Shira (47 page)

They went on in silence, their hearts pounding, each of them deep in thought. Sacharson was thinking: If that Arab knew I was not one of those Zionist Jews, he wouldn’t have aimed at me. Anyway, anyone who was born a Jew shouldn’t go out at night. When an Arab bullet leaves its barrel, it doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the innocent.

While Sacharson lamented the bullet’s error, Herbst kept on walking and thinking: Every day I hear the list of casualties – to think that I was almost one of them. I was spared today, but what about tomorrow and the day after? I live in a dangerous place, and I’m endangering both myself and my family. If I don’t move, I’m risking my life and theirs. What happened here? He reviewed exactly what had happened, replaying the sound of the shot as the bullet left the pistol, and realized that the danger had exceeded the terror, that terror isn’t always relative to danger.

They walked on in silence. They were no longer afraid, but their hearts were distraught and heavy. Too bad it’s a moonless night, Herbst thought. It’s so delightful when there’s a moon. Something seems to be changing up there in the sky. It’s a fact, something is changing there. The moon is rising. We’ll have moonlight. We’ll have moonlight, but there’s no joy on this road. No joy. Our hearts are uneasy, uneasy, and we keep on walking without making any headway. Shira is already sleeping. She’s in her bed, asleep, unaware, knowing nothing of what happened to me. If the bullet had accomplished its mission, I would be dead by now. Tomorrow they would find me in a pool of blood and take me to the morgue at Hadassah or Bikkur Holim Hospital. Henrietta and Tamara would come and see it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t get home last night. It was because I was hit by a bullet and murdered, and my corpse is here for them to cry over. A crowd has gathered around them, men and women, friends and acquaintances. Those who know how to put on a sad face are doing just that; those who don’t know how, clench their lips and put on a look of outrage, at the murderers for victimizing the innocent and upright, at the Mandate government for standing by in silence. The Brit Shalom people find further support for their views: we can no longer depend on British soldiers to defend us but must be quick to come to terms with the Arabs at any price. Among those who surround me are some who didn’t know me at all, who never even heard of me, but, now that I’ve been defined by death, they feel obliged to join the crowd. Shira may have come too. No, Shira wouldn’t come. Shira is in her room, reproaching herself – she should have acceded when I begged to go home with her. Now for my funeral. Shira won’t be standing there with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, as she was during that young man’s funeral when the riots first began. How could it be that I didn’t think of Zahara? Am I to conclude that in emergencies we don’t necessarily think of what is most precious to us? As for Shira, it is not the soul that remembers her, but the body; the body – ungratified, remembering, like a worm that keeps wriggling after it is cut in two. My corpse. That’s how I refer to my body. That’s the correct term for such a body. For you, my soul, I would prefer a finer designation. By my calculations, I ought to be home by now. Actually not, I was mistaken. After the shot, we shifted paths. Now we are on the right track again. I should be grateful for Sacharson’s silence. One word could crush my head.

Sacharson addressed Herbst. “I’m walking here, but my mind is somewhere else. I know we are in dangerous territory. Even if we are out of danger, it’s still necessary to be cautious, and we have to alert our senses to look, listen, smell, in case there is an Arab nearby scheming to kill us. Despite this, all my senses are elsewhere. I am pondering the event that occurred ten days ago here in Jerusalem. Yes, right here in Jerusalem, near Gethsemane. Some of the facts were reported in the Hebrew press, particularly in the
Ha’aretz newspaper.
I’m referring to the story of the two brothers who were killed together.” Sacharson brushed his hands over his eyes, stretched his thumb toward his collar, and pulled on it. Herbst took note of his gesture and concluded: He’s preparing to tell a long story, but, when we arrive at my house, I’ll leave, even if he’s in the middle of his story. Just because he’s my neighbor, does he have the right to harass me? Deep down, Herbst sensed it had less to do with the fact that they were neighbors than with what had just happened to them. The thought occurred to him: He said Gethsemane; the name relates to the event. This was followed by a further thought: What is there to lose by listening? Then he began to be worried that Sacharson had decided not to talk. Again, Sacharson reached toward his collar with his thumb. His eyes were enlarged by moonlight, and a great and bitter sadness dripped down from them, covering his face, wrinkles and all.

