There were others, from the land of Queen Esther. Their eyes were as sweet as the raisins from which wine is made for Pesah, and their hair soft as the neck of a songbird. They wore so many layers that their limbs didn’t show. Their ragged clothes concealed their beauty, like the wretched exile they had come from.
We will also mention those distant sisters we saw in Jerusalem when we made a pilgrimage there. On special occasions and holidays, we used to stroll through the Bukharan Quarter. It was the largest and most sweeping of Jerusalem’s neighborhoods. All its houses were grand and elegant. Grandest of all was the splendid house built for the Messiah, our king, who, when he comes, will come to Jerusalem first. Our forefathers, elders, prophets, kings, generals, and scribes will come to receive him, along with many righteous men and dignitaries. To house them all, our brothers from Bukhara have prepared grand and elegant quarters.
So much for the houses; I will now deal only with the daughters.
Their faces were full. Their colorfully embroidered garments adorned the streets. They were round, absolutely round, the embodiment of good fortune. We walked the streets of the neighborhood, our eyes on the locked doors, the closed houses — the lovely girls will appear now, they’ll come out for us to see. When they came out, it didn’t occur to us that young men such as we were could approach them. The reserve was so intense in that generation that a young man — even one who devoured romantic novels and perhaps composed his own — would never presume to approach a girl not destined by God to be his wife.
There were other young women from the cities of Lebanon, from Damascus, Aleppo, Izmir, Babylonia, all the cities of Ishmael — each with unique charm and beauty. The Creator made pots of goodness and offered them to us, but their loads are so heavy that, before we get a good look at them, their beauty fades. This is how it was when we were young.
Between yesterday and today, our generation has changed its aspect. Its young women have done likewise. The world was stripped of its original beauty; primeval beauty was eclipsed, and other concepts of beauty began to dominate our minds, then our hearts. Neither lovely eyes nor a warm face make a woman attractive now. Shapely limbs, a proud bearing, and light-footedness are the qualities that count. A body like an aspen, quaking with every breeze, is considered beautiful.
Now, to get back to the two Herbst daughters. I will begin with Tamara. True, Zahara is the older one, but when they appear together, one sees Tamara first.
Tamara, as I have noted, is tall, and her cheeks are full — you might say plump. Her forehead is narrow. Her eyes are small, suggesting two bronze specks in which the artist has engraved the trace of a smile. Her hair, like her eyes, has a bronze cast to it, and she wears it loose and disheveled. As I already suggested, her eyes have a mysterious smile, but her mouth laughs openly, and it’s hard to find anything that doesn’t elicit laughter from this mouth. I have listed all her obvious qualities. As for the less obvious ones, who can say? So much for Tamara. Now I will turn to Zahara.
Zahara is blonde, like her mother. But she is shorter than her mother, father, or sister, as she was born in Germany during the lean years, when a pregnant or nursing woman had to struggle to find food to sustain her child. Henrietta used to tell that, when she was pregnant with Zahara, a bottle of oil fell into her hands, and she exulted over it all day. Because of this meager prenatal fare, Zahara arrived in the world serious. Tell her a joke, and you won’t get even the ghost of a smile; even when she herself tells an amusing story, such as the tale of the controversy between kvutza members and Jewish National Fund officials who called the kvutza Tel Vernishevsky, after one of thousands of active Zionists whose names are forgotten once they are dead. The kvutza members, however, called it Kfar Ahinoam, after Ahinoam the Holstein, a comely dairy cow, arguing that whereas man eats, drinks, and produces waste, she eats the waste and produces milk, butter, cream, and cheese. Zahara doesn’t so much as smile, even when she describes her friend Avraham-and-a-half, who is taller than anyone, as tall as two people, but is called Avraham-and-a-half because of his modesty. Once, when they were on a walk together, Zahara sprained her ankle, and Avraham-and-a-half picked her up and carried her. Anyone who saw them from a distance would have been astonished at such a tall woman. Zahara tells this story, too: There was a Yemenite in another kvutza, near Ahinoam, who was installed there by the religious party to slaughter poultry in the ritual manner and perform marriages throughout the area. He used to sit in his hut composing poems, which he sold to collectors. He tucked his legs under him and leaned to the left or on his knees as he wrote, adding poems to the cycle he was composing. Being preoccupied with his poetry, he often appeared at a wedding after the event. But everyone was so eager to please him, they set up the canopy and had him perform the ceremony anyway.
The father of these daughters sat in his study, with the mounds of printed matter this country provides in profusion laid out before him. He didn’t discard it, out of respect for the written word. He didn’t look it over, because he knew there was nothing of substance there. Being an orderly man, Herbst took the trouble to put these papers in order: announcements with announcements, reminders with reminders, letters with letters; another pile for memos, appeals, political flyers, and the like, put out by national and charitable institutions, scholarly and political groups, children’s schools and academies, jubilee committees and plain committees — the assorted material one receives daily. An entire lifetime is not long enough to look it over.
Tamara came in and stood behind him. She leaned over him and said, “So, Manfred, you’ve made us a sister.” At that moment, the father was not comfortable with his daughter’s impudence, and he asked, “How are your classes?” Tamara answered, “Don’t worry, I’ll get my diploma.” Her father said, “When I was your age, my studies were more important to me than the diploma.” Tamara responded coyly, “When you were my age, you weren’t expected to know when Issachar Ber Schlesinger was born, and you weren’t expected to know that poem about the statue of Apollo wrapped in phylacteries.” Herbst regarded her harshly and said, “That’s absurd.” Tamara said, “You see, Father, we’re expected to learn those absurdities, and they determine whether we advance to the next class or fail. That’s how it is, Manfred.” Herbst placed both his hands on the piles of paper and muttered whatever he muttered. Tamara stared at his papers out of the corner of her tiny eyes and said, “Wow! Your desk is popping with wisdom!”
Zahara came in and said, “Hello, Father. The little one is sweet. I’ve never seen such an adorable baby. She’s intelligent, too. When I said, ‘You’re my sister,’ she looked me over to see if I deserve to be her sister. You’ve acquired some new books, Father. The shelves are full, the desk is full, even the floor is full. I won’t be surprised if we have to start coming in through the chimney. What are you up to? Mother says you hardly leave the house. In that case, you’ll soon have a book in print.”
Herbst took a chair and said, “Sit down, Zahara. Sit down. How are you, my child?” Zahara said, “That’s good advice, I’m really tired. It’s nice to sit in your room, Father. I can’t remember when I last sat on an upholstered chair.” Herbst took another chair, moved it, and said to Tamara, “You can have a seat, too. So, Tamara, no marvels to report from school?” Tamara said playfully, “You want marvels? Who expects marvels these days? In my opinion, even small accomplishments are excessive.” Herbst said, “I met up with your history teacher, and he said to me — “ Tamara said, “Never mind what he said. What did you say? In your place, I would have said to him, ‘A deadhead like you ought to cover his tiresome face to keep me from yawning.’“ Herbst said, “Don’t you think a person should know our nation’s history?” Tamara said, “Then the nation should make the kind of history I want to know.” Her father said, “Your tongue is quick, my dear.” Tamara said, “I can’t tie my tongue to a birthing bed.” Zahara said, “It’s impossible to talk to you, Tamara.” Tamara answered, “And you’re such a conversationalist? Is it essential to talk? I like people I can sit with in silence. Who’s knocking on the door?”