Herbst lay listening. It seemed to him that what he heard was a German song that sounded like a Russian song but was actually a Hebrew song. His mind shifted to the question of accents, and from there to the character types he had observed in the kvutza and to young women who take on men’s work. From there, his thoughts turned to the war, when most men went to the front and it seemed possible that the world would be destroyed. What with war casualties, the casualties of time, and work left undone, how was the world to survive? So women were expected to do men’s work. Since they were doing men’s work, they wore men’s clothing. Some of them were grotesque, some attractive. But he didn’t dwell on this and began thinking about his book again. He pondered the books of other faculty members, trying to recall whether anyone had written in Hebrew on a general subject or whether all the Hebrew books were about Judaism or the Land of Israel. His mind drifted here and there, from subject to subject, back to the war, to the agents of war, the victims of war, the events of the war. He thought about some of it a great deal; some, he preferred to avoid.
Now, in connection with what happened later that night, I bring up one of the things he dismissed from his mind. During the war, shortly after his marriage, his aunt in Leipzig asked to meet Henrietta. His aunt was too old to travel to Berlin. They agreed by letter that he and Henrietta would come to Leipzig on one of his leaves. One day, Manfred was granted leave. He went to his aunt’s house in Leipzig. He washed up, shaved off his beard, changed his clothes, and went to the train station to meet Henrietta, who was expected on the night train. This plan had been devised in an exchange of telegrams. When he got to the train station, he discovered that he had made a mistake and come a day early. He stood there dejected, watching the Berlin train, which had arrived without Henrietta. As he watched the train, he noticed a girl, dressed in trousers, cleaning one of the cars. His heart began to pound, and he left. Walking back to his aunt’s house, he saw her again. She was coming from work, dressed in a winter coat of the sort train conductors wear. It hung on her shoulders in a mannish way, and her coarse boots squeaked noisily. He stood watching her. She became aware of him and slowed down, to be more available should he choose to talk to her. He was taken aback and walked on, his heart pounding rapidly and ablaze with excitement. The next night, he went to the train station an hour early. While waiting for Henrietta to arrive, he went to the newsstand and saw a photograph of two severed legs, accompanied by a caption about a boy of fifteen or sixteen whose severed limbs were found on a bench in the Rose Valley. Near this item was a second item with the same picture but another caption, explaining that doctors consulted by the police believed the legs were those of a woman of about twenty, who was murdered, probably by a rapist, and that, since a young woman who cleaned cars in the central station in Leipzig had disappeared, it was assumed that the severed legs were hers. I am omitting Henrietta’s reception that night, but I will add that Herbst reproached himself with the thought that, had he talked to the girl, she wouldn’t have fallen prey to the rapist who killed her. Now, back to Ahinoam.
The singing voices were no longer heard. They were replaced by the wail of jackals. This sound didn’t usually frighten Herbst. He had lived in Jerusalem for so many years that it was familiar to him; it had been common in the beginning, when Baka was sparsely settled. Now he was alarmed and shaken, but he didn’t realize the alarm had been stored in him since the night Shira told him about a jackal that devoured a baby. All the things alluded to here are recounted, described, and elucidated in preceding chapters. When Shira told him about the jackal and the baby, he paid no attention, because he was preoccupied with the tale of the engineer and the whip. Now that he heard the jackal, having already dismissed the tale of the whip, the entire story came back to him. When he dismissed the tale of the baby and the jackal, the tale of the severed legs recurred. When he dismissed the tale of the severed legs, the tale of the baby and the jackal recurred. Finally, between the tale of the baby and the jackal and the tale of the severed legs, he was overcome by sleep.
But it was not good sleep, because in his sleep he discovered whose legs they were and who had severed them. Some brute, returning from war, had found her in the field behind her house and murdered her. Herbst ran to the police station to tell them who the murderer was. Before he even reached the station, he was intercepted by policemen, who arrested him as a suspect. He went with them, saying not a word, for they would soon see he was entirely innocent and release him. But he was upset that, in the meantime, there would be an item about him in the newspaper, and his wife and daughters would be mortified. He was not released; he was led to the death cell. He went to the death cell, saying not a word. He was confident they would soon realize he was innocent and send him home. But he was upset that, in the meantime, his wife and daughters would find out and be mortified. He began to worry that his wife and daughters might suspect him of the murder. He wanted to shout, “I’m innocent of that murder and of any other murder!” His voice was locked in his throat, because Shira was coming and he knew that it was she who was the murderer and it was she who was the rapist. He lifted his eyes and turned toward her imploringly, to arouse her sympathy, so she would attest that he wasn’t guilty. But Shira gave no sign that she intended to make a move on his behalf. He raised his voice and shouted, “Shira, Shira!”
He woke up screaming and saw his wife standing over him, comforting him, trying to soothe his distraught soul. What he had seen in his dream was forgotten. He remembered nothing. Then he remembered being led to the death cell, with women dancing before him and singing, “Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.” He was startled and wanted to scream. Henrietta stroked his cheek and tried to calm him. Manfred stared at her and cried, “Mother, are you here? Oh, Henriett, I had a terrible dream. Such an awful dream. The sort of dream that can lead to madness.” Henrietta smoothed his brow and said, “Calm down, my love. Calm down, Fred.” Manfred said, “I can’t calm down. I can’t! What a dream, what a dream. Tell me, did you happen to hear what I was shouting in the dream?” Henrietta said, “I heard.” Manfred shrieked in alarm, “Tell me what I shouted!” Henrietta said, “Calm down, Fred.” Manfred said, “I won’t calm down! Tell me what I shouted.” Henrietta said, “You didn’t shout. You were singing.” “Singing? What was I singing?” Henrietta said, “That silly song that Tamara always used to sing.” “Which one?” “‘Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.’“ Manfred reached for Henrietta and said, “Come and lie down next to me.” Henrietta lay down next to him. He embraced her with all his might and cried out, “It was awful! Mother, a dream like the one I dreamed could drive a sane man to madness.” Henrietta said, “Tell me the dream.” Manfred said, “I can’t, I can’t. Don’t ask me to tell it to you, and don’t mention it. Maybe I’ll forget it too. Mother, it was a dreadful dream, an awful dream, and you say I was singing in my sleep. What was I singing, Mother?” Henrietta said, “But I just told you, Fred.” “Tell me again what I was singing.” Henrietta said, “‘Sound a cheer, cheer, cheer.’“ “Is that all?” “That’s all.” “Mother, you are so good. If not for you, I would have been hanged.” Henrietta said, “Hush, Fred. Hush.” She kissed him on the mouth, and he kissed her, a protracted kiss. Henrietta said, “Wait. I’ll go and cover the window. The moon is shining on my face.” Manfred said, “Mother, don’t move. You are such a delight, Mother. It’s good to have you close.” Henrietta peered at him and asked, “Is that so?” Manfred said, “Yes, Mother. Believe me. You please me more than any woman in the world.” Henrietta said, “To hear you talk, one would think there were others.” She kissed him again and said, “My love, lie quietly. Maybe you’ll fall asleep.” Manfred said, “I don’t want to sleep when you’re with me.” He embraced her with all his might. She embraced him so that they clung to one another and became one flesh.