It was a fine night, charged with silence; the special silence of Jerusalem, an inner silence that exudes sweetness. Herbst hurried home, indifferent to the antics of the night, which, even for a Jerusalem night may have been unique in its sweet silence, or to the hour, equally unique in its pleasant sweetness.
He was already at King George Street, having come out of the web of narrow alleys near where Shira lived. When Manfred Herbst first came to Jerusalem, one couldn’t walk here because of all the stones, rocks, boulders, and gaping potholes. When Rehavia was built, the stones were cleared, the rocks dug up, the boulders uprooted, and the holes filled with dirt. A long, wide road, suitable for pedestrians and vehicles, was built. Traffic was constant, but, as it was past midnight, the Talpiot bus, which stops in Baka and could have brought Herbst home in no time, was no longer running.
The silence had moved on, and wherever it went, it was pursued by cars flying past, one after another. Where were they all coming from? The high commissioner’s residence. The high commissioner was having a party attended by many guests – people of wealth and status, diplomats, and even some
yishuv
leaders. They whizzed by in shiny cars with elegant interiors, their rubber wheels drinking up the earth. Manfred Herbst was small and humble. Not only was he on foot, but he had to keep swerving this way and that to avoid being run down. Every day you read in the papers that a man was run over by a car, a car struck a woman and killed her, children were playing in the street when a car came and crushed one of them. Herbst heard about a poor Jew who sold poultry, who happened to live between Mekor Hayim and Talpiot. One day he went out to slaughter a bird. A car ran into him and broke his ribs. He was taken to Hadassah Hospital, where the doctors labored over him until he was out of danger – out of danger, but not out from under the crippling effects of the car. Now he lived with some poor relative, sharing his meager resources. Shattered, broken, disheartened, depleted by the accident, he could no longer use his legs and pursue a livelihood. By rights, the driver should have compensated him for pain and suffering, medical expenses, disability, and embarrassment. But the rich are stingy where they should be extravagant and extravagant where they should be stingy. When the victim’s family decided to sue, the driver hired a lawyer who proved, through a little-known clause in the legal code, that his client was not required to pay. The offending party won the case. He paid his lawyer a fee that may have exceeded what the victim would have claimed had he won. That day, the son of the lawyer went with his friends on one of those hikes that have become the vogue. They arrived at some spot where they found a land mine the Mandate soldiers had neglected to clear. They picked it up, played with it, got bored, and threw it down. It hit that boy, the son of the lawyer, leaving him crippled. There are those who see connections, who connect the tale of the son with the tale of the father; may those who are experts in the laws of the Mandate see that there are other laws, higher ones. But what wrong did the child do, and why did he have to answer for his father’s sins? Moreover, why wasn’t the driver answerable for his car’s crime?
Herbst was already at the train station. He turned toward Baka, but he still had no excuse to offer Henrietta. He saw Dr. Taglicht approaching. Where from? Ramat Rachel. Had he been giving a lecture? Not so. Taglicht, that saint and promoter of peace, that mass of spirituality, is training himself to fight. Should the enemy attack, he will stand up with the other Haganah members, so we will not be massacred and plundered, as we were in other years sealed in Jewish blood. Twice a week, Taglicht goes to Ramat Rachel to train with a Haganah group, and now he is on his way home. All this is beside the point. The point is that Herbst now has an excuse. Should Henrietta ask him where he was, he can say he was with Taglicht. And should she ask what they talked about he could tell an anecdote Taglicht had told him. Once, Taglicht was on his way to give a lecture. Hemdat met him and went along. After the lecture, several people attached themselves to Hemdat. One of them remarked, “I’ve read your stories. I won’t say they’re not good; I could even say I enjoyed them. But, let me tell you, today’s reader is no longer content with reading for pleasure. He expects to find a new message in every creative work. Hemdat said to him, “‘Whereto?’ is not a question I answer, though I do sometimes respond to ‘Wherefrom?’“
Herbst and Taglicht did not have a long conversation; Herbst, because he was hurrying home, and Taglicht, because he had heard good news. On this night, one of many filled with horror and distress, catastrophe, restricted rights, and harsh measures and rulings that limit our every step, a band of youngsters had taken possession of some land, establishing a new settlement there. For this reason, Taglicht was not interested in the sort of conversation academics usually indulge in. They said goodbye to each other and went on their way, Taglicht rejoicing over the birth of a new settlement and Herbst relishing the excuse he had found.
