Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  To mitigate the anecdote, which could be construed as a complaint, Anita began to describe the house she was working in – its elegance; the cleverness of the baby she was taking care of; the room she had been given, which was on the roof, a small room with a large terrace overlooking the Judean hills. When she sat alone at night, looking out at those hills, at the moon and the stars, she was in a state of euphoria, lacking nothing. But the better off she was, the worse she felt, remembering her father and mother, trapped in Berlin, bemoaning their miserable fate. Yet she could do nothing for them. She sometimes asked herself: What are we? If we are human, how can we be so heartless? We enjoy every advantage here, without responding to the distress of our brethren in Germany and in other lands where they are oppressed. Anita concluded her tirade against Hitler and his followers, savage animals who behave like savage animals. “But,” she continued, “we in the Land of Israel – Jews with Jewish hearts – how can we sit complacently, eating, drinking, sleeping, as if nothing has occurred? I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the urge to scream, ‘How can we be so complacent? Doesn’t anyone hear the cries of our brothers and sisters?’ I step outside, search the four corners of the sky, and ask, ‘Whence will our help come?’ All of a sudden, I hear a voice calling, ‘Wake up, hurry, bestir yourselves.’ I see light in windows and Jews coming out of their houses, quickly, on the run. I think: They hear the cries, and they are responding. Then I realize they’re hurrying to the synagogue, so they can finish praying and be free to pursue their business, like yesterday and the day before.”

  While Anita was talking, Herbst sat with one finger bent to help him remember the question he wished to ask. When Anita stopped her monologue, he didn’t relax his finger, nor did he ask his question, because she seemed sad and because of the people at the adjacent table. When most of the tables were empty, Herbst placed his hand on hers, looked at her somewhat evasively, and said, “What I’ve been thinking…What it occurred to me, by association, is that I might ask you…You may remember that once, when you were sick, I came to visit you with the nurse Shira. If I’m not mistaken, she brought you flowers that made you very happy.” Anita said, “How could I not remember her? I have never met as fine a woman.” Herbst said, “What I mean is, I wonder…I haven’t seen her in several months.” Anita said, “As a matter of fact, I’m in the same situation. I’ve looked for her several times, but I haven’t been able to find her. When I asked her neighbors, they couldn’t say when they had last seen her.” Herbst said, “She probably moved, and you were at her old apartment.” Anita said, “No, I’m talking about her new apartment. I even asked about her in the hospital, but she apparently didn’t say where she was going. She really doesn’t have to account for herself, but I’m sorry she didn’t say where she was going. I don’t think she’s left the country. If she left Jerusalem, she may have gone to Tel Aviv, to Haifa, or to some kvutza, and she may return just as suddenly as she left. If you would like, Dr. Herbst, I could tell you where she lives now.”

  All this time, Herbst sat thinking a variety of thoughts. One thought was: Something could have happened to Shira; she could have become pregnant and gone off to a place where she is unknown. When was he last with her? He did the calculation more than once. She had been putting him off for years. If she was pregnant, he wasn’t responsible. He felt gloomy. He sat with Anita, unaware of her and of everyone. But he was aware that something had happened to him.

  He smoothed his hair with his hand. Then he looked at the hand and extended it toward Anita. He had the impression that his hair had turned gray, and he thought about asking Anita for a mirror. Seeing that he had extended his hand to her, Anita said, “Dr. Herbst, would you like me to write down Shira’s new address?” Herbst looked at her and said, “Shira’s address? I might as well write down Shira’s address.” But his face indicated that the gesture would be wasted, that, even if he knew where she lived, he would not find her.

