by Agnon, S. Y.
Chapter eighteen
Now that I have mentioned Shira, I will get back to Shira, who is the core of the book Shira, and whatever doesn’t pertain to Shira doesn’t pertain to the story. Again, Herbst’s thoughts were of Shira; some to her credit, others to her discredit. Herbst was thinking: If only Shira would say, “Go away and let me be.” Herbst was assuming that if Shira were to say “Scram,” he would take off and leave her. But Shira says no such thing and he, therefore, continues to come. Whenever he comes, she receives him warmly, so that, if we didn’t know what we know, we would imagine she was sitting and waiting for him. Herbst, seeing he is welcome, reaches out to caress her. Shira takes his hand and bends his fingers, like a hunter who catches a bird and clips its wings to keep it from flying. Herbst nurses his fingers and wonders: What does she have in mind? Her face is welcoming; her hands are rejecting. He takes a chair and sits down, or he paces around the room. He takes a cigarette and fills the room with smoke, his face registering rage. Shira is surrounded by clouds of smoke, enveloped by them. She too takes a cigarette, smoking and talking from within the clouds of smoke, telling him everything that has happened to her since his last visit. One day, she sprained her leg. Dr. Zahzam came. She describes the examination, how his hand glided over her leg. Herbst has a dim vision of Shira’s legs, which he recalls in all their intense loveliness as soon as they are mentioned. Herbst is perplexed: Why is Shira telling me about Zahzam? If she means to arouse my jealousy, I’m not the slightest bit jealous. Is it true that he’s not jealous? Yes and no. In Shira’s case, he’s not jealous; in other cases, he is. He once ran into Lisbet Neu and saw that the hairs above her lip had been removed. He was upset, as if she had taken something away from him. What did she take away? Was he expecting to kiss her lips? His entire relationship with her was quite straightforward. But any knowledgeable person knows – and it is true – that a woman who does such a thing does it because of a man. Which is to say that there is a man who is so close to her that he can say, “Those hairs are unbecoming,” or he may have said, “You would look better without them.” And, hearing this, she has the hair removed.
Back to Shira. Shira’s behavior is consistent. She invites and rejects, rejects and invites. Once, he sat her on his lap. Though she seemed not to mind, she suddenly slipped down and fled. Herbst repeats the same question: If she means to reject me, why is she so inviting? If she means to be inviting, why the rejection? When he pressed her, she said to him, “I don’t want to upset your wife; I have nothing against your wife.” If that’s the reason, then why was she so inviting to begin with? When he examines the situation, he sees that, even when she is inviting, there are limits.
As it happened, the thought occurred to him that Shira might be sick – that she was surely sick and was afraid he would catch her disease, which was why she had mentioned his wife, saying, “I have nothing against her and I don’t want to upset her.” Because, if she did have something against her, she wouldn’t have worried about infecting her with a disease that could be transmitted to her through him. This would explain why she had been at first inviting and then rejecting. As long as she was healthy, she welcomed him; when she realized she was sick, she began to reject him. In that case, he ought to have been grateful for the rejection. Not only was he ungrateful, he resented the fact that she rejected him. But Shira was different from him. Shira was in good control, imposing her will on his. Herbst took leave of Shira, sad and distressed – distressed by the rejection, and sad that he might already have contracted her disease. If he had the disease, then he was sick; if he was sick, he needed to be careful not to kiss his wife and daughters; above all, not to kiss Sarah, because children are more vulnerable to illness than adults.
A man’s imagination generates his actions. Herbst pictured his wife and daughters with an illness the doctors could not identify. Only Herbst knows the source of their malady, and he doesn’t disclose it to the doctors. They are in the throes of disease, all three of them. He goes from bed to bed in silence. It is a grave disease, all the more so because the doctors don’t recognize it, and, until they recognize it, they don’t know how to treat it. Picture this: There is one person in the world who could open his mouth and reveal the nature of the illness so the doctors could find a cure, but he is so cruel to his wife and daughters that he ignores their pain and refuses to tell the doctors anything. Who is that person? He is that woman’s husband and the father of those girls.
