Shira (31 page)

Shira continues to behave in her usual fashion. On the face of it, she is warm, allowing him not a hairbreadth closer. She is frank with him, concealing none of her activities. That woman’s activities are bizarre, and it is hard to come to terms with them. Doesn’t she realize how misguided they are? Her talk is not loose, but it is certainly stimulating. Does she even have to stimulate his desire? Is there any reality to her stories? She once told him about an English soldier who came to her one night. When did he come? He came after midnight. True, she threw him out. In any case, the question stands: What was an English soldier doing in the room of a Jewish nurse in the Land of Israel? What business did Shira have with soldiers anyway? I say “soldiers,” in the plural, because once she went to Netanya, and, since she had to leave early and didn’t know how she would get to the train station with her heavy luggage, the proprietress told her there was an Englishman there who would take her luggage to the station. That night, when she was in bed, the soldier came to her room. She said to him, “I’m old enough to be your mother; you want to make love to a woman your mother’s age.”

What will the future bring? Herbst asks himself. This question pertains not to the events of the world, nor to the murder of six hundred Jews in a single year by the Arabs and the country’s continued policy of self-restraint, nor to the university or the concerns of his wife and daughters, but to Shira, whom he has begun to call Nadia again. He goes to her two or three times a month, and, whenever he happens to be in town, he tries to make time for Shira. When he comes in, she welcomes him, says, “Sit down,” and offers him cigarettes, fruit, a sweet, and tea. She discusses the news and whatever is going on at the hospital. Sometimes, to accommodate him, she tells about herself, about the past, which she prefers not to recall, on the theory that it no longer affects her; only for his sake, because he wants to hear, does she talk about it. When he tries to approach her, she makes a screen with her hands and says, “Please, don’t be childish.” Herbst sits there feeling scolded, praying to himself: If only she would reproach me, if only she would say, “Don’t come here.” He himself doesn’t want to stop, can’t stop, doesn’t stop; he continues to come. And she continues to welcome him, without allowing him a hairbreadth closer.

Just to please him, Shira returns to a subject she was in the middle of, something she doesn’t like to talk about but he likes to hear. She tells him about the past, before she was married; about the young man who saw himself as her protector, whom she rejected because, from early childhood, she disliked anyone who tried to dominate her. What was predicted for him in his youth was fulfilled. He had become prominent as an orator, a politician, first in whatever he undertook. He was featured in all the newspapers and praised, for, when someone becomes the head of an institution, many people depend on him, and the writers hired to provide publicity for the institution weave the name of its head into their text, sometimes even making him the subject of the entire article. If some of these writers, seeing their words in print, cursed whatever had moved them and cursed themselves for being moved, he was becoming famous anyhow, and already there was a body of literature about him. As soon as the Diaspora began to shrink, so that he couldn’t find anything to do there, he came here. He does the same things here that he did there. He is involved in everything, everywhere. He orates, speechifies, takes charge.

Herbst scorned public figures and orators because the country was so full of them. Still, he was surprised that Shira had plucked the fellow from her heart. Like all people who tend not to become much involved with others, Herbst considered everyone who ever crossed his path an essential part of his world. He was therefore surprised that it was so easy for her to pluck a childhood friend from her heart. He wondered about her, but he was even more curious about that man, beyond what she was willing to tell.

As minds wander, so did his mind wander once again to Lisbet Neu. There really wasn’t anything between them, nor was it possible that there ever would be anything between them. But thoughts are thoughts; they take their own course, and you can’t tell them, “Please, don’t be childish.”

Lisbet Neu is still working in the same place, which she sometimes calls a store, sometimes an office. In either case, her salary is meager and hardly adequate to provide for her and her sick mother. How do they manage? They manage because the Torah instructs them to live. Lisbet Neu has tried to find a job in a government office, but a young woman’s prospects are limited there. Her monthly salary would be ten lirot, with no possibility of advancement. One would think that ten lirot a month is a decent salary for a young woman who now earns only six lirot. But, as was already noted, government offices offer a young woman no opportunity for advancement, whereas here, in this store, the owner is considerate and allows her to earn money on the side. What does this mean? There are certain products he is not allowed to handle, because he is the agent for other companies. He is reluctant to forgo the profit, so he orders these products in Lisbet Neu’s name, giving her two percent of the profit. Two other young women work for him, but he doesn’t treat them as he does Lisbet Neu, who is his right hand. Herbst doesn’t know Lisbet Neu’s employer and has no reason to know him. He is aware of one thing: the man is an elderly bachelor. Why doesn’t he marry Lisbet? She is lovely, of good family, gracious, and skilled in business. He probably doesn’t need a wife. Some women are available to men without the marriage ceremony.