  He took out a notebook and pen, and handed them to Anita. She wrote down the address and drew a map of the street, on which she marked the position of the house. Herbst took back his pen and notebook, and stuck them in his pocket, looking neither at the address nor at Anita. After a while, he stole a sideward glance at her, to see if she had seen that he was keeping Shira’s address. After a further while, he took a spoon and began tapping on the glass. Trudel appeared and gave him the check. He stood up, then sat down again. All of a sudden, he roused himself, looked at Anita Brik, and said, “How are you, my dear?” As he spoke, he realized that, in light of their lengthy conversation, the question was superfluous. He smiled, an odd smile, and said, “Actually, you have told me everything, but is all of everything really everything? I talked so much without mentioning that my wife asked about you. You know where we live. We are still in Baka. You can take either the number six or the number seven bus. If you’re ready to leave now, I’m ready too. I’m sorry I troubled you to write down the address of Shira the nurse. It was a waste. If I show you my book, you’ll find a thousand addresses in it, and I doubt that I’ve used a single one. I wrote down the nurse Shira’s address out of sheer habit. In this country, we do so much writing. I was told about a consul who said he had never been in a country where people write as much as they do in Palestine. It is common that, when a child begins to write, he writes a lot, his hands become skilled, and he learns to write nicely. It’s the same with a young nation. What I just said doesn’t pertain to writing good poems. So, goodbye, my dear. Oh, I have inundated you with words, as if I were some sort of a Bachlam-and-a-half. I did actually visit Bachlam a few days ago. I suspect his manner is contagious. Goodbye, my dear. Goodbye.”

  Chapter eleven

  The shock that had overwhelmed him began to dissipate. By the time he took leave of Anita, there was no discernible trace of what had agitated him a short time earlier. Herbst found some consolation in the new address he had written in his notebook; should he want to, he could go to Shira. There was no need to go immediately, but, whenever he wanted to, he could go.

  He left Ben Yehuda Street, turned to the left, and walked as far as the Café Europa. Before the shoeshine boys who were stationed there had a chance to grab his feet and begin shining his shoes, he himself placed one foot on the box that was set up for the purpose. While the boy was at work, Herbst took out his little book, noted the new address, and studied the drawing, picturing the precise location of Shira’s new apartment, the place where she now resided. It was easy for Herbst to imagine the place, but it was hard for him to imagine what sort of people lived there. Jerusalem is unlike cities in other countries, where rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods are distinct, so that where one lives is predetermined. In Jerusalem, people live anywhere, without such distinctions, and the population is not segregated. In fact, one actually finds, in all the older alleys of the new city, dilapidated structures alongside new ones. Here, the rich and the poor – all the social classes – are considered equal. There are areas where we assume no one we know would live; still, when we happen to be there, we are sure to run into two or three familiar faces, the ones we least expected to see. Herbst, who had been trying for years to hide his affair with Shira from his friends, was interested in knowing who her neighbors were, as a precaution. But, as I said, he was after the impossible.

  The shoeshine boy pressed the bell on his stand to announce that one shoe was done and he was ready for the next one. Herbst put the notebook back in his pocket and switched feet. The shoeshine boy began again, dipped his finger in polish, smeared it on the shoe, spread it all around, and rubbed it with a rag, until the shoe began to shine. The bell sounded again, announcing that it was shined too, but that the gentleman should put the first foot up again so both of his shoes would have the same amount of shine. Meanwhile, being fond of experiments, Herbst tried to test himself, to see to what extent he was capable of taking his mind off Shira, who was troubling him once again. He began to chat with the shoeshine boy, asking him what he
earns in a day. He told Herbst his earnings, as well as his expenses. He earns up to forty grush a day; sometimes more, sometimes less. Before Shabbat and on holidays, he makes more than seventy grush. But expenses are high: six lirot for rent, six grush for six tins of water. And now that his wife has given birth to a new daughter, there are even more expenses. He has to buy seven tins of water, because the nurse at the clinic instructed his wife to bathe the child every day. So they have to buy an extra tin of water in addition to the first six. Herbst made many errors in the course of that conversation. He assumed that the six lirot for rent covered a quarter of the year, whereas actually they covered the entire year. He assumed the boy was a boy, and it turned out that he was married and burdened with sons and daughters. He thought the six or seven tins of water were for a day, not realizing they were for the week. But all of this is beside the point, the point being that Herbst was testing himself to see how capable he was, at that moment, of occupying his mind with remote matters. The bell sounded again, not a signal to shift shoes but a jubilant sound, for the job was done. The gentleman could now display his shoes to the sun, the moon, the stars, to all of Jerusalem, including the rival shoeshine boys. Herbst gazed at his shoes and at the boy’s face, which came close to outshining his handiwork. Herbst paid him double his price and moved on. He stopped to take out his notebook and copy Shira’s address in his own hand. Then he turned and walked on.

