Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  So Sarini’s husband wants to travel to the Ten Tribes. He has a good life with Sarini. She prepares his food and makes his bed, and he has only to entertain himself with adventures. A man leaves home, not necessarily in pursuit of adventure, in pursuit of an ideal, in pursuit of God. A man might run off because he is too comfortable where he is. No bus is coming, is coming, Herbst said to himself, thinking: I sound like Ernst Weltfremdt, who repeats the ends of phrases over and over. However, I must admit that his book is good. Herbst strained to see if a bus was coming. There was no bus in sight.

  A woman appeared, holding two baskets, with a cigarette vendor’s box stuffed inside of each one. The woman addressed him in Yiddish. “Why are you standing here, Uncle?” Herbst looked at her in surprise. What sort of question is that? If someone is standing at a bus stop, it’s a sign that he wants to go somewhere. He answered her pleasantly, in Yiddish, making an effort to match his manner of speaking to hers, in style as well as language. This is what he said to her: “My dear Auntie, this uncle of yours would like to go to Mekor Hayim. Not actually to Mekor Hayim, but to a place on the way to Mekor Hayim, and he is waiting for the bus to come and pick him up.” The woman said, “You might as well be waiting for the downfall of villains. The bus you are waiting for won’t come.” Herbst said, “Why won’t it come?” The woman said, “Because the Englishman doesn’t want it to.” Herbst said, “The Englishman doesn’t want it to? Why not?” The woman said, “Because. Who can fathom the mind of an Englishman? He himself may not know why. All he knows is that he has to issue decrees, so he issues decrees. Maybe you know why it bothered him that the bus stop was here, why he suddenly decreed that it had to be moved? Come with me, neighbor, and I’ll show you the new bus stop. It’s not far, but you’ll never find it without me.” Herbst said, “We’re probably late.” The woman said, “Late? Late for the bus? I’m sorry I don’t have the energy to laugh. We’ll never be late, we’ll never be late. The driver waits for the bus to fill up, and still he doesn’t budge. Why? Because, even if the bus is full, another passenger or two might come. Otherwise, it’s not worth his while. Now that there are so few passengers, he even waits for a poor woman like me.” Herbst asked the woman, “Do you come home this late every night?” She answered, “You think you’ve found yourself someone who is out late every night? Most nights, dear Uncle, I’ve said my bedtime prayers by now. You might ask, ‘Wherefore is this night different from all other nights?’ so I will answer that question. We used to be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt; now we are slaves to the English. A policeman found me peddling my wares without a permit. Tell me this, neighbor: if I had bought a permit for a lira, would the English queen be able to afford an extra feather for her Shabbat bonnet? But I won’t be silent. I already saw Moshkeli Royt. I’m hoping he’ll use his influence with the Englishman to have my fine revoked. I know you call him Rabbi Royt, but he is as much a rabbi as I am a rabbi’s wife. Rav Samuel, of blessed memory, was a genuine rabbi. He was a rav in Jerusalem for seventy years, but did anyone call him Rabbi? He was known as Rav Samuel, a title that applies to any proper Jew. Now, anyone who wants to calls himself a rabbi. In any case, it’s Royt’s duty to keep them from stealing a poor woman’s money, though he thinks he does his duty when he feuds with the Zionists. Oy, oy, dear neighbor of mine, the Zionists are the source of all our troubles. It’s because of them that the English are here. Here is the stop, and here is the bus. What did I tell you? It’s waiting for us. No need to hurry. You can board slowly. By the time he decides to move, you could have walked home at least twice.” Though she was still talking to Herbst, she turned to the driver and said, “Getzel, did you hear me? It’s true, isn’t it?” Getzel said, “When don’t you tell the truth? When the policeman stopped you with two boxes full of cigarettes, and you told him they were for your husband, weren’t you telling the truth? What did that goy say? ‘Do you have so many husbands that you need so many cigarettes?’ In the end, you were punished for your version of the truth.” The woman said, “Is it truth they’re after? They want lies. If I told him the truth, how would that help? Try telling him I’m a poor woman with a houseful of orphans, whom I – I alone – am responsible to feed, dress, shoe, educate. I slave and struggle, drag myself around with these boxes of cigarettes. Maybe you could get your bus to move on, sweetie, so we don’t have to wait until tomorrow. What are you waiting for? The bus is full.”

