Another letter arrived from Zahara. The first part was written in the hospital in Afula, the rest in Ahinoam. It was scrawled on wrinkled paper in gray pencil. The lines ran into each other, and some of the letters were unclear. Out of affection for Zahara, let’s take the time to read it. As we read, we’ll correct the language, close an eye to the spelling, and omit buts, onlys, alsos, indeeds, becauses, and various hemmings and hawings, as well as other superfluous and redundant words.
“Dear Mother, I was mistaken when I wrote to you last night that I was due to deliver. I can tell you now that, when they brought me to the hospital in Afula, it became clear that it was a gross error, so they sent me home as fast as they had brought me. When I got back, rather than let it go at that, everyone agreed that I was going to have twins. When I came back, they made a huge fuss, as if a baby had been born and left in Afula for the time being, until its brother was ready to be born. When everyone was tipsy on wine, they teased our nurse, who had taken me to the hospital, and many of the boys came to ask her if it wasn’t time for them to give birth, too, and whether they should hitch up the automobile and rush to Afula. Oh, Mother, if you had seen their grave, worried faces, you would have laughed. But she didn’t allow them to tease her and presented me and Shammai, the driver, to attest that she had said right away, in no uncertain terms, that the trip was not necessary. She said she had taken me to Afula because of Avraham, who had stirred everyone up, in order to show him there was no need to worry. But, Mother, dear, the drive back from Afula was so beautiful. The moon lit up the roofs of our villages in the Emek valley, and, wherever we went, we saw a welcoming crowd. As our vehicle drew closer, we saw that there were no people, only trees and bushes. Oh, Mother, we saw some small animal on the road too, with red eyes that seemed to be filled with yearning. I don’t know what kind of animal it was. Shammai, who is very well read, said what we saw was a rabbit. But Avraham said it was a fox. The nurse joined in the argument, but I don’t remember exactly what she said. Actually, it doesn’t matter. All I know is how adorable that little creature was, scurrying from left to right, from right to left. If it really was a fox, I am astonished not to have observed a single trace of slyness. The one thing I saw, as I already wrote you, was the longing in its eyes, a megadose of longing. Mother, you don’t know what mega means. It’s a very modern term. Everyone uses it a lot now, in cooking and in poetry. When writing a poem, you throw in that word. It means roughly this: a very, very large amount and a little more than that. You understand me, dearest Mama. Another thing. I kept hearing the sound of a violin. I thought it was my imagination. Then they asked me, ‘Do you hear that, Zahara?’ I thought I was imagining the question too, so I didn’t answer until I heard the nurse, Shammai, and Avraham arguing about the sound, unable to decide what instrument it resembled. Then I knew I was really hearing music, but there was no instrument there. It was simply the night, with its magic. Now, to end this letter, I’ll get back to my affairs and tell you what Avraham said: that my entire adventure is described in the Bible. That’s what he said. He’s in the fields now, so I can’t ask him the precise words. Go to the Book of Ruth and you will find a verse more or less like this: ‘I was full when I went off and just as full when the Lord brought me back.’ Oh, Mother, I’ve written so much that I’m afraid I’m wearing you out with all this scribbling. So I’m telling you that you certainly don’t have to read everything, nor do you have to show it all to Father. Just tell him that Zahara sends a megakiss, also a pat on the forehead. For you too, dear Mother, a kiss or two. No, no, no, Mother — I’m sending you megakisses. For you as well as for Father and Sarah. Your daughter, who loves you very much.
“If Avraham were here, he would send regards to all of you, so I can truly send regards in his name. Also, my regards to Firadeus and Tamara. To all of you, without exception. Zahara.
“See, Mother, when I can, I write a lot to you. So, remember, if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m busy and don’t have the time or because I have to get ready to go to the hospital. Stay well. Megakisses to you, to Father, to Sarah, and to all the people I already mentioned in my letter.
“Mother, I am really worried that you won’t have time to read all that I’ve written here. I see that I’ve written quite a lot. Still, I ask of you, don’t let it keep you from writing what’s going on at home. Write everything, including news of Jerusalem. I’ve heard that terrible things are happening there. That the Arabs are doing things it is hard to believe human beings are capable of. But I’m sure our neighbors in Baka wouldn’t behave like those savage Arabs. They have absolutely no reason to harm us. We have always been kind to them, and you, dearest Mama, helped many of them so much that they consider you an angel. What you did for Lucy from Lebanon, for example, whose babies were always stillborn and who wanted more than anything to have a child. You found her a trustworthy doctor, and she had a little boy. Is it possible that her boy would harm us? But I have no desire to philosophize or politicize, that is to say, to get into politics. Again, megakisses. Avraham just came in from the field. He says his hands are beyond holding a pen and asks me to send his best to all of you. Which is what I am doing, absolutely, as you see. Again, a kiss. Not one but many, many kisses, as I already wrote. Once again, Z.
“Mother, I almost forgot. Tamara must be back from her trip. What does she say about Greece? She is probably full of stories. Tell her that she is (pardon the expression) something that begins with a p, ends with a g, and has an i in the middle. She knows. She never once wrote me even half a word. Still, I love her, though she doesn’t deserve it at all, not one bit. Love and kisses again, Z.”
The days are orderly. Herbst maintains his order too. Out of a sense of duty toward the university, he puts aside the woman of the court and the nobleman Yohanan, to devote himself to his students. He confers with them and provides them with material for their papers. He reaches into his box of notes, takes out a handful, and offers to share them. He is generous and ungrudging toward his students, who will write articles based on references he has discovered, labored over, and collected, material that was previously overlooked. Some professors require their students to gather material for them. And there are professors who put their own name alongside the student’s, making themselves the coauthor, assuming, in their vanity, that it will be to the student’s advantage if they lend their name to the work. Not so with Herbst. Herbst takes what is his and offers it to his students without patting himself on the back and saying, “See how wonderful I am — how decent, how generous — while others are stingy.” His students sense this and are drawn to him. They allow themselves to venture beyond academic matters to personal concerns, to their deepest secrets. One of his students even confessed to an emotional tangle centering on a young married woman with a child, who shares his desk at the university. Herbst, too, allows himself to discuss nonacademic matters with his students. His conversations with them are like conversations with peers. One of the two students he ran into that Saturday night when he was with Shira was sitting with him once, later on, and Herbst was on the verge of saying, “Remember that woman you saw me with in the café, when you and your friend were arguing about poetry and linguistics, discussing the verse ‘O heavens, seek pity for me’? I said anyone with the courage to ask the heavens to plead for him is certainly fortunate. Now, my friend, though I know I don’t deserve it, I too sometimes hear my heart cry out, ‘O heavens, seek pity for me’!”