Shira (66 page)

It is not only Persians who are poor. Some Germans are poor too, because a villain named Hitler came and took their money. Some of the Germans came to the Land of Israel before Hitler came to power in Germany, and they have everything – oil and margarine and butter – unlike the recent arrivals, who spice their loaves with spit.

Having mentioned Mrs. Herbst, a few of the Herbsts’ callers, and a few of Firadeus’s thoughts about them, I will mention Zahara and Tamara, two of Manfred and Henrietta’s daughters. In fact, I will mention only Tamara, since Zahara lives in some
kvutza
far from Jerusalem, and, on those rare occasions when she visits, Firadeus isn’t always at the Herbsts’. As soon as her work is done, Mrs. Herbst dismisses her so she can go home. Mrs. Herbst knows that Firadeus’s mother is a hard woman, and sometimes, out of grief, she beats her children for sins they haven’t committed. It is better when Firadeus is there, as she knows how to placate her mother. The only one left for me to tell about is Tamara.

You are already acquainted with Tamara. She looks at you without acknowledging your existence. She probably treats Firadeus the same way. It wouldn’t be like Tamara to change her style for the household help. But two things she did for Firadeus ought to be noted: she gave her a fragrant lotion for the bruised skin on her hands, and she explained the workings of a particular object hanging on the wall – how the strip of red glass inside changes its position, jumping sometimes upward and sometimes downward, indicating shifts in temperature. Firadeus was thoroughly delighted to learn the function of that object. She doesn’t miss an opportunity to astonish her girlfriends by saying, “Do you know how hot it is today? It’s this many degrees.” More amazing, her mother was once very sick, so they called the doctor. Firadeus found a thermometer, took the patient’s temperature, and told the doctor how much fever her mother had. The doctor looked at her benignly and said, “If you’re not a doctor, you are surely a nurse.” If she were Ashkenazic, she would be in school. But she isn’t Ashkenazic, and she can’t be in school because she has to work. Since childhood, she has been working to support herself and her family. She has no great ambitions, although she would like to know about the fat letters in the newspaper from which one can tell in an instant just what is happening in the world. If Tamara would teach her, she would learn and know. But Tamara is busy and doesn’t have time to teach Firadeus. Many girls have come from the lands of exile without any knowledge of Hebrew, and they have to be taught. Because they are confined in a sanitarium for tuberculosis victims, in Mekor Hayim, Tamara goes there to teach them. These girls roamed from city to city, from country to country, pursued by border patrols because they didn’t have visas. Eluding the border patrols, they arrived at a port in the Land of Israel. But the Mandate police didn’t allow them to land, because they didn’t have certificates, and, once again, they roamed the seas in battered boats, without food or drink, until our young men took charge and arranged for them to land in secret places. Having been at sea so long, they were vulnerable to many diseases. Tamara volunteered to work with them, to teach them to speak and read the language. She goes there every day and stays into the night. It would be good for Tamara to find a paying job, so she could help her mother with household expenses. But this is good too. These are troubled times for our people, and anyone who can, should help. The Herbsts ought to be pleased with Tamara, with the fact that she has given up her earlier mode, turning away from café life and from dancing to devote herself to the advancement of young Jewish girls. What would they do if she joined one of those suspect organizations that endanger their members, like Herut, the Irgun, or the Stern Gang. It would be good if Tamara would find a job, earn a salary, and help her mother with household expenses. In any case, it’s good that she keeps busy, and her mind is no longer on cafés and on dancing with British soldiers.

There are times, when Herbst is with his books – a cup of coffee at his side, a cigarette in hand, new documents spread out before him on his desk, his notes arranged by subject – when it seems to him that all the world’s tangles are in the process of being unraveled. Even if he should have to move to another house and relocate his books, which he estimates at five thousand volumes, he has a strategy. What is it? You take out the books, row by row, tie a string around each row, put them in boxes, mark each box A, B, C, D, et cetera, and mark the bookcases with numbers and the shelves with letters, so, when it comes time to unpack them, there is no confusion. He has already had a word with Moshe the Assyrian, Jerusalem’s chief porter, who is intelligent and strong – who transports pianos from one end of Jerusalem to the other – and he nodded his beard at him to signify agreement.

