Shira (89 page)

In this period, while he was being pursued by Sarini’s husband, who was pressing him to write a letter to the Jewish Agency, Herbst received a letter from abroad inviting him to contribute to an anniversary volume in honor of Professor Neu, who was going to turn seventy the following year. Even before he was invited to contribute to this book, he himself had been thinking of putting out a slim volume for Neu’s birthday, and he had begun working on it. Because of Gabriel’s birth, he had put it aside. Now that the invitation had arrived, he had in mind to prepare a chapter from his own book for this volume. To this end, he planned to skim through various books and journals to see what was new in the field. These books and journals could be found in two places: in the National Library at the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus or at Ernst Weltfremdt’s. Normally, Herbst would go to Mount Scopus. Now he chose to go to Ernst Weltfremdt, though they had drifted apart, and he hadn’t even come to his son’s
brit.
But he had sent him a copy of his new book as a gift.

I am skipping over Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation, which was undoubtedly of a scholarly nature. The day his major work was published, he changed his ways. He no longer engaged in conversation that wasn’t scholarly, and, needless to say, he avoided conversation with anyone who wasn’t a scholar. If anyone tried to involve him in university disputes, political affairs, or any similarly ephemeral matters, he would respond floridly, “My dear, dear friend, let us leave such matters to those who have nothing in their world beyond these unreal concerns, while we, my dear, dear friend, deal with our own affairs, thus bringing far more benefit to the world than any statesman or public figure.” So much for Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation. I am now leaving Weltfremdt’s house with Herbst, who is laden with books borrowed for a month. Weltfremdt has instituted a time limit when lending books, which is an advantage to the borrower. Knowing that the books must be returned on a particular day, he will make a point of using them and be less likely to waste time.

After Herbst left Weltfremdt, he saw that he would have to take the bus to Baka, because he had so many books that it would be awkward to walk. Herbst was sorry that, now that he was in Rehavia, a neighborhood one could walk in, he had to go home, because of the books. His thoughts turned on many matters, and it crossed his mind that the entire course of his life would have been different if he didn’t live in Baka. Moreover, it was clear that he must move out of Baka. It is dangerous for a Jew to live among Arabs, and he is endangering his wife and daughters, as well as Firadeus and all those who come to his house. Years back, before Rehavia existed, he and all his acquaintances were young, and an hour’s walk was nothing to them, so it didn’t matter to him where he lived. Now, he and his acquaintances have grown old, the city has expanded in all directions, and the Arabs have restricted the movements of Jews and drawn lines that separate one street from another, so it is difficult for a Jew to live in Baka. Before he arrived at the stop, a bus passed him by. When he got there, the next bus hadn’t yet come. Herbst stood at the bus stop, his arms laden with books, his mind brimming with thoughts – among them, the foolish ones that are likely to concern a modern man, such as: My hands are full, and, if a woman I know comes by, I ought to ask how she is, but I won’t even be able to lift my hand and tip my hat to her. Oh, well, Herbst observed – perhaps joking, perhaps with an ounce of sincerity – one can carry big books and think small thoughts.

