants to hit me, let him hit me; I’m sure he won’t kill me. This gentleman – the one we’ve been discussing, the one I’ve been telling you about – is slowly being transformed. His face is malevolent, and there is an evil glare in his eyes. As he gazes at me, malevolently, I see he is reading my mind. I sit there, unable to stir. Every limb contracts. And he – the one I’m telling you about – sits opposite me, staring through those malevolent eyes. And they – those eyes – continue to be transformed, to blaze and glow. I’m not saying his eyes were appealing, but they were powerful. Some serpents immobilize their prey with such eyes. My eyes were drawn to his, so that I forgot the whip and the fear. I knew only that my limbs relaxed. Manfred, are you sleeping? It’s not nice to sit with a woman wringing your paws like a bereaved bear.” Herbst produced a rasping growl that seemed to mean: Tell me more.

  Shira continued. “The fear became more intense, and my teeth began to chatter. I asked myself: Why so frightened? He is a polite, intelligent man with a whip in his hand; so what? If there’s a whip in his hand, does that mean I have to be afraid? To convince myself I wasn’t afraid, I got up. As I got up, I heard the sound of a whip and felt a burn on my flesh. That man, my dear Manfred, that engineer, swung his whip and hit my arms, which were bare since it was a warm night and I was wearing a sleeveless shirt. After he did what he did, he asked, ‘Where to, miss?’ He asked in a tender voice, and even his eyes were no longer evil. But, as for me, my dear Manfred, my arms were like torches. Even later, in bed that night, when I looked at them, all the marks of the whip were still coiled around my skin like blue-black snakes. I raised my voice and yelled at him. You’d think he would have panicked and run off. He didn’t panic; he didn’t run off. On the contrary, he sat down again and looked at me with equanimity. I stood there, immobile. Suddenly, another rattle of the whip, followed by a burning sensation on my knees, which were exposed, since it was a warm night and I was wearing shorts. I was stunned into silence and rubbed my flesh; first my arms, then my knees. A tremor of sweetness filtered through, permeating my entire body. He peered at me and asked, ‘Good?’ That was his very word, as if someone had asked him for a favor and, after granting it, he were asking if he had performed it well. Manfred, you’re wringing your paws like a bear again. What do you want to ask?” Herbst muttered, “And then what?”

  Shira said, “That’s an odd question. What did you expect? There was nothing further. He threw down the whip and looked at me, his eyes devoid of evil. I asked him, ‘Why did you do that to me?’ He looked at me in dismay, as though I were ungrateful. I changed my tone and shouted, ‘Who gave you permission to do that?’ He answered in a whisper, ‘But, madam, wasn’t it all for you?’ I screamed at him, enraged, ‘Get out of here! Go!’ He got up and said, “With your permission, madam, I am going. Good night, madam.’ I pointed to the chair and said, ‘Sit down.’ He turned and sat down. I said to him, ‘You owe me an explanation.’ He answered, ‘These things are good, and you yourself probably recognize that they’re good, so there’s no need to explain.’ I said to him, ‘I have the right to an explanation.’ He sat and told me things I don’t mean to repeat. What did he tell me?”

  Shira told Herbst what the engineer told her, but we will skip the engineer’s story and return to our own.

  Shira said, “As he talked, he picked the whip up from the floor. I trembled, thinking he was taking the whip in order to strike me again. Believe it or not, I was ready. What did he do? He bowed graciously and left. I expected him to come back, but he didn’t. Not that night, nor the next day. Not to the balcony, nor to my room, though I didn’t stir from my room. He knew I was there, because I spent the day straightening my room and my things, and when I straighten my room and my things, I always sing. I sometimes sing loudly, though not on purpose, because I know I don’t have much of a voice.”

