Now I’ll revert to an orderly account, describing how one thing flowed from another and how everything interlocked, going back to the night after Herbst first wrote the names of the characters associated with the exploits of Antonia, woman of the court, and the nobleman Yohanan. If I omit something that happened to Herbst, I omit it because it’s unimportant, though when it happened it seemed essential. When a man has a toothache, the entire world seems worthless. He goes to a doctor, who fixes the tooth; then he forgets all about it, and everything is normal again.
He had another sleepless night. He saw a thousand things, but not a single drop of sleep. Some of these things appeared because he summoned them, because he said, “Come, come,” whereas others appeared on their own. Their pace was at first steady and regular, then intense and chaotic. The story of Antonia, woman of the court, and the nobleman Yohanan was so intense that his eyes began to hurt, and he had to close them because of the pain. It was, on the face of it, good that he closed his eyes, but this didn’t last, because he had to move to more modest quarters where he could work without being interrupted, having taken it upon himself to write the tragedy of Antonia and Yohanan at the same time that he was assigned by the university to lead a group of young scholars who were touring Greece because Tamara was eager to study the mechanics of poetic meter. It was good that Herbst went with Tamara to Greece. Otherwise, she would have seen him walking with Shira, which was not advisable, because Henrietta was in collusion with the wife of a teacher from Beit Hakerem. They agreed to prohibit their husbands from bringing other women to their studios, declaring, “If they want to draw – let them draw skulls.”
Unrelated to the skull or to poetic meter, the map of Jerusalem appeared, the one that was torn from the Baedeker. Unrelated to the map of Jerusalem, the brown cigarettes, distinguished by neither taste nor aroma, appeared. The fact that their long stems filled the ashtray was their sole distinction. Unrelated to the brown cigarettes, Avraham-and-a-half appeared. Not in person, but in the form of something sweet and good that stretches without limits and endlessly. In the midst of all this, he heard a voice calling, “Adam, Adam.” He pondered a while and concluded: This probably doesn’t refer to Adam Ahlenschlager, whose books I have never even touched. Then to whom does it refer? To Adam Miesckewicz, perhaps, whose poetry was translated into German by two converts, neither of whom was named Sacharson. In the end, everything was covered by a small leather strip, stretching to cover Wechsler and his colleagues, extending over Jerusalem and its inhabitants, and covering Herbst’s eyes, which pained him so much that he closed them, asking the strip of leather, “What is this?” He answered, “It’s that same leather strip, the
ptygyl
fragment.”
Chapter eight
H
aving touched on questions of poetry and language, I won’t refrain from relating and clarifying what Dr. Herbst knew about Hebrew literature, what he saw in it, and how he happened to study the language and learn it well enough to write an essay and try his hand at writing a play in Hebrew. Even without the metered verse he had in mind originally, a prose play would be amazing.
As you already know, Manfred Herbst was born and educated in Germany, in German schools, in German scholarship and poetics, like his contemporaries, Jews and non-Jews. I will add some information about Manfred Herbst’s progenitors.
