Herbst is at his desk, which is filled with open books, reading a page here and a page there, writing, copying, adding to the pile of notes and comments, to the series of lectures on such-and-such an emperor – a Byzantine whose name I forget, a very short fellow who required that all his ministers stoop to a level below his shoulders. Herbst takes no shortcuts. He consults every book in Jerusalem pertaining to his field and orders books and photographs from abroad. Though the books are numerous and there is no shortage of scholars, there is room for innovation. If he had more books, he would make more discoveries, for it is in the nature of books that each one offers a different theory, and a reader with the capacity to innovate adds his own opinion. If his wisdom is significant, what he adds is significant. Whether you know it or not, Dr. Manfred Herbst is an expert on the Byzantine period, and, when Byzantine scholars are mentioned, his name is always included. So he has reason to be pleased with himself.
But this is not the case. Often Herbst shoves away his books, photographs, index cards, and notes, rests his left arm on the desk, and leans his head on his arm. This pose, if I am not mistaken, is hardly the one in which painters portray learned men. When he sits in this position, he resembles a man trying to dismiss his worries. Which of them did he succeed in dismissing, and which did he fail to dismiss? He succeeded in dismissing Lisbet Neu from his mind, but he failed to dismiss Shira.
Shira displays herself in an array of guises, and every one of her guises compels his eyes and heart. But he does not move from his spot or run to her, and he is surprised at himself for not running to her. A single verse he read by chance remains fixed in his mouth, and he mumbles, “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten.” He determines to go to her. When night comes, he finds an excuse and doesn’t go. He looks for Henrietta and insists on helping her in the kitchen, even though she has told him he doesn’t belong among the pots. This sometimes becomes a quarrel. And when she hears his footsteps, she locks the door. What does he do? He takes Sarah out of her crib, carries her in his arms, knocks on the door, and says, “I think the baby needs you.” Henrietta comes out, takes the baby, and walks Manfred to his room and to his desk, saying, “This is where you belong, Fred. Sit down and do your work.” What does he do? He remembers there is no butter in the house. Since there is no dairy in Baka, he goes to Talpiot to buy butter. In Talpiot, he meets up with some of his students, who are protecting the neighborhood from Arab snipers. Herbst does another thing: he writes letters to friends abroad, as well as to his two daughters who are in the same country, for a father is required to educate his daughters. If he didn’t educate them when they were at home, he is educating them now, from a distance. He also occupies himself with a matter that occupies few of his Jerusalem colleagues: he is engaged in clarifying and establishing just who deserves to be considered a Church Father. As Vincent of Lerins has already noted, not all the early Church writers should be considered Church Fathers, since God was testing the Christians through these great teachers, et cetera.
This is how Herbst spent those of his nights that seemed to be seeking Shira. When a night passed and he hadn’t gone to Shira, he felt he was in control.
A contradiction: If it was Shira he was seeking, why didn’t he go to her? But Herbst had a wife; he was the husband of an intelligent, attractive woman. He was the father of three daughters and a lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Whether or not the Hebrew University is required to uphold the teachings of the prophets and the Jewish moral code, whether or not it is a university like all others, university faculty should not behave frivolously. And, needless to say, they should not waste time indulging the body at the expense of the soul. There was a further reason: Herbst was a reticent man, attached to his wife. She was his first love, and it was with her that his love matured, which is to say that, until he knew Henrietta, he didn’t know a woman’s love.
So, if the night passed and he hadn’t gone to Shira, he considered himself in control. Even more so on a night when he knew she was at home. There were nights when he knew she wasn’t working and would be at home; when she told him this, it was quite deliberate, so he would know when he could find her in.
Herbst stayed away from Shira’s house. Shira didn’t stay away from Herbst’s house. She showed herself in seventy forms: her little feet escaping to the forest on a snowy night, the wolf pelt her husband flung over her on their wedding night when he took her to the house in the woods, the blanket wrapped around her in her husband’s room, the feet the old servant woman wanted to kiss, the slippers he slid off her feet and she replaced. When she appeared to him, her voice sounded as it did that night when they walked as one in the new neighborhood. And he was engulfed in the same stillness, not finding the courage to reach out and caress her. When, after a few weeks, the same face continued to impel him to run to her, he began summoning up her other face, the one he had seen the day the entire city was mourning a young Jerusalem boy who was killed and Shira appeared with that defiant cigarette in her mouth. When that face began to blur, he pictured her sitting with the women in the waiting room of the maternity section, her limbs expanding, encircling the blind Turk and reaching to embrace him. These things are certainly ugly, so reason would cause him to pluck her from his heart and avert his eyes from her. He did just this, pressing his eyes into their sockets so he wouldn’t see her. What did that Turk do? Believe it or not, he sneered from his blind eyes into Herbst’s tightly clenched eyes, chirping, “Flesh such as yours / Will not soon be forgotten.”
