S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

On the second day of Shavuot the guests from Poland had their own service with memorial prayers for the dead, according to the custom of that land. Liesl went to pray with them. When the prayers were over, she spoke to herself as follows: I have already spoken with the dead; when will I speak with the living? A friend overheard her and said, “If you want to see your sister, go to her and I will do your work.” Liesl informed her sister, through a Gentile messenger, that she would be in the forest in the afternoon.

Liesl dressed in holiday clothes and went to the forest to see the sister she hadn’t seen for years, except for the one day when she came to Katzenau to hire herself out as a maidservant in the hotel that belonged to Neidermeir, her fellow townsman. Liesl stood in the forest where in her childhood she used to pick mushrooms and berries. The trees were much older, as were the young boys born after she left for Offenbach. Here, in these woods, Liesl used to walk with her Siegfried, and here among these green trees he had revealed his love to her. Now his bones are rotting in a distant land and she doesn’t know where he is buried. Her three children are also far away. She hasn’t seen them since she came to Katzenau. Here she has only her sister Margarete. Liesl paces this way and that. Then she stands still as if fixed to the ground, not knowing why she is standing there rather than running toward her sister — for her heart is racing and leaping toward her. Liesl perked up her ears, straining to hear if anyone was coming. She heard only the sound of a hunter and his dogs. But mixed with these sounds, she heard footsteps. Liesl lifted her eyes and saw children running, their parents following behind. She began to run toward them and was puzzled, for she had sent a messenger to inform Margarete that she would be free for two or three hours, yet Margarete was nowhere in sight. Liesl studied every woman’s face and said to herself: They all came, everyone but Margarete. Oh, Margarete, why did you do this to me? Why didn’t you come? When Liesl had despaired of seeing her sister, she placed her hand on her heart sadly, thinking: Not only did Margarete fail to come, but not even her husband has come.

Meanwhile, the women noticed Liesl. And as soon as they noticed her, they welcomed her, saying, “Aren’t you Elise? Of course you’re Elise and you’re looking for your sister.” Liesl nodded and said nothing. Mrs. Dingsfelder, who was Mrs. Miersheim’s neighbor, said, “Don’t worry, Elise. Margarete didn’t forget you, but she was delayed by her son. She’ll be here soon. Her husband agreed to take care of him. May we all enjoy good things as surely as you will soon enjoy seeing Margarete. How are you doing, Elise? How is the work in the hotel? Neidermeir knows he won’t find your equal among a thousand women. And where are your children? How many are there? Three? We heard what happened to you, my dear. But in these times, is there anyone who can say, ‘I’m all right’? Oh, this awful war! It punishes good people and bad people alike. Look up, Elise — what do you see? She’s fast as a squirrel. Slow down, Margarete. Elise is standing right here.”

7

Margarete was already there, thin as a wafer, her face aflame. She never realized she could cover such a distance in such a short time. But it wasn’t her legs that raced; it was her heart, and her legs merely followed. It was a miracle that her heart hadn’t expired in longing. When the two sisters saw each other, they embraced and kissed tearfully, their cries carrying from one end of the woods to the other. How they had yearned for each other all this time, being so close to one another yet unable to get together even for a brief visit.

After drying one another’s tears, they looked at each other and said, “What is there to cry about.” Then they began to cry again. They finally withdrew from the group and sat together, talking — about Speyer, who was killed, and about the children dispersed among Speyer’s relatives; about Moritz, the long-anticipated son, who lost his legs and had no control of his body. They also talked about the work in the hotel, the work in the bakery, about Neidermeir and Neidermeir’s wife, about the guests, who expected to be treated like only sons, for whom no amount of effort was sufficient. They talked about the ration cards, about tax accounts, about the authorities that swallow everything up. Whatever they said and whatever words they spoke did not seem to express what was in their mind. Nonetheless, they felt relief and began to recall forgotten times, when they were both young girls. Liesl said, “Remember, Margarete, how I was the envy of Katzenau because I married my Siegfried and went to live in Offenbach? Now every cat deserves my envy, for a cat has a place to rest its tail and I don’t have a place of my own. Why did Siegfried leave me? I don’t even know where he is buried. And my children are scattered. When the resort season is over, where will I put myself?”

Her sister meant to offer words of comfort but merely added to her sorrow, as sufferers often do, recounting their own troubles by way of comfort. Margarete said, “Now I will tell you something. You, of course, know what happened to my only son. But you don’t know that my husband took sick and that what we earn in a few days is snatched up by the inspector. It’s just as well that he takes it, because he represents the authorities and he could cast an evil eye on the bakery, which hasn’t been repaired since the war began. So much for money matters. There are other things. If you want to listen, then listen. Look at me. If the Angel of Death were to come to me today and say ‘Margarete, come with me,’ I would kiss his fingers. But who will care for my son? My husband is half dead. What is the sound I’ve been hearing all day? Those hunters keep shooting, without a stop. What can you expect from Gentiles? If they don’t manage to kill people, they devise ways to kill animals or birds.”

The two sisters sat together telling each other about themselves and about others, not realizing that the day was declining, cherishing the holiday, a time when sisters can be together and share their heartfelt sorrows.

Everyone else began to think of returning to the town, for the day was done and it would soon be time for evening prayers. Yet they lingered in their place in the woods, urging each other to move on, as the sun had set and it was time to go. There was a time, not so long ago, when they used to come and go to the resort town, stroll in its gardens, hear music, see new faces, learn new things — unaware that, having exceeded the limits of a Sabbath walk, their pleasure would be costly. Thus was the teacher from Frankfurt remembered favorably, for he had marked the proper Sabbath limits and saved them from further transgression.

After a while, the agile ones bestirred themselves. They got up and prodded the dawdlers. Finally they too made a move to leave. They remembered Mrs. Miersheim, who was sitting with her sister, and went to call her. When Liesl heard that her sister was about to leave, she grew sad. She had so much to say to her sister. So far she had told her barely half of what she had in mind. Suddenly, remembering the friend who had undertaken to do her work, she tore herself from her place and helped her sister up. Margarete placed her hand on her ears to shield them from the cry of a bird wounded by the hunter. She then moved her hands away and waved them in despair. Finally she looked up and said, “Time to go.”

The two sisters wept and fell on each other’s necks, unable to utter a word. Finally one of them overcame her sorrow and said, “The holiday is over.” The second sister said, “The next holiday is a long way off.” The first one said, “When will I see you again? I am enslaved to others and I can’t come and go freely.” Her sister said, “And I, even if I do leave my house, I wear out my feet paying taxes and doing all the other chores that shorten our lives.” Liesl said, “Then when will I see you?” Margarete said, “And when will I see you?” They turned away from each other and dried their eyes.