Shira (64 page)

Having made order of his notes, Herbst tried to do the same with his notebooks and pads. He erased what was superfluous and discarded what was copied in another place. Seeing Herbst at work, double-checking, writing, erasing, reading, discarding, writing more, discarding more, one might think a pedantic impulse had overtaken the man. But this was not the case. He was taking such care because of a sense of reality.

Let me explain. A scholar sits in the midst of a heap of books, reading, writing, documenting, copying, preparing material for a book he is eager to complete. He does not put down a single volume without copying something from it, for a writer does well not to give anyone the opportunity to say he overlooked what someone or other wrote. He devotes most of his years to this process, and he keeps adding more and more notes; by now, there are many full boxes. His greatest satisfaction derives from surveying his notes, which he views as the core of several books. When he dies, all those notes don’t have the making of a single pamphlet to perpetuate his memory. Why? Because he has been so busy accumulating notes that he never took the time to see whether he hadn’t copied the same thing over and over.

Anyone who saw Dr. Herbst before he left for Kfar Ahinoam, sitting at his desk, surrounded by books, so that all one glimpsed of him was the smoke from his pipe, would regard him as the prototype of the scholar, renouncing himself for the sake of his work. To be truthful, in those days he was using his pipe more than his pen or pencil, puffing away, letting time go up in smoke.

His desk was now empty. There were only two or three books on it, along with the new box waiting to absorb new notes. It sat there chastely, without shouting: See how learned I am, how much wisdom I contain. Herbst’s desk was empty now, and Firadeus could brush off the dust.

The day his desk was dusted, the ashtray was emptied too. It was full of ashes from his pipe, as well as from the cigarettes he used to get from the peddler who considered Mimi and Julian Weltfremdt his patrons. They were brown and slender, as long as a small child’s pencil on his first day of school. These cigarettes lasted as long as a lit match, and they left behind a charred tip.

Herbst wished to behave in all his affairs, including those related to becoming a professor, as he had behaved with respect to his book. Like all the other lecturers at the university, Herbst was hoping for a promotion. But it was not his way to reach out for something unless it was close at hand. So he didn’t lift a finger for the sake of a promotion. He said to himself: I’ll finish my book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, the scholarly community will take notice, and their views will reach the patrons of the Hebrew University, who will promote me to the rank of professor. Such was the case with my first book, as a result of which I was invited to be a lecturer at the university. When two lecturers were made professors on one day, Herbst began to wonder. Apart from a dissertation that added nothing to the realm of scholarship, the older one had produced only a small pamphlet distinguished by its meagerness, plus three flimsy articles offering very little that could qualify as scholarship. They found their rightful place in those journals whose editors are publicists, not scholars. The other newly appointed professor, an author of many books, was merely the sum of what he himself had written about them. And there was nothing in his books beyond what was in earlier ones; if I don’t admit these books to my house, I am sure they won’t be missed.

Herbst began to speculate. Perhaps it was his turn to become a professor. Although he hadn’t produced another book, his articles were more important than several books.

Herbst was not a man of action, so he did not want to discuss this matter with Henrietta. Whenever Henrietta heard something congenial from him, she would press him to act on it instantly, as if it were up to him, as if he could declare himself a professor. Herbst knew one thing, and he stood by it: he must be careful not to say anything that might suggest he was eager for a promotion. Herbst did not want to be associated with those pathetic grumblers who considered themselves deprived because they weren’t professors.

After two or three days, he dismissed the matter. When he did think about it, he was surprised at himself, for he had come close to doing something that was close to pulling strings, which was close to the sort of manipulation that was so alien to him.

Chapter four

I
will forgo the saga of the professorship in favor of a chapter on Shira. But first, let me make two or three comments about Herbst’s household.

Once again, Herbst surveyed his world and was amazed to find that all was well. This did not result in an emotional muddle, although surprise usually does muddle the emotions. On the contrary, that very surprise was a source of strength, making him feel fortunate, as if to say, “What applies to others doesn’t apply to me.” Since it’s not in my power to explain thought processes, I will begin with a pronouncement of my own: Herbst felt as if all the household winds were at one with him.

