Previously, Julian didn’t smoke or even touch a cigarette, because he needed his fingers for his books – to straighten their edges, to collect hairs he might find between the pages, to brush away specks of tobacco. As you surely know, it is not only the elders of Israel who keep every hair that falls out of their beard in a book, but the nations of the world behave similarly. Not with hair from their beard, as Jews do because of its holiness, but with the hair of the woman they love, which they keep in a favorite book. This also applies to the tobacco that drops into a book while they read.
Previously, Julian Weltfremdt didn’t smoke, nor did it occur to him to smoke. As the number of immigrants from Germany increased, each seeking a means of support, one such immigrant began peddling cigarettes. He called on Julian Weltfremdt with his wares. Julian Weltfremdt said to him, “I smoke only those long brown ones.” Julian assumed they were unavailable in the Land of Israel. The following day, the peddler brought what he had asked for. Julian Weltfremdt said to the peddler, “I see you are conscientious and dependable. Every morning, at 6:30, I would like you to bring me two packs. If you are a minute late or a minute early, you won’t find me in.” From then on, the peddler came at 6:30 and brought him cigarettes. Weltfremdt would take his two packs, put them in his pockets, and, when the time came, go to teach his students the wisdom he was hired to teach. Then he went to dinner, after which he stopped in a café, where he sat until he had finished the cigarettes in one pocket. He would then go to another café and sit there until he had finished the last cigarette in the other pocket. This is a tale of cigarettes and of Julian Weltfremdt, who was not originally a smoker. But, once he became one, many smokers were influenced by what was on his lips. If I hadn’t become so involved in this trivial tale, I would comment on the dynamics of influence. It does seem odd that we set up conferences, arrange meetings, speak, mumble, orate, preach, lecture, publish newspapers, and write articles, pamphlets, and books – and all of these enterprises don’t affect even the shadow of a cloud. Yet someone appears, does what he does, quite casually, and attracts a host of followers.
Now, to get back to Herbst.
Herbst stayed at home much of the time. On days when he had no classes, he worked at his desk, with his box of notes at his side. Sometimes out of interest; other times out of habit. Herbst discovered nothing new, but his slips of paper proliferated just the same. These papers seemed to procreate and produce more of their kind. Their offspring were similarly productive. By degrees, he disengaged his mind from Shira, as though she had no reality. He hadn’t come across her since that night when he had become alarmed by the idea that she was sick, because he tended to stay home and didn’t roam in those places where one might run into her. Nor did he go to her. In that period, Herbst was free of terror, no longer preoccupied by dread of the maladies that can overcome a person. He was working again, not with the great enthusiasm of former days, but as a scholar with work to do.
Something else was new. The colleagues Herbst had thought would undermine his promotion made no effort to harm him, while those he had assumed would be his champions did not lift a finger on his behalf. In a second hearing, things could change and the situation could turn around. It isn’t only world history that changes, hostile nations becoming allies and vice versa. This is true of individuals as well. Those we count on to be loyal supporters don’t put in a good word for us, and those we consider thoroughly hostile make no attempt to undermine us. This statement may sound severe, but its truth remains undiminished. Since wars have become more frequent, murders more violent, and bloodshed more common, man’s value has declined, the power of principles has dwindled, hate has lost its sting, love has forfeited its honeyed flavor, and all things are determined by the impulse of the moment.
Henrietta, a sensible, composed woman, heard that Manfred’s promotion was being discussed again, but she was not especially excited, just as her stewpot wouldn’t care whether it belonged to the wife of a lecturer or that of a professor. Herbst himself wasn’t very excited either. Over the years, he had come to accept that ageold wisdom: when a man becomes a professor, it doesn’t add to his happiness.
After his article (“Must We Accept As Truth…”) was published, Herbst went back to the heart of his book. The vacuum created in his note box because of the article began to fill up. But not his heart. He considered abandoning the central thesis on which his book was to be based and using the vast amount of material for separate articles. When a man is young, he reaches out in all directions, collecting endless data, filling boxes, crates, drawers, pads, notebooks. When he is older, he surveys the array of material and sees that he won’t live long enough to make anything of it. Herbst began sorting his papers and saying, “These notes are appropriate for this article, the others for another article.” One article, properly written and complete, is more significant than a mass of material over which you have no control. It is a fact that many scholars build their reputations on heavy books, dense with quotations, but a perceptive reader realizes that his conclusions were obvious from the beginning.
