Herbst had forgotten when he last saw Lisbet Neu. Other concerns burdened his memory, and there was no room in it for an Orthodox young woman with whom he was acquainted only because she was related to his mentor and guide, Professor Neu. But Lisbet Neu remembers Herbst and thinks of him. Two years ago, she heard that his daughter was married; a year ago, she heard that his daughter had a son; not long ago, she heard that he had a son. Each item led to emotional turmoil. According to convention, she ought to congratulate him, either orally or in writing. Since she wished him well, she surely ought to congratulate him. But, whenever she sat down to write, her hand began to falter, and she thought: Won’t it be a bother to him, as if I wanted to force him to relate to me? Once these thoughts crossed her mind, she decided that the less said, the better. But, after choosing not to write to him, she began to worry that this was rude. She did, after all, know him. They had gone on several walks together; he had invited her out for coffee and talked to her. And still she hadn’t found time to write two or three words to him. Her mother had even remarked, “Lisbet, you ought to write a note to Dr. Herbst.” Imagine this: Herbst remembered everyone who came to his son’s
brit
and exactly who came to congratulate Henrietta when she was in the hospital. He even remembered Dr. Krautmeir, who found it necessary to visit Henrietta at home and ask if she could be helpful, despite the fact that they were not on good terms with each other. Yet it didn’t occur to him that Lisbet Neu had not come to congratulate him. That’s how people are. One person thinks about another endlessly and interminably, yet there is no room at all for him in that other person’s mind.
Herbst strolled through Rehavia without going into anyone’s house. Two or three times, he sat down on those benches on Maimon Boulevard, but he didn’t stay long, because of the couples who needed no witness for their embraces. Hearing the echo of kisses all around him, he thought: These boys and girls imagine I am here to interfere with their lovemaking, but I don’t care about them at all. After a few hours, he decided he ought to go home. Even though Henrietta wasn’t holding dinner for him, he should have been home already. So he said to himself: We are going home. He wasn’t pleased to be going home, just as he hadn’t been pleased to be roaming around idly. He had been granted a certain number of hours and had done nothing with them. He felt a sudden weariness in his limbs. Not physical weariness, but emotional weariness – the kind that comes from idleness, from the fact that he had planned to do something and had allowed the time to pass, doing nothing with it because he didn’t know what to do. Despite his fatigue he had a desire to walk home, through Talbieh, through the vegetable patches, the fields, the gardens, past the lepers’ colony, around Mekor Hayim to Baka. He loved these roads, especially at night, when there was no one to disturb him and he could walk on and on, thinking while he walked. Here was the scent of a grass he knew by name and scent; here, the sound of a small animal; the stare of a dog who recognized him and didn’t bark, or barked to announce that he recognized him. Many other adventures, endless and infinite, occurred on the way. Even the telegraph wires in that area have a hum that is not metallic, and, without over-responding to this sound, it would not be far from the truth to compare it to that of rustling garden fences, to the chatter from rooftop nests. But woe unto him who strays from the populated territory, for, with every step, he endangers his life. For this reason, he turned away from all these pleasures and toward Jaffa Road, to wait for the bus to Baka.
Jaffa Road was quiet and serene, with no visible sign of the times. Perhaps this in itself was a sign of the times: the fact that this raucous street was quiet that night. Streetlamps gave off their dim, muted light. In a burst of romantic excess, the head of the municipality, who regarded himself as the last of the Crusaders, ordered streetlamps for Jerusalem with their glass panels divided into twelve sections, to match the tribes of Israel. Jews build synagogues with a window for each of the twelve gates of prayer, so each tribe’s prayers can enter the heavenly gates in comfort, while this chivalrous wouldbe Crusader designs Jerusalem’s streetlamps in a way that restricts our light. Here and there, two or three lights shone from windows in the two hotels across from the bus stop. Most of the windows were dark, however. The rooms were unoccupied. Not many people came to Jerusalem in those days, because the unrest brought on by the Arabs made the roads dangerous. What was true of the hotels was true of the stores. And of the entire street as well.
