Shira (30 page)
Manfred Herbst did not behave in any of the aforementioned ways. One could say that he and his work were clean. So he ought to have been pleased with himself, but he was not. When he confronted his box of notations, his piles of cards, his collection of notebooks, bundles of papers and pads, and heaps of writings, he would sometimes pound the table and cry out, “May flames leap up and consume you.” But, as long as they existed, it was his duty to rework, amend, and update them. He went back to his work, continuing to do today what he did yesterday and all the other days. He worked without joy, for there is no joy in amassing papers, even if the papers are full of fine quotations. When Herbst first thought of writing his book, he was inspired by an idea. As he began to support it with facts, the facts took over, and the idea dwindled. Finally, his box was full of facts but short on substance.
Herbst left his desk and notes, lit a cigarette, and went to the west window, which was curtained in a colorful woven fabric. Under it was a bookcase that used to be filled with fine china from the era of Frederick iI, made in the royal factory. The pieces were passed on to Henrietta by her parents and grandparents, for the king, known as Frederick the Great, required every Jew in his kingdom who wished to marry to buy dishes produced in his factory. In time, these dishes were broken since the local help in the Land of Israel was unaccustomed to handling such fragile objects. What wasn’t broken, Henrietta sold to buy reproductions for Manfred or traded for books, and what they neither sold nor traded, they gave as a gift to the Bezalel Museum. When there was no china left on the shelves, Henrietta began putting volumes of poetry, stories, and novels there. Occasionally, when she was done with her work, she would come in and take a book to read. Manfred, too, when he was despondent and wanted to regain his composure, would reach for a book.
These books lie there, small volumes that don’t attract attention or catch the eye because of their form or content. They were written by individuals who, for the most part, never saw the inside of a university and never studied with the scholars of their day. They wrote in the recesses of their rooms, tormented by hunger and other trials. Their wisdom was gleaned in the marketplace and on the streets, from every man, woman, and child; from animals, beasts and birds; from dusty roads and chilly winds; from the sun, the moon, and the stars; from trees in the wood and streaming river waters. These are books about people of no consequence, yet, if one examines the plots, one finds insight as well as basic wisdom of the sort one has to struggle to extract from other sources, heavy tomes written in profound language and complex terminology.
Not all the books the Herbsts brought from Germany were still in the bookcase. Some had been borrowed and never returned. Zahara took some of them with her to the
kvutza
. Though the settlers in Ahinoam have truly turned their backs on Germany, Austria, or Czechoslovakia to make a new life in the Land of Israel, when it comes to books, they behave as they did in their birthplace. What they used to read there, they read here. Even Tamara, who can barely read German, began taking books off these shelves. When she had finished her courses and received a teachers’ certificate, she discarded all the books about yeshiva students, old men with earlocks, beggars, and eccentrics of all kinds – all those types celebrated by Hebrew literature – and turned to books in other languages that told about real people, the kind whose thoughts and actions a civilized person is interested in. After reading everything that had been translated into Hebrew, she began reading English and even German. It’s an odd thing: visitors who come from Germany say that, since the Nazi rise to power, they have begun to value a single line of Hebrew more than all of Goethe and Kant; yet this girl, conceived, born, and educated in the Land of Israel, whose friends were all born there, who speaks Hebrew fluently – she replaces Hebrew books with gentile books and, what is more, she calls the Hebrew books “drivel.” When Herbst’s supply of poetry, novels, and stories began to dwindle, he filled the space with biographies. Everyone should study the lives of famous men, as a source of strength and an antidote to despair, evidence that even the finest human beings were human and they too were subject to the wheel of fortune and often discouraged – although this is not stated explicitly, either because no one reveals everything or because biographers, wishing to glorify the lives of exemplary people, suppress whatever is not praiseworthy about them. Still, whoever can read between the lines is rewarded. Now that Herbst’s task seemed lighter to him, he reached into the bookcase and took out a book.
As soon as he began reading, he forgot why he was reading and found himself reading for pleasure. He read on, smiling every so often and shaking his head at the book, as if to say: How innocent this author is! Doesn’t he know that even the greatest human being sometimes hits bottom and is flung from soaring heights to earth’s deepest abyss? I am not a great man, nor do I have the arrogance of the great; I am, furthermore, grateful to those powers that didn’t endow me with a sense of my own greatness. But I would guess that even the great men of the world were not always so wise, that their actions were not always a credit to them, that they were careful to conceal unbecoming actions and not to make them public except, perhaps, when their very faults were praiseworthy.