When Herbst reached home, he saw there was a light on. A light at one in the morning meant something had happened. But this was beside the point, the point being that, should Henrietta ask where he was, he now had an adequate and totally reasonable excuse. Herbst put his key in the door, but it didn’t open. What’s this? Henrietta could have left her key in the lock so she would hear him when he came in.
He stood outside, unable to get into his own house without knocking. But if he knocked, his wife would come to let him in. Even if she didn’t ask any questions, shouldn’t he offer an explanation? But his face would contradict his answer. He had to get in somehow, and if he didn’t knock, no one would open the door. He knocked, and Zahara appeared.
Herbst saw his daughter Zahara and said, “You’re here? When did you come?” Zahara embraced her father and kissed him. He wanted to embrace her and kiss her too. But his soul was astir with other embraces, so he restrained himself. He brushed her head with his hand, smoothing her hair, reluctantly, as his hands still blazed with Shira’s fire.
Henrietta heard Manfred come in and called out from her bed, “Fred, what do you think about our visitor? Zahara, tell Father why you came.” Herbst asked in alarm, “What’s happened, what’s happened? Something bad again?” Henrietta said in a cheery voice, “What do you mean, ‘again,’ and why bad when it can be good?”
He hurried to his wife. Zahara followed him. He looked at them with concealed anger and said with open reproach, “Won’t you say…Won’t you tell me what happened.” Zahara answered, “Nothing, Father. Honestly. Nothing. I came to Jerusalem and I dropped in to see how you are.” Henrietta looked at her with affection and good cheer, and said to her husband, “But wait till you hear what brings her here.” Herbst said to Zahara, “Do I have permission to ask what brings you here?” Zahara said, “Honestly, you
are
strange.” Herbst said, “I’m strange? In what way?” Zahara said, “Isn’t that right, Mother?” Henrietta said, “When a special guest makes a statement, the host must agree.” Herbst said, “Nonetheless, I would like to know in what way I’m strange.” Zahara said, “You’re not strange now, Father.” Although at that moment he was actually stranger than ever, she repeated, “Honestly, you’re not strange now.”
Henrietta asked her husband, “Have you eaten?” Manfred was afraid to say, “I ate but I’m hungry,” since that might lead his wife to further questions. He answered, “I had tea with Taglicht.” Henrietta said, “Poor thing, you had tea, but nothing to eat.” He said, “Tea with some dry cake.” Henrietta said, “I’m getting right up to bring you something to eat.” Zahara said, “Stay where you are, Mother. I’ll fix something for Father.” Henrietta said, “Aren’t you tired from the trip?” Zahara answered, “Did I walk here? I came in a car, of course. And what a car, a very special one, like a deer with wings. It was quite a trip. Eighty kilometers an hour. If you promise not to report me, I’ll confess that we even hit a hundred kilometers an hour. Avraham-and-a-half says such speed causes cars to die an untimely death.”
Herbst asked his daughter, “What brings you here?” Zahara said, “Mother, I see Father isn’t pleased that I came.” Herbst said, “I’m pleased. I’m pleased, and all I’m asking is why.” Zahara said, “I came for the workshops. Out of the entire
kvutza
, two of us were chosen.” “And who is the other girl?” Zahara said, “Allow me to correct you, Father, dear. You ask about the other girl when you ought to ask about the other person.” Herbst smiled and asked, “Then who is the other person?” Zahara said, “If I tell you, will you know? You have a habit of switching people’s names, Father.” Herbst said, “Yes, child, I never remember the names of all the boys who surround you.” As he spoke, he noticed how ripe she was. He lowered his eyes and thought: She is with young men who have rejected the authority of their fathers. She has come here with one of them, and I’m too preoccupied to look after her. But look at Lisbet Neu – of course, she is older, but she is in constant contact with all kinds of people, clerks as well as customers, and she has an invalid mother and no father. Nevertheless, she behaves impeccably. He stroked his daughter’s head and said with concealed emotion, “It’s a great privilege to have been chosen to attend these workshops and to have an opportunity to hear things that are probably worth hearing. Did you see your little sister? Isn’t she a fine baby? Who will be lecturing?” As he asked this question, he felt a twinge of pain, for he had not been invited to participate. Several years earlier, there was not an intellectual event that didn’t include him. Now they were having these workshops, and he wasn’t asked to lecture even once. Manfred Herbst was on the way out. He used to be invited to participate in every cultural event, and those who arranged them didn’t make a move without consulting him. New people had come, bringing new wisdom. Herbst felt sorry for himself, sad that it had come to this. Yet he justified these omissions, for he had not published anything in several years, except for two or three trifles in
Kiryat Sefer
and
Tarbitz
. His great book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium was still a bundle of notes, references, and preliminary drafts.
