S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

42

Now to whom shall I turn who can tell me the words of the song? To the old cantor who knew all the hymns of the holy poets? I am all that is left of all their tears. The old cantor rests in the shadow of the holy poets, who recite their hymns in the Great Synagogue of our city. And if he answers me, his voice will be as pleasant as it was when our city was yet alive and all of its people were also still in life. But here — here there is only a song of mourning, lamentation, and wailing, for the city and its dead.

1

Close to the Passover holiday it happened. I was far away from my father’s house and my home town, and I was going about my work, which has neither beginning nor end, work which you start to no advantage and which never sets you free. Two men smeared with plaster and paint arrived, one of them holding a ladder. Actually I should say that the ladder stood by itself and he, that is, this man with the ladder, weaved his arms through the rungs. I asked them, “What do you want?” They told me, “We were sent here to whitewash the room.”

I was involved in my work, and it was difficult for me to stop. Yet I was bothered not so much by the interruption as by the dirt, for these painters certainly would not go out of their way to spread a sheet over the books, and protect them from being soiled.

To avoid their reading my thoughts, I pretended not to see them and stared at a hole in the wall, near the ceiling. Straw and palm — branches hanging down from the ceiling covered the hole, and flies and mosquitoes clustered there. I said to myself, What do you gain with your windows screened if flies and mosquitoes come in through that hole?

I left the workers and went up to the attic, to clear away the straw and palm — branches so that the hole would be readily visible until I could find a board to cover it.

My little niece came to help me. For some reason which is beyond me, I scolded her: “I don’t need you and the likes of you!” She shrugged her shoulders and disappeared.

Meanwhile, the workers began acting in my room as if it belonged to them. I thought to myself, I’m superfluous here, and I can’t do my work, so I’ll go to my home town, to my father’s house. I haven’t seen my father for many years now, and I haven’t fulfilled the commandment of respect for Father. At the railroad station I boarded a train going to my town. Through no fault of my own, the train was delayed on the way, and when I reached town the festival had already begun; it was Passover night.

2

Passover night had come, and I had come to my home town. Since it was time for prayer, I went to pray, but I did not go where my father usually prays, for if he should see me so suddenly it would confuse his praying.

When I reached the courtyard of the House of Prayer I hesitated slightly, because I saw a lighted candle suspended in the air in a bottle swinging in the wind but not extinguished, and because at that moment one of the men whose avocation is interpreting the Bible — Isaac Euchel by name — came over to show me an explanation of a difficult verse at the end of the book of Joshua, or perhaps it was the beginning of the book of Hosea. Isaac Euchel’s explanation was a bit forced, and medieval commentators had already interpreted the verse in a simple style and in clear, lucid language. Nevertheless, I nodded my head, as if the world needed his interpretation.

While talking, he took out a cigarette and asked for a light. A child came over to light a match, but it went out. He took another match and gave it to me, saying “Give it to that gentleman there.” I told Isaac Euchel, “Your generation, with all its expertise in grammar, didn’t know how to adorn this splinter with a word as suitable as ‘match.’” And when I had said this it occurred to me he would answer that since there had been no matches in his day there had been no need for this word. Euchel took the match and said, “Now, then, we can make a flame with this metch” (he said “metch,” with an “e” not an “a”). “But what good is a metch which goes out before serving its purpose?”

Alas, I tried to outsmart him and I was outsmarted.

3

I do not remember how we took leave of each other. When I left him, I found myself standing in a large room which had a set table, with bottles, jars, and glasses on it. And two women were standing there, one old and one young. And a candle was suspended in the air in a bottle, like the one I had seen in the courtyard of the House of Prayer. Or perhaps there were two candles which seemed to be one. The room opened directly onto the street, with two doorways facing each other. I turned to the doorway facing my father’s house and started to leave.

The old woman said, “Is that the way it’s done, coming in and going out?” I realized that I had come upon an inn and that they had made no profit from me. Placing my hand over my heart as an oath and a promise, I said, “Believe me, I’ll come again.”

The old woman’s face lit up. “I know, sir, that you will keep your promise.” I nodded my head, saying to myself, “I only hope I don’t forget, I only hope I don’t forget,” even though it is difficult to keep such a promise. First of all, I had come to my father’s town and my father certainly would insist that I stay at home, and not allow me to go to inns or hotels. And second — I’ve forgotten the second reason.

When I took leave of the old woman I started to run, for it was Father’s custom to sit down to the Passover meal immediately following services. While I was running, it occurred to me that I might have passed his house. I raised my eyes to see. My eyes shut themselves firmly, and I did not see a thing. With great effort I opened them just a narrow crack, and saw three or four men running in haste and confusion. I meant to ask them where my father’s house was, but they were strangers, even though they were dressed like the men of my town. I let them pass, without asking them.

Time does not stand still, but I was standing still, seeking my father’s house, not knowing where it was. For I had not been in the town in many years and I had forgotten many of its roads, and the town itself had changed somewhat. Then I remembered that Father lived next to a man who was known by everyone.

I looked for someone who would tell me where the house was. My eyes shut themselves again. With all my might I struggled to open them. They opened just a narrow crack again. The moon came out, to shine upon them dust and ashes. I saw a little girl. Pointing with her finger, she said, “That’s it.” I wanted to ask her, “How do you know what I am looking for?” My eyes opened and I saw Father, holding his cup of wine, about to chant the blessing over the wine, hesitating, waiting.

Afraid that I might disturb the quiet of the house, I wanted to explain to Father, letting my eyes speak for me, telling him why I had delayed coming for so long. My eyes closed again. Struggling, I opened them. Suddenly I heard a noise like that of a sheet being torn. Actually, no sheet was being torn, but one small cloud high above was being torn, and once it was torn the moon came out, splitting the clouds, and a sweet light shone upon the house and upon Father.

Three days I spent in the office of the gray bureau. A certain relative, whose name I didn’t even recognize, had written to me from a certain city I’d never heard of, asking me to go to a certain office and obtain for him such-and-such a document on which his whole life depended.

My throat was sore — and my whole body. Just the same, I got up very early and went to get my relative’s document — thinking all the time that I would find it immediately and then go back to bed. I was fighting a cold which had troubled me all winter and which had returned that day with renewed force. I entered the office humbly and timidly. As I had gotten up early and not a soul was there before me, I was sure there would be no long delay before they gave me the document.