  Chapter three

  Herbst sat on the bus, compressing himself so as not to impinge on his neighbors’ space. The bus was very old, one of the oldest, a survivor from the country’s first generation of buses. The seats were arranged with two rows running along the sides of the coach and one across its width. They were tattered and worn, with springs that popped out and poked the passengers. The bus company knew that in bad times people are so pleased to be able to go home that they don’t notice what they are riding in. Herbst was pleased, too, that he had found himself an inch of space, and especially pleased that he was going home with no secret to conceal from Henrietta.

  Henrietta was awake. She still hadn’t accustomed her son to do without a ten o’clock feeding. She didn’t actually feed him; a wetnurse, brought in by Sarini, performed that function. But it was Henrietta who prepared the baby for his feeding, then waited until it was time for him to eat.

  Manfred came in quietly, so as not to wake the baby. But he wanted Henrietta to hear that he was back. Not because he had anything to say to her, not because he wanted to ask about her or the baby, but for the following reason: if she asked, “Where were you,” he could answer honestly, “I was in a certain place, on a certain bench, on a particular boulevard,” and so on. He was in a position to enumerate all the places he had been; they were all legitimate and in no way suspect. This was one purpose. Another purpose: should he have occasion to go to a place he wouldn’t choose to tell his wife about, the present information would compensate for what he would conceal from her in the future.

  The table was set with a light meal, covered by netting, and a thermos bottle. Before Manfred had a chance to take a bite, Henrietta began talking. She reported that Sarini had brought the books and left them in his room. When she said “the books,” he detected a note of complaint about money wasted on luxuries, when she needed every penny for the household. When she heard that the books were borrowed from Ernst Weltfremdt, she was startled, remembering the poem Rika Weltfremdt had composed for her and the new baby. She had forgotten to tell Manfred about it. If Rika had asked him about the poem, he wouldn’t have known anything about it, which would imply that she had so little regard for it that she hadn’t thought to mention it to her husband. But there was no cause for worry. Herbst had spent about an hour and a half with Ernst Weltfremdt, but Rika Weltfremdt didn’t show her face. Ernst Weltfremdt makes a point of not having his wife appear in his room when he has a guest, because, when she comes in, the guest feels obliged to ask how she is, and this interrupts his conversation.