He resembled an old woman peering into her own open grave with a bitter heart. They continued to walk, walking awhile, then stopping, stopping in silence. Sacharson seemed shorter; his cane seemed taller. He looked more and more like an old woman. The cane in his hand cast a shadow wrapped in shadow. Because he was staring at this shadow, Herbst forgot about Sacharson and the story he had in mind to tell.

Sacharson stood still and leaned on the cane. After a bit, he raised his head and began walking again, muttering, “We were almost like those two brothers who were killed together. One of them had already found true faith and embarked on eternal life, whereas his brother was not equally privileged.” Sacharson’s eyes filled with tears, and he reached out to embrace Herbst but withdrew his arms midway, sighing. Herbst heard his mutterings and glanced at him although he had already forgotten the man wanted to tell him something. Sacharson hadn’t forgotten, and he began. As usual, he began in the middle. But for the fact that Herbst had read some of the facts in
Ha’aretz
, he wouldn’t have been able to follow. The story was roughly this: Two brothers, who were Jews, escaped from Hitler’s Germany. They wandered through many lands before arriving in Jerusalem. They fell on hard times and didn’t find what they were after. What were they after, and what was it that they hoped to find? I doubt this was clear to them. In any case, what they found was not what they were after, and what they were after they never found. This account is, more or less, what was reported by people who knew them fairly well. One of the brothers was so desperate that he converted and found himself room and board in a monastery in Gethsemane. The other brother found shelter in a Jewish school inside the wall, where he prayed a lot, entreated God, and fasted. Ten days ago, he set out from there to visit his brother, either because he missed him or to try to convince him to return to their fathers’ faith.

Now I’ll tell the story as Sacharson told it, in his terms. “One of the young men enrolled in a school in the Old City, where he spent the time weeping and fasting, imploring God to have mercy on his brother and return him to his fathers’ faith. God, knowing what is best for man’s soul, closed His ears to the poor fellow’s pleas, ignored his fasts, and fortified the other brother’s faith in salvation. When weeks and months passed, and still the brother who had been saved didn’t return to his old faith, the unfortunate fellow went to Gethsemane to urge him to return to the religion of his fathers. Or, it may be that he went because he missed his brother. Oh, Mr. Herbst, do you know what it means to miss a brother? So, just ten days ago, he put aside his prayers and studies, and left for Gethsemane. He found his brother. They fell on each other’s necks and wept. Then they sat together and talked. What did they talk about? Only God knows. They may have discussed questions of faith, or they may have not mentioned them at all. Anyway, there is no reason to believe that either one of them was converted to his brother’s way. Finally, they got up to leave, walking part of the way together. An Arab spotted them and decided to shoot. One of them fell in a pool of blood. The other one bent over him, shouting, ‘My brother, my brother!’ While he wept over his brother, the Arab fired another shot. They died together, one on top of the other.”

Herbst knew the story, and Sacharson had added nothing to it, except for his drone. He told it as if chanting a sacred text. From the moment Sacharson latched onto him, Herbst was irritated. Now his irritation was compounded. At a time when there are so many victims, singling out one to mourn ignores the common plight. As for the brother who converted, his decision probably had very little to do with a quest for God. So why did he do it? To change his circumstances, because he was having a hard time. He was sick of it and began to cast about for alternatives. Whatever it was that he lacked seemed to exist in those other settings. He began to compare his own situation with what they offered. Meanwhile, he found an opening there, went in, and never came out. You want to know if his new faith was a success. Even if he tells you he’s happy, if you look at his face, it’s obvious that he’s dejected. Perhaps because his new faith requires that he believe what he doubted to begin with, and now he is lost in both worlds. Near the train tracks, in Lower Baka, Herbst used to see a sign with the names of two doctors, a husband and wife. He was in general practice, she was a gynecologist, and they had a Jewish name. One day, he noticed that a Christian name had replaced theirs. Several days later, he happened to be at Bamberger and Wahrmann, where he found some books with those two doctors’ bookplate, giving the name he had seen on their sign before it was changed. Bamberger told him he had bought the books from an Orthodox doctor who came from Frankfurt, that he and his wife had converted and purged their household of all Jewish books. If they had not been forced to leave their homeland, they would have lived their lives as Jews. They might have become leaders of the community. But, since they were uprooted and unable to thrive in the new environment, their spirits were low, their minds vulnerable, their hearts despondent. When the riots broke out and there were so many casualties, they began to have second thoughts about their Jewishness, which seemed to be a constant source of trouble. Because they were Jews, they had to leave Germany; and, because they were Jews, they were being persecuted in the Land of Israel. They finally said, “We don’t need all this trouble,” and converted, since being Jewish was merely a matter of religion to them. We have learned from Sacharson’s experience that their Arab neighbors won’t necessarily make a distinction between them and other Jews.

