Herbst suddenly found himself at Taglicht’s side. Taglicht’s face was grim, and his entire person was a mass of sorrow. “You are here too?” Herbst said to Taglicht. Taglicht whispered to him, “I hope it ends well.” Herbst heard what he said and was perplexed. What did he mean by “ends well”? What could prevent it from ending well? People were moving quietly and speaking softly; many were even silent. The police were maintaining order. Soldiers were on the alert. So what could go wrong? He meant to ask Taglicht, but they were swept in opposite directions, and Herbst found himself in the midst of a group of youngsters, dressed in special clothes of a sort he had never seen before. He had, perhaps, seen individuals in that sort of dress, but never a crowd of hundreds, like this one, with that climber in the lead, marching like a war hero, like a commander at the head of his regiment. He had a long face with bloated cheeks. His eyes were filled with rage; his lips were clenched. Even before he began to talk, he had everyone’s attention.
It took less than a minute for Herbst to size him up. He was of not quite medium height. His shoulders were curved so that his back and neck sometimes pulled away from each other and sometimes leaped toward each other. His head was egg-shaped; his hat wrinkled and erect, likewise his ears, likewise his nose. He had a thick mustache. His chin was sharp, smooth, and prominent. Though his mustache was thick, it didn’t cover his mouth. Not only his chin but his entire mouth protruded, likewise his tongue as it whirled around in his mouth. His tongue wasn’t visible, but one could picture it from the shape of his mouth. Nothing about him appealed to Herbst – not his appearance, not his manner, not anything about him. Still, he felt no antipathy toward him.
Pushed by the crowd, Herbst was now at some distance from him. That sort of person, Herbst thought, derives power from his words. His words are power, and his power is words. Words dominate him and allow him to dominate others. Herbst was pushed from place to place, as were his thoughts, and he couldn’t decide which was superior, words or power. Which takes precedence – does power precede speech, does speech precede power, or do they overlap? At times, one relies on words; at times, on sheer power. In either case, such a person is sure to appeal to this crowd, one that is moved by words. So why did Shira reject him? Shira is a one-of-a-kind creature.
Shira is a one-of-a-kind woman. Yet though he remembered her, he didn’t think about her. At that moment, Herbst was impelled not to think about anyone in particular. Being swept along with the crowd, everyone seemed equivalent to him.
He suddenly found himself in an empty lot, one he couldn’t identify, though it may have been the one that belongs to the high school. It was too congested to see anything, except for that man, the climber, soaring over everyone, swaying in midair; since this was impossible, the crowd must have been carrying him. How comfortable could it be for such a heavy person to be carried? As he began to orate, his booming voice interrupted Herbst’s thoughts. Herbst pricked up his ears, soaking in every word and straining to find the message. There was a message in the words, but not the trace of an idea. The voice became more and more excited, excited and inspired. Every phrase was accompanied by a gesture, a raised or lowered hand. If you would like a visual image for this speech, imagine nails being hammered into a wooden floor. With each stroke of the hammer, as it drives in the nail, the wood cries out.
By now, all the youngsters who stood listening were becoming agitated and restless. Every word the speaker said inflamed their blood, and each and every one of them was prepared to risk life and limb for his people and his land. Could they somehow be sure that their blood would not be shed in vain? This, he didn’t say. His thundering voice continued to arouse and enthrall, to arouse and inflame. There was no stemming the passion of these youngsters. There was not one among them unwilling to die for the people and the land. Since they didn’t know what to do, they became more and more enraged; their fury mounted, and their hearts seethed with wrath and the desire for vengeance.
The moderates listened and were upset. Others, too, who were hostile to the Mandate government, asked him with their disapproving eyes: What do you want from these youngsters? What are you suggesting that they do? Herbst was suddenly overcome with terror and with the fervent hope that all would end peacefully. What was there to worry about? He saw his daughter Tamara again. And again he saw he was mistaken. It was merely a young man who resembled Tamara. He was reminded of the girl at the train station in Leipzig, of the photographs of severed legs that had appeared in the newspaper, of the fact that one caption had said a boy was murdered while the other caption identified the victim as a girl. As it happened, his thoughts happened to be with Shira – what she was like when he visited her that first night and she was wearing slacks. His limbs suddenly felt weary, because of the
hamsin
, because he had been stuck in the crowd for several hours. He decided to stop in a café for some coffee, since he knew from experience that coffee has an invigorating effect in such weather. But the cafés, like all other businesses, were closed on account of the rally.
