Back to Shira. Shira’s behavior is consistent. She invites and rejects, rejects and invites. Once, he sat her on his lap. Though she seemed not to mind, she suddenly slipped down and fled. Herbst repeats the same question: If she means to reject me, why is she so inviting? If she means to be inviting, why the rejection? When he pressed her, she said to him, “I don’t want to upset your wife; I have nothing against your wife.” If that’s the reason, then why was she so inviting to begin with? When he examines the situation, he sees that, even when she is inviting, there are limits.
As it happened, the thought occurred to him that Shira might be sick — that she was surely sick and was afraid he would catch her disease, which was why she had mentioned his wife, saying, “I have nothing against her and I don’t want to upset her.” Because, if she did have something against her, she wouldn’t have worried about infecting her with a disease that could be transmitted to her through him. This would explain why she had been at first inviting and then rejecting. As long as she was healthy, she welcomed him; when she realized she was sick, she began to reject him. In that case, he ought to have been grateful for the rejection. Not only was he ungrateful, he resented the fact that she rejected him. But Shira was different from him. Shira was in good control, imposing her will on his. Herbst took leave of Shira, sad and distressed — distressed by the rejection, and sad that he might already have contracted her disease. If he had the disease, then he was sick; if he was sick, he needed to be careful not to kiss his wife and daughters; above all, not to kiss Sarah, because children are more vulnerable to illness than adults.
A man’s imagination generates his actions. Herbst pictured his wife and daughters with an illness the doctors could not identify. Only Herbst knows the source of their malady, and he doesn’t disclose it to the doctors. They are in the throes of disease, all three of them. He goes from bed to bed in silence. It is a grave disease, all the more so because the doctors don’t recognize it, and, until they recognize it, they don’t know how to treat it. Picture this: There is one person in the world who could open his mouth and reveal the nature of the illness so the doctors could find a cure, but he is so cruel to his wife and daughters that he ignores their pain and refuses to tell the doctors anything. Who is that person? He is that woman’s husband and the father of those girls.
Angry and confused, Herbst went home, afraid he would find his wife and daughters in the throes of some painful disease. A host of afflictions, which Herbst had become aware of during the war, when he was mired in blood, came back to haunt him. Recalled through the power of memory and powered by imagination, they took over. Not content with skin and flesh, the blight was everywhere, and as it expanded the body expanded too. But what he witnessed during the war was inflicted by enemies, whereas now his wife and two daughters were afflicted through him. Zahara was also afflicted. You might think she was spared because she lived elsewhere, but she was exposed when she came to Jerusalem.
Herbst despaired of salvation. What he would have liked at that point was to find refuge, to be alone and consider what to do. In truth, there were no helpful thoughts available to him, and he didn’t have the power to change anything. But he must concentrate on what has happened to his wife and daughters before he loses his mind and does something crazy.
Herbst sneaked into his house like a thief in the night, compressing himself as he had never done before. He dwarfed his body, stuffed his head between his shoulders, tightened his limbs, shut his eyes, and held his breath. He would have been willing to crawl on all fours, just so no one would hear him come in.
Before he had a chance to emerge from his dwarfed state, Henrietta came toward him, holding out a letter. He stared at his wife and at the object she was handing him, wondering if the facts were already known. He was struck by two simultaneous thoughts. One was: Woe unto you. The other was: Now that the facts are known, there is nothing you can do.
Henrietta said, “A letter from Zahara.” Manfred asked in a whisper, “From Zahara?” Henrietta said, “Yes, it’s from Zahara.” Manfred repeated his wife’s words and said, “The letter — it’s from Zahara.” Henrietta said, “The child writes that she is about to go into the hospital.” Manfred heard and thought to himself: Then Zahara is the first victim. If Zahara was stricken, then her husband was probably stricken too. Since no man is likely to stay with one wife an entire lifetime, he would probably take another woman, and Zahara would probably take another man; four people would be afflicted because of him, because he was afflicted by Shira. These thoughts about the disease were intercepted by a dismaying thought: I heard Zahara was going to the hospital, but I wasn’t shocked.
Manfred was sad and depressed. He had never been so depressed. He forgot that he had the cure for his wife and daughters in his hands, but he didn’t forget that he was responsible for their illness. Henrietta said, “Don’t you want to read Zahara’s letter? She’s about to go to the hospital.” Manfred peered at Henrietta and asked in a whisper, “She’s going into the hospital? Why all of a sudden?” Henrietta laughed and said, “Why all of a sudden? What a question! It’s not sudden. She’s about to have the baby.” Manfred said, “So that’s it. I imagined all sorts of illnesses, but I never imagined she was going to the hospital because she was about to have a baby.” At that moment, he felt neither joy nor sadness, but his heart was pounding violently and relentlessly. Henrietta saw his agitation and said, “I’ll bring you something soothing to drink.” Manfred said, “If you’re going to bring me a drink, make it coffee.” At that moment, Manfred had no desire for coffee or any other drink in the world, but, to prove to Henrietta that he hadn’t changed in any way, he asked for something she wasn’t eager to give. She brought him strong coffee, which provoked him. Her conversation provoked him too. Actually, she spoke only of Zahara and said nothing that could irritate a fatherly heart. But he was concerned with something else, and two simultaneous concerns are more than a mind can tolerate. Henrietta, however, was unaware of this and didn’t stop talking.
Once again, day follows day. The sun shines; the moon and stars give light. The days are hot. At night, a pleasant coolness sweetens the city, treasured dew is released, grasses impart a fine fragrance, and people strive to enjoy what can be enjoyed. They leave work, come home, eat dinner, and take out chairs or a blanket, which they spread in front of the house to lie on. Before they have a chance to settle down, a curfew is announced, and they go back inside, annoyed at themselves and their entire household, only to be startled by the sound of gunfire, far away or nearby. There are two aspects to the curfew: it locks in and releases. Jews are locked in, forbidden to leave home; triggers are released, spewing rounds of terror and death. If this puzzles you, here’s another puzzle: these deadly rounds land wherever the people are.
The days are orderly, as is Dr. Herbst’s household. But now, instead of writing often to her relatives in Germany and those who left Germany and were dispersed throughout the world, Henrietta writes to her daughter Zahara. Henrietta’s letters are long. Sometimes, after putting the letter in an envelope, she has to weigh it to see if it needs an additional stamp. What does she write, and what doesn’t she write? She has never written such letters, nor has she ever written as often. If letter writers are rewarded, Henrietta receives her due, for Zahara loves her mother and answers every single letter. It must nonetheless be noted that the daughter’s letters are not as lovely as the mother’s. Don’t be surprised by this: Henrietta was born when the world was peaceful, and she could concern herself with such things as elegant script, whereas Zahara was born into a world debased by war, and everything in it was debased — handwriting, language, and all the rest. In any case, her heart is steady, and so are her letters; steady and easy to read. Even Henrietta, who never studied Hebrew, reads her daughter’s letters herself and considers each one a gift, every word a kiss. These are not words Henrietta would use to praise Zahara’s dispatches. Joy and deep delight go beyond language, beyond the words we utter.