Extract from the Novel about the Spanish Inquisition

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Marcos Aguinis es un autor con amplia formación internacional en literatura, neurocirugía, psicoanálisis, artes e historia. “He viajado por el mundo, pero también he viajado por diferentes profesiones”. Aguinis nació en Córdoba, Argentina en 1935, hijo de inmigrantes judíos. Tenía siete años cuando llegó la noticia de que los nazis habían matado a su abuelo y al resto de su familia que se había quedado en Europa. Él describe esto como el momento fundamental de su vida, y uno que finalmente lo llevó a escribir en un esfuerzo por cerrar esa herida, para reparar el “mecanismo roto de la humanidad”. Publicó su primer libro en 1963 y desde entonces ha escrito trece novelas, catorce colecciones de ensayos, cuatro colecciones de cuentos y dos biografías. La mayoría de ellos se han convertido en bestsellers y han generado entusiasmo y controversia. El Sr. Aguinis fue el primer autor fuera de España en recibir el prestigioso Premio Planeta por su libro “La Cruz Invertida” y su novela superventas “Contra la Inquisición” ha sido traducida a varios idiomas y elogiada por el Premio Nobel Mario Vargas Llosa como “Conmovedor canto de libertad” ….

del sitio web de Marcos Aguinis

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Marcos Aguinis is an author with extensive international training in literature, neurosurgery, psychoanalysis, the arts, and history. “I have traveled the world, but I have also traveled by different professions.” Aguinis was born in Córdoba, Argentina in 1935, the son of Jewish immigrants. He was seven years old when the news came that the Nazis had killed his grandfather and the rest of his family who had remained in Europe. He describes this as the pivotal moment in his life, and one that ultimately led him to write in an effort to close that wound, to repair the “broken mechanism of humanity.” He published his first book in 1963 and since then he has written thirteen novels, fourteen essay collections, four short story collections, and two biographies. Most of them have become bestsellers and have generated excitement and controversy. Mr. Aguinis was the first author outside of Spain to receive the prestigious Planeta Prize for his book “The Inverted Cross” and his best-selling novel “Against the Inquisition” has been translated into several languages and praised by Nobel Prize winner Mario Vargas Llosa as a “moving song of freedom” ….

From Marcos Aguinis’ Website

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La gesta del marrano — Amazon

Against the Inquisition — Amazon

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“La gesta del marrano”

Prólogo de la novela.

Mugre, piel y huesos, con los tobillos y las muñecas ulceradas, por los grilletes, Francisco es una braza que arde bajo los escombros. Los jueces miran con fastidio a ese esperpento: un incordio decididamente intolerable.

Hace diez año que lo han enterrado en las cárceles secretos. Lo sometieron a interrogatorios y privaciones. Lo enfrentaron con eruditos en sonoras controversias. Lo humillaron y amenazaron, pero Francisco Maldonado da Silva no cedió. Ni a los dolores físicos ni a las presiones espirituales. Los tenaces inquisidores sudan rabia porque no quieren enviarlo a la hoguera sin arrepentimiento ni temor.

Cuando seis años atrás el reo afectó un ayuno rebelde que casi lo disolvió en cadáver, los inquisidores ordenaron hacerle comer a la fuerza, darle vino y pasteles; no toleraban que ese gusano les arrebatarse la decisión de su fin. Francisco Maldonado da Silva tardó en recuperarse, pero logró demonstrar a sus verdugos que podía sufrir no menos que un santo.

En su maloliente mazmorra el estragado prisionero suele evocar su odisea, Nació en 1592, exactamente un siglo después de que los judíos fueron expulsados de España y Colón descubriera las Indias Occidentales. Vio la luz en el remoto oasis de Ibatín, en su casa predominaba el color pastel con manchones de azul. Luego se trasladó a Córdoba precipitadamente. Huían de una persecución que pronto les daría alcance. Navegó por tierras amenazadas: indios, pumas, ladrones, alucinantes salinas. Cuando cumplió nueve años, arrestaron a su padre en un desgarrador operativo. Un año después del hogar a su hermano mayor. Llegó a las once, y ya no quedaban en su vivienda bienes que no hubieran sido investigados y malvendidos por las implacables autoridades. Su madre, vencida, casi loca, se entregó a la muerte.

El llagado adolescente completó su educación en un convento: leía la Biblia y soñaba con una reparación aún inconfesable. Salvó a un apopléjico, cabalgó por los portentosas serranías de Córdoba y conoció las flagelaciones más absurdas.

