by Agnon, S. Y.
Shira is a one-of-a-kind woman. Yet though he remembered her, he didn’t think about her. At that moment, Herbst was impelled not to think about anyone in particular. Being swept along with the crowd, everyone seemed equivalent to him.
He suddenly found himself in an empty lot, one he couldn’t identify, though it may have been the one that belongs to the high school. It was too congested to see anything, except for that man, the climber, soaring over everyone, swaying in midair; since this was impossible, the crowd must have been carrying him. How comfortable could it be for such a heavy person to be carried? As he began to orate, his booming voice interrupted Herbst’s thoughts. Herbst pricked up his ears, soaking in every word and straining to find the message. There was a message in the words, but not the trace of an idea. The voice became more and more excited, excited and inspired. Every phrase was accompanied by a gesture, a raised or lowered hand. If you would like a visual image for this speech, imagine nails being hammered into a wooden floor. With each stroke of the hammer, as it drives in the nail, the wood cries out.
By now, all the youngsters who stood listening were becoming agitated and restless. Every word the speaker said inflamed their blood, and each and every one of them was prepared to risk life and limb for his people and his land. Could they somehow be sure that their blood would not be shed in vain? This, he didn’t say. His thundering voice continued to arouse and enthrall, to arouse and inflame. There was no stemming the passion of these youngsters. There was not one among them unwilling to die for the people and the land. Since they didn’t know what to do, they became more and more enraged; their fury mounted, and their hearts seethed with wrath and the desire for vengeance.
The moderates listened and were upset. Others, too, who were hostile to the Mandate government, asked him with their disapproving eyes: What do you want from these youngsters? What are you suggesting that they do? Herbst was suddenly overcome with terror and with the fervent hope that all would end peacefully. What was there to worry about? He saw his daughter Tamara again. And again he saw he was mistaken. It was merely a young man who resembled Tamara. He was reminded of the girl at the train station in Leipzig, of the photographs of severed legs that had appeared in the newspaper, of the fact that one caption had said a boy was murdered while the other caption identified the victim as a girl. As it happened, his thoughts happened to be with Shira – what she was like when he visited her that first night and she was wearing slacks. His limbs suddenly felt weary, because of the hamsin, because he had been stuck in the crowd for several hours. He decided to stop in a café for some coffee, since he knew from experience that coffee has an invigorating effect in such weather. But the cafés, like all other businesses, were closed on account of the rally.
Again he was swept along by the crowd. He found himself in a small space between twin buildings. Wechsler was standing next to him. I wonder, Herbst mused, I wonder if he will tell me some new scheme for making portfolios; if not new ones, then old ones, antiques. Wechsler didn’t discuss either of the above. Even he was caught up in the public anguish.
Little by little, the crowd began to disperse, some going this way, others that way. Mostly, they were like a shepherdless flock, wandering off and returning, only to wander off once more, in circles. In any case, Herbst remarked to himself, in any case, the event has ended peacefully.
Herbst turned homeward in silence. But he didn’t feel like going home. After a hectic day, he, like most people, would have liked to find something else of interest to do. He didn’t find it, but he did find people with whom to spend an hour or two. Because there were so many to choose from, he didn’t choose any of them, thinking: I’d rather be alone, I’d rather be alone – doubling the message to reassure himself. Even as he reassured himself, he doubted that he really preferred to be alone. He was again joined by a stranger, who announced that a young man had been arrested for shooting a British officer. Before Herbst had a chance to digest this news, another bystander reported that a young girl had shot the Englishman. As he was talking, someone else informed them that she hadn’t shot but had been about to shoot, and that she hadn’t been arrested, since her friends appeared in time to spirit her away. As he was talking, someone else said, “I tend to agree that she didn’t shoot. I would have heard the shot, and, since I didn’t hear it, obviously she didn’t shoot.” Herbst stared at him, and he stared at Herbst, each imagining the other had something to say to him. Herbst finally took leave of them all, wishing them well, to which they responded, “May we meet again on a happier occasion.”
