They were walking away from the steps. Lisbet stopped at one of the houses and said, “This is where I live.” “Here?” Herbst asked in despair. Lisbet said, “Most nights I sit inside with Mother. If you ever have some time, Dr. Herbst, you could come over.” Herbst said, “I won’t come.” Lisbet said, “Why won’t you come to our house?” Herbst said, “Because of the young lady’s mother.” “My mother?” Herbst said, “Old women tend to see me as a peer and engage me in conversation, so I don’t get to talk to their daughters.” Lisbet said, “My mother isn’t old.” Herbst said, “In any case, my age is closer to hers than to her daughter’s. And another thing, my dear Miss Lisbet: I don’t want your neighbors to gossip. Now, be well, enjoy the Mozart, and I’ll go home.” Lisbet said, “I’m sorry I took the professor this far. By now, the last bus has left, and you will have to walk back to town.” Herbst said, “Never mind, my feet will find the way. Goodbye.”
When Herbst reached the bus station, there was no bus in sight. Had it already left? Was it about to arrive? There was no one to ask. Herbst stood waiting for the bus, as people do in Jerusalem at night, especially then, during the riots, when Jews were being killed and injured every day. Standing there, he heard the sound of violins, harps, drums, and dancing. He looked up and saw that the two Rabinowitz hotels were filled with people in holiday attire. Some were dancing, some clapping, their
shtreimels
bobbing up and down, to and fro. Herbst thought to himself: On the one hand, death and injury, mourning and dirge; on the other, brides and grooms, joy and exultation. He soon grew tired of waiting. He soon grew weary of the instruments and the tunes, which were all one motif repeated over and over. He shifted his mind to Mozart and to Lisbet Neu, who, at that very moment, was sitting near the radio. His mind drifted to his book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium, which was still a heap of notes and, if he didn’t idle away his time, would be a great book. He was sorry to be wasting time waiting for a bus, with no way of knowing when it was due. He decided to walk home. He took a few steps and turned back, took a few more steps and turned back again, thinking the bus might come in the meanwhile, and the driver, seeing no one waiting, would leave. This had happened to him on several occasions, when he was waiting for a bus and stepped back to read the bulletin board, only to be ignored by the driver and forced to wait for the next one or walk.
The driver appeared and saw Herbst waiting. He told him the bus was stuck on the road with holes in its tires, thanks to the nails with which Arabs immobilize our vehicles to disrupt transportation and cut off those living in outlying districts, so they will come to loathe their isolation.
The two of them, Dr. Herbst and the driver, stood discussing the subjects one discussed during the riots, when events were cruel and bitter, when the Arabs conspired to restrict us in every possible way. One of the things they would do was to scatter nails on roads frequented by Jewish vehicles. A bus or car filled with Jews would be traveling along and stop suddenly because a nail in the tire had caused a blowout. The driver would get down to change the tire, and a stone would be thrown at him or at the passengers. Given a miracle, the injuries would be slight. Often, they were serious. The Arabs would stand by laughing while the English policeman meted out justice. How would he do that? He would grab a Jew and order him to get the nails off the road.
Herbst stands listening to the news the driver has to tell. Actually, there is nothing new. Yesterday is the same as today. The only change is in the number of casualties. Still, there is no day without something novel. Since it is novel, I will tell about it.
An old Jewish woman lived at the edge of one of the settlements in the Sharon. Her home was open to passersby, offering shade from the heat of day and shelter from the rain. That day, her house wasn’t open, because her years weighed on her, making it hard for her to get out of bed. She had lived almost a hundred years, enduring poverty, grief, and bereavement. She found consolation in the fact that most of the settlement’s children, as well as the children of the Arabs in the surrounding villages, were her nurslings, for she had assisted either at their birth or at the birth of their mother and father, perhaps even of their grandmother and grandfather. She had seen them through childhood illnesses and the maladies of the region. From her bed, she heard a knock at the door, followed by a call for water. She managed to get up and open the door. She saw two Arab youths, who asked for a drink. She handed them the water jug. They turned on her and killed her. The driver had other news to tell. What is known is known; what is unknown, who will believe?
By now, the instruments had fallen silent and the wedding guests were beginning to leave the two hotels. Some of them came to the bus stop, intending to ride home. They found a driver, but not a bus. Having celebrated, danced, and feasted, they were tired. They could barely stand on their feet. And the bus was not there. They began quarreling with the driver. He said to them, “What do you want – should I carry you? You heard what happened to the bus. There’s a hole in the tire, and it won’t budge. If you’re not too lazy, you can carry it on your shoulders.” They said, “Then what should we do? It’s dangerous to walk, and we can’t stand outside – if a curfew is announced, the police will arrest us for violating it.” After some further argument, the driver went to call the office and ask that another bus be sent. He couldn’t find a public telephone that was in working order, so he took the risk of going into one of those dens of iniquity frequented by English soldiers, who would probably be drunk at this hour and up to no good. After a while, the driver returned and informed those waiting for the bus that the office had promised to send a replacement; unless it suffered a fate similar to that of its predecessor, it would almost certainly arrive soon. Had the bus come immediately, Herbst would have taken it and gone home. But, since there was a delay, he grew impatient and went to Shira’s.