Antes de cumplir dieciocho años decidió partir para Lima para graduarse de médico en la Universidad de San Marcos. Allí anhelaba re-encontrarse con su padre, todavía vivo ver baldado por las torturas de la Inquisición. Su viaje de miles de kilómetros en carretera y en mula lo llevó desde las infinitas pampas del Sur a la helada puna del Norte. Alternó con inesperadas acompañantes e hizo descubrimientos que le cambiaron la visión de su identidad. Descendió a la deslumbrante Lima, llamada Ciudad de los Reyes, para recibir la revelación final. Allí, además del encuentro dramático con su padre, conoció a Martín Porres, el primer santo negro de América, participó en las defensas de Callao contra el pirata holandés Spilpergen y se graduó en una brillante ceremonia.

La persecución, que había empezado en Ibatín y siguió en Córdoba, volvió a enardecerse en Lima. Decidió entonces embarcar hacia Chile: era un eterno fugitivo. Allí logró ser contratado como cirujano mayor del hospital de Santiago, porque era el primer profesional con títulos legítimos que llegaba al país. Su biblioteca personal superaba todas las colecciones existentes en conventos o reparticiones públicas. Visitó salones y palacios, alternó con autoridades civiles y religiosas, recibió halagos por su cultura. Y se casó con una hermosa mujer. Llegó a ser exitoso y apreciado; su bienestar reparaba la cadena de padecimientos anteriores.

Un hombre común no habría alterado esta situación. Pero en su espíritu llameaba un tizón inextinguible, un rebelión que ascendía desde los abismos. Sabía que otra gente, como él, deambulaba por el mundo sosteniendo sus creencias en secreto. Era difícil, conflictivo, indigno. Contra la lógica de la conveniencia, optó por quitarse la máscara y defender sus derechos de manera frontal. Hasta entonces había sido un hipócrita, un marrano.

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“The Epic of the Marrano”

Prologue to the Novel

Filthy, skin and bones, with his ankles and wrists ulcerated by the shackles. Francisco is a hot coal the burns under the rubble. The judges look with annoyance at that grotesque sight: a decidedly intolerable nuisance.

Ten years have passed since they have buried gun in the secret prisons. They submitted him to interrogations and privations. The confronted him with scholars in sonorous arguments. They humiliated and threatened him, but Francisco Maldonado da Silva did not give in. Neither the physical pains nor the spiritual pressures. The persistent inquisitors sweated rage because they didn’t want to send him to the stake without repentance or fear.

When, six years back, the prisoner affected a rebellious fast that almost dissolved him into a cadaver, the Inquisitors ordered that he be forcefully, giving him wine and cakes; they couldn’t tolerate that this worm snatch from them the decision of when he would die. Fernando Maldonado da Silva was slow to recuperate, but he was successful in demonstrating to executioners that could suffer no less than a saint.

In his ill-smelling dungeon, the ravaged prisoner continued to think about his odyssey, He was born in 1692, exactly a century after the Jews were expelled from Spain and Columbus discovered the West Indies. He was born in the remote oasis of Ibatín. In his house, pastel colors predominated with large blotches of blue. Then then the family hastily moved to Córdoba. They fled a persecution that quickly caught up with them. They navigated through threatening territories: Indians, pumas, thieves, saline hallucinations. When he turned nine, the arrested his father in a heartbreaking operation. A year later they removed his older brother by force from their home. They arrived at home at eleven, and in their dwelling, no longer remained things that had not been investigated and sold cheaply by the implacable authorities.

The suffering adolescent complete his education in a convent. He read the Bible and dreamed of a reparation not yet mentionable. He saved an apoplectic, he rode his horse through the marvelous mountains of Córdoba, and he encountered the most absurd flagellations.

Before he turned eighteen, he decided to leave for Lime to graduate as a physician from the University of San Marcos. He yearned to find his father, still alive, XXX crippled by the tortures of the Inquisition. His voyage of thousands by road and by mule carried him from the infinite pampas of the South to the frozen puna of the North. Hi mingled with unexpected companions and he made discoveries that changed his vision of his identity. He descended to the dazzling Lima, called the City of Kings, to receive the final revelation. There, besides the dramatic meeting with his father, he met Martín de Porres, the first black saint of the Americas, participated in the defense of Callao against the Dutch pirate and he graduated in a splendid ceremony

The persecution, that had begun in Ibatín and continued in Córdoba, blazed again in Lima. He then decided to embark for Chile: he was an eternal fugitive. There, he was able get a contract as the chief surgeon in the Santiago hospital, because he was the first professional with legitimate titles who arrived in the country. His personal library surpassed all the existing collections in convents or public distributions. He visited salons and palaces, socialized with civil and religious authorities, received praise for his culture. And he married a beautiful woman. He became successful and highly regarded; his wellbeing repaired the chain of earlier afflictions.

