Tamara treats her mother with affection too. She doesn’t contradict her, avoids arguing, and stays home a lot, so her mother won’t be alone and Tamara will be available should she be needed. She herself, rather than remain idle, corrects her students’ notebooks. Just between us, they aren’t really notebooks; they are the proclamations of youth leaders not yet fluent in Hebrew, written in other languages and translated into Hebrew by Tamara, so they can be posted in public places and circulated among prominent members of the
yishuv
community. To prevent British Intelligence from discovering these proclamations and confiscating them, they are sent out under fictitious names, like those of nonexistent businesses, charitable institutions, and schools. When every name had been used, they resorted to Mekitzei Nirdamim (We Wake Those Who Sleep), after a publisher of classical Hebrew manuscripts that were never in print before, an enterprise that goes back about four generations and was directed by some of our greatest leaders. British Intelligence, from whom nothing is hidden, were unaware that various highly respected Englishmen (Moses Montefiore, for example, as well as the chief rabbi of Great Britain) once led this enterprise. When one of these proclamations fell into the hands of Intelligence agents, who read the text and realized its goal was to wake those who were asleep so that they would rebel against the government of Palestine, they decided to bring the directors of this venerable publishing house to trial. If the actual nature of the enterprise and its history hadn’t been uncovered just in time, the eminent persons at the head of the publishing house would have had their peace disturbed. Since this error adds nothing to the story, I’ll say no more about the activities of British Intelligence and get back to the Herbst household.
A further miracle befell the Herbst household. The day Jerusalem demonstrated against the Palestine government, Tamara had undertaken a mission. Perhaps you took notice when I related that twice it seemed to Herbst that he saw Tamara, that in the end he realized he was mistaken, that it wasn’t Tamara, that in fact it was a boy. And when I related this, I commented: Isn’t it odd for a father not to recognize his daughter? Now that it has all ended well and there’s no need to worry about saying too much, I can tell the whole story. A handsome officer worked with the Jerusalem police. He was known as the Bloodhound, for anyone who fell into his hands came to a bloody end. There was a plan to take revenge. Tamara, who was especially hostile to him, because whenever he saw her he greeted her warmly – as in the old days, when they used to see each other in cafés and dance together – was determined to retaliate. That day, she dressed as a man, so she wouldn’t be recognized, took a pistol, and set out to do away with him. Someone had preceded her, firing at the Englishman but missing his mark. The police also missed the mark. Before they could seize the culprit, his friends managed to snatch him and hide him away.
Having told about Henrietta, Firadeus, and Tamara, it’s time to tell about Sarah. But it’s easier to write a long book about adults in this country than to write a short page about a child. Our eyes are still not trained to observe the behavior of the children here, which calls for a new approach. Some people consider them extremely primitive; to others they are like children anywhere else in the world, the product of a particular education. I disagree. They are not primitive, nor is it a matter of education. It is the land and sky that form them. Our children are like the land and the sky above. The land is sometimes parched and brittle; it is sometimes saturated with pleasing dew and bountiful rain. It is sometimes violent, like a raging wind; and sometimes it is sweet and amiable, like a breeze from the north. This applies to the sky and to our children.
So much for comparisons. I’d like to get back to the Herbst household now. But first, a brief tour of Kfar Ahinoam to look in on Zahara and her son, Dani.
Kfar Ahinoam is expanding. Not in farm produce or cattle and poultry – that is to say, in barns and coops – but in the realm of woodwork. A new carpentry shop has been set up. Wood is brought in from Hadera and from abroad, and made into bulletin boards, which bring in more revenue than agricultural products. A friend of the nurse who replaced Temima Kutchinsky when she left Ahinoam is supervising the work. Since I won’t be mentioning him again in this book, I won’t mention his name or the name of the place Temima Kutchinsky went to. But I will say a few words about the carpentry shop. Some
kvutza
members are dissatisfied, for this was not their purpose in coming here. They came to work the land. Other members argue that, though the land needs agriculture, it needs industry too. Both factions benefit from the carpentry shop. It adds sugar to their tea and meat to their stew. Having given Zahara’s environment its due, I will dwell on Zahara.