  The day grew dusky. A disorderly stream of workers emerged from those offices that close before sunset and mingled with the passersby. They were dressed in all sorts of finery, and their leather shoes glistened. Their skin, however, was not fine. Their manner was not fine. In fact, there was nothing fine about them: for example, the woman with black hair that had suddenly turned brown, the smooth-shaven gentleman who now sported a mustache very much like Hitler’s. The details are hardly worth mentioning, but because these people were so invested in them, I have chosen to mention them.

  The French Library was still open. If Herbst wanted to, he could go there and get the novels he was after. But he gave this up for Henrietta’s sake, having promised her he would be home before dark. She was making artichokes with butter sauce for dinner, which they usually ate out of doors. And when they ate out of doors, they usually ate before sunset. Actually, Herbst had changed, in that he was no longer enthusiastic about artichokes and butter. It was a bother to deal with them, leaf by leaf, before getting to the heart. Those outdoor meals were also a bother, because Henrietta always forgot to serve at least one dish, which she remembered after he had had his fill, so he ended up overeating and not enjoying it. But, since he hadn’t said anything to her, he must get back. He hurried to catch the bus and arrived home before sunset.

  When he got home, he changed his clothes, took the watering can, and went out to the garden. He watered and watered. Each bush and every flower thanked him for each and every drop. He thanked them too, for their scent and beauty, for helping him collect his scattered thoughts. Now that he was busy watering, he began to feel more collected.

  The sun was setting, and the garden began to grow dark. A flock of birds appeared, on the way back to their nests. They were followed by other birds, who appeared one at a time, their chirps ringing out from the branches themselves. From the branches themselves – how could this be? Because it was dark now, no bird, not even the wing of a bird, could be seen, and the branches themselves seemed to be chirping. A sudden hush enveloped the trees, the branches, the birds in their nests, the garden, and the house. In the hush, only Sarah’s voice was heard. She was lying in bed, singing a song without words.

  Warmth, lush and lively, rose from the moist earth and from the water that hadn’t soaked in yet and continued to bubble up between the clods of dirt. Underground waters became one with the swelling earth; surface waters gazed upward at the waters of the sky above until they were covered by darkness, then continued to peer through the darkness till their eyes were lost in earth and air. The smell of wood and fire blew in from nearby yards where supper was being cooked. Henrietta turned on the lights and set the table in the dining room rather than outside. She served freshly baked bread, fragrant with the aroma of contentment and peace, making this seem like the domain of tranquility and peace. But in Manfred’s heart there was no peace, no tranquility. His heart was in turmoil. At any given moment, it seemed to him, he would now be able to find Shira at home. Why didn’t he go to her? He moved his lips, to form the name of the alley she had moved to. The alley itself had no name. But the apartment was marked on the drawing in his notebook, along with the name of the landlord, and so on. He put all this together and tried to form an image. Since the image was vague, he rejected it. He summoned up her first apartment instead, his mind’s eye feasting on it. He was startled by Henrietta’s voice, asking, “Where are you, Fred?” He picked up the watering can and answered, “I’m watering the garden.” He lifted it high, so she wouldn’t say, “You’re a liar.” Henrietta said, “You are pampering our garden. You’ve already given it enough water. Get ready for dinner.” Manfred answered, “I’ll do just that, Henriett.” He put down the empty watering can, went into the bathroom, showered, changed his clothes, and sat down to dinner with Henrietta.

  The meal was light and pleasant, as was the conversation. Henrietta was through with the anguish of certificates, of officials who speak but don’t act, who promise but don’t perform, and her heart was at one with the world again. Henrietta had not succeeded in bringing even one relative to the country, but, when she began to be aware she was pregnant, she had stopped running around for certificates. As soon as she stopped running, her worries diminished. When a letter arrived from abroad, inscribed with grief, misery, woe, she responded with a sigh and returned to her own affairs, as most people did at the time.