Herbst had been waiting for about half an hour, and no bus had come. Even more strange was the fact that there was no one else at the bus stop. What’s this, another curfew? He hadn’t heard a curfew being announced. Were his ears so used to it that it no longer registered? He had seen policemen on the street, and they hadn’t stopped him, which suggests that there is no curfew, that the streets just happened to be deserted. He was overwhelmed with another terror: that he would have to stand there – who knows for how long? – because the drivers, expecting no passengers, come at such infrequent intervals. It would be a long wait for the bus, if it came at all. These bus companies exist, not to serve the public, but to milk it. Now that the public is ineffectual and no longer fills their pockets with money, why bother? Herbst looked around for a taxi, even though his finances were tight, more so now that he has an added child who needs a wetnurse. Nevertheless, he decided to take a taxi. Sarini meant to do him a favor when she took his books. In the end, he was losing time and money because of her; he would have to spend fifteen grush on a taxi. Since he didn’t find a taxi, he continued to wait, contemplating Sarini’s favor, and from this subject his mind shifted to her husband.
So Sarini’s husband wants to travel to the Ten Tribes. He has a good life with Sarini. She prepares his food and makes his bed, and he has only to entertain himself with adventures. A man leaves home, not necessarily in pursuit of adventure, in pursuit of an ideal, in pursuit of God. A man might run off because he is too comfortable where he is. No bus is coming, is coming, Herbst said to himself, thinking: I sound like Ernst Weltfremdt, who repeats the ends of phrases over and over. However, I must admit that his book is good. Herbst strained to see if a bus was coming. There was no bus in sight.
A woman appeared, holding two baskets, with a cigarette vendor’s box stuffed inside of each one. The woman addressed him in Yiddish. “Why are you standing here, Uncle?” Herbst looked at her in surprise. What sort of question is that? If someone is standing at a bus stop, it’s a sign that he wants to go somewhere. He answered her pleasantly, in Yiddish, making an effort to match his manner of speaking to hers, in style as well as language. This is what he said to her: “My dear Auntie, this uncle of yours would like to go to Mekor Hayim. Not actually to Mekor Hayim, but to a place on the way to Mekor Hayim, and he is waiting for the bus to come and pick him up.” The woman said, “You might as well be waiting for the downfall of villains. The bus you are waiting for won’t come.” Herbst said, “Why won’t it come?” The woman said, “Because the Englishman doesn’t want it to.” Herbst said, “The Englishman doesn’t want it to? Why not?” The woman said, “Because. Who can fathom the mind of an Englishman? He himself may not know why. All he knows is that he has to issue decrees, so he issues decrees. Maybe you know why it bothered him that the bus stop was here, why he suddenly decreed that it had to be moved? Come with me, neighbor, and I’ll show you the new bus stop. It’s not far, but you’ll never find it without me.” Herbst said, “We’re probably late.” The woman said, “Late? Late for the bus? I’m sorry I don’t have the energy to laugh. We’ll never be late, we’ll never be late. The driver waits for the bus to fill up, and still he doesn’t budge. Why? Because, even if the bus is full, another passenger or two might come. Otherwise, it’s not worth his while. Now that there are so few passengers, he even waits for a poor woman like me.” Herbst asked the woman, “Do you come home this late every night?” She answered, “You think you’ve found yourself someone who is out late every night? Most nights, dear Uncle, I’ve said my bedtime prayers by now. You might ask, ‘Wherefore is this night different from all other nights?’ so I will answer that question. We used to be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt; now we are slaves to the English. A policeman found me peddling my wares without a permit. Tell me this, neighbor: if I had bought a permit for a lira, would the English queen be able to afford an extra feather for her Shabbat bonnet? But I won’t be silent. I already saw Moshkeli Royt. I’m hoping he’ll use his influence with the Englishman to have my fine revoked. I know you call him Rabbi Royt, but he is as much a rabbi as I am a rabbi’s wife. Rav Samuel, of blessed memory, was a genuine rabbi. He was a