Herbst was suddenly alone. Only a little earlier, the streets had been mobbed. Now there was no one left outside. Had a curfew been declared? A curfew was likely, and Herbst didn’t have permission to be out. He could be stopped, taken to the police station, and detained until morning. Nevertheless, he did not hurry home. I’m all alone, I’m all alone, he reflected as he walked, feeling neither sad nor happy. But anyone who chose to join him would not have been unwelcome, so long as it wasn’t one of the people he was accustomed to – his friends, for example; not even Shira, Lisbet Neu, or any other young woman. Herbst, at this point, had in mind a type of person that most likely doesn’t exist. If this seems odd to you, it seems odd not because of Herbst but because of my inability to express it adequately.
In the past, when Herbst finished his business in town, he turned toward Shira’s. But, for a long time now, ever since he and his wife came back from Kfar Ahinoam, Herbst had not gone that way or even considered going that way. You know that Shira once ran into him somewhere and told him, “I’ve moved, so take out your notebook and write down my new address.” He didn’t take out his notebook, and he didn’t write in her address, because he knew it was superfluous, that he had no use for her address, that he had banished her from his mind. Now, after the rally, having had a chance to see the climber Shira had told him about, whom he found to be of no interest, it occurred to Herbst that it would be worthwhile to talk to Shira. Two things converged here. In and of themselves, they were unimportant; but together, they assumed importance. Shira was not important to Herbst; neither was that climber important to Herbst. But now that they were allied in his mind, he wished to discuss the man with Shira. For this reason, he turned toward Shira’s apartment. The earth was abandoned. All its children were gone, they had been plucked from the face of the earth. There was not a soul in sight, nor any vehicles either – not a bus, not a car, not a bicycle. Only implements of war filled the land, whose bulky parts looked malevolent and reeked of foul-smelling grease. A policeman, armed from head to toe, stood by, holding a rifle or a gun. A car, belonging to an Englishman or an Arab, suddenly loomed into view. It whizzed by, leaping, skimming the ground, leaving its fumes behind.
It was almost twilight when the hamsin, which had been so oppressive all day, finally relented. But no one remarked, “Thank God the hamsin is over,” for the entire city was enclosed in its houses. There was no sound from within. Those who had food were eating; those who had nothing to eat were hardly aware of hunger, because of the woes that burdened their hearts and because of their impotence. A radio was turned on. Perhaps there would be news of salvation and mercy. As was its wont, the radio offered the sort of news it is hard to hear when one’s heart is sore. After a minute or two, the radio was turned off. The city and its inhabitants were, once again, silent.
Herbst walked on in solitude. He had already disengaged his feet from the road that led to Shira’s house, but he hadn’t turned toward home. His soul was devoid of will; his feet had no direction. He wasn’t drawn toward Shira’s, nor was he drawn toward home.
Suddenly, a human figure emerged from the stillness, and Herbst heard a girlish voice addressing him. Herbst asked the girl, “Firadeus, what are you doing here?” Firadeus said, “I’m coming back from the pharmacy. I have some medicine for my mother.” Herbst said, “Yes, that’s right, I did hear that your mother was ill. Where do you live? Do you live in this neighborhood? Imagine, her
e I am. I have suddenly landed in your neighborhood. I don’t remember, did I ask about your mother’s illness? I may have asked and forgotten. Yes, yes, your mother’s illness is also due to the government of Palestine. The government’s vile politics. Today it seems to me that all our troubles are due to politics. Because of politics we die, because of politics we’re murdered, because of politics we get sick, and because of politics people make speeches and shoot at each other. You may have heard that a young girl shot a British officer. Did it ever occur to you that a girl – a Jewish girl, a daughter of Israel – would be capable of picking up a gun and killing someone? I myself cannot digest the news. Luckily, she didn’t hit him, and he wasn’t killed. Anyway, he was almost killed. If he has a wife, she would be mourning and lamenting. What are those voices I hear?” Firadeus answered, “That voice is my mother’s. She is mourning my father, who was killed by Arabs. Until today, she used to mourn at night. Today, she has been mourning all day. Some say she is this way because of the hamsin; others say it’s because of the rally.” “Yes, that’s right,” Herbst said. “It’s because of the rally. Go inside, Firadeus, and bring your mother her medicine.” Firadeus went in, and Herbst stood listening to the woman’s lament for her murdered husband.
