S. Agnon - Shira

When he is finished eating, Herbst goes back to his room, stretches out on the couch, and reads a book. Not one of the books he had set aside to read, but a book that appeals to him at that moment. After reading for a while and dozing for a bit, he gets up, showers, has some coffee, and goes to visit his wife. If she is alone, he sits with her. He asks her questions, and she asks him questions. She asks what he ate, what he drank, how he slept, what Sarah said, what Tamara is doing, how the garden is doing, what Firadeus is doing, how they are treating Ursula in her office, and so on. He asks how she is, how the baby is, what name she wants to give the child — having already agreed not to name him after one of their relatives with long, old-fashioned German names and not to construct one of those modern names that will sound banal in no time. If he finds some woman friend is visiting, he makes a point of being brief, to give them a chance to talk.

One day, he found a woman there who told a story. Since her story is relevant to the event, namely, the birth of a little brother and a circumcision ceremony, I will repeat what she said, adding a word of my own. “I was six years old when my little brother was born. On the day of his brit , I said to my teacher, ‘Mrs. Foiese,’ which was her name, ‘please, Mrs. Foiese, may I go home an hour early?’ The teacher said, ‘Why?’ I said, ‘I have a new brother.’ The teacher asked, ‘What do you people do when a baby boy is born?’ I told her, ‘We have a brit and the baby is circumcised.’ ‘What ?’ the teacher asked. I repeated, ‘We have him circumcised.’ The teacher said, ‘What’s that? You mean baptized?’ I was terrified. I began to shake and tremble. I was overcome with fear. I knew baptism was a Christian term, and I was afraid that, God forbid, they intended to convert my little brother. The teacher saw my tears and said, ‘All right, all right, you can go home.’ Another thing happened. A girl of about twelve said to me, ‘You should be ashamed. You crucified the Christ child.’ I didn’t know who the Christ child was, nor did I know anything about crucifying. But I realized that my friend was connecting me with some dreadful event, an event I had nothing to do with. The teacher, trying to make amends, said, ‘She wasn’t the one who crucified the Christ child; it was her ancestors who did it.’ I went home crying and said I couldn’t stay in a gentile school. My parents sent me to a Jewish school. These events led me to Judaism, to Zionism, to the Land of Israel.”

I will mention one more woman who came to visit Henrietta: Mrs. Rika Weltfremdt, the wife of Professor Ernst Weltfremdt. I don’t remember if I have already said what she is like, and I don’t imagine she adds to the saga of Shira and Herbst. Though this is the case, I won’t neglect her. I’ll tell a little bit about her, as an act of charity toward this unfortunate soul, removed from her source of vitality, ending up here with us, where no one pays attention to her poems, and even her family ignores them. Through deception and insipid compliments, they avoid reading her poetry.

Rika Weltfremdt is a small, thin woman, graceful and delicate. Her eyes are kind and lovely, brown and direct, viewing the world with deep yearning that tempts others to abuse her sensitivity. Because of her size, she is overshadowed by her husband. His limbs are gross, his eyebrows heavy. He deals with words as if he were dealing out new provinces and adding them to the universe. She relates to her husband as she relates to everyone else, as she used to relate to her father, her brothers, her sisters. Her father, who owned two shoe factories and was especially fond of her, gave her a dowry that exceeded her sisters’ by one part and found her a husband who was a doctor and a lecturer, and, if not for the horrors that befell the world, he would have been a professor in a German university by now. Because of these horrors, he was compelled to move to the Land of Israel. But even here he is recognized. Though scholarship is not valued here unless it contributes to nationalist interests, Zionist leaders acknowledge that he is a genuine scholar. Since he has an international reputation, those in the Land of Israel take credit for him when it suits them. However, as he becomes more ample, Rikchen becomes even more slight. No one is left to listen to her poems, except for a young lady who helps out in her daughter’s household. Now, having heard that Mrs. Herbst did a wonderful thing — that she gave birth to a son — she was inspired to produce a poem, which she brought to Mrs. Herbst. She was so modest that she made it seem secondary to the perfume she brought as a gift. It was good that she brought the poem, to perpetuate the fine and worthy sentiments of our sisters, and to convey her feelings about the birth of a Jewish child at a time when the seed of Israel is, God forbid, in danger of being eliminated from the earth. If the poem isn’t really a poem, the sentiments in it are truly sentiments, and those of us who look for opinions and sentiments in poetry regard those lines as poetry and accept their author as a poet. Since I’m not capable of translating her poem, I will put it aside and get back to Henrietta and to Zahara, who has come to see her mother.

Zahara came, bringing with her produce from the earth of Ahinoam, along with a hat and booties that were her own handiwork. Zahara’s delight in her little brother was beyond all measure. It was the delight we note in a woman who has been waiting for years and finally achieves what she achieves. The two women, mother and daughter, sit together, one in the bed, the other on the chair in front of it. One has graying hair and wrinkles on her face, her upper lip, and the corners of her mouth; the other has smooth skin, not a wrinkle on her face, an unwrinkled soul. They sit saying things to each other that they have never said before, accompanying their words with exclamations of joy and affection, emotions so powerful that they infect the nurses in charge of the new mother and her son. When they bring him to Henrietta so she can give him her milk, Zahara says, “How lucky you are to have such an adorable baby. If only I could nurse him, I would snatch him away and run off to Ahinoam with him. Tell me the truth, Mother, would you give him to me? I already told Dani that Grandma has a baby uncle for him. I think he actually understood. All day he was chirping ‘baby grandpa,’ and at night, before he fell asleep, he said ‘baby uncle.’ Oh, Mother, if you could hear him, you would be so pleased, so pleased. I can’t begin to tell you how pleased you would be. I tell you, Mother, Dani already loves his uncle. Really, Mother. He really loves him. And I love him too. But, Mother, I thought I had used up my supply of love. You brought me a brother, and new love was created. Where does it come from? I really don’t know, but I feel it stirring inside me, setting my heart in motion, and I love him. I love you and Father and Sarah and Tamara, all of you. I love you all. When they came and told me Father was on the phone, when I ran and heard the news, I was so excited I wept with joy. You know, Mother, that I don’t get excited. But I was so excited that I said to Avraham, ‘Avraham, I’m going to Jerusalem.’ Avraham said, ‘If you want to go, go.’ So I collected myself, took off, and here I am. Tell me, Mother, isn’t it good that I came? Make me be quiet, Mother. My heart is full because…because…How shall I say it? My heart…I won’t say anything. Here comes Father. Mazel tov, Father. I’ll go out for a minute and wash my eyes. When I come back, we can go home together. They won’t let me spend the night with you, Mother. Don’t worry about my eyes. They’re stinging because of the dusty road. I made our driver go as fast as he could. At that speed, all I could see was the dust in my eyes.”