Angry and confused, Herbst went home, afraid he would find his wife and daughters in the throes of some painful disease. A host of afflictions, which Herbst had become aware of during the war, when he was mired in blood, came back to haunt him. Recalled through the power of memory and powered by imagination, they took over. Not content with skin and flesh, the blight was everywhere, and as it expanded the body expanded too. But what he witnessed during the war was inflicted by enemies, whereas now his wife and two daughters were afflicted through him. Zahara was also afflicted. You might think she was spared because she lived elsewhere, but she was exposed when she came to Jerusalem.
Herbst despaired of salvation. What he would have liked at that point was to find refuge, to be alone and consider what to do. In truth, there were no helpful thoughts available to him, and he didn’t have the power to change anything. But he must concentrate on what has happened to his wife and daughters before he loses his mind and does something crazy.
Herbst sneaked into his house like a thief in the night, compressing himself as he had never done before. He dwarfed his body, stuffed his head between his shoulders, tightened his limbs, shut his eyes, and held his breath. He would have been willing to crawl on all fours, just so no one would hear him come in.
Before he had a chance to emerge from his dwarfed state, Henrietta came toward him, holding out a letter. He stared at his wife and at the object she was handing him, wondering if the facts were already known. He was struck by two simultaneous thoughts. One was: Woe unto you. The other was: Now that the facts are known, there is nothing you can do.
Henrietta said, “A letter from Zahara.” Manfred asked in a whisper, “From Zahara?” Henrietta said, “Yes, it’s from Zahara.” Manfred repeated his wife’s words and said, “The letter – it’s from Zahara.” Henrietta said, “The child writes that she is about to go into the hospital.” Manfred heard and thought to himself: Then Zahara is the first victim. If Zahara was stricken, then her husband was probably stricken too. Since no man is likely to stay with one wife an entire lifetime, he would probably take another woman, and Zahara would probably take another man; four people would be afflicted because of him, because he was afflicted by Shira. These thoughts about the disease were intercepted by a dismaying thought: I heard Zahara was going to the hospital, but I wasn’t shocked.
Manfred was sad and depressed. He had never been so depressed. He forgot that he had the cure for his wife and daughters in his hands, but he didn’t forget that he was responsible for their illness. Henrietta said, “Don’t you want to read Zahara’s letter? She’s about to go to the hospital.” Manfred peered at Henrietta and asked in a whisper, “She’s going into the hospital? Why all of a sudden?” Henrietta laughed and said, “Why all of a sudden? What a question! It’s not sudden. She’s about to have the baby.” Manfred said, “So that’s it. I imagined all sorts of illnesses, but I never imagined she was going to the hospital because she was about to have a baby.” At that moment, he felt neither joy nor sadness, but his heart was pounding violently and relentlessly. Henrietta saw his agitation and said, “I’ll bring you something soothing to drink.” Manfred said, “If you’re going to bring me a drink, make it coffee.” At that moment, Manfred had no desire for coffee or any other drink in the world, but, to prove to Henrietta that he hadn’t changed in any way, he asked for something she wasn’t eager to give. She brought him strong coffee, which provoked him. Her conversation provoked him too. Actually, she spoke only of Zahara and said nothing that could irritate a fatherly heart. Bu
t he was concerned with something else, and two simultaneous concerns are more than a mind can tolerate. Henrietta, however, was unaware of this and didn’t stop talking.
Once again, day follows day. The sun shines; the moon and stars give light. The days are hot. At night, a pleasant coolness sweetens the city, treasured dew is released, grasses impart a fine fragrance, and people strive to enjoy what can be enjoyed. They leave work, come home, eat dinner, and take out chairs or a blanket, which they spread in front of the house to lie on. Before they have a chance to settle down, a curfew is announced, and they go back inside, annoyed at themselves and their entire household, only to be startled by the sound of gunfire, far away or nearby. There are two aspects to the curfew: it locks in and releases. Jews are locked in, forbidden to leave home; triggers are released, spewing rounds of terror and death. If this puzzles you, here’s another puzzle: these deadly rounds land wherever the people are.