The blinds were drawn, and a faint light filtered through. Most likely Shira was already in bed, reading a book or, perhaps, that vile magazine. If he didn’t hurry, she might turn out the light and close her eyes, in which case he wouldn’t have the heart to deprive her of sleep. She had once told him that, when she falls asleep, as soon as her eyes are closed she is asleep for the night. But, if she is awakened, she can’t fall back to sleep.
He bent down and picked up a handful of dirt to throw at the window. He decided not to throw it. Were he to throw it, she would open the window and ask who was there. He would have to say his name, which the passersby would hear and note. He discarded the dirt, then brushed his hand, entered the yard, approached her door, and knocked. While he was waiting, he realized she wasn’t alone.
Rage, fury, envy burned in his heart like fire. None of the vengeful acts he was considering diminished the intensity of that fire, vengeful acts he had heard of or read about but not believed possible. None of those acts could satisfy his impulses toward that woman who was in bed, the devil knew with whom, while he was on the other side of the door, his heart about to break. He held on to himself by his coat, by his buttons, grinding his teeth. Would she or would she not open the door? His heart was in turmoil. He gasped, “No, she won’t.”
The door opened and Shira stood before him, surprised that he had come back after having been there the night before. He hadn’t shown his face for a month and a half, and now here he was, night after night. Though she wasn’t exactly unfriendly, dismay was apparent in every aspect of her being. She offered her hand, greeted him, and said, “You frightened us.” As he held on to her hand, she withdrew it, tossed her head back toward the bed, and said, “Let me introduce you.”
A woman got up from Shira’s bed, greeted him, and said, “Temima Kutchinsky is the name.” Shira gestured toward him and said, “This is Professor Herbst.” She then gestured toward Temima Kutchinsky and said, “She was my shipmate, and do you know why she is in Jerusalem? She’s here for a great event.” Herbst said, “I imagine she’s here for the workshops.“ Shira said, “That’s right, but how do you know that?” Temima Kutchinsky said, “I, too, am wondering how Professor Herbst knows I’ve come for the workshops.” Herbst said, “It’s enough that I know. As for calling me Professor, I must inform you that I am not a professor.” Shira said, “If you’re not a professor now, you soon will be.” Temima asked Herbst, “Are you lecturing at the workshops?” Herbst said, “I wasn’t invited, but my daughter is attending them.” Temima cried out in amazement, “A grown daughter? I assumed you were a bachelor.” Shira laughed and said, “You assume he’s a bachelor because he calls on a single woman?” Temima Kutchinsky said, “Is that a sin?” Herbst said, “If you are well received, then it’s no sin.” Shira said, “Nonsense, didn’t we receive you warmly?” Herbst said, “We shall see. Isn’t that so, Lady Kutchinsky?” Temima Kutchinsky said, “I’m no lady.” Herbst said, “Any woman can be called a lady.” Temima Kutchinsky said, “I see you like to be correct.” Shira said, “Not merely correct, but most highly correct. A German from the land of the Germans.” Herbst said, “I see you are ready for bed, and I am keeping you from your sleep.” Temima said, “The night is young. Besides, I don’t usually get into bed until past midnight. I was in bed only because Shira insisted. I’m getting right up to help her make tea.” Herbst said, “If you’re thinking of me, I’m not thirsty.” Temima said, “Tea makes people sociable, especially at night. A musician once passed through our town singing, ‘Tea is a social brew / And a cure for any bruise.’“ Shira said, “You should know, Herbst, that Temima is a nurse, which is why she mentioned that chant. If you want to hear the whole thing, this is how it goes: ‘A fish on your line / And tea the social brew / Make every wound fine / And cure every bruise.’ Is that right, Temima?” Temima said, “Honestly, I heard him sing it, and you heard it from me. In the end, I only remember half of it, and you remember it all. Now I’ll get up and make tea.” Shira scolded her, “Stay where you are, Temima. I can boil water without any help.” Temima said, “I’m afraid Dr. Herbst won’t enjoy sitting with me.” Shira said, “Nonsense. What’s new in the world?” Herbst said, “I didn’t see the evening paper.” Shira said, “I wasn’t referring to the news in the paper. How is the baby? You should know, Temima, that our friendship is the same age as his little one.”