The gentleman is rich. Surely he has an elegant apartment with fine furnishings, and, when he invites a girl to his home, it goes to her head. The first time, she comes feeling honored to have been invited; the second time, hoping he finds her appealing and may even want to marry her. The third time – the devil knows her thoughts. It goes without saying that none of the above applies to Lisbet Neu. I doubt that she was ever in any man’s home without her mother or her elderly uncle, Professor Neu.

Having mentioned young girls here, let me say something further about them. There are young girls in Jerusalem who used to live with their families in other countries, where they wore silk and ate fine food. They lived in splendid houses surrounded by maids who waited on them and gallant young men – intelligent, loving, and eager to please – as well as the finest teachers and educators, whose job it was to develop their sensibilities. Now these girls are up at dawn to earn the price of a crust of bread and a patch of roof. Some of them work in cafés, putting in an eleven hour day, for which they are paid eight lirot a month. Some work in army canteens, where drink, revelry, and lewdness are the rule. There are other young women who came to Jerusalem to study at the Hebrew University with their parents’ support, but, now that their parents are locked in ghettoes, the daughters spend half the day studying and the other half working for meager wages, barely able to support themselves and pay tuition. More than two years ago, the day Sarah was born, Dr. Herbst went to a restaurant for dinner, where he met a lovely and charming waitress, who gave him paper and envelopes so he could write to his daughters and inform them that their sister was born. Some time later he went there again, and, when he asked about her, he was told she had gone elsewhere and was working in a café frequented by Australian soldiers. The Australians are a good lot, easy with money and generous. They’re not pompous like the English. They’re friendly to us, so it’s nice to work in the places they frequent.

As things happen, Herbst happened to see that waitress again. Much later, Herbst went on a trip to the Dead Sea with his wife and Tamara. They stopped at the main hotel for tea. Herbst saw a waitress whom he recognized, though she didn’t recognize him. She saw so many people each day that new faces displaced the old ones. She came over and asked, “What would you like?” Her face was burned, her skin parched; her eyes had lost their luster. But she was gracious to the guests, like all waitresses in big hotels. Herbst identified himself to her, and she was pleased, as a lonely child who finds someone she knows in a crowd of strangers. For those who came to the hotel were strangers to her, while she knew him from the good days. What was better about those days? In those days, she was still endowed with the freshness of youth.

Manfred said to Henrietta, “Remember, Henrietta, the day Sarah was born I brought you a bottle of perfume with a scent you admired. I didn’t tell you how I found that delicate perfume, but now I’ll tell you. This woman gave me paper so I could write letters to our daughters, and the scent of the paper was so pleasant that I went to the pharmacy and asked for a bottle of perfume with that same scent. See, Henriett, I have secrets too. Secrets with young women. But in time every secret is discovered.”

Manfred continued, “Would you guess that this girl was actually pretty, in addition to her charming, youthful ways?” Henrietta said, “She’s still pretty.” Manfred said, “If you hadn’t said those words, I would have invited her to join us for a while.” Henrietta laughed and said, “You can invite her.” Manfred said, “You think it’s all right to ask her to sit with us?” Tamara said, “If anyone were listening, he would think you’re hammering out a program for the Zionist Congress. Comrade, come join us. This intellectual couple wishes to converse with you.” The young woman laughed and came over. Henrietta said, “Won’t you join us for a while, if you’re free.” Herbst was quick to offer her a chair, as if he were the host and she the guest, inviting her to sit down, moving his chair close to hers, asking questions for the sole purpose of making conversation – about the hotel and its guests, the British, the Australians. From there, he turned to questions about fortifications and road work the British were doing. Tamara sat there, inwardly scornful of these Zionists who see without knowing what they see and babble without understanding their own babble. Finally, she got up and left.

As soon as Tamara left, Herbst was relieved. He began asking questions and apologizing for each one. The young woman answered without hesitation and even volunteered information about herself and her family. The essence of her words was that her father had been rich and had provided her with excellent tutors. They taught her whatever one teaches the daughters of the rich, with the exception of Jewish subjects, which she was never taught. When disaster struck, German Jews didn’t believe Hitler would remain in power. Her mother and father stayed in Berlin and sent her to the Land of Israel. Though their hearts did not instruct them to save themselves, they did instruct them to save the girl. She knew nothing about this country except what she had heard in speeches. She would have been better off without those speeches, for she would have tried to find out the things one needs to know when going to a new place. She came here and didn’t know what to do. She worked as a waitress. When she lived in Berlin, she knew what to do. She wrote poems, some of which were published. In fact, one of her poems appeared in the
Frankfurter Zeitung
. Even here she continued to write, and she sent a story about a little girl in Jerusalem to the
Jüdische Rundschau
. Robert Weltsch sent the payment to her father.

