S. Agnon - Shira

Herbst had forgotten when he last saw Lisbet Neu. Other concerns burdened his memory, and there was no room in it for an Orthodox young woman with whom he was acquainted only because she was related to his mentor and guide, Professor Neu. But Lisbet Neu remembers Herbst and thinks of him. Two years ago, she heard that his daughter was married; a year ago, she heard that his daughter had a son; not long ago, she heard that he had a son. Each item led to emotional turmoil. According to convention, she ought to congratulate him, either orally or in writing. Since she wished him well, she surely ought to congratulate him. But, whenever she sat down to write, her hand began to falter, and she thought: Won’t it be a bother to him, as if I wanted to force him to relate to me? Once these thoughts crossed her mind, she decided that the less said, the better. But, after choosing not to write to him, she began to worry that this was rude. She did, after all, know him. They had gone on several walks together; he had invited her out for coffee and talked to her. And still she hadn’t found time to write two or three words to him. Her mother had even remarked, “Lisbet, you ought to write a note to Dr. Herbst.” Imagine this: Herbst remembered everyone who came to his son’s brit and exactly who came to congratulate Henrietta when she was in the hospital. He even remembered Dr. Krautmeir, who found it necessary to visit Henrietta at home and ask if she could be helpful, despite the fact that they were not on good terms with each other. Yet it didn’t occur to him that Lisbet Neu had not come to congratulate him. That’s how people are. One person thinks about another endlessly and interminably, yet there is no room at all for him in that other person’s mind.

Herbst strolled through Rehavia without going into anyone’s house. Two or three times, he sat down on those benches on Maimon Boulevard, but he didn’t stay long, because of the couples who needed no witness for their embraces. Hearing the echo of kisses all around him, he thought: These boys and girls imagine I am here to interfere with their lovemaking, but I don’t care about them at all. After a few hours, he decided he ought to go home. Even though Henrietta wasn’t holding dinner for him, he should have been home already. So he said to himself: We are going home. He wasn’t pleased to be going home, just as he hadn’t been pleased to be roaming around idly. He had been granted a certain number of hours and had done nothing with them. He felt a sudden weariness in his limbs. Not physical weariness, but emotional weariness — the kind that comes from idleness, from the fact that he had planned to do something and had allowed the time to pass, doing nothing with it because he didn’t know what to do. Despite his fatigue he had a desire to walk home, through Talbieh, through the vegetable patches, the fields, the gardens, past the lepers’ colony, around Mekor Hayim to Baka. He loved these roads, especially at night, when there was no one to disturb him and he could walk on and on, thinking while he walked. Here was the scent of a grass he knew by name and scent; here, the sound of a small animal; the stare of a dog who recognized him and didn’t bark, or barked to announce that he recognized him. Many other adventures, endless and infinite, occurred on the way. Even the telegraph wires in that area have a hum that is not metallic, and, without over-responding to this sound, it would not be far from the truth to compare it to that of rustling garden fences, to the chatter from rooftop nests. But woe unto him who strays from the populated territory, for, with every step, he endangers his life. For this reason, he turned away from all these pleasures and toward Jaffa Road, to wait for the bus to Baka.

Jaffa Road was quiet and serene, with no visible sign of the times. Perhaps this in itself was a sign of the times: the fact that this raucous street was quiet that night. Streetlamps gave off their dim, muted light. In a burst of romantic excess, the head of the municipality, who regarded himself as the last of the Crusaders, ordered streetlamps for Jerusalem with their glass panels divided into twelve sections, to match the tribes of Israel. Jews build synagogues with a window for each of the twelve gates of prayer, so each tribe’s prayers can enter the heavenly gates in comfort, while this chivalrous wouldbe Crusader designs Jerusalem’s streetlamps in a way that restricts our light. Here and there, two or three lights shone from windows in the two hotels across from the bus stop. Most of the windows were dark, however. The rooms were unoccupied. Not many people came to Jerusalem in those days, because the unrest brought on by the Arabs made the roads dangerous. What was true of the hotels was true of the stores. And of the entire street as well.

Herbst had been waiting for about half an hour, and no bus had come. Even more strange was the fact that there was no one else at the bus stop. What’s this, another curfew? He hadn’t heard a curfew being announced. Were his ears so used to it that it no longer registered? He had seen policemen on the street, and they hadn’t stopped him, which suggests that there is no curfew, that the streets just happened to be deserted. He was overwhelmed with another terror: that he would have to stand there — who knows for how long? — because the drivers, expecting no passengers, come at such infrequent intervals. It would be a long wait for the bus, if it came at all. These bus companies exist, not to serve the public, but to milk it. Now that the public is ineffectual and no longer fills their pockets with money, why bother? Herbst looked around for a taxi, even though his finances were tight, more so now that he has an added child who needs a wetnurse. Nevertheless, he decided to take a taxi. Sarini meant to do him a favor when she took his books. In the end, he was losing time and money because of her; he would have to spend fifteen grush on a taxi. Since he didn’t find a taxi, he continued to wait, contemplating Sarini’s favor, and from this subject his mind shifted to her husband.

