S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

All of this applied to daytime. Nighttime was worse. From the moment they put the child to bed until they wake him he cries and whimpers, stopping only to groan. When he neither cries nor groans it is even worse, for then he seems to be dead, Heaven forbid. I say to myself: Get up and wake his father and mother. Before I can get up I hear the sound of crying and groaning. Like everyone else, I dislike both sounds. But, in this case, the child’s cries and groans are dearer to me than all the musical instruments in the world, for then I know that he is alive.

3

In short, this child was attached to me, perhaps because his father and mother did not take care of him and he longed for human companionship, perhaps because I rocked him back and forth. In any case, he would never let me pass the doorstep without taking him in my arms. When I did take him in my arms, he would poke his fingers into my eyes and grin. Throughout the day he smiled only when he stuck his fingernails into my eyes. Often his father and mother would scold him. “Bobby, no! Bobby, no!” But from their manner of scolding it was clear that they were pleased with his cleverness. I, who did not share the joy of his father and mother, could not understand: when flies and mosquitoes crawled over his sores he was too lethargic to chase them away, but whenever he caught sight of my eyes he immediately sprang into action.

I too began to act cleverly. When I had to leave, I checked first to see if Bobby was outside. If he was, I would wait in my room. But since my room was not comfortable to sit in, I would be forced to go out. When I went out, the child would climb on me with a double measure of love, and would not leave me alone until I took him in my arms and rocked him. And, while rocking, he would stick his fingers into my eyes and grin. When I put him down he would shout, “Moo, moo, oinkle, moo,” which is to say, “More, more, uncle, more.” Who composed this jingle, the child or a nursery-school teacher? In any case, the nonsense syllables were something that a nursery teacher would compose. Man’s superiority over animals lies in his power of speech, but all of God’s works require a process of “redemption” on the part of man, and nursery-school teachers are the ones who do this. Since he asked for more, I would take him in my arms again and rock him, while he stuck his fingernails into my eyes and shouted, “Bobby! Bobby!” He could see his reflection in my eyes and was trying to snatch it away.

When a man is suffering he should examine his deeds. If he is humble and modest, he blames himself for his misfortunes; if he is neither, he blames others. If he is a man of action, he tries to rid himself of his trouble through action; if he is a man of contemplation, he waits until his trouble ends by itself. Sometimes he goes away, or another trouble appears, causing the first one to be forgotten. I, who have attained neither the passivity of the humble nor the zeal of men of action, would sit and ponder, Why do they make doorsteps for houses? If there were no doorstep, the child would not lie around there and I would not run into him.

I have already mentioned my friends; because of their affection I shall mention them again. At first they warned me. When their predictions came true, they began talking to me as people talk to someone who is sick, and they would say, “The prime need for any man is a place to live in, especially one who has come here to be healed.” Since it was difficult for me to change my quarters, I tried to shrug off the matter with a talmudic saying: “A man should never change his quarters.” What did my friends say? “In spite of the Talmud we shall rent another room for you.” But talk is easier than action, let alone than friendship. This being so, I stayed where I was.

There was one woman who did not argue with me, but took the trouble to find me a pleasant location with a pleasant climate, and she would not desist until I went with her to see it.

She told me that the owner of this house usually did not rent rooms. However, his daughter had gone to a kibbutz, her room remained empty, and he had agreed to rent it. And the rent was no more than what I was paying already. He had explicitly mentioned that “Money is not the main thing; it’s the tenant. If a man is looking for rest, I will gladly open my house to him.”

4

Among vineyards and orchards rises a hill surrounded on all sides by pleasant trees. On this hill stands a small house. One reaches it by walking up grass-covered steps. And a hedge of fruit trees surrounds the house, shading the house and the grass. One enters a yard wherein is a pool of water with small fish. When I saw the house and the yard, I was glad and I had doubts. I was glad that a man in the Land of Israel had all this, and I had my doubts that this place was for me.

The lady of the house came out. She greeted us gladly and looked approvingly at me. Then she led us into a pleasant room where the heat of the day was not felt, and brought us cool water to drink. The owner of the house came in, an aging man of about sixty, tall and lean, his head bent slightly to the left. His blue eyes were filled with sadness, but love of humanity shone in them. He greeted me and poured a drink for us. After we drank, he showed me the room I had come to rent.

A pleasant, square room suddenly stood open before me. Its wooden furniture was simple, but every piece appeared indispensable. This was also true of the picture on the wall, painted by the daughter, a picture of a girl alone in a field, looking at the setting sun. Sunset usually brings on sadness, but this one brought on sweet rest. And this was true of the breeze that blew from outside, and it was true of the entire room. After I rented the room, the owner of the house invited us to his garden for a glass of tea. A breeze was blowing from the trees and from the sea, the tea kettle was steaming, and the repose of peace and tranquility hung over the table and the people. As we sat there the lady of the house told us about her daughter who had left every comfort for the kibbutz. She was not complaining, but spoke like a mother who loves to talk about her daughter. The owner of the house was silent. But he looked at us with affection so that he seemed to have joined our conversation.

5

I asked him how he had come here. He answered and said, “I came here as most men in the Land of Israel came here. But some come when they are young; they are happy with the land and the land is happy with them. And some come when they are old; they are happy with the land but the land is not happy with them. I did not have the privilege of coming in my youth, but in my old age I came, even though I had given serious thought to the land before I reached old age. How did this come about? I was a grain merchant and once, in a field, as I walked behind the reapers, I thought about the Land of Israel and the Jews living on their own land, plowing and sowing and reaping. From that time on I could not stop thinking about the Land of Israel. I thought: May I be found worthy of seeing it. I did not intend to settle, but only to see it. During those years I was preoccupied with my business affairs and I had no time to emigrate. Then the war came and closed the road to us.

“When things calmed down and the roads were opened, I sold everything I owned and I came to the Land of Israel, not just to see it but to settle. For in those days, the land in which I had lived had become like Gehenna for Jews, and they could not stand up against their enemies.

“I did not buy land, for most of my life was over and I was not fit to work the land. And I did not want to work through others, since I did not want to be supported by their labors even if the land were mine. I decided to buy some houses, and to support myself from the rent. But I left that enterprise before I scarcely began. Why? The night I reached the Land of Israel I could not sleep. I went outside, to sit at the door of my hotel. The sky was clear and pure, the stars sparkled, and a quiet, secure repose reigned above, but below, on earth, there was neither quiet nor repose. Buses dashed madly about and people rushed in excitement and boys and girls shuffled wearily along, singing, and all kinds of musical instruments screeched from every house, every window.