An average man would not have changed this arrangement. But his spirit burned in an inextinguishable ember a rebellion that ascended from the abysm, He knew that other people like himself wandered through the world, maintaining their beliefs in secret. It was difficult, unsettling, shameful. Against the logic of advantage, he opted to take off his mask and defend his rights in a head-on manner. Until then, he had been a hypocrite, a marrano.

This translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Algunos libros de Marcos Aguinis/Some of Marcos Aguinis’ Books

Diego Schwartzman “El Peque”/”Shorty” — Campeón internacional de tenis judío-argentino/Argentine Jewish International Tennis Champion

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Diego Sebastián Schwartzman (nacido en 1992) es un tenista profesional argentino. Ha ganado cuatro títulos de singles ATP y alcanzó el ranking de singles más alto de su carrera como el No. 8 del mundo en octubre de 2020. Como especialista en tierra batida, sus mejores resultados han sido en esta superficie. Jugó en los Juegos Olímpicos en Tokio.

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Diego Sebastián Schwartzman (born 1992) is an Argentine professional tennis player. He has won four ATP singles titles and reached his career-high singles ranking of world No. 8 in October 2020. As a clay court specialist, his best results have been on this surface. He played in the Tokyo Olympics.

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Diego Schwarzman elogia la perseverancia de sus padres, que realmente no podían permitirse jugar al tenis; su madre vendía brazaletes entre partidos para ayudar a financiar sus viajes. Cuando era niño, lo veía como un juego, pero ahora reconoce lo difícil que era para sus padres apoyarlo. “Pase lo que pase en mi carrera no se compara con lo que soportaron mis padres. . . “Todo eso palidece en comparación con lo que pasaron mis antepasados. Su bisabuelo materno, que era de Polonia, fue subido a un tren a un campo de concentración durante el Holocausto. De alguna manera, el acoplamiento que conectaba los vagones del tren en el que estaba se rompió y el vagón en el que estaba el bisabuelo de Schwartzman se quedó atrás. Corrió por su vida y escapó sin ser atrapado. “Mi bisabuelo trajo a su familia en barco a Argentina. Cuando llegaron, hablaban yiddish y nada de español. La familia de mi padre era de Rusia y también fueron a Argentina en barco. No fue fácil para todos cambiar totalmente sus vidas después de la guerra, pero lo hicieron ”, continuó Schwartzman. “Entonces, desde que mi antepasado escapó de un tren camino a un campo de concentración hasta que me quedé en pequeñas habitaciones de hotel y vendí brazaletes, me considero afortunado. Ahora, Schwarzman, apodado “El Peque” (corto), es uno de los judíos argentinos más destacados. Soy judío y en Argentina tenemos mucha gente judía allí, y toda la gente me conoce ”, dijo en 2017.

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Diego Schwartzman praises the perseverance of his parents, who couldn’t really afford for him to play tennis — his mom would sell bracelets in between his matches to help fund their travels. As a kid, he viewed it as a game, but now he recognizes how difficult it was for his parents to support him. “Whatever happens in my career doesn’t compare to what my parents endured. . . “all of that pales in comparison to what my ancestors went through. ”His maternal great-grandfather, who was from Poland, was put on a train to a concentration camp during the Holocaust. Somehow, the coupling that connected the cars of the train he was on broke, and the car Schwartzman’s great-grandfather was in stayed behind. He ran for his life and escaped without being caught. “My great grandfather brought his family by boat to Argentina. When they arrived, they spoke Yiddish and no Spanish. My father’s family was from Russia, and they also went to Argentina by boat. It wasn’t easy for all of them to totally change their lives after the war, but they did,” Schwartzman continued. “So, from my ancestor escaping a train on its way to a concentration camp to staying in tiny hotel rooms and selling bracelets, I consider myself lucky. ”Now, Schwarzman, nicknamed “El Peque” (“Shorty”), is one of the most prominent Argentine Jews. I am Jewish and in Argentina, we have many Jewish [people] there, and all the people there know me,” he said in 2017.

