The father of these daughters sat in his study, with the mounds of printed matter this country provides in profusion laid out before him. He didn’t discard it, out of respect for the written word. He didn’t look it over, because he knew there was nothing of substance there. Being an orderly man, Herbst took the trouble to put these papers in order: announcements with announcements, reminders with reminders, letters with letters; another pile for memos, appeals, political flyers, and the like, put out by national and charitable institutions, scholarly and political groups, children’s schools and academies, jubilee committees and plain committees – the assorted material one receives daily. An entire lifetime is not long enough to look it over.
Tamara came in and stood behind him. She leaned over him and said, “So, Manfred, you’ve made us a sister.” At that moment, the father was not comfortable with his daughter’s impudence, and he asked, “How are your classes?” Tamara answered, “Don’t worry, I’ll get my diploma.” Her father said, “When I was your age, my studies were more important to me than the diploma.” Tamara responded coyly, “When you were my age, you weren’t expected to know when Issachar Ber Schlesinger was born, and you weren’t expected to know that poem about the statue of Apollo wrapped in phylacteries.” Herbst regarded her harshly and said, “That’s absurd.” Tamara said, “You see, Father, we’re expected to learn those absurdities, and they determine whether we advance to the next class or fail. That’s how it is, Manfred.” Herbst placed both his hands on the piles of paper and muttered whatever he muttered. Tamara stared at his papers out of the corner of her tiny eyes and said, “Wow! Your desk is popping with wisdom!”
Zahara came in and said, “Hello, Father. The little one is sweet. I’ve never seen such an adorable baby. She’s intelligent, too. When I said, ‘You’re my sister,’ she looked me over to see if I deserve to be her sister. You’ve acquired some new books, Father. The shelves are full, the desk is full, even the floor is full. I won’t be surprised if we have to start coming in through the chimney. What are you up to? Mother says you hardly leave the house. In that case, you’ll soon have a book in print.”
Herbst took a chair and said, “Sit down, Zahara. Sit down. How are you, my child?” Zahara said, “That’s good advice, I’m really tired. It’s nice to sit in your room, Father. I can’t remember when I last sat on an upholstered chair.” Herbst took another chair, moved it, and said to Tamara, “You can have a seat, too. So, Tamara, no marvels to report from school?” Tamara said playfully, “You want marvels? Who expects marvels these days? In my opinion, even small accomplishments are excessive.” Herbst said, “I met up with your history teacher, and he said to me – “ Tamara said, “Never mind what he said. What did you say? In your place, I would have said to him, ‘A deadhead like you ought to cover his tiresome face to keep me from yawning.’“ Herbst said, “Don’t you think a person should know our nation’s history?” Tamara said, “Then the nation should make the kind of history I want to know.” Her father said, “Your tongue is quick, my dear.” Tamara said, “I can’t tie my tongue to a birthing bed.” Zahara said, “It’s impossible to talk to you, Tamara.” Tamara answered, “And you’re such a conversationalist? Is it essential to talk? I like people I can sit with in silence. Who’s knocking on the door?”
Zahara got up to open the door and returned with a heavy, loose-limbed young man carrying a briefcase, confident he was created for a purpose. He placed his hat on the desk, took a chair, sat down, perspired, opened the briefcase, took out a notebook, leafed through it, and said to Herbst, “You haven’t paid your dues; you owe one grush.” Herbst paid him, and the young man added, “You probably want to subscribe to the jubilee volume the committee is putting out for Getzkuvitz.” Herbst said, “I have never had the privilege of hearing that name.” The young man said, “Is it possible you never heard of Getzkuvitz? He’s the Getzkuvitz who…” and he talked on and on, until Herbst put his hands on his head, wishing for a refuge.
As soon as the visitor left, Zahara asked her father what would be done with the grush he came to collect and why he called it a grush when he meant a shilling. Her father said, “Who knows?” Zahara said, “And you gave it to him without asking what it’s for?” Herbst said, “In this country, is it possible to investigate every organization that asks for money? Mother contributes to forty funds whose names she doesn’t even know. If you wanted to know the names of all the funds that demand money, you would have to appoint a special secretary, and even that wouldn’t do. It’s easier to get rid of them with money. Words don’t work.” Zahara said, “The officials know that, and they set their agents on your trail. Nonetheless, one should ask them what they give you for your money.” Herbst laughed and said, “They don’t give me anything.” Tamara said to her sister, “You’re asking such questions – you, a
kvutza
member!” Zahara looked at her disdainfully and offered no response. Tamara realized she had overstepped and said to her sister, “Don’t be upset, honey. Let’s get back to Sarah. What do you think of her?” Zahara said, “She’s a sweetheart.” Tamara said, “I can picture you at her age. You were probably a sweetheart too.” Herbst looked at Zahara and said fondly, “You really were a sweetheart, Zahara.” Tamara stretched to her full height and asked, “What about me, Father?” Her father said, “Your enthusiasm about yourself spares me the trouble of an opinion.” Tamara said, “Have I no reason to be enthusiastic about myself?” Her father smiled and said, “If I say otherwise, you won’t believe me anyway. Now, what are your plans for today?” Tamara answered, “Whatever comes my way is already in my plans.” Zahara answered, “I came to attend to some business for the
kvutza.
