S. Agnon - Shira

Schlesinger’s lips were tightly pursed, and his face communicated distaste for Herbst’s conversation. Herbst took no notice and continued, “What is the difference between the Grand Yeshiva and the Greater Yeshiva, and how are they different from the Most Revered Yeshiva?” Herbst wanted to ask about other yeshivas, but, being unsure of their names, he didn’t want to say anything ridiculous, lest Schlesinger think he was making fun of him. He included them all in a general question: “What is the curriculum of these yeshivas? I’ve heard it said that the main difference lies in the fundraisers, who know which names contributors respond to, guaranteeing the flow of money into their own pockets. I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Schlesinger, that I am not of that opinion.” When, after a few minutes, he still hadn’t received an answer, he said to Schlesinger, “I have no luck with my questions. An idiot’s questions are hard to answer. Would you rather give me your own version of the ways of the yeshivas?” Schlesinger answered, “As it says in the Gemara, ‘Never throw stones in a well that once gave you water.’ Since I left the yeshiva, I make a point of not discussing it.” “Why?” “Why? How can I explain it? Because I have nothing good to tell about it, and it’s pointless to tell about its evils. If one were to tell about evils, he should tell about the evil that comes from the source of all evil.” “The source of all evil? Are you suggesting that there is a place that all evil comes from?” “Of course.” “And what is it?” “What is it? Is that a real question?” Herbst laughed and said, “As you know, my friend, my path was always orderly. I first studied in an elementary school, then in a high school, then at a university. What I mean is that all my knowledge comes from what I was taught; I know only what I was taught. If my life depended on it, I couldn’t come up with anything I wasn’t taught.” Schlesinger stared at Herbst to see if he was teasing or if he was, truly, just a naive German. He finally decided not to divulge his thoughts to him, for, if he knew what he thought about England, he would surely disapprove of his relationship with his daughter. Herbst was German, after all. And, being German, he probably adhered to the program of Brit Shalom, a covenant of peace.

Other passengers were assembling. Most of them were young men, who didn’t look familiar to Herbst. He was sure they didn’t live in Talpiot or Mekor Hayim; certainly not in Baka, whose inhabitants were Arabs. He noticed that one of them was nodding to him. He looked more closely and realized that he was a student of his. Herbst asked him, “Where’s everybody going?” Someone answered, “To a brit .” “A brit ? A circumcision? I never heard of a brit at night.” “This brit will be a covenant of blood, all right.” Most of the young men laughed, and the one who was his student whispered something to Herbst. Herbst said, “Now I realize that I shouldn’t have asked.” “Not at all. It’s just that there was no need for such a brash answer. I see, Professor Herbst, that you still live in Baka. That sort of courage is not to be commended. In truth, other neighborhoods are no more secure. It would take two hundred people to protect Mekor Hayim. Neighborhoods are established without much thought, expanding the sphere of danger.” As he spoke, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “The air has ears.” He raised his voice again and said, “All right, everybody, let the turtle crawl at its own pace. We’ll go on foot.” Someone else said, “Not on foot, not on foot.” “Why not on foot?” “Why? Because the roads are dangerous.” “Quiet, quiet. I can already hear the brakes of the bus. Please, everyone, not so much noise.” “Is silence any better? Lord only knows what’s good and what isn’t. When we’re finally rid of them, we’ll know what’s good.”

From the moment Herbst got on the bus until he got off, he was alone with his thoughts. They were no different than the ones he had been thinking before he met Schlesinger. Anyway, it was good that he had an opportunity to think his thoughts without being interrupted. The young men were engaged in their own affairs, ignoring him. I won’t repeat his dialogue with himself, having already outlined it, but I will relay something that becomes relevant later on. Why advance the sequence now? Because what follows later cannot be interrupted.

From here on, he began to be tormented by lurid fantasies. He saw Shira walking in the mountains, sometimes alone, sometimes with a companion. Arabs assault her, then take her life. He saw her bathing in the sea, swept under by a wave, and drowned. The death throes, on sea and on land, were vivid to him. Her soul, struggling to expire, is unable to withdraw from her body because of its intense vitality. As she agonizes, her escort on these walks abandons her to the waves, to the murderer’s assault, in order to save his own life. The murderer finally prevails and thrusts a knife into her heart. Her soul expires and she is dead. It is not clear whether he did what he did to her before she died or whether it was after she was dead that he did what he did. Her companion stands among the rocks, observing the scene. Who is he? The engineer with the whip, who returned because he couldn’t forget her, and, when he returned, she was afraid he would hit her with the whip again, so she told him she had to go somewhere. He said, “I’ll go with you.” She said, “Only if you leave your whip behind.” He agreed. They went walking together in the mountains, and a murderer appeared. The engineer, having nothing with which to scare off the murderer, ran and hid among the rocks, from where he could watch and see everything the Arab did to Shira. Finally, all that remained of her was two legs, left by the murderer. Not the legs in the notice at the train station in Leipzig, but Shira’s legs, the legs he first saw that night when he went home with her and sat with her while she put on the dark blue slacks. Herbst cried out in a whisper, “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” He pictured her room as it was the night he first visited her, when he sat there looking at everything in the room, with the dead skull peering down at him from one of the walls. As for The Night Watch , which he intended to bring her, it was still wrapped and waiting in the store. When he tried to bring her The Night Watch , he found a locked door. He didn’t find Shira. Where is Shira? He had asked this question at least a thousand times. Each time he asked, the visions I have already described provided an answer. For example: She was out walking with someone when a murderer came and stuck a knife in her heart, for these are not good times; the roads are all dangerous, and those who walk them risk their lives. Herbst, too, is risking his life when he walks alone. He ought to go home. Otherwise, he risks being attacked by murderers.

As he walked home from the bus stop, he stopped at every wall and at each post to read all the notices. None of the notices pertained to Shira. Unless one concludes that a total lack of information prevented the authorities from posting a notice about her, then she still exists. If she exists, he will see her. Still, the question stands: Where is she? No one at the hospital knows where she is. Anita Brik doesn’t know where she is, but she knows where she lives, and, when he went there, he found the door locked. The question recurs: Where is Shira?

When Herbst entered his house, he was like a man depressed by dreadful anguish who wakes up only to realize that what depressed him was a dream. The house was bright. Gay voices were heard from the dining room. Along with Tamara’s voice, hoarse from smoking, was the sharp voice, the clear voice, of a girl speaking German, though not as it is spoken in Germany, and a voice like Taglicht’s. In fact, it was Taglicht, as you are about to discover. But first, I’ll tell just how this evolved. Tamara came back from her trip and brought a new friend, a lovely girl she met on the way. She made her acquaintance on the bus and enjoyed her company so much that she offered to put her up until she could find a room.