Improving his life? If he were to try to take stock of his way of life, he would find that he had never once thought it needed improvement. He thought about creating books, about writing criticism, about acquiring books, about becoming a professor, about social connections, about Henrietta. He also thought about Shira. So as not to confound the woman who confounded his heart with respect to his wife, who had only his welfare at heart, he stopped speculating about different ways of life. Although he hadn’t thought of personal reform until now, he had thought of educational reform for his son. As I already related, the night his son was admitted to the covenant of Abraham, he sketched out some rules and specifications for the boy’s education. Once again, he outlined a general scheme for his son’s education, and, once again, he pondered the fact that women are in charge of man’s education. Even one’s earliest nourishment comes from woman. One thought led to another. He remembered the tale of the man whose wife died, leaving him an infant to rear; since he couldn’t afford to hire a wetnurse, his two nipples provided milk, so he could suckle his son. Again Herbst’s response was: What a shame, what a shame that the legend doesn’t tell us the outcome – whether that baby fared any better than the rest of humanity, reared on mother’s milk.
He suddenly remembered the time he went into his daughter Zahara’s room and she covered her bosom in shame. This may have been the first time the girl herself was conscious of being a woman. What about Tamara? When was she first conscious of being a woman? How would it be with Sarah? Sarah is still a baby. Her mother still bathes her in his presence; she is naked and unashamed. As a matter of fact, she often calls to him, “Father, see Sarah, he’s washing.” She means, “See Sarah, she’s washing.” And Firadeus: in all the time he’s known her, it never occurred to him that she was a woman. He regards her as a vessel filled with sorrow and anguish, waiting to serve him, reticent, submissive, compliant. Still, when she was upset by the nurse who came to visit Henrietta, she neglected to clear away the dish, which is what caused him to throw the pits. He threw two at the wilted rosebush and one at a starling that took flight, without seeing any sign about Shira in this game. When he finally went to Shira, he didn’t find her. But he found someone else, whose eyes tracked his every footstep. Were their circumstances similar? Was he also on intimate terms with Shira? Only the devil knows her ways. That woman is capable of actions and relationships that would be bizarre for any other woman, but not for Shira. Even if there was nothing between that man and Shira, it was good that he didn’t speak with him. They would surely have hidden the truth from each other, so what was there to gain from such a conversation?
Herbst was not fanatical about the truth, but he avoided lies, and he had never lied until the night he visited Shira for the first time. What was there for him to do after that night? He had no choice but to superimpose one lie on another, to camouflage his lies with lies, because, in his mind, he was bound to that woman, compelled to seek her out again and again. Marriage is a respected and fine institution which humanity has, no doubt, arrived at as a result of many difficult experiments, but not all marriages promote truth. In the interest of peace and tranquility, one sometimes finds it necessary to heap lie upon lie. What happened to that pious young man who was found in bed with Dr. Krautmeir? What was Henrietta referring to when she called it a Balzacian tale? She was referring to those young people who came to their elders before the wedding ceremony to learn the secrets of sex and were taught on their own bodies. Try to picture that frosty, deliberate woman, without an erotic line on her face, without a tremor of desire, about whose intimate life nothing is known. Picture her in the arms of a young Hasid, half her age, a poor fellow who pays for his love by soiling his black hat, his elegant caftan, and his good name. It’s very odd. As Henrietta heard it from the nurse, the fellow’s wife is a freshly blooming rose. As for Krautmeir, we all know about her. She isn’t ugly, but she certainly isn’t attractive. She’s quite tall. Her body isn’t gross, but it certainly isn’t delicate. Her conversation is always deliberate. She probably has some spiritual needs; she might read a nonprofessional text on occasion. What we know about her is very limited. What can we know about a woman we aren’t close to? And, even if we were close, we wouldn’t know very much. If we were to put together all our information about Shira, it would not be very enlightening. Rika Weltfremdt’s life seems accessible to us, but what we see may be the surface. It is possible that even that woman, whose way of life is simple and obvious, is concealing a monumental secret, the secret of someone who craves poetry and pursues it, only to turn out insipid verse. Though he would have liked to laugh at her verse, he felt melancholy and was depressed by the suspicion that he was remembering her and her verse only because he had once dared to regard himself as the author of a tragedy.