Again he was swept along by the crowd. He found himself in a small space between twin buildings. Wechsler was standing next to him. I wonder, Herbst mused, I wonder if he will tell me some new scheme for making portfolios; if not new ones, then old ones, antiques. Wechsler didn’t discuss either of the above. Even he was caught up in the public anguish.
Little by little, the crowd began to disperse, some going this way, others that way. Mostly, they were like a shepherdless flock, wandering off and returning, only to wander off once more, in circles. In any case, Herbst remarked to himself, in any case, the event has ended peacefully.
Herbst turned homeward in silence. But he didn’t feel like going home. After a hectic day, he, like most people, would have liked to find something else of interest to do. He didn’t find it, but he did find people with whom to spend an hour or two. Because there were so many to choose from, he didn’t choose any of them, thinking: I’d rather be alone, I’d rather be alone – doubling the message to reassure himself. Even as he reassured himself, he doubted that he really preferred to be alone. He was again joined by a stranger, who announced that a young man had been arrested for shooting a British officer. Before Herbst had a chance to digest this news, another bystander reported that a young girl had shot the Englishman. As he was talking, someone else informed them that she hadn’t shot but had been about to shoot, and that she hadn’t been arrested, since her friends appeared in time to spirit her away. As he was talking, someone else said, “I tend to agree that she didn’t shoot. I would have heard the shot, and, since I didn’t hear it, obviously she didn’t shoot.” Herbst stared at him, and he stared at Herbst, each imagining the other had something to say to him. Herbst finally took leave of them all, wishing them well, to which they responded, “May we meet again on a happier occasion.”
Herbst was suddenly alone. Only a little earlier, the streets had been mobbed. Now there was no one left outside. Had a curfew been declared? A curfew was likely, and Herbst didn’t have permission to be out. He could be stopped, taken to the police station, and detained until morning. Nevertheless, he did not hurry home. I’m all alone, I’m all alone, he reflected as he walked, feeling neither sad nor happy. But anyone who chose to join him would not have been unwelcome, so long as it wasn’t one of the people he was accustomed to – his friends, for example; not even Shira, Lisbet Neu, or any other young woman. Herbst, at this point, had in mind a type of person that most likely doesn’t exist. If this seems odd to you, it seems odd not because of Herbst but because of my inability to express it adequately.
In the past, when Herbst finished his business in town, he turned toward Shira’s. But, for a long time now, ever since he and his wife came back from Kfar Ahinoam, Herbst had not gone that way or even considered going that way. You know that Shira once ran into him somewhere and told him, “I’ve moved, so take out your notebook and write down my new address.” He didn’t take out his notebook, and he didn’t write in her address, because he knew it was superfluous, that he had no use for her address, that he had banished her from his mind. Now, after the rally, having had a chance to see the climber Shira had told him about, whom he found to be of no interest, it occurred to Herbst that it would be worthwhile to talk to Shira. Two things converged here. In and of themselves, they were unimportant; but together, they assumed importance. Shira was not important to Herbst; neither was that climber important to Herbst. But now that they were allied in his mind, he wished to discuss the man with Shira. For this reason, he turned toward Shira’s apartment. The earth was abandoned. All its children were gone, they had been plucked from the face of the earth. There was not a soul in sight, nor any vehicles either – not a bus, not a car, not a bicycle. Only implements of war filled the land, whose bulky parts looked malevolent and reeked of foul-smelling grease. A policeman, armed from head to toe, stood by, holding a rifle or a gun. A car, belonging to an Englishman or an Arab, suddenly loomed into view. It whizzed by, leaping, skimming the ground, leaving its fumes behind.
