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

We returned home without speaking a word. The stars of silence in the firmament and the candles of the living in each home lit up our way. We took the path leading to the bridge, for my father said, “Let us rest by the water for a while, my throat is choked with dust.” From within the rippling water the nocturnal stars peered out at the stars in the sky. The moon broke through the furrowed clouds and a low murmuring sound rose from the water. From his heavenly heights God sent forth silence. I shall never forget that night. The candle of the living bent its flame towards us as we arrived home. I read the Shema and slept till morning. I was roused from my sleep in the morning by my father’s voice. We left for the house of prayer. The sky had veiled itself in white as was its custom in autumn. The trees cast their russet leaves earthward and the old womenfolk bestirred themselves to gather the leaves into their homes. From the surrounding farmhouses thin plumes of smoke rose where the dry leaves burned in the stoves. People wrapped in white garments swayed back and forth in the courtyards. We arrived at the synagogue and prayed, meeting in the courtyard between the morning prayer and the additional service, and then again between the additional service and the afternoon prayer. My father asked whether the fast was not too great a strain for me. How my father’s voice confused me.

I barely saw my father during the holiday. I studied in a Polish school and we were not exempt from class during our own holidays. Returning from school at noon I would find my father and the neighbors crowded together in the succah. And I would eat by myself, as there was no place for women in the booth. But I was consoled by the coming of winter. Late in the evening we supped together and then bent over our work by the light of a single lamp. And the white oval shade cast its light over us as our heads merged into one black presence in the shadows. I prepared my lessons and my father put his accounts into order. At nine o’clock Kaila set before us three glasses of tea, two for my father and one for me. My father pushed aside ledger and pen, and reached for the glass of tea. One glass he drained steaming hot, and the second he drained cold after dropping into it a lump of sugar. We then resumed our work, I my lessons, and my father his accounts. At ten o’clock my father would rise, stroke my hair, and say, “And now go to sleep, Tirtza.” How I loved his use of the conjunction “and”. I always grew happy in its presence: it was as though all that my father told me was but the continuation of his innermost thoughts. That is, first he spoke to me from within his heart and then out loud. And so I would say to my father, “If you are not going to sleep I too will not sleep, I will stay up with you until you go to sleep.” But my father did not pay attention to my words, so I would go to bed. And when I woke I would find my father still bent over his accounts, his ledgers crowding the table. Had he risen early or had he not slept the entire night? I did not ask nor did I ever find out. Late into the night I told myself: I will go now and appeal to his heart, perhaps he will listen to me and rest. But I would fall fast asleep before ever getting out of bed. I knew my father intended to leave his business, and that wishing to set his accounts in order, he now bent over his affairs with redoubled effort. I did not ask what he would do afterwards.

I turned sixteen and was no longer obliged by law to attend school. When the school year came to an end my father sent me to a teacher’s college. He did not send me because of my talents. I had no talent for teaching, but I showed little enthusiasm for anything else as yet. I believed at the time that a person’s future was determined by others. And I told myself so be it. My relatives and friends were baffled. How in the world will Mintz make a teacher out of his daughter?

To labor is our lot and therein lies all hope. We knew the teachers among the Hebrew women to be different from the Christian, for the former were sent to remote hamlets where, being Jewish, they were harassed by the cruel-hearted villagers. And one’s earnings were quite spent by the time one arrived at the village, for all of it went on travel. And yet a great number of Hebrew women attended the college.

The college was a private institution and Mazal was employed there as a teacher. Once a year the principal traveled with his pupils to the district capital where the pupils were examined. The schoolgirls then applied themselves to their studies with redoubled effort. A girl was put to shame if she returned without a certificate in her hand, for the travel expenses were high. And she made herself a new dress before departing, and if she returned from the examination and had failed, her rival would say, “Why, you have a new dress. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it before.” “It is not new,” the girl would answer. And the other would say, “Didn’t you sew it to wear for your examinations? But where is your certificate?” And if the girl happened not to be wearing her new dress, she was asked, “But where is your new dress, the one for your examinations?” That’s how they would remind her of her shameful lack of a certificate. This is why the girls labored unceasingly at their studies. If the brain did not grasp then they drilled their lessons in by rote, for what the brain cannot do, memory shall.

I was surprised that Mazal gave no sign of recognizing me when I arrived at the college. I asked myself: do I not find favor in his eyes? Does he not know who I am? For days on end I could not keep myself from brooding over such feelings, and I studied twice as hard and was never idle.

In those days I loved to take solitary walks. No sooner had I finished my lessons than I would set forth to the open fields. If I happened to meet a friend on the way I did not call out a greeting, and when hailed I answered in a low voice, lest the person join me, when all I desired was to walk alone. Winter had arrived.

One evening I was out walking when I heard a dog barking and then the sound of a man’s footsteps. I recognized the man: it was Mazal. And I wound my handkerchief around my hand and waved it before him in greeting. Mazal stopped in his tracks and asked, “What is wrong, Miss Mintz?” “The dog,” I replied. “Did the dog bite you?” he asked, startled. “The dog bit me,” I answered. “Show me your hand,” he said, almost breathless. “Please,” I said, “bind the handkerchief for me over my wound.” Mazal took hold of my hand with shaking fingers, and as he held my hand I unwound the handkerchief and jumped up in the air, exclaiming as I laughed out loud, “There is nothing, sir! Neither a dog, nor a wound.” Mazal was so taken aback by my words that for a moment he could only stand there frozen, knowing not whether to scold me or laugh. But he quickly recovered, and then he too laughed loudly and cheerfully, and said, “Ah, you are a bad girl. How you frightened me.” He then accompanied me home, and before leaving he stared deep into my eyes. And I told myself: surely he now knows that I know he knows my secret. But I thought to myself, I will be grateful if you do not remind me of that which you do know.

That night I tossed and turned in my bed. I thrust my hand into my mouth and stared at the designs on my handkerchief. I regretted not having asked Mazal into the house. If Mazal had entered we would now be sitting in the room and I would not be nursing such delusions. The following morning I rose and gloomily paced about overwrought with emotions. Now I stretched out on my bed and now on the carpet, and I was beguiled by a fickle wind of delusions. Only towards evening was I able to calm down. I was like someone with a case of nerves who dozes off during the day and starts awake at night. Calling to mind all that I had done the previous day I rose and tied a red string around my wrist as a reminder.