Zahara is a good mother to her son and a good wife to her husband. She is loved by all her friends. Manfred’s mild, gentle nature and Henrietta’s talent for action were both transmitted to Zahara, engendering several fine new qualities. She suspends her own needs for the sake of others and exerts herself in matters others are casual about. I was once visiting Kfar Ahinoam on a miserable hamsin night. We set up our bedding out of doors, since it was too hot to sleep inside. The walls, floor, and ceiling emitted heat that had been accumulating all day. When I lay down outside, I heard a woman saying to her husband, “The water tank is dripping. We’re wasting water. Go and turn off the faucet.” He answered her, “Do you think I’m fool enough to get out of bed now that I finally found a comfortable spot?” Zahara got up and went to turn off the faucet, though no one told her to do it and it wasn’t her job. She has another fine quality: patience. You know how hard it is to be hospitable in these times, and you know how scrupulously kvutza members fulfill this obligation. It often happens that a worker comes back from the field hungry and tired, expecting to sit down and eat, only to enter the dining room and see a guest occupying his place. He has to stand and starve, waiting for the guest to finish eating and relinquish his spot. But guests are often leisurely; they eat slowly, and, after concluding their meal, they tend to sit around and listen to the conversation of kvutza members. So much for mealtimes. As for the intimate questions many guests are in the habit of asking, which even someone as tolerant as Hillel the Sage would be reluctant to answer — even when they are endless and absurd, Zahara responds graciously. Finally, the guest goes off to tell his wife how smart he is, what good questions he asked, how he impressed the young lady with these questions. This is a fine quality, isn’t it? As for Avraham-and-a-half, the Avraham-and-a-half we met in Jerusalem, the Avraham-and-a-half we met when the Herbsts visited Kfar Ahinoam after Dani was born — he hasn’t changed at all, except that he shaves regularly, so his whiskers won’t scratch his baby’s cheeks. Something else is new: he is now amused by those who devote themselves to guarding the language. The newspapers allot them a great deal of space. Avraham says their rigors will undo them, that Hebrew is still developing, and when they rule out a usage, why, one should be sure to use it — one should assume that what they rule out is, by definition, acceptable. Enough about these guardians of language, for better or for worse. I prefer to concentrate on Dani. Dani is still indifferent to language. When he starts talking, he will talk proper Hebrew.
What can I add about Dani? You know as well as I do what kvutza children are like. He is healthy and vigorous, free of even the slightest blemish. I won’t compare him to his aunt Sarah, who reflects Jerusalem’s charm. Still, compared to his peers in the kvutza, I would say he is as superb as the most superb of them.
Now, a word about Herbst. There is nothing new in Herbst’s world. He still hasn’t been promoted. Those who have the power to appoint professors are not as diligent as the candidates would like them to be. So Herbst is still a lecturer, like all the others. As for Shira? He spoke to Axelrod at the hospital that day and asked about Shira, but he hasn’t found Shira yet, and he seems to be making no attempt to find her.
Chapter ten
One day Herbst was walking down Ben Yehuda Street, going to the French Library to see if any new novels had come in. Although he had resumed his academic work, happily and unequivocally, putting out of mind the tragedy he wanted to write, he nonetheless had a desire to indulge himself with a new novel. Some of Herbst’s friends boast that, since they became adults, they haven’t read a novel, a story, a poem; some claim they read only detective stories; some make do with the literary supplement of the newspaper, others with what they find on their children’s bookshelves. There are those with still other odd reading habits — collecting words for crossword puzzles, for example. Herbst is different. He reads poems, stories, novels, plays — whatever happens to be in his house, as well as what has to be brought in from elsewhere, even if this involves effort and expense.
I don’t know how you feel about poetry. Most people like poems with a patriotic theme, an ethical message, a pathos that stirs the soul and inspires the heart. Herbst loves poetry even when it has none of those qualities, even poems Bachlam or Ernst Weltfremdt would reject because they don’t make sense. This is equally true of stories, novels, and plays. Most people like books that enrich the reader, enhance his character, add to his wisdom, or teach about the way of a man with a maid. Some readers look for a well-developed plot, shrewd argumentation, refined speech, clever dialogue, and rich language. Others read to pass the time or to acquire an understanding of problems that engage the world. There are idealists searching for a cause, who scorn everything new in favor of what they read in their youth, when novels had genuine heroes with genuine ideals. As far as Herbst is concerned, the essence of a book lies in its poetic intensity, its vitality, the imaginative power and truth it contains. This is how he behaves when he is trying to assess a book before taking it home: he opens it at random and reads half a page or so, from which he generalizes about the entire book, on the theory that a true author leaves his mark on every page, in every line.
Herbst walks down Ben Yehuda Street with all the other pedestrians, past stores, business offices, printing houses, cafés, peddlers’ stalls, newspaper stands, offices. The street noise becomes more and more intrusive. One sound fuses with another. Each and every sound generates another sound, and these sounds, compounded by one another, make an infinite number of sounds. They fill the ear as well as the eye, which was created for vision and flinches before the noise. When Herbst came to Jerusalem, the entire space this street occupies was empty. Herbst was fond of the spot because of its restful silence; because of the olive, almond, and eucalyptus trees that cheered the eye on a winter day and provided shade in the summer; because of the mossy stones; because of a lizard sunning itself; because of a bird flying through the sky; because of a chicken pecking at the garbage near the hovel of a contented pauper. Now all the plants have been uprooted, all the fruit trees cut down, the stone walls destroyed. The birds and fowl have migrated. Instead, there are houses, built of stone and concrete, raising the noise level, increasing the tumult, adding to the din, producing dust, din, and tumult. The air is filled with the aroma of coffee, cocoa, baked goods, warm butter, grilled cheese, fruit preserves. It is the coffee hour; cafés are bustling with men, women, and children. Not every mother who wants to be out in the world can hire a maid to leave her children with, so she has no choice but to bring the child along, feed him ice cream and all sorts of sweets, soda, ice water — anything to entertain the child, so the mother can have a cigarette and conversation with a friend, male or female. Several years ago, Herbst ran into Lisbet Neu and went to the Café Zichel with her. He had coffee, and she had cocoa without milk. She told him many things that were new to him. Afterward, he walked her home and promised he would call her. By and by, intending to keep his promise, he went to call. He got to the telephone booth and found Shira. When was this? After he left Henrietta when she was about to give birth to Sarah. Many days have passed since, and many things have happened. If we were to try to recount them, we would not be able to. The events consume time, and time consumes memory. Which is to suggest that not everyone must always remember what is best forgotten.