Moritz Herbst, Manfred’s father, was from a small town in Poznan. Like many other Jews who couldn’t make a living there, he went off to Berlin to seek his fortune. He brought no capital to do business with, only the sort of sterling talents that can be converted into silver by their owner: good sense, goodwill, enterprise, and diligence. As a favor to an old man from his town, who, in his youth, had studied Mishnah with Moritz’s father, Moritz was given a job in an office-supply store. This store, one of the first to limit its trade to office supplies, specialized in all sorts of business equipment. Furthermore, anyone who was about to open an office turned to Rosenthal and Co. for advice. When Moritz Herbst began working there, he had only the word of his father’s childhood friend to recommend him. Before long, his actions spoke for him, his talents displayed themselves, and their outcome became more and more apparent. His employer took note and began to linger over the young man from Poznan, to observe how he arranged merchandise, how he dealt with customers, and the like. The employer sometimes expressed himself with an approving nod; he sometimes allowed him to accompany him home, so he could hear his opinion about various customers – who should be allowed to buy on credit and who should be turned down. At first, the employer suspected that he had hired the boy from Poznan only as a favor to that old man and that he would not last long; he soon began to recognize his worth and to befriend him. After a while, he invited him home for afternoon coffee on the weekend. After a further while, he invited him for lunch. From then on, he often invited him to eat in his home. Little by little, Moritz Herbst relinquished the manners he had brought from his village, especially those he realized were inappropriate in Berlin, and made an effort to please the wife of his employer, as well as his handsome and charming daughter, whose manners impressed the young man from Poznan as ultimate perfection. Though this young man seemed somewhat ridiculous to her, she found that there was something different about him. Not knowing how to describe this quality, she called it loyalty. Unless we project this word into the future, it remains abstract, for so far she had had no opportunity to test his loyalty. By and by, the young man from Poznan became a regular guest in this Berlin household, almost a member of the family, welcomed by all. The lady of the house sometimes made him mediate between her and her husband, and her daughter made him mediate between herself and her parents. The employer, seeing that this young man was dependable, turned over some of his own responsibilities to him and, in every case, was pleased with how they were carried out. Three years passed in this fashion. In this period he received three raises, as well as several bonuses. Moritz Herbst advanced from the lowest position to chief clerk, and, when a buyer left to establish his own business, Herbst was promoted and became the buyer. In all those years, Moritz Herbst gave his employer no cause for complaint or envy, although he introduced many innovations and expanded the business more and more. He never made a move without consulting his employer first, phrasing everything as a request, as if he were saying, “I have a favor to ask, sir,” which allowed the employer to believe that everything emanated from him. From the time Moritz Herbst began working in this office-supply store, it never occurred to the owner that he might leave to work elsewhere, nor did Herbst consider leaving. So they grew accustomed to one another, as if they belonged to each other.
As I noted, this store was one of the first to specialize in office supplies. In time, there were many competitors, and Herbst was urged to abandon his patron and work for them. Each tried to attract him with double the salary paid by Rosenthal and Co. But Moritz Herbst remained loyal and continued to work for the allotted salary, never asking for a raise and never considering leaving to work elsewhere at a higher salary. Until something happened that demonstrated that anything can change, even a faithful servant. His employer sent him to transact some business in his name. He discovered, inadvertently, that the transaction was risky and that it would be a mistake to proceed on the basis of credit. He therefore didn’t conclude the transaction. On the other hand, another much larger transaction came his way, in which the bulk of the merchandise would be paid for in cash. Not only did he prevent his employer from losing a fortune, but he found him another deal, which was profitable far beyond what was anticipated. When the employer became aware of these events, he immediately doubled Herbst’s salary. He expected him to be extremely grateful, to say, “Many thanks to you, kind sir, for your great generosity.” Not only did he not thank him, but he said, “I’m sorry, sir, but unless I can become a partner, I will resign to go into business on my own.” The employer answered, “You can’t be a partner, since it is the custom in our family to include only relatives in the business. And, as you know, we are not related in any way.” Herbst said, “That need not present a problem. With your consent, I can become related to you and your family through your daughter.” The man was stunned into silence. Then he asked, “What will my daughter say about this?” Herbst answered, “I already have her word. Now we are asking for your consent.” Not long afterward, Moritz Herbst married the daughter of his employer, becoming a partner in a business that had been selling equipment to offices, banks, and stores for several generations. It had always been known as Rosenthal’s but would henceforth be known as Rosenthal and Co.