  Manfred wasn’t pleased – not with himself and not with Henrietta’s conversation. Though he had every reason to know that Henrietta wouldn’t burden him with Rika Weltfremdt’s verses, he was afraid she intended to read them to him. Determined to spare himself, he said to her, “I’m not willing to waste even a minute on them.” Henrietta looked at him, bewildered. She was about to respond, but she kept her mouth shut and was silent, knowing that, if she began talking, they would end up quarreling. And, after months of peace, it didn’t make sense to have a fight. She looked at him again, trying to find a reason for his sullenness. One minute, she wanted to scold him, to say that, if he was in a bad mood, he needn’t take it out on her. A minute later, she felt sorry that he was in such a state. Manfred himself knew that he hadn’t behaved well and tried to placate her, but he didn’t want to say anything openly conciliatory, for that might call attention to his foul humor. He changed his manner abruptly and said in a firm voice, “Your boy is taking the lifeblood out of you.” Henrietta understood that h
e meant to placate her, but his words were irritating, for he had said “your boy.” Henrietta said, “You talk about ‘your boy’ as if he were some street child I took in just to annoy you.” Manfred said, “That’s not so, Mother. I said that only…How can I explain it? Only…for no reason. Just like that.” Henrietta said, “Besides, I have the impression something is not right.” “Not right?” Henrietta said, “Everything is all right with me. I’m talking about you, Manfred. I suspect that something is not so right with you.” Manfred said, “When I look at myself, I see that I’ve never been in better shape. I don’t have a mirror, but I’m certain that even my tie is straight and in place. Isn’t it, Mother?” Henrietta laughed and said, “You’re wrong about that. Your tie happens to be disheveled and askew. I hope you yourself are in better shape.” Manfred said, “If it hadn’t been a present from you, I would say I myself am in better shape. Since it was a present from you, I would say I’m a rag by comparison.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Don’t exaggerate, Fred. Hand me my handkerchief.” He gave her the handkerchief. She knotted it and said, “Many thanks, Fred. Unless I forget to look at the knot, I’ll buy you a new tie, even before your birthday.” “Why all of a sudden?” Henrietta said, “So when you say that, compared to your tie, you look like a rag, there will be some truth to your words.” Manfred said, “That’s what I like about you, Henriett. It’s really possible for a person to talk to you, Henriett.” Henrietta looked at him and said, “With whom isn’t it possible for you to talk?” “With whom isn’t it possible for me to talk? You want me to list everyone, beginning with Adam and Eve?” Henrietta said, “And I assumed you had a particular person in mind. A particular woman, to be precise.” “A woman?” Manfred cried in alarm. “Is there a woman in the world I have any wish to waste a single word on?” Henrietta said, “If I weren’t your wife, I would be interested in talking to you.” “Since I am, alas, your husband, you aren’t interested in talking to me? Well, it’s already ten o’clock, and I’m keeping you from resting your weary bones. If I weren’t afraid of offending you, I would leave right now and go off to my room.” Henrietta said angrily, “You can go if you like. I’m not stopping you.” Herbst said, “That’s not how it is, Mother. Don’t be angry. You have an odd way of getting upset, all of a sudden. I had your welfare in mind, your need for rest, and you are offended. You tell me: would I want to hurt you?” “You wouldn’t want to hurt me, but you’ve gotten into the habit of saying things that are irritating and painful.” “From here on, I will weigh every word before I utter it. Incidentally, has your boy gained any weight?” “My boy is upholstered with fat; he no longer gets cold, as he did a week ago.” “It all comes from milk?” “Fred, you don’t know how cute you are with your questions. Where does the fat come from? Your cigarettes, perhaps. Mimi was here again. I assumed she wasn’t satisfied with seeing me in the hospital, then again on the day of the brit – that she wanted to see more of me. But this time she came on your behalf.” “On my behalf? I don’t feel…How shall I say it? I don’t feel there is anything about me that would attract her.” “But you would like to attract her?” “Why not?” “You old sinner, is that how it is?” “So she came on my behalf. Why does she want me in particular, when I won’t scold or abuse her? Isn’t she content with Julian’s scolding and abuse? Some women are peculiar: the more a man scolds them, the more attached they are to him. All he needs is a whip to beat her with.” “Phew, Fred, I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would be attracted to a man who beats her.” “I don’t think so either. I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would tolerate a whip. Now, back to the subject of Mimi. So Mimi was here, and she came on my behalf. What does a woman like that want from me?” “What does she want from you? She wants something that doesn’t please me. I told her in no uncertain terms that you are cutting down on smoking.” “Now I understand. She’s trying to help that fellow again, that cigarette merchant of hers! Don’t you think Tamara smokes too much? I think I hear a cough coming from her room.” “It doesn’t sound like Tamara.” “Then who is it?” “The woman who nurses the baby. It’s time for you to go now, Fred. She just woke up, and she’ll be here in a minute.” “Good night, Henriett.” “Is that it, Fred? I need a kiss first, then a l’hayim, then a goodbye.” “May you have many long years, Henriett. I could learn a lot more from a woman like you.” Herbst went up to his room, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with heightened passion, having refrained from smoking the entire time he was with Henrietta, so as not to pollute the baby’s air. As he smoked, he surveyed the two heaps of books on his desk. He laughed derisively, reflecting to himself: When it comes to spiritual matters, women and illiterates make the most trustworthy agents. Sarini arranged the books precisely as they were when she took them from under my arm. This woman doesn’t know the alphabet, but her memory is formidable. She remembered what order the books were in and placed them on my desk accordingly. Here they are, in two piles, one large and one small, precisely as they were before she took them from me to put in her basket; the large pile is on the right, the smaller one on the left. At that moment, he had no desire to look at the books he had borrowed. But, out of habit, he opened one, then another, and glanced at them without reading them. Meanwhile, he finished his cigarette, discarded it, took another, and began pacing the room, as though troubled by his thoughts. Actually, he wasn’t troubled by any thought, but, as he paced back and forth, it seemed to him that there was something he could have done but didn’t do. He lit the cigarette and reviewed what he had done that day, including the fact that he had been near the alley where Shira’s new apartment was and hadn’t stopped by to see if her door was open. He smiled that derisive smile again, directing it at himself. If so, he observed, I am a hero, one of those heroes who control their own impulses. He crushed the cigarette with his fingers and disposed of it. He set his watch, undressed, and looked at his watch again, because he wasn’t sure he had set it. After a while, he went to bed, taking a book, as usual, but turning out the light even before he opened the book, which was not usual. He observed to himself: Tonight, having done nothing but walk a lot, I’ll fall asleep without a book and without the preoccupations that disrupt sleep. However, something did disrupt his sleep. It seemed to him that it was the anniversary of his father’s death, that he ought to say Kaddish for him, but he didn’t have a minyan, a prayer quorum of ten. Bachlam appeared, and Herbst considered asking him to join the minyan. Bachlam began to enumerate his aches, his books, his admirers, his enemies. Herbst didn’t have the nerve to interrupt, in order to say Kaddish for his father, which upset him very much. When he woke up, he was still disturbed, and he began to scrutinize himself and to have misgivings about his own behavior. He searches for Shira, but, when he is near her apartment, he doesn’t go to see if she is in. He then returns to his wife and considers himself innocent, pleased to have earned a night’s credit to be applied toward a future act that would have to be concealed from her. Even his transactions with Bachlam were improper, for he had begun to court him in the hope of winning his support for a promotion. These thoughts about the Kaddish he should have said for his father reminded him of a verse from a Heine poem on the subject, which reminded him of yet another poem that goes roughly like this: “Darf man die Welt belügen / Ich sage nicht nein / Doch willst du sie betrügen / So mach es nicht fein.”

