They went in, found a table, and sat down. Anita said to Herbst, “You asked me, Dr. Herbst, whether I have written any new poems. I haven’t written any poems. I stopped writing poems. If you don’t have language, you can’t produce poems. I have almost forgotten my German, and I haven’t learned Hebrew yet. If the present is any indication of the future, I can truthfully say that I won’t ever learn Hebrew, and I never will write in Hebrew either. I never considered my poems essential, but it’s a pleasure to find words – even rhymes – for what is in your heart. In the course of time, my heart began to be empty, and I was no longer confronted with this task. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think it was a mistake to write poems. The most vile reality is more powerful than fantasy, and it doesn’t promote delusions of grandeur.”
Herbst sat in silence. He looked straight ahead, rather than directly at her. Twice he wanted to light a cigarette, but he didn’t light it. Twice people came to look for lost eyeglasses and the like. Anita kept on talking. Her voice was feeble, but her words had vigor.
The waitress appeared. She was small, blonde, and pretty. Her golden hair encircled her head like a golden tiara, and her dainty cheeks had a golden cast about them. Herbst assumed she was a student, of either music or art, who was waiting on tables temporarily. When she appeared, she forgot about her job and stood chatting with Anita. She asked Anita how she was, and Anita congratulated her for having dealt with the Arab so successfully. Herbst was puzzled by their conversation. Anita said, “I see that Dr. Herbst is puzzled, so, with your permission, Trudel, I will tell the story. Just a few days ago Trudel was walking to work, as she does every morning. She encountered an Arab, who wanted to have his way with her. She was carrying a copper kettle that needed to be repaired. She smashed his nose with the kettle, and, while he was occupied with his nose, she fled. Isn’t Trudel a hero?”
Trudel laughed and said, “Woe unto this hero. She had to pay for her heroics. In that transaction, I lost the kettle I had borrowed from a neighbor so I could make something warm for my little girl to drink. My Zigi is out of work, as usual, earning nothing. And you, Anita? I hear you’re working with children now.” Anita said, “‘Children’ is an exaggeration. Only one child, the son of Professor Weltfremdt’s daughter. Let me introduce you: this gentleman is Dr. Herbst, and this is Trudel, my good friend Trudel. We both worked in that restaurant where you first saw me, Dr. Herbst.” Trudel said, “I’m standing here as if I were on my own time, when, in fact, everyone is after me. So many parched throats demanding something to drink, and the boss, who sees me standing idle, is glaring at me. What can I bring for the doctor? And you, Anita, what would you like? If your tastes are unchanged, I know you would like…” Herbst said, “Pull over a chair and join us. Bring three cups of coffee, cakes, cookies, tarts, pastries – everything good. And if there is something beyond good, bring that too. Not in one of those little dishes meant for the misers you usually serve, but on a platter. And if it gets too heavy for you, we can call Moshe the porter, the he-man who carries pianos from the center of town to Montefiore as easily as I carry this chair.” Trudel laughed and said, “If it were up to me, I would certainly choose to sit with you.” As she spoke, she turned in several directions, calling out, “Right away, right away. I would bring your coffee now, but you asked for café au lait. Yes, madam, I’m bringing ice cream. Yes, yes, vanilla. Also strawberry. Made from fresh strawberries, not preserves. Coffee with cream or without? With cream. Yes, yes, I’m bringing it. Right away.”
