Now let’s look at the state of the books in the homes of Herbst’s friends who live in town and in the new neighborhoods, beginning with those of Julian Weltfremdt. Julian Weltfremdt arrived in Jerusalem laden with books. He spent half the money he brought with him on import taxes, brokers, and porters; the other half, on shelves and the construction of a book shed, since there wasn’t enough space in his apartment. He didn’t arrive in proper style; he shipped his possessions, as well as his wife Mimi’s piano, in assorted crates. His books had been scattered in the towns and cities of Germany, for he had wandered from place to place, and, wherever he settled, he left some of his belongings and some of his books, until he arrived in the Land of Israel, where everything came together. When he went up to Jerusalem, he brought all his books along and built bookcases for them, as well as simple shelves. The books that were in the house, he placed in bookcases; those in the shed, he placed on simple shelves. He was so busy arranging his books that he didn’t concern himself with his livelihood, assuming that whoever had any use for someone such as him would take the trouble to find him. But those who might have had use for him didn’t bother to look, settling for those who took the trouble to make themselves available. Mimi shopped on credit, while Julian occupied himself with his books, climbing up and down the ladder, taking out a book, putting it back, cursing and deploring the villainy of inanimate objects, for the books he was looking for eluded his fingers, while the ones he had no interest in jumped into his hand. He kept running between the house and the shed, climbing up the ladder and down again. Once the books were arranged by subject and ordered in terms of his needs, he gave some thought to a job. What he had in mind was to teach at the university, but those jobs were already taken. What was true of the university was true of all the other educational institutions. When he agreed, for the time being, to consider a position in a secondary school, someone else had preceded him. At first, he laughed at the educational administrators for not knowing what sort of teachers the younger generation needed. Then he began cursing them, as well as the teachers who had taken all the jobs — above all, his relative Ernst Weltfremdt, who didn’t lift a finger on his behalf, out of snobbishness masked by a cloak of self-righteousness. Be that as it may, I didn’t mean to discuss Julian Weltfremdt; I meant to discuss matters that pertain to books.
And so, Julian Weltfremdt’s extensive collection of books was in good order. Those that were not in frequent use were put in the shed in his yard; those used more often stood upright in bookcases in his house. Consequently, he spent his days running from the house to the yard, from the yard to the house, sometimes to get a book, sometimes to catch a mouse, sometimes to dispose of a mouse stuck in the trap. It would have been a good idea to keep a cat in the shed. Not only did he fail to get a cat, he chased cats from the premises, because Mimi used to leave the milk and the meat on the table while she was at the piano. The cats would take over, leaving only scraps. He therefore decided to do without a cat and trap the mice instead. Mousetraps are more hazardous than mice. For example, when he found a mouse in the trap and tried to remove it, the spring would snap on his finger. And when he found a live mouse in the trap, he didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t just kill it, because he was squeamish; he couldn’t burn it alive, because that would have been too cruel.
In addition to the hazard of mice, there was the hazard of the elements. A sweltering summer that damaged the books was followed by a snowy winter. Snow fell, covering the houses. Their upper halves were in snow accumulated from below, the lower halves in snow falling from above. All the roads were covered with snow. No earth was to be seen, and nowhere could one find solid footing. Business was at a standstill. One could not even find a crust of bread for a child. But this is not what I want to tell. I want to tell the story of the books and the snow. Roofs began to sag under the weight of snow piled on top of them, while snow piling up from below weakened the substructures. The snow was accompanied by a violent storm that uprooted trees and damaged houses. When the snow stopped falling and the storm subsided, people began to venture outside. Julian Weltfremdt went out to his yard and found that his shed was crumbling. Heavy branches had been torn from the trees, and entire trees were wrenched from their places and scattered all over the shed, as well as along the path leading to it. Here and there, the snows were melting, producing a stream of water that gushed into the yard. Melting snow dripped onto the shed from above, so the entire space was water upon water. Julian Weltfremdt didn’t hesitate. Blazing a trail through the snow, puddles, and broken branches, he arrived at his shed, only to find himself knee-deep in water. His wife was standing in front of the house, shouting, “Julian, Julian, come back before you get sick, before you catch your death of a cold.” He gave no thought to his own welfare or to her warnings. He was determined to save his books. He saved what he saved, and what he didn’t save didn’t get saved. Meanwhile, Mimi caught a cold, as well as an ear infection, from standing outside without warm clothes. But I don’t mean to tell about Mimi now; I mean to tell about books. After the destruction of the shed, Julian Weltfremdt began to console himself with the books in the house. One day he took a book off the uppermost shelf and discovered that it was damp. This was true of a second, third, and fourth book, and so on, down the row. Not only that row, but most of the books on the upper shelves of the bookcases in his house were steeped in water. He took them down and put them out to air. He assured himself, every so often, that they would recover and, just as often, plunged into despair over his books and himself — to think that they could do this to him, after all his efforts on their behalf. In the end, some of them had to be rebound. You know, of course, how bookbinders are: not only do they do an inadequate job, but they leave out pages and expect to be rewarded for their vandalism. And how was he to pay? From the paltry funds sent by his wife’s family. This is the tale of some of Julian Weltfremdt’s books and their trial by water. What about his good books, those that weren’t damaged? They escaped destruction but didn’t remain in his hands. Though they withstood the cruelty of the elements, they did not withstand human cruelty. Julian Weltfremdt didn’t find a job and was forced to sell some of his books. After selling some of his possessions when his daughter took sick because of the drafty apartment, he had to sell the remainder in order to get food for her and pay her medical bills. His relative Professor Ernst Weltfremdt often boasted that he paid for the grave and burial expenses, but the doctors’ fees and medications were paid for by Julian. Things came to such a pass that, even while he was writing his popular pamphlet (The Seventeen Primary Factors Leading Us to Unequivocally Oppose the Appointment of Master Plato of Greece to the Position of Lecturer in Philosophy at Any University, Particularly One in Germany), when he wished to refer to some of the books he called “professors’ books,” he had to quote from memory. Needless to say, he made some errors, which provided a pretext for the charge that his work was unscholarly.
Having become so involved in Julian Weltfremdt’s books, I will be brief about those of Dr. Taglicht.
As is often the case with bachelors, Taglicht was a subtenant in the home of a gentleman who rented out one of his four rooms for the price of the entire apartment. Since he had only one room, he couldn’t collect very many books. He, too, had come to Jerusalem laden with books. The rare ones were borrowed by collectors, who never returned them, the ordinary ones were borrowed by ordinary people, who didn’t return them either. Taglicht often commented about this. “Why should I be upset? It’s enough that others are upset about this sort of thing.” Taglicht’s library is now limited to what fits on his windowsill.