S. Agnon - Shira

The young man addressed Herbst. “Dr. Herbst, what are you doing in this neighborhood? You must be lost. You are probably looking for an address and unable to find it. If you would allow me, I would be glad to take you wherever you want to go. I know Jerusalem well. I’m familiar with every byway.” Herbst pondered: How do I answer him? If I don’t say anything, will he realize that I don’t welcome his company? When these people ask a question, they don’t notice if you don’t answer. But Herbst was polite, and his heart was more generous than his mind. Having decided to be silent, he went on to answer him, “I’m out for a walk. I’m not looking for anything. I see there is nothing new here. This alley looks as it always did, no different. Or am I mistaken?” As he talked, he was thinking: All these alibis won’t convince him that I’m simply out for a walk. I’ll say something to convince him that I’m here because of my work. He continued, “I have to prepare a lecture that demands concentration, and I expected that here, where I don’t know anyone, I would be able to concentrate.” The young man laughed abruptly and said, “In the end, professor, in the very place you were so sure you wouldn’t be stopped by an acquaintance, some joker intercepts you. I’ll be gone, leaving you to enjoy this neutral territory.” Herbst was thinking: If only he would go without any further talk. But if I were to let him go now, my conscience would plague me for offending him. I might as well let him keep chattering until he gets tired and moves on. Hard as I try to figure out who he is, I can’t remember. I don’t even know which set of people he belongs to. But I won’t ask, for, like most people in this country, who make things harder when they ought to make them easier, he might say, “Imagine not recognizing me. We were together once, and we had such-and-such a conversation.” If, after all that, I ask him his name, he will surely be offended that I have so little regard for him that I don’t remember it. As he continued to search his mind, he remembered seeing him with Tamara. If so, Herbst thought, he must be the yeshiva student Henrietta told me about. In any case, I won’t change my manner with him; then he won’t realize I didn’t recognize him from the start. To extricate the young man from his confusion, for he was still standing there, silent, making no move to go, he added, “There are so many different patterns of concentration. Some people need total inactivity to concentrate; others could be stuck between two millstones, and their concentration would remain unaffected. Wallenstein used to close down half of Prague, lest the echo of an echo of a sound disturb his mental processes. On the other hand, some old man told me about a Reform rabbi in Berlin, who used to preach in their temple. He delivered marvelous sermons that he planned as he walked through the city, choosing to follow the most crowded streets. A Reform rabbi doesn’t have much work to do. His congregants don’t ask for rulings on milk and meat or ritual baths. Apart from saying a few words at weddings and delivering eulogies for the dead, his main task is the sermon on Shabbat, which they observe on Sunday, the Christian Sabbath. And he did very well with these sermons. He was a great scholar, an expert in Midrash, kabbalah, and philosophy. He had a head full of ideas. One thing was missing: the ability to suspend most of his learning and, at the same time, organize the remainder. Such an enterprise demands enormous concentration. At home, he was unable to marshal his thoughts and organize a sermon, as every corner of his home was filled with books, and he loved to read good books. Some people love science; some love poetry, even if it’s their own. So what did he do? Every Shabbat, after lunch, when it was time to plan the Shabbat sermon to be delivered on Sunday, he left home. Where did he go? To Friedrichstrasse, near the train station, the busiest spot in Berlin. This is what he used to do: He used to go to the cigar store, choose the thickest cigar, stick it in his mouth, light it up, and venture into that endless and infinitely bustling throng. He would then choose a verse from the prophets, or a line from Goethe or Angelus Silesius, to which he would give a timely turn, rephrasing it to catch the ear of his listeners. Old-timers, who were there, report that he himself was the size of a dwarf, that his top hat was as tall as half of his body, that his cigar was as long as the other half, that he moved like a squirrel, that, in this manner, he forged himself a path, advancing through the bustle of Berlin. They report that they had never heard sermons as magnificent as his, though Berlin was not short on great preachers. As you see, Mr. Schlesinger,” Herbst said with a flourish, having finally managed to identify the young man, “there are all kinds of people with all kinds of ways. Insofar as I am a Berlin Jew, I ought to behave like that Berlin rabbi, my compatriot, but I am more like the Gentile, Wallenstein. And because I don’t, alas, have the power to close off half the city, I have come to this quiet spot to organize my lecture.”

It was already dark, so it was impossible to see how Schlesinger reacted to all this. However, it was obvious that he was surprised. Schlesinger had given up all things related to religion, yet there was no subject that interested him as deeply. He regarded religion as an impediment to Israel’s freedom, and, if not for the immediate urgency of fighting the English and the Arabs, he would have devoted all his energies to the fight against religious coercion. Now that Herbst had brought up the subject of Reform Judaism, he was mystified. What was the point of a synagogue, a preacher, and all those trappings for Jews who had discarded the yoke of religion to the extent of trading the Jewish Shabbat for the Christian Sabbath? While one talked and the other listened and pondered, they continued walking and, before long, arrived at the Baka bus stop.

There was no one in sight. A bus had left only a minute earlier. Who knows how long it would be before another one arrived and was ready to leave? In those days, a time of unrest and confusion, people didn’t come and go very much, and there weren’t very many buses in service. Herbst, who had put Shira’s place out of mind for a while, was thinking about it again. He pictured it as it was when he stood peering through the keyhole. According to Anita Brik’s description, that was definitely Shira’s place. It was definitely the place Anita Brik had described, but Shira wasn’t there. He gazed at his fingertips and would have liked to be thinking about Shira, but he felt a barrier between himself and his thoughts. He glanced at his companion, who was standing beside him, and it seemed to him that a moment earlier he had been thinking, but he couldn’t remember exactly what he had been thinking. His mind drifted to Tamara, his daughter, and this is roughly what he thought: My daughter, Tamara, isn’t enthusiastic about talking to me, whereas this young man, whose only significance is his link to Tamara, detains me for a chat, unlike Avraham-and-a-half, who never bestows his presence on me. If I didn’t know Oriental Jews, I would think his was an Oriental manner, attaching himself to a person, being so persistent. Unless I dispel the mood with wellchosen words, he’ll be offended. He expects me to say something, but I remain silent. Herbst began searching for something to say and found nothing. He thought to himself: I’ll discuss the yeshiva with him. Since he used to be part of that world, he must know all about it, and he probably enjoys discussing it.

Herbst said to Schlesinger, “I’ve lived in Jerusalem so many years, and nothing is as close to me as education. Still, when I get the annual announcements of various yeshivas, I never stop to wonder how they are different from each other or what their curricula are like. One announcement is from the Great Yeshiva; another is from the Institute for Advanced Talmudic Studies; yet another is from the Central Yeshiva. They have endless titles, expressing glory, grandeur, eminence. Please, Mr. Schlesinger, tell me how to distinguish between them. Are they organized in classes on different levels — some as secondary schools for Talmud study, others as Talmud universities? I’m totally ignorant about the educational affairs of the older communities. I’m familiar with such terms as heder, Talmud Torah, yeshiva , but I’m not familiar with the curriculum.”