She doesn’t write at all now. The heat and work exhaust her; also she’s not really inspired to write poems. If she knew Hebrew, the language might inspire her, and she would sing the songs of the land in its own language. It seems to her that a true poet can never make poems in a language alien to the land, but, being burdened with work, she hasn’t learned Hebrew. The people she knows don’t know Hebrew either. She has learned English, but not Hebrew. One doesn’t learn the language unless those who live in the country demand it. One thing sustains her soul: once every two weeks, she has a day off and goes to Jerusalem to be with her friends, young poets from Germany. Their lot is no better than hers, except for the young man who managed to put out a book of poems on a stencil machine. He didn’t cover his expenses and had to run around borrowing from one friend to pay the other. How does he live? Off his wife’s salary. She makes dolls, but people who value their beauty can’t afford to buy them, and those who have money have no taste, so the fate of the dolls is like that of the book. Along with all these misfortunes, there is also some good. She had two good days a couple of weeks back. How? That same couple has an adorable daughter, a child of about seven. They came with her, and the hotel owner allowed her to keep the child in her room, although waitresses are not usually permitted to have guests.

Tamara was back. She came and sat opposite the young woman, crossed her legs, and assumed the scornful manner we know so well. The young woman didn’t notice. Or perhaps she noticed, but she paid no attention and kept right on talking, as the daughters of the rich tend to do. Even when overwhelmed by disaster, they talk about themselves without complaining. And yet, from their accounts of their good fortune, one recognizes the sort of trouble they’re in.

Henrietta wiped her eyes and recalled various young girls she had known. Some of them, bringing regards from relatives, clung to her, coming again and again, hanging on even after they were settled. Others never returned. She took excessive pains on behalf of some and not enough on behalf of others. However much you delude yourself with the notion that you have done all you could, this is not the point; quite apart from you, a tender soul is involved, which exists and persists just as you do, and this is the point. Henrietta’s thoughts were blurred, and even before they had a chance to register, they faded away. Some of these thoughts had to do with a girl Manfred said was related to Neu. But she was displaced by Zahara and Tamara. From the start, she had been thinking about her daughters, but she dismissed these thoughts, rather than connect her daughters’ fate with theirs. Suddenly, her daughters came to mind again. Zahara belongs to a
kvutza
and, so far as one can see, she has settled down. But Tamara, Tamara…

Tamara sat there, ambivalent. One eye was on the young woman whose woeful tale played on her nerves; the other eye took in every detail and was eager for more. She turned her head to the left and scrutinized her, as if to ask: What do those stories mean? Finally, Tamara pinched her lips together and questioned her. “Tell me, comrade, why didn’t you go to a
kvutza
?” The waitress answered, “I don’t know why, but, since I didn’t go to a
kvutza
when I first came, I didn’t go later either. Why don’t I go now? Because of a jaw injury. Though it isn’t visible, it requires attention, and I may have to go to the hospital. The doctor isn’t worried about infection; still, he warned me not to neglect it. Besides, I doubt if I could succeed on a
kvutza.
The only thing I can do is wait on tables, which I can barely do. And I can do that only because I’m used to it. Having worked in several restaurants and hotels, I’m used to the work, so I keep doing it.” Henrietta asked, “And what will you do in the summer? The hotel closes in the summer, doesn’t it?” The girl said, “I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I might work in a café in Jerusalem. New ones open every day. Even a waitress like me can find a job. If I don’t find one, I won’t worry. I’m tired, dead tired. And if you ask what I’ll eat, I’ve saved enough money to support myself for three or four months. I haven’t saved a lot, but my needs are few, and I can make do with very little. Food doesn’t count as much as sleep. I daydream about sleep. When I get out of the hospital in good health, I’ll rent a room and spend my days and nights sleeping. Here in this hotel at the Dead Sea, I don’t sleep. True, there are days in the winter when this entire area is like the Garden of Eden – a Garden of Eden for the guests, not for those who serve them. In any case, I’m doing better than most of my girlfriends, not to mention the men, who can barely keep themselves going. Some of them are poets who were widely published and translated in Germany. Here, they make the rounds of editors, and when an article is accepted and they get forty or fifty grush, they are grateful, though they often have to share their pay with a translator.”