rav
in Jerusalem for seventy years, but did anyone call him Rabbi? He was known as Rav Samuel, a title that applies to any proper Jew. Now, anyone who wants to calls himself a rabbi. In any case, it’s Royt’s duty to keep them from stealing a poor woman’s money, though he thinks he does his duty when he feuds with the Zionists. Oy, oy, dear neighbor of mine, the Zionists are the source of all our troubles. It’s because of them that the English are here. Here is the stop, and here is the bus. What did I tell you? It’s waiting for us. No need to hurry. You can board slowly. By the time he decides to move, you could have walked home at least twice.” Though she was still talking to Herbst, she turned to the driver and said, “Getzel, did you hear me? It’s true, isn’t it?” Getzel said, “When don’t you tell the truth? When the policeman stopped you with two boxes full of cigarettes, and you told him they were for your husband, weren’t you telling the truth? What did that goy say? ‘Do you have so many husbands that you need so many cigarettes?’ In the end, you were punished for your version of the truth.” The woman said, “Is it truth they’re after? They want lies. If I told him the truth, how would that help? Try telling him I’m a poor woman with a houseful of orphans, whom I – I alone – am responsible to feed, dress, shoe, educate. I slave and struggle, drag myself around with these boxes of cigarettes. Maybe you could get your bus to move on, sweetie, so we don’t have to wait until tomorrow. What are you waiting for? The bus is full.”
Chapter three
H
erbst sat on the bus, compressing himself so as not to impinge on his neighbors’ space. The bus was very old, one of the oldest, a survivor from the country’s first generation of buses. The seats were arranged with two rows running along the sides of the coach and one across its width. They were tattered and worn, with springs that popped out and poked the passengers. The bus company knew that in bad times people are so pleased to be able to go home that they don’t notice what they are riding in. Herbst was pleased, too, that he had found himself an inch of space, and especially pleased that he was going home with no secret to conceal from Henrietta.
Henrietta was awake. She still hadn’t accustomed her son to do without a ten o’clock feeding. She didn’t actually feed him; a wetnurse, brought in by Sarini, performed that function. But it was Henrietta who prepared the baby for his feeding, then waited until it was time for him to eat.
Manfred came in quietly, so as not to wake the baby. But he wanted Henrietta to hear that he was back. Not because he had anything to say to her, not because he wanted to ask about her or the baby, but for the following reason: if she asked, “Where were you,” he could answer honestly, “I was in a certain place, on a certain bench, on a particular boulevard,” and so on. He was in a position to enumerate all the places he had been; they were all legitimate and in no way suspect. This was one purpose. Another purpose: should he have occasion to go to a place he wouldn’t choose to tell his wife about, the present information would compensate for what he would conceal from her in the future.
The table was set with a light meal, covered by netting, and a thermos bottle. Before Manfred had a chance to take a bite, Henrietta began talking. She reported that Sarini had brought the books and left them in his room. When she said “the books,” he detected a note of complaint about money wasted on luxuries, when she needed every penny for the household. When she heard that the books were borrowed from Ernst Weltfremdt, she was startled, remembering the poem Rika Weltfremdt had composed for her and the new baby. She had forgotten to tell Manfred about it. If Rika had asked him about the poem, he wouldn’t have known anything about it, which would imply that she had so little regard for it that she hadn’t thought to mention it to her husband. But there was no cause for worry. Herbst had spent about an hour and a half with Ernst Weltfremdt, but Rika Weltfremdt didn’t show her face. Ernst Weltfremdt makes a point of not having his wife appear in his room when he has a guest, because, when she comes in, the guest feels obliged to ask how she is, and this interrupts his conversation.