  Herbst asked Shira, “When did you see him again?” Shira tapped her forehead with her hand and said, “Good morning, sir. His Highness has deigned to wake up? What did you ask? If I saw him again? Why should I see him! I didn’t see him; I saw him only three times. Once in the hallway, once on the stairs, and twice in the hall again. When he saw me, he inquired about my health and was supremely polite. I looked at his hands, searching for the whip. His hands were empty. They were firm, smooth, and without hair or wrinkles. When I saw him later on, I asked him where the whip was. He answered in a whisper, ‘It’s in my briefcase. I’m about to leave.’“

  Herbst asked Shira, “And before leaving, he came to say goodbye?” Shira said, �
��If he had come, I would have thrown him out.” “Why?” “You’re asking why? After what he did to me, I suppose I was expected to bow my head to my navel and implore him, ‘Please come to me; please come, my lord and master’? I’ll show you something if you like, Manfred.” She bared her arm, and he saw a scar. Herbst asked Shira, “From his whip?” Shira shook her head and said, “I did it myself.” Herbst said, “And that was sweet, too?” Shira said, “Please, I’m asking you not to be sarcastic.” Herbst said, “But didn’t you yourself say…– “ Shira said, “I said what I said, and you have no right to say things like that to me.” Herbst said, “Come, Shira, don’t fight with me.” He stood up, encircled her hips with his arms, and closed his eyes, leaving a tiny opening. He saw that she was looking at him. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She covered his eyes with her hands and remained in his arms, exhausted.

  Chapter twenty-three

  Late that night, he left her and went on his way. She stood at the window, waving. He waved back and would have run, as it was past the hour when one is normally home in bed. But he couldn’t run, lest she see him and say: He’s running away from me. Also, what he remembered slowed him down. At the same time, he was pondering: When Henrietta asks where I’ve been, what will I say? Actually, she doesn’t usually ask questions, but what if she does? He went through all the possible excuses, how plausible they were, and which ones required caution, for the very person you were counting on for an alibi could have been in your house while you were off with that woman. Anyway, whatever he considered either ruled itself out or had a glaring flaw. An honest person finds it hard to tell a lie even when he wants to. Having failed to find an excuse, he felt pathetic. Not because of Shira, not because of the excuse, but because of Henrietta, who made it necessary to seek an excuse. He reached the end of Shira’s alley and was somewhat relieved; anyone who saw him now would have no reason to suspect he was coming from Shira’s.

  There was no one in sight. But the one he had just taken leave of was present, with all her power and intensity. Herbst was not happy. When he was with her, he wasn’t happy. Now that he was rushing home, he wasn’t happy at all.

  It was a fine night, charged with silence; the special silence of Jerusalem, an inner silence that exudes sweetness. Herbst hurried home, indifferent to the antics of the night, which, even for a Jerusalem night may have been unique in its sweet silence, or to the hour, equally unique in its pleasant sweetness.

  He was already at King George Street, having come out of the web of narrow alleys near where Shira lived. When Manfred Herbst first came to Jerusalem, one couldn’t walk here because of all the stones, rocks, boulders, and gaping potholes. When Rehavia was built, the stones were cleared, the rocks dug up, the boulders uprooted, and the holes filled with dirt. A long, wide road, suitable for pedestrians and vehicles, was built. Traffic was constant, but, as it was past midnight, the Talpiot bus, which stops in Baka and could have brought Herbst home in no time, was no longer running.