Sacharson felt sorry for himself as well as Herbst, since they had almost been killed together. He said to Herbst, “Dear sir and brother, come home with me, and let’s sit together and reflect on what happened to us, so we can recover from the shock. I said ‘recover from the shock,’ when I really should have said ‘thank, praise, celebrate the One who wrought a great miracle and saved us from death, keeping us alive so we would be grateful to His name.’ I am bowed by sin and don’t deserve to recognize the full glory of the miracle. My Creator has allowed me merely the privilege of noting it, nothing more. It seems to me, brother, neighbor, that I’m not asking too much of you. Come home with me, and we’ll sit for a while. Then you can go home with a tranquil heart and a joyous soul.” Herbst remained silent. He didn’t answer. Sacharson changed his tone and said, “If you come in, Mr. Teacher, I can return the Baedeker. You were asking for it. I don’t need it any longer. That sort of guide, made out of paper and words, is not what I need.” Sacharson’s face was distorted by pride and disdain. He feels the sting of my words; a guide made out of paper and words – that’s what I told him. Paper and words. He knows, that stuffy academic knows just what I mean. As long as he doesn’t convert, any Jew, even one who violates all of their strictures, is, nonetheless, a pharisee. Herbst shrugged his shoulders and said, “There’s time for that tomorrow.” Sacharson sighed and said, “How many years have we been neighbors, yet I haven’t had the privilege of seeing Dr. Herbst cross my threshold. Neither he nor Mrs. Herbst, nor the two young ladies. Even now, when our lifeblood came so close to being mixed, even now Mr. Herbst refuses to come into my house. But I have nothing against Mr. Herbst, and I am sincere in wishing you, my dear Mr. Herbst, a good night. Good night, Mr. Herbst. I’ll send over the Baedeker tomorrow.”

When they had taken leave of each other, Herbst turned back and said to him, “Just one word, Mr. Sacharson. Please don’t say anything to my wife about what happened. No need for her to know I was in danger. There is a further reason to forget the matter. Mrs. Herbst has invested her youth in the house we live in and in the garden she has planted. If she hears what happened to me, she won’t rest until we move, though she’ll never find a place like this one. It would be hard for me to move as well. It’s not easy, Mr. Sacharson, to transport more than three thousand volumes. You can understand, Mr. Sacharson, why I’m asking you to conceal the incident from my wife. Actually, it is something that happens in these times, nothing more than an event that never took place. Isn’t that so, Mr. Sacharson?” Sacharson nodded in silence. At this point, Sacharson was content to be silent and to allow Herbst to be the one to leave, albeit without an answer. Sacharson didn’t report what had happened, and Herbst tried to avoid thinking about it. Whether or not he was successful, he never spoke of it.

Chapter sixteen

Z
ahara came, and Avraham-and-a-half was with her. We knew Zahara had found a mate, but we didn’t know who he was, for events had given us pause to question whether, in the interim, some other
kvutza
member might have claimed Zahara’s heart. Now that she had come with Avraham-and-a-half and was pregnant by him, there was no room for doubt, and the impression that Avraham-and-a-half was indeed her mate was confirmed.

Father Manfred sees, but doesn’t grasp, that little Zahara is a fullblown woman; not merely a woman, but halfway to motherhood. Having barely become accustomed to the fact that she was growing up, he now has to see her as a woman about to be a mother. What did Zahara do, and why did she do it? Such a charming little one, her father’s pet… She has shed all her graces and become a woman like the others.