“A young woman from Mea Shearim lived with her husband for a number of years without bearing him any children. They were both very sad, for a man of the ultra-Orthodox community takes a wife to beget children. They heard about a woman doctor from Germany, here in Jerusalem, and that many women beat a path to her door. They weren’t aware that those women go to Krautmeir in order not to give birth. One day, they both went to her, the woman and the man. She was about twenty, and so was he. Their longing for a child exceeded their years. Krautmeir undertook to treat the woman. She began coming to Krautmeir, accompanied by her husband. She was a shy and lovely girl. He was handsome, appealing, and as shy as his wife. They were dressed in the old Mea Shearim style, which makes those lovely, demure people all the more attractive. In short, Krautmeir treated the woman, while her husband sat in the adjacent room, looking at the pictures in the magazines one finds in doctors’ waiting rooms. Several months passed, perhaps a year. One day, the young man plucked up the courage to go to Krautmeir alone and ask if there was a prospect of children from his wife. Krautmeir’s answer is not known. One can assume she addressed him in her usual manner – in simple words, without much empathy – and explained the secrets of sex. The man was interested in what she said. He began to call on her more and more frequently, especially on Shabbat afternoons, when she didn’t normally see patients. Krautmeir was interested in this naive young man from the old community, in his long earlocks, in everything about him. Only one thing is unclear, the nurse told me. What language did they speak? He didn’t know German; she knew barely any Yiddish. Being one of those fanatics who regard spoken Hebrew as heresy, would he allow himself to speak Hebrew to her? It would still be a problem, because Krautmeir’s Hebrew is too limited to allow for much conversation. So much for Krautmeir, for the young man and the young woman. Let’s turn our attention to a small fish bone.
“An old man was eating his Shabbat dinner when a fish bone got stuck in his throat. There was a great commotion in his house, and they began shouting, ‘Get a doctor!’ They remembered that some woman doctor lived nearby and ran to her house. When people from that community go to a doctor, they are usually joined by a large entourage. By the time they arrived at Krautmeir’s house, a crowd had collected. To avoid desecrating the Shabbat, and because they were in such a panic, they didn’t ring the bell. They merely pushed on the door. Luckily for them, the door opened instantly. Luckily for them – but not for that young man. The crowd was so panicked that someone knocked over a bottle of medicine and stained the young man’s
shtreimel
, which was resting on the table near Krautmeir’s bed. Not only did it soil his
shtreimel
, but it stained his caftan as well, his elegant Shabbat caftan. He himself was not spared; he was assaulted by many pairs of eyes that wondered just why he was in the doctor’s bed, and why she was there in the bed with him. She was probably teaching him what a man does to beget children. Now tell me, Fred, did you expect to hear such a story from me? If you’re not astonished, I certainly am.”
Manfred said, “Now I know what nurses talk about when they come to visit a respected lady such as Henrietta Herbst.” Henrietta said, “Now you know about the ingratitude of respected gentlemen such as Dr. Herbst.” “How is that?” “He sits and listens attentively, eager not to miss a single word. Then he expresses disapproval. You got what you deserved, Manfred.” Manfred said, “Mother, shouldn’t you lie down? I really think you ought to lie down after lunch.” Henrietta said, “Don’t mind me. If you want to go to your room, go ahead.” Manfred said, “I’m going up to my room, but not to lie down.” Henrietta said, “Do whatever you like.” Manfred said, “I would like to go into town. Believe it or not, I have no specific reason to go. But I’d like to, with nothing specific in mind.” Henrietta said, “That’s the best reason. A man shouldn’t always have specific things to do. As a matter of fact, why not go into town and amuse yourself? You’ll come home in a better mood.” Manfred said, “I’ll try.”