Herbst and Weltfremdt were once sitting and discussing the major work of a renowned scholar whose broad knowledge was astonishing. Taglicht, who was also there, didn’t say a word. Herbst said to Taglicht, “Dr. Taglicht, either you haven’t read the book or you don’t realize how great it is.” Taglicht said, “I read it, and it reminds me of something.” “Of what? What does it remind you of? But let’s not get off the subject.” Taglicht said, “As a matter of fact, this story makes the subject even more immediate.” “All right.” “So, it’s about a preacher interpreting a text. After twisting several verses, making a muddle of them, and confounding the words of our living God, he wished to validate his ideas and prove them reasonable. How? With a parable. He turned to his audience. ‘Gentlemen and scholars, I’ll tell you a parable. Once there was a great and awesome king, like Alexander of Macedon. This king attacked his enemies. He mobilized all his forces and defeated them. Now, gentlemen and scholars, another parable to support my ideas. Once there was another great and awesome king, like Napoleon, who attacked his enemies. He mobilized his forces and won the war. Now, gentlemen and scholars, one further parable to support these ideas. There was once a great king, also awesome, like Nicholas, czar of Russia, who was attacked by his enemies. What did this Nicholas do? He mobilized his forces, sent them to war, and defeated his enemies.’“
Herbst and Weltfremdt were totally bewildered. Where was the parable and where was the message? Weltfremdt suddenly leaped up, embraced Taglicht, and said, “My dear friend, come, let me embrace you. I would give a thousand and one of my years to anyone willing to tell those scholars that their books are constructed exactly like that preacher’s lesson. He cites one proof after another, though the second one adds nothing to the first. Dear Taglicht, you are such a treasure. Whatever the subject, you have a comment that eclipses it. I would trade all the folklorists for one of your parables. You should write it all down in a book.
That
would be a good book, and I could find good things in it.” Taglicht said, “In Galicia, where I come from, they would probably say, ‘An ordinary pharmacist is a fool.’“ Weltfremdt said, “I assume you brought up pharmacists to make a point. So, where you come from, in Galicia, they would say that an ordinary pharmacist is a fool. Why?” Taglicht said, “A man who spends all those years in school and is content to be a pharmacist rather than study medicine is foolish, right? This applies to folklorists, who have so much material and are content to present it as folklore rather than make it into a story.” Weltfremdt said, “Then why don’t you write stories?” Taglicht said, “I’m like those philosophy professors who aren’t capable of being philosophers.”
Having mentioned Taglicht, let me mention Lisbet Neu, to whom Herbst planned to introduce Taglicht. Despite the fact that a number of years have passed since Herbst met Lisbet Neu, she is still at the peak of her charm, as she was when he first saw her. How old is she now? Probably about twenty-seven. She is older than Zahara, but Zahara is already a married woman and almost a mother, whereas Lisbet Neu is alone with her widowed mother, in a world circumscribed by her home and office, with nothing more in it. Living a religious life, fulfilling the commandments, dealing with financial concerns, she is deprived of life’s pleasures. If Lisbet Neu were to join a
kvutza
, would she behave like the other young women there? She may already be taking liberties and she may be different than she was to begin with. What do we know about other people’s lives? Her body conveys innocence. Still, one wonders about her. She had the hair above her lip removed. A girl doesn’t do that sort of thing on her own. Someone else must be influencing her. Who could it be? Herbst suddenly felt a sharp pang, a pang that comes of jealousy. Herbst was sitting with friends, discussing ethnography and similar subjects, imagining: Lisbet, if I ever have the privilege of kissing your mouth, I’ll say to you, “Whenever I saw those silken threads that shaded your lips, my own lip began to quiver with the wish to kiss you.” The slightest male quality can drive us wild in a woman. Shira, for example, seems part male; yet, when you are intimate with her, you know there is no one quite as female.
