by Agnon, S. Y.
After Ursula was admitted to the Histadrut, Tamara took her to a café. They sat drinking cocoa and were joined by one of Tamara’s friends, a writer and journalist. Tamara told him that Ursula had been admitted to the organization and reported what the official had said about her: that Ursula should be working in our institutions, but that the jobs were all taken by lazy idlers. The writer said to them, “If I were writing a novel about this community, I would call it The Cake Eaters. I would describe all the gatherings attended by officials whose main function is to impress guests and to overeat. No doubt they do something between gatherings, but the real accomplishments are not theirs.”
Between the two events, between the time Ursula arrived at the Herbst household and the time Ursula was admitted to the Histadrut, Henrietta arrived at full term and was ready to give birth. Because I don’t know if I’ll get back to Ursula, I’ve told all about her, insofar as her affairs are linked to the tale of the Herbst household, which is an essential link in the tale of Dr. Herbst and the nurse Shira. Now I’ll return to the Herbst household and Henrietta Herbst’s delivery.
This delivery was different from the earlier ones, because, in this case, Tamara took her mother to Hadassah Hospital and arranged everything, sparing Manfred, the father, the excitement that is inevitable for a man when his wife gives birth. Father and daughter had agreed to this. It began in this way: Tamara heard about a woman who had read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and was so affected by the description of Levin’s torments the day his wife gave birth that, when it was time to deliver her own child, she hid the event from her husband, went to the hospital alone, gave birth, and informed her husband afterward. When Tamara heard this story, she decided she would do just that when she was married and about to give birth. Meanwhile, she did for her mother what she had decided she would do for herself.
As it happened, just when Henrietta and Tamara left for Hadassah Hospital, at one and the same time it happened that Herbst set out to look for Shira. It would have been better if these events hadn’t occurred at one and the same time – because of the moral aspects of this coincidence, because of its sensational aspects, because the affair of Herbst and Shira had begun similarly and its course had not run smoothly. So, just when Henrietta was admitted to the hospital, at that precise hour Manfred was walking down the alley Anita Brik had described to him. He was hesitant and hadn’t approached Shira’s place yet, but now he was ready to approach. He suddenly realized how bizarre it was, how ugly it was: a man’s wife is about to bear his child, and he is groveling at another woman’s door. But between consciousness and action, there are many twists and turns. Before long, Herbst was knocking at Shira’s door. The door, however, was new, and it didn’t respond. Six or seven times he knocked on the door, and no one opened it for him.
Chapter twenty-one
Henrietta presented her husband with a healthy and sound baby. It was almost daylight when her son was born. She gave birth to her son with none of the anguish associated with childbirth, though he was large when he emerged from his mother. He weighed eight and a half pounds, unlike his sisters, who were successively smaller than each other and all smaller than he was. The obstetrician, who was afraid Mrs. Herbst might have a difficult birth, instructed the nurses to notify him as soon as she went into labor, as she would need special attention. Before they had time to inform him, the baby was born. The midwife, a young girl of about twenty-two, and two other young nurses were the only ones with her, except for the night nurse, who came to the delivery room after the birth.
Henrietta is the sort of woman who remains composed at all times and doesn’t like to indulge herself, even when she gives birth. As soon as she woke up from her sleep, she asked that a special messenger be sent to her home to announce that she had given birth to a son. If the messenger would like to take a taxi, he could take a taxi. If he is content with a bus, let him take a bus. It isn’t essential that they know instantly; it will be fine if they get the news even after an hour’s delay. As long as the messenger arrives by noon, which is when they generally leave the house.
