It was already dark, so it was impossible to see how Schlesinger reacted to all this. However, it was obvious that he was surprised. Schlesinger had given up all things related to religion, yet there was no subject that interested him as deeply. He regarded religion as an impediment to Israel’s freedom, and, if not for the immediate urgency of fighting the English and the Arabs, he would have devoted all his energies to the fight against religious coercion. Now that Herbst had brought up the subject of Reform Judaism, he was mystified. What was the point of a synagogue, a preacher, and all those trappings for Jews who had discarded the yoke of religion to the extent of trading the Jewish Shabbat for the Christian Sabbath? While one talked and the other listened and pondered, they continued walking and, before long, arrived at the Baka bus stop.
There was no one in sight. A bus had left only a minute earlier. Who knows how long it would be before another one arrived and was ready to leave? In those days, a time of unrest and confusion, people didn’t come and go very much, and there weren’t very many buses in service. Herbst, who had put Shira’s place out of mind for a while, was thinking about it again. He pictured it as it was when he stood peering through the keyhole. According to Anita Brik’s description, that was definitely Shira’s place. It was definitely the place Anita Brik had described, but Shira wasn’t there. He gazed at his fingertips and would have liked to be thinking about Shira, but he felt a barrier between himself and his thoughts. He glanced at his companion, who was standing beside him, and it seemed to him that a moment earlier he had been thinking, but he couldn’t remember exactly what he had been thinking. His mind drifted to Tamara, his daughter, and this is roughly what he thought: My daughter, Tamara, isn’t enthusiastic about talking to me, whereas this young man, whose only significance is his link to Tamara, detains me for a chat, unlike Avraham-and-a-half, who never bestows his presence on me. If I didn’t know Oriental Jews, I would think his was an Oriental manner, attaching himself to a person, being so persistent. Unless I dispel the mood with wellchosen words, he’ll be offended. He expects me to say something, but I remain silent. Herbst began searching for something to say and found nothing. He thought to himself: I’ll discuss the yeshiva with him. Since he used to be part of that world, he must know all about it, and he probably enjoys discussing it.
Herbst said to Schlesinger, “I’ve lived in Jerusalem so many years, and nothing is as close to me as education. Still, when I get the annual announcements of various yeshivas, I never stop to wonder how they are different from each other or what their curricula are like. One announcement is from the Great Yeshiva; another is from the Institute for Advanced Talmudic Studies; yet another is from the Central Yeshiva. They have endless titles, expressing glory, grandeur, eminence. Please, Mr. Schlesinger, tell me how to distinguish between them. Are they organized in classes on different levels – some as secondary schools for Talmud study, others as Talmud universities? I’m totally ignorant about the educational affairs of the older communities. I’m familiar with such terms as
heder, Talmud Torah, yeshiva
, but I’m not familiar with the curriculum.”
Schlesinger’s lips were tightly pursed, and his face communicated distaste for Herbst’s conversation. Herbst took no notice and continued, “What is the difference between the Grand Yeshiva and the Greater Yeshiva, and how are they different from the Most Revered Yeshiva?” Herbst wanted to ask about other yeshivas, but, being unsure of their names, he didn’t want to say anything ridiculous, lest Schlesinger think he was making fun of him. He included them all in a general question: “What is the curriculum of these yeshivas? I’ve heard it said that the main difference lies in the fundraisers, who know which names contributors respond to, guaranteeing the flow of money into their own pockets. I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Schlesinger, that I am not of that opinion.” When, after a few minutes, he still hadn’t received an answer, he said to Schlesinger, “I have no luck with my questions. An idiot’s questions are hard to answer. Would you rather give me your own version of the ways of the yeshivas?” Schlesinger answered, “As it says in the Gemara, ‘Never throw stones in a well that once gave you water.’ Since I left the yeshiva, I make a point of not discussing it.” “Why?” “Why? How can I explain it? Because I have nothing good to tell about it, and it’s pointless to tell about its evils. If one were to tell about evils, he should tell about the evil that comes from the source of all evil.” “The source of all evil? Are you suggesting that there is a place that all evil comes from?” “Of course.” “And what is it?” “What is it? Is that a real question?” Herbst laughed and said, “As you know, my friend, my path was always orderly. I first studied in an elementary school, then in a high school, then at a university. What I mean is that all my knowledge comes from what I was taught; I know only what I was taught. If my life depended on it, I couldn’t come up with anything I wasn’t taught.” Schlesinger stared at Herbst to see if he was teasing or if he was, truly, just a naive German. He finally decided not to divulge his thoughts to him, for, if he knew what he thought about England, he would surely disapprove of his relationship with his daughter. Herbst was German, after all. And, being German, he probably adhered to the program of Brit Shalom, a covenant of peace.