El mayor activo de Schwartzman es su sentido del tiempo. Tiene una excelente coordinación mano-ojo y puede golpear la pelota en el punto óptimo de la raqueta una y otra vez, de una manera que pocos otros pueden. El argentino tiene la misma confianza en ambos lados, pero busca rodear su revés para golpear un golpe de derecha cuando recibe una pelota corta. Puede generar un buen ritmo tanto con su derecha como con su revés, y puede empujar a los oponentes detrás de la línea de fondo con golpes contundentes. Schwartzman tiene un retorno de servicio de clase mundial, ayudado por sus excelentes reflejos y movimiento. Se le conoce por romper los servicios incluso de los jugadores más altos, usando una combinación de anticipación y sincronización para lograr rendimientos profundos de manera consistente. Schwartzman se mueve muy rápido en la parte trasera de la cancha y puede defender increíblemente bien. También puede convertir la defensa en ofensiva en un abrir y cerrar de ojos, a menudo sorprendiendo a sus oponentes con su juego de transición.El servicio de Schwartzman es su mayor debilidad. Debido a su altura, no puede golpearlo con mucha potencia o consistencia, lo que lo hace propenso a romper su servicio con mucha frecuencia.

Adaptado de Sportskeeda

Schwartzman’s biggest asset is his sense of timing. He has excellent hand-eye coordination and can hit the ball on the sweet spot of the racquet time and time again, in a manner that few others can. The Argentine is equally confident off either wing, but looks to go around his backhand to hit a forehand when he gets a short ball. He can generate a fair bit of pace with both his forehand and backhand, and can push opponents behind the baseline with forceful drives. Schwartzman has a world-class return of serve, aided by his superb reflexes and movement. He has been known to break the serves of even the tallest of players, using a combination of anticipation and timing to hit deep returns consistently. Schwartzman is a very quick mover at the back of the court, and can defend incredibly well. He can also turn defense into offense in the blink of an eye, often surprising his opponents with his transition game. Schwartzman’s serve is his biggest weakness. Because of his height he is unable to hit it with a lot of power or consistency, which makes him liable to get his service broken very often.

Adapted from Sportskeeda

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Adaptado de Sportske

Adapted from Sportskeeda

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Livio Abramo (1903-1993)– Gravador e aquerelista judeu-brasileiro-paraguaio/ Grabador y acuerleista judío-brasileiro-paraguayo/Brazilian Paraguayan Jewish Engraver and Watercolorist — Maestro em dois paises/Maestro en dos países/Master Artist in two countries

,Livio Abramo foi um desenhista, gravador e aquarelista paraguaio nascido no Brasil. Abramo nasceu em Araraquara, Brasil, filho de pais ítalo-judeus de origem sefardita. Ele descreveu seu pai como um liberal e seu avô paterno como um anarquista. Apesar de ter nascido no Brasil, adotou o Paraguai como nação e foi neste país que produziu grande parte de suas obras. Ele é considerado “um jogador-chave no desenvolvimento da arte moderna paraguaia”. Em seu livro Estágios de um itinerário: grabados, dibujos, acuarelas de Livio Abramo Abramo, Abramo afirmava que suas habilidades artísticas eram totalmente autodidáticas e que muitas de suas criações eram inspiradas em suas visões políticas. Os estudiosos consideram-no influenciado por Oswaldo Goeldi e por expressionistas alemães como Käthe Kollwitz.

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Livio Abramo fue un grabador y acuarelista paraguayo, nacido en Brasil. Abramo nació en Araraquara, Brasil, hijo de judíos italiano de origen sefardí. Describió a su padre como liberal y a su abuelo paterno como anarquista. A pesar de haber nacido no Brasil, adoptó a Paraguay, como nación y en este país produjo gran parte de sus obras. Es considerado “un jugador clave en el desarrollo del arte moderno paraguayo”. En su libro Etapas de un itinerario: grabados, dibujos, acuarelas de Livio Abramo, él afirmó que sus dotes artísticas fueron completamente autodidactas y que muchas de sus creaciones se inspiraron en sus opiniones políticas. Los estudiosos consideran que fue influenciado por Oswaldo Goeldi y por expresionistas alemanes como Käthe Kollwitz.