Manfred wasn’t pleased – not with himself and not with Henrietta’s conversation. Though he had every reason to know that Henrietta wouldn’t burden him with Rika Weltfremdt’s verses, he was afraid she intended to read them to him. Determined to spare himself, he said to her, “I’m not willing to waste even a minute on them.” Henrietta looked at him, bewildered. She was about to respond, but she kept her mouth shut and was silent, knowing that, if she began talking, they would end up quarreling. And, after months of peace, it didn’t make sense to have a fight. She looked at him again, trying to find a reason for his sullenness. One minute, she wanted to scold him, to say that, if he was in a bad mood, he needn’t take it out on her. A minute later, she felt sorry that he was in such a state. Manfred himself knew that he hadn’t behaved well and tried to placate her, but he didn’t want to say anything openly conciliatory, for that might call attention to his foul humor. He changed his manner abruptly and said in a firm voice, “Your boy is taking the lifeblood out of you.” Henrietta understood that he meant to placate her, but his words were irritating, for he had said “your boy.” Henrietta said, “You talk about ‘your boy’ as if he were some street child I took in just to annoy you.” Manfred said, “That’s not so, Mother. I said that only…How can I explain it? Only…for no reason. Just like that.” Henrietta said, “Besides, I have the impression something is not right.” “Not right?” Henrietta said, “Everything is all right with me. I’m talking about you, Manfred. I suspect that something is not so right with you.” Manfred said, “When I look at myself, I see that I’ve never been in better shape. I don’t have a mirror, but I’m certain that even my tie is straight and in place. Isn’t it, Mother?” Henrietta laughed and said, “You’re wrong about that. Your tie happens to be disheveled and askew. I hope you yourself are in better shape.” Manfred said, “If it hadn’t been a present from you, I would say I myself am in better shape. Since it was a present from you, I would say I’m a rag by comparison.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Don’t exaggerate, Fred. Hand me my handkerchief.” He gave her the handkerchief. She knotted it and said, “Many thanks, Fred. Unless I forget to look at the knot, I’ll buy you a new tie, even before your birthday.” “Why all of a sudden?” Henrietta said, “So when you say that, compared to your tie, you look like a rag, there will be some truth to your words.” Manfred said, “That’s what I like about you, Henriett. It’s really possible for a person to talk to you, Henriett.” Henrietta looked at him and said, “With whom isn’t it possible for you to talk?” “With whom isn’t it possible for me to talk? You want me to list everyone, beginning with Adam and Eve?” Henrietta said, “And I assumed you had a particular person in mind. A particular woman, to be precise.” “A woman?” Manfred cried in alarm. “Is there a woman in the world I have any wish to waste a single word on?” Henrietta said, “If I weren’t your wife, I would be interested in talking to you.” “Since I am, alas, your husband, you aren’t interested in talking to me? Well, it’s already ten o’clock, and I’m keeping you from resting your weary bones. If I weren’t afraid of offending you, I would leave right now and go off to my room.” Henrietta said angrily, “You can go if you like. I’m not stopping you.” Herbst said, “That’s not how it is, Mother. Don’t be angry. You have an odd way of getting upset, all of a sudden. I had your welfare in mind, your need for rest, and you are offended. You tell me: would I want to hurt you?” “You wouldn’t want to hurt me, but you’ve gotten into the habit of saying things that are irritating and painful.” “From here on, I will weigh every word before I utter it. Incidentally, has your boy gained any weight?” “My boy is upholstered with fat; he no longer gets cold, as he did a week ago.” “It all comes from milk?” “Fred, you don’t know how cute you are with your questions. Where does the fat come from? Your cigarettes, perhaps. Mimi was here again. I assumed she wasn’t satisfied with seeing me in the hospital, then again on the day of the
brit
