If not for the mailman, who brought them a card, the two of them would not have been silent. Henrietta took the card and looked at the picture. Whenever she saw that heroic figure with the outstretched arm, she regretted her inability to remember who he was. Now it wasn’t her forgetfulness that she regretted, but the fact that the figure occupied half of Tamara’s card. Manfred peered over Henrietta’s shoulder and marveled at the fact that even on such a cheap postcard one could see the splendor of the sculpture. Henrietta soon handed the card to Manfred and said, “You read it now.” Henrietta had learned to decipher her daughter’s handwriting, but she wasn’t always sure she got everything right, so she was in the habit of reading it to herself, then giving it to Manfred to read to her. Now she had tried unsuccessfully. She handed the card to Manfred and said, “What is this? Is it Greek?” It wasn’t Greek writing, but every word was surrounded by the scrawl of some member of the tour group, and the entire picture was surrounded by greetings and good wishes, such as the message inscribed under Apollo: “We’re all having a marvelous trip. We were in Athens, Delphi, and Olympus, and tomorrow we’ll travel through Arcadia as far as the eastern shore of the Peloponnesus. With best wishes…” Under Apollo’s arm was another message: “Greetings to you, Herbst. Olympic greetings. Sorry I can’t convey them in person.” The message was signed by the professor who was leading the group.
“I see, Fred,” Henrietta said, “that, when it comes to your daughters, you have reason to complain. Tamara is so attached to you — she goes on a short trip, and every day there’s mail from her. I forgot to tell you. Sacharson returned the Baedeker. Why does that startle you?” “I wasn’t startled. You imagined that I was startled.” Henrietta said, “If you say you weren’t startled, I believe you. It’s all right to lend Sacharson a book. Not only did he return it in one piece, but he put it in a beautiful cover. Here’s the Baedeker. Find me Arcadia.” While Herbst was opening the Baedeker, Henrietta leaned her head on his shoulder and began singing, “I too lived in Arcadia…”
Zahara and Avraham didn’t stay very long. They spent four days with the Herbsts. Not counting the day they ate only breakfast at Henrietta’s table and the half-day they spent at Kiryat Anavim visiting a friend who had been on the training farm in Germany with Avraham, but adding the extra half-day they threw in for the yeast cake she baked them.
There was work to be done in Ahinoam, and it could not be postponed because of the sentiments of the old people, who would have had them stay on day after day. The air of Jerusalem, its cool nights, the friends from all over the country whom one runs into everywhere, the secrets the city reveals to its guests — all these things make it special. But to someone from a kvutza, particularly to a founding member, the kvutza is even more special. If there is still not a single tree — no shade, only thorns, briar, snakes, and scorpions — all the more reason why one has to hurry back to water the fragile plants, clear away the thorns and briar, and wipe out the nests of vipers.
When Henrietta realized that the children were determined to hurry back to Ahinoam, she tried to work out a compromise, to have Avraham go back to Ahinoam and leave Zahara to spend another two or three days in Jerusalem. But Zahara would not agree to stay even an hour without Avraham. Henrietta set about collecting all the things she had made for Sarah and passed them on to Zahara, specifying with each item, “This is for your baby, not for anyone else’s.” To which Zahara answered, “I can’t accept your conditions. In our kvutza, we each get what we need.” Henrietta said, “Still, this shawl, which I made myself — don’t give it to anyone.” Zahara said, “You can trust me.” Henrietta surveyed everything, praying to herself: I hope at least some of these things will be used by Zahara’s child.
Finally, she took another tack. She stopped praying, fingered the items she was especially fond of, and appropriated them with her eyes, reflecting: It’s not possible, it’s not possible that Zahara would offer this to the first taker. She couldn’t possibly give this up. She looked at Zahara and was amazed that her daughter didn’t seem to appreciate the baby clothes. And what baby clothes they were! Henrietta roamed from room to room, from closet to closet, from drawer to drawer, taking out everything, saying to herself: This will be good for Zahara. I’ll give this to Zahara, this will be very useful. As for Zahara’s statement “I can’t keep these things for myself,” those were just words. Zahara was joking. It was impossible that a treasure her mother gave up expressly for her could be offered to the world at large.
Henrietta had already forgotten what Zahara had said and was looking over other things that might suit Zahara and her unborn baby. She was suddenly overcome with worry that she had forgotten the essentials. In fact, she was certain she had forgotten the essentials, that everything Zahara and her infant were sure to need had slipped away from her mind, so that, when Zahara got back to Ahinoam, she wouldn’t find what she hoped to find, nor would she find what she needed. The pile she had dragged from Jerusalem to Ahinoam would have none of what she needed in it. Nor would those essentials be available in Ahinoam, for the entire community was made up of youngsters who had no idea what a mother needs. Henrietta refocused her thoughts, and it was not her mind that roamed through all her rooms, but her soul that roamed and fluttered like an anxious bird.
Henrietta paused for a bit, trying to remember what she had put in Zahara’s box and what she should have put in it. She did not realize that her hands were idle and her heart was empty, that her thoughts were being dispersed and no new ones were replacing them. The alarm she had felt a few minutes earlier seemed to subside, and she was utterly relaxed. Hardly conscious of the swift change, she stood beside the full carton and gazed into it, her eyes remaining fixed on its top. It seemed to her that something hidden kept emerging, some aspect of a thought about what she meant to put in the box. Her thoughts came to a sudden standstill, and all her ideas were suspended. She ignored the fact that Zahara was going to give birth. She was unaware of Zahara’s very being, as well as of her own. Like mother, like daughter: Zahara’s thoughts were dispersed too, and, between the two of them, the room was silent, like those frequently silent inner rooms on a hot summer day in Jerusalem, in houses surrounded by gardens and far from the road. In the stillness, the space within the room was suffused with the palest gray light, tinged with pale blue — paling, then darkening; darkening, then paling, until it took on an undefined hue. I don’t know whether the light was created from the space between shutter slats or from the objects in rooms. The two of them, mother and daughter, were unaware of each other and unaware of their own being as well. If I had a tendency to coin phrases, I would call this a state of “annihilated being.”