The days are orderly, as is Dr. Herbst’s household. But now, instead of writing often to her relatives in Germany and those who left Germany and were dispersed throughout the world, Henrietta writes to her daughter Zahara. Henrietta’s letters are long. Sometimes, after putting the letter in an envelope, she has to weigh it to see if it needs an additional stamp. What does she write, and what doesn’t she write? She has never written such letters, nor has she ever written as often. If letter writers are rewarded, Henrietta receives her due, for Zahara loves her mother and answers every single letter. It must nonetheless be noted that the daughter’s letters are not as lovely as the mother’s. Don’t be surprised by this: Henrietta was born when the world was peaceful, and she could concern herself with such things as elegant script, whereas Zahara was born into a world debased by war, and everything in it was debased – handwriting, language, and all the rest. In any case, her heart is steady, and so are her letters; steady and easy to read. Even Henrietta, who never studied Hebrew, reads her daughter’s letters herself and considers each one a gift, every word a kiss. These are not words Henrietta would use to praise Zahara’s dispatches. Joy and deep delight go beyond language, beyond the words we utter.
Another letter arrived from Zahara. The first part was written in the hospital in Afula, the rest in Ahinoam. It was scrawled on wrinkled paper in gray pencil. The lines ran into each other, and some of the letters were unclear. Out of affection for Zahara, let’s take the time to read it. As we read, we’ll correct the language, close an eye to the spelling, and omit buts, onlys, alsos, indeeds, becauses, and various hemmings and hawings, as well as other superfluous and redundant words.
“Dear Mother, I was mistaken when I wrote to you last night that I was due to deliver. I can tell you now that, when they brought me to the hospital in Afula, it became clear that it was a gross error, so they sent me home as fast as they had brought me. When I got back, rather than let it go at that, everyone agreed that I was going to have twins. When I came back, they made a huge fuss, as if a baby had been born and left in Afula for the time being, until its brother was ready to be born. When everyone was tipsy on wine, they teased our nurse, who had taken me to the hospital, and many of the boys came to ask her if it wasn’t time for them to give birth, too, and whether they should hitch up the automobile and rush to Afula. Oh, Mother, if you had seen their grave, worried faces, you would have laughed. But she didn’t allow them to tease her and presented me and Shammai, the driver, to attest that she had said right away, in no uncertain terms, that the trip was not necessary. She said she had taken me to Afula because of Avraham, who had stirred everyone up, in order to show him there was no need to worry. But, Mother, dear, the drive back from Afula was so beautiful. The moon lit up the roofs of our villages in the Emek valley, and, wherever we went, we saw a welcoming crowd. As our vehicle drew closer, we saw that there were no people, only trees and bushes. Oh, Mother, we saw some small animal on the road too, with red eyes that seemed to be filled with yearning. I don’t know what kind of animal it was. Shammai, who is very well read, said what we saw was a rabbit. But Avraham said it was a fox. The nurse joined in the argument, but I don’t remember exactly what she said. Actually, it doesn’t matter. All I know is how adorable that little creature was, scurrying from left to right, from right to left. If it really was a fox, I am astonished not to have observed a single trace of slyness. The one thing I saw, as I already wrote you, was the longing in its eyes, a megadose of longing. Mother, you don’t know what mega means. It’s a very modern term. Everyone uses it a lot now, in cooking and in poetry. When writing a poem, you throw in that word. It means roughly this: a very, very large amount and a little more than that. You understand me, dearest Mama. Another thing. I kept hearing the sound of a violin. I thought it was my imagination. Then they asked me, ‘Do you hear that, Zahara?’ I thought I was imagining the question too, so I didn’t answer until I heard the nurse, Shammai, and Avraham arguing about the sound, unable to decide what instrument it resembled. Then I knew I was really hearing music, but there was no instrument there. It was simply the night, with its magic. Now, to end this letter, I’ll get back to my affairs and tell you what Avraham said: that my entire adventure is described in the Bible. That’s what he said. He’s in the fields now, so I can’t ask him the precise words. Go to the Book of Ruth and you will find a verse more or less like this: ‘I was full when I went off and just as full when the Lord brought me back.’ Oh, Mother, I’ve written so much that I’m afraid I’m wearing you out with all this scribbling. So I’m telling you that you certainly don’t have to read everything, nor do you have to show it all to Father. Just tell him that Zahara sends a megakiss, also a pat on the forehead. For you too, dear Mother, a kiss or two. No, no, no, Mother – I’m sending you megakisses. For you as well as for Father and Sarah. Your daughter, who loves you very much.
