Chapter eleven
A
fter lunch, when Henrietta lay down for a rest, Manfred put on his good clothes, tucked Neu’s little book in his pocket, and went to call on Lisbet Neu. Herbst had never been at Lisbet Neu’s, nor had he ever wished to go there. Now that he had her uncle’s book, his mind was set on going to her.
Like someone who is about to do something he is not in the habit of doing, he pictured some of what he would see at Lisbet’s. Her mother would be sitting in Shabbat clothes, a Shabbat kerchief on her head, her hands on her heart, in the manner of Orthodox women when they are at rest. On the table nearby, he would find a prayerbook, the five books of Moses with Hirsch’s commentary, and her uncle’s book. She has already read the weekly portion, as well as the commentary, and translated its lofty language into simple terms. Some of her interpretations were the ones she learned as a child; others were her own; still others, imparted by teachers, were outdated and had to be revised. Having done what she was trained to do on Shabbat, what more does her heart desire? It is now her desire to know the contents of her uncle’s book. She realizes she won’t ever know its contents, for she wasn’t allowed to study academic subjects, although she did study some difficult material that not everyone would grasp, such as Hirsch’s commentary and ritual law. On many occasions here in Jerusalem, Herbst had spent time with young women – high school students and university students alike – who couldn’t deal with that material, not even with its vocabulary. As she sits there, lost in thought, she hears footsteps, followed by a knock on the door. She says, “Come in.” He comes in and sees Neu’s book on the table. He opens it and begins reading; explicating, interpreting, and analyzing the text; pointing out original insights and discoveries. For Neu has brought many things to light, some of which were totally unknown until he revealed them and others that were illuminated by his insight. The old woman is astonished. She knew her uncle was a great scholar with an international reputation, but this knowledge was not grounded in understanding, and knowledge without understanding is not gratifying. Now that this gentleman, Herbst the teacher, has come and said what he said, her heart expands and her eyes light up, not out of pride and conceit, but in praise and gratitude to the Lord, may He be blessed, for bestowing wisdom on her uncle. Herbst sits with her, reviewing the history of this widow, once rich and aristocratic, which he learned from her daughter Lisbet. Her hand used to be extended to the poor, and countless emissaries from Jerusalem would come to her home and enjoy her hospitality, as well as her gifts and charity. Then, suddenly, the world was shaken by a curse; the entire country and its inhabitants became adversaries, so that she and her daughters, like countless other Jews, had to leave their home, their land, their silver and gold – all the property acquired by her family in the course of four or five generations. She wandered through many lands and finally came up to Jerusalem. Lisbet never mentioned whether the emissaries from Jerusalem – those who used to sit at their table and enjoy their bounty – have chosen not to recognize them, or whether it is they themselves who keep their distance, preferring not to put anyone to the test and risk being humiliated. They struggle to live on the meager resources they managed to take with them, supplemented by Lisbet’s salary. Suddenly, someone comes to her; he comes of his own accord and reads to her from this book, written by her uncle, a Jewish scholar with an international reputation, even now when Israel’s enemies, dominated by this curse, are denouncing Jews everywhere.
These were some of Manfred Herbst’s thoughts, reveries, fantasies when his will contrived to make him the messenger who would explain her uncle’s book to Lisbet Neu’s mother. Herbst had seen Lisbet when he went to congratulate Weltfremdt on his promotion, but since that day he had never thought of her, and it had never occurred to him to visit her. Suddenly, he found that his mind was completely occupied with her. He thought: I’ll go to her, sit awhile, and read a bit. Then I’ll tell Henrietta where I was and what I did, and, even if I say outright that I called on that widow because of Neu, her uncle, Henrietta won’t be surprised. Herbst was not always in the habit of saying “I’ll tell Henrietta”; now he enjoyed saying it: “I’ll tell Henrietta.”
