— Wait, Father.
— Wait…
— It was just a thought… don’t be angry… perhaps I’m wrong…
— Then I am wrong.
— I most certainly hope that it is not a one-man movement.
— But wait…
— You? Hah!
— You will outlive us all, don’t you worry…
— Palestine did not affect my mind. Although if someone had told me that night at the congress that twelve days later I would be in Jerusalem, I would have thought him deranged…
— But wait… don’t be angry… it was just a thought…
— You make it sound as if I have already killed him! On the contrary, Father, the session went on and on — there were more speeches, and greetings, and even a few challenges from the floor — and all this time I was wedged between my column and my professor — until finally, late at night, we dispersed and I rushed off to look for my Linka, whom I had lost sight of earlier in the evening, still with my pathologist at my side, now delivering an oration of his own that was replete with original if rather brutal ideas. And so slowly the crowd jostled us out to the street with its din of people and carriages that made me quite dizzy, since I was not accustomed to the proximity of so many Jews, let alone to wearing evening dress. I began to look for Linka and finally spied her in that mob scene surrounded by a swarm of Russians — of pogrom-and-Pobedonostsev survivors — with her ridiculous dress all wrinkled — the very clasps were falling off — and her feverish arms piled high with papers. And on her shoulder, Father, quite nonchalantly but firmly planted — I can still see it perfectly clearly — was a male hand… Well, before I could come to our budding young leader’s rescue, up popped an angry little old man in a top hat, straight out of the sidewalk, and shouted in Yiddish right under my nose: “Is there a doctor here? We need a doctor! Who here is a doctor?” I stepped up automatically, and he gripped my hand fiercely and led me back into the hall that had still pulsed madly with people and lights when I had left it a few moments before. It was already dim and deserted; only a few Swiss help were still there, sweeping up the waste paper with large brooms, snuffing out the last candles, and opening the windows to air out all those moldy speeches. The little old man flew between the chairs with great vigor, pulling me after him to the proscenium — where suddenly he stopped and asked quite forwardly: “Where are you from, young man?” Naturally, when I told him, he had no idea where it was, but when I added that it was near Cracow, his face lit up at once. “But what kind of a doctor are you?” he asked, still standing with me there on the stage. “What do you specialize in?” “Pediatrics,” I replied with a smile. You should have seen his crestfallen look! “Pediatrics?” He mulled it over for a while and then mumbled: “Well, never mind. Come with me.” “But what is the matter?” I asked. “Come quick, someone has fainted,” he said rather mysteriously. He commenced dragging me after him again, opened a door that led backstage into a large, dark billiard parlor, and started up an ornate staircase, pulling me down several long corridors into a room full of cigarette smoke, in which two men were standing by an easy chair. And who do you think, Father, was sitting in it? Herzl.
— Herzl in person, very pale and small — without his tie — without his frock coat — his white shirt open at the neck — but perfectly calm. He was holding a glass of water and speaking French with some friends, although the old man who brought me addressed him most familiarly in German. “I’ve found a young physician from Cracow,” he said. “For God’s sake, Dr. Herzl, please allow him to examine you.” Herzl simply waved an impatient, a dismissive hand; but at once everyone joined the old man in cajoling him to agree, until at last he gave in and dropped his beard on his chest in a most touching gesture of acquiescence. The vigorous old man pushed me toward the easy chair — so hard, in fact, that I almost stumbled, for he appeared to be afraid that if I did not make haste Herzl would change his mind — at which point, Father, listen — listen to me! — I forgot all about my diagnosis. In fact, the same man who had struck me as being little more than a mummy on the stage now seemed terribly vital and real — even the bags under his eyes now looked like an inspired form of makeup. I had no idea what to examine him for. I assumed he had had an attack of vertigo — perhaps a slight syncope — the whites of his eyes were prominent and there was nystagmus. I looked to see if there were any signs of regurgitation — I am quite used to children vomiting in such cases — but there were none; nor was there any smell. I was at a loss. I had no idea what was expected of me. I leaned over until I was close to him, quite overwrought with anxiety — and as I did he looked up at me and threw me a rather merry glance. He spoke in German, and I in a Yiddish that I hoped would pass for German. In an unsteady voice, I asked him what was the matter. He laughed, made some jest to his friends about the doctor feeling faint himself, and held out his hand to me — whether to take my own or in an expression of surprise, I could not say — and so I seized it and quickly began to seek — what else could I do? — the pulse.
— Sometimes it enables you to detect irregularities in the heartbeat.
— That was just it. I could not find any pulse. Perhaps I was not gripping his wrist tightly enough, or perhaps his pulse was too weak. Meanwhile, the door opened and in came two more men with another doctor they had hunted down, a handsome, brown-skinned, stocky man wearing a white frock coat. He bowed to us all with a great show of feeling, and — blushing with emotion, although quite freely and winningly — went over to Herzl and introduced himself in English as Dr. Mani. He made some reference to Jerusalem, where it seemed that he had met Herzl before, but Herzl — who regarded him in the same slightly jocular manner — did not remember him. And mind you, all this time I was standing there holding his wrist and trying desperately — with my heart in my boots — to undo his gold cufflink and find his vanished pulse while more and more people filled the room with more and more doctors, all urgently summoned by Herzl’s entourage — each of whom had gone out to find a physician and some of whom had found more than one. It was beginning to seem more of a medical convention than a Zionist congress. Of course, all the doctors stopped in their tracks the minute they saw me standing by the easy chair and stubbornly clinging to Herzl’s wrist in search of his lost heartbeat — which, even if I had found it, could not possibly have been counted in all that commotion — especially since the patient, who seemed quite delighted at the sight of all those people come to treat him, would not sit still. By now he had his color back and everyone was beginning to relax since the great man was clearly alive and even laughing as if he had simply played a prank on all the doctors to assemble them in one room. But although I had no reason to keep groping for his pulse, I could not let go of his hand; it was as though glued to mine. The more doctors poured into the room, the more paralyzed I became. Everyone was waiting impatiently — although I must say, with collegial politeness — for the impertinent young physician — for I obviously felt nothing and was not counting anything — to finish his absurd examination. And yet I would not give up — not until I saw the shiny crown of my professor of pathology come floating into the room too and grew so genuinely terrified that I finally let the hand drop — whereupon Herzl, with the most magnificent gallantry, rose, took my hand once more in his own, and shook it most heartily in a grateful adieu, ha ha ha ha ha…