Shira went to boil water, and Herbst was left with Temima Kutchinsky, thinking: If I had asked Lisbet, would she have given up the Mozart, and would she and I now be walking among the rocks? He turned to Temima. “What did Her Ladyship say?” Temima answered, “That Germans remain German. I’ve already said I’m no lady.” Herbst said, “Forgive me.” Temima said, “Since there’s been no transgression, there’s nothing to forgive. So, your daughter has come for the workshops. Then I’ll see her tomorrow.”
His soul was alarmed, but he recovered quickly. Zahara had already left Jerusalem and was not known by her family name. There were two factors in his favor: first, that they wouldn’t run into each other at the lectures, and, second, that he hadn’t mentioned Zahara’s name. His apprehensions were groundless.
Shira returned with a kettle and glasses. Temina jumped out of bed, fully dressed, leaped toward her bag, and pulled out a yellow tin filled with baked goods, saying, “They’re from our village, homemade with our own flour and butter. Dr. Herbst, try some and tell me if they’re not better than all the cakes and pastries in town. I know that scholars don’t tend to have opinions on food, drink, and the like. Still, you ought to know the difference between our baked goods and what one gets in the city. Here, one dough takes many forms. While we don’t bother about the form, we fuss over the contents, and each cake has a different flavor.
Herbst took one of the cakes, thinking: If I hadn’t given Lisbet Neu the chocolate, I could have added it to this feast. He reached for a glass of tea. Temima said, “So your daughter came for the workshops.” Herbst nodded, thinking to himself: What will Zahara say when she hears where this nurse met her father? Shira peered at him and said, “You look as if you’re pondering the seven wonders of the world.” Temima said, “We can list more than seven wonders. What does the doctor think about our cakes? They say no one can cook or bake on the
kvutza
, which is outright slander. Try another. No, take this kind. It’s even better than the first.” Herbst said, “It’s time for me to go.” Shira said, “Even before you came, it was time for you to go, but since you are here, sit down.” Temima said, “So, my friends, you live in Jerusalem. I admit that our Jerusalem is a truly glorious city. The view from Mount Scopus can’t be matched anywhere in the valley. Altogether, I must say that…But what can I say, when you already know?”
Herbst lowered his head and lifted a finger toward the left side of his brow while holding on to his cup. After a while, he put down the cup and studied Böcklin’s skull. Did Böcklin paint from a model or from his imagination? Why do I ask? Herbst wondered.
Temima continued, “Most of the cultural institutions, headed by the university – which truly belongs here – are in Jerusalem. The National Library and the Bezalel Museum, for example. So naturally there are many cultured people, more than anywhere else in the country, and every new book, as well as every new idea, comes here before it comes to our
kvutza.
Still, I can say that, when I come from my
kvutza
to Jerusalem, I don’t feel inadequate. To borrow a term from Freud, I don’t have an inferiority complex. After all, we in our villages are also promoting the country’s interests. A few days ago, I happened on a book of philosophical essays and I found something on this subject that I can quote word for word. If the capital is the head of the country, then the villages are its limbs. To which I add: Just as a body can’t live without a head, a head can’t exist without limbs.” Shira said, “I see, Temima, that you’re looking for an excuse for living in the country rather than the city.” Temima said, “What makes you think I’m looking for excuses? Besides, what difference can one person make in times such as these? I don’t mean myself and those like me. What I have in mind is the world at large. You have to consider whatever is going on in the era it is your fate to be living in and account for every single action. We have no right to let actions go by without examining them and concerning ourselves with them.” Shira said, “And if you and I don’t concern ourselves with whatever is going on in the world, will anything be different?” Temima said, “Really, I don’t understand what you mean.” Shira said, “I think I’m making myself clear.” Temima said, “I’m surprised at you, Shira. After all, a person is a person. Isn’t it a primary duty to reflect about and consider whatever is going on in the world, all the more so here in this country, since we came here for a specific purpose?” Shira said, “Well spoken, Temima. We came for a purpose. The question is: For what purpose?” Temima said, “Really, I don’t understand what you are saying. What did we come for? For…for…” Shira laughed and said, “Temima, your name means ‘innocence,’ and you are as innocent as your name. Don’t wear yourself out looking for sublime words. I’m satisfied with what you said. We came for a purpose.” Temima said, “Really, I must repeat, I don’t understand you.” Shira said, “If I were ten years younger, I would envy you. Imagine, you are still looking for reasons to be where you are. We’re here because we’re here and nowhere else. And, if my view is too simple for you, that doesn’t change a thing. I don’t presume to phrase my ideas the way you do in the
kvutza
, but they are sincere.”