Herbst went out, closed the door behind him, and checked the fence, the bushes, the vegetables, and the flowers, which were drooping because of the heat. He felt sorry for them and resolved to come back and water them before dark. He meant to go back in and tell Henrietta he would water the garden later. Meanwhile, he forgot what was in his mind and didn’t go back. It’s just as well he forgot. Had he gone in, he would have wakened her, and she needed her sleep, because she had been up all night with the baby, who had a stomachache from eating bad grapes and had cried all night. He turned back to the garden and glanced at the flowers, deciding which to take to Lisbet’s mother. He was distracted and didn’t take any. It’s just as well he forgot. Had he brought Lisbet’s mother flowers, she would not have accepted them, because he had picked them on Shabbat. He felt his pocket to be sure he had the book. He opened it and marked the passages he would read to Lisbet Neu and her mother. One could not assume the ladies would understand, but, if he explained, they would surely understand. Again, he pictured Lisbet Neu’s mother, sitting in her chair, hands folded over her heart, gazing at Lisbet, and saying to her, wordlessly: Listen, my child; listen, Lisbet. The scene conveyed a message: all the world’s goodness has not been totally consumed, and even in these troubled times there are ways to help others as well as yourself. Imagine yourself sitting with two respectable ladies, reading to them, and diverting your mind from that woman who was created to torment you.
The little neighborhood of Orhot Hayim was unusually quiet. As in most of Jerusalem’s neighborhoods, no work was done there on Shabbat. There was no one in sight. Some people were at home reading; others were in bed. Six days have been provided for work and labor; one, for rest and pleasure. Anyone with sense rests on that day and turns away from mundane concerns. Those with even more sense pursue wisdom as well as rest. How? By reading the Five Books of Moses, the commentaries of Rashi, the Ramban, Ibn Ezra. For the Torah is not to be taken literally and must be studied to be understood. If you find the key to its riddles, you are in on the secret of creation and the wisdom of the world. No day is so suited to such pursuits as the seventh, Shabbat, when the world rests. An object at rest is easier to observe, and observers are quiet, as a rule. Only their eyes are astir, exploring the Bible and its commentaries. God’s ways are wondrous. There are realms whose essence is feeling rather than thought. The Holy and Blessed One has granted our sages the wisdom to present these essentials again and again, until you feel you’ve already heard them. And you have in fact heard them. Where did you hear them? It was at Mount Sinai that we heard them, each and every one of us. For whatever our sages have discovered was already conveyed to Moses at Mount Sinai, and, what is more, the soul of every Jew was there listening. Because of the golden calf, forgetfulness was introduced into the world. Most things were forgotten, and it is the task of true commentators to restore what was lost. Man struggles six days, unable to provide essentials. When Shabbat comes, the intelligent soul pursues its true needs, those that relate to the living God. True sages appear and interpret the Torah and commandments, which they then impart to us effortlessly.
The above ideas are not Dr. Herbst’s, but those of the people in that neighborhood, whose grandparents came from the lands of exile to serve God, preserve His teachings, and fulfill His commandments in His chosen city. Dr. Herbst is an intellectual, whose thoughts center on his academic field. Now that he decided to write that article, he walked along thinking about the emperor Justinian and wondering if he really considered himself worthy of being swept up to heaven in a storm. His mind wandered from Justinian to his faithful servant General Belisarius, whom Justinian had blinded out of envy. His mind wandered from Justinian and Belisarius to Antonia, a woman of the court, and Yohanan, who were to be the heroes of the tragedy he planned to write. He didn’t dwell on this, because, whenever he thought about his tragedy, he was in the habit of smoking, and it would be disrespectful to smoke out of doors in Jerusalem on Shabbat, especially in an Orthodox neighborhood. Herbst refrained from smoking out of respect, not fear. This was before zealots in Jerusalem started attacking people for violating the Shabbat in public. They still remembered the special committee that supplied water, food, clothes, and medicine to a hungry Jerusalem in the wake of war, and they closed one eye to public violations of Shabbat, realizing that the offenders might be from the very committee whose help they might need tomorrow, for most of the communities they had depended on for support were now dependent on others and could not be counted on.
Even before the war, Jerusalem’s vigilantes had learned to close an eye when necessary. The following story is still being told. During the language war, when classes in all the Ezra schools were conducted in German and the Zionists demanded that they switch to Hebrew, an Ezra leader came from Berlin to investigate. All of Jerusalem expected a large contribution from him. Jerusalem’s leading citizens went to call on him at his gentile hotel on one of the intermediate days of Passover. He was in the dining room, dipping his biscuit in coffee. It was one of those thin biscuits that German bakers make from flour, egg, and butter. They remarked to him in mock-scholarly terms, “So you agree with those sages who regard watched-matzah and soakedmatzah as ritually independent of one another.”