My novel is becoming more and more complex. A woman, another woman, yet another woman. Like that preacher’s parable. As for the man whose actions I am recounting, he is lost in thought that doesn’t lead to action. I am eager to know what we will gain from this man and what more there is to tell. Having taken it upon myself to tell the story, I will shoulder the burden and continue.
Chapter twenty
A
young woman arrived from the
kvutza
, bringing good news. The news came as a surprise. For Henrietta there could be no better news. Zahara had given birth to a boy. A boy was born to Zahara. Henrietta knew her daughter was about to give birth. Still, when the news came, it came as a surprise.
Henrietta moves through the house, but her mind is with Zahara. From the moment Henrietta received word that Zahara’s son was born, she has been walking from room to room. At times, her heart is light; at others, it is heavy. In either case, the walls of her house are constricting. They keep her from flying off to Zahara. In spite of this, she is totally with Zahara. In a thousand ways that begin in the imagination and then become real, she is with Zahara, even though one of them is in Afula and the other in Jerusalem; one is in a valley, the other in a glen. Let it be known that this is how it is. She sees Zahara in bed, her face radiant with light from her firstborn. Zahara’s son lies at her side, wrapped in the tiny garments she gave Zahara for him. Henrietta picks him up and hands him to Zahara, so she can feed him. It would be good for Zahara to drink malt beer every day, for it stimulates the milk. But, with so many new mothers there, who has time to think about Zahara’s needs? If her own mother were there, Zahara would lack nothing.
All of which suggests that she isn’t there. In truth, she is still in Jerusalem. Why? Because it’s a three-and-a-half-hour trip from Jerusalem to Afula. If you have a car for the trip. If you have no car, then it’s truly a problem. There are people with servants who call and order a car, and, when it comes, they let it wait as long as they like. Henrietta and Manfred, even now, when they are so eager to see their daughter, have to go to the telephone office and look up “Car Services” in the directory. If the directory is intact, it’s simple. Otherwise, they have to run to another office. There they find what they are looking for and ask about car service to Afula – when it leaves, whether there is room for two. By the time they get an answer, the car has left. They ask about the next one. A clerk answers, “Hey, take it easy.” They decide to try the bus. But the bus station isn’t listed in the directory. Why? Because two competing companies have suddenly merged into one and adopted a new name. They go into town to look for the bus and don’t find it. Even if they do find it, they don’t find the driver. They find the driver, but he doesn’t know when he’ll be leaving. Why? Because the road is closed. Why? Because of Arabs who are demonstrating against Jewish immigration. Until the speeches are over, the roads will be closed. They go to the office of the car service, because sometimes what can’t be dealt with on the telephone can be dealt with in person. The clerk in charge yawns in their faces and doesn’t dignify them with a straight answer, because he doesn’t need any more passengers, all the cars having already left. As for tomorrow, he lacks the imagination to think that far ahead, and, besides, it’s too much trouble.
Herbst, who had undertaken the search alone this time, was on the verge of despair when a passerby noticed him. He said, “Dr. Herbst, what are you doing here in town? I see you are about to take a trip. Are you, perhaps, leaving us forever? Just between us, I would run away too. If not because of the Arabs, then because of the English. If not because of both of them, then because of our leaders. Our orientation, Dr. Herbst, our orientation is truly – how shall I say? – defective. And it would be a waste of breath to say more.” Rather than waste his breath, he turned to other, more worthwhile, subjects. What did he say, what did he not say? Whom did Herbst’s daughter marry, and are both parents equally pleased? Often, the father is pleased and the mother isn’t, or the other way around. Sometimes both parents are pleased, but not the daughter. He stopped in mid-conversation. Why? Because a fly fell into his mouth because the city was full of flies because the streets were full of garbage, and, when garbage cans were placed on the streets, their lids were stolen. Before Herbst could escape, the man swallowed the fly and resumed his monologue, in the course of which he suggested taking the bus. But first, they had to find the bus stop, as the Mandate police favor the Arabs and are hostile toward us and our buses, so they move the bus stops on a whim.