It was almost twilight when the
hamsin
, which had been so oppressive all day, finally relented. But no one remarked, “Thank God the
hamsin
is over,” for the entire city was enclosed in its houses. There was no sound from within. Those who had food were eating; those who had nothing to eat were hardly aware of hunger, because of the woes that burdened their hearts and because of their impotence. A radio was turned on. Perhaps there would be news of salvation and mercy. As was its wont, the radio offered the sort of news it is hard to hear when one’s heart is sore. After a minute or two, the radio was turned off. The city and its inhabitants were, once again, silent.
Herbst walked on in solitude. He had already disengaged his feet from the road that led to Shira’s house, but he hadn’t turned toward home. His soul was devoid of will; his feet had no direction. He wasn’t drawn toward Shira’s, nor was he drawn toward home.
Suddenly, a human figure emerged from the stillness, and Herbst heard a girlish voice addressing him. Herbst asked the girl, “Firadeus, what are you doing here?” Firadeus said, “I’m coming back from the pharmacy. I have some medicine for my mother.” Herbst said, “Yes, that’s right, I did hear that your mother was ill. Where do you live? Do you live in this neighborhood? Imagine, here I am. I have suddenly landed in your neighborhood. I don’t remember, did I ask about your mother’s illness? I may have asked and forgotten. Yes, yes, your mother’s illness is also due to the government of Palestine. The government’s vile politics. Today it seems to me that all our troubles are due to politics. Because of politics we die, because of politics we’re murdered, because of politics we get sick, and because of politics people make speeches and shoot at each other. You may have heard that a young girl shot a British officer. Did it ever occur to you that a girl – a Jewish girl, a daughter of Israel – would be capable of picking up a gun and killing someone? I myself cannot digest the news. Luckily, she didn’t hit him, and he wasn’t killed. Anyway, he was almost killed. If he has a wife, she would be mourning and lamenting. What are those voices I hear?” Firadeus answered, “That voice is my mother’s. She is mourning my father, who was killed by Arabs. Until today, she used to mourn at night. Today, she has been mourning all day. Some say she is this way because of the
hamsin
; others say it’s because of the rally.” “Yes, that’s right,” Herbst said. “It’s because of the rally. Go inside, Firadeus, and bring your mother her medicine.” Firadeus went in, and Herbst stood listening to the woman’s lament for her murdered husband.
This man who cleansed the streets of Jerusalem:
His spilled blood flowed like water through them.
This man who cleared the dusty roads of this quarter:
They spilled his blood like dirty water.
You, God, who are great, enlightened, supreme,
See them ravage his body, once sacred and clean.
Enlightened God, who reigns in the skies.
Do you hear orphans and widows when they cry?
Your right hand, our support, you have withdrawn from
us,
And we are at the mercy of the villainous.
I loathe my life, for he is gone whom I cherish.
Take my soul too and let me perish,
And perhaps I will again see my longtime mate.
Then will my heart rest and my suffering abate.
Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.
Now covered with earth in the grave he lies.
Sweet as a mountain goat’s were his eyes.
Now I see darkness by death, multiplied.
My heart yearns for you, to be dead at your side,
In your grave on the Mount where you now abide.
Chapter nine
L
et’s return to Herbst’s household and family. As I mentioned, Henrietta is going to give birth, either to a boy, as Manfred believes, or to a girl, as is her habit, for Henrietta is in the habit of giving birth to girls. We will know in due time. For the time being, Henrietta tolerates the indignities of pregnancy rather gracefully. This woman takes great pride in her pregnancy, unlike most women in this country, except for those in the older communities, who welcome children. Firadeus is Henrietta’s mainstay. Firadeus knows what her mistress wants. Not merely from the heaviness of her movements, but from her face as well. Every line of her mistress’s face communicates her needs. Henrietta smiles and says, “You are a prophet, Firadeus. You know what’s hidden in my heart. You guess what I want, and I don’t have to bother with words.” Firadeus tells her mistress, “I only did as I was told. It seems to me that I was given an instruction, which I fulfilled.” Henrietta thinks to herself: I may have whispered something without realizing it. But this was not the case. It was love that whispered to Firadeus, conveying the wishes of her mistress.