by Agnon, S. Y.
Chapter twenty-five
The village was asleep; well-earned rest and tranquility enveloped its houses, huts, and tents. An occasional sound was heard – a cow mooing in the barn, chickens clucking in their coop. This was followed by a second sound, sometimes repeating the original one, sometimes sounding surprised at itself. Then the village was silent again, pervaded with quiet peace. The silence was once again broken by the gurgle of irrigation pipes and noises from the water tower, the smell of fading embers emanating from the campfire.
A gust of wind passed through. Tent flaps swelled, and the lights inside quivered. Those who live in the tents are young and hungry for knowledge. On a night such as this, if they are not working, they are sprawled on their beds, reading by candlelight. There are many problems and many hidden secrets; a few of these secrets have been revealed to wise men and are disclosed in their books. There are those who read about cosmic affairs; others read about human affairs. Some read what was written by historians; others read what the poets wrote – the story of Amnon and Tamar, for example. Amnon and Tamar are names picked at random; if you prefer another set of names, they will do as well. Some are reading about soil mechanics; others, about raising livestock and poultry. There is even someone writing, not reading at all. Perhaps future generations will read his words. It is the way of the wind to shift and be everywhere.
I will get back to those people who receive light from others. Right now, let me mention something that is useful to farmers and fruit growers. Both are at war with birds, for they fly in and consume hard-won crops. Those who tend cows and chickens share their grief, for the birds come and eat the animal feed. For this reason, war is declared, even on songbirds. The assault involves not only noisemakers and scarecrows but rifles and other deadly implements. In some poet’s story, we find the tale of a man who had gardens and orchards. He invited birds from near and far to his gardens and orchards, made birdhouses for them, and provided them with food. They grew fond of these gardens and orchards, and became permanent guests. His neighbors said, “Don’t you realize they’re destroying your crops? You give all that up merely for their songs and their beauty.” He said, “Not only do their songs fill my heart with joy. My eyes feast on their feathers. Also, they are useful to me, because they peck at the trees and ferret out insects no human hand can reach.”
The village is deep in well-deserved sleep. Many perils menace these sleepers, for all around them are armed bands with designs on their lives. Yet most of the villagers are immersed in sweet sleep that attached itself to them as soon as they lay down, before they had a chance to think about it. In fact, the watchmen who guard the village function in a remarkable way. They appear to be idle, to be doing nothing, but their roving eyes are a warning to thieves, bandits, and murderers that they had better not approach the village. Occasionally, they approach and even enter, but only after killing the watchman. This is what happened to one of the watchmen in Ahinoam itself, the one whose picture is in the dining hall along with other heroes, whose only daughter is being raised with the rest of the children. The watchmen patrol the four corners of the village, each one heading in a different direction. Those with families think of wives and children, whose sleep they safeguard. Those who are single think of someone special asleep in her tent. Since sleep puts everything out of mind, has she, perhaps, forgotten him? Just then, a tent flap is lifted, and she emerges, the young woman he feared had forgotten him. They run toward each other and walk on together, talking – not in a whisper, which would be frightening; not in a loud voice, for that would disturb those who are asleep – but singing as they go, without raising their voices. They choose, not nostalgic songs, but some of the lighter trifles, such as “Sing a song, song, song, / Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.”
Herbst lay listening. It seemed to him that what he heard was a German song that sounded like a Russian song but was actually a Hebrew song. His mind shifted to the question of accents, and from there to the character types he had observed in the kvutza and to young women who take on men’s work. From there, his thoughts turned to the war, when most men went to the front and it seemed possible that the world would be destroyed. What with war casualties, the casualties of time, and work left undone, how was the world to survive? So women were expected to do men’s work. Since they were doing men’s work, they wore men’s clothing. Some of them were grotesque, some attractive. But he didn’t dwell on this and began thinking about his book again. He pondered the books of other faculty members, trying to recall whether anyone had written in Hebrew on a general subject or whether all the Hebrew books were about Judaism or the Land of Israel. His mind drifted here and there, from subject to subject, back to the war, to the agents of war, the victims of war, the events of the war. He thought about some of it a great deal; some, he preferred to avoid.
