One night, Henrietta cried out in her sleep, because she saw her son’s head dripping blood. She wanted to dress the wound but couldn’t get a bandage, because the chest was locked. She went to him just as she was, empty-handed, and saw that one of his curls was parted; that there, in the center of the curl, was a small box with curlicues. A four-headed bird was carved on the box, and she knew that she was at her son’s bar mitzvah and that those were tefillin on his head. This is why I said Henrietta was occupied with her son, not only by day, but by night as well. When his sisters were small, Henrietta used to find time for everything. She managed the household, tended the garden, took in guests from abroad, entertained, wrote letters, negotiated certificates, challenged the accounts of fundraisers from charitable institutions, legitimate and otherwise. By now, Henrietta’s hands had begun to falter, and she devoted her remaining energies to the son of her old age. Though she wasn’t able to nurse the baby, she was wholly occupied with him; it was as if he never stirred from between her breasts. Difficult as it is to jest about this, just to sweeten the bitterness, I’ll lighten the mood with a little humor. The Nazis, knowing that Henrietta Herbst wasn’t free to write to her relatives, destroyed some of them and imprisoned others, so they wouldn’t bother her with their letters.
Because of Ernst Weltfremdt’s new book, Herbst decided to replan his lectures for the winter semester. He had originally intended to lecture on Arcadius ii. After reading Weltfremdt’s book, he was moved to lecture about the rise of the Goths. By way of thanks, Herbst prefaced his lectures with a comprehensive survey of what was known and what was unknown about the subject before Professor Weltfremdt appeared on the scene with his new book. Some scholars, when they find new material in a colleague’s book, respond with silence or drown it out so that the listener can’t hear it; there are other scholars who make the new material the cornerstone of their own thinking. Manfred Herbst was unique in this respect. When his friends offered valuable insights, he presented them to his students; when they were misguided, he didn’t mention them. He argued that, unless their errors begin to be accepted, there is no reason to point them out, even in the interests of challenging them. He had another virtue. He didn’t boast to his friends and report to them, “I mentioned you in my lecture.” I recount all this not to elevate Herbst or to discredit others by praising him. But, recalling one of his finer qualities, I am calling attention to it. This quality is praiseworthy. Still, if I should recall a quality that is to his discredit, I won’t conceal it either.
Chapter seven
The nurse came again. She came to see how the baby was doing and, incidentally, to see Mrs. Herbst. She had been fond of Mrs. Herbst from the outset. Now that they were better acquainted, she had come back for a brief visit, intending to see how she was doing and be on her way. She had an urgent need to know how Mrs. Herbst was doing, because Mrs. Herbst was so exceptional in her charm, good sense, intellect, virtue, manners, and other qualities too numerous to list while standing on one foot. The popular notion that it is a nurse’s duty to love everyone and to sacrifice herself on the altar of love is misguided, as it overlooks the fact that nurses are also flesh and blood, that the same good and bad qualities that exist in other people exist in nurses as well. A nurse who is loyal to the truth, who doesn’t embellish her outward image, will not deny the natural feelings with which nature has endowed her. But she can assert about herself that, whether or not she has any affection for a particular patient, when she is in charge, she does everything in her power to promote that patient’s welfare, health, and recovery. She even forgoes sleep and gives up her private life on his behalf. There are patients she detests when they are in good health, “who are as hateful as mice in the cream.” Still, when they come to the hospital and are entrusted to her care, her hostility is suspended. She tends them, tries to please them as though they were loved ones, and stands ready to give her life for them at any moment. When they leave the hospital, even before they have a chance to say, “Goodbye, Nurse Ludmilla,” she reverts to hostility, detesting them again, “like mice in the cream.”