Other passengers were assembling. Most of them were young men, who didn’t look familiar to Herbst. He was sure they didn’t live in Talpiot or Mekor Hayim; certainly not in Baka, whose inhabitants were Arabs. He noticed that one of them was nodding to him. He looked more closely and realized that he was a student of his. Herbst asked him, “Where’s everybody going?” Someone answered, “To a
brit
.” “A
brit
? A circumcision? I never heard of a
brit
at night.” “This
brit
will be a covenant of blood, all right.” Most of the young men laughed, and the one who was his student whispered something to Herbst. Herbst said, “Now I realize that I shouldn’t have asked.” “Not at all. It’s just that there was no need for such a brash answer. I see, Professor Herbst, that you still live in Baka. That sort of courage is not to be commended. In truth, other neighborhoods are no more secure. It would take two hundred people to protect Mekor Hayim. Neighborhoods are established without much thought, expanding the sphere of danger.” As he spoke, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “The air has ears.” He raised his voice again and said, “All right, everybody, let the turtle crawl at its own pace. We’ll go on foot.” Someone else said, “Not on foot, not on foot.” “Why not on foot?” “Why? Because the roads are dangerous.” “Quiet, quiet. I can already hear the brakes of the bus. Please, everyone, not so much noise.” “Is silence any better? Lord only knows what’s good and what isn’t. When we’re finally rid of them, we’ll know what’s good.”
From the moment Herbst got on the bus until he got off, he was alone with his thoughts. They were no different than the ones he had been thinking before he met Schlesinger. Anyway, it was good that he had an opportunity to think his thoughts without being interrupted. The young men were engaged in their own affairs, ignoring him. I won’t repeat his dialogue with himself, having already outlined it, but I will relay something that becomes relevant later on. Why advance the sequence now? Because what follows later cannot be interrupted.
From here on, he began to be tormented by lurid fantasies. He saw Shira walking in the mountains, sometimes alone, sometimes with a companion. Arabs assault her, then take her life. He saw her bathing in the sea, swept under by a wave, and drowned. The death throes, on sea and on land, were vivid to him. Her soul, struggling to expire, is unable to withdraw from her body because of its intense vitality. As she agonizes, her escort on these walks abandons her to the waves, to the murderer’s assault, in order to save his own life. The murderer finally prevails and thrusts a knife into her heart. Her soul expires and she is dead. It is not clear whether he did what he did to her before she died or whether it was after she was dead that he did what he did. Her companion stands among the rocks, observing the scene. Who is he? The engineer with the whip, who returned because he couldn’t forget her, and, when he returned, she was afraid he would hit her with the whip again, so she told him she had to go somewhere. He said, “I’ll go with you.” She said, “Only if you leave your whip behind.” He agreed. They went walking together in the mountains, and a murderer appeared. The engineer, having nothing with which to scare off the murderer, ran and hid among the rocks, from where he could watch and see everything the Arab did to Shira. Finally, all that remained of her was two legs, left by the murderer. Not the legs in the notice at the train station in Leipzig, but Shira’s legs, the legs he first saw that night when he went home with her and sat with her while she put on the dark blue slacks. Herbst cried out in a whisper, “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” He pictured her room as it was the night he first visited her, when he sat there looking at everything in the room, with the dead skull peering down at him from one of the walls. As for
The Night Watch
, which he intended to bring her, it was still wrapped and waiting in the store. When he tried to bring her
The Night Watch
, he found a locked door. He didn’t find Shira. Where is Shira? He had asked this question at least a thousand times. Each time he asked, the visions I have already described provided an answer. For example: She was out walking with someone when a murderer came and stuck a knife in her heart, for these are not good times; the roads are all dangerous, and those who walk them risk their lives. Herbst, too, is risking his life when he walks alone. He ought to go home. Otherwise, he risks being attacked by murderers.
As he walked home from the bus stop, he stopped at every wall and at each post to read all the notices. None of the notices pertained to Shira. Unless one concludes that a total lack of information prevented the authorities from posting a notice about her, then she still exists. If she exists, he will see her. Still, the question stands: Where is she? No one at the hospital knows where she is. Anita Brik doesn’t know where she is, but she knows where she lives, and, when he went there, he found the door locked. The question recurs: Where is Shira?