Now, in connection with what happened later that night, I bring up one of the things he dismissed from his mind. During the war, shortly after his marriage, his aunt in Leipzig asked to meet Henrietta. His aunt was too old to travel to Berlin. They agreed by letter that he and Henrietta would come to Leipzig on one of his leaves. One day, Manfred was granted leave. He went to his aunt’s house in Leipzig. He washed up, shaved off his beard, changed his clothes, and went to the train station to meet Henrietta, who was expected on the night train. This plan had been devised in an exchange of telegrams. When he got to the train station, he discovered that he had made a mistake and come a day early. He stood there dejected, watching the Berlin train, which had arrived without Henrietta. As he watched the train, he noticed a girl, dressed in trousers, cleaning one of the cars. His heart began to pound, and he left. Walking back to his aunt’s house, he saw her again. She was coming from work, dressed in a winter coat of the sort train conductors wear. It hung on her shoulders in a mannish way, and her coarse boots squeaked noisily. He stood watching her. She became aware of him and slowed down, to be more available should he choose to talk to her. He was taken aback and walked on, his heart pounding rapidly and ablaze with excitement. The next night, he went to the train station an hour early. While waiting for Henrietta to arrive, he went to the newsstand and saw a photograph of two severed legs, accompanied by a caption about a boy of fifteen or sixteen whose severed limbs were found on a bench in the Rose Valley. Near this item was a second item with the same picture but another caption, explaining that doctors consulted by the police believed the legs were those of a woman of about twenty, who was murdered, probably by a rapist, and that, since a young woman who cleaned cars in the central station in Leipzig had disappeared, it was assumed that the severed legs were hers. I am omitting Henrietta’s reception that night, but I will add that Herbst reproached himself with the thought that, had he talked to the girl, she wouldn’t have fallen prey to the rapist who killed her. Now, back to Ahinoam.
The singing voices were no longer heard. They were replaced by the wail of jackals. This sound didn’t usually frighten Herbst. He had lived in Jerusalem for so many years that it was familiar to him; it had been common in the beginning, when Baka was sparsely settled. Now he was alarmed and shaken, but he didn’t realize the alarm had been stored in him since the night Shira told him about a jackal that devoured a baby. All the things alluded to here are recounted, described, and elucidated in preceding chapters. When Shira told him about the jackal and the baby, he paid no attention, because he was preoccupied with the tale of the engineer and the whip. Now that he heard the jackal, having already dismissed the tale of the whip, the entire story came back to him. When he dismissed the tale of the baby and the jackal, the tale of the severed legs recurred. When he dismissed the tale of the severed legs, the tale of the baby and the jackal recurred. Finally, between the tale of the baby and the jackal and the tale of the severed legs, he was overcome by sleep.
But it was not good sleep, because in his sleep he discovered whose legs they were and who had severed them. Some brute, returning from war, had found her in the field behind her house and murdered
her. Herbst ran to the police station to tell them who the murderer was. Before he even reached the station, he was intercepted by policemen, who arrested him as a suspect. He went with them, saying not a word, for they would soon see he was entirely innocent and release him. But he was upset that, in the meantime, there would be an item about him in the newspaper, and his wife and daughters would be mortified. He was not released; he was led to the death cell. He went to the death cell, saying not a word. He was confident they would soon realize he was innocent and send him home. But he was upset that, in the meantime, his wife and daughters would find out and be mortified. He began to worry that his wife and daughters might suspect him of the murder. He wanted to shout, “I’m innocent of that murder and of any other murder!” His voice was locked in his throat, because Shira was coming and he knew that it was she who was the murderer and it was she who was the rapist. He lifted his eyes and turned toward her imploringly, to arouse her sympathy, so she would attest that he wasn’t guilty. But Shira gave no sign that she intended to make a move on his behalf. He raised his voice and shouted, “Shira, Shira!”
He woke up screaming and saw his wife standing over him, comforting him, trying to soothe his distraught soul. What he had seen in his dream was forgotten. He remembered nothing. Then he remembered being led to the death cell, with women dancing before him and singing, “Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.” He was startled and wanted to scream. Henrietta stroked his cheek and tried to calm him. Manfred stared at her and cried, “Mother, are you here? Oh, Henriett, I had a terrible dream. Such an awful dream. The sort of dream that can lead to madness.” Henrietta smoothed his brow and said, “Calm down, my love. Calm down, Fred.” Manfred said, “I can’t calm down. I can’t! What a dream, what a dream. Tell me, did you happen to hear what I was shouting in the dream?” Henrietta said, “I heard.” Manfred shrieked in alarm, “Tell me what I shouted!” Henrietta said, “Calm down, Fred.” Manfred said, “I won’t calm down! Tell me what I shouted.” Henrietta said, “You didn’t shout. You were singing.” “Singing? What was I singing?” Henrietta said, “That silly song that Tamara always used to sing.” “Which one?” “‘Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.’“ Manfred reached for Henrietta and said, “Come and lie down next to me.” Henrietta lay down next to him. He embraced her with all his might and cried out, “It was awful! Mother, a dream like the one I dreamed could drive a sane man to madness.” Henrietta said, “Tell me the dream.” Manfred said, “I can’t, I can’t. Don’t ask me to tell it to you, and don’t mention it. Maybe I’ll forget it too. Mother, it was a dreadful dream, an awful dream, and you say I was singing in my sleep. What was I singing, Mother?” Henrietta said, “But I just told you, Fred.” “Tell me again what I was singing.” Henrietta said, “‘Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.’“ “Is that all?” “That’s all.” “Mother, you are so good. If not for you, I would have been hanged.” Henrietta said, “Hush, Fred. Hush.” She kissed him on the mouth, and he kissed her, a protracted kiss. Henrietta said, “Wait. I’ll go and cover the window. The moon is shining on my face.” Manfred said, “Mother, don’t move. You are such a delight, Mother. It’s good to have you close.” Henrietta peered at him and asked, “Is that so?” Manfred said, “Yes, Mother. Believe me. You please me more than any woman in the world.” Henrietta said, “To hear you talk, one would think there were others.” She kissed him again and said, “My love, lie quietly. Maybe you’ll fall asleep.” Manfred said, “I don’t want to sleep when you’re with me.” He embraced her with all his might. She embraced him so that they clung to one another and became one flesh.