An hour later, Papa Manfred appeared with Tamara. Or, to reverse it, Tamara appeared with Papa Manfred for Papa Manfred was bizarre. He actually didn’t know his left from his right, and, if not for Tamara, he wouldn’t have found the door to his wife’s room. Manfred was truly bizarre standing before his wife. His eyes were fixed less on his wife than on the door, and, when the door opened, he seemed anxious, pale, disappointed, desperate. They were allowed to spend a limited amount of time with the new mother, and even less time with the son. They probably weren’t allowed in to see him at all, but were led to a small opening from the hall to the nursery, where they could stand and peer at the newborn infant, swaddled in a white garment, lying in a woven cradle. It was hard to be sure he was human. In any case, Papa Manfred didn’t look at him and didn’t notice anything, as if determined to deprive his eyes of whatever they might see. But he was aware of the young nurse’s glance as she led him toward the nursery, and, when he became aware of her, he tried to dismiss her from his memory, along with the memory of the day he visited Bachlam when Bachlam was sick, when he asked that young nurse about Shira. To prevent these memories from taunting him, as they often did, he turned his mind to other days and other eras. First, to the time of Emperor Theodosius and his chamberlain Cocolus; then to Arcadius, who succeeded his father, Theodosius. Then back to that chamberlain, Cocolus, on whom they both depended, each for his own reasons. Herbst suddenly began to doubt that the chamberlain’s name was really Cocolus, because he didn’t remember an l in his name, and, if there was no l, then it surely wasn’t Cocolus. Now how does this relate to Theodosia? But was I actually thinking about Theodosia?
The Mount Scopus bus arrived at its stop, near the workers’ kitchen. The entire square was full of students, young men and women who were hurrying to the university, to the library, to meet each other, and so on. All around them, a mass of individuals – men, women, babies – pressed forward toward Hadassah Hospital, on their way to visit sick relatives. Herbst and his daughter barely managed to make their way through the crowd, and they barely managed to wriggle out of the line. “Papa,” Tamara said in a tender voice, “let’s write a letter to Zahara now, informing her that all is well and that Mother gave birth to a boy.” “Good,” Papa Manfred said, feeling that was not the right word. But, having already said “Good,” he said it again, so she would take it as a deliberate and sober response. Nevertheless, it surprised him that Tamara had said, “Let’s write a letter to Zahara now.” How could you stop and write a letter on such a noisy street? He couldn’t imagine how it was possible to stand and write a letter on a city street, in a sea of pedestrians.
Herbst followed his daughter in a hush. They were surrounded on all sides, in front and in back, by all sorts of people in varied dress, by stores, vehicles, newspaper vendors, kids distributing flyers, policemen, Arabs, dogs, flying insects – whatever is typical of such a street on a summer day before noon. All this was fused into a single raucous mass that couldn’t be taken apart, whose segments had no life of their own, existing only as a crowd, emitting an incessant murmur. Tamara said to her father, after they sat down in the café, “I assume that, at a time like this, a cup of coffee would suit you.” “And you?” Papa Manfred said, with a sense of shared fate. “Yes,” said Tamara, “I’ll have coffee, too. Until that dunce brings our coffee, I’ll have a cigarette. I left my cigarettes at home, Papa. If you would like to contribute a cigarette, I would be happy to accept it. What, you left your cigarettes at home too? Two people and one blunder.”
The waiter brought two black coffees and some milk. He didn’t bring any sugar. In those days, there was a sugar shortage in the Land of Israel. Cafés and restaurants no longer served sugar with coffee and tea. “Pigs,” said Tamara. “The goyim need sugar for their wars, so we have to drink coffee without sugar.” “Without sugar,” Herbst said. It clearly didn’t matter to him whether he had coffee w
ith or without sugar. “Didn’t we want to write to Zahara?” “We did, yes, we did,” said Tamara. “And what we wanted to do, we will do. I’ll get paper and an envelope. You, Papa, dear, will contribute two or three drops of ink from your blessed pen, along with your pen itself. I promise not to violate the sanctity of scholarship. I’ll merely inform Zahara that Mother gave birth to a boy and that they are both well.” Herbst handed her his pen and said, “Here. You can write to Zahara.” Tamara said, “I’ll get some paper and an envelope.” “Yes, yes,” Herbst said. “Bring paper and an envelope.” He suddenly noticed there was something odd either in his voice or in his words. He wanted to prove to his daughter that he was entirely composed and began searching for a subject that would prove he