But Ludmilla the nurse is trustworthy. Nature has endowed her with a powerful memory. She even remembers the shape of the smile that graced Mrs. Herbst’s face when she asked the nurse how she was feeling. Were we to speak truly, Ludmilla the nurse calls on Mrs. Herbst more for the past than the present, because she has an intense need occasionally to see herself as she was ten years ago. When she sees Mrs. Herbst, she imagines herself on the train, with Mrs. Herbst rubbing eau de cologne on her forehead. All of this is so vivid that she actually smells the eau de cologne. Despite the fact that Mrs. Herbst no longer uses eau de cologne, she experiences its wonderful fragrance – the fragrance reminding her of the event; the event reminding her of the fragrance. When she comes, she offers advice and guidance for the baby and his mother, for the two of them together. Even though the baby is already separated from his mother’s womb and doesn’t nurse at her breast, he is attached to his mother, and his mother is attached to him. The bond is powerful: physical and concrete, not merely spiritual. Anyone who has mastered the secrets of creation, who knows what birth is, knows about the nature of the bond between a mother and the fruit of her womb. There are women, even doctors, who regard the embryo inside its mother as something you can get rid of, as long as none of its limbs has emerged into the world. They believe that a girl who has strayed from the proper path can deal with the consequences by getting rid of the embryo, that she can be restored to her former state, which I will describe as youth, rather than use an abstract term like maidenhood. If she meets up with a naive man, she leads him to the bridal canopy without any misgivings or regrets. For that type of shrewd woman, we have something akin to a folktale or ballad to tell, without ruling out the possibility that the events described in it actually transpired. Those shrewd women who dismiss the procedure as simply physical, cosmetic, or the like would do well to listen. I am coming to the heart of the story, which I will tell approximately as Ludmilla the nurse told it. Approximately – not word for word – because at first it didn’t occur to me that it would be worth conveying. I suddenly remembered the story and realized that Ludmilla the nurse had imparted something very significant. I struggled to recall the details, but without success. I asked myself: Why wear myself out over a story someone has told? We hear so much, and, if we were to try to report it all, we would never succeed. I renounced the story, but the story didn’t renounce me. It kept coming back to mind, sometimes on its own, sometimes suggested by other events. So much so that I began to wonder whether the events were meant to remind me of the story or whether the story was meant to help me understand the events. In either case, I couldn’t escape it, though I continued to try. It was stronger than I was. If not for the fact that I don’t believe in magic, I would say I was under its spell. Every day, every single day, something transpired that reminded me of the story. Seeing that this was how it was, I reviewed it again and again, until the story was gone.
Chapter eight
W
henever Ludmilla the nurse appears, Henrietta is happy to see her. Manfred isn’t happy to see her, and he is frank with Henrietta about the fact that he isn’t pleased by the visits of that mouse in the cream. Ludmilla the nurse isn’t a mouse, and Herbst’s home isn’t cream, but, since Herbst resents her, he gives her a demeaning name. His resentment, which is what leads him to demean her, stems from the fact that, when he sees how often she visits Henrietta, he remembers that Shira never visited Henrietta, not even once. When he remembers Shira, what he remembers torments him. Also, though it is evident from her face that Ludmilla the nurse doesn’t dissemble, she causes him to dissemble. He says demeaning things about her in her absence, but he is gracious when she appears. Why does he do this? Because he needs to be on good terms with her. There is no way of knowing what such a woman is capable of. She might even know something of what was between him and Shira. It is common for nurses to keep track of each other’s lives, so it is best to be on good terms with her. Otherwise, she could gossip about him and tell Henrietta things it would be better for her not to know. Human beings are surely flawed; they flatter one another for professional advancement and domestic harmony. What else is in store for ignoble mankind? Let us hope that the future, which is an outcome of the present, will be no uglier than the present.
