S. Agnon - Shira

On a battered bed in a dingy room lay the body of an emaciated young girl. Her head barely touched the pillow, it was so light. Her eyes were weary and filled with longing. Herbst followed Shira to the sick bed, then turned back, looking at Shira as if to explain that he hadn’t approached the girl’s bed on his own but was simply following her. When he looked at Shira, he saw she was holding flowers. How could that be? When did Shira get flowers, and what sort of flowers were in her hand? In any case, they had no scent; if they had, she wouldn’t have had to close her nose against the garbage in the yard. As for where she got them, wasn’t I with her at the King David Hotel? And, when we got there, didn’t she go to the little hut near the hotel and come out with someone who led her to the hotel garden, from which she returned with an armful of flowers? I didn’t pay attention to the flowers, because I was preoccupied.

The sick woman dilated her nostrils to take in the scent. She offered Shira a small, frail hand, gazing at the flowers as if they were some lovely object she yearned for but knew she could never have. She said in a clear voice, unimpaired by sickness, “Please, Shira, let me smell your flowers.” I see, Herbst thought to himself, that they do have a smell. He breathed in the scent. Shira handed her the flowers and asked, “Where can I find something to put these in?” Hearing Shira’s words, Herbst noted to himself: She said “to put these in,” but she didn’t say their name. These city girls who have never made anything grow! He turned away from his thoughts to concentrate on the sick woman’s voice, which was familiar. While he was trying to remember where and when he had heard it, she offered her hand and asked how he was. Herbst said, “You didn’t come to visit us, so I came to visit you. How are you, my dear?” She answered, “I’m fine,” laughing wanly. Herbst looked at her, thinking: Why does she say I’m fine, when everything about her belies her words? In the midst of this thought, he answered the question himself: What should she have said to me? She continued, “And how is Mrs. Herbst? And your daughter?” Herbst answered, “Fine, fine,” laughing inwardly at himself and at the world, in which everything moves in circles, while the world itself moves in its own circle. A man goes into a restaurant, sees a young woman, and strikes up a conversation. He goes to the Dead Sea with his wife and daughter, and sees the same young woman. She says, “I’m fine”; he says, “I’m fine”; but neither one is fine. Shira glanced at her patient, then at Herbst, and asked, “Do you two know each other?” Herbst said, “My wife knows this young lady too. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

Shira found an empty jam jar, filled it with water, and put the flowers in it. “Too bad,” Shira said. “Too bad that I had to cut the stems. But they’re lovely this way too.” “They’re beautiful,” the girl said, leaning toward the flowers. She smoothed her disheveled hair, took the jar of flowers, and put it to her mouth, as if she meant to eat the smell. Then she extended her hand to hold the flowers at a slight distance. Each gesture seemed to have a message: the flowers that once strewed our path are now far away…. Even the hand that smoothed her hair suggested a message: although our paths are scattered, like these stray strands, we can put them in order.

Shira arranged the pillow under the patient’s head, took her left hand to check the pulse, then asked her, “What have you eaten today? What would you like me to prepare?” The girl said, “Many thanks, Nurse Shira, but I don’t need anything. Really, I don’t. I have a girlfriend who takes care of me. She went to the pharmacy to get my medicine.”

If that’s the case, Herbst thought, she’ll be back shortly, and another young woman will be added to those I already know. When your mind is on women, they begin to dangle before you like links in a chain, each one leading to another.

Herbst ran his hand through his hair and studied the girl, as though pondering something. Then he said, “I read two of your poems. If I’m not mistaken, one is entitled ‘The Goldfinch’ and the other ‘The Crane.’ They’re good poems; they’re both equally good.” She raised her head, turned to Herbst with a questioning look, and whispered, “Really?” “Yes, really,” Herbst said. “They’re quite good, with no extra words, and every phrase has integrity and grace.”

The young woman had put her poems out of mind. Now that they were being praised, she became as excited as she had been while writing them. Not many people had read her poems, only those to whom she had showed them. He had apparently read them on his own. Since she was a shy and lonely person, this seemed especially wonderful. Shira said to the young woman, “You write poetry? Then you are a poet.” She said, “That’s half-true. I write poems. As for being a poet, my dear Nurse Shira, that remains doubtful.” Herbst said, “That remains doubtful for most people who turn out poems. There are more poem writers than poets. As for you, my dear, there is no doubt that you are a poet. The two poems I read are evidence.” Shira said, “If my life depended on it, I wouldn’t know how to write a poem.” Herbst said, “You don’t need to know how. You have other talents, Miss Shira.” As he spoke, a faint tremor swept over him and he whispered, “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” Shira asked, “What were you whispering?” Herbst said, “You’re mistaken, my dear. I wasn’t whispering. May I smoke in here? Or would it be better not to pollute the air?” Now, Herbst was thinking, I have provided another witness. One more person has seen me with Shira. I should have been careful not to address her so familiarly.

After they left the sick young woman, Shira asked Herbst, “How do you know Anita?” Herbst looked blank and asked, “Who is Anita?” She said, “Anita Brik.” Herbst said, “It’s strange, but I didn’t know her name was Anita Brik. I’ve seen her twice and talked to her, but it never occurred to me that her name was Anita Brik. Nor did it occur to me to ask her name.”

Shira laughed heartily and said, “Didn’t you tell Anita that you had read her poems? If you didn’t know her name, how did you know those were her poems?” Herbst laughed and said, “You’ve stumped me, Shira. I’m sorry not to have a proper answer. From now on, Shira, from now on I’ll be more careful and precise. I won’t cause problems. Are you pleased with me, Shira? Are you pleased with my promise?”

Herbst suddenly stopped, took out a handkerchief, wiped his brow, and said, “You put a bug up my nose.” Shira said, “You must have gotten it out by now.” Herbst said, “I got it out, and it came back.” Shira stared at him and said gently, “What’s the matter, what’s the matter?” Herbst put the handkerchief back in his pocket and said, “I ask myself, Why is she so hostile?” Shira said, “Even if I were seventy-seven times smarter, I wouldn’t know who ‘she’ is or what sort of hostility you have in mind.” Herbst lowered his voice and said, “I ask myself how you got to be so consumed with hostility toward the Hasidim.” Shira said, “Hostility? What does it have to do with hostility?” Herbst said, “Then is it love that flows from your tongue?” Shira said, “In any case, in all of Jerusalem there is no one who would say that Shira the nurse neglects any of her patients and denies them the attention they need or that she favors some patients at the expense of others.” Herbst said, “You generalize about their behavior; you are thoroughly contemptuous and disdainful. Have you never heard about their good deeds? I assume that even you know the story about the righteous man who used to get out of bed on cold winter nights, dress up like a farmer, and carry bundles of wood to the homes of needy women who were in labor.” Shira said, “So he was doing social work.” Herbst said, “But, Shira, in his time there were no social-work agencies.” Shira said, “In any case, I don’t understand why that rebbe had to dress up as a farmer, and so on. Couldn’t he find someone who would deliver the wood to those poor women? It would make whoever he hired to deliver the wood a little bit richer, and he could add some radish, onion, and garlic to his own meal and that of his family.” Herbst said, “Are you joking, Shira?” Shira said, “I’m not joking, but the fact is, I’m not impressed with good works that depend on tricks. I’m not especially fond of good works and commandments anyway, certainly not the ones the Orthodox live by. The way they see it, everything is a mitzvah. Fill your belly with meat, fish, bread — it’s a mitzvah. Eat greasy kugel, preceded and followed by wine — it’s a mitzvah. Slither into your wife — yet another mitzvah. So much for them and their mitzvahs, which don’t interest me.”