Shira (52 page)

Now let’s have a look at Professor Weltfremdt’s books. There is no difference between Ernst Weltfremdt’s library and the libraries of most professors who marry rich women with large dowries that provide the means to buy many books in handsome bindings and construct handsome shelves for them. His bookcases have two sections: one for patrologists, the other for Hellenists, since he was first a lecturer in patristics and then in Hellenistics. In addition, on the corner shelves there are quite a few Hebrew books acquired here in Jerusalem.

I will now add a few words about other book collections in Jerusalem. A city of many scholars will have many bibliophiles. There are many scholars in Jerusalem who deprive themselves of a crust of bread in order to buy a book, whose passion for books is so great that they ignore their children and don’t bother about their education. In the former category are those who sell a book when their wives demand money for Shabbat provisions; in the latter category there are those who take no notice, even when members of their household are expiring from hunger. In the end, when they die, book dealers and collectors converge to buy from the orphans, who, not having been educated by their father, are unaware of the value of the books and sell them for a paltry sum.

Now, to get back to Herbst’s books. They are not arranged on handsome shelves, like Ernst Weltfremdt’s books, and are not as numerous as Bachlam’s and Lemner’s; nor does he have portfolios such as Wechsler’s. For the most part, they are plainly bound, resting in bookcases constructed from the crates in which they were shipped from abroad. But the grace that prevails in his library is not to be found in the library of any other scholar in Jerusalem. Henrietta’s good taste had left its imprint on the arrangement of the books, and the vaulted ceiling added charm to the room. It is easy to picture how sad Herbst was when he thought it would be necessary to move and house his books in the skimpy rooms one finds in those new neighborhoods.

I now mean to get back to the tragedy, and I will try to prove how worthwhile the tragedy was to Herbst. For years Herbst had been working out of habit, amassing notes and quotations without involving his emotions. Not so with the tragedy. Although his imagination proved inadequate, the tragedy shook the very foundations of his soul. What he had produced so far didn’t amount to very much, but he had faith in the future, that something would emerge, turning it into a tragedy. That is to say, the actions would unfold, justifying themselves, not only in terms of their own inevitability, but in terms of the intense power inherent in them from the beginning.

When a bookish person is about to create a book, he looks at other books to see how they were written. Herbst, who was reared on German poetry, went back and reread it. He was familiar with some of the poets from childhood; others, he had read as an adult. Of course, you know the power of good books: one never emerges from them empty-handed. Whenever you open such a book, you find something in it that you hadn’t noticed before. Even if you have read it many times, even if you know it by heart, when you go back to it you find a new message. Whether or not it is the one intended by the author, it is embedded in the text.

I’ll now turn to another matter. Herbst was aware that Germany was afflicted with a big dose of anti-Semitism, so that, of all the Hebrew words fixed in the tongues of German Jews, the word
rishus
, meaning “viciousness,” was most widespread. But he never considered the change in its meaning, for now one says
rishus
to warn Jews not to behave in this or that manner, so as not to provoke Germans to be vicious, that is, to behave badly toward Jews.

Now back to my original subject. When Herbst went back to those books, he realized that even the finest of Germany’s lyricists did not eschew such viciousness, that they celebrated and transformed it into a virtue, giving their approval to all manner of cruelty toward Jews. In the course of this, they distorted words, twisted the straight, perverted justice. But truth is so great that it is evident even in a lie. They meant to portray the Jew as a paradigm of evil, and, as a result, all the evil charges with which they disparaged Jews were like the skin of a garlic – of no consequence compared to the evil of the Germans. Furthermore, the very words with which they disparaged Jews were used to praise Germans. It is worth mentioning here that many slanderous and vicious books were given to Herbst by Jews for his bar mitzvah. The Jewish spirit was so totally dominated by Germany that Jews didn’t realize how much hatred permeated those books. But what the Jews didn’t recognize was recognized by the Germans, who learned what they learned. Even Herbst was now learning what he hadn’t learned before, and he began to be aware of Germany’s behavior toward Jews, especially toward his family and friends, who were forced to flee and to cast about among the nations, their frenzied souls adrift between borders. They were not allowed to live in one country; they were forbidden to enter another. Between countries, they perished. Once again, I must repeat what we well know. You sit at breakfast, open the newspaper, and read about a scholar who took poison or a poet who hung himself from a tree in the woods. International figures – about whom one boasts, “I was privileged to know So-and-so” – are persecuted by border guards, only to end their lives with a bullet or by jumping from a high place and being crushed. Once in several generations, the good Lord is generous to His creatures, sending into this lowly world a rare soul who glorifies it with his deeds, only to be intercepted by some authority and destroyed. Whenever Herbst sees two or three lines in the newspaper about a scholar who committed suicide or a poet who took his own life, if it was someone he knew and corresponded with, he would take out the letters and read them, then tie them with a string and put them in a special place. There are more and more such bundles. I hope I am wrong, but there seem to be more letters from the dead who have already died than from the living who are still alive.