Whose fault is it that the book lies curled up in a box, like an embryo dead in the womb. This country is at fault; it is not a scholarly environment. Here in the Land of Israel, everyone makes do with the minimum. This applies to spiritual needs as well as physical ones. Whatever is not essential to sustain body or soul is a luxury this poor country cannot afford. Our colleagues – those young scholars who came from Germany only yesterday, because they were relieved of their positions there – are amazed that in all these years we have contributed absolutely nothing. They don’t realize that this place is unlike any other. In other places, scholarship justifies itself. Not so here, where, unless a scholarly study can be related to Israel’s national destiny or to the ethic of the prophets, it is immediately discredited. Those innocents still pretend to be living in a German environment. Give them two or three years and they’ll be like the rest of us, making do with articles in jubilee volumes. The ambitious ones will join the bureaucracy, which is the seat of power. In other countries, the bureaucracy serves the needs of the people and the state; here, the bureaucracy itself is primary, and it takes precedence over the needs of the people and the state. Among those who came in the early days of the university, there were some true scholars. Years passed, and they didn’t achieve anything important. This being the case, they began to regard their minor achievements as major ones. When Julian Weltfremdt and his cronies remark scornfully, “See what those professors are up to,” the professors answer, “Their words have the ring of envy; they resent us because they weren’t appointed to the faculty.” What these malcontents say about the professors, most of the professors say about their own colleagues. In fact, most of them agree that Bachlam is no scholar, while he says they have small minds and deal entirely with trivia.
Zahara brought her father his meal. Herbst glanced at his beloved daughter, who was forfeiting sleep for his sake. He picked up a knife and fork to eat what she had prepared, but they remained idle. Zahara peered at him and said, “Father, you’re not eating.” Herbst answered, “I’m eating.” Zahara laughed gaily and said, “I see you deep in thought, but I don’t see you eating.”
Many thoughts troubled Herbst. He dismissed them, one after another, thanks to his beloved daughter. As long as she was in his mind, he felt relaxed. But he was sorry she hadn’t followed his advice. She hadn’t enrolled in the university, and her education was incomplete. Dr. Herbst had many opinions, among them that one cannot acquire an education outside of a university. Since settling in the Land of Israel, some of his opinions had changed, but he remained convinced that one could not be educated outside of a university, even by reading widely, listening to lectures, devouring the wisdom of the world. In the end, such knowledge is incomplete. He applied this rule to everyone, including his daughters.
Father Manfred doesn’t really know his daughters. This is surely true of Tamara, whose character no one really knows. But it is also true of Zahara, who is attached to her father and whose soul is as transparent as water from a spring; one can’t really say that her father knows her. Were we to summarize all of Father Manfred’s information about Zahara, it would add up roughly to this: Zahara belongs to a
kvutza
called Ahinoam, which foreign correspondents with Zionist sympathies mention often and journalists rush in to write about in many languages, as if it were there that humanity will be renewed – to the extent that one can barely find a
kvutza
member or even a shrub that hasn’t been photographed for one of these publications. Zahara is a member of this
kvutza
and is accepted by one and all. Its ways are congenial to her, and there is no activity in which she doesn’t participate wholeheartedly: the vegetable garden, the kindergarten, the kitchen, the dining room. Wherever she works, there are people helping her. It is the way of young men to be helpful to young women who enjoy their work, by lending a hand, giving good advice, or simply looking on. She occasionally comes to Jerusalem from the
kvutza
, sometimes with this young man, sometimes with that one. Today, too, she came with one of them. The early days were good, before Herbst met Shira. He used to see his daughter and her friends without being subjected to afterthoughts.