The bus finally came. Since it wasn’t full, Herbst could have found a seat if he hadn’t been intercepted by Sarini, who was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. She, Sarini, being a truthful person who isn’t in the habit of saying Vashti when she means Esther, was prepared, at that moment, to tell Mr. Herberist the whole truth about why she was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. This is how it was: That villain, that demon from hell, may his name be blotted out, who is her husband and the father of her children, may those who seek to count them lose their sight – that villain, that devil is possessed by madness and is determined to go to the mountains of darkness. Now that all the roads are imperiled by Ibn Saud’s wars, a disaster could, God forbid, befall him, and what would become of her? She would be an abandoned wife, doomed to remain desolate for the rest of her days, and her tender young ones would be orphans by default. So she is going to Mistress Herberist, who is probably a soulmate and intimate of the wife of the Englishman who occupies Herberist Samuel’s position, who can reproach that villainous husband of hers and forbid him to leave Jerusalem in a bus or a car, on a horse, donkey, camel, or mule, or on foot – not even with magic spells or the assistance of a guardian angel. Sarini interrupted herself and began shouting in a loud voice, “I stand here, my hands empty, my mouth full, while Mr. Herberist stands there, his hands so full. All because of that villain, may he be erased and defaced for having caused me such sorrow and deprived me of sense, so much so that I see Mr. Herberist, exhausted by the load he is carrying, yet make no move to help him. Give it to me, sir. The entire load. I’ll take it all home for you, in my arms and on my head. Nothing – not a single page of these books – will be missing. See, you need two hands for it, but when I put it all in my basket, one hand is enough.” He hesitated to entrust Sarini with books that weren’t his own, that belonged to Ernst Weltfremdt, who was so fussy about his property. Her baskets aren’t clean; they may even be dirty, he reasoned. She uses them to carry things home from the market, such things as meat, fish, oil – sometimes even a slaughtered chicken. What will that pedant say if he finds a speck on his book? Weltfremdt would never forgive him and, needless to say, would no longer grant him access to his bookshelves. While he was still considering, she took the books from him and put them in her basket. Sarini lifted the basket until it was at eye level and said to Herbst, “See, here they are. Like an infant in a cradle. I wish my children had found themselves such a cozy nest. You can go where you like. I’ll take the books to your room and put them on your desk, one by one, in the right order, not head to tail.” Herbst didn’t understand what heads and tails had to do with books, but he assumed it was a metaphor for order. He smiled benignly. She smiled back and said, “I won’t go with that madwoman,” pointing to the bus, which she regarded as a fierce female. Herbst smiled again, said goodbye to her, and repeated, “Goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye, and thank you for making it possible for me not to go home when I have things to do in town. What should you tell Mrs. Herbst? Tell her not to hold supper for me. Now goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye.”

Chapter two

A
s soon as his arms were emptied of his books, his mind was emptied too. He didn’t know where to turn, where to go. As long as the books were with him, he knew he had to go home. Now that he was clear of the books, several paths were cleared for him, none of which was useful. Herbst was still at the bus stop where he had been standing earlier, before he gave the books to Sarini. Buses arrived and departed, but he didn’t take any of them. Men and women pushed to the head of the line, and he found himself at the end of it. He let himself be pushed aside to make room for people who had to get on the bus. After standing around for a while, he realized he didn’t belong there, that he didn’t have to stay in line, that he didn’t have to stand and wait, that there was no reason to be concerned about finding a seat on the bus. Relieved of the discomforts of waiting, he felt liberated. He could set his legs in motion and go anywhere. Anywhere…. Which was a problem, because he didn’t want to go anywhere. He thought vaguely about going to see if Shira was at home, but he took no action. He mused: I won’t bother myself with something I can do some other time. If my curiosity about Shira has subsided, I won’t deliberately renew it.