– that she wanted to see more of me. But this time she came on your behalf.” “On my behalf? I don’t feel…How shall I say it? I don’t feel there is anything about me that would attract her.” “But you would like to attract her?” “Why not?” “You old sinner, is that how it is?” “So she came on my behalf. Why does she want me in particular, when I won’t scold or abuse her? Isn’t she content with Julian’s scolding and abuse? Some women are peculiar: the more a man scolds them, the more attached they are to him. All he needs is a whip to beat her with.” “Phew, Fred, I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would be attracted to a man who beats her.” “I don’t think so either. I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would tolerate a whip. Now, back to the subject of Mimi. So Mimi was here, and she came on my behalf. What does a woman like that want from me?” “What does she want from you? She wants something that doesn’t please me. I told her in no uncertain terms that you are cutting down on smoking.” “Now I understand. She’s trying to help that fellow again, that cigarette merchant of hers! Don’t you think Tamara smokes too much? I think I hear a cough coming from her room.” “It doesn’t sound like Tamara.” “Then who is it?” “The woman who nurses the baby. It’s time for you to go now, Fred. She just woke up, and she’ll be here in a minute.” “Good night, Henriett.” “Is that it, Fred? I need a kiss first, then a
l’hayim
, then a goodbye.” “May you have many long years, Henriett. I could learn a lot more from a woman like you.” Herbst went up to his room, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with heightened passion, having refrained from smoking the entire time he was with Henrietta, so as not to pollute the baby’s air. As he smoked, he surveyed the two heaps of books on his desk. He laughed derisively, reflecting to himself: When it comes to spiritual matters, women and illiterates make the most trustworthy agents. Sarini arranged the books precisely as they were when she took them from under my arm. This woman doesn’t know the alphabet, but her memory is formidable. She remembered what order the books were in and placed them on my desk accordingly. Here they are, in two piles, one large and one small, precisely as they were before she took them from me to put in her basket; the large pile is on the right, the smaller one on the left. At that moment, he had no desire to look at the books he had borrowed. But, out of habit, he opened one, then another, and glanced at them without reading them. Meanwhile, he finished his cigarette, discarded it, took another, and began pacing the room, as though troubled by his thoughts. Actually, he wasn’t troubled by any thought, but, as he paced back and forth, it seemed to him that there was something he could have done but didn’t do. He lit the cigarette and reviewed what he had done that day, including the fact that he had been near the alley where Shira’s new apartment was and hadn’t stopped by to see if her door was open. He smiled that derisive smile again, directing it at himself. If so, he observed, I am a hero, one of those heroes who control their own impulses. He crushed the cigarette with his fingers and disposed of it. He set his watch, undressed, and looked at his watch again, because he wasn’t sure he had set it. After a while, he went to bed, taking a book, as usual, but turning out the light even before he opened the book, which was not usual. He observed to himself: Tonight, having done nothing but walk a lot, I’ll fall asleep without a book and without the preoccupations that disrupt sleep. However, something did disrupt his sleep. It seemed to him that it was the anniversary of his father’s death, that he ought to say
Kaddish
for him, but he didn’t have a
minyan
, a prayer quorum of ten. Bachlam appeared, and Herbst considered asking him to join the
minyan
. Bachlam began to enumerate his aches, his books, his admirers, his enemies. Herbst didn’t have the nerve to interrupt, in order to say
Kaddish
for his father, which upset him very much. When he woke up, he was still disturbed, and he began to scrutinize himself and to have misgivings about his own behavior. He searches for Shira, but, when he is near her apartment, he doesn’t go to see if she is in. He then returns to his wife and considers himself innocent, pleased to have earned a night’s credit to be applied toward a future act that would have to be concealed from her. Even his transactions with Bachlam were improper, for he had begun to court him in the hope of winning his support for a promotion. These thoughts about the
Kaddish
he should have said for his father reminded him of a verse from a Heine poem on the subject, which reminded him of yet another poem that goes roughly like this: “
Darf man die Welt belügen / Ich sage nicht nein / Doch willst du sie betrügen / So mach es nicht fein
.”