  It was already lunchtime, but he hadn’t been called for lunch. He had already smoked a cigarette, meaning to allay his hunger, and still he wasn’t called. He thought of going downstairs to remind Henrietta that it was lunchtime; that he was hungry; that, even before it was lunchtime, he had been hungry, very, very hungry, really hungry; and, now that it was in fact lunchtime, it was surely time to eat. That’s how Henrietta is: she is so orderly and meticulous about having things done on time, yet, when he is hungry and it’s time to eat, it doesn’t matter to her that it’s lunchtime. Is she so busy with the baby that she lost track of time? He may have to go down to the
kitchen and remind her that it’s time for him to eat. He knows it won’t help; that, until he is called to eat, nothing will help; that he might, on the contrary, confuse Henrietta and delay her further. He doesn’t really mind about confusing her, except that confusion might lead to anger, and he doesn’t want to make her angry. Anyone who has enjoyed several months of domestic harmony isn’t eager to get involved in strife. He reached for the cigarettes again, meaning to take one, but he took two. It was because he was so befuddled that he took two. Seeing what he had done, he meant to put one down and light the other. Because he was so befuddled, he put them both down. Meanwhile, he heard footsteps. Firadeus was on the way to his room, leaping up the steps. Then, remembering that was not the proper way, she slowed down. Herbst thought: They’re finally coming to call me. My fingers were better informed than I was. They put down the cigarettes even before I heard anyone coming.