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Livio Abramo was a Brazilian-born Paraguayan sketcher, engraver, and aquarellist.
Abramo was born in, 1903, in Araraquara, Brazil to Italian-Jewish parents of Sephardic background. He described his father as a liberal and his paternal grandfather as an anarchist. Although born in Brazil, he adopted Paraguay as his nation and it was in this country that he produced much of his work. He is considered to be “a key player in this development of Paraguayan modern art.” In his book Etapas de un itinerario: grabados, dibujos, acuarelas de Livio Abramo ,Abramo claimed that his artistic skills were entirely autodidactic, and that many of his creations were inspired by his political views. Scholars consider him to be influenced by Oswaldo Goeldi and by German expressionists such as Käthe Kollwitz.

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Roney Cyntrynowicz –Historiador e contista brasileiro-judeu/Brazilian Jewish Historian and Short-story writer — “Manequins”/”Mannequins” — Um conto/A short-story

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Roney Cytrynowicz é historiador e escritor, autor de A duna do tesouro, Quando vovó perdeu a memória e Guerra sem guerra: a mobilização e o cotidiano em São Paulo durante a Segunda Guerra Mundial. É diretor da Editora Narrativa Um – Projetos e Pesquisas de História e editor de uma coleção de guias de passeios a pé pela cidade de São Paulo, entre eles Dez roteiros históricos a pé em São Paulo e Dez roteiros a pé com crianças pela história de São Paulo. Sua coluna de PublishNews conta histórias em torno de livros, leituras, bibliotecas, editoras, gráficas e livrarias e narra episódios sobre como autores e leitores se relacionam com o mundo dos livros

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Roney Cytrynowicz is a historian and writer, author of The Treasure Dune, When Grandma Lost Her Memory and War Without War: Mobilization and Daily Life in São Paulo during World War II. He is the director of Editora Narrativa Um – Projects and Research in History editor and editor of a collection of guides for walking tours in the city of São Paulo, including Ten Historical Walking Routes in São Paulo and Ten Walking Routes with Children through the History of São Paulo. His PublishNews column tells stories about books, readings, libraries, publishers, printers and bookstores and chronicles episodes about how authors and readers report to the world of books.

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“Manequins”

Há dois dias falei com meu tio avó por telefone. Eu não o conheço, Ele tem oitenta e quatro anos e faz vinte e cinco anos que não tem qualquer contato com a família. Combinamos uma visita. No Teatro de Câmara de Tel Aviv. Alguém me diz que meu tio é uma personagem conhecida. No seu 80º aniversario fizeram-lhe uma grande homenagem. Saiu até no jornal.

Na portaria digo o nome. A moça identifica-o pelo sobrenome. Ele me cumprimenta com algum afeto. Um neto do Brasil, curioso. “Você é o único da família conhecido pelo sobrenome. É uma responsabilidade”, brinco. Ele apenas sorri. Pregunto algo sobre o teatro. Leva-me para conhecer palco, camarins, platéia. Voltamos a sua sala, onde ele se senta e retoma o trabalho. Fico observando sem saber o que fazer.

Oferece-me um café. Aceito. Mesmo uma xicrinha de café pude ocupar-me por um tempo largo. Pode-se curtir cada gole, goles curtos, depositar a xícara no pratinho, mexer a colher, espalhar novamente o açúcar, assoprar o líquido para esfriá-lo, cheirar o café, cheirar o café, apenas assegurar a xícara como a esquentar um pouco a mão. Por fim, deixa-la na mão, mesmo vazia, por mais alguns segundos, como a saborear o último gole. Quando o último gole se for, acho que irei junto.

O que tem, no entanto, não é uma xícara, mas, um longo copo de café bem quente. Os pequenos ardis do tempo multiplicam-se. Calculo pelo menos vinte minutos. Esboço varias estratégias e me sinto mais confiante para investigar a sala. Encima de sua mesa, uma máquina de coser de pedal. Sala pequena, meio desarrumada. Num canto, manequins experimentando a roupa de nova montagem. Gorki. Ele mostra as roupas e fala os personagens.