Zahara is a good mother to her son and a good wife to her husband. She is loved by all her friends. Manfred’s mild, gentle nature and Henrietta’s talent for action were both transmitted to Zahara, engendering several fine new qualities. She suspends her own needs for the sake of others and exerts herself in matters others are casual about. I was once visiting Kfar Ahinoam on a miserable
hamsin
night. We set up our bedding out of doors, since it was too hot to sleep inside. The walls, floor, and ceiling emitted heat that had been accumulating all day. When I lay down outside, I heard a woman saying to her husband, “The water tank is dripping. We’re wasting water. Go and turn off the faucet.” He answered her, “Do you think I’m fool enough to get out of bed now that I finally found a comfortable spot?” Zahara got up and went to turn off the faucet, though no one told her to do it and it wasn’t her job. She has another fine quality: patience. You know how hard it is to be hospitable in these times, and you know how scrupulously
kvutza
members fulfill this obligation. It often happens that a worker comes back from the field hungry and tired, expecting to sit down and eat, only to enter the dining room and see a guest occupying his place. He has to stand and starve, waiting for the guest to finish eating and relinquish his spot. But guests are often leisurely; they eat slowly, and, after concluding their meal, they tend to sit around and listen to the conversation of
kvutza
members. So much for mealtimes. As for the intimate questions many guests are in the habit of asking, which even someone as tolerant as Hillel the Sage would be reluctant to answer – even when they are endless and absurd, Zahara responds graciously. Finally, the guest goes off to tell his wife how smart he is, what good questions he asked, how he impressed the young lady with these questions. This is a fine quality, isn’t it? As for Avraham-and-a-half, the Avraham-and-a-half we met in Jerusalem, the Avraham-and-a-half we met when the Herbsts visited Kfar Ahinoam after Dani was born – he hasn’t changed at all, except that he shaves regularly, so his whiskers won’t scratch his baby’s cheeks. Something else is new: he is now amused by those who devote themselves to guarding the language. The newspapers allot them a great deal of space. Avraham says their rigors will undo them, that Hebrew is still developing, and when they rule out a usage, why, one should be sure to use it – one should assume that what they rule out is, by definition, acceptable. Enough about these guardians of language, for better or for worse. I prefer to concentrate on Dani. Dani is still indifferent to language. When he starts talking, he will talk proper Hebrew.
What can I add about Dani? You know as well as I do what
kvutza
children are like. He is healthy and vigorous, free of even the slightest blemish. I won’t compare him to his aunt Sarah, who reflects Jerusalem’s charm. Still, compared to his peers in the
kvutza
, I would say he is as superb as the most superb of them.
Now, a word about Herbst. There is nothing new in Herbst’s world. He still hasn’t been promoted. Those who have the power to appoint professors are not as diligent as the candidates would like them to be. So Herbst is still a lecturer, like all the others. As for Shira? He spoke to Axelrod at the hospital that day and asked about Shira, but he hasn’t found Shira yet, and he seems to be making no attempt to find her.
Chapter ten
O
ne day Herbst was walking down Ben Yehuda Street, going to the French Library to see if any new novels had come in. Although he had resumed his academic work, happily and unequivocally, putting out of mind the tragedy he wanted to write, he nonetheless had a desire to indulge himself with a new novel. Some of Herbst’s friends boast that, since they became adults, they haven’t read a novel, a story, a poem; some claim they read only detective stories; some make do with the literary supplement of the newspaper, others with what they find on their children’s bookshelves. There are those with still other odd reading habits – collecting words for crossword puzzles, for example. Herbst is different. He reads poems, stories, novels, plays – whatever happens to be in his house, as well as what has to be brought in from elsewhere, even if this involves effort and expense.
I don’t know how you feel about poetry. Most people like poems with a patriotic theme, an ethical message, a pathos that stirs the soul and inspires the heart. Herbst loves poetry even when it has none of those qualities, even poems Bachlam or Ernst Weltfremdt would reject because they don’t make sense. This is equally true of stories, novels, and plays. Most people like books that enrich the reader, enhance his character, add to his wisdom, or teach about the way of a man with a maid. Some readers look for a well-developed plot, shrewd argumentation, refined speech, clever dialogue, and rich language. Others read to pass the time or to acquire an understanding of problems that engage the world. There are idealists searching for a cause, who scorn everything new in favor of what they read in their youth, when novels had genuine heroes with genuine ideals. As far as Herbst is concerned, the essence of a book lies in its poetic intensity, its vitality, the imaginative power and truth it contains. This is how he behaves when he is trying to assess a book before taking it home: he opens it at random and reads half a page or so, from which he generalizes about the entire book, on the theory that a true author leaves his mark on every page, in every line.