This man who cleansed the streets of Jerusalem:
His spilled blood flowed like water through them.
This man who cleared the dusty roads of this quarter:
They spilled his blood like dirty water.
You, God, who are great, enlightened, supreme,
See them ravage his body, once sacred and clean.
Enlightened God, who reigns in the skies.
Do you hear orphans and widows when they cry?
Your right hand, our support, you have withdrawn from
us,
And we are at the mercy of the villainous.
I loathe my life, for he is gone whom I cherish.
Take my soul too and let me perish,
And perhaps I will again see my longtime mate.
Then will my heart rest and my suffering abate.
Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.
Now covered with earth in the grave he lies.
Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.
Now I see darkness by death, multiplied.
My heart yearns for you, to be dead at your side,
In your grave on the Mount where you now abide.
Chapter nine
Let’s return to Herbst’s household and family. As I mentioned, Henrietta is going to give birth, either to a boy, as Manfred believes, or to a girl, as is her habit, for Henrietta is in the habit of giving birth to girls. We will know in due time. For the time being, Henrietta tolerates the indignities of pregnancy rather gracefully. This woman takes great pride in her pregnancy, unlike most women in this country, except for those in the older communities, who welcome children. Firadeus is Henrietta’s mainstay. Firadeus knows what her mistress wants. Not merely from the heaviness of her movements, but from her face as well. Every line of her mistress’s face communicates her needs. Henrietta smiles and says, “You are a prophet, Firadeus. You know what’s hidden in my heart. You guess what I want, and I don’t have to bother with words.” Firadeus tells her mistress, “I only did as I was told. It seems to me that I was given an instruction, which I fulfilled.” Henrietta thinks to herself: I may have whispered something without realizing it. But this was not the case. It was love that whispered to Firadeus, conveying the wishes of her mistress.
Tamara treats her mother with affection too. She doesn’t contradict her, avoids arguing, and stays home a lot, so her mother won’t be alone and Tamara will be available should she be needed. She herself, rather than remain idle, corrects her students’ notebooks. Just between us, they aren’t really notebooks; they are the proclamations of youth leaders not yet fluent in Hebrew, written in other languages and translated into Hebrew by Tamara, so they can be posted in public places and circulated among prominent members of the yishuv community. To prevent British Intelligence from discovering these proclamations and confiscating them, they are sent out under fictitious names, like those of nonexistent businesses, charitable institutions, and schools. When every name had been used, they resorted to Mekitzei Nirdamim (We Wake Those Who Sleep), after a publisher of classical Hebrew manuscripts that were never in print before, an enterprise that goes back about four generations and was directed by some of our greatest leaders. British Intelligence, from whom nothing is hidden, were unaware that various highly respected Englishmen (Moses Montefiore, for example, as well as the chief rabbi of Great Britain) once led this enterprise. When one of these proclamations fell into the hands of Intelligence agents, who read the text and realized its goal was to wake those who were asleep so that they would rebel against the government of Palestine, they decided to bring the directors of this venerable publishing house to trial. If the actual nature of the enterprise and its history hadn’t been uncovered just in time, the eminent persons at the head of the publishing house would have had their peace disturbed. Since this error adds nothing to the story, I’ll say no more about the activities of British Intelligence and get back to the Herbst household.
A further miracle befell the Herbst household. The day Jerusalem demonstrated against the Palestine government, Tamara had undertaken a mission. Perhaps you took notice when I related that twice it seemed to Herbst that he saw Tamara, that in the end he realized he was mistaken, that it wasn’t Tamara, that in fact it was a boy. And when I related this, I commented: Isn’t it odd for a father not to recognize his daughter? Now that it has all ended well and there’s no need to worry about saying too much, I can tell the whole story. A handsome officer worked with the Jerusalem police. He was known as the Bloodhound, for anyone who fell into his hands came to a bloody end. There was a plan to take revenge. Tamara, who was especially hostile to him, because whenever he saw her he greeted her warmly – as in the old days, when they used to see each other in cafés and dance together – was determined to retaliate. That day, she dressed as a man, so she wouldn’t be recognized, took a pistol, and set out to do away with him. Someone had preceded her, firing at the Englishman but missing his mark. The police also missed the mark. Before they could seize the culprit, his friends managed to snatch him and hide him away.