So, if she calls on Mrs. Herbst, she calls on her because she is fond of her; in fact, she loves her. Love is a simple word that doesn’t encompass even a fraction of the feelings that stir her heart. She has loved her for ten years now, or more. Mrs. Herbst knows nothing about this. But this love is engraved in her heart, her skin, her flesh, her bones. On the surface, the reason is simple and uncomplicated. True love doesn’t require complicated reasoning. Sometimes a drop of eau de cologne is sufficient to create a sea of love. This is not as odd as it sounds, and not so much odd as bizarre. It is an example taken from life, the sort of life that is typical of the Land of Israel. Ten years ago — to be precise, ten years and one day ago — two ladies were traveling in a train from Haifa to Jerusalem. In those days, it was common to take long trips in a train rather than a car. Though lighter vehicles go faster, it is more pleasant to travel in a train than in a car. In a train, the passenger is in control, free to get up and walk around or to remain seated; in a car, you are required to stay in your seat, as if you were strapped in. If you have an open mind, you wonder why a free and intelligent person would surrender his freedom and pay a price for it. In short, the train moved ahead. The two ladies were in the same car, but, like modern ladies, they kept to themselves. As long as they don’t know each other, modern ladies remain subdued, though their hearts are full and their tongues all but leap out of their mouths because they are so eager to talk. All of a sudden, something happened. One of these two ladies, Ludmilla the nurse, was traveling with a young girl, who, having suffered what she suffered, was being taken from Haifa to Jerusalem for a psychological consultation with Heinz Hermann. Her mind had been affected by what she had to undergo to rid herself of nature’s gift to womankind. In short, the lady traveler was in her seat; Ludmilla the nurse was in hers. She had closed her eyes, hoping for sleep. Nature denied her the sleep she craved. She thought to herself: Nature is cruel. Would it matter if I were granted a drop of sleep, when my brain is empty and boredom is gnawing at my heart? She was still young and unaware that there is nothing as kind as nature, nothing as sensible as nature, that we ought to depend on nature in every realm, for nature alone knows what is good and what isn’t. All of a sudden, there was a great noise, and the train came to a sudden halt. What happened? That young girl had opened the door and was about to jump. If she hadn’t been restrained, she would have been crushed. Ludmilla the nurse was in shock and about to faint. She was about to faint, and then she fainted. There was no one to look after her, because everyone was busy with the girl who had tried to commit suicide. If not for the lady who was sitting near her on the train, who rubbed her forehead and the veins of her wrist with eau de cologne, Ludmilla the nurse would have continued to feel more and more faint. What had happened was no small thing: a patient who needs special care is entrusted to you, and you try to nap. And who was the lady? Mrs. Herbst was the lady. Mrs. Herbst forgot the event. She so completely forgot it that she was convinced she had never been on the train from Haifa to Jerusalem and had never used eau de cologne.
But Ludmilla the nurse is trustworthy. Nature has endowed her with a powerful memory. She even remembers the shape of the smile that graced Mrs. Herbst’s face when she asked the nurse how she was feeling. Were we to speak truly, Ludmilla the nurse calls on Mrs. Herbst more for the past than the present, because she has an intense need occasionally to see herself as she was ten years ago. When she sees Mrs. Herbst, she imagines herself on the train, with Mrs. Herbst rubbing eau de cologne on her forehead. All of this is so vivid that she actually smells the eau de cologne. Despite the fact that Mrs. Herbst no longer uses eau de cologne, she experiences its wonderful fragrance — the fragrance reminding her of the event; the event reminding her of the fragrance. When she comes, she offers advice and guidance for the baby and his mother, for the two of them together. Even though the baby is already separated from his mother’s womb and doesn’t nurse at her breast, he is attached to his mother, and his mother is attached to him. The bond is powerfuclass="underline" physical and concrete, not merely spiritual. Anyone who has mastered the secrets of creation, who knows what birth is, knows about the nature of the bond between a mother and the fruit of her womb. There are women, even doctors, who regard the embryo inside its mother as something you can get rid of, as long as none of its limbs has emerged into the world. They believe that a girl who has strayed from the proper path can deal with the consequences by getting rid of the embryo, that she can be restored to her former state, which I will describe as youth, rather than use an abstract term like maidenhood. If she meets up with a naive man, she leads him to the bridal canopy without any misgivings or regrets. For that type of shrewd woman, we have something akin to a folktale or ballad to tell, without ruling out the possibility that the events described in it actually transpired. Those shrewd women who dismiss the procedure as simply physical, cosmetic, or the like would do well to listen. I am coming to the heart of the story, which I will tell approximately as Ludmilla the nurse told it. Approximately — not word for word — because at first it didn’t occur to me that it would be worth conveying. I suddenly remembered the story and realized that Ludmilla the nurse had imparted something very significant. I struggled to recall the details, but without success. I asked myself: Why wear myself out over a story someone has told? We hear so much, and, if we were to try to report it all, we would never succeed. I renounced the story, but the story didn’t renounce me. It kept coming back to mind, sometimes on its own, sometimes suggested by other events. So much so that I began to wonder whether the events were meant to remind me of the story or whether the story was meant to help me understand the events. In either case, I couldn’t escape it, though I continued to try. It was stronger than I was. If not for the fact that I don’t believe in magic, I would say I was under its spell. Every day, every single day, something transpired that reminded me of the story. Seeing that this was how it was, I reviewed it again and again, until the story was gone.