S. Agnon - Shira

What had happened to Anita Brik happened to Manfred Herbst. When he arrived at Shira’s, he found the door locked. The door was locked, and there was no sound from inside. Where is she? She isn’t at the hospital. Then where is she? His question recurred like a gnawing refrain. He didn’t realize that he had asked the same question many times. He had certainly knocked on the door, but he probably hadn’t knocked hard enough, which explains why she didn’t open it. Perhaps she was asleep and didn’t hear, and, if he were to knock again, she would hear and get out of bed to open the door, as she had done that Shabbat when they went to visit Anita Brik. Until that day, Herbst wasn’t aware that Anita Brik knew Shira. That day, he discovered that she knew Shira, and today that information was very useful, for it was she who had told him where Shira lived, at a time when no one knew Shira’s whereabouts. But what use is it to us to know where Shira lives if we don’t find her in. Still, though we didn’t succeed today, we will surely succeed tomorrow. Was it excessive optimism or fear of the truth, was it the suspicion that even tomorrow we wouldn’t really know where Shira is, that led Herbst to say what he said? In either case, we must take our mind off Shira, so we will be free to attend to our real concerns, our work and our book, which we have so frivolously postponed. Now that something has come up, reminding us of our work, let us put Shira out of mind and get back to it.

What was it that led Herbst to turn his thoughts to his work once again? It was Ernst Weltfremdt’s book that led Herbst’s mind back to his work and his book. There are many books one can read and emerge from with nothing; then there are books whose very name stirs the heart. Not because we find something in them that engages us. There are certainly many books that occupy the mind but leave a vacuum in the heart. This is a secret that remains concealed from us. Since it can’t be revealed, let us return to our story, which both conceals and reveals.

Herbst tried to put Shira out of mind, along with her new apartment and locked door, as he muttered to himself, “It’s good that I didn’t leave a note. The witch will never know I came knocking at her door. She has the capacity to observe a person and know what is in his heart. Since she hasn’t seen me, since she hasn’t observed me, since she doesn’t know I was looking for her, she can’t see or know what is in my heart. In fact, if I were to analyze the matter, I was merely curious to know where she is.”

Herbst left that alley, which was nameless, like most alleys in Jerusalem in those days. In order to give it an identity, we’ll refer to it as Shira’s Alley. In those days, most alleys in Jerusalem were known by the name of a man or woman who lived there.

And so, Herbst left Shira’s Alley, whispering, “I called her a witch. She is truly a witch, seeing how tormented I am because of her and not lifting a finger to relieve me. She’s not a coquette or a sadist. She’s not one of those women who torture their lovers, only to cast them aside. I’m no expert when it comes to women, but, judging by the ones I know, whether from history, fiction, or at first hand, I see that Shira is different. I say this not to praise Shira nor to disparage her, but because her character makes her different from the rest of her sex.”

Throughout the ages, poets have created many characters and imbued them with spirit and soul. The men and women who were created from the verbal breath of poetry have produced offspring of their own. Not only in literature, but in life. A man meets a woman who seems familiar to him, although he has never met anyone like her. But he knows her from the work of some poet. That woman found a woman, described in a book, who was so attractive that she decided to fashion herself after her; she found a model and followed it. Where was Shira created? Shira is a totally new creature, created out of her very own essence.

Herbst remembered some of the things he had heard from her about her early life, things she had told him when they were getting to know each other, when she was still open with him. She didn’t say that much about herself. What she did say came out in pieces, and she never repeated the facts or provided further details. Nonetheless, he was able to put the pieces together and extract the story of her life, though many chapters were missing. The facts were not pleasant. They didn’t add to her glory, but they hung together and were consistent. What emerged from the facts was a coherent image.

Much as we contemplate the facts Shira related about herself, we find nothing pleasant. Only a question: Is it Shira’s self-confidence that allows her to relate such unflattering facts, or is it out of disdain for us that she reveals what any other woman would conceal? Is what she has told us largely invented, things she wishes were true? In that case, we can learn about her feelings from these inventions, the sort of life she desires. If this is the case, the life you have chosen is ugly, Nurse Shira.

I will continue to do what I have been doing. I will transmit the rest of Herbst’s thoughts in words. If they themselves aren’t new, then they are new in form, sometimes leaping beyond the realm of thought to sight, becoming elevated and transformed into a vision. But he didn’t begin to intone that poem again, “Flesh such as yours, et cetera.”

The life force is very powerful. Each and every event generates new ways to interpret human experience. Sometimes to one’s regret, sometimes to one’s relief. How did Herbst interpret Shira’s willingness to present herself in a bad light? It is clever of her, he thought. Shira knows her way of life is not exactly proper, that those who hear about it will disapprove. So she takes the initiative and tells her version of the facts, adjusting them to suit herself. What does Shira gain? When someone hears her life story, it won’t make quite such an impact; having already heard it, it will have less of a sting. When it comes to rumor, the old can’t compare to the new. One is already stale; the other grips our heart.

The next day, he went back and knocked on the door again. The door was locked, and no one opened it. Did I make a mistake? Is this the wrong house? He stood looking at the house, scrutinizing it intently, then took out his notebook and strained to decode the address under the erasures. The address was gone. He couldn’t discern the shape of a single letter. But the building took shape, as Anita had described it: there it was, in all its reality. It stood there, in all its reality, solid and unmovable. So this is the building. This is where she lives. I couldn’t be mistaken; there’s no way to make a mistake. This is the house, and this is where she lives. He bent down and peered through the keyhole. He went to each window and looked inside. The curtains were drawn. All he could see was the shape of a skull and a strip of neck. It was his own skull and a strip of his own neck that were visible to him. The shape of his skull was inside the house, and he was outside. He went back to the door and banged on it. No response. Not a sound was heard from the house, except for a hollow echo. He turned away from the door and left, with faltering knees and a dejected heart. I’ll find her, I’ll find her, Herbst assured himself. I’ll have no rest, no peace, until I find her. If not today, then tomorrow. He suddenly shifted pronouns and said: I’ll find you, I’ll find you. But he didn’t find her. Not the next day and not the day after.

As it happened, he happened to meet a young man when he was coming back from Shira’s, one of the young men one meets on the streets of Jerusalem who are not from the new communities. It wasn’t obvious, at first glance, whether the coat he was wrapped in was long or short. He himself was long. His shoulders were broad and his stance self-assured. He was blond, with golden yellow hair. But the black hat on his head, the zeal in his face, the tightness in his eyes gave the misleading impression that his mind and mood tended toward darkness. Herbst didn’t recognize him, although he recognized Herbst. Herbst really should have recognized him; it would have been only right. Since he didn’t recognize him, I’ll let him remain puzzled until he does.