As soon as he entered his room, he saw the woven tray with the peach pits on it. Because the household routines had been disrupted by the nurse who chose to visit at lunchtime, Firadeus had forgotten to clear away the tray. Herbst didn’t mind. As a matter of fact, he was pleased that the peach pits were still there, so he could crack them open and eat the insides. But a peach pit is tough. It takes a hammer to crack it, and there was no hammer in his room. The hammer was downstairs with all the other tools. He didn’t want to go downstairs, preferring not to get involved in conversation with Henrietta, who would hear him and come, or else call to him. He looked around for a hard object or a rock to use to split open the pit. Not finding it, he went over to the window with the pit in his hand. He aimed it at a bush whose roses had wilted. As it happened, he hit the target. He smiled to himself, musing: Too bad I had no scheme for this game. For example: if the pit hits the bush, it’s a sign that I’ll find Shira today. Again he thought: Too bad. Then he reconsidered, noting to himself: There are five more pits here; what I didn’t do with the first one, I can now do with these. He picked up a pit, aimed at the bush, and hit it. He smiled and thought: What do I gain from this activity, if I don’t see a sign in it? He picked up another pit and thought: My hand is trained to hit that particular bush; now I’ll set myself a different target. He surveyed the garden and noticed a starling, its beak stuck in the ground. Herbst thought: I’ll test my power on him. Before he had a chance to pick up the pit, the starling took off with a screech and flew away. Herbst laughed heartily and mused: That starling knew what I was up to and didn’t want to oblige me with his body. He looked at the plate and counted the remaining pits. There were three left. He took another pit and was going to throw it. Before he could decide on a target, he saw Sarah ambling through the garden. He called to her. As soon as he called to her, he regretted it. He didn’t want to get involved with her, because, if he meant to go into town and find Shira, this was the time to go. It was possible that, at such an hour, when people don’t usually visit each other, he might find her at home. It occurred to him to wonder why she would be hiding in her house, having just said that, at this particular hour, when people don’t usually visit each other, he might find her in. He looked at his watch and saw that it was four o’clock. It would be good to have some coffee, but that would delay him. He left his room, thinking that it would be good to have coffee first, but that he would get some in town.
Chapter five
T
hough he guessed that this would be an opportune time to find Shira at home, he nevertheless went on foot rather than take the bus, for he had noticed that he was getting fat from too much food and too few walks. Jerusalem had been reduced to about half its size because of Arab snipers, and there were fewer and fewer areas a Jew could walk in without risking his life. Even in Baka, a Jew’s life was not secure, but, as nothing had ever happened to him in daylight, he didn’t worry about walking the streets by day.
At about five o’clock, he reached Rehavia. He had encountered no delays along the way. It’s not every day that one spends threequarters of an hour walking in Jerusalem without being delayed.
Herbst was pleased and displeased. He didn’t know why he was pleased and displeased. Since he was in the habit of looking for reasons for his behavior and emotions, he pondered awhile and realized he was pleased because he had arrived in town without being delayed and displeased because he foresaw further disappointment. He assumed he would find Shira’s door locked once again. But this was not the source of these two contrasting emotions, which were actually one and its reverse. He was displeased because he was sure there was nothing more between him and Shira, so why seek her out? He was pleased with the walk itself and the exercise it provided.
Everything turned out as expected. Shira’s door was locked, and he couldn’t tell from the windows whether she had been home since he was last there. After looking at the door and the windows again, he began to believe she might have been home in the interim. As for the fact that he saw no perceptible change, did he have photographs to compare the two visits? He was depending on his own eyes, and eyes that have suffered disappointment are biased and untrustworthy. Herbst walked the alley from beginning to end, backtracked, and walked it from beginning to end again. He repeated this course three or four times. Whenever he came close to her house, he hoped he would and wouldn’t find her door open. He circled so many times that he began to feel dizzy. He decided to leave. As people tend to do when they want something, although they know it’s hopeless, Herbst went back to the house. Once again, he left despondent. Like most people who modify their actions, this way and that, this way and that, to no avail, Herbst became extremely despondent.