Chapter nineteen
W
hen Herbst entered his house, he was like a man depressed by dreadful anguish who wakes up only to realize that what depressed him was a dream. The house was bright. Gay voices were heard from the dining room. Along with Tamara’s voice, hoarse from smoking, was the sharp voice, the clear voice, of a girl speaking German, though not as it is spoken in Germany, and a voice like Taglicht’s. In fact, it was Taglicht, as you are about to discover. But first, I’ll tell just how this evolved. Tamara came back from her trip and brought a new friend, a lovely girl she met on the way. She made her acquaintance on the bus and enjoyed her company so much that she offered to put her up until she could find a room.
Her name is Ursula Katz, and she comes from Vienna. Her eyes are large and kind, assuming a blue cast when they laugh. Her cheeks are fresh and full; she is altogether fresh and vibrant. She has soft, blonde hair, not shorn or bobbed, but arranged in four curly braids. Her lips are somewhat fleshy, but they are permeated by a smile that tempers their sensual quality and makes the flesh seem delicate. She is wearing a soft, brown blouse, embroidered with gold thread, open at the top to bare her graceful neck, which is circled by a thin, black chain. The beads are linked by dots of silver, whose glow rises up to meet the laughter in her eyes that turn all things blue, then plunges downward to be reflected in her fingernails. Her shoulders are covered, not exposed; what is exposed about her is a refreshing warmth that clings to her shoulders. But for the fact that she is skilled in office work – typing, shorthand, and the like – we would connect her with another time, three or four generations back, when a girl’s honor derived from her beauty, modesty, and reserve.
Across from her, on the upholstered chair that looks out to the garden, sat Dr. Taglicht. He was there because of Ursula, which involved a bit of magic. This is the story. When they were on the bus coming into town, Tamara asked Ursula, “Do you have any friends or acquaintances in Jerusalem?” Ursula said, “No one I know personally, but my father knows someone here who was at the university with him, or in some similar situation. He told me to look him up when I get to Jerusalem.” Tamara said, “I suppose your father told you his name?” Ursula laughed and said, “What you suppose is not far from the truth. Father did tell me the name.” Tamara said, “Perhaps you remember his name?” Ursula said, “I remember his name.” Tamara said, “If it isn’t one of those Russian or Polish names, like those of the Zionist leaders that very few people here can pronounce without great difficulty, perhaps it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to tell me his name.” Ursula said, “His name is simple and bright, like the light of day.” Tamara said, “Could his name be Taglicht?” Ursula said, “I see, Tamara, that you know even more than I’ve told you. His name
is
Taglicht, Dr. Taglicht.” As they continued this bantering exchange, the bus arrived at the station, and they got off. Tamara saw Dr. Taglicht strolling by and called to him. Dr. Taglicht came over. She said to him, “Here’s your chance to be chivalrous. You can help two distinguished ladies get their luggage off the bus.” Taglicht said, “At your service, mademoiselle.” Tamara said, “And at the service of this lady as well. Meet Ursula Katz.” “Ursula Katz…Ursula Katz. Are you by any chance related to Dr. Ferdinand Katz, a lawyer and notary?” Tamara said, “If it’s not beneath your dignity, doctor, she is the daughter of that gentleman.” Taglicht joined them immediately and accompanied them to the Herbst home. The three of them sat talking incessantly. Taglicht had many questions about Ursula’s father and how he was faring in these dreadful times. Ursula gave leisurely answers. Having expended all her cleverness on Tamara, she was giving straightforward answers now, responses that fit the questions. She wasn’t enraged by Nazi actions; she didn’t bemoan her fate. She and her entire family had left their home and had stayed in hiding for months, until she succeeded in escaping from Vienna, getting on a boat, and entering this country. Taglicht had already heard stories like those Ursula had to tell. She told them everything, and if he asked more questions, he would gain no new knowledge. Ursula had a simple view of things. She saw only the surface of events, making no attempt to look inside. And, if I’m not mistaken, she repeated the same ideas in the very same words. Nevertheless, from what she said, one could reconstruct the development of events. So Taglicht already knew what he wanted to know. Isn’t it amazing – just a short time before I met Ursula, it didn’t occur to me that someone like that existed. Now, all of a sudden, my heart is full…. Actually, that’s not how it was. The fact is, she and her entire family slipped out of his mind immediately. Even as they were engaged in conversation, she had already slipped out of his mind, because of other things. If I were to put them into words, this is roughly how it would be: Tamara is candid and open, but she also has an opaque and elusive aspect. These traits, all of which include their opposites, should be investigated. Most young women in this country are open and candid, having been born and raised under the bright and open skies of the Land of Israel. Tamara’s opaque and elusive quality is self-generated and derives from many sources, not necessarily related to the fact that she belongs to an underground group, be it the Irgun or Lehi.