Chapter six
O
nce again, life’s routines are orderly, without any exceptional events. Gabi keeps growing. Gabi, like his sister Sarah, isn’t very much trouble to his mother, not to mention his father. It’s good that he doesn’t trouble his father, because he is busy preparing lectures for the winter semester, and it wouldn’t do to confound his mind with irrelevant concerns. Sarah had one advantage: Sarini, who was already mentioned, was her only wetnurse, whereas Gabi has already had to adjust to four sets of nipples, and no one knows how many changes are ahead before he is weaned, because of diminished milk, because of childbirth, because of Arab terror. If Herbst doesn’t move, I don’t know what’s in store for him and his family. The Arabs are insolent. They are a menace to any Jew who shows his face in Baka. By day, they are menacing; by night, they shoot. Sacharson is already planning to move out of Baka, so as not to cause an Arab to kill a Christian when he really means to kill a Jew. The
shohet
who used to come from Mekor Hayim every week to slaughter chickens no longer appears at the Herbsts’ home. Unless Henrietta follows the example of other ladies, who wring the chicken’s neck themselves, she will have to deal with the Arab butcher. She doesn’t want to get meat from the Arabs, because, as her father used to say, if we give up the slaughterer and the butcher, what aspects of Judaism will we be left with? It’s enough that she gets other food from the Arabs. If she orders from a Jewish storekeeper, he won’t deliver to her home, because he is afraid. She begins to see herself as someone whose support comes from Jews, without a penny of it reverting to them. How is this? They live in an Arab house. They buy bread from a German bakery; meat from an Arab butcher; fruit, vegetables, and eggs from Arab women; staples from the English. Their books and newspapers are foreign, and, when they want a rest, they go to Father Miller’s pension. Whatever Jews earn through their efforts, they hand over to Gentiles, retaining no benefit for themselves. Tamara is not pleased to be living in Baka either. At least once, she didn’t come home at night. Not because she was out of Jerusalem, but because she was afraid. If this is how it is for Tamara, who is usually accompanied by two dozen young men, what is an ordinary person to do?
Back to Gabi. He keeps growing. And, when you pick him up, you feel his weight. So far, his magnitude derives from weight, not might or valor. For this reason, he needs to be protected from Sarah’s doll and from Sarah. One tries to get her hands on him; the other attacks him with a slipper. Luckily, the doll’s slipper is made of silk. Envy is characteristic of all living things, including this child of old age, who was indulged by everyone until a new creature appeared and appropriated some of the attention. A few days earlier, she had cried because some woman said Sarini would put Gabi back in her belly, and today she incited her doll to throw a slipper at him.
Henrietta was occupied with the son of her old age. He occupied her twenty-four hours a day. This is not an exaggeration nor is it hyperbole, for even in her dreams she was occupied with him. Henrietta had so many dreams, and they were so strange. They had no end, no limits, no boundary. A dreaming soul can flit from Jerusalem to Berlin, then reverse its direction, so that the Land of Israel and Germany blend with each other, along with their populations, mountains, rivers, local produce. Sometimes a vegetable that couldn’t exist in Germany is offered to her in a Berlin hotel, served up in a Shabbat hat soiled by Dr. Krautmeir’s medicines. On what occasion was that vegetable served to her? At her son Gabi’s bar mitzvah. You are aware that Henrietta and her family have no commitment to faith and religion. I doubt that she ever saw a pair of
tefillin
, except in drawings and pictures. Henrietta knows that, when a boy reaches the age of thirteen, his father hires a teacher, who is half from the old community and half from who knows where, to teach the boy a chapter from the prophets, sung with monotonous vocal trills no ear would tolerate if it were not for the sweetness of the boy’s voice. On Shabbat, the boy comes to the synagogue with his father and his relatives, wearing a strip of silk around his neck, a tallit. He is called to the Torah to read the chapter he learned from his teacher. Then friends of the family come, bringing presents – a book, a picture, a penknife, a camera, and whatever other objects a boy covets. The guests all eat cake and drink an assortment of beverages. Knowing all this, it is strange to us that Henrietta saw her son with
tefillin
on his head. Though I try to avoid the bizarre, I will recount the plot of the dream.
One night, Henrietta cried out in her sleep, because she saw her son’s head dripping blood. She wanted to dress the wound but couldn’t get a bandage, because the chest was locked. She went to him just as she was, empty-handed, and saw that one of his curls was parted; that there, in the center of the curl, was a small box with curlicues. A four-headed bird was carved on the box, and she knew that she was at her son’s bar mitzvah and that those were
tefillin
on his head. This is why I said Henrietta was occupied with her son, not only by day, but by night as well. When his sisters were small, Henrietta used to find time for everything. She managed the household, tended the garden, took in guests from abroad, entertained, wrote letters, negotiated certificates, challenged the accounts of fundraisers from charitable institutions, legitimate and otherwise. By now, Henrietta’s hands had begun to falter, and she devoted her remaining energies to the son of her old age. Though she wasn’t able to nurse the baby, she was wholly occupied with him; it was as if he never stirred from between her breasts. Difficult as it is to jest about this, just to sweeten the bitterness, I’ll lighten the mood with a little humor. The Nazis, knowing that Henrietta Herbst wasn’t free to write to her relatives, destroyed some of them and imprisoned others, so they wouldn’t bother her with their letters.
