S. Agnon - Shira

To mitigate the anecdote, which could be construed as a complaint, Anita began to describe the house she was working in — its elegance; the cleverness of the baby she was taking care of; the room she had been given, which was on the roof, a small room with a large terrace overlooking the Judean hills. When she sat alone at night, looking out at those hills, at the moon and the stars, she was in a state of euphoria, lacking nothing. But the better off she was, the worse she felt, remembering her father and mother, trapped in Berlin, bemoaning their miserable fate. Yet she could do nothing for them. She sometimes asked herself: What are we? If we are human, how can we be so heartless? We enjoy every advantage here, without responding to the distress of our brethren in Germany and in other lands where they are oppressed. Anita concluded her tirade against Hitler and his followers, savage animals who behave like savage animals. “But,” she continued, “we in the Land of Israel — Jews with Jewish hearts — how can we sit complacently, eating, drinking, sleeping, as if nothing has occurred? I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the urge to scream, ‘How can we be so complacent? Doesn’t anyone hear the cries of our brothers and sisters?’ I step outside, search the four corners of the sky, and ask, ‘Whence will our help come?’ All of a sudden, I hear a voice calling, ‘Wake up, hurry, bestir yourselves.’ I see light in windows and Jews coming out of their houses, quickly, on the run. I think: They hear the cries, and they are responding. Then I realize they’re hurrying to the synagogue, so they can finish praying and be free to pursue their business, like yesterday and the day before.”

While Anita was talking, Herbst sat with one finger bent to help him remember the question he wished to ask. When Anita stopped her monologue, he didn’t relax his finger, nor did he ask his question, because she seemed sad and because of the people at the adjacent table. When most of the tables were empty, Herbst placed his hand on hers, looked at her somewhat evasively, and said, “What I’ve been thinking…What it occurred to me, by association, is that I might ask you…You may remember that once, when you were sick, I came to visit you with the nurse Shira. If I’m not mistaken, she brought you flowers that made you very happy.” Anita said, “How could I not remember her? I have never met as fine a woman.” Herbst said, “What I mean is, I wonder…I haven’t seen her in several months.” Anita said, “As a matter of fact, I’m in the same situation. I’ve looked for her several times, but I haven’t been able to find her. When I asked her neighbors, they couldn’t say when they had last seen her.” Herbst said, “She probably moved, and you were at her old apartment.” Anita said, “No, I’m talking about her new apartment. I even asked about her in the hospital, but she apparently didn’t say where she was going. She really doesn’t have to account for herself, but I’m sorry she didn’t say where she was going. I don’t think she’s left the country. If she left Jerusalem, she may have gone to Tel Aviv, to Haifa, or to some kvutza , and she may return just as suddenly as she left. If you would like, Dr. Herbst, I could tell you where she lives now.”

All this time, Herbst sat thinking a variety of thoughts. One thought was: Something could have happened to Shira; she could have become pregnant and gone off to a place where she is unknown. When was he last with her? He did the calculation more than once. She had been putting him off for years. If she was pregnant, he wasn’t responsible. He felt gloomy. He sat with Anita, unaware of her and of everyone. But he was aware that something had happened to him.

He smoothed his hair with his hand. Then he looked at the hand and extended it toward Anita. He had the impression that his hair had turned gray, and he thought about asking Anita for a mirror. Seeing that he had extended his hand to her, Anita said, “Dr. Herbst, would you like me to write down Shira’s new address?” Herbst looked at her and said, “Shira’s address? I might as well write down Shira’s address.” But his face indicated that the gesture would be wasted, that, even if he knew where she lived, he would not find her.

He took out a notebook and pen, and handed them to Anita. She wrote down the address and drew a map of the street, on which she marked the position of the house. Herbst took back his pen and notebook, and stuck them in his pocket, looking neither at the address nor at Anita. After a while, he stole a sideward glance at her, to see if she had seen that he was keeping Shira’s address. After a further while, he took a spoon and began tapping on the glass. Trudel appeared and gave him the check. He stood up, then sat down again. All of a sudden, he roused himself, looked at Anita Brik, and said, “How are you, my dear?” As he spoke, he realized that, in light of their lengthy conversation, the question was superfluous. He smiled, an odd smile, and said, “Actually, you have told me everything, but is all of everything really everything? I talked so much without mentioning that my wife asked about you. You know where we live. We are still in Baka. You can take either the number six or the number seven bus. If you’re ready to leave now, I’m ready too. I’m sorry I troubled you to write down the address of Shira the nurse. It was a waste. If I show you my book, you’ll find a thousand addresses in it, and I doubt that I’ve used a single one. I wrote down the nurse Shira’s address out of sheer habit. In this country, we do so much writing. I was told about a consul who said he had never been in a country where people write as much as they do in Palestine. It is common that, when a child begins to write, he writes a lot, his hands become skilled, and he learns to write nicely. It’s the same with a young nation. What I just said doesn’t pertain to writing good poems. So, goodbye, my dear. Oh, I have inundated you with words, as if I were some sort of a Bachlam-and-a-half. I did actually visit Bachlam a few days ago. I suspect his manner is contagious. Goodbye, my dear. Goodbye.”

The shock that had overwhelmed him began to dissipate. By the time he took leave of Anita, there was no discernible trace of what had agitated him a short time earlier. Herbst found some consolation in the new address he had written in his notebook; should he want to, he could go to Shira. There was no need to go immediately, but, whenever he wanted to, he could go.

He left Ben Yehuda Street, turned to the left, and walked as far as the Café Europa. Before the shoeshine boys who were stationed there had a chance to grab his feet and begin shining his shoes, he himself placed one foot on the box that was set up for the purpose. While the boy was at work, Herbst took out his little book, noted the new address, and studied the drawing, picturing the precise location of Shira’s new apartment, the place where she now resided. It was easy for Herbst to imagine the place, but it was hard for him to imagine what sort of people lived there. Jerusalem is unlike cities in other countries, where rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods are distinct, so that where one lives is predetermined. In Jerusalem, people live anywhere, without such distinctions, and the population is not segregated. In fact, one actually finds, in all the older alleys of the new city, dilapidated structures alongside new ones. Here, the rich and the poor — all the social classes — are considered equal. There are areas where we assume no one we know would live; still, when we happen to be there, we are sure to run into two or three familiar faces, the ones we least expected to see. Herbst, who had been trying for years to hide his affair with Shira from his friends, was interested in knowing who her neighbors were, as a precaution. But, as I said, he was after the impossible.