Ludmilla the nurse came again. She came at about noon, as she had done the first time, just as Firadeus was about to spread the cloth and set the table. Ludmilla didn’t want to join them for lunch. She turned down their invitation, as she had done the first time. She barely agreed to have a sip of coffee and barely agreed to have a bite of cake, an old cake Mrs. Herbst had baked for Shabbat. Henrietta says these leftovers can’t really be called cake, but Ludmilla the nurse says they aren’t just leftovers, they are the equivalent of a cake and a half, since each and every crumb has a unique flavor, and no two crumbs are alike; these are not crumbs, but entire cakes. In fact, she uses the term
crumbs
only to avoid contradicting Mrs. Herbst, who calls those large slices crumbs out of excessive modesty, just as she calls the cake old, when, actually, it just came out of the oven. If three or four days have elapsed since the cake came out of the oven, it still retains its warmth – if not the warmth of the oven, then the warmth of a generous heart. Herein lies the greatness of Mrs. Herbst. She offers you the best and most superb delicacy, understating its quality, so you’ll feel free to eat as much as you want. But Ludmilla the nurse doesn’t want very much. Two or three crumbs satisfy her to such an extent that she is happy not to eat or drink anything else until the next time she comes, if Mrs. Herbst doesn’t lock her out. As for the fact that she comes at lunchtime, an hour when people are not in the habit of dropping in, she regrets this more than anyone in the world, because she may be delaying lunch and interfering with household routines. But what is she to do when, suddenly, at midnight – yes, it was midnight and even earlier; of course it was earlier, as she hadn’t heard the rooster crow yet – her heart yearned to see Mrs. Herbst and Gabi, sweet Gabi. She assumed this would pass, but the yearning became more and more intense. Then she began to be afraid she would be swept out of the world by these yearnings. Swept out of the world is an exaggeration, but an exaggeration that is close to the truth. Since she had some time off – just a little earlier, she had unexpectedly been told that she could take some time off – she leaped at the chance to come. She came right over without consulting her watch to see if it was a good time for visiting. It’s just as well that she didn’t consult her watch. If she had, she wouldn’t have come, and her heart would have expired with longing. When she arrived, Herbst stepped out of his room and came downstairs. If a man appears in the dining room at mealtime, even his wife doesn’t suspect he is there because of his interest in her guest. So Manfred appeared in the dining room, found Ludmilla the nurse sitting with his wife, was taken aback, and made a move to go. But didn’t go, because it was only proper for him to welcome the guest first. Then he asked permission to join the ladies, promising not to interfere with their conversation.
The three of them sit together: Dr. Manfred Herbst, a lecturer at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem; Mrs. Henrietta Herbst, his wife; and the registered nurse Ludmilla. Each of them has a history of his own. Herbst and his wife come from the same country, the same city, the same cultural milieu. But Ludmilla the nurse comes from another place, from a city at the border of three countries, and when a rooster announced the dawn in any one of these countries, the people in the other two knew it was morning. This is how it was before the Great War. Now, after the war, it’s different. The rooster is no different. The rooster has not changed his nature, but it doesn’t matter that he has not changed his nature when he no longer exists. Roosters have been eradicated from the world, and the meat we eat comes from tins. If there is still such a thing as a live rooster, crowing as usual, there is no one to hear him, because human beings have already been eradicated from the world. And if there are still a few people left, most of them are Bolsheviks or Communists. There is no point elaborating on this, for we don’t know whom we might offend. Even in the Land of Israel, there is no shortage of Bolsheviks, and it is not in our nature to offend anyone, even someone opposed to our ideals. Before she came to the Land of Israel, she thought the entire country was inhabited by Zionists. Now she sees that the Land of Israel is like other countries. What we find in the lands of dispersion, we find here too: Zionists, Socialists, and so on. Even the Zionists themselves aren’t genuine Zionists. There are Labor Zionists and General Zionists. There are probably other types of Zionists from parties she can’t name. Her father was unique. He was a genuine Zionist, an outright Zionist. If the concept “simple” hadn’t been oversimplified, she would say her father was simply a Zionist. He didn’t have the good fortune to emigrate to the Land of Israel, which may be just as well. If he were here, he wouldn’t be able to survive. He was a simple Zionist, when what we need here are Zionists who are extremely clever, and even that isn’t adequate, because, all of a sudden, a new breed of Zionists surfaces, with new types of cleverness. Does anyone have what it takes to devise new types of cleverness every day? In fact, she admits that she herself has lost interest in Zionism. The day she set foot in the Land of Israel, her heart shed its Zionist sentiments. Spiritual functions are very much like physical functions. A man who is thirsty to the point of madness finds water,’ and drinks it, and his thirst is gone. Similarly, a man who is starved to the point of madness finds bread and eats it, and his hunger vanishes.
