S. Agnon - A Guest for the NIght

I have a special affection for this shopkeeper, for he is not like most of the shopkeepers in the Land of Israel, who ask you, after every purchase that you make, “And what else?” They think little of you for what you have already bought. This shopkeeper has the quality of contentment; he does not try to persuade you to buy something of which you have no need, and he gives you what you need graciously. Not a month will pass before we shall eat of the oranges that this shopkeeper will send us.

The postman came and brought me a letter. For us the letter is the main thing and the bearer is secondary, but for him the letter is secondary and he is the main thing, since were it not for him Szibucz would be cut off from the world and no one would know of anything beyond its bounds.

The postman is a fleshy man and his hands and legs are heavy. His hair is faded, and his eyes are the color of the weak beer they make in Szibucz. One end of his mustache sticks up and the other hangs down, and he has stickles growing on his chin instead of a beard. He is not like the postman of days gone by, who had a beard that was a facsimile of the Emperor Franz Josef’s, and a mustache that, needless to say, used to lie on his upper lip like a hero taking his ease after victory over his enemies, for before he began to bring the people of Szibucz their letters he was one of the king’s gendarmes, and the whole town was afraid of him. This postman, on the other hand, is half a peasant and half a townsman, and I doubt whether he can read the writing on the envelopes. As for one end of his mustache sticking up and the other hanging down, I blame the people of Szibucz, who are in a hurry to get their letters and leave him no time to look after his mustache.

But the pouch that hangs from his neck and spreads over his belly is as important as in days gone by. All the events of the time are contained in it: journals and business letters and the like. What an extraordinary thing: they took the skin off an animal that used to graze in the meadow and cry “meh, meh,” and made it into a pouch; now that skin brings forth things that make people cry “Woe.” However, this letter the postman has brought me is not a painful one, for it comes from the Land of Israel. I believe that even the postman was aware of this; when he handed it to me his voice was joyful.

I looked at the stamps and the Hebrew letters on them, and I said to the postman, “I did not give you a present on your holiday; now I will give you double.” He bowed low, as far as his pouch, took the money, and said, “Many thanks, sir.”

I said to him, “I do not interfere in other people’s business, but since this money comes from the Holy Land, it must not be used wastefully. If you are married and have children, a boy or a girl, buy them figs or dates or some other good fruit.” He put his hand on his heart, or on his pouch, and said, “As I love God, I will buy figs and dates.” “And I thought you would use my money to drink brandy,” said I. How strange are men’s opinions; one thinks this way and one another. Or perhaps they are not strange, for in the end it turns out that they mean the same thing. “What does the gentleman think of me?” said he. “Since I came back from the war I have not gone into a tavern.” “Excellent, excellent,” said I. But as I was saying so, I felt sorry: first, because I had deprived a Jewish innkeeper of trade, and second, because I had interfered in the affairs of his wife and children, when I should have been thinking of mine.

He who knows what I wrote to the Land of Israel knows what they replied. I wrote, “Send me oranges,” and they replied, “We have sent them.”

So this man who has come here sits and thinks to himself: One of these days the oranges are destined to find their way to Szibucz. Szibucz, which has never seen an orange since the war, suddenly receives a crateful of oranges.

I went out alone to the railway station to receive this crate, not like the first Zionists who went out to welcome the first crate of oranges from the Land of Israel, who went out joyfully, in crowds, reciting verses from the Bible. How can this man recite poetic verses when Jews are going the rounds of their brethren’s groves, seeking work to keep themselves alive and being rejected in favor of the sons of Esau or Ishmael?

The station is covered in snow; facing it, the iron rails, on which the cars run, stretch out. Few persons leave Szibucz and few enter Szibucz, but the train continues to do its duty. Twice a day it leaves and comes in. Whenever it comes in, Rubberovitch the guard goes out with his rubber hand and calls melodiously, “Szibucz.” His clothes are clean and his mustache is neat. I say to myself: Let me wait and see Rubberovitch licking his mustache when he cries “Szibucz.” But no sooner had I a chance to see him than the bright snow dripped into my eyes and blinded them.

Between the heaps of snow stretches a chain of cars. Usually they are black, but today they are white. Above them stretches the smoke. While the smoke is making up its mind whether to rise upward or sink downward, the snow comes and covers it.

The train arrives and stops opposite the station. Half a dozen men come out with sacks in their hands, containing things with which a poor man earns his bread, such as scraps of iron and rabbit skins and the like, perhaps, too, some potatoes and carrots and cabbages and beans.

Where are the great merchants who used to come to Szibucz at this season? Wrapped in broad fur coats they would come, with the collars of their coats folded back and resting on their shoulders.

The great merchants have sold their merchandise, and have no money to buy new. True, the charity officials gave them money with which to trade, but charitable funds have no strength. They save a poor man from hunger, but they do not put him on his feet. And if they put him on his feet, they bend his back and lower his spirit, and his spirit is never restored. Just look, these men who have left the car used to be upright in stature and dressed in furs; now they are bowed and their spirits are low. Surely it is a great virtue to give charity. But it is great if one gives as a father that gives to his son, but not when one gives like a rich man who throws a copper to a pauper, for then all the evil spirits that surround a good deed rise with it.

But what should the givers of charity have done? This question is broad as the earth and deeper than the sea, and it is not in our power to answer it. But this we may say: If the benefactors of Israel had made the troubles of their brethren their own, the Holy One, blessed be He, would have helped them, and they would not have had to give and give again. But they did not make their brethren’s troubles their own; they tried to salve their consciences by mere giving. Therefore their brethren remained poor, and tomorrow, if — heaven forbid — the givers themselves should be visited by trouble, the recipients of charity would be unable to help them.

And where are the traveling salesmen who used to come with a great to-do, and when the porters saw one of them looking out from the train, they would immediately hang on to the window and every porter would cry, “Mister, let me carry your bag, I saw you first!” And the gentleman would say, “I will give you and the other one as well,” for every salesman would bring many bags with him. Before the porters could load up with all the bags, a second salesman would appear, and a third, and a fourth. The big salesmen have nothing to do in Szibucz, because the town has dwindled and so have its needs. From time to time a traveling salesman finds his way to Szibucz and stays two or three days in a hotel, spending little and talking a great deal.