Manequins. Bonecos. Que dignidade têm eles ali na oficina do teatro. Bonecos de plástico. Uma imagem forte ameaça a emergir. Imagem de criança: bonecas, uma fábrica brinquedos. Uma línea de montagem comprida, dezenas de mulheres enfileiradas, duas filas, esquerda e direita, nenhum dialogo, movimentos mecânicos, colocar pés, braços, cabeça, sapatos, vestido, pentear os cabelos e pintar os olhos. Uma esteira comanda o ritmo no começo é no fim da esteira enormes caixas, a primeira com os pedaços de bonecas, partes de corpo, parte do corpo, mãos, braços, pés, pernas, cabeças, troncos, óculos, cílios, fivelas, cintos, roupas, na última caixa, as bonecas inteiras. Figuren. Nos campos, era proibido falar cadáveres, mortos, pessoas. Apenas figuren. Figuras. Como bonecos despedaçados. Não homens. Jamais homens. Apenas bonecos. Será que aquelas mulheres da fábrica ainda conseguem brincar de boneca?

Imagem de criança. Sentado em sua escrivaninha, o dono observa o trabalho das operárias. Enquanto olha os pedaços de boneco sendo montados ele lembra do campo. Sonderkomando. A palavra que definia tudo. Ele trabalhara num sonderkomando. Retirava os mostos pelo gás. Já ne se lembrava quantas vezes escapara dela morte, quantas dezenas de milhares de cadáveres vira. As lembranças dessa fase não estão elaboradas. Não firam pensadas. São apenas registros. Imagens brutas, cenas sensaçãoes, pequenos terrores e angústias com a que memória bombardeia nossas ansiedades. Lembrava-se sempre as duas filas: esquerda e direita, pedaços de pessoas, pernas, braços, morte e linha de montagem. Agora, cada boneca montada era como um ser humano que renascia. Figuren que se tornavam novamente humanas. Linha de montagem invertida. Começava com as partes do corpo e montava uma figura viva. Homens e figuren jamais se confundíam.

Cada vez que suava a sirene do almoço ele lembrava do dia de libertação. Sirenes de ambulâncias, soldados com comida, alguns com flores: ele olhava com apatia e indiferença. Não tinha forças para sentir felicidade, para se pensar fora daquele mundo. Difícil entender: apenas um muro de tijolos, um dia começou, um dia acabou e apenas um muro de tijolos. Sonderkomando, esse nome parecia dar o limite máximo de vida possível. De fantasia e de futuro. Enquanto pudesse estar ali, tal vez pudesse viver. Agora o muro não existe mais. E ele não conseguia enxergar vida. As operárias estranhavam aquele patrão que passava horas observando sem nunca dirigir-Ihes palavra. Elas não entendiam por que ele acompanhava cada rolar de esteira, cada peça encaixada. Cada figuren recriada.

Poucas horas depois de libertação, no acampamento militar, veio uma criança. Não que língua ela falava, talvez alemão, talvez nenhuma. A criança trazia uma boneca, o viu prostrado, chegou perto, fez umas piruetas é a colocou em suo colo. Presente. Afastou-se. Ele sabia que sua vida recomeçara ali. Aquela boneca fui o primeiro ser humano que o tocou com ternura. Após anos de violência.

Tempos despois, já no Brasil, inaugurou a fábrica de brinquedos. Deu a boneca a uma menina de rua. Era hora de passá-la adiante. De salvar outras vidas. Encherei a mundo de bonecas novas, decidiu. E lançou-se com toda energia a fabricação de milhares de elas. Cada boneca que saía de sua fábrica, não que fossem iguaizinhas, tinha ima missão para a humanidade,

–Você olha as manequins como se conversasse com eles, diz meu tio avó.

— Gosta deles? Pregunta uma costureira na sala, cheia de curiosidade sobre quem eu era. Ela se volta para meu tio e indaga, “é suo amigo?”

Ele diz apenas: “um parente do Brasil”. Lembro de Singer, “Uma noite em Brasil”.

–Um dia tal vez os manequins mereçam que se escriva uma história sobre eles, comento.

–Todas as histórias são para elas.

–Mas são como os homens que manipulam as marionetes. Nunca aparecem.

–Pense de outra forma. Elas guardam a vida das personagens de teatro enquanto os autores não entram em cena, diz ela.

Preparando-me para esse encontro tive o impulso de levar um gravador. Registrar para sempre histórias de família; não sei se encontrarei de novo meu tio avô. Mas desisti. Acho que preferia falar de amenidades. Apenas rir um pouco. Talvez pedir uma história. Contar algo do Brasil. Do teatro. A guerra de Romeu e Julieta. Tenho que voltar, foi a primeira coisa que pensei. Um primeiro encontro, vinte e cinco anos, aquele número no me saía da cabeça.