As I noted, it sometimes seems to Herbst that the world has become less and less tangled. To confirm this, he would remind himself of what happened to him with Shira and be glad that his heart was purged of her. In which case, what did he see in her to begin with? Why was he ever attracted to her? It was an accident of fate. Just as a person can make a mistake, fate can also make a mistake. All those events were one extended accident. Some errors can never be purged, but Herbst’s error is not one of those. Just as he seeks nothing from Shira, so Shira seeks nothing from him. The fact that she doesn’t show herself to him is evidence. To celebrate his soul, now liberated from its delusion, Herbst goes to his wife and embraces her, whispering sweet nothings invented at that moment. He takes pleasure in his wife, and his wife takes pleasure in him. Those who assume that an older man is no longer capable of inventing an amorous phrase for his wife are mistaken. Seeing Manfred and Henrietta together, although he is past forty-three and she is about thirty-nine – perhaps forty-one – one cannot but marvel and acknowledge that the love displayed by this middle-aged couple may even surpass the love of youngsters. Subjecting himself to the ultimate test, Manfred repeats that verse in a whisper: “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” Whether or not you believe it, the verse is no longer associated with Shira.

Having observed that the world is being restored and that its tangles are in the process of being unraveled, I should get back to Tamara, whose footsteps don’t always lead her to Mekor Hayim. I wouldn’t be divulging secrets or gossiping if I were to disclose that I once saw her learning how to handle weapons with some comrades and that they were not from the Haganah, but from the Stern Gang. Her mother and father don’t know about this, but British Intelligence, from whom nothing is hidden, has her name in their files. They still pretend not to know, but, when it suits them, we will feel the impact of their knowledge. For the moment, I’ll say no more about Tamara’s activities. In fact, I might as well dismiss her entirely, rather than risk getting sidetracked, by her story, when my real purpose is to tell about Herbst and Shira. Similarly, I’ll say no more about Zahara, to whom so much has happened that, even if I were to write about her, I couldn’t cover everything. I’ll say no more about the daughters and get back to the father of these daughters.

Manfred’s life is in good order; Henrietta’s life is in good order too. His work is bearing fruit; her belly is bearing fruit. His manuscript continues to grow thicker; her body continues to expand. It’s a pleasure to see the two of them together. When they are together, his spiritual quality becomes physical compared to hers, and her physical quality becomes spiritual. That is to say, Manfred’s entire thick manuscript has physical reality compared to Henrietta’s baby. True, her face is drawn and very wrinkled, and her cheeks have several blotches of color, which are not attractive. She is wan, and her bearing is slovenly. But the new light shining from her eyes is the light that wells up in mothers, who are the foundation of the world and make it possible for the world to survive.

At about this time, it was Henrietta’s birthday. Manfred went to town and bought some pretty sandals, pretty and just right for Henrietta. True, the doctor had advised her to pay attention to her shoes, to wear only sturdy footwear, and, of course, to avoid high heels, as her arches were weak and she could become flat-footed. But is it possible to heed all medical advice? It was a lovely moment when Henrietta extended her feet so Manfred could help her slip into the new sandals he had bought her. Little Sarah laughed when she saw her mother suddenly turned into a baby, having her shoes put on for her.

I will say a word or two about little Sarah’s cleverness. After watching her mother, she asked whether the baby inside her mother was wearing sandals too. What’s so clever about this? She was such a clever little girl that she didn’t wait for anyone to come and tell her, “The stork is going to bring you a sister, a brother, a doll to play with.” She knew on her own that the baby was growing out of her mother’s heart, just as flowers grow out of the belly of the earth.

There are many more things to tell, but they might divert us from the story itself. I will therefore disregard them and tell about something that happened to Manfred. That night, after Manfred said goodnight to Henrietta and got into his bed, healthy and intact, his heart filled with good cheer and his soul content, he saw in his dream something he had heard about from Shira. A small object was walking around the room, but it wasn’t walking happily, and it made a sound like that of a new shoe. When Manfred looked to see what was walking around the room, he saw that it was a sandal. Startled out of his sleep, he looked up and saw that beggar, the Turk. He was there with Shira. They both entered the sandal and disappeared. Once again he was astonished, as he had been the day he brought Henrietta to the hospital to give birth to Sarah, when he observed the very same phenomenon. How can two people fit into a sandal, which is only one of the body’s trappings? Manfred’s dismay was exceeded by his sorrow over the fact that Shira had vanished.