Several days earlier, when Herbst had gone there, he had been aware of a person whose eyes seemed to be tracking his every footstep. Though he sensed this, he pretended not to notice, as if they were both pedestrians, passing through the alley with no particular interest in each other. Which was not true of that other person, who sensed that the gentleman had come because of the new tenant, who wasn’t living in the apartment he had rented to her; who had, in fact, already put it back in his hands; who had left several days after she moved in and hadn’t returned. She left and hadn’t returned. The landlord was absolutely confident that the gentleman would return, so he put off talking to him. Whether he was too lazy to initiate a conversation or whether it was wisdom, the landlord assumed that, coming back again and not finding the lady, the gentleman would be interested in chatting about her.
Herbst left the alley despondent and perplexed. He was also annoyed to be wasting time. Having concluded his business with Shira, what did he care if her door was locked? Why did he go back again and again? Did he have such a great need to satisfy his curiosity? And if what was involved was not curiosity, then what was it? For it was clear to him that he had no further business with Shira. Whether or not he knew precisely when his business with Shira had been concluded, he knows that it was concluded and that it makes no sense to revive such things out of curiosity, for there is no telling where that might lead. At the very least, it might lead to wasted time and despondency.
Herbst left the alley without having decided where to go or which way to turn. He didn’t feel like taking up his books; he wasn’t eager for conversation; it wasn’t a good time to call on people about his prospects for a promotion. When your mind is hollow and your heart is troubled, your mouth is not likely to spout words that will impress a listener. Herbst asked himself: Am I so troubled because of Shira? I’m troubled by her because I haven’t been able to find her. If I were to find her, how would it be? At least one thing is clear: I wouldn’t be happy. I would be relieved of the curiosity that sometimes torments me, but I certainly wouldn’t be happy.
To get rid of those thoughts, which were not happy ones, he shifted his mind to the tragedy he meant to write but never wrote. The tragedy unfolded before him, vivid and clear, scene by scene. It seemed to him that, if he were to sit down and write, he would write one scene after another. He might write the entire tragedy. But he had some doubts. Was it a tragedy, or merely a story with tragic events? Herbst, who was a reader, student, and theatergoer, who had analyzed modern tragedies – those that were updated to make them contemporary, as well as those that dealt with the issues of their time – knew and recognized the distinction between tragic events and tragedy. Modern poets are adept at defining tragedy. Some are even more adept than the early poets were. But those early poets were believers, so the creation of tragedy was entrusted to them. He nonetheless began to reconsider the content, along with the overall scheme, and, again, it seemed to him that, if he sat down to write, he would keep writing and finish. Even if he lacked the excitement that inspires poets to write, he did not lack diligence. He had trained himself to work step by step, note by note, whereas the poetic process demands a different work style, because, when a poet’s inspiration is arrested, it cannot be retrieved. This does not apply to those faithful workers who forge ahead relentlessly, whether or not they feel inspired. Fragmentary scenes were already written and recorded in his notebooks, along with an outline of locales, such as the home of Basileios, the faithful servant. It would surely be worthwhile for him to begin; what followed, as well as the conclusion, would take shape on their own. Once again, Herbst imagined himself leaving the university; leaving his colleagues and students; going to some remote place, where he would rent a wooden hut or find an abandoned stone house and live alone, solitary, for weeks and months, days and nights. There, he would write the tragedy of the woman of the court, the nobleman Yohanan, and their faithful servant Basileios, emerging from his seclusion only when he finished the tragedy. Out of a concern for modesty, truth, and to avoid deception, he observed to himself: I call it tragedy, not because I believe I’m writing tragedy, but out of academic habit. So he observed, imagining this was the reason, when actually there was another reason that will seem absurd if I write it. At that moment, Herbst was intimidated by the word
tragedy
, afraid it would provoke the gods. By degrees, his enthusiasm waned. At first, he told himself: No need to give everything up; I could take time off and go to live in Ahinoam for a while, where my daughter is. I could surely find an empty room there, eat in the dining hall, and be free from all the concerns of my household. Then he said to himself: I have no particular reason to live in the country. I could compose the tragedy in my own home, in my study, at my desk. After which, he said to himself: Nonsense, this man is destined to write essays. One of these days, he may even finish his great work on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. He scrutinized his soul, examined his heart, and reflected: You are not the sort of person who can change his way of life. You’ll be doing well if you succeed in improving it to some extent.