  The silence had moved on, and wherever it went, it was pursued by cars flying past, one after another. Where were they all coming from? The high commissioner’s residence. The high commissioner was having a party attended by many guests – people of wealth and status, diplomats, and even some yishuv leaders. They whizzed by in shiny cars with elegant interiors, their rubber wheels drinking up the earth. Manfred Herbst was small and humble. Not only was he on foot, but he had to keep swerving this way and that to avoid being run down. Every day you read in the papers that a man was run over by a car, a car struck a woman and killed her, children were playing in the street when a car came and crushed one of them. Herbst heard about a poor Jew who sold poultry, who happened to live between Mekor Hayim and Talpiot. One day he went out to slaughter a bird. A car ran into him and broke his ribs. He was taken to Hadassah Hospital, where the doctors labored over him until he was out of danger – out of danger, but not out from under the crippling effects of the car. Now he lived with some poor relative, sharing his meager resources. Shattered, broken, disheartened, depleted by the accident, he could no longer use his legs and pursue a livelihood. By rights, the driver should have compensated him for pain and suffering, medical expenses, disability, and embarrassment. But the rich are stingy where they should be extravagant and extravagant where they should be stingy. When the victim’s family decided to sue, the driver hired a lawyer who proved, through a little-known clause in the legal code, that his client was not required to pay. The offending party won the case. He paid his lawyer a fee that may have exceeded what the victim would have claimed had he won. That day, the son of the lawyer went with his friends on one of those hikes that have become the vogue. They arrived at some spot where they found a land mine the Mandate soldiers had neglected to clear. They picked it up, played with it, got bored, and threw it down. It hit that boy, the son of the lawyer, leaving him crippled. There are those who see connections, who connect the tale of the son with the tale of the father; may those who are experts in the laws of the Mandate see that there are other laws, higher ones. But what wrong did the child do, and why did he have to answer for his father’s sins? Moreover, why wasn’t the driver answerable for his car’s crime?

  Herbst was already at the train station. He turned toward Baka, but he still had no excuse to offer Henrietta. He saw Dr. Taglicht approaching. Where from? Ramat Rachel. Had he been giving a lecture? Not so. Taglicht, that saint and promoter of peace, that mass of spirituality, is training himself to fight. Should the enemy attack, he will stand up with the other Haganah members, so we will not be massacred and plundered, as we were in other years sealed in Jewish blood. Twice a week, Taglicht goes to Ramat Rachel to train with a Haganah group, and now he is on his way home. All this is beside the point. The point is that Herbst now has an excuse. Should Henrietta ask him where he was, he can say he was with Taglicht. And should she ask what they talked about he could tell an anecdote Taglicht had told him. Once, Taglicht was on his way to give a lecture. Hemdat met him and went along. After the lecture, several people attached themselves to Hemdat. One of them remarked, “I’ve read your stories. I won’t say they’re not good; I could even say I enjoyed them. But, let me tell you, today’s reader is no longer content with reading for pleasure. He expects to find a new message in every creative work. Hemdat said to him, “‘Whereto?’ is not a question I answer, though I do sometimes respond to ‘Wherefrom?’“

  Herbst and Taglicht did not have a long conversation; Herbst, because he was hurrying home, and Taglicht, because he had heard good news. On this night, one of many filled with horror and distress, catastrophe, restricted rights, and harsh measures and rulings that limit our every step, a band of youngsters had taken possession of some land, establishing a new settlement there. For this reason, Taglicht was not interested in the sort of conversation academics usually indulge in. They said goodbye to each other and went on their way, Taglicht rejoicing over the birth of a new settlement and Herbst relishing the excuse he had found.

  When Herbst reached home, he saw there was a light on. A light at one in the morning meant something had happened. But this was beside the point, the point being that, should Henrietta ask where he was, he now had an adequate and totally reasonable excuse. Herbst put his key in the door, but it didn’t open. What’s this? Henrietta could have left her key in the lock so she would hear him when he came in.

  He stood outside, unable to get into his own house without knocking. But if he knocked, his wife would come to let him in. Even if she didn’t ask any questions, shouldn’t he offer an explanation? But his face would contradict his answer. He had to get in somehow, and if he didn’t knock, no one would open the door. He knocked, and Zahara appeared.

  Herbst saw his daughter Zahara and said, “You’re here? When did you come?” Zahara embraced her father and kissed him. He wanted to embrace her and kiss her too. But his soul was astir with other embraces, so he restrained himself. He brushed her head with his hand, smoothing her hair, reluctantly, a
s his hands still blazed with Shira’s fire.

  Henrietta heard Manfred come in and called out from her bed, “Fred, what do you think about our visitor? Zahara, tell Father why you came.” Herbst asked in alarm, “What’s happened, what’s happened? Something bad again?” Henrietta said in a cheery voice, “What do you mean, ‘again,’ and why bad when it can be good?”