” Tamara said, “And if a sister hadn’t suddenly been born to you, the business would remain undone.” Zahara said, “They would have sent someone else to attend to it.” Tamara asked, “Tell me, sister, did they at least pay part of your expenses?” Zahara said, “Whether they did or not makes no difference.” Tamara said, with a wink, “Father, explain to her that her
kvutza
costs you more than my tuition.”
Henrietta came in, carrying the baby. Zahara was quick to take the baby and give her mother her chair. Henrietta asked, “What were you talking about? I seem to be interrupting.” Tamara said, “On the contrary, it’s we who are interrupting your lunch preparations. What, for instance, is Mrs. Herbst preparing for her daughters’ lunch? Sarahke, hush yourself and stop shrieking. Can’t you see there are serious people here dealing with a weighty question?” Henrietta got out of the chair, took the baby from Zahara, and began cooing to her. Tamara said, “Bravo, Mother. You sound as if she were your first child. Sarahke, tell us, whom do you look like?” Zahara said, “I’m going out, Mother. Do you need anything from the market?” Henrietta said, “Don’t be long, and bring back a good appetite.” Zahara said, “I’ll try, Mother. Goodbye, all you good people.” Tamara said, two and a half times, “Goodbye, goodbye, and bring me back some ice cream.”
Chapter nineteen
T
he girls had gone, each to her place, and the household resumed its routine. Henrietta deals with the baby, the wetnurse, all the household affairs. Still, she manages to run around for certificates. Oh, those certificates! It seems that if you reach out, they’ll give you one. But when you get to the office, there are none, and the official you saw yesterday, who promised to give you one today, isn’t there either. There – in Berlin, Frankfurt, Leipzig, all the cities of Germany – brothers, sisters, in-laws, uncles, and aunts are rotting away, and, if you postpone bringing them here, they will be erased from the earth. Every report from there is worse than the preceding one. Sad letters, imploring letters, reproachful letters arrive daily. They reproach us for being complacent, for not lifting a finger to rescue them. Henrietta is miserable. She cries and is full of reproach – not for the English who have closed the country, nor for the malevolent officials who do their bidding and withhold certificates. She reproaches her relatives who reproach her, as if their immigration were in her control and she were obstructing it. Unaware of the runaround and abuse she endures, they repeat what they already wrote yesterday. Once again, Henrietta dresses up, runs to the Jewish Agency, to the immigration offices, to those who rule the country and, in a most cordial manner, pleads gently, ever so gently, on behalf of her sisters and brothers. She no longer distinguishes between herself and her family; she has taken in their sorrow and is one of them. Henrietta is advised to bring in her relatives on the sort of certificate that is backed up by a bank account of one thousand lirot to guarantee each immigrant’s support. The Herbsts have no such resources, even if they were to sell the clothes off their backs. And besides, there are so many relatives that they would need countless thousands. Nonetheless, Henrietta does not relent. Julian Weltfremdt and Taglicht, Herbst’s two friends, agree to be cosigners. Henrietta runs to a savings and loan bank to borrow money for deposit in Barclay’s Bank. The manager looks at the signatures and rejects Taglicht’s for, being a man of meager means, his signature is worthless. As for Weltfremdt’s signature, the bank manager clucks his tongue and says, “Weltfremdt, Weltfremdt…. Which Weltfremdt?” “Dr. Julian Weltfremdt.” If she could get Professor Ernst Weltfremdt to sign, they would accept the document and lend the money. Of course, you know Professor Ernst Weltfremdt all too well. He would give you an offprint and sign it, but a financial note – never. Still, rather than trouble her husband, Henrietta deals with most of their business, leaving him free to work. Manfred sits in his study, working.