Observo-o trabalhar. Enquanto ele cerze seus pontos, vou costurando minhas histórias. Ele é meu tio avô por parte de pai e mãe, irmão da minha avó materna e primo do meu avo paterno. Esteve toda a guerra com meu avo na União Soviética. Ele costurava a meu avô para fazia marcenaria para cenários de teatro. Os dois trabalhavam no Kíevski Ievieíski Teatr. A máquina de costura nunca parou. Mesmo durante a guerra. Imagino os sons, a costura e serrote recortando madeiras. Sons da Rússia. Sons de guerra. Minha avó materna também costurava. Eu tentei uma vez quando era criança. Lembro de umas férias em que uma babá me ensinou. Ela era funcionária de uma empresa têxtil. Eu gostei logo. Fiz uma boneca de retalhos de tecidos. Guardei-a durante muitos anos. Os remendos foram abrindo. Mesmo assim teimava em mantê-la. Há certas coisas de infância que já não cabem na adolescência e começam a estourar. Acho que algum cachorro acabou por destruir a boneca, Nunca mais eu quis costurar.

Eu sabia o que representavam aqueles poucos minutos em que estivemos juntos. Vinte e cinco anos. Quase a minha idade. Na despedida, poucas palavras. A curiosidade inicial agora afeto. Andamos pelo corredor rumo á porta. Ele não tem pressa. Olha-me como a sondar quando será o próximo encontro. Pede que eu escreva. Mesmo que apenas algumas linhas. Peço o endereço. Vou a escrever. Prometo. Algumas linhas. Com algumas poucas linhas, ele sobreviveu ao exílio e continua a criar mundos, roupas, épocas, personagens, histórias, encontros. Os manequins deixam de ser figuren. Viram coadjuvantes de criação. Preciso conectar estas linhas. Vinte e cinco. Talvez oitenta e quatro. Ainda não escrevi para ele. Gostaria de assistir à estréia de peça de Gorki. Ver a roupas em cena. Antes que os manequins guardem vida dos personagens por outros vinte e cinco anos. O talvez para sempre.

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“Mannequins”

Two days ago, I spoke with my great uncle by telephone. He is eighty-four years old, and it’s been twenty-five years since he’s had any contact whatsoever with the family. We arranged for a visit. In the Camera Theater in Tel Aviv. Someone told me that my uncle was a well-known person. On his eightieth birthday, they had a large tribute for him. It was in the newspaper.

At the box office, I gave them my name. A girl identified him by his last name. He greeted me with some affection. A grandson from Brazil. Curious. “You are the only one in your family known by your last name. That is a responsibility.” I joke. He hardly smiles. I ask him something about the theater. He takes me to see the stage, dressing rooms, seats. We return to his office, where he sits down and goes back to work. I continue observing without knowing what to do.

He offers me a cup of coffee. I accept. Even a small cup of coffee could keep me busy for a long time. I can make each sip small, small sips, place the cup on the saucer, stir with a spoon, sprinkle the sugar in again, blow on the liquid to cool it, smell the coffee, barely hold on to the cup as if to warm my hand. Finally, I let go of my hand, for a few seconds more, so as to savor the last sip. When the last sip is done, I think that I will go over to him.

What I have, in the meantime, is not a small cup, but a large very hot, cup coffee. The little bits of time multiply. I calculate at least twenty minutes, I rough out several strategies, and I feel more confident about investigating the room. On a table, a pedal-driven sewing machine. Small room, somewhat cluttered. No corner, mannequins trying on clothing for a new Gorki production. He shows the clothing and talks about the characters.

Mannequins. Dolls. What dignity do they have here in a theater office. Plastic dolls. A strong image threatens to appear. Image of a girl; dolls, a toy factory. A lengthy assembly line, dozens of women in line, two rows, left and right, no dialog, mechanical movements, putting on feet, arms, head, shoes, dress, comb the hair and painting the eyes. A conveyer belt controls the movement, from the beginning to end. And along the belt, enormous boxes, first with the bits of dolls, body parts, hands, arms, feet, legs, heads, trunks, eyes, eyelashes, buckles, belts, in the last box, the completed dolls. Figuren. In the camps, it was forbidden to talk about cadavers, the dead, people. Even Figuren. No humans. Never humans. Even dolls. Could it be that those women in the factory even now are able to act as to dolls?