Because of Ernst Weltfremdt’s new book, Herbst decided to replan his lectures for the winter semester. He had originally intended to lecture on Arcadius ii. After reading Weltfremdt’s book, he was moved to lecture about the rise of the Goths. By way of thanks, Herbst prefaced his lectures with a comprehensive survey of what was known and what was unknown about the subject before Professor Weltfremdt appeared on the scene with his new book. Some scholars, when they find new material in a colleague’s book, respond with silence or drown it out so that the listener can’t hear it; there are other scholars who make the new material the cornerstone of their own thinking. Manfred Herbst was unique in this respect. When his friends offered valuable insights, he presented them to his students; when they were misguided, he didn’t mention them. He argued that, unless their errors begin to be accepted, there is no reason to point them out, even in the interests of challenging them. He had another virtue. He didn’t boast to his friends and report to them, “I mentioned you in my lecture.” I recount all this not to elevate Herbst or to discredit others by praising him. But, recalling one of his finer qualities, I am calling attention to it. This quality is praiseworthy. Still, if I should recall a quality that is to his discredit, I won’t conceal it either.
Chapter seven
T
he nurse came again. She came to see how the baby was doing and, incidentally, to see Mrs. Herbst. She had been fond of Mrs. Herbst from the outset. Now that they were better acquainted, she had come back for a brief visit, intending to see how she was doing and be on her way. She had an urgent need to know how Mrs. Herbst was doing, because Mrs. Herbst was so exceptional in her charm, good sense, intellect, virtue, manners, and other qualities too numerous to list while standing on one foot. The popular notion that it is a nurse’s duty to love everyone and to sacrifice herself on the altar of love is misguided, as it overlooks the fact that nurses are also flesh and blood, that the same good and bad qualities that exist in other people exist in nurses as well. A nurse who is loyal to the truth, who doesn’t embellish her outward image, will not deny the natural feelings with which nature has endowed her. But she can assert about herself that, whether or not she has any affection for a particular patient, when she is in charge, she does everything in her power to promote that patient’s welfare, health, and recovery. She even forgoes sleep and gives up her private life on his behalf. There are patients she detests when they are in good health, “who are as hateful as mice in the cream.” Still, when they come to the hospital and are entrusted to her care, her hostility is suspended. She tends them, tries to please them as though they were loved ones, and stands ready to give her life for them at any moment. When they leave the hospital, even before they have a chance to say, “Goodbye, Nurse Ludmilla,” she reverts to hostility, detesting them again, “like mice in the cream.”
So, if she calls on Mrs. Herbst, she calls on her because she is fond of her; in fact, she loves her. Love is a simple word that doesn’t encompass even a fraction of the feelings that stir her heart. She has loved her for ten years now, or more. Mrs. Herbst knows nothing about this. But this love is engraved in her heart, her skin, her flesh, her bones. On the surface, the reason is simple and uncomplicated. True love doesn’t require complicated reasoning. Sometimes a drop of eau de cologne is sufficient to create a sea of love. This is not as odd as it sounds, and not so much odd as bizarre. It is an example taken from life, the sort of life that is typical of the Land of Israel. Ten years ago – to be precise, ten years and one day ago – two ladies were traveling in a train from Haifa to Jerusalem. In those days, it was common to take long trips in a train rather than a car. Though lighter vehicles go faster, it is more pleasant to travel in a train than in a car. In a train, the passenger is in control, free to get up and walk around or to remain seated; in a car, you are required to stay in your seat, as if you were strapped in. If you have an open mind, you wonder why a free and intelligent person would surrender his freedom and pay a price for it. In short, the train moved ahead. The two ladies were in the same car, but, like modern ladies, they kept to themselves. As long as they don’t know each other, modern ladies remain subdued, though their hearts are full and their tongues all but leap out of their mouths because they are so eager to talk. All of a sudden, something happened. One of these two ladies, Ludmilla the nurse, was traveling with a young girl, who, having suffered what she suffered, was being taken from Haifa to Jerusalem for a psychological consultation with Heinz Hermann. Her mind had been affected by what she had to undergo to rid herself of nature’s gift to womankind. In short, the lady traveler was in her seat; Ludmilla the nurse was in hers. She had closed her eyes, hoping for sleep. Nature denied her the sleep she craved. She thought to herself: Nature is cruel. Would it matter if I were granted a drop of sleep, when my brain is empty and boredom is gnawing at my heart? She was still young and unaware that there is nothing as kind as nature, nothing as sensible as nature, that we ought to depend on nature in every realm, for nature alone knows what is good and what isn’t. All of a sudden, there was a great noise, and the train came to a sudden halt. What happened? That young girl had opened the door and was about to jump. If she hadn’t been restrained, she would have been crushed. Ludmilla the nurse was in shock and about to faint. She was about to faint, and then she fainted. There was no one to look after her, because everyone was busy with the girl who had tried to commit suicide. If not for the lady who was sitting near her on the train, who rubbed her forehead and the veins of her wrist with eau de cologne, Ludmilla the nurse would have continued to feel more and more faint. What had happened was no small thing: a patient who needs special care is entrusted to you, and you try to nap. And who was the lady? Mrs. Herbst was the lady. Mrs. Herbst forgot the event. She so completely forgot it that she was convinced she had never been on the train from Haifa to Jerusalem and had never used eau de cologne.