S. Agnon - Shira

Before I tell about this event, I should say that Herbst had announced in the newspaper that a son was born to him and his wife, giving the day, the hour, and the place of the brit , the ceremony that admits a male child to the covenant of our father Abraham. Actually, Herbst had considered putting an announcement in the paper as soon as the baby was born, but he reasoned: When I read in the paper that Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so announce the birth of a son, whether it says “announce” or “are happy to announce,” the information is of no interest to me; this is not the case when they announce that there will be a brit , at a given time and place, and invite their friends to come. I can see that they mean to ask me to take part in their celebration, so I figure out what the invitation has to do with me and whether or not I should go. Tamara had said, “I don’t understand these things, but, if you want to put an announcement in the newspaper, I assume you want to put it in Ha’aretz . Here we are, right near the office. We can stop in, if you like.” Herbst said, “But I still don’t know exactly when the brit will be. When I know the day and the hour, I’ll arrange it. Why make two announcements?”

Henrietta presented her husband with a healthy and sound son. Many of her acquaintances, who hadn’t seen her while she was pregnant, read on the front page of Ha’aretz , “Henrietta and Dr. Manfred Herbst are happy to announce the birth of a son,” and were surprised that such a smart woman, at such an age, had done such a thing. When they read the rest of the announcement — “Friends are invited to the ceremony admitting their son to the covenant of Abraham” — anyone who was not otherwise occupied decided to come. Some were dressed in holiday finery, others in everyday clothes. Some brought flowers for the new mother; some sent flowers by messenger, either to Hadassah Hospital or to the Herbst home.

The circumcision ceremony, or brit , as it is usually called, was like all such ceremonies performed in Jerusalem and in most of our cities. Men and women were gathered in one of the ugliest rooms of Hadassah Hospital, huddled together because the space was so tight. The room was bisected by two tables filled with all sorts of cakes — large ones, small ones, tall ones, short ones — in a variety of shapes, with white, red, and green icing. There were also tarts and cookies and other kinds of baked goods. Alongside the cakes and assorted confections was a row of bottles — wines, cognac, arrack, and other beverages, both sharp and sweet — adorned with seasonal flowers. Men and women who hadn’t seen each other for months were now in one place, eager to talk to one another. What often happens happened here: neighbors they saw every day kept interrupting them. But this was not a loss to everyone. You can often learn something new from a person you see every day.

Meanwhile, the mohel , who was to perform the circumcision, was preparing the instruments. He was a young man, a yeshiva student, skilled and expert at the job. At first, he used to perform this mitzvah for its own sake, without expecting a reward, in accordance with the age-old custom. In time, he began to consider it a skill, like any other, and charged a fee. He was of less than medium height, blond, with a tendency to plumpness, due to so many ceremonial feasts. His eyes were small, blue, and watery; his voice was slightly hoarse; his earlocks were curly, fluffy around the edges but for the most part pressed flat. He wore a clean white robe and a shiny black yarmulke. He did his job carefully, inspecting and testing the knife, the cotton, the alcohol, turning neither to the left nor to the right. But it was clear that he wished to be noticed. In fact, in his heart, he hoped that those doctors and professors, who made a point of scorning the Orthodox, were watching him and observing his hygienic procedures — unlike those of that old man, a partner in a contracting firm, who comes to perform a circumcision in plaster-stained work clothes, with a rag wrapped around an injured finger. Go and understand the workings of the mind! In Jerusalem, people are especially fond of this old man. A certain pediatrician says that, even with the dirty rag on his finger, he is more careful and more sanitary than all the other people who handle babies. The mohel finally turned to the crowd, inspected his fingernails in the light from the window, and inquired, disapprovingly, “Why are we putting off the mitzvah? Why not bring in the baby?”

A young nurse entered, carrying an infant enveloped in fine and delicate wrappings. Only the mohel noticed her. He shouted and cried out, “Welcome and many blessings.” He shouted and cried out, “Elijah, angel of the covenant…” Everyone turned and noticed the sweet nurse with the baby in her arms. They made way for her, and Tamara came and stood in front of the nurse, to protect her little brother from harm. The mohel elevated the knife, inspected it again in the light from the window, and told the sandak , whose job it was to hold the baby, exactly how to sit, how to position his knees, how and how and how. Like most people who perform a mitzvah for pay, the mohel made himself conspicuous, whether or not this was necessary. Since Herbst didn’t know he could have bestowed this honor on one of his guests, the mohel took it upon himself to recite the blessings over the wine. His voice was hoarse and hard on the ears, but most of the guests were attentive and gaped at this miracle worker, who recites prayers from memory as fluently as a cantor reading from the prayerbook.

After the circumcision, he handed the infant to his mother. All those who had come to the brit sat down at the brimming tables, ate, drank, and ate more. Tamara had prepared an enormous amount of food and drink, along with an assortment of things to smoke. After the first glass, the mohel wiped his mouth with an oddly rapid gesture, pounded on the table, and began to chant traditional verses in his hoarse voice. He then whispered something to Herbst. Herbst got up, left the room with him, and gave him the sum the nurse had suggested as payment for his services. The mohel demanded that he double it, arguing that he ought to be treated like a professor and paid on the same scale.

That same day, in the afternoon, Henrietta came home with her male child. After changing her clothes, she stood beside her son’s cradle. She studied the red, wrinkled face; the skull, oversized in proportion to the face; the little eyes, so blue in contrast to his white wrappings, and cooed at him, saying, “Now that we’re home, you are all mine. No one else has any right to you. Your father is a prophet. Before you were born, he foresaw that your mother would give birth to a male child, and his prophecy has been fulfilled. You are a male child, a man. A little man for now, but in time you will truly be a man.” That word, that concept, with all of its ramifications, amused Henrietta immeasurably and endlessly. Little by little, the amusement gave way to a sweet, delightful joy that soothed her soul. If I call it soul-felt joy, I think the phrase is apt.

Avraham-and-a-half came to congratulate Zahara’s mother and to take Zahara back to Ahinoam. Not because of Dani, who has already forgotten his mother and doesn’t mention her, who doesn’t need his mother, because there is good child care in Ahinoam, which makes mothers expendable. Nor did the economy suffer from Zahara’s absence, because Ahinoam’s lumber factory was so successful that a member with Zahara’s standing could be allowed to spend another day, and still another, away from Ahinoam. But it was Avraham who needed Zahara. He needed her, and he therefore constructed an entire philosophical scheme, roughly as follows: When a man takes a wife, he should avoid anything that suggests to him or to his wife that they can survive without each other.