Very slowly, his rational processes were suspended, and his critical faculties were replaced by a sense of pleasure. He read with utter pleasure and with a yearning that added a physical dimension to his sensual pleasure. His soul was transported from one realm to another, and he began to feel as if he were the character he was reading about. This crossing of souls and spirits was accompanied by envy, the envy scholars indulge in. Tears filled his eyes as he considered his empty, wasted life. But his envy was fruitless, his tears futile, for neither led to action. His notebooks, lists, notations, and manuscript were like an abandoned egg that would never hatch. Herbst put down the biography of some great man and returned to his box of notes, putting one in, taking one out. If Henrietta were watching, she would assume he was busy with his book. Actually, only his hands were busy, like a card player who keeps shuffling the deck even when he is alone, out of sheer habit.
Chapter two
A
s it happened Herbst was at his desk, occupied with his notes, not thinking about anything. He looked at the notes and discovered that the material seemed to fit together to form a discrete chapter. What was not the case with Homer’s poems – which, as one scholar has noted, are not mere letters arranged at random – was the case with the book about burial customs of the poor in Byzantium. All of a sudden, at random and inadvertently, an entire chapter had put itself together. Herbst had worked on it for many years; suddenly, it took care of itself. What needs to be done now? It needs to be edited, erasing what should be erased, adding what should be added, correcting the language, explaining abbreviations and the like, until the chapter stands on its own – since, to a great extent, it is a subject in itself.
How is it a subject in itself? In their legal code, a husband cannot divorce his wife, nor can a woman divorce her husband, since the Torah declares, “They became one flesh.” Their lawmakers took this to mean that what the Creator has combined into one flesh, no man may put asunder, adding that in some cases a man is allowed to divorce his wife, but a woman may never divorce her husband. The Byzantine emperor, Leo the Isaurian, however, introduced four situations in which a woman could rid herself of her husband; should he get leprosy, for example, the woman could rid herself of him. This ruling, along with related material, formed a chapter in itself for Manfred Herbst. As he looked it over, he decided to copy it out; as he copied it out, he corrected and rewrote. Once it was edited, written, and rewritten, he sent it abroad to the editor of the journal of research in Byzantine antiquities in which all the great Byzantine scholars are published. Believe it or not, although anti-Semitism was intense, and most gentile scholars lent support to our enemies, they welcomed this article by Dr. Herbst of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Scholarship has its own dominion, which villainous hands fail to rock.
It was only a few months before the journal arrived in Jerusalem. Believe it or not, even the scholars on Mount Scopus took note of Manfred Herbst’s chapter and said, “This makes sense.” Sometimes the world tires of its follies and begins to smile on its creatures. Everyone was certainly astonished: this Herbstlein, whom they tolerated because he was such a modest man and because he made no effort to advance himself, took everyone by surprise with this article. Herbst had already published a book of more than six hundred pages, so why the uproar over a single article? If you like, I will tell you. Whatever a scholar wrote in his youth is prehistoric. If you like, I will tell you more. Herbst had already cashed in on his book, having won his appointment because of it. Eminent faculty members now talk about him in favorable terms. Those who seldom speak positively about anyone have nothing negative to say about him. If one of them is forced to mention him, he is sure to add, “Too bad he didn’t show me his article before sending it out; I might have made some comments.” Saying this, he thinks to himself: If I read it again, I will surely have something to add. In short, suddenly, with very little warning, Herbst’s star began to rise.
Let me say a word about envy. A person who develops step by step gives his friends a chance to observe him and become envious, which is not the case when a person’s talents emerge suddenly, in full power. Friends, having had no time to observe him, have had no time to become envious. They don’t seem to mind that he has achieved a measure of happiness. They even seek his welfare on occasion, and, if he takes the world by surprise with a great book or an important article, they treat him as they always have, for habit goes a long way. As for those who didn’t know him before, they are obviously not susceptible to envy or hatred, envy being reserved for intimates or acquaintances.
