She doesn’t write at all now. The heat and work exhaust her; also she’s not really inspired to write poems. If she knew Hebrew, the language might inspire her, and she would sing the songs of the land in its own language. It seems to her that a true poet can never make poems in a language alien to the land, but, being burdened with work, she hasn’t learned Hebrew. The people she knows don’t know Hebrew either. She has learned English, but not Hebrew. One doesn’t learn the language unless those who live in the country demand it. One thing sustains her souclass="underline" once every two weeks, she has a day off and goes to Jerusalem to be with her friends, young poets from Germany. Their lot is no better than hers, except for the young man who managed to put out a book of poems on a stencil machine. He didn’t cover his expenses and had to run around borrowing from one friend to pay the other. How does he live? Off his wife’s salary. She makes dolls, but people who value their beauty can’t afford to buy them, and those who have money have no taste, so the fate of the dolls is like that of the book. Along with all these misfortunes, there is also some good. She had two good days a couple of weeks back. How? That same couple has an adorable daughter, a child of about seven. They came with her, and the hotel owner allowed her to keep the child in her room, although waitresses are not usually permitted to have guests.
Tamara was back. She came and sat opposite the young woman, crossed her legs, and assumed the scornful manner we know so well. The young woman didn’t notice. Or perhaps she noticed, but she paid no attention and kept right on talking, as the daughters of the rich tend to do. Even when overwhelmed by disaster, they talk about themselves without complaining. And yet, from their accounts of their good fortune, one recognizes the sort of trouble they’re in.
Henrietta wiped her eyes and recalled various young girls she had known. Some of them, bringing regards from relatives, clung to her, coming again and again, hanging on even after they were settled. Others never returned. She took excessive pains on behalf of some and not enough on behalf of others. However much you delude yourself with the notion that you have done all you could, this is not the point; quite apart from you, a tender soul is involved, which exists and persists just as you do, and this is the point. Henrietta’s thoughts were blurred, and even before they had a chance to register, they faded away. Some of these thoughts had to do with a girl Manfred said was related to Neu. But she was displaced by Zahara and Tamara. From the start, she had been thinking about her daughters, but she dismissed these thoughts, rather than connect her daughters’ fate with theirs. Suddenly, her daughters came to mind again. Zahara belongs to a kvutza and, so far as one can see, she has settled down. But Tamara, Tamara…
Tamara sat there, ambivalent. One eye was on the young woman whose woeful tale played on her nerves; the other eye took in every detail and was eager for more. She turned her head to the left and scrutinized her, as if to ask: What do those stories mean? Finally, Tamara pinched her lips together and questioned her. “Tell me, comrade, why didn’t you go to a kvutza?” The waitress answered, “I don’t know why, but, since I didn’t go to a kvutza when I first came, I didn’t go later either. Why don’t I go now? Because of a jaw injury. Though it isn’t visible, it requires attention, and I may have to go to the hospital. The doctor isn’t worried about infection; still, he warned me not to neglect it. Besides, I doubt if I could succeed on a kvutza. The only thing I can do is wait on tables, which I can barely do. And I can do that only because I’m used to it. Having worked in several restaurants and hotels, I’m used to the work, so I keep doing it.” Henrietta asked, “And what will you do in the summer? The hotel closes in the summer, doesn’t it?” The girl said, “I don’t know what I’ll do yet. I might work in a café in Jerusalem. New ones open every day. Even a waitress like me can find a job. If I don’t find one, I won’t worry. I’m tired, dead tired. And if you ask what I’ll eat, I’ve saved enough money to support myself for three or four months. I haven’t saved a lot, but my needs are few, and I can make do with very little. Food doesn’t count as much as sleep. I daydream about sleep. When I get out of the hospital in good health, I’ll rent a room and spend my days and nights sleeping. Here in this hotel at the Dead Sea, I don’t sleep. True, there are days in the winter when this entire area is like the Garden of Eden — a Garden of Eden for the guests, not for those who serve them. In any case, I’m doing better than most of my girlfriends, not to mention the men, who can barely keep themselves going. Some of them are poets who were widely published and translated in Germany. Here, they make the rounds of editors, and when an article is accepted and they get forty or fifty grush, they are grateful, though they often have to share their pay with a translator.”
In the midst of the conversation, the girl got up to wait on a guest. She returned, bringing tea and cakes, sat down again, and talked until it was time for them to go. Herbst took out his wallet to pay. The girl looked at him with imploring eyes and said: “If I may ask a favor, let me ask you to be my guests instead of paying for the drops of tea you drank.” Herbst saw the look in her eyes, put back his wallet, and patted her hand in thanks, while Henrietta invited her to visit them at home in Jerusalem.
Chapter three
The day was spent in rest and pleasure; then the night began to emerge from various corners, visible and invisible. It was still not fully nighttime, yet there were clear signs of night. The world was ringed by hushed dimness and filled with it. Within the hushed dimness, a light twinkled, darkened, glowed, and darkened again, so that the whole world was darkness within darkness. The sort of warmth that causes no discomfort wrapped itself around the small band of travelers waiting for the Jerusalem bus. Suddenly a clear speck split the sky, followed by a second speck and a third, from which stars were created. Some remained stuck in the sky; others ignited higher stars; still others ignited low stars in the Dead Sea. The travelers waited silently. Soon the bus came. They boarded, took seats, and looked back at the salty stillness, watching it revert to solitude. As the driver put his hand on the steering wheel, the bus began to roll across the silent roads, where there was no sound or echo.
Manfred and Henrietta sat together, with Tamara across from them. Their minds were at rest, filled with joy and tranquility, which occurs when a day is spent peacefully and appropriately. Two or three times, Herbst reached into his pocket for a cigarette but didn’t take one. He suddenly seized Henrietta’s hand, pressed it fondly, and said in a whisper, “Weren’t we smart to come here?” Henrietta nodded and said, “You were smart, Fred.” Tamara heard and remarked to herself: I’ve been here many times, but I never enjoyed the trip as much as I did today with these two old folks.
The road provided Herbst with a respite from memories of Shira. When he became aware of this fact, he thought to himself: Then there are ways to put her out of my mind. He clutched his wife’s hand again and said, “We should go on a trip such as this every month.” Henrietta nodded and said, “Yes, dear, every month.” Manfred added, “Then you agree, Henriett?” Henrietta answered, “By all means.” Manfred knew these were empty words, that once he was back in Jerusalem he would sink into his space, go back to his desk — to his note box, pads, notebooks, and outlines — and who knows when he would travel again; in a few months, or a few years. But he recognized that one should get out of the house at regular intervals, that getting out of the house fortifies one’s body, settles one’s mind, relieves all sorts of stress. Once again he looked at his wife: Henrietta, mate and companion, who shared his fate, sustained him, was concerned with his welfare since long ago, before he was in the army, throughout the war, and in the days that followed, in Berlin as in Jerusalem.