So Sarini’s husband wants to travel to the Ten Tribes. He has a good life with Sarini. She prepares his food and makes his bed, and he has only to entertain himself with adventures. A man leaves home, not necessarily in pursuit of adventure, in pursuit of an ideal, in pursuit of God. A man might run off because he is too comfortable where he is. No bus is coming, is coming, Herbst said to himself, thinking: I sound like Ernst Weltfremdt, who repeats the ends of phrases over and over. However, I must admit that his book is good. Herbst strained to see if a bus was coming. There was no bus in sight.

A woman appeared, holding two baskets, with a cigarette vendor’s box stuffed inside of each one. The woman addressed him in Yiddish. “Why are you standing here, Uncle?” Herbst looked at her in surprise. What sort of question is that? If someone is standing at a bus stop, it’s a sign that he wants to go somewhere. He answered her pleasantly, in Yiddish, making an effort to match his manner of speaking to hers, in style as well as language. This is what he said to her: “My dear Auntie, this uncle of yours would like to go to Mekor Hayim. Not actually to Mekor Hayim, but to a place on the way to Mekor Hayim, and he is waiting for the bus to come and pick him up.” The woman said, “You might as well be waiting for the downfall of villains. The bus you are waiting for won’t come.” Herbst said, “Why won’t it come?” The woman said, “Because the Englishman doesn’t want it to.” Herbst said, “The Englishman doesn’t want it to? Why not?” The woman said, “Because. Who can fathom the mind of an Englishman? He himself may not know why. All he knows is that he has to issue decrees, so he issues decrees. Maybe you know why it bothered him that the bus stop was here, why he suddenly decreed that it had to be moved? Come with me, neighbor, and I’ll show you the new bus stop. It’s not far, but you’ll never find it without me.” Herbst said, “We’re probably late.” The woman said, “Late? Late for the bus? I’m sorry I don’t have the energy to laugh. We’ll never be late, we’ll never be late. The driver waits for the bus to fill up, and still he doesn’t budge. Why? Because, even if the bus is full, another passenger or two might come. Otherwise, it’s not worth his while. Now that there are so few passengers, he even waits for a poor woman like me.” Herbst asked the woman, “Do you come home this late every night?” She answered, “You think you’ve found yourself someone who is out late every night? Most nights, dear Uncle, I’ve said my bedtime prayers by now. You might ask, ‘Wherefore is this night different from all other nights?’ so I will answer that question. We used to be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt; now we are slaves to the English. A policeman found me peddling my wares without a permit. Tell me this, neighbor: if I had bought a permit for a lira, would the English queen be able to afford an extra feather for her Shabbat bonnet? But I won’t be silent. I already saw Moshkeli Royt. I’m hoping he’ll use his influence with the Englishman to have my fine revoked. I know you call him Rabbi Royt, but he is as much a rabbi as I am a rabbi’s wife. Rav Samuel, of blessed memory, was a genuine rabbi. He was a rav in Jerusalem for seventy years, but did anyone call him Rabbi? He was known as Rav Samuel, a title that applies to any proper Jew. Now, anyone who wants to calls himself a rabbi. In any case, it’s Royt’s duty to keep them from stealing a poor woman’s money, though he thinks he does his duty when he feuds with the Zionists. Oy, oy, dear neighbor of mine, the Zionists are the source of all our troubles. It’s because of them that the English are here. Here is the stop, and here is the bus. What did I tell you? It’s waiting for us. No need to hurry. You can board slowly. By the time he decides to move, you could have walked home at least twice.” Though she was still talking to Herbst, she turned to the driver and said, “Getzel, did you hear me? It’s true, isn’t it?” Getzel said, “When don’t you tell the truth? When the policeman stopped you with two boxes full of cigarettes, and you told him they were for your husband, weren’t you telling the truth? What did that goy say? ‘Do you have so many husbands that you need so many cigarettes?’ In the end, you were punished for your version of the truth.” The woman said, “Is it truth they’re after? They want lies. If I told him the truth, how would that help? Try telling him I’m a poor woman with a houseful of orphans, whom I–I alone — am responsible to feed, dress, shoe, educate. I slave and struggle, drag myself around with these boxes of cigarettes. Maybe you could get your bus to move on, sweetie, so we don’t have to wait until tomorrow. What are you waiting for? The bus is full.”