British policemen were stationed on every corner of every intersection, armed from head to toe. They wore helmets, and weapons were fastened to their uniforms. In addition, military vehicles stood ready and menacing, reflecting the attitude of those in charge, as such equipment tends to do. Some of the soldiers were on foot, some in vehicles. If I’m not mistaken, there were even some on horseback. We walked in silence, not saying a word. We didn’t lift our eyes to look up at those who inhibit life, inflict death, and rule the world — those conquerors, angels of fury, villains dispatched by others even more villainous. In our hearts, there was neither hatred nor resentment, but each face was covered with sadness, a sadness that begins in the heart and takes over the entire face. Little by little, whispered words began to be heard. People who were not in the habit of expressing themselves in public began to whisper to each other. One man told his neighbor, “My wife said to me, ‘This cannot be.’“ What that man said was strange. If that’s what his wife said, what of it? Actually, it was meaningful to us that even his wife, who was not interested in politics, said, “This cannot be.”
Herbst was swept along by the procession. When he left home in order to hear that climber’s speech, he didn’t know there would be such a huge crowd. All of a sudden, he was part of the crowd. One minute, he found himself among ordinary, anonymous people. A minute later, he found himself next to a friend or acquaintance. On that day, it made no difference. Everybody was of one mind. Though opinions might be expressed differently, the substance was the same. Only on rare occasions is there such agreement.
His mind was suddenly diverted from all this, because he saw Tamara. He realized immediately that he was mistaken, that it wasn’t Tamara, that it was a boy. How could a man mistake a stranger for his daughter, and a boy at that? Since it seemed to him that he had seen Tamara, he began to think about her. Where is Tamara? She is undoubtedly here. She certainly wouldn’t miss such an event. Tamara, who is always denouncing the British and deploring their actions in this country, is surely here. And it’s possible Shira is here too. Not really; Shira wouldn’t be here. She doesn’t involve herself in public affairs. The very first time he saw her, the day a young man from one of Jerusalem’s leading families was killed by Arabs and the entire city turned out to mourn, she stood on the sidelines, a cigarette in her mouth, as if to declare, “I’m not with you.” This would surely be the case now, when her rejected suitor, whom she would not enjoy seeing in such an honored public role, was scheduled to address the rally. On the other hand, since the crowd was large enough for an individual to be swallowed up in it, Shira might feel free to come, if not to hear his speech, then to see him.
Herbst suddenly found himself at Taglicht’s side. Taglicht’s face was grim, and his entire person was a mass of sorrow. “You are here too?” Herbst said to Taglicht. Taglicht whispered to him, “I hope it ends well.” Herbst heard what he said and was perplexed. What did he mean by “ends well”? What could prevent it from ending well? People were moving quietly and speaking softly; many were even silent. The police were maintaining order. Soldiers were on the alert. So what could go wrong? He meant to ask Taglicht, but they were swept in opposite directions, and Herbst found himself in the midst of a group of youngsters, dressed in special clothes of a sort he had never seen before. He had, perhaps, seen individuals in that sort of dress, but never a crowd of hundreds, like this one, with that climber in the lead, marching like a war hero, like a commander at the head of his regiment. He had a long face with bloated cheeks. His eyes were filled with rage; his lips were clenched. Even before he began to talk, he had everyone’s attention.
It took less than a minute for Herbst to size him up. He was of not quite medium height. His shoulders were curved so that his back and neck sometimes pulled away from each other and sometimes leaped toward each other. His head was egg-shaped; his hat wrinkled and erect, likewise his ears, likewise his nose. He had a thick mustache. His chin was sharp, smooth, and prominent. Though his mustache was thick, it didn’t cover his mouth. Not only his chin but his entire mouth protruded, likewise his tongue as it whirled around in his mouth. His tongue wasn’t visible, but one could picture it from the shape of his mouth. Nothing about him appealed to Herbst — not his appearance, not his manner, not anything about him. Still, he felt no antipathy toward him.
Pushed by the crowd, Herbst was now at some distance from him. That sort of person, Herbst thought, derives power from his words. His words are power, and his power is words. Words dominate him and allow him to dominate others. Herbst was pushed from place to place, as were his thoughts, and he couldn’t decide which was superior, words or power. Which takes precedence — does power precede speech, does speech precede power, or do they overlap? At times, one relies on words; at times, on sheer power. In either case, such a person is sure to appeal to this crowd, one that is moved by words. So why did Shira reject him? Shira is a one-of-a-kind creature.
Shira is a one-of-a-kind woman. Yet though he remembered her, he didn’t think about her. At that moment, Herbst was impelled not to think about anyone in particular. Being swept along with the crowd, everyone seemed equivalent to him.
He suddenly found himself in an empty lot, one he couldn’t identify, though it may have been the one that belongs to the high school. It was too congested to see anything, except for that man, the climber, soaring over everyone, swaying in midair; since this was impossible, the crowd must have been carrying him. How comfortable could it be for such a heavy person to be carried? As he began to orate, his booming voice interrupted Herbst’s thoughts. Herbst pricked up his ears, soaking in every word and straining to find the message. There was a message in the words, but not the trace of an idea. The voice became more and more excited, excited and inspired. Every phrase was accompanied by a gesture, a raised or lowered hand. If you would like a visual image for this speech, imagine nails being hammered into a wooden floor. With each stroke of the hammer, as it drives in the nail, the wood cries out.
By now, all the youngsters who stood listening were becoming agitated and restless. Every word the speaker said inflamed their blood, and each and every one of them was prepared to risk life and limb for his people and his land. Could they somehow be sure that their blood would not be shed in vain? This, he didn’t say. His thundering voice continued to arouse and enthrall, to arouse and inflame. There was no stemming the passion of these youngsters. There was not one among them unwilling to die for the people and the land. Since they didn’t know what to do, they became more and more enraged; their fury mounted, and their hearts seethed with wrath and the desire for vengeance.