When Trudel went off to serve the other customers, Anita Brik said to Herbst, “Trudel and I worked in the same hotel, and we had the same dream: to create a children’s book. I would write some stories, and she would illustrate them. She has golden hands, and her drawings are real drawings. Those who know say she is an artist.” “And what do you say?” “Me? I’m not in that class.” “Why not?” “Why not? That’s how it is. Most of my friends are proficient in one of the arts. They write poems and stories, they draw; some are involved in music, some sculpt. Our parents were wealthy. They provided us with fine teachers in literature, music, the graphic arts. Since we didn’t have to bother about supporting ourselves, we could afford to open our minds and train our hands. How does one distinguish between craft and work, talent and proficiency? I hope you won’t dismiss my words as mere fanciful phrases, Dr. Herbst, but what we need is an expert on experts. I’ll relate something that happened to me. I was once in Haifa. I went to visit a woman who had been my mother’s friend and was from one of the country’s older families, having arrived here even before the war. One of her grandchildren was sick. She sent for the doctor, an Italian Christian. I said to her, ‘Are there no Jewish doctors in Haifa?’ She answered, ‘There are as many doctors as patients, but, let me tell you, most of the Jewish doctors studied medicine, not because they were interested in it and not because they wished to devote themselves to curing the sick, but because their parents wanted them to be doctors. And since they were well-to-do and could attend the university, they divided up the professions, assigning medicine to one, law to another, and so on. This was not the case with gentile doctors, who chose a profession because of their interests, not because of their parents’ wishes.” Herbst made a face and said, “How did you answer that woman, that old-timer who was living in this country even before the war?” Anita said, “It’s not my way to moralize or argue. Besides, there was someone sick in the house, and she was occupied with him, so how could I challenge her?” Herbst said, “And what is your opinion?” “About what?” “About that very subject, about that woman and what she said, that woman who believes that most Jewish doctors studied medicine because their parents wanted them to? I can tell you a story too, if you like. I knew a
rabbi
once – a traditional
rabbi
, not a modern rabbi – who had such a passionate interest in medicine that he gave up his position and walked to Berlin. He learned both German and enough science to be admitted to the university to study medicine. All those years, while he was a student, he lived meagerly, on a diet of bread and tea, in a space so small that, when he lay down to sleep, he had to leave the door open in order to have room to stretch out. I have him to thank for the fact that I live here, because, even as a confirmed Zionist, I, like most other Zionists, didn’t feel compelled to come to this country. Although this rabbi was unique, he was not the only Jew to choose medicine out of personal inclination and interest, just as I was not alone in choosing a profession without consulting my father. To get back to the subject, you wanted to write stories, which your friend would illustrate. Why didn’t it work out?”
Anita said, “Trudel didn’t have time to draw because she had so much to do, and I didn’t have time to write because another dream took over, the dream of all who labor: to sleep without dreams and to be able to withstand another day’s work without mental stupor or physical collapse. If you are puzzled, Dr. Herbst, I should repeat what I already said: truth is more powerful than fantasy. Truth is reality, and reality is truth.” Herbst said, “In what language did you plan to write the stories?” Anita said, “As you know, sir, I have no language other than German. I don’t know French or English well enough to write stories in them. I assumed I would write them in German and have them translated into Hebrew. I would be able to find someone to translate the stories. Trudel, however, wouldn’t be able to find anyone to translate her drawings. You are wondering how drawings are translated. The fact is, when I see the picture books that are given to children here, I see that Trudel’s drawings are not for them. She has talent and good taste, whereas our children have become accustomed to kitsch.” Herbst laughed wholeheartedly, clasped Anita’s hands in his own, and said, “Apart from being a poet, you are a perceptive critic.” Anita said, “Being a critic is easy. When you’re young, you criticize the bad things you encounter; as you get older, you criticize the good ones. All the bad things you see influence your taste.” “For better or for worse?” Anita said, “I’m getting older too, and how will I be able to tell good from bad?” Herbst said, “A pity we don’t meet more often. I have no chance to hear what you have to say.” Anita said, “From that point of view, it’s best that you don’t see more of me, since one’s tastes change with age, and, if you hear something tolerable from me today, you will hear something intolerable tomorrow.” Herbst said, “If taste declines with age, I have surely been affected.” Anita said, “I would guess that Dr. Herbst’s sensibilities are constant, impervious to change.” Herbst said, “You consider me so old that my mind is totally calcified.” Anita blushed and said, “Believe me, sir, that’s not what I meant. Trudel, it was good of you to bring our coffee. I’m thirsty. What is that, Trudel? That mountain of cakes. Who is it for?” Trudel said, “They’re for you, because they’re tasty and good.” Anita said, “And whatever is tasty is also good for me?” Trudel said, “There are many good things that even a girl such as you can indulge in.” Herbst said, “Many blessings, Mademoiselle Trudel, for fathoming my mind and bringing something tasty. Though it wasn’t intended for me, I will allow myself to enjoy it.” Trudel said, “I intended it for both you and Anita. Eat while it’s still warm. Anita, you must come and tell me all about your job. I have to go now and fill the gullets of the other customers. They’re beginning to get angry with me.”