From the dead to the living. Herbst puts down the letters of the dead. His mind turns to those who still are hovering between the living and the dead, and from there to those who have found a temporary haven in the Land of Israel. Having failed to grasp that the doors of Germany were closed to Jews forever and ever, and that they would never return to Germany, they reassured themselves, maintaining that the ignominious regime would be overturned and the exiles would return to hear the rustle of Germany’s forests and the roar of her waters once again, delighting in the culture they had helped create. For the moment, they are here temporarily – as foreigners, strangers, guests, sojourners – until the anticipated day when Germany’s cultural elite roots out the heinous government and the exiled children come home. Many were already helped by Henrietta, and just as many are being helped by her now. Even Dr. Krautmeir, who is the busiest doctor in Jerusalem, was helped by Henrietta. If not for Henrietta, she would have been lost. She came here emptyhanded and unknown; she had never had any contact with Jews and had associated only with Germans all her life. One day, soon after she arrived, she left her hotel, pondering to herself: How long can I tolerate this? Henrietta appeared, and they recognized each other, having lived on the same street in Charlottenburg and taken the bus together regularly. Though in all those years they hadn’t talked to one another, when they met again here in the Land of Israel, they considered each other a friend. Krautmeir said to Henrietta, “We lived in Charlottenburg for almost a whole generation and never engaged in the most casual conversation, and now I consider you a childhood friend.” Henrietta invited her over, provided her with room and board in her home, and found her work with an elderly doctor who needed an assistant. Krautmeir took an apartment, paid the import tax due on her furnishings, and began adjusting to life in Jerusalem. After a while she bought the old man’s practice and, since most of the patients were by now accustomed to her, they continued to come. She acquired some new patients too: young women in trouble as a result of their involvement with British soldiers, who made contact with the lady doctor, knowing she would see them through.

As the number of immigrants grew, Henrietta could no longer deal with all of them, and already there were those who didn’t know Mrs. Herbst at all, as well as those who knew her but didn’t have the opportunity to enjoy her hospitality. Anita Brik, for example. Why do I mention Anita Brik? Because Manfred believed that, had Henrietta invited Anita Brik, Anita would have been helpful to her. Henrietta complained that work was piling up that neither she nor Firadeus had the time to do. If Anita Brik had been in the house with them, she could have been helpful to him too, copying texts. Often, he would stop in the middle and say, “I’ll copy it tomorrow”; then, “day after tomorrow.” And sometimes he would think to himself: Is it really necessary for me to sit and copy? Couldn’t I just mark the passage and give it to someone else to copy for me, as many renowned and prominent scholars do? Some of them don’t even read through a text before instructing a secretary or assistant to seek out certain material, which they locate in books and copy out, presenting the finished product to their employer. It wasn’t arrogance that made Herbst think he deserved to have others do his work, but fatigue and weariness.