In the morning, Manfred was sad. The dream he had dreamed that night disturbed him by day. Morning light was already beginning to shine, erasing all traces of the night, but his dream was not erased. A more painful consequence: while dreaming his dream, he had been lying in bed, his body seemingly relaxed. Now that he was out of bed, he had to drag himself around, his dream trailing behind him, allowing him no respite from either his body or his dream. For an instant, his dream seemed to be gone; the next instant, it recurred, and he couldn’t get his mind off it. When Henrietta saw he was depressed, she suggested that he go into town. She was wise enough not to ask why he was sad; she simply suggested that he go into town, where he would find distraction. On days when he didn’t have to go to the university, he used to spend the morning at home in his study, dressed in old clothes and slippers, so it was hard for him suddenly to mobilize, change his clothes, and go into town. Further, it would be a waste of time, and he didn’t even know what he would do in town. He began to look around his room for things to occupy himself with instead, which was his usual tactic when he couldn’t work any longer. As soon as he became involved in something, his passion for work was aroused, and he could get back to his routine. Henrietta, who knew him better than he knew himself, repeated, “Go into town and don’t wear yourself out needlessly.” He listened to her and went into town. Whether or not you believe it, on the way into town he met that blind beggar, the Turk, who stared at Herbst with his mocking, blind eyes. On the face of it, this was an ordinary event, for it is in the nature of beggars to wander everywhere seeking alms. But Herbst didn’t consider it an ordinary event. Because of it, he was even sadder than before. All of a sudden, it occurred to Herbst that this, too, was merely a dream. To test whether he was dreaming or awake, he took out a pack of cigarettes and approached the blind man, intending to say, “My friend, would you like a cigarette?”

Before he could reach him, he was jostled and swept along by the crowd, until he arrived wherever he arrived. Though he had never been there, he recognized the place. How? From the tragedy he had been working on before the visit to his daughter in Kfar Ahinoam. He took out his notebook and made a drawing of the place that was suddenly so real to him.

He returned the notebook to his pocket and began to think about the tragedy he had resolved to put aside when he was in Kfar Ahinoam. Though he had resolved not to pursue it, he was thinking about it again and considering: It may have been a mistake to add Basileios to the plot, since there was nothing in any of the notes or studies on Antonia and Yohanan about a manservant or maidservant at all similar to Basileios. On the one hand, Herbst was pleased to have added an original element, proving that, contrary to what he thought when he first began to write the tragedy, he wasn’t totally devoid of imagination, for he had added a character to those provided by history. On the other hand, although he had washed his hands of the play that night in Kfar Ahinoam, whatever a man touches, even if he washes his hands of it, retains a trace of this touch, a bit of life that continues to flutter, involuntarily.

We will now dwell on Basileios, the faithful servant. This Basileios was formed in Herbst’s imagination. Herbst didn’t know what he would do with him at first, but he was unwilling to relinquish him, since all the characters in the tragedy were historical and he alone was a product of Herbst’s imagination. It is truly no great feat to take something known and make a play out of it. Goethe used to tell poets: Don’t invent material. Use familiar stories. The essence does not lie in the plot, but in what a poet does with it. Herbst, however – and there were probably many others with him – did not agree. When Herbst saw Gerhart Hauptmann’s drama
Heinrich the Unfortunate
, he wondered why the poet had seen fit to take a lovely story told by an excellent storyteller and turn it into a play, which added nothing to the story. So, since Herbst didn’t know what to do with Basileios, in the end he made him into a leper, confined to the leper colony.

As we have already observed, Herbst’s contribution was not essential to the tragedy. One could say about this: It’s tragic, but it’s not tragedy. Still, Herbst took pride in Basileios, the product of his imagination.