Having told about Henrietta, Firadeus, and Tamara, it’s time to tell about Sarah. But it’s easier to write a long book about adults in this country than to write a short page about a child. Our eyes are still not trained to observe the behavior of the children here, which calls for a new approach. Some people consider them extremely primitive; to others they are like children anywhere else in the world, the product of a particular education. I disagree. They are not primitive, nor is it a matter of education. It is the land and sky that form them. Our children are like the land and the sky above. The land is sometimes parched and brittle; it is sometimes saturated with pleasing dew and bountiful rain. It is sometimes violent, like a raging wind; and sometimes it is sweet and amiable, like a breeze from the north. This applies to the sky and to our children.
So much for comparisons. I’d like to get back to the Herbst household now. But first, a brief tour of Kfar Ahinoam to look in on Zahara and her son, Dani.
Kfar Ahinoam is expanding. Not in farm produce or cattle and poultry – that is to say, in barns and coops – but in the realm of woodwork. A new carpentry shop has been set up. Wood is brought in from Hadera and from abroad, and made into bulletin boards, which bring in more revenue than agricultural products. A friend of the nurse who replaced Temima Kutchinsky when she left Ahinoam is supervising the work. Since I won’t be mentioning him again in this book, I won’t mention his name or the name of the place Temima Kutchinsky went to. But I will say a few words about the carpentry shop. Some kvutza members are dissatisfied, for this was not their purpose in coming here. They came to work the land. Other members argue that, though the land needs agriculture, it needs industry too. Both
factions benefit from the carpentry shop. It adds sugar to their tea and meat to their stew. Having given Zahara’s environment its due, I will dwell on Zahara.
Zahara is a good mother to her son and a good wife to her husband. She is loved by all her friends. Manfred’s mild, gentle nature and Henrietta’s talent for action were both transmitted to Zahara, engendering several fine new qualities. She suspends her own needs for the sake of others and exerts herself in matters others are casual about. I was once visiting Kfar Ahinoam on a miserable hamsin night. We set up our bedding out of doors, since it was too hot to sleep inside. The walls, floor, and ceiling emitted heat that had been accumulating all day. When I lay down outside, I heard a woman saying to her husband, “The water tank is dripping. We’re wasting water. Go and turn off the faucet.” He answered her, “Do you think I’m fool enough to get out of bed now that I finally found a comfortable spot?” Zahara got up and went to turn off the faucet, though no one told her to do it and it wasn’t her job. She has another fine quality: patience. You know how hard it is to be hospitable in these times, and you know how scrupulously kvutza members fulfill this obligation. It often happens that a worker comes back from the field hungry and tired, expecting to sit down and eat, only to enter the dining room and see a guest occupying his place. He has to stand and starve, waiting for the guest to finish eating and relinquish his spot. But guests are often leisurely; they eat slowly, and, after concluding their meal, they tend to sit around and listen to the conversation of kvutza members. So much for mealtimes. As for the intimate questions many guests are in the habit of asking, which even someone as tolerant as Hillel the Sage would be reluctant to answer – even when they are endless and absurd, Zahara responds graciously. Finally, the guest goes off to tell his wife how smart he is, what good questions he asked, how he impressed the young lady with these questions. This is a fine quality, isn’t it? As for Avraham-and-a-half, the Avraham-and-a-half we met in Jerusalem, the Avraham-and-a-half we met when the Herbsts visited Kfar Ahinoam after Dani was born – he hasn’t changed at all, except that he shaves regularly, so his whiskers won’t scratch his baby’s cheeks. Something else is new: he is now amused by those who devote themselves to guarding the language. The newspapers allot them a great deal of space. Avraham says their rigors will undo them, that Hebrew is still developing, and when they rule out a usage, why, one should be sure to use it – one should assume that what they rule out is, by definition, acceptable. Enough about these guardians of language, for better or for worse. I prefer to concentrate on Dani. Dani is still indifferent to language. When he starts talking, he will talk proper Hebrew.