With this, I have concluded Book Two of the book of Manfred Herbst and the nurse Shira. I will now begin Book Three, starting not with Herbst or Shira, but with Henrietta. After telling about Henrietta, I will come back to Herbst and Shira – to Herbst first, then to Shira, then to the two of them together.
Book Three
Chapter one
Henrietta kept her secret to herself and did not reveal what was in her heart. In delighted surprise and surprised delight, she mused: The baby I’m going to bring forth is younger than my daughter’s child; her own child is older than her mother’s child. She was embarrassed before her daughters, yet pleased for herself, for her youth had been restored and she was as she had been in the early days, right after her marriage.
How did she arrive at such a pass? After receiving the news that Zahara had given birth to a son, she decided to go to her in Kfar Ahinoam, and Manfred agreed to come along. They locked their house and went off, spending three days and three nights with Zahara’s firstborn, with Zahara, with Avraham-and-a-half, and with all their friends and well-wishers in the village. In all their years in Jerusalem, the Herbsts had never had three consecutive days of rest like these. I am speaking, of course, of Henrietta, whose days, except when Tamara and Sarah were born, were filled with work; but Manfred, too, enjoyed the rest. He wasn’t trapped by piles of books, pamphlets, transcripts, notebooks, and cards, nor was he occupied with endless papers that seemed to generate spontaneously, producing more and more of their kind, which he would move from here to there although they belonged nowhere.
He did lecture in Kfar Ahinoam, more than once, in fact. Nevertheless, I maintain that he had never enjoyed such restful days as those in Kfar Ahinoam, for there is a big difference between lectures in Kfar Ahinoam and those at the university. His lectures at the university were required. The lecturer was required to lecture, and the listeners were required to listen, whereas in Kfar Ahinoam it was his wish and desire to lecture, and it was because of their own wish and desire that the listeners listened, most of them being tired of the speeches of political hacks and eager for intellectual discourse. Furthermore, from his lectures in Ahinoam he learned that he could recover what had been taken from him.
I’ll explain what I mean. Dr. Herbst was not one of those who are willing to pay any price for a drop of so-called honor. He already understood in his youth that one benefits only from what is won through integrity. But when our comrade Berl Katznelson organized a three-day workshop, inviting various lecturers but excluding him, he was dejected, for he had always been in demand. The lectures he presented in Kfar Ahinoam were well attended, not merely by members of the settlement, but by many people from neighboring communities, proving that he could attract a larger crowd than all the lecturers on all three workshop days combined.
Back to Henrietta Herbst. Since the day she arrived in the Land of Israel, she had not had three consecutive days of rest, other than when Tamara and Sarah were born. Her days were spent working hard in the house, gardening, and dealing with guests. Most difficult of all was the pursuit of certificates.
Many of the Herbsts’ relatives were left behind in Germany. Upon hearing that Henrietta and Manfred were going to the Land of Israel, they sneered at them for leaving a highly cultured country for an arid wilderness. When they heard Manfred was appointed lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, they were astonished to learn that Jerusalem had a university. When they heard lectures were held in Hebrew there, they were astonished that the language still existed. Between yesterday and tomorrow, events occurred in Germany that transformed it into an inferno – the very country about which it was said: Every Jew should bless God daily for the privilege of living there. Now they wandered from land to land. The nations were grudging, and those who escaped the sword were not allowed to earn a living. At great risk, they returned to Germany, and from there they asked friends and acquaintances in America to send them entry permits. Our brethren in America did everything they could, neither resting nor desisting until they brought them to America. But, in the end, they were helpless before the mass of supplicants, among them the Herbsts’ relatives, who were left with no options other than Palestine. They wrote to the Herbsts, “Send us certificates.” Henrietta raced around to obtain certificates, making no distinction between her own relatives and Manfred’s. The same catastrophe engulfed them all, making them equal before it. Nor did
she mention that her relatives had all laughed when they heard she was going to Palestine, and, now that they were in trouble, they were asking her to bring them to Palestine.
I will interrupt the flow of my story to praise Henrietta Herbst.
Henrietta had an elderly relative. He was born in the province of Poznan. When Henrietta informed her relatives that the Hebrew University in Jerusalem had offered Manfred a position, the old man said, “I will tell you something from which you will understand what a Hebrew university is.
“When I was a boy, I neglected my studies. My mother was sad, and my father scolded me. What they achieved through their sadness and scolding could be compared to what our teacher Moses achieved through his sadness and scolding.