All the household winds were at one with him, and he was at one with the household. How far did this go? It was the custom at that time for Arab boys to hide behind a tree, a fence, or a pile of refuse and, when they saw a Jew walking alone, to shoot at him. Once, past midnight, Herbst was coming from Shira’s house. He was close to home when he heard a shot, felt the bullet whiz by, and realized it was intended for him. Herbst recognized that, as long as he lived in an Arab neighborhood, he was risking his life and the lives of his family. Since this never recurred, he regarded the event as chance and dismissed it from his mind.

Actually, it wasn’t chance. Those who threaten our lives were intimidated by the Haganah, and, in areas patrolled by Haganah forces, there had been no more shooting. Though Herbst suspected that many of his students were Haganah members, he did not know this for a fact. Since there were no further ambushes, he dismissed what had happened to him near his home that night, after midnight, on the way back from Shira’s.

So much for Dr. Herbst and his tranquility. We will now tell what happened to him during his tranquil days, as well as what happened to him when the tranquil days were over, and what happened to the people whose lives intersected with his, at home, at the university, and in several other places.

Since the day the Herbsts visited Bachlam, there was no longer a barrier between him and Herbst, and they grew close to one another. When they turned up in the same place, Herbst always asked how he was, and, if it was convenient, he would walk him home and go inside with him. Occasionally, he went to visit him on his own. Herbst, who was not in Bachlam’s camp, had always behaved like those of his colleagues who were not in that camp either. Now that he was a friend, he no longer mocked him. In fact, he praised him. Herbst would now say, “Those two people – Bachlam and his wife – are not what you think they are.” Having become accustomed to Bachlam’s ways, he didn’t notice what was ridiculous about him and tried to see his good side. Bachlam stopped hating Herbst, whom he used to include among the traitors, those professors and lecturers who came from Germany, took over the university, and deserved to be hanged. What is more, he began to treat him generously. He gave him a dozen offprints and wrote, on every single one, half a page or more in praise of his young friend, a man with a glowing future. He gave him a copy of one of his recent books, in which he wrote that he, too, was destined to produce fine and useful work. The phrase “he, too” was an allusion to the fond hope that Herbst might one day become like him. Because he was close to Bachlam, Herbst heard his friends defamed by Bachlam; he also heard Bachlam defamed by his friends. He would say, “What’s it to them if the old man lets off a little steam?” Or, “What’s it to the old man if they joke about him? They are both used to this.”

Herbst surveyed his world and saw that all was well. It had always seemed to him that there was an open pit at his feet, a raging surf about to sweep over him. Between yesterday and today, the pit was covered; the surf subsided. The books that had been stacked on his desk were back in place; what he had intended to copy was copied. The copied material was organized and sorted, as were his writing pads, as were his notebooks. As soon as he sat down to work on his book, the notes were going to leap into his hands and offer themselves to him. Herbst had enough material to begin writing the book, but his ideas had so many ramifications that he wasn’t sure they would lead to the conclusion he had had in mind at the beginning, before he started collecting material.

Let’s have a look at the rest of Herbst’s affairs.

His little daughter Sarah is growing up, and she is no trouble to her parents. Her teeth grew in like a mouse’s without causing her parents a single sleepless night. She caught the standard childhood illnesses and made short shrift of them. She was never really sick and didn’t need doctors. Whenever Henrietta saw that Sarah wasn’t well, she called the doctor, but, by the time he arrived, she would be all better. But what will we do when it’s time for her to start school? Here in Baka, which is an Arab neighborhood, there is no Jewish kindergarten. During the 1929 riots, all the Jews fled for their lives and didn’t return, except for the Herbst family. We’ll have to take the child to Talpiot, but how will we manage to get her from Baka to Talpiot and from Talpiot to Baka? We’ll have no choice but to move to a Jewish neighborhood. It would surely be nice to live among Jews, but how is one to give up the vegetable garden and the flower garden, in which Henrietta has invested so much effort all these years? Manfred says to her, “Don’t fret. We can get vegetables from the market, and there are flower vendors in the city from whom you’ll be able to buy whatever you like.”