“If Avraham were here, he would send regards to all of you, so I can truly send regards in his name. Also, my regards to Firadeus and Tamara. To all of you, without exception. Zahara.
“See, Mother, when I can, I write a lot to you. So, remember, if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m busy and don’t have the time or because I have to get ready to go to the hospital. Stay well. Megakisses to you, to Father, to Sarah, and to all the people I already mentioned in my letter.
“Mother, I am really worried that you won’t have time to read all that I’ve written here. I see that I’ve written quite a lot. Still, I ask of you, don’t let it keep you from writing what’s going on at home. Write everything, including news of Jerusalem. I’ve heard that terrible things are happening there. That the Arabs are doing things it is hard to believe human beings are capable of. But I’m sure our neighbors in Baka wouldn’t behave like those savage Arabs. They have absolutely no reason to harm us. We have always been kind to them, and you, dearest Mama, helped many of them so much that they consider you an angel. What you did for Lucy from Lebanon, for example, whose babies were always stillborn and who wanted more than anything to have a child. You found her a trustworthy doctor, and she had a little boy. Is it possible that her boy would harm us? But I have no desire to philosophize or politicize, that is to say, to get into politics. Again, megakisses. Avraham just came in from the field. He says his hands are beyond holding a pen and asks me to send his best to all of you. Which is what I am doing, absolutely, as you see. Again, a kiss. Not one but many, many kisses, as I already wrote. Once again, Z.
“Mother, I almost forgot. Tamara must be back from her trip. What does she say about Greece? She is probably full of stories. Tell her that she is (pardon the expression) something that begins with a p, ends with a g, and has an i in the middle. She knows. She never once wrote me even half a word. Still, I love her, though she doesn’t deserve it at all, not one bit. Love and kisses again, Z.”
The days are orderly. Herbst maintains his order too. Out of a sense of duty toward the university, he puts aside the woman of the court and the nobleman Yohanan, to devote himself to his students. He confers with them and provides them
with material for their papers. He reaches into his box of notes, takes out a handful, and offers to share them. He is generous and ungrudging toward his students, who will write articles based on references he has discovered, labored over, and collected, material that was previously overlooked. Some professors require their students to gather material for them. And there are professors who put their own name alongside the student’s, making themselves the coauthor, assuming, in their vanity, that it will be to the student’s advantage if they lend their name to the work. Not so with Herbst. Herbst takes what is his and offers it to his students without patting himself on the back and saying, “See how wonderful I am – how decent, how generous – while others are stingy.” His students sense this and are drawn to him. They allow themselves to venture beyond academic matters to personal concerns, to their deepest secrets. One of his students even confessed to an emotional tangle centering on a young married woman with a child, who shares his desk at the university. Herbst, too, allows himself to discuss nonacademic matters with his students. His conversations with them are like conversations with peers. One of the two students he ran into that Saturday night when he was with Shira was sitting with him once, later on, and Herbst was on the verge of saying, “Remember that woman you saw me with in the café, when you and your friend were arguing about poetry and linguistics, discussing the verse ‘O heavens, seek pity for me’? I said anyone with the courage to ask the heavens to plead for him is certainly fortunate. Now, my friend, though I know I don’t deserve it, I too sometimes hear my heart cry out, ‘O heavens, seek pity for me’!”
