S. Agnon - Shira

Those familiar with Dr. Manfred Herbst’s character might wonder at this degree of emotion, and even he wondered about himself — how he had suddenly become excited to the point of altered sensibilities. Nonetheless, as if to protest against those cigarettes, he took out a battered pack and lit one of his own.

Meanwhile, Shira had made herself at home on her bed. Realizing she was tired and in need of rest, she reached for a pillow, which she propped up between her head and the wall, taking no notice of what had happened. When Herbst lit his cigarette, which was not one of hers, she let the pillow slip, looked at him, bewildered, and said, “What is it, doctor? Is there something wrong with my cigarettes?” Herbst shook his head and said, “No, no, no.” He grasped her hand reassuringly, as if it were the way of the world, when one turns down a woman’s cigarette, to comfort her by taking her hand. Now that her hand was in his, he took the other one too. Her hands were cold and his were warm.

Herbst knew he was behaving childishly, that this was, no doubt, apparent on his face, that he was surely ridiculous, that Shira knew he was ridiculous and was laughing to herself at his expense. Herbst, like those who always behave properly but suddenly do something improper, was afraid of appearing ridiculous. He let go of her hands and relit his cigarette, for it had gone out. When it was lit, he set it down, turned back toward Shira, moistened his lips with his tongue, and stared at her. He saw not a trace of ridicule. On the contrary, her face was opaque. Or, as they say in modern Hebrew, her face was “serious.” In any case, Shira’s mind was elsewhere. Herbst stretched out his arm, his fingers open, like someone on the edge of despair who doesn’t know what to do. Shira was still in the same position, her head against the wall, her eyes closed. Whether or not you knew Shira, you could recognize that Shira was tired, that she was waiting for you to get up and go so she could entrust her weary limbs to sleep.

Herbst looked at her and said in a whisper, “Miss Shira is tired. I will go now so she can sleep.” Shira said, “I’m not tired. I don’t want to sleep, and there’s no reason to go.” Herbst said, “Then I have some advice to offer.” Shira covered her eyes and, peering through the cracks, said, “We’ll hear, then we’ll see.” Herbst said, “Miss Shira should stretch out and close her eyes.” Shira opened her eyes wide, stared at him with the aforementioned curiosity, and asked, “What will Dr. Herbst do meanwhile? Dr. Herbst will sit with Shira and sing her a lullaby? But Shira is afraid he’ll be bored. Besides, Shira is not a baby and Dr. Herbst, who is the father of two grown girls, may not remember any lullabies. It’s too bad that I don’t have a phone. We can’t call the maternity ward and check on Mrs. Herbst, who may have just now presented her lord and master with a glorious songbird. Dr. Herbst can see I am treating him as an adult. I haven’t mentioned the stork that brings babies from heaven.” Herbst was startled and began praying he would forget all that had transpired here. He looked at Shira, wishing that she too would erase from her heart all that had happened. Knowing this was a futile wish, a deep sigh erupted from his heart.

Shira smoothed her shirt, touched her thumb to one of her freckles, and sat watching Dr. Herbst. She watched him for a long time, her eyes growing bigger and bigger. Herbst sat with Shira like a man who sees that his downfall is imminent and there is no way to avert it. He shifted from one foot to the other, let his shoulders droop, and stood ready to submit. After a while, since Shira hadn’t said a word, he thought to himself: What will be will be, but I ask only one thing — that she not mention my wife. As Shira sat in silence, not saying a word, he repeated to himself: Why is she so silent, why doesn’t she speak, why doesn’t she say something to me? Shira remained silent, giving no sign that she intended to speak.

All of a sudden, she stirred and said in a singsong, like a woman telling some old tale, “Now let’s go back to the beginning. He said I should close my eyes and try to sleep, that he would sit beside me. I said I was afraid it would take too long and be boring. If I hadn’t interrupted, he might have added, ‘How can anyone be bored in Shira’s presence?’ So much for that. Let’s deal with another matter. I didn’t serve him cholent, and the cognac I offered never appeared. Now, all the evil spirits in the world will not keep me from pouring him a drink.”

She straightened up and, moving gracefully, with a youthful stride, went to the chest. She took out a bottle and a glass, poured a drink, and said, “Have some. As a licensed nurse, I can guarantee that this drink is harmless.” “And what about Shira?” Herbst asked in a whisper. “If he insists, I’ll drink with him.” She went to get another glass, poured herself a few drops, lifted her glass, and said, “L’hayim , doctor, l’hayim .” She drank up and was about to refill his glass when Herbst cried in alarm, “No, no, no!” She glanced at him, and in a flash she understood: He is afraid I will drink to his wife.

She stood over him, her arm on his shoulder, and declared, “Dr. Herbst is a baby.” Earlier, when he had held her hand, it was cold. Now it was warm, so much so that he felt it through his clothes. He grabbed her hand and held it in his. Shira withdrew it and, stroking his head, remarked, “What a full head of hair, like a young man’s.” Herbst said, “I meant to get a haircut.” She said, “It’s just as well. I prefer a full head of hair.” Herbst brushed his hand over her head and said, “Then why does she cut her own hair?” She said, “Did I say I like my own hair? That’s not what I said.” While she was talking, he brushed her cheek with his hand. As his hand brushed her cheek, fingering its freckled surface, the blood rushed to his hand, emitting flashes of violent fire that stemmed from his blazing blood. Shira closed her eyes, opened them again, and stared at him. A bond seemed to stretch between her eyes, not a bond of curiosity, as before, but more like the bond that marks a woman whose heart has turned to love, who would give her life for love. She tilted her head to the left, and her eyes turned toward him, studying him obliquely, fixing themselves there, unswerving.

I will stop in the middle, leaping over those things that transpired between him and her, and continue to relate what followed, that is to say, after Manfred Herbst took leave of Shira.

What happened then? Manfred Herbst left Shira and went on his way, not knowing if he was happy or sad. But he was perplexed. How could he not be perplexed? He, the father of two daughters, the husband of a fine woman with whom he lives amicably, is on his way back from a woman he met in a telephone booth and was drawn to follow home, staying from early evening until past midnight. Despite all this, he sees no change in himself. Nor has there been any change in the world.

The small filigreed streetlamps, designed to bestow romantic sleep on the city — by a shortsighted mayor who regarded himself as the last scion of the Crusaders and prided himself on doing as they did — these small beacons gave off light that was scarcely visible. Though Jerusalem already had electricity, it was expensive, and most people used kerosene. The city was quiet; there was not a person in sight. Earlier, when we were seeing Shira home, there was not the image of a person in sight; now there was not even the image of an image. Who is it who said, “In Jerusalem, if you see anyone stirring about at night, he is heading for the safety of home”? Now I am the one seeking the safety of home.