Chapter fifteen
M
anfred was having a hard morning. His head was heavy, and his shoulders were as inert as rocks. He was utterly debilitated. His bed annoyed him so, he couldn’t lie in it. He got up, settled his feet in his slippers, and began shuffling back and forth from one end of the room to the other.
Henrietta bathed and oiled Sarah, and put her on the scale to check her weight. The baby wriggled her round feet and raised them high, upsetting the scale, so no one could tell how much she had gained. Henrietta laughed and spoke as if to an adult, “I don’t have time for your mischief, Sarah. Father is awake, and I haven’t made his coffee yet.” Even if the child had understood Henrietta, it would have been impossible to find out her weight, as the scale wasn’t working because of a missing screw. When Henrietta realized this, she began searching the house. She remembered that a neighbor had come to weigh her son, and all his brothers had come along; they had played with the scale and, undoubtedly, broken it. Henrietta was irritated with herself. Why did I have to teach the Arab women what they and all their sisters never knew? Now that I need to weigh my daughter, the scale is broken.
Henrietta heard Manfred’s footsteps. They didn’t sound right to her. She handed the baby to Sarini and went to Manfred. His face looked strange. She assumed he had been awake all night with his books. She looked at the lamp and noted that it was still full of kerosene. It occurred to her that his stomach might be upset. Since she knew there were no spoiled ingredients in her cooking, she attributed this to some vegetarian dish, such as a radish he might have pulled up and eaten. Manfred tended to fill up on fruits and vegetables, on the misguided premise that live vegetation gives life. She looked at him again and saw that his eyes were red, his face somber. His shoulders drooped, and his entire body was dejected. Feeling sorry for him, she said, “Fred, I’m taking a chair out to the garden for you. I’ll bring out your coffee. Waste one day in the garden rather than several days in bed. If we were in Germany, wouldn’t we spend two or three months in a summer house? It’s about four years since you took a vacation. You surely deserve a day off.” Henrietta had forgotten that he once went abroad to a conference of Byzantine scholars and spent a few days at the seashore.
Manfred went out to the garden, and Henrietta brought him a lounge chair. She went to bring him coffee and milk, toast, butter, and honey, and to tell Sarini she could go home early, since it was a holiday for her – her brother Ovadiah was being released from jail for the fifth time. Not because of any crime, God forbid, but because he had no luck with women. When Sarini’s father and mother and their entire clan came to the holy city of Jerusalem, they brought Ovadiah along. He was like a brother, having nursed at her mother’s breast. On the way, Ovadiah went to the well for a drink. There was a large rock there in the shape of a wicked woman. She stared at him, and he forgot to come back. They went on to Jerusalem without him. There was a man in Jerusalem, strong as an ox, who said, “I’ll bring him back.” He went and brought him back. Seeing that he was a good boy, he gave him his daughter as a wife. Ovadiah was fifteen years old, and the girl they gave him for a wife was thirty-five. Ovadiah stayed with her a year and half and gave her two children. He lost interest in her and left. Some women’s organization came and said, “You are required to give her ten lirot a month.” Ovadiah went to a rabbinical court and proved to the wise men that the woman couldn’t become pregnant again, while he wanted more children. The wise men said, “Give her a
get
, and take another wife.” He threw a
get
at her and took a young wife. The first woman came to grief and died. Ovadiah had no life with the child-wife because he had no luck with women. So he left her. There was an outcry from the women’s organization: “If you don’t want her, you don’t want her, but you must give her ten lirot a month.” Ovadiah said, “Ten lashes, yes, but not ten lirot. In the name of Moses, I myself never had ten lirot.” The women’s organization maligned and slandered him. They sent a policeman to arrest him. This happened once, twice, three times – again and again, making five. His prison term was now up. Sarini was eager to see him, so Mrs. Herbst gave her permission to leave early.