From the moment he became involved in the business, Herbst made an effort to adapt his manners to those of his employer, whom he regarded as a model Berliner, a title which since childhood signified real distinction. After marrying the daughter, he became more and more relaxed about the manners he had acquired in Berlin and reverted, though not consciously, to his earlier ways. After his father-in-law’s death, he took charge of the entire business. He became less careful about his language, sprinkling his conversation with Yiddish and Polish words from his childhood. He often reminisced about his town, describing it in detail: the teachers there who had studied in the great academies of Poznan and Lysa, and were so intimidating that the rabbis with doctorates didn’t dare to challenge them in matters of ritual slaughter or anything else pertaining to religion, although whatever the former allowed, the others forbade, and vice versa. Even his father, Manish, may he rest in peace, for whom Manfred was named, knew the basic texts and studied Mishnah every day in a group that included the town’s leading citizens, led by Rabbi Eliyahu Gutmacher. Moritz still had his father’s books though he himself had never studied very much, because his father had died when he was young. His mother had married a man whose son by his first wife was already enrolled in a teachers’ seminary and depended on his father for support, so there was no money to pay the stepson’s tuition. Though he didn’t study much Torah, Moritz Herbst was blessed by a man immersed in Torah and even received a coin from him.
This is what happened with the coin. It was the custom in Moritz’s town, and probably in many others like it, that, as long as no worm was seen in the cherries, they could be eaten without inspection. But, as soon as the first worm was seen, an announcement would be made in the rabbi’s name that the cherries had to be inspected. To facilitate this, the children were alerted to report to the rabbi when they saw the first worm. One year, he was the first to spot a worm in the cherries. He ran and informed the rabbi. The rabbi gave him a coin and blessed him, expressing the hope that he would grow up to follow the straight path, observing the Torah and commandments. Some of this blessing was fulfilled, but not all of it. He never veered from the straight path, but he was lax about the Torah and commandments. On the face of it, he kept kosher; his house was equipped with separate dishes for dairy and meat, as well as for Passover, but his wife occasionally “borrowed” a Passover dish for ordinary use without bothering to scour it properly before putting it back. Similarly, if some ritual question arose in the household, she didn’t take the trouble to consult an expert. Nevertheless, they considered themselves proper Jews until the Great War broke out, adding to the hardships of observant Jews and undermining those who were lax. At first these Jews were careful not to defile themselves with forbidden foods. But, as the war continued, food was in short supply. When they were lucky enough to find something to eat, they were no longer exacting about keeping kosher. If they found a food that needed to be certified, they didn’t ask whether it was certified, who the certifying rabbis were, or the source of their authority. In Herbst’s home, too, kosher standards were relaxed, because Moritz Herbst came down with one of those illnesses that became rampant in the wake of the war and was no longer able to oversee the household, while his wife from the very beginning wasn’t strict about these rules.
Moritz Herbst died from that illness. At this point, Manfred was a soldier in the war, knee-deep in blood, and none of the affairs of the world seemed meaningful to him, certainly not business. From the beginning, he was not groomed for business; his father had kept him at a distance from it, coaxing him to study instead. His mother, Amelia, though she was a merchant’s daughter, was not skilled in business either. Neither her father nor her husband had included her in it. As she couldn’t handle the business left to her by her husband, not only did she fail to derive profit from the store, the equipment, the accounts, and all the rest, but they were a burden to her. Neither mother nor son knew what to do with this inheritance. After consulting relatives, they sold the business for several thousand marks. Like most of the population, they were unaware that the value of the mark was declining steadily, so that a thousand marks were worth a hundred and a hundred marks were worth one. In the end, all that money was worthless.
As I mentioned, when his father died, Manfred was at the front. When he returned, he resumed his studies. A son whose father dies without leaving him any resources ought to learn a trade that can be a means of support. If he is eager for learning, he ought to pursue the sort of knowledge that can be a means of support after a few years’ study. But Manfred was drawn to a profession involving a great deal of effort and minimal return. While he was a student, he didn’t have to worry. Tuition had been provided for him. Even before he entered the university, an allowance had been set aside to cover his expenses. How? This is how it came about.
When Manfred’s father, Moritz, was a boy, his father died. His mother then married a man from Rawicz. The husband had a son by his first wife who was studying at the teachers’ seminary in Cologne. The husband joined his mother in her town. Moritz lived with his mother, while the son of his mother’s husband lived in Cologne, so they never saw each other. When Moritz grew up, he couldn’t find anything to do in his own town and went to seek his fortune elsewhere. He came to Berlin, where he had the good fortune to find a livelihood and a wife. He took over the first store that hired him, and the daughter of his employer became his wife.