The three of them sit together, engrossed in their conversation. I said “their conversation,” though it is actually her conversation. She does all the talking. What does she talk about, and what doesn’t she talk about? What does she tell about? What doesn’t she tell about? All of Jerusalem rolls off her tongue: Jews, Ishmaelites, Christians alike. She has something to say about them all, a story to tell about everyone. It is the convention to assume that doctors are on the most intimate terms with their fellow human beings, because a sick person is likely to open his heart and reveal what he wouldn’t otherwise reveal, not even to himself. But how much time does a doctor spend with a patient? A famous doctor, who has many patients, is short on time, whereas doctors who aren’t famous pretend to be busy and in great demand. As it turns out, doctors spend very little time with patients. But a nurse is with the patient all the time, always, even longer. Patients get bored and are eager to extract hidden information from the nurse, such as, Is there a chance they will recover? Is there hope they will live? In this context, they talk to the nurse and tell her things they themselves were not aware of before. They do this to stir her heart, so she will reveal what they want to know, which allows a nurse to hear things not everyone gets to hear. Ludmilla the nurse doesn’t say very much about Jews. First of all, because Jewish patients are so preoccupied with their illnesses that, though the illnesses vary, they talk about them in one and the same way. Second, if she were to report what they say, it would sound like gossip and slander. But she tells about Muslims and Christians, because, to the general Jewish society, they are mere names, like those in the tales of
A Thousand and One Nights
and the Brothers Grimm. She admits that she doesn’t have the talent of either Scheherazade or the Grimm brothers, but her stories have one advantage. They are true. True, not concocted. True, without a particle of fantasy.
It’s impossible to tell all of her stories, but some of them can be told. So I will tell two of them that add up to a little less than two segments of a thousand and one stories. The young wife of Ibn Saud’s hangman was both very pretty and very sick. In all of Saudi Arabia, there was no doctor who could cure her. They put her in a bed, which was lifted onto a camel’s back, and carried her from land to land, from country to country, to each of the seven Arab kingdoms, but they found no cure for her illness. They took her to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. Back in Ibn Saud’s country, that hangman had a title equivalent to vizier, and his wife was nobility, true nobility. He had achieved rank because of his occupation, but her nobility derived from her person. It was the custom there that, once a year, all the noblewomen in the kingdom would come to kiss Ibn Saud’s hand. She, too, came to kiss his hand. Hearing she was sick, he commanded that no effort be spared to cure her, which is why she was finally taken to Hadassah. It was obvious to Ludmilla the nurse, who was in charge of her, that, apart from being sick, she was a delicate and well-mannered woman. Having mentioned hand kissing, she mentioned another incident that revolved around this custom. Every year, around the time of the Muslim holidays, Master Salomiac used to bring a gift to the old mufti, who was the father of Amin Husseini, the current mufti. Master Salomiac was the Russian emissary, and, as such, he had dealings with Muslim leaders as well as with the mufti. His relationship with them was one of great affection. Whenever he came to the mufti, he was offered the seat of honor and was served coffee, sweets, and a narghile, in accordance with Ishmaelite custom. While they were discussing politics, Amin Husseini entered and bowed to the guest. His father scolded him and said, “You insect, why haven’t you kissed his honor’s hand?” Amin Husseini bowed to Master Salomiac and kissed his hand. The two of them remember that exchange to this day. Ludmilla the nurse once went to the Old City to watch the Nebi Mussa celebrations and found herself standing next to Master Salomiac. He said to her, “Come, I have something to show you. See the mufti over there, riding on his white mule, facing the crowd of celebrants? You’re about to see him turn his face away.” Master Salomiac positioned himself in front of the mufti, who immediately turned his face in the other direction. Master Salomiac moved so that, once again, he was directly in front of the mufti. Once again, the mufti turned his face away. This was enacted several times. Master Salomiac said to Ludmilla the nurse, “It’s hard for that villain to look me in the face from such an elevated position. He still remembers that he once kissed my hand.”