As soon as Sarini left, Mrs. Herbst took a chair out to join Manfred. She brought Sarah out in her cradle and sat down, although there was much work and little time. Manfred looked at Henrietta, and he saw how concerned she was. He wept inwardly for her and for himself, that they had arrived at such a pass.
Manfred sat, Henrietta sat, and Sarah lay in her cradle, a rubber doll with a black face at her side, brought to her by Dr. Taglicht. Amid sun and shade, the garden shrubs sent forth their fragrance. Not a sound was heard from the neighbors. Even Sacharson, who could usually be found where he wasn’t wanted, was not in sight. The day was neither hot nor cold. The sun had lost its intensity, as the month of Av was over and it was now Elul, which often shows an autumnal aspect. Such a day and such an hour are a delight to anyone, all the more to a man and woman touched by the hand of God, which the faithless call the hand of destiny. Henrietta was not yet aware of that hand upon her, but Manfred was aware of it, and he was aware more of sin than of punishment.
Henrietta got up and stood next to her husband, smoothing his brow to erase the wrinkles. She said to him, squinting a bit, “I wish I knew the thoughts that make those wrinkles. I know your work involves heavy thought, but this is too much.” Manfred answered, “Henriett, you ask about the thoughts that are wrinkling my brow; actually it’s the lack of thought that makes wrinkles. You see, Henriett, when a waterskin is empty, when it has no water, it begins to wrinkle. Me, too – I’m an empty vessel. If I give a hundred lectures, if I copy a thousand quotations, nothing will change. When I was a boy, I wanted to read many books. When I grew up, I wanted to write books. Now, my dear, now I don’t want to read books, and I don’t want to write them either. When I visited you in the hospital the day Sarah was born, you mentioned Lisbet Modrao, the daughter of Professor Modrao. You mentioned her because of her grandfather’s name, and I am reminded of her for another reason. Lisbet told me – but why did I call her Lisbet, when her name is Elizabeth? – anyway, Elizabeth told me about her eldest brother, who was a minister, a Protestant minister in a small town in Thuringia. He wasn’t especially bright or learned, just an honest man, one who never had a chance to misbehave. During the war, some heretical texts fell into his hands. He read them, and his faith was undermined. He began to loathe his job, as it involved teaching what he no longer believed. One Sunday, after his sermon, he threw off his robes and decided to give up the ministry. At dinner he said to his wife, ‘Thus far and no farther.’ Those were the war years, when food was scarce. But, being a minister, he lacked nothing, as the peasant women used to bring him eggs, chickens, vegetables, butter, cheese, and meat in such quantity that his household was provided for and there was a surplus to send to other relatives. His wife listened and wrote to his father, the professor. The professor came, hoping to restore his faith. When he realized his words were having no impact, he said to him, ‘Truth and justice are fine and praiseworthy, but a man must be concerned with his livelihood. If you abandon the ministry, how will you sustain yourself?’ Economic pressure, Henriett, is not unique to Jews. With the power of German philosophy, which can be used to prove anything, the distinguished professor proved to the honest minister that it was essential that he keep his job and that, in order to do his job justice, he must become more devout. It ended well. A minister is a minister. His sermons were so fervent that he was promoted and his salary was increased, so much so that two of his daughters could study at the university, and the other five found husbands privileged to be in Hitler’s retinue. Why did I tell that story? It’s about me, Henriett. Yes, me. This instructor at the university in Jerusalem is where that minister was at the beginning. Don’t worry, Henriett. I won’t leave my job, and I don’t need a dose of German philosophy. I’ve had a bellyful of it already and wouldn’t mind vomiting some of it up.”
Henrietta asked Manfred, “If you had a choice, what field would you choose?” Manfred answered, “Do you remember Axelrod, who looks in his notebooks and sees prophecies about everyone and his wife? What do you think? If I wanted a job like Axelrod’s, would they give it to me?” Henrietta said, “You have so little respect for your work that you would rather be a hospital clerk?” Manfred said, “It’s not that I underestimate my work, but I’m no longer happy with it. Others are happy with their work; I’m not. I’m not happy. I’m not happy, Henriett, my dear.”