S. Agnon - Shira

Before she could explain, there was a knock at the door. Before she could say, “Come in,” a man entered, dressed like an elder of the Sephardic community, an elder’s turban on his head and an elder’s staff in his hand. Manfred looked at him, bewildered. All sorts of odd creatures had appeared in his home, but never one like this. Henrietta peered suspiciously at the sage. She finally said, “You’re Sarini’s husband, aren’t you?” Sarini’s husband said, “I’m here not because of the woman called Sarini. I’m here because of something more wonderful than a thousand women.”

I will try to explain about this. The night of the day his son was circumcised (the son born to him of the woman Sarini), a year before Mr. Herberist’s son was born (the one Sarini was supposed to nurse), it was revealed to him that he had been appointed emissary to the Ten Tribes and to Bnei Moshe. At first he was reluctant and replied, “Who am I, et cetera …,” but his excuses were not accepted, and he was told not to be obstinate. He has been entrusted with spells against wild animals, highwaymen, and desert sands, for there are crazy sands in the desert that can swallow up an entire caravan, camels, riders, and all. But he will not be harmed, because of the spell he possesses. He is equipped with a spell to disarm those birds of prey that aren’t listed in the Torah on account of their wickedness — birds that emit fiery sparks when they encounter a human being, consuming him and turning him to dust. These are the very birds that destroyed some of Alexander’s armies. But they can’t harm him, because he has a spell that counteracts their power. When they open their mouths to spew their fire at him, the sparks will backfire and burn up their innards. They will be destroyed by this spell. He is protected against the perils of the road, savage animals, highwaymen, desert sands, birds that spit fire. So why has he come to Herbst? He isn’t asking for help in financing the trip, for, in addition to all sorts of trades by which he can support himself wherever he goes, he has learned to repair stoves and, in a pinch, can also repair a sewing machine. So what does he want? He wants a letter from the Jewish Agency, which is why he is here. He wants a letter from Mr. Herberist to the officials of the Agency, asking them to write a letter on his behalf, addressed to the Ten Tribes and to Bnei Moshe. If, for political reasons, it is necessary to conceal this matter from the English — either some or all of it — they can be assured that no information will be extracted from him, not with tongs of fire, not with tongs of gold. If Jewish Agency officials are afraid that he may get lost, leaving them answerable for the loss of a Jewish soul, he is willing to reveal parts of his route to Herberist Samuel or to one of the Ashkenazi elders — Rabbi Kook, for example. If the Jewish Agency insists on testing him to see whether he is familiar with the route from the Land of Israel to where the Ten Tribes are, he is willing to divulge all the roads, as long as they vow not to divulge the information to anyone else until he returns safely from the Ten Tribes and Bnei Moshe. If they are afraid he may, God forbid, partake of those magical grasses and roots that allow a man to see anything he wants to in his dream, he can swear on our teacher Moses, on the Holy Tablets, on the Ten Commandments that he won’t even touch any such roots or grasses. He received travel directions from an old Turk, who served in the Turkish army and was told by a high-ranking officer that it was good to befriend the Ten Tribes: they were fond of the Turks because Turks hated Arabs, and Arabs persecuted Jews.

In this period, while he was being pursued by Sarini’s husband, who was pressing him to write a letter to the Jewish Agency, Herbst received a letter from abroad inviting him to contribute to an anniversary volume in honor of Professor Neu, who was going to turn seventy the following year. Even before he was invited to contribute to this book, he himself had been thinking of putting out a slim volume for Neu’s birthday, and he had begun working on it. Because of Gabriel’s birth, he had put it aside. Now that the invitation had arrived, he had in mind to prepare a chapter from his own book for this volume. To this end, he planned to skim through various books and journals to see what was new in the field. These books and journals could be found in two places: in the National Library at the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus or at Ernst Weltfremdt’s. Normally, Herbst would go to Mount Scopus. Now he chose to go to Ernst Weltfremdt, though they had drifted apart, and he hadn’t even come to his son’s brit. But he had sent him a copy of his new book as a gift.

I am skipping over Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation, which was undoubtedly of a scholarly nature. The day his major work was published, he changed his ways. He no longer engaged in conversation that wasn’t scholarly, and, needless to say, he avoided conversation with anyone who wasn’t a scholar. If anyone tried to involve him in university disputes, political affairs, or any similarly ephemeral matters, he would respond floridly, “My dear, dear friend, let us leave such matters to those who have nothing in their world beyond these unreal concerns, while we, my dear, dear friend, deal with our own affairs, thus bringing far more benefit to the world than any statesman or public figure.” So much for Professor Weltfremdt’s conversation. I am now leaving Weltfremdt’s house with Herbst, who is laden with books borrowed for a month. Weltfremdt has instituted a time limit when lending books, which is an advantage to the borrower. Knowing that the books must be returned on a particular day, he will make a point of using them and be less likely to waste time.