Remembering Anita Brik, the idea that she might be helpful to him, and that he might help her too, was appealing. Several mounds of books cluttered his desk, and he didn’t get to copy what he needed from them, so let her come and copy. Most of all, he needed help with books he sometimes borrowed from Ernst Weltfremdt. Weltfremdt was a fussy person who lent books only to those who promised to return them in three weeks, saying, “If I leave my books with you indefinitely, you’ll put off reading them from day to day and from week to week, and, in the end, you won’t even glance at them. That won’t be the case if I limit the time, forcing you to read, find, and copy what you need.” In the past, it was simple for Manfred to say, “Henrietta, invite such-and-such a young woman.” Now it is hard for him to mention any woman to Henrietta. He even hesitates to mention Lisbet Neu, Professor Neu’s relative, to Henrietta, despite all the favors Neu had done for him. He had been a student of his and become a lecturer through his efforts, and Neu would surely be consulted about his promotion. All this notwithstanding, not only does he not invite Neu’s relative to his home, but he avoids mentioning her name. That woman – that Shira – has made him tongue-tied.

Chapter eighteen

N
ow that I have mentioned Shira, I will get back to Shira, who is the core of the book
Shira
, and whatever doesn’t pertain to Shira doesn’t pertain to the story. Again, Herbst’s thoughts were of Shira; some to her credit, others to her discredit. Herbst was thinking: If only Shira would say, “Go away and let me be.” Herbst was assuming that if Shira were to say “Scram,” he would take off and leave her. But Shira says no such thing and he, therefore, continues to come. Whenever he comes, she receives him warmly, so that, if we didn’t know what we know, we would imagine she was sitting and waiting for him. Herbst, seeing he is welcome, reaches out to caress her. Shira takes his hand and bends his fingers, like a hunter who catches a bird and clips its wings to keep it from flying. Herbst nurses his fingers and wonders: What does she have in mind? Her face is welcoming; her hands are rejecting. He takes a chair and sits down, or he paces around the room. He takes a cigarette and fills the room with smoke, his face registering rage. Shira is surrounded by clouds of smoke, enveloped by them. She too takes a cigarette, smoking and talking from within the clouds of smoke, telling him everything that has happened to her since his last visit. One day, she sprained her leg. Dr. Zahzam came. She describes the examination, how his hand glided over her leg. Herbst has a dim vision of Shira’s legs, which he recalls in all their intense loveliness as soon as they are mentioned. Herbst is perplexed: Why is Shira telling me about Zahzam? If she means to arouse my jealousy, I’m not the slightest bit jealous. Is it true that he’s not jealous? Yes and no. In Shira’s case, he’s not jealous; in other cases, he is. He once ran into Lisbet Neu and saw that the hairs above her lip had been removed. He was upset, as if she had taken something away from him. What did she take away? Was he expecting to kiss her lips? His entire relationship with her was quite straightforward. But any knowledgeable person knows – and it is true – that a woman who does such a thing does it because of a man. Which is to say that there is a man who is so close to her that he can say, “Those hairs are unbecoming,” or he may have said, “You would look better without them.” And, hearing this, she has the hair removed.

Back to Shira. Shira’s behavior is consistent. She invites and rejects, rejects and invites. Once, he sat her on his lap. Though she seemed not to mind, she suddenly slipped down and fled. Herbst repeats the same question: If she means to reject me, why is she so inviting? If she means to be inviting, why the rejection? When he pressed her, she said to him, “I don’t want to upset your wife; I have nothing against your wife.” If that’s the reason, then why was she so inviting to begin with? When he examines the situation, he sees that, even when she is inviting, there are limits.

As it happened, the thought occurred to him that Shira might be sick – that she was surely sick and was afraid he would catch her disease, which was why she had mentioned his wife, saying, “I have nothing against her and I don’t want to upset her.” Because, if she did have something against her, she wouldn’t have worried about infecting her with a disease that could be transmitted to her through him. This would explain why she had been at first inviting and then rejecting. As long as she was healthy, she welcomed him; when she realized she was sick, she began to reject him. In that case, he ought to have been grateful for the rejection. Not only was he ungrateful, he resented the fact that she rejected him. But Shira was different from him. Shira was in good control, imposing her will on his. Herbst took leave of Shira, sad and distressed – distressed by the rejection, and sad that he might already have contracted her disease. If he had the disease, then he was sick; if he was sick, he needed to be careful not to kiss his wife and daughters; above all, not to kiss Sarah, because children are more vulnerable to illness than adults.