wasn’t merely babbling. It occurred to him to tell her that they could just as soon call Zahara, since there was obviously a telephone in Ahinoam; that, oddly, if they were to call, Zahara would have the news in Ahinoam even before Sarah, who was at home in Jerusalem. While he thought about his two daughters, that the one who was geographically closer would get the news after the one who was far away, Tamara went to get paper and an envelope. After she returned, with paper, an envelope, and a plate full of warm cakes filled with cheese, fruit, and jam, she said to her father, “Why write? Wouldn’t it be better to find a telephone and call her? No letter in the world could satisfy a daughter’s soul as much as hearing the news directly. They have a telephone here, and at this hour it isn’t being used by couples calling each other. No one will disturb us. There may even be someone in the office in Ahinoam by now, willing to pick up the phone out of idleness and curiosity.” “Yes, yes,” Herbst was about to say to his daughter. “Yes, yes, let’s call her.” But he was afraid she might consider these words odd. He could just as soon say, “Good, good,” but those words had a similarly odd ring. So he restrained himself and didn’t say anything, counting on his daughter to know what was in his heart, which would make all words superfluous. Superfluous! He was suddenly overcome with terror. If Tamara knows what is in his heart, then she knows…Before he could follow the thought to its conclusion, he was confronted with another wave of terror. Tamara laughed and said, “So that’s it. That’s how a man looks when his wife gives him a son. I want to know: does it make a difference whether she gives birth to a male or a female?” “That’s a silly question. Of course there’s a difference.” “Papa, dear, you have probably forgotten what you were like when I was born. But you probably haven’t forgotten what you were like when Sarah was born.” Herbst gazed at her, replaying what was in his own mind: I wasn’t thinking about Theodosia, I’m sure I wasn’t thinking about Theodosia. There was no reason to think about Theodosia, so why does my mind persist in tormenting me with her? Until I find another reason, it’s because her name begins with T, like Tamara’s. I know that’s not the real reason, but, until I find another, this one will have to do. I already said that, so why repeat myself?
When they left the café, Tamara said to her father, “We’ve informed Zahara; what else is there for us to do?” Papa Manfred said, “What else is there for us to do? Believe it or not, I don’t know. I simply don’t know.” He suddenly looked at her with affection and said warmly, “You’ve been treating me like a child who needs a nursemaid. I stand around, not knowing what to do, until you tell me. Very simply, I don’t know what to do. You see, Tamara, there’s material for a tragedy here. A sensible man, father of daughters, suddenly loses his mind, and, if not for his young daughter, he would be desolate. If not for you, Tamara, I would be like King Lear in his time. You never heard of King Lear? I would normally be furious about that, but I’ll let it go for now. So, Tamara, what should we be doing? What, in your opinion, should we be doing? It seems to me that all we have to do is hop on the bus, go home, and tell Sarah that they brought her mother a baby. I leave it to you to figure out how to construct the story about the baby – whether it was delivered by an angel or a stork. They both have wings. Whom did we leave Sarah with? I think that, when we left home, Firadeus wasn’t there. No, she wasn’t. She definitely wasn’t there, and we left the child with no one to look after her! As you see, Tamara, there are times when a sane person has a lapse and does something he shouldn’t do. I’m philosophizing while the poor child is home alone! It’s possible that Firadeus didn’t come at all.” Tamara said, “Don’t worry, Papa. Sarah isn’t home alone.” Father Manfred said, “She isn’t home alone? How can you say she isn’t home alone? If Firadeus didn’t come, then the child is surely there alone. How come I didn’t think of it sooner? I’ll call a taxi, so we can hurry home.” Tamara said, “It’s not necessary to hurry, and we don’t need a taxi.” Father Manfred said, “How can you say it’s not necessary? I really have to admit that I don’t understand you. A little girl is home alone, and you say, ‘It’s not necessary.’ Please, why isn’t it necessary?” Tamara said, “Because she isn’t alone.” Father Manfred said, “You already told me that.” Tamara said, “That’s what I said, and that’s how it is.” Father Manfred said, “Please, Tamara, help me understand. I don’t have much imagination. We left the house, and there was no one home but Sarah, yet you insist – “ Tamara said, “I asked Ursula not to go to her office, so she could be with Sarah.” Manfred said, “You asked Ursula to stay with Sarah, but you didn’t tell me?” Tamara said, “I did tell you.” Father Manfred said, “You told me just now, but earlier, when I was frantic, you didn’t say a word.” Tamara said, “Until you were frantic, there was no reason to tell you.” Father Manfred said, “If you had told me earlier, I wouldn’t have become frantic. What do you think, Tamara? Is there something between her and Taglicht?” Tamara glanced at her father questioningly and said, “Her? Whom do you have in mind?” Father Manfred said, “Between Ursula and Taglicht.” Tamara said, “I didn’t notice.” Father Manfred said, “You didn’t notice?” Tamara said, “I don’t view the world in terms of what goes on between males and females.” Father Manfred smiled and gazed at his daughter with a mix of affection, surprise, and envy, and said, “How do you view the world?” Tamara said, “The world? How do I view it? The entire world concerns me about as much as a single nit in an Arab’s keffiyah. Father Manfred asked his daughter, “What are you concerned with?” “What am I concerned with? Our immediate world.” Father Manfred asked his daughter, “What about our immediate world?” Tamara said, “The issues that concern me are liberty, freedom, casting off the foreign yoke.” Father Manfred said, “What does freedom mean?” Tamara said, “Freedom from the English and their Zionist agents, from Weizmann and his agents, from those who head the Jewish Agency and the Labor Party. Some monstrous Englishman, from some dingy cellar in London or from the House of Lords, appoints himself master of our fate, ruling our world according to the decrees of some other monster, possibly just like him. One well-aimed kick and they’ll be out of this country.” Manfred said, “The Arabs want to throw us into the sea, and you want to throw out the English.” Tamara said, “Out of the country, not into the sea. That’s the difference between us and those desert savages. We’ve improved their lives in so many ways – raised them out of their filth, supplied them with food, replaced their rags with real clothes, provided doctors to cure their eyes – yet they want to throw us into the sea. But they relate to the English like servile dogs. I promise you this, Papa, the Arabs won’t throw us into the sea. In fact, they ought to praise Allah and thank him for the fact that the Jews won’t throw them into the sea.” Herbst pursed his lips and said, “Is that so?” Tamara said, “Yes, Papa. Yes. That’s how it is, and more so.” Father Manfred said, “Jews are merciful; they’re not cruel. But I can tell you this, my child: when a Jew becomes cruel, woe unto his people. When the merciful become cruel, they are worse than those who were born cruel. But back to our subject: how do you expect to get both the Arabs and the English out of this country? Tell me, please, how will you do it?” “How?” Tamara said. “If I were clever, I would answer you. Anyway, it won’t happen the way I imagine it. But what I h
ave told you is definite, guaranteed. I promise that you will see it for yourself.” Father Manfred said, “And can you promise that I’ll enjoy it?” Tamara said, “That depends on you. I myself can imagine no greater pleasure than national power, a people that is vigorous and mighty.” Manfred said, “That Englishman from a dank cellar in London will be replaced by a Revisionist from Odessa, or from some village in Poland, Lithuania, Galicia, or Mea Shearim, and he will tell me what to do. This is what I think: a powerful Gentile, from a powerful country accustomed to power, so that its lust for power has been modulated, is to be preferred to a young Jew whose evil ambitions remain unbridled. Dear Tamara, don’t look so menacing. I won’t say another word, if you wish. But if you have the fortitude to hear the opinion of a man who has seen an orderly world, who has seen war, who has seen revolution follow in its wake, who has read books, I am willing to share my opinions with you, based on what I have seen in books and what I understand from life. I assume, Tamara, that you prefer life to books. Let me begin with my childhood. Will it be hard for you if we walk?” Tamara said, “And you, Papa. Will it be hard for you if we walk?” Father Manfred said, “I don’t credit myself with having taught you many things, so let me teach you one thing that is worth learning.” “What is it?” Father Manfred said, “If someone asks you a question, don’t use the same words when questioning him.” “Why not?” Father Manfred said, “As an exception to the rule, I will begin my answer using your words. Why not? Because that proves to the person you are arguing with that he has influence, if not on your ideas, then on your style. Now, my child, we can go back to the beginning, if you like. But tell me first, do you mind if we walk?” Tamara laughed and said, “What do you want to know first, whether I’m a good student or whether you’re a good teacher?” Father Manfred said, “It’s all the same, isn’t it? A good student learns from his teacher, and a good teacher turns out a decent student. I’m afraid that, with so many asides, we’ll never get to the heart of the matter. If you’re ready to hear, I’ll get back to the subject.”