The day was already dimming, and the entire earth changed its aspect. The streets suppressed their tumult, some roads turning white, others graying. The air close to the ground became black; closer to the sky, it was pink; and the air in between was nondescript, colorless. The trees on Maimon Boulevard, along with the men and women who strolled by, were engrossed in a secret they themselves were unaware of. Some of these strollers seemed to be saying: You don’t realize who we are. Not in so many words, yet whoever saw them wondered who they were. After circling several streets, Herbst turned onto the one named for Rav Saadia Gaon; actually, those who name streets had foolishly omitted the title
Rav
, though they generally bestowed it on Israel’s great men. Herbst looked down over the valley, surveyed the scene that twinkled up at him, and thought: Here we have a remnant of Jerusalem’s splendor, unblemished by new construction. How wonderful it used to be to go down into the valleys and up into the hills, but nowadays one would be exposed to Arab gunfire and Arab knives. He forced himself – yes, actually forced himself – to reject the fantasies he usually indulged in about Shira’s disappearance and the circumstances of her disappearance. He suddenly felt that this required no effort; that, having recurred so often, these fantasies had lost their intensity and no longer frightened him. I see, said Herbst, in an utterly peaceful and expansive mood, I see that when one fantasizes a great deal about something, it loses its intensity. If so, why hasn’t Shira lost her intensity? Is there anything in the world I have thought about as much as I’ve thought about Shira? Right now, her name doesn’t arouse any emotion, but it would be worthwhile to know where she is. Isn’t it odd? You begin to count on a person, on finding that person in the places you know he frequents. He suddenly vanishes, and you don’t find him anywhere. Someone will probably appear now and divert me. In any case, I shouldn’t have entrusted the books to Sarini. Someone else’s books should be safeguarded. I shouldn’t have let them out of my hands. But what’s done is done, so I won’t dwell on it. Having decided not to dwell on the fact that he had entrusted the books to Sarini, he began to think about Sarini’s husband: Even if his trip is a total fantasy, he gains something by leaving his home, as well as the orderly routines that make boredom inevitable. The world isn’t short on ideas, good deeds, ideals, and love, be it the love of men and women or the love of sublime ideals. But, when every day is identical, when everything is the outcome or sequel of something similar, then, whether we like it or not, ideas, ideals, and love begin to seem flawed. What can a man do to renew himself, to give meaning to actions whose meaning is lost, to disengage himself from routine? It may be that monks and ascetics choose to cast aside wealth and position, and settle in desert caves, in order to serve their gods, as our history books and our legends lead us to believe. But there may be another reason for this choice: a need to suspend their routines and renew their souls. Even such a simple person as Sarini’s husband, who does nothing but eat, drink, and beget children, may have felt the urge to renew his world when that divine hand directed him, in a dream, to seek out the Ten Tribes. How Henrietta laughed when I told her I was beginning to be bored with boredom. I, for one, don’t understand this: I went to Ernst Weltfremdt’s to get books for the article I’m writing for Neu’s anniversary volume, yet here I am, wasting my time on sheer nonsense. What is obvious is that what I ought to do now is review my article to ascertain if there is anything new in it, anything that will please Neu. Neu, Neu, Neu, Herbst cried inwardly, like someone in distress crying out for help. Herbst wasn’t in distress, and he cried out only because his heart was full and he had to express what was inside. Since he was thinking of Neu, he cried “Neu.” In such a circumstance, a naive person invokes God; a simple person cries “Mama, Mama.” Herbst, who was academically disciplined, invoked the name of the teacher from whom he had learned so much.

Herbst, like most people, found that, having invoked a particular name, others followed by association. Rightfully, he should have remembered Lisbet Neu. But he didn’t. Either he dismissed her from his mind, or his article was uppermost at that moment. Who can fathom a man’s mental processes? Since I mentioned Lisbet Neu, I will now dwell on her situation.

Lisbet Neu is still employed at the same place. She works in the store or the office eight or nine hours a day and is paid the same salary as before. Employers are difficult, whether they are shopkeepers or run offices. They are self-involved and don’t consider their employees’ needs, especially if the employee doesn’t belong to the Histadrut, in which case the union has no power over them. Even members of the new society in this old-new country, most of whom came here to live a new life – a proper and ethical one – fail to restate that old rule to themselves, the one we have to behold anew every day: “And your brother shall live
with
you.” If not for the threat of strikes and Histadrut disputes, most of our self-righteous brothers would be willing to ignore their employees’ way of life, expecting them to work until they expire but being careful to avoid getting stuck with the burial expenses. So Lisbet Neu works eight or nine hours out of the twenty-four in a day for a paltry salary, supporting herself meagerly. Lisbet Neu has already despaired of finding a man, so she works doubly hard. Her employer is pleased. He is generous with compliments, but he doesn’t raise her salary. Leaving the business in her hands, he sleeps late, stays at home entertaining guests, and goes abroad in the summer. Lisbet Neu is dependable, and he depends on her. Nothing seems to have changed in Lisbet Neu’s life, except that she has made friends with several young women, the daughters of parents who came from Germany, with whom she spends Shabbat evenings reading the weekly Bible portion along with the commentary of Samson Raphael Hirsch. Hirsch’s language is complex, and not everyone understands it. But Lisbet, who pored over his books back in Germany, interprets for them, drawing deep meaning from his well of ideas. Some young women pore over the magazines that come from abroad, studying the pictures to learn what dress one wears on which day, at which hour, in which company; what creams are suitable for skin and teeth; which cosmetics are used by the most genteel women. Lisbet Neu and her friends find contentment in the Torah and the commentaries. Believe it or not, they are well dressed; their teeth are bright, their scent appealing. When Herbst first knew Lisbet Neu, he responded to a scent of innocence that seemed to pervade her person.