Daniel Bach said goodbye to the farmer and we got onto the cart. “Soon,” said the farmer, “I am coming to bring your wife.” “Is your daughter-in-law giving birth?” Daniel asked the farmer. “Both my daughter-in-law and my wife,” said the farmer.
The comrades returned to their work and we returned to the town. The pleasant air and the wind that blew through the standing corn drove the troubles of the night out of my mind, and you needn’t be surprised, for at that time I was forty-one years old, so I could endure the day even if I had not slept at night. My weary limbs began to heal, except for my skin, which was swollen from the bugs. As we neared the town, I was gripped with longing for our comrades in the village. I said to Daniel Bach, “If I was not afraid the Gentiles would steal your treasures, I would want to go back with you to the village.” Daniel Bach was silent and made no reply. Perhaps he was thinking of the farmer and his wife and daughter-in-law, perhaps he was thinking of his brother who had been killed, or perhaps he was thinking of the gifts he was bringing to his wife. It was not every day that he brought her things like these. Finally, he turned his head to me and said, “I find this surprising: if they are working why do they need the Land of Israel? Surely they can stay here and work and earn a living.” “Were it not for the Land of Israel,” I replied, “would they work so hard?” Said he, “Whatever we talk about, you people bring in the Land of Israel.” “Who was it brought in the Land of Israel this time — you or I?” said I. Said Daniel Bach, “Whenever I see you, it seems to me that a strip of the Land trails along behind you, so I am reminded of the Land of Israel. In any case, the girls’ parents can be pleased that they have followed the pioneers and not trailed after the communists.” “Is that all the good you have found in our girls?” said I. “The only good we have is not to have the worst,” he replied.
As we were sitting, the cart shook, let out a screech and stopped. The carter got off, examined the wheels, and began cursing himself and his horses and the road and all the people in the world. Finally, he straightened up and said, “Be so kind as to get down, gentlemen. One of the wheels is broken.” “What shall we do?” “You do nothing,” said the carter. “You watch the cart and horses, while I go look for a man to mend my wheel.”
“And shall we have to stand here a long time?” “You don’t need to stand,” said the carter. “If you want, you can sit.” So the carter went off, while Daniel Bach and I sat down beside the cart, which was standing on three wheels. Half the day passed and the carter did not come back. Daniel Bach opened his bundle and said, “Let us have lunch.” After we had eaten, we heard the sound of feet. “There are two people coming,” said I to Daniel. “I see four feet,” said Daniel. The carter came up, with a short, broad old man. It was the smith, who had mended the wheel and had come to get his pay.
The smith dragged along his feet slowly, and his head shook without a stop. He looked at the remains of the food and said, “Good appetite! Is there a drop of brandy here for the throat of my mother’s son?” When he heard we had no brandy, he spat into his hands and said, “So you have eaten and not drunk?” “And you’ve drunk and not eaten,” said the carter. “I’ve drunk, gentlemen, I’ve drunk,” said the smith, “but only one little drop.” Again he spat into his hands and said, “To work.” An hour later, or a little less, we got back into the cart. It was almost dark when we reached the town.
Chapter one and sixty. Evening
I went back to my hotel and entered my room. My throat was dry and my limbs slack, my skin was throbbing and my head felt heavy. The sun had set and the room was dark. I sat on the end of the bed and looked straight in front of me. The lamp gleamed out of the darkness. I took a match to light it, but for some reason, I do not know why, I put out the match and did not light the lamp. I took another match and lit a cigarette. And many thoughts came into my mind that are not fit to be called thoughts and do not combine to make up any matter.
Krolka knocked at the door. I was too lazy to tell her to come in. She knocked again and entered. “I thought you had gone out, sir,” she said, “and I came in to make your bed.” “I am here, Krolka,” said I, “I wanted to light the lamp and could not find a match. Perhaps you know where the matches are?” “I’ll bring you matches straightaway, sir,” said Krolka, “or perhaps you would be so kind as to give me your matches, sir, and I will light the lamp.” I was ashamed that I had told Krolka that I had not found a match, when there was a lighted cigarette in my mouth. But I gave her no reason to doubt my truthfulness and said, “This was the last match and my matchbox is empty. Or let us say that the box is not empty, but the matches do not catch fire. Are there no matches in the hotel? Heavens above, am I condemned to sit in darkness all night when all the lamps in the house are lit? And don’t be surprised, Krolka, that I can sit here and still see all that is going on in the house. There are people, Krolka, who can see even when their eyes are closed.” “Perhaps you will come and eat,” said Krolka. “That is a good piece of advice you give me, Krolka,” said I, “but what will you answer if I tell you that I am not hungry? I am not hungry at all. Perhaps you have a glass of tea? It seems to me that I am thirsty, for all day I have been standing in the sun. But I do not feel hot. In fact, I even want to get a little warmer. Well, Krolka, what were we talking about? About tea. So make me a cup of tea and I shall come straightaway.” “Straightaway, at once, sir,” said Krolka. “Straightaway, at once.”
Krolka went out, and I sat and thought: She said straightaway; did she mean to echo my words? No, Krolka didn’t intend to echo my words or provoke me. Krolka is a good Jewess for a Christian. Where have I heard these words? And who used them? Let us sit and think.
I sat and thought, but did not remember. And it was impossible that I should find out by memory who spoke in this way, for no dictionary has yet been compiled for all the words that issue from the mouths of men.
Krolka came back and brought a lit lamp, as well as two full boxes of matches, and asked, “Where would you like to drink your tea, sir, in your room or in the dining room?” I thought and thought and could not decide. On the one hand, how good it is to sit alone; still, one should not avoid people. True, all that day I had been with people, but if we look deeper into the matter, all those whom I had seen were an idea, and not men of flesh and blood — for instance, that farmer, who kept talking about the purpose of life, about bread, and about the soil.
“Will you take your tea in the dining room?” said Krolka. I nodded my head and said, “I will, I will.”
Krolka is a good Jewess for a Christian; she knows what is good for you and makes it unnecessary for you to think many thoughts. For thoughts are tiring, as Schutzling my friend said. Who asked me about Schutzling? Heaven almighty, is there no hope of remembering who it was who called Krolka a good Jewess for a Christian?
How quick Krolka is! In a brief while she managed to go to the kitchen, pour me out a glass of tea, bring it into the dining room, and come back to tell me that the tea is ready and standing on the table. I sat down to drink. Krolka came back again and brought me a glass of boiling milk, saying, “Perhaps you will drink a glass of milk? Hot milk is good for the throat and good for the nerves.”
Her voice is low and her movements restrained. Surely Rachel is not ill, heaven forbid? Rachel is hale and hearty — so may God always keep her in life and health.