So much for the vegetable garden and the flower garden; let’s turn our attention to the houses in the city. Two or three generations back, there was space between the buildings. Each one stood alone. Now they are crowded together on rocky terrain that produces no trees, no shrubs, no grass – only noise and clamor. New neighborhoods have been built, too. They have no trees yet, but saplings have been planted, which will grow into sturdy trees. Talpiot is the neighborhood closest to ours, so close to Baka that one bus serves them both. But I can tell you this: in Talpiot, the houses are small, with tiny rooms. The roads are in disrepair, and Arabs from nearby villages pass through, noisy and raucous, littering the street with food and animal dung. Its streets have no benches to sit on, not even trees in whose shade one could rest. True, there is a grove, but every tree in the grove is claimed by a British soldier and his slut, transacting their business while children watch, laugh, and make obscene comments. Jerusalem’s schoolchildren are brought to this grove to plant trees on Arbor Day. They set forth with great fanfare, bedecked with branches torn from trees that have just begun to grow, and carry scores of saplings, which they stick into the ground as they sing about the land. The next day, no one remembers the tender saplings, except the Arabs, who uproot them and use them to build cooking fires. What remains of that tree-planting celebration? Dozens of articles about the Jewish National Fund and the teachers who are engaged in reclaiming the land.

From the youngest of the girls, I move on to her big sister Tamara. Sarah is not yet of kindergarten age; Tamara is about to be rid of school or is, perhaps, already rid of it. We will now sing the praises of Tamara. Her tongue has lost its sting. She is no longer insolent to her father. She doesn’t call him by his name; she calls him “Father.” And she doesn’t say to him, “So, Manfred, you’ve made us a sister,” as she did after Sarah was born. Furthermore, she doesn’t malign her teachers, deride our great poets, or make silly remarks about Apollo bound up in
tefillin
straps. She has even changed her mind about Jewish history. She says many negative things about the British – that they have taken over the country, that it’s time for them to fold their tents and go. Some people are offended by her opinions; others nod in agreement. One can’t deny that there is a grain of truth in what she says. Even if we were to overlook the hardships imposed on us by Mandate officials, we must denounce them for shedding the blood of our brothers before our very eyes. Oppressed and tortured, escaping the Nazi sword aboard battered vessels that cast about for days, weeks, months on end, they finally reach the waters of the Land of Israel, only to be confronted by Mandate police brandishing rifles, barring them from the country, though it is open to Poles and to every other nation. The people that concluded an eternal covenant with this land is excluded from it.

So much for adversity; now we’ll tell a little bit about Tamara’s other affairs. She engages in volunteer work and does not earn enough to keep her shoes in repair. In any case, it’s good that she doesn’t interfere in the household routines. One might say she pitches in. We wouldn’t be aware of this if we hadn’t heard about it from her father, who said, “I’m grateful to you, my dear, for taking my letters to the post office.”

I’ll mention Firadeus too. Though she doesn’t count as part of the household, she counts because of the housework. She arrives in the morning and leaves in the afternoon. If, for some reason, she doesn’t come – because of the curfew, the perils of the road, or some other life-threatening situation – she doubles her efforts the next day and makes up what she has missed. On her own, she looks for and finds all sorts of tasks that never occurred to the lady of the house, whose grip on the household has relaxed, due to the stress of pregnancy, so that she no longer keeps her customary vigilant eye on things. This being the case, Firadeus does her best to spare Mrs. Herbst. Firadeus is devoted to Mrs. Herbst and to Mr. Herbst, too, because they are fine people. There are other fine people: Mr. Sacharson, for example, who pays her generously for putting wrappers on his pamphlets, even the ones her neighbors take and don’t return. When he sees her looking sad, for someone might suspect she took money for them, he laughs and says, “Silly girl, don’t worry. No need to get upset.” Still, she doubts that he is really a good man, for there is something about his laugh that isn’t right; the mockery in his eyes and his distorted face are signs that something isn’t right. The Herbsts are different. They are good and lovable. Firadeus once tried to describe what was so special about the Herbsts to her friends, but she failed. Her friends said to her, “Even you don’t know.” Firadeus knows that she knows, but she doesn’t know how to explain it to anyone else.