S. Agnon - Shira

The hospital gates were open, but no one was allowed in, as a truck was delivering ice and the help was working frantically to finish before the heat set in. Herbst moved aside to make way for the ice carriers, whose hands were red and chilled. One of them looked up from the ice and informed him that his wife had borne him a daughter. “A daughter?” Herbst stammered. “A daughter is not a son,” the informant added. “But, in these times, with wars raging everywhere, it’s a blessing to have female children rather than males, who are likely to be sent off to war.” Herbst nodded and moved out of the way. Someone shouted, “Make way for the doctor!” Herbst tried to make himself inconspicuous, so he wouldn’t be mistaken for a doctor of medicine, and went in. When he arrived at the maternity section, he asked, “Which room?” Realizing the question was vague, he added, “Mrs. Herbst’s room, please.” They opened a door and led him to Henrietta’s room. He scanned it quickly and went to her bed. She was lying there, radiant. She offered him her hand, gazing up at him like a woman gazing at the beloved husband whose child she has just borne as if to proclaim, “Look, my darling, look — I have overcome all obstacles and fulfilled all your hopes.”

He didn’t say a word. Henrietta took no notice. She was peering at him, watching him lovingly, without a word, without speech, without end. Roses sent forth their scent from the small table beside her bed, and their fresh redness sparkled. Who had already brought Henrietta flowers, and why hadn’t it occurred to him to bring some? He blushed and began to stammer, “I’m embarrassed, Henrietta, I’m embarrassed.” Henrietta looked at him fondly and asked, “Why are you embarrassed, my dearest?” Again he stammered. “Because, because I should have brought you flowers.” Henrietta pressed his hand in hers and caressed it, saying, “Never mind, my love. At a time like this, how could you have thought of bringing flowers? Tell me, my dearest, tell me truly: Did you sleep? Did you sleep enough? Now, my love, let’s call the nurse, and she’ll show you your little daughter. There’s the bell, my love. Put your finger on the button and push three times. Like that, my darling.”

He barely touched the button. He touched it again and pressed it with trepidation — once, then once, then once again, without turning this way or that — for it might be Shira who responded. A groundless fear. Another nurse, an old woman, was on duty in that room at that hour. The old woman came and glanced fondly at the new mother and her husband. She offered her small, sturdy hand to Herbst, smiled, and said pleasantly, “Mazel tov, doctor. I must say one thing: Your wife is brave. The courage she showed last night should be engraved in gold on a marble plaque. Look and see if there are signs of fatigue on her face. Because of the evil eye, we are keeping her in bed. Otherwise, you could order a horse and she could ride to Motza or Kiryat Anavim. If you don’t believe me, ask the other nurses. They all agree.”

Henrietta’s eyes pointed toward a wicker basket. The old woman smiled and said sweetly, “In your place, Mrs. Herbst, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry. I would let him ask again and again, and each time I would demand a gold dinar or, in the currency of our land, a shiny new lira. But since the baby is eager to see her father, I will bring her.” The old woman brought out a tidbit of flesh, swathed in linen, and began to mumble and coo, “My sweet honeycomb, my luscious nectar, look and see who is here. It’s your father, your sire, who has come to consider your dowry. But I can tell, you won’t need a dowry. The boys are all after you already. They’ll have you as you are, my pet.”

She took out the baby and presented her to her father, watching to see if he could tell how fetching she was. Manfred stared at the rosy tidbit, its two spots of twinkling blue fixed on him, not knowing what to say. Henrietta turned her eyes toward her husband and toward the infant, not knowing what to say either. She fixed her eyes on his. Manfred knew he was expected to say something. He arched his lower lip and said, “So this little worm is our daughter.” The nurse put the infant back in the basket and left silently. Manfred went to sit beside his wife.

Once more, Henrietta took his hand in hers and spoke. “Now, my love, you must relay our news to the girls, so they know they have a little sister. And now, my love, let’s get down to essentials. What name will we give our daughter? I should confess I have already given her a name, not one of those new names that are chirped over every cradle, but a name from the Bible.”

“What do you call her?” Manfred asked. Henrietta answered, “What do I call her? If I tell you, you’ll agree.” “So?” Herbst asked impatiently. “So,” Henrietta answered, “so I call her Sarah.” Manfred heard and was silent. After a while he asked, “Why did you choose that name?” Henrietta looked up at her husband with special affection and answered with a question. “Wasn’t your mother called Sarah?” Manfred nodded and said, “Yes. Yes, my mother’s name was Sarah, but she was called Serafina.” Henrietta said, “Tell me this, my love. Can a child be called Serafina in this country?” Manfred said, “It’s truly impossible.” Henrietta said, “So let’s name her for your mother’s grandmother, who was probably called Sarah.” Manfred said, “Yes, yes.” Henrietta said, “I assumed my lord and master would be thrilled to name his daughter after his mother,” Manfred said, “Yes, yes. Of course, Henriett. Of course.” Henrietta said, “Unless you prefer one of those new names, such as Aviva or Zeva.” At this point Henrietta puckered her lips and chirped like one of those women, the mothers of Aviva and Zeva, “Avivale, Zevale. Remember Elizabeth Modrao, the daughter of Professor Modrao? Do you remember telling us that her grandfather was called Samuel, a rare name for a Christian in Germany? Do you remember why he was called Samuel? You don’t remember? She told you, and you told me. It was because he was born in Jerusalem, on Shavuot, and his father saw fit, in honor of the land and the festival, to give his son a name from the Hebrew Bible. After what the Germans did to us,” Henrietta added, “why say anything good about them. Still, it must be admitted, they did pay homage to Palestine.”

Another nurse came in and whispered something in the new mother’s ear. Henrietta glanced at her husband and said, “You must leave now, Fred. It’s really too bad. I want so much to talk to you, but I can’t delay the nurse, who is here to take care of me. So, for now, Fred, let’s say goodbye. Come back this afternoon, if you can. In about four hours, or four and a half. Did you have breakfast? Did you eat any of the eggs Zahara sent us from her kvutza ? Please, be sure to have an egg in the morning and another in the evening. If you have two at a time, all the better. The natives say seven olives are the equivalent of one egg. If you ask me, an egg is an egg. As for olives, if you happen to like them, they spice up a meal. But not for a main dish — even eggs themselves don’t have such pretensions. According to Dr. Taglicht, the Talmud states that whatever is like an egg — that’s right, whatever is like it — doesn’t match it in quality. Now, my dearest, tell me where you plan to have lunch. I insist, my dearest, that you go to a good restaurant and have a solid meal. Meat, not vegetables. When you eat out, be sure to avoid salads, since you can’t be sure the greens were properly washed. I’m told restaurants buy their greens from Arab women, and you know they water their gardens with sewage, which is the source of most of the disease in Jerusalem. Now then, my love, are you listening? Say goodbye to Sarah.” “Sarah? Who’s Sarah?” Henrietta smiled and said, “My little Sarah, you chose a forgetful father. He hears your name is Sarah and forgets.” “Ah,” said Manfred, rummaging in his pockets. It seemed to him that it was the anniversary of his mother’s death, and he wanted to consult the calendar. “Now you know who Sarah is,” Henrietta continued. “Sarah, your daddy is saying goodbye to you, and I’m saying goodbye to your daddy in your name. I’ll say bye to you too. Goodbye, Fred. Don’t forget to write the girls. I would ask you to phone them if I didn’t know how hard that is to do.” “I’ll phone.” “You will? Bless you, my love. When they let me out of bed, I’ll go to the phone and call each of them. See you at four. If you promise to rest after lunch, I won’t expect you until five. Right away, nurse. Bye, Fred. At five.”