  As soon as Henrietta stopped running around to arrange for certificates, Manfred felt compelled to do something on behalf of their relatives. Since he did nothing, I have nothing to report, and I’ll get back to Henrietta.

  Once again, Henrietta’s heart was at one with the world and all its creatures, as in the old days, when she first knew Manfred. Except that then she was worry-free, and now she had daughters to worry about, though worry was inappropriate in the case of two daughters such as hers. Zahara lives happily with her husband, and they will continue to be happy as long as it suits her. Being a steady sort, she isn’t likely to jeopardize her own well-being or the well-being of others, all the more so now that she has a son, who serves as a new bond between his parents.

  And Tamara? She is somewhat more problematic. Unlike most girls, she has a piquant intelligence, a sharp tongue, and an audacious spirit that would endanger anyone else. She was once walking down the hill from Talpiot with one of her friends. They encountered an Arab, who attacked the young man, hoping to snatch his leather briefcase. While the Arab wrestled with him, Tamara picked up a rock and threw it at his head. She did this two or three times, until he fell in a puddle of blood, half-dead. When he managed to pick himself up and crawl back to his village, Tamara followed him to see where he lived and bring him to justice. Those villagers – heroes when it comes to attacking aged Jews and solitary women – saw her, yet didn’t dare lift a finger. But it’s unfortunate that she hasn’t found a job yet and still works without pay. In fact, there is a real job awaiting her. She herself says that the superintendent of schools, who observed her at work in Mekor Hayim, has given her a glowing reference and told her she could have a job in one of the settlements in the Sharon. She would have to teach somewhere else first, until the end of the term, substituting for a teacher who went to Scandinavia on a Histadrut mission. The Histadrut, of course, considers only its own needs and feels free to pull out a teacher in midyear. It is they who end up paying. In this case, for instance, a teacher of their political persuasion will be replaced by Tamara, who detests the Histadrut as much as she detests the British.

  More about Tamara. She has found herself a boyfriend, a lapsed yeshiva s
tudent. Whether or not he is worthy of her, it’s too soon to consider him her mate. Many of Tamara’s friends are attracted to her, and there is no reason to single out anyone in particular as her mate. Furthermore, an impulsive approach to marriage suits neither Henrietta nor Manfred, though Henrietta, with a mother’s intuition, is sure that such a mate would always be faithful to his wife, despite their differences in education, origin, and background. His parents are from one of those renowned Jewish communities, whereas her parents are from Germany. Though they themselves were both born in Jerusalem, it is doubtful that their characters are similar. Actually, Tamara’s views are not contingent on her parents’, and she does as she pleases. In any case, I have presented her parents’ view.

  And then there is Sarah. For the time being, she is little and hasn’t arrived at the age of worry, but she is ever so clever. She has never been to nursery school and hasn’t heard a teacher’s voice, but she gains knowledge constantly. From what source? Father Manfred doesn’t teach her, because he is occupied with his students, and Tamara doesn’t teach her, because of her concerns. Henrietta, who would like to teach her, is hampered by the discomforts of pregnancy. So, from whom does she learn? She learns from everyone she sees and from everything she sees, even from the cat, the dog, and the chickens; most of all, from Firadeus, whose knowledge is very limited. Firadeus can’t even read the prayerbook, but she knows things not everyone knows, such as why the moon and stars give light by night while the sun gives light by day: because the night was made for sleep, for which the moon and stars provide sufficient light. This is not the case by day, when workers need abundant light, which is why the sun shines all day, giving abundant light. Similarly, on Yom Kippur night, when a lot of light is needed for prayers, many candles are lit in the synagogue. And why did the sea choose to locate itself in Tel Aviv rather than Jerusalem? Because Jerusalem is high up, and the sea prefers not to undertake the climb. And why are there wild animals in the world? So wicked people, when they see us running away from wild animals because of their wickedness, will realize it’s not good to be wicked. Sarah learns many other things from Firadeus. Since she loves Firadeus, she loves her teachings as well.