S. Agnon - Shira

The shoeshine boy pressed the bell on his stand to announce that one shoe was done and he was ready for the next one. Herbst put the notebook back in his pocket and switched feet. The shoeshine boy began again, dipped his finger in polish, smeared it on the shoe, spread it all around, and rubbed it with a rag, until the shoe began to shine. The bell sounded again, announcing that it was shined too, but that the gentleman should put the first foot up again so both of his shoes would have the same amount of shine. Meanwhile, being fond of experiments, Herbst tried to test himself, to see to what extent he was capable of taking his mind off Shira, who was troubling him once again. He began to chat with the shoeshine boy, asking him what he earns in a day. He told Herbst his earnings, as well as his expenses. He earns up to forty grush a day; sometimes more, sometimes less. Before Shabbat and on holidays, he makes more than seventy grush. But expenses are high: six lirot for rent, six grush for six tins of water. And now that his wife has given birth to a new daughter, there are even more expenses. He has to buy seven tins of water, because the nurse at the clinic instructed his wife to bathe the child every day. So they have to buy an extra tin of water in addition to the first six. Herbst made many errors in the course of that conversation. He assumed that the six lirot for rent covered a quarter of the year, whereas actually they covered the entire year. He assumed the boy was a boy, and it turned out that he was married and burdened with sons and daughters. He thought the six or seven tins of water were for a day, not realizing they were for the week. But all of this is beside the point, the point being that Herbst was testing himself to see how capable he was, at that moment, of occupying his mind with remote matters. The bell sounded again, not a signal to shift shoes but a jubilant sound, for the job was done. The gentleman could now display his shoes to the sun, the moon, the stars, to all of Jerusalem, including the rival shoeshine boys. Herbst gazed at his shoes and at the boy’s face, which came close to outshining his handiwork. Herbst paid him double his price and moved on. He stopped to take out his notebook and copy Shira’s address in his own hand. Then he turned and walked on.

The day grew dusky. A disorderly stream of workers emerged from those offices that close before sunset and mingled with the passersby. They were dressed in all sorts of finery, and their leather shoes glistened. Their skin, however, was not fine. Their manner was not fine. In fact, there was nothing fine about them: for example, the woman with black hair that had suddenly turned brown, the smooth-shaven gentleman who now sported a mustache very much like Hitler’s. The details are hardly worth mentioning, but because these people were so invested in them, I have chosen to mention them.

The French Library was still open. If Herbst wanted to, he could go there and get the novels he was after. But he gave this up for Henrietta’s sake, having promised her he would be home before dark. She was making artichokes with butter sauce for dinner, which they usually ate out of doors. And when they ate out of doors, they usually ate before sunset. Actually, Herbst had changed, in that he was no longer enthusiastic about artichokes and butter. It was a bother to deal with them, leaf by leaf, before getting to the heart. Those outdoor meals were also a bother, because Henrietta always forgot to serve at least one dish, which she remembered after he had had his fill, so he ended up overeating and not enjoying it. But, since he hadn’t said anything to her, he must get back. He hurried to catch the bus and arrived home before sunset.

When he got home, he changed his clothes, took the watering can, and went out to the garden. He watered and watered. Each bush and every flower thanked him for each and every drop. He thanked them too, for their scent and beauty, for helping him collect his scattered thoughts. Now that he was busy watering, he began to feel more collected.

The sun was setting, and the garden began to grow dark. A flock of birds appeared, on the way back to their nests. They were followed by other birds, who appeared one at a time, their chirps ringing out from the branches themselves. From the branches themselves — how could this be? Because it was dark now, no bird, not even the wing of a bird, could be seen, and the branches themselves seemed to be chirping. A sudden hush enveloped the trees, the branches, the birds in their nests, the garden, and the house. In the hush, only Sarah’s voice was heard. She was lying in bed, singing a song without words.

Warmth, lush and lively, rose from the moist earth and from the water that hadn’t soaked in yet and continued to bubble up between the clods of dirt. Underground waters became one with the swelling earth; surface waters gazed upward at the waters of the sky above until they were covered by darkness, then continued to peer through the darkness till their eyes were lost in earth and air. The smell of wood and fire blew in from nearby yards where supper was being cooked. Henrietta turned on the lights and set the table in the dining room rather than outside. She served freshly baked bread, fragrant with the aroma of contentment and peace, making this seem like the domain of tranquility and peace. But in Manfred’s heart there was no peace, no tranquility. His heart was in turmoil. At any given moment, it seemed to him, he would now be able to find Shira at home. Why didn’t he go to her? He moved his lips, to form the name of the alley she had moved to. The alley itself had no name. But the apartment was marked on the drawing in his notebook, along with the name of the landlord, and so on. He put all this together and tried to form an image. Since the image was vague, he rejected it. He summoned up her first apartment instead, his mind’s eye feasting on it. He was startled by Henrietta’s voice, asking, “Where are you, Fred?” He picked up the watering can and answered, “I’m watering the garden.” He lifted it high, so she wouldn’t say, “You’re a liar.” Henrietta said, “You are pampering our garden. You’ve already given it enough water. Get ready for dinner.” Manfred answered, “I’ll do just that, Henriett.” He put down the empty watering can, went into the bathroom, showered, changed his clothes, and sat down to dinner with Henrietta.

The meal was light and pleasant, as was the conversation. Henrietta was through with the anguish of certificates, of officials who speak but don’t act, who promise but don’t perform, and her heart was at one with the world again. Henrietta had not succeeded in bringing even one relative to the country, but, when she began to be aware she was pregnant, she had stopped running around for certificates. As soon as she stopped running, her worries diminished. When a letter arrived from abroad, inscribed with grief, misery, woe, she responded with a sigh and returned to her own affairs, as most people did at the time.

As soon as Henrietta stopped running around to arrange for certificates, Manfred felt compelled to do something on behalf of their relatives. Since he did nothing, I have nothing to report, and I’ll get back to Henrietta.

Once again, Henrietta’s heart was at one with the world and all its creatures, as in the old days, when she first knew Manfred. Except that then she was worry-free, and now she had daughters to worry about, though worry was inappropriate in the case of two daughters such as hers. Zahara lives happily with her husband, and they will continue to be happy as long as it suits her. Being a steady sort, she isn’t likely to jeopardize her own well-being or the well-being of others, all the more so now that she has a son, who serves as a new bond between his parents.

And Tamara? She is somewhat more problematic. Unlike most girls, she has a piquant intelligence, a sharp tongue, and an audacious spirit that would endanger anyone else. She was once walking down the hill from Talpiot with one of her friends. They encountered an Arab, who attacked the young man, hoping to snatch his leather briefcase. While the Arab wrestled with him, Tamara picked up a rock and threw it at his head. She did this two or three times, until he fell in a puddle of blood, half-dead. When he managed to pick himself up and crawl back to his village, Tamara followed him to see where he lived and bring him to justice. Those villagers — heroes when it comes to attacking aged Jews and solitary women — saw her, yet didn’t dare lift a finger. But it’s unfortunate that she hasn’t found a job yet and still works without pay. In fact, there is a real job awaiting her. She herself says that the superintendent of schools, who observed her at work in Mekor Hayim, has given her a glowing reference and told her she could have a job in one of the settlements in the Sharon. She would have to teach somewhere else first, until the end of the term, substituting for a teacher who went to Scandinavia on a Histadrut mission. The Histadrut, of course, considers only its own needs and feels free to pull out a teacher in midyear. It is they who end up paying. In this case, for instance, a teacher of their political persuasion will be replaced by Tamara, who detests the Histadrut as much as she detests the British.