Since Manfred Herbst didn’t arouse the envy of colleagues, what began as a somewhat favorable response to him escalated, becoming intensely favorable. When the board of governors, or the senate, met to consider his promotion, no one objected, except Professor Bachlam, who was always grudging, all the more so toward scholars from Germany, who tended to disparage him and disregard his scholarship, although he had produced books that were on a par with theirs. In brief, it was suddenly the consensus that Manfred Herbst deserved to be promoted – for the moment, to the level of associate professor, not full professor. Though there was no additional salary involved, there was added prestige. Sometimes a lecturer is promoted but makes do with a lecturer’s salary, since the university cannot afford to pay a professor’s salary to every instructor who is promoted; the university’s expenses are soaring rapidly, and its income doesn’t grow proportionately. Its employees no longer receive their monthly salary three days early; now they’re lucky to be paid three days late.
Back to Herbst. It was about to happen. Manfred Herbst was going to be appointed a professor, like Bachlam and Ernst Weltfremdt and Lemner and Wechsler and all the other professors at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem who achieved this high position because of their books or social connections. Were we to judge by the polished brass nameplates gleaming on their doors, this was a good thing; if we look to the heart, what’s so good about it?
There is a simple creature in this world, named Shira. Just when fortune begins to smile on Herbst, this creature, Shira, puts him off. On the face of it, she shows warmth; actually, she shows only the freckles on her face, which is to say that, when he comes to her, she shows only her face, that’s all. Unlike that night when he first knew her, when she was so affectionate that there could be no other woman as affectionate; unlike the three or four nights that followed, when she was not as affectionate as on the first night, but she did respond to him, though not as he wished, yet we can say she responded, and he was in another world because of her. Herbst sits wondering why that night was different. When he saw her for the first time, expecting nothing, she was very affectionate, whereas, now that he is obsessed by her, she doesn’t notice him. Has she found more adequate companions, lovers? Herbst isn’t jealous, nor does he wish to know who they are. Herbst’s mind is on Shira, who is above all women, whom none can match. Whether he sees or imagines her, that phrase “Flesh such as yours…” is fixed on his lips.
Herbst tries to extricate himself from this chaos of Shira thoughts, which are boundless and infinite, whose sole effect is to suspend all other enterprises. Herbst turns his mind back to his work, to his book, to the material he has compiled, collected, selected, copied, and invented. He begins to relate to his book as if it is already there, as if it exists, as if all the notes were gathered together in a single volume. What does Shira do? Surfacing from the dimness of his thoughts, she appears before him.
When it comes to self-deception, Herbst is cautious, and he examines his actions with total objectivity. He is aware that, even when his book is completed, his ultimate goal will not be realized. He regards the actions of others with the same objectivity. Even those who have published several books will not affect the heavenly bodies, nor will they change the course of our world. Though learning is a dominion in itself, it holds no golden scepter in its hand.
I’ll get back to Shira now. Shira is not the same Shira we knew two years ago. Her upper lip is wrinkled, and her hair is beginning to turn gray. She is still in her prime, but she’s becoming slovenly. Though her clothes are old, she doesn’t replace them. The walls of her room are peeling, but she doesn’t arrange to get them repainted. The print of the skull has yellowed frightfully, and it looks as if a real skull is staring at you. What Böcklin’s brush didn’t accomplish has been accomplished by Shira’s slovenliness; she has stopped dusting the picture. Only the bed has changed its place. It used to be in the southeast corner; it is now in the northwest. Was it Shira’s idea to move the bed or someone else’s? It doesn’t really matter, except that all these thoughts of Shira bring on other thoughts that relate to Shira. He tires of them – they never tire. They give him wings, and he takes off and flies to Shira. When he comes, she welcomes him, offers cigarettes, fruit, and tea. Herbst lights a cigarette, takes some fruit, drinks a glass of tea, and thinks to himself: The things she gives me are presents from lovers; just as she gives me the gifts her lovers give her, she gives her lovers the gifts I give her. None of this disturbs him. It does disturb him that, though her hair is graying, she doesn’t dye it; though her clothes are worn, she doesn’t replace them; though she has lost a tooth, she doesn’t get a false one. Is Shira so sure of herself, confident that she is still attractive? Herbst studies Shira and can only wonder: Why am I so drawn to her. If it’s habit, Henrietta is more of a habit. Also handsomer, and of superior character. If Henrietta were in trouble, I would be very upset; if this one were in trouble, I would be glad to be rid of her. Herbst studies Shira repeatedly, through investigation and visitation. Before he has a chance to observe very much, his heart begins to flutter longingly.