Image of a little girl. Sitting on a work table, the owner observes the work of the operators. While he sees the pieces of the dolls being assembled, he remembers the camps Sonderkomando. A word that defines everything. He worked as a sonderkomando. He retrieved the remains from the gas. He no longer remembers how many times he escaped death, how many dozens of thousands to roll over, They were not thought about, they were scarcely numbers. Brutal images, sensational scenes, small terrors and the anguishes with which memory bombardes our anxieties. He always remembered the two files: left and right, pieces of people, legs, arms, dead and in line of montage. Now, every assembled doll was like a human being who was reborn, Figuren that became humans who were reborn. The line of figures inverted, He started with the body parts and create a living being. Humans and figuren were never confused.

Every time that the lunch siren sounded, he remembered the day of liberation. Sirens and ambulances, soldier with food, some with flowers: He looked on with apathy and indifference. He didn’t have the energy to feel happiness, in order to beyond that world. Difficult to understand: just a wall of bricks. A day began, a day ended and just a wall of bricks. Sonderkomando, that name seemed to place an absolute limit on a possible life. Of phantasy and of future. As long as he could be there, perhaps he could live. Now the wall doesn’t exist. And he didn’t get to see life. The operators found it strange that the boss who spent hours watching without directing a word to them. They didn’t understand why he accompanied every turn of the belt, every boxed piece. Every figuren recreated.

A few hours after Liberation, in the military camp, he saw a little girl. He didn’t know what language she spoke, perhaps German, perhaps none. The little girl carried a doll, He saw it lying down, she got up and did some pirouettes and held it closely in her lap. Present. She turned away. He knew that her world would begin again there. That doll was the first the first human being that touched him with tenderness. After years of violence. Sometime later, new in Brazil, he opened a toy factory. He gave a doll to a girl in the street. It was the time to move forward. To save other lives. He will fill the world with new dolls, he decided. And he threw himself, with all his energy into the creation of thousands of them. Every doll that left his factory, none made the same as the others, had a mission for humanity

“You look the mannequins as if you can converse with them,” my great uncle said.

“Do you like them?” A seamstress from the room, full of curiosity over who I was. She turned to my uncle and questioned, “Is he your friend?”

He only said “a relative from Brazil.” I remembered Singer’s “A Night in Brazil.”

“The mannequins are worthy of having a story written about them Someday,” she commented.

“All stories are for them.”

“But it is as if human beings manipulate the marionettes. They never appear.”

“Look at in another way. They the continue lives of of the theater characters, while the authors don’t enter in the scene,” she said.

Preparing myself for this meeting, I had impulse to bring a recorder. To record family stories forever; I don’t know if I will meet my uncle again. But I held back; I guess I preferred to speak about amenities. Perhaps laugh a little. Perhaps ask for a story. To tell something about Brazil. Of the theater. The war of Romeo and Juliette. I have to come back. It was the first thing I thought of. A first encounter, twenty-five years, that number didn’t leave my mind.

I watch him work. While he sewed his stiches, he went on sewing my stories. He and my great uncle on the side of both my father and mother, brother of my maternal grandfather a cousin of my paternal grandfather For all of the war, he was with my grandfather in the Soviet Union. He clothed my grandfather, so he could do carpentry for the scenery in the Kíevski Ievieíski Teatr. The sewing machine never stopped. My paternal grandfather also sewed. The same during the war. I imagined the sounds of sewing and of saws cutting wood. Sounds of Russia. Sounds of war My maternal grandfather also sewed. And I tried it one when I was a little boy. I remember the days when my grandmother taught me. She was a functionary in a textile business. I liked it right away. I made a doll of pieces of fabric. I kept it for many years. The repairs were opening up. And so, I was also afraid of killing it. There are certain things from childhood that don’t fit in adolescence and begin to be lost. I guess that some puppy finished off the doll. I never sewed again.

I knew what the few minutes which we were together represented. Twenty-five years. Almost my age. At the good-byes, few words. The original curiosity now affection. We walked down the corridor in toward the door. He wasn’t in a hurry. He looked at me as if to calculate when our next meeting would be. He asked me to write. Even a few lines. I ask for the address. I will write. I promise. A few lines. He survived exile and continued to create worlds, clothing, epochs, people, stories, meetings. The mannequins were no longer figuren. They became assistants of creation. It’s necessary to connect these lines. Twenty-five. Perhaps eighty-four. Yet I never wrote to him. I would like to attend a performance of a piece by Gorki. To see costumes in the scene. Before the mannequins keep those people alive for another twenty-five years. Or perhaps for all times.

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Livros de Roney Cytrynowicz/Books by Roney Cytrynowicz