After Herbst left Weltfremdt, he saw that he would have to take the bus to Baka, because he had so many books that it would be awkward to walk. Herbst was sorry that, now that he was in Rehavia, a neighborhood one could walk in, he had to go home, because of the books. His thoughts turned on many matters, and it crossed his mind that the entire course of his life would have been different if he didn’t live in Baka. Moreover, it was clear that he must move out of Baka. It is dangerous for a Jew to live among Arabs, and he is endangering his wife and daughters, as well as Firadeus and all those who come to his house. Years back, before Rehavia existed, he and all his acquaintances were young, and an hour’s walk was nothing to them, so it didn’t matter to him where he lived. Now, he and his acquaintances have grown old, the city has expanded in all directions, and the Arabs have restricted the movements of Jews and drawn lines that separate one street from another, so it is difficult for a Jew to live in Baka. Before he arrived at the stop, a bus passed him by. When he got there, the next bus hadn’t yet come. Herbst stood at the bus stop, his arms laden with books, his mind brimming with thoughts — among them, the foolish ones that are likely to concern a modern man, such as: My hands are full, and, if a woman I know comes by, I ought to ask how she is, but I won’t even be able to lift my hand and tip my hat to her. Oh, well, Herbst observed — perhaps joking, perhaps with an ounce of sincerity — one can carry big books and think small thoughts.

The bus finally came. Since it wasn’t full, Herbst could have found a seat if he hadn’t been intercepted by Sarini, who was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. She, Sarini, being a truthful person who isn’t in the habit of saying Vashti when she means Esther, was prepared, at that moment, to tell Mr. Herberist the whole truth about why she was on her way to call on Mistress Herberist. This is how it was: That villain, that demon from hell, may his name be blotted out, who is her husband and the father of her children, may those who seek to count them lose their sight — that villain, that devil is possessed by madness and is determined to go to the mountains of darkness. Now that all the roads are imperiled by Ibn Saud’s wars, a disaster could, God forbid, befall him, and what would become of her? She would be an abandoned wife, doomed to remain desolate for the rest of her days, and her tender young ones would be orphans by default. So she is going to Mistress Herberist, who is probably a soulmate and intimate of the wife of the Englishman who occupies Herberist Samuel’s position, who can reproach that villainous husband of hers and forbid him to leave Jerusalem in a bus or a car, on a horse, donkey, camel, or mule, or on foot — not even with magic spells or the assistance of a guardian angel. Sarini interrupted herself and began shouting in a loud voice, “I stand here, my hands empty, my mouth full, while Mr. Herberist stands there, his hands so full. All because of that villain, may he be erased and defaced for having caused me such sorrow and deprived me of sense, so much so that I see Mr. Herberist, exhausted by the load he is carrying, yet make no move to help him. Give it to me, sir. The entire load. I’ll take it all home for you, in my arms and on my head. Nothing — not a single page of these books — will be missing. See, you need two hands for it, but when I put it all in my basket, one hand is enough.” He hesitated to entrust Sarini with books that weren’t his own, that belonged to Ernst Weltfremdt, who was so fussy about his property. Her baskets aren’t clean; they may even be dirty, he reasoned. She uses them to carry things home from the market, such things as meat, fish, oil — sometimes even a slaughtered chicken. What will that pedant say if he finds a speck on his book? Weltfremdt would never forgive him and, needless to say, would no longer grant him access to his bookshelves. While he was still considering, she took the books from him and put them in her basket. Sarini lifted the basket until it was at eye level and said to Herbst, “See, here they are. Like an infant in a cradle. I wish my children had found themselves such a cozy nest. You can go where you like. I’ll take the books to your room and put them on your desk, one by one, in the right order, not head to tail.” Herbst didn’t understand what heads and tails had to do with books, but he assumed it was a metaphor for order. He smiled benignly. She smiled back and said, “I won’t go with that madwoman,” pointing to the bus, which she regarded as a fierce female. Herbst smiled again, said goodbye to her, and repeated, “Goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye, and thank you for making it possible for me not to go home when I have things to do in town. What should you tell Mrs. Herbst? Tell her not to hold supper for me. Now goodbye, Sarini. Goodbye.”