Herbst abstained from smoking, but his mind did not. It led him to contemplate those brown cigarettes praised by Julian Weltfremdt. Since he didn’t think they were superior in taste or smell, he began to wonder why anyone preferred them. He was once out somewhere, and, noticing that everyone was smoking those cigarettes, it began to seem as if there were a secret society whose members recognized each other by this sign. Dr. Krautmeir was there too, with one of those long cigarettes stuck between her thin lips. Was there some special connection between her and Julian? Or was it the influence of Mimi, Julian’s wife? Was she also a patron of that skillful peddler, promoting his wares?
It’s not likely that there is anything between Julian and Krautmeir. Julian has no interest in women, and Krautmeir is such a cold person, totally devoted to her work, to the young sluts who beat a path to her door, eager to be relieved of their burden of shame. Julian has no interest in women, and Krautmeir, as was already noted, is cold. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cigarette in her mouth has a cold flame.
So much for Krautmeir; let’s consider why Julian is not attracted to other women. Is it because his wife is so lovely, charming, and gifted, with a fine voice and pleasant ways? Or is it precisely because his wife is lovely, charming, et cetera, that he isn’t attracted to others? This is not a paradox. If he has so little regard for this woman who is lovely and charming, he will certainly have no regard for others whose charm and beauty are no match for hers. So the facts explain each other, but what do we know about the workings of the heart and mind? Would it ever occur to you that a man such as Herbst is attracted to the woman –? We will suppress her name and refrain from saying “Shira,” for, if we say who she is, it will be totally baffling that a man with an intelligent, kind, industrious wife would pursue such a woman. And what is even more surprising: in his heart, he doesn’t fault himself for his actions. Shira herself, on the other hand, protects and safeguards him, by keeping him at a distance.
When Shira comes to mind, she doesn’t soon leave. Now that she was in his mind, she slipped away because of something trivial, because of two bits of wood he remembered leaving in the stove that morning when he took a warm bath. They were being wasted. While he was regretting the wasted firewood, he remembered his little daughter, whose digestion was upset by those grapes. These two causes – the wood and the grapes – were suddenly linked, and he recalled that he had deliberately left the wood burning in the stove, intending to prepare a warm bath for Henrietta. But, since she was so tired, having been up all night with the little one whose stomach was upset by grapes, she chose to do without the bath. The wood was burning, the smoke was trailing upward with no one to enjoy it. Meanwhile he, who would have enjoyed a cigarette, was deprived of this pleasure because those who live in this neighborhood regard Shabbat as the primary day of the week and view its rituals as a source of special sanctity, the core of life’s holiness, believing life should be sanctified, rather than wasted.
Like most Jerusalem neighborhoods on a summer afternoon after lunch, this little neighborhood was quiet. The shutters on its small houses were closed, and no creature stirred in the street, except for a dog or cat silently picking at the garbage. Were it not for the fact that dogs and cats are considered ritually unclean, I would suggest that they imposed this silence on themselves, for, when Jews observe the Shabbat, even animals and birds don’t disrupt them. Only the sun showed its force. Its intense heat was boundless. The air was filled with the scent of watermelons left to cool on windowsills, so they would be ready to eat when the afternoon rest was over. Herbst kept taking off his sunglasses and wiping them. He stood between the little houses, which were surrounded by bramble. It was the seventh year, so the gardens in the area had been left fallow and were taken over by bramble. The dry bramble would bake in the sun and split open, sending out a sharp, invigorating smell that was quite pleasant. Between the bramble and the houses, a dog and cat stood amicably picking at the same heap of garbage.
Herbst was approaching Lisbet Neu’s house. He consulted his watch and saw it wasn’t quite three o’clock. Three in the afternoon was not the time to visit, certainly not for the first time, and certainly not in the case of a well-bred young woman who lives with her mother. So all he could do was wait. He turned toward the valley, sat down in the shade of a rock, and lit a cigarette. Though there were no shade trees, bushes and rocks warded off the sun and sent up a fine, dust-free scent. When he finished the cigarette, he looked at his watch and saw he would have to be patient.