S. Agnon - Two Scholars Who Were in our Town and other Novellas

Sons of the Heavenly Hall / Bnei heikhala — Aramaic hymn composed by Isaac Luria, about the longings for revelation. Commonly sung at the final Sabbath meal.

I rejoiced when they said… / Psalms 122:1.

The Lord loveth the gates of Zion… / Psalms 87:2.

The third day of the week / Gen 1:10 and 1:12 — Tuesday (third day of creation) is only day twice indicated as “good”.

Place below Jerusalem called Motza… / Mishnah Sukkah 4:5.

Who are these that fly as a cloud? / Isaiah 60:8.

Abraham ibn Ezra / 1089–1164, Spanish exegete, philosopher and poet.

Bought the parcel of land / Genesis 33:19.

Sabbath eve feast before a circumcision / Custom of Shalom Zakhar , visiting with the newborn on the Friday evening prior to circumcision.

Mine eyes and My heart… / Chronicles II 7:16.

Priestly blessing / Numbers 6:24–26.

I am the Lord… / Isaiah 49:23.

The Lord is good… / Lam. 3:25.

Ten sanctities whereby the Land of Israel is sanctified / Mishnah Kelim 1:6.

And His feet shall stand… / Zach. 14:4.

The heavens are the heavens… / Psalms 115:16, from the Hallel prayer recited on the first of the New Month.

But a good word… / Prov. 12:25.

But those who wait for the Lord… / Psalms 37:9.

My mother died in the prime of her life. She was barely thirty-one years old. Few and harsh were the days of her life. She sat at home the entire day and never stirred from within. Her friends and neighbors did not visit, nor did my father welcome guests. Our house stood hushed in sorrow, its doors did not open to a stranger. Lying on her bed my mother spoke scarcely a word. But when she did speak it was as though limpid wings had spread forth and led me to the hall of blessing. How I loved her voice. Often I would open her door just to hear her ask, Who’s there? I was still a child. Sometimes she rose from her bed to sit by the window. She would sit by the window dressed in white. She always wore white. Once a relative of my father’s was called into town and seeing my mother, took her for a nurse, for her clothes misled him and he did not realize it was she who was unwell.

Her illness, a heart ailment, bowed her life down. Every summer the doctors would send her to the hot springs, but she would turn back shortly after leaving, for she said her longing gave her no peace, and once again she would sit by the window or lie on her bed.

My father began to ply his trade less and less. He no longer left for Germany where, as a bean merchant, he had traveled year after year to deal with his clients. In those days and at that time he forgot the ways of the world. Returning home at dusk he would sit by my mother’s side, his left hand tucked behind his head and her right hand held in his own. And every so often she would lean forward and kiss his hand.

The winter my mother died our home fell silent seven times over. My mother forsook her bed only when Kaila went in to tidy up. A carpet was placed in the hallway to absorb the sound of each and every footfall, and the odor of medicine wafted from one room to another. Every room was encumbered with grief.

The doctors arrived unsummoned and refused to leave, and whenever we asked whether her health had improved all they said was, With God’s help. Meaning all hope was lost — there was no cure. But my mother didn’t sigh or complain, nor did she shed any tears. She lay quietly on her bed and her strength fled like a shadow.

But there were days when hope tugged at our hearts and we believed that she would live. Winter had come and gone and the earth was arrayed in the first days of spring. My mother seemed to forget her pain and we saw with our own eyes how her illness abated. Even the doctors consoled us, claiming there was hope: spring was drawing near and the sun’s rays would soon reinvigorate her body.

Passover was at our doorstep and Kaila made the necessary preparations for the holiday, while as mistress of the house my mother attended to her duties and ensured nothing was amiss. She even made herself a new dress.

Several days before the holiday my mother, having left her bed, stood before the looking-glass and put on her new dress. Shadows glimmered over her body in the mirror and the light of the living illumined her face. My heart beat with joy. How beautiful was her face in that dress. And yet the new dress was not that different from the old one. Both were white and the dress she now discarded was good as new, for being bedridden all winter she had had little use for clothes. I’m not sure in what I discerned a sign of hope. Perhaps a scent of hope blossomed from the spring bloom she pinned above her heart — or was it that the medicinal odors had faded away? A new fragrance freshened our home. I was familiar with a variety of perfumes but had never before come across one so delicate. Once though, I inhaled the scent of such sweetness in a dream. Where could this fragrance have come from? For my mother did not dab herself with feminine perfumes.

My mother rose from her bed and sat by the window where there was a small table with a drawer. The drawer was locked and the key to the drawer hung from my mother’s neck. My mother opened the drawer without making a sound and removed a bundle of letters which she then spent the rest of the day reading. She read until evening. The door opened twice, three times, but she did not ask who was there, and when I spoke to her she did not answer. When she was reminded to drink her medicine she swallowed the contents of the spoon without making a face or uttering a word. It was as though their bitterness had vanished. And no sooner had she drained her medicine than she returned to her letters.

The letters were written on thin paper in a clear, immaculate hand. They were written in short and long lines. Seeing my mother reading I told myself she would never relinquish the letters, for she was bound to them and the drawer by the string around her neck. Later that afternoon she took the bundle, secured it with the string hanging around her neck, kissed the letters and the key and tossed them into the wood stove. The flue, however, was blocked and only one ember flickered in the stove. The ember gnawed through the thin paper, the letters burned in the fire and the house filled with smoke. Kaila hastened to open the window, but my mother forbade her to do so. The letters burned and the house filled with smoke. And my mother sat by the open drawer and inhaled the smoke from the letters until evening.

That night Mintshi Gottlieb came to inquire about my mother’s health. Mintshi was her close friend. As young girls they had studied together under Akaviah Mazal. For close to three hours Mintshi sat by my mother’s bedside. “Mintshi,” my mother said, “this will be the last time I see you.” Drying her tears, Mintshi said, “Leah, take heart, you will soon regain your strength.” My mother remained silent, a solemn smile playing over her feverish lips. Suddenly she clasped Mintshi’s right hand in her own and said, “Go home, Mintshi, and prepare for the Sabbath. Tomorrow afternoon you will accompany me to my resting place.” This occurred on a Thursday night, which is the dawn of Friday, the Sabbath eve. Taking hold of my mother’s right hand, Mrs. Gottlieb spread out her fingers and said, “Leah.” A stifled sob held back her words. Our spirits sank.