Herbst walks down Ben Yehuda Street with all the other pedestrians, past stores, business offices, printing houses, cafés, peddlers’ stalls, newspaper stands, offices. The street noise becomes more and more intrusive. One sound fuses with another. Each and every sound generates another sound, and these sounds, compounded by one another, make an infinite number of sounds. They fill the ear as well as the eye, which was created for vision and flinches before the noise. When Herbst came to Jerusalem, the entire space this street occupies was empty. Herbst was fond of the spot because of its restful silence; because of the olive, almond, and eucalyptus trees that cheered the eye on a winter day and provided shade in the summer; because of the mossy stones; because of a lizard sunning itself; because of a bird flying through the sky; because of a chicken pecking at the garbage near the hovel of a contented pauper. Now all the plants have been uprooted, all the fruit trees cut down, the stone walls destroyed. The birds and fowl have migrated. Instead, there are houses, built of stone and concrete, raising the noise level, increasing the tumult, adding to the din, producing dust, din, and tumult. The air is filled with the aroma of coffee, cocoa, baked goods, warm butter, grilled cheese, fruit preserves. It is the coffee hour; cafés are bustling with men, women, and children. Not every mother who wants to be out in the world can hire a maid to leave her children with, so she has no choice but to bring the child along, feed him ice cream and all sorts of sweets, soda, ice water – anything to entertain the child, so the mother can have a cigarette and conversation with a friend, male or female. Several years ago, Herbst ran into Lisbet Neu and went to the Café Zichel with her. He had coffee, and she had cocoa without milk. She told him many things that were new to him. Afterward, he walked her home and promised he would call her. By and by, intending to keep his promise, he went to call. He got to the telephone booth and found Shira. When was this? After he left Henrietta when she was about to give birth to Sarah. Many days have passed since, and many things have happened. If we were to try to recount them, we would not be able to. The events consume time, and time consumes memory. Which is to suggest that not everyone must always remember what is best forgotten.
Herbst had already put the past out of mind and was trying to picture what he hoped to find in one of the new books he planned to borrow. This was not too difficult, because he had read some reviews and recognized the names of some authors, and because of the powerful imagination to which he occasionally had access. Before he could conjure up a clear image, he found that he was standing on a rug that was spread out in front of an antiquities store. Before he could get his bearings, he was studying the window display. The objects on display had been thrown together with no connection to each other except physical proximity. Surely the dealer knew why he had placed a portrait of a monk next to a statue of a nude woman, the idols of some extinct people next to a
mezuzah
case, a Torah cover near a piece of needlework found in the tomb of an Egyptian king. We can only note this arrangement and wonder about it. Whoever is equipped to do so will invent a rationale suited to his sensibilities and talent. When he turned away from the window, Herbst heard someone say hello to him. He looked around, but, since the street was so crowded, he couldn’t see who was greeting him. He did, however, recognize the voice. It was the voice of Anita Brik, whose two poems he had read.
As it happened, it happened that Anita Brik had reason to retrace her steps. When she came back, she noticed that Herbst was looking somewhat bewildered. She approached him and said, “You don’t recognize me, Dr. Herbst.” He seized both of her hands, clasped them warmly, and said, “Not recognize you! Is it at all remarkable to recognize a young lady such as you? Believe me, even among black women or red-skinned women, I would recognize a woman such as you. How are you, Anita? It’s so noisy here. Let’s find a café to go to. The cafés are hectic too, but, when you have something in your cup, the noise is less irritating. How are you? What have you been doing? Idle questions. I ask them only to pass the time until we can sit down together. Have you written any new poems? Let’s sit down and read them. Which do you prefer, Zichel or Atara? Perhaps you know the utopia of cafés, a place that surpasses them both? Wasn’t it you who said that in Jerusalem new cafés open every day? If you have no preference, we can go to Zichel.” Herbst chose Zichel because, never having heard Tamara mention the place, he concluded that she was not in the habit of going there.