Manfred went out to the garden, and Henrietta brought him a lounge chair. She went to bring him coffee and milk, toast, butter, and honey, and to tell Sarini she could go home early, since it was a holiday for her — her brother Ovadiah was being released from jail for the fifth time. Not because of any crime, God forbid, but because he had no luck with women. When Sarini’s father and mother and their entire clan came to the holy city of Jerusalem, they brought Ovadiah along. He was like a brother, having nursed at her mother’s breast. On the way, Ovadiah went to the well for a drink. There was a large rock there in the shape of a wicked woman. She stared at him, and he forgot to come back. They went on to Jerusalem without him. There was a man in Jerusalem, strong as an ox, who said, “I’ll bring him back.” He went and brought him back. Seeing that he was a good boy, he gave him his daughter as a wife. Ovadiah was fifteen years old, and the girl they gave him for a wife was thirty-five. Ovadiah stayed with her a year and half and gave her two children. He lost interest in her and left. Some women’s organization came and said, “You are required to give her ten lirot a month.” Ovadiah went to a rabbinical court and proved to the wise men that the woman couldn’t become pregnant again, while he wanted more children. The wise men said, “Give her a get, and take another wife.” He threw a get at her and took a young wife. The first woman came to grief and died. Ovadiah had no life with the child-wife because he had no luck with women. So he left her. There was an outcry from the women’s organization: “If you don’t want her, you don’t want her, but you must give her ten lirot a month.” Ovadiah said, “Ten lashes, yes, but not ten lirot. In the name of Moses, I myself never had ten lirot.” The women’s organization maligned and slandered him. They sent a policeman to arrest him. This happened once, twice, three times — again and again, making five. His prison term was now up. Sarini was eager to see him, so Mrs. Herbst gave her permission to leave early.
As soon as Sarini left, Mrs. Herbst took a chair out to join Manfred. She brought Sarah out in her cradle and sat down, although there was much work and little time. Manfred looked at Henrietta, and he saw how concerned she was. He wept inwardly for her and for himself, that they had arrived at such a pass.
Manfred sat, Henrietta sat, and Sarah lay in her cradle, a rubber doll with a black face at her side, brought to her by Dr. Taglicht. Amid sun and shade, the garden shrubs sent forth their fragrance. Not a sound was heard from the neighbors. Even Sacharson, who could usually be found where he wasn’t wanted, was not in sight. The day was neither hot nor cold. The sun had lost its intensity, as the month of Av was over and it was now Elul, which often shows an autumnal aspect. Such a day and such an hour are a delight to anyone, all the more to a man and woman touched by the hand of God, which the faithless call the hand of destiny. Henrietta was not yet aware of that hand upon her, but Manfred was aware of it, and he was aware more of sin than of punishment.
Henrietta got up and stood next to her husband, smoothing his brow to erase the wrinkles. She said to him, squinting a bit, “I wish I knew the thoughts that make those wrinkles. I know your work involves heavy thought, but this is too much.” Manfred answered, “Henriett, you ask about the thoughts that are wrinkling my brow; actually it’s the lack of thought that makes wrinkles. You see, Henriett, when a waterskin is empty, when it has no water, it begins to wrinkle. Me, too — I’m an empty vessel. If I give a hundred lectures, if I copy a thousand quotations, nothing will change. When I was a boy, I wanted to read many books. When I grew up, I wanted to write books. Now, my dear, now I don’t want to read books, and I don’t want to write them either. When I visited you in the hospital the day Sarah was born, you mentioned Lisbet Modrao, the daughter of Professor Modrao. You mentioned her because of her grandfather’s name, and I am reminded of her for another reason. Lisbet told me — but why did I call her Lisbet, when her name is Elizabeth? — anyway, Elizabeth told me about her eldest brother, who was a minister, a Protestant minister in a small town in Thuringia. He wasn’t especially bright or learned, just an honest man, one who never had a chance to misbehave. During the war, some heretical texts fell into his hands. He read them, and his faith was undermined. He began to loathe his job, as it involved teaching what he no longer believed. One Sunday, after his sermon, he threw off his robes and decided to give up the ministry. At dinner he said to his wife, ‘Thus far and no farther.’ Those were the war years, when food was scarce. But, being a minister, he lacked nothing, as the peasant women used to bring him eggs, chickens, vegetables, butter, cheese, and meat in such quantity that his household was provided for and there was a surplus to send to other relatives. His wife listened and wrote to his father, the professor. The professor came, hoping to restore his faith. When he realized his words were having no impact, he said to him, ‘Truth and justice are fine and praiseworthy, but a man must be concerned with his livelihood. If you abandon the ministry, how will you sustain yourself?’ Economic pressure, Henriett, is not unique to Jews. With the power of German philosophy, which can be used to prove anything, the distinguished professor proved to the honest minister that it was essential that he keep his job and that, in order to do his job justice, he must become more devout. It ended well. A minister is a minister. His sermons were so fervent that he was promoted and his salary was increased, so much so that two of his daughters could study at the university, and the other five found husbands privileged to be in Hitler’s retinue. Why did I tell that story? It’s about me, Henriett. Yes, me. This instructor at the university in Jerusalem is where that minister was at the beginning. Don’t worry, Henriett. I won’t leave my job, and I don’t need a dose of German philosophy. I’ve had a bellyful of it already and wouldn’t mind vomiting some of it up.”
Henrietta asked Manfred, “If you had a choice, what field would you choose?” Manfred answered, “Do you remember Axelrod, who looks in his notebooks and sees prophecies about everyone and his wife? What do you think? If I wanted a job like Axelrod’s, would they give it to me?” Henrietta said, “You have so little respect for your work that you would rather be a hospital clerk?” Manfred said, “It’s not that I underestimate my work, but I’m no longer happy with it. Others are happy with their work; I’m not. I’m not happy. I’m not happy, Henriett, my dear.”
Henrietta said, “Is there some other sort of work that would please you?” Manfred said, “Whether there is or not, isn’t there a song that goes ‘Forest, forest, how far away you are’? Who sang that song to us?” Henrietta said, “Taglicht sang it.” Manfred said, “You remember everything, Henriett. You hear something once, and you never forget it. Since you mention Taglicht, I’ll tell you something I heard from him.
“Taglicht was at a conference of scholars in Jerusalem, seated next to a certain Hebrew poet. This country is so full of poets that I don’t remember his name. Taglicht said to the poet, ‘See what respect the world showers on learned men, but you poets never achieve it.’ The poet remained silent. Taglicht added, ‘Apart from the high regard in which they are held, they also make a living.’ The poet said to Taglicht, ‘You runt, I’ll tell you a splendid story that’s told about your great-great-grandfather, renowned for his righteousness.’ You’ve surely heard, Henriett, that our Taglicht’s forebears were noted for piety and virtue; they were distinguished rabbis, whom you probably read about in Buber’s books. How hard it is for people like us to talk about Jewish subjects. Everything needs an introduction, and every introduction needs to be explicated.” Henrietta said, “What did he tell you?” Manfred said, “He told me a splendid story. But if I tell it to you, I doubt you’ll enjoy it. It would be better to hear it directly from him than from me.”