Herbst has already prepared his lectures for the fall term. When he finished this task, it seemed to him that he had done everything. Herbst did not remember Professor Weltfremdt’s suggestion that it was desirable for a faculty member to publish an occasional book or, if not a book, at least an article. Some things are desirable and some are not. Manfred Herbst’s desires are in abeyance. He produces neither books nor articles, yet he assists others who produce books and articles. They all accept his help, assimilate his comments, acknowledge his editorial skills. Since they are the authors, the books are theirs. And if not for them, Herbst would have nothing to comment on. Still and all, to be correct, they thank him. Herbst doesn’t mind if comments offered generously to friends are not acknowledged, nor does he blush with pleasure when they thank him. If you like, this is apathy. Or, if you prefer, it’s because his mind is elsewhere. And where is it? Believe it or not, it’s with Shira.
It is Manfred’s way to help Henrietta with the daily chores. So much so that when she goes into town, he does the dishes, keeps an eye on the kerosene lamp, takes the laundry off the line, and, needless to say, watches the baby and chases the cattle sent into the garden by Arab shepherds, which exposes him to Sacharson’s monologues, designed to prove that Arab hostility is not directed against Jews in particular, for his garden is invaded too, although everyone knows he is thoroughly Christian. Whatever Herbst does is done, not out of actual will, but in an attempt to keep himself at home. Were he to go into town, he would stop at Shira’s, and he doesn’t want to stop at Shira’s. What does this mean, he doesn’t want to? Not an hour passes without his thinking of her. Still, although he can’t control his thoughts, he can control his feet. And, as long as he can control them, he keeps them at home, despite the fact that, were he to go to Shira, he and his conscience would be clear: if a man’s wife doesn’t offer him comfort, he has the right to do as he likes.
Henrietta doesn’t offer Manfred comfort or intimacy, and Manfred no longer attempts to be intimate with her; she, because of her concerns, and he, because she has trained him not to bother her. Twice a day they eat together, discussing their relatives in Germany, the university, the students and teachers. At the core of the conversation are their daughters, who no longer need them. Zahara lives in Ahinoam. She is accepted by everyone and seems to feel she belongs there. When Zahara first said, “I’m going to a
kvutza
,” her parents laughed and said, “When you see the privation and hard work, you’ll come running home to Mama.” But she didn’t come home to Mama. She works hard – in the fields, in the garden, anywhere – enjoying her work and eating what she produces, and even her parents benefit from her labor. She sends eggs from the
kvutza
, each one the size of an ostrich egg. She sends tomatoes whose equal cannot be found in any Jerusalem market and flowers that charm the eye, give off a lovely scent, and have such sweet names. In our textbooks, flower names are translated from Latin, French, and a variety of other languages. Children in the
kvutza
give them Hebrew names, which I’m inclined to believe go back to the third day of Creation. Zahara has even found herself a young man in Ahinoam. We don’t know who he is – either that tall Avraham whom they call Avraham-and-a-half, who carried her in his arms when she sprained her ankle, or Heinz the Berliner, who manages the
kvutza’s
business, or yet another one of the young men who live there. When Henrietta met Manfred, she linked her soul to him for the rest of her life. In this time and place, a young girl doesn’t know to whom to cling. So much for Zahara.
Tamara still hasn’t finished her studies. She plans to live in Tel Aviv until she gets her certificate and a teaching job. When does she study? We wonder about that; one more wonder to add to the seven wonders of the world. In the summer? She spends all day at the beach, swimming, sunbathing, exercising, sailing, doing all sorts of delightful things on land and sea. In the winter? She goes hiking, to get to know the length and breadth of the land. When she’s in Tel Aviv, she sleeps all day. As for the night, she spends most of it in one of the cafés. Tamara and Zahara are sisters, with the same father and mother, yet they are not related in looks, height, or dress. But they do resemble each other. I will tell you something that happened to me in this connection. Once, in the winter, I was in Kfar Ahinoam, where I met Zahara. That summer I went down to Tel Aviv to bathe in the sea, where I happened to meet Tamara. I said to her, “I saw you in Kfar Ahinoam.” She stretched to her full height, laughed her bronze laugh, and said, “I grew two heads taller in the interim.” I looked at her, saw my error, and laughed with her. I have related all this to demonstrate that, though they seem dissimilar, they are actually alike. Not only these two, but all of the country’s youth: our young men and women are all alike. When you and I were young, we studied in one room, in one school, from one Gemara text, hoping to resemble our fathers and teachers. But, in the end, we were different from them and different from each other. Here, the schools are all different, the texts are different, and the students end up resembling one another.