After Trudel left, Anita told Herbst about her work. She works for Professor Ernst Weltfremdt’s daughter. They are good people, who don’t expect too much of her. They maintain an efficient household and insist on having everything done on time, according to a schedule. She tries to meet their demands, and they pay her a full salary, regardless. Even when she breaks something, they never deduct it from her pay. Once a week, on Wednesday, she has the afternoon off. If she wishes, she can go out; if she wishes, she can stay in her room. The old woman, the professor’s wife, is especially warm and affectionate. When she visits, she always takes the trouble to come all the way up to her room and ask how she is. But even a good turn is not altogether good. The old woman is addicted to writing. She composes poems, plays, and the like, and, since she has no one to read them to, she has made Anita Brik her audience. A week doesn’t pass without a new play or fantasy in verse. Because of these plays and fantasies, Anita Brik has no time to get involved in a book. The old woman comes every single Wednesday, before Anita has a chance to leave. She comes directly to her room, takes out her notebooks, and begins reading to her. If not for the fact that the professor’s birthday happened to fall on a Wednesday – today, to be precise – so the dear old lady had to stay home and receive well-wishers, Anita would not have been free to go out today either, and she wouldn’t be sitting with Dr. Herbst, who is asking her about the poems she no longer writes. Instead, she would be captive to Mrs. Weltfremdt and her poems.
To mitigate the anecdote, which could be construed as a complaint, Anita began to describe the house she was working in – its elegance; the cleverness of the baby she was taking care of; the room she had been given, which was on the roof, a small room with a large terrace overlooking the Judean hills. When she sat alone at night, looking out at those hills, at the moon and the stars, she was in a state of euphoria, lacking nothing. But the better off she was, the worse she felt, remembering her father and mother, trapped in Berlin, bemoaning their miserable fate. Yet she could do nothing for them. She sometimes asked herself: What are we? If we are human, how can we be so heartless? We enjoy every advantage here, without responding to the distress of our brethren in Germany and in other lands where they are oppressed. Anita concluded her tirade against Hitler and his followers, savage animals who behave like savage animals. “But,” she continued, “we in the Land of Israel – Jews with Jewish hearts – how can we sit complacently, eating, drinking, sleeping, as if nothing has occurred? I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the urge to scream, ‘How can we be so complacent? Doesn’t anyone hear the cries of our brothers and sisters?’ I step outside, search the four corners of the sky, and ask, ‘Whence will our help come?’ All of a sudden, I hear a voice calling, ‘Wake up, hurry, bestir yourselves.’ I see light in windows and Jews coming out of their houses, quickly, on the run. I think: They hear the cries, and they are responding. Then I realize they’re hurrying to the synagogue, so they can finish praying and be free to pursue their business, like yesterday and the day before.”
While Anita was talking, Herbst sat with one finger bent to help him remember the question he wished to ask. When Anita stopped her monologue, he didn’t relax his finger, nor did he ask his question, because she seemed sad and because of the people at the adjacent table. When most of the tables were empty, Herbst placed his hand on hers, looked at her somewhat evasively, and said, “What I’ve been thinking…What it occurred to me, by association, is that I might ask you…You may remember that once, when you were sick, I came to visit you with the nurse Shira. If I’m not mistaken, she brought you flowers that made you very happy.” Anita said, “How could I not remember her? I have never met as fine a woman.” Herbst said, “What I mean is, I wonder…I haven’t seen her in several months.” Anita said, “As a matter of fact, I’m in the same situation. I’ve looked for her several times, but I haven’t been able to find her. When I asked her neighbors, they couldn’t say when they had last seen her.” Herbst said, “She probably moved, and you were at her old apartment.” Anita said, “No, I’m talking about her new apartment. I even asked about her in the hospital, but she apparently didn’t say where she was going. She really doesn’t have to account for herself, but I’m sorry she didn’t say where she was going. I don’t think she’s left the country. If she left Jerusalem, she may have gone to Tel Aviv, to Haifa, or to some
kvutza
, and she may return just as suddenly as she left. If you would like, Dr. Herbst, I could tell you where she lives now.”