  Firadeus appeared. She was small, young, weary; weary from the troubles in her mother’s house, weary from the work in her mistress’s house, which was compounded the day they brought the baby home. Two shining eyes, a fiery mix of reticence and humility, illuminated her pale, dark face. Rarely do eyes convey a message and its reverse at one and the same time; where there is reticence and humility, how can there be such fire? She entered, accompanied by the good smell of peaches, which she brought on a small tray that had been made in Damascus. Herbst gazed at the peaches and inhaled their fragrances, hoping it would quell his hunger. It didn’t occur to him that the fruit was for him, because Henrietta was strict about not eating before meals. If fruit was being brought to his room, he couldn’t assume it was to be eaten, for Henrietta was not likely suddenly to change her ways. “What is this?” Herbst asked. “You’re bringing fruit? Your mistress knows I love fruit, so she sent me some. But it isn’t time for fruit now, is it?” He consulted his wristwatch to see if he had misjudged the time. He looked up at Firadeus and said, “It isn’t really time for fruit now. Do you, by chance, know what moved our mistress to send up such a thriving garden? I have never seen such splendid peaches, not this year, not the year before. Do you know, Firadeus, if not for Persia, there would be no peaches in the world. Persia is a country that cultivates peaches. I can tell from these peaches that we won’t be eating lunch today. Do you happen to know how lunch has sinned to keep us from eating it today?” Firadeus said, “I was told to say we’ll be eating later.” “Later? Why not now?” Firadeus said, “A guest has arrived.” “A guest? Who is the guest?” Firadeus said, “A nurse from the hospital.” Even before Herbst heard what Firadeus was saying, he heard himself whisper, “She has finally come.” Even before he heard himself whisper, he felt his heart begin to flutter with yearning. He was quick to relax his left hand, so he wouldn’t place it on his heart and let Firadeus see he was upset. He looked up at her boldly, eyed her fiercely, to inform and forewarn her that she was to tell the truth, that he would countenance no deception. He finally asked, in a voice that was neither bold nor fierce, “What does the nurse look like?” Firadeus repeated his question, without understanding what he wanted to know. Herbst stared at the new apron Firadeus was wearing. He stared at the wildflower pattern on the apron and asked, “Is she old or young?” Before she could answer him, he twisted his lips in a mock smile and added, “Is she very old?” Firadeus answered, “She’s not young or old. Just some woman who works with the sick.” Herbst said, “Maybe you can describe her to me. You did see her; what does she look like?” Firadeus said, “She wears a nurse’s kerchief that covers her head, as well as her hair, and white clothes. A nurse’s uniform, like the ones Ashkenazi nurses wear.” Though Firadeus tried to describe everything about that nurse, she was very sorry not to be able to describe the nurse’s face to her master’s satisfaction. Herbst asked Firadeus, “Was she invited to have lunch with us?” Firadeus said, “The mistress didn’t say anything to me.” “The mistress didn’t say anything to you? She didn’t say anything to you about the nurse, such as, ‘Add a dish, a spoon, a fork’? When a guest is invited to a meal, you add a plate, a bowl, a knife, a fork. But what do I know about these matters? You, Firadeus, can’t tell me who the guest is?” Firadeus turned a bewildered face to her master and stared at him, bewildered and distraught, distraught and bewildered. She had told him explicitly that the guest was a nurse from the hospital. Why did Mr. Herbst persist in questioning her, when he had already heard the answer. She wanted so much to please him by telling him what he wanted to know, but what was there for her to do when this was impossible? An Ashkenazi girl would know how to answer, but she doesn’t. Now, when Mr. Herbst wants to know, she can’t tell him, and, even if Mr. Herbst doesn’t hold it against her, he probably regrets the fact that she can’t do what would be simple for an Ashkenazi to do. She was saddened by the fact that there was something she couldn’t do for her master, something that seemed so simple to him. She stood reticent and humble, her eyes seething with sadness, like her father when he found a hat in the trash near a house in Talpiot and took the hat to the owner, who told him what he told him. Herbst suddenly altered his tone and said; “I shouldn’t be keeping you, Firadeus. You are probably needed downstairs. Did the nurse just happen to come, or was there something wrong with the baby? Do you know if that nurse was ever in our house before?” Herbst knew that no nurse had ever been in the house, and he knew that Firadeus could answer that she had never seen a nurse in his house. He therefore altered his tone again and said, “Now, Firadeus, it’s time to eat some of these splendid peaches. I’ve never seen peaches like these. If I were to examine them with a magnifying glass, I wouldn’t find any freckles on them. Tell me this: does that nurse have freckles on her face? You don’t know what freckles are? The singular is freckle; in the plural, we say freckles. I see that I’m detaining you, and they are probably missing you by now.”