Ethel Krauze — Escritora judío-mexicana/Mexican-Jewish Writer — “De Smérinka y de Vishkof/”From Smérinca and From Vishkof– un cuento sobre las aventuras de familia judía en Ucrania y en México/a story about the adventures of a Jewish family in Ukraine and in Mexico

Ethel Krauze

_____________________________________________

Ethel Krauze es comunicadora, docente, poeta, ensayista y tallerista, con un doctorado en Literatura por la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Conductora de televisión en Canal 11, o en programas como “Descarga Cultura UNAM”, ha dedicado su vida profesional a la difusión de la lectura y la escritura. Algunos de sus libros como Cómo acercase a la poesía (2018), son fundamentales en la enseñanza, así como su taller “Mujer: escribir cambia tu vida” que ha superado fronteras geográficas para difundir la escritura de mujeres. Su temática en narrativa y poesía cubre desde historia de México, la violencia de género, la violencia desatada por la “guerra contra el narcotráfico”, el erotismo, la sensualidad, el amor filial, la soledad, la frivolidad y el vacío proveniente del consumismo y el materialismo. Entre sus muchas obras son: Infinita ( 1992),El secreto de la infidelidad (1998),El instante supremo (2002), El diluvio de un beso (2004),Dulce cuchillo (2010), La otra Ilíada (2016), El país de las mandrágoras (2016), Lo que su cuerpo me provoca (2016) y Poemas para Adelina ( 2020).

Adaptado de “Hablemos Escritores”

__________________________________________________

Ethel Krauze is a communicator, teacher, poet, essayist and workshop facilitator, with a doctorate in Literature from the National Autonomous University of Mexico. Television host on Channel 11, or on programs such as “Descarga Cultura UNAM”, she has dedicated her professional life to the dissemination of reading and writing. Some of her books, such as How to approach poetry (2018), are fundamental in teaching, as well as her workshop “Woman: writing changes your life” that has crossed geographical borders to spread women’s writing. His themes in narrative and poetry cover from the history of Mexico, gender violence, the violence unleashed by the “war on drugs”, eroticism, sensuality, filial love, loneliness, frivolity and emptiness from consumerism. and materialism. Among his many works are: Infinita ( 1992),El secreto de la infidelidad (1998),El instante supremo (2002), El diluvio de un beso (2004),Dulce cuchillo (2010), La otra Ilíada (2016), El país de las mandrágoras (2016), Lo que su cuerpo me provoca (2016) y Poemas para Adelina ( 2020).

Adapted from “Hablemos Escritores”

_____________________________________________________

It Takes A Village | The Detroit Jewish News
Una familia judía en Ucrania/A Jewish Family in Ukraine – 1930s

_____________________________________________________________________________

De Shmérinka y De Vishkof

En la nevada Ucrania del zar Nicolai, Ralínkova era un punto en los mapas chicos rodeado de trigales. Los Kolteniuk tuvieron cinco hijos. Piotr siguió el oficio de su padre, que eran dos: rezar y vender telas. Aunque el segundo le dio de comer más mal que bien hasta su apacible muerte en la colonia Condesa de la ciudad de México, el primero lo dotaba de un olor de cera bendecida, a vino del profeta Elías en copa labrada, a cuerno que abre los oídos de Dios de día del perdón, a palio para las bodas del rey David. De estirpe cohen, principesca para judíos, podía hacer las veces del rabino, y en cualquier ceremonia imponía solemnidad y suspiros al cielo.

         Lo veo enorme y rubio en la silla del desayunador, envuelto en el talit azul y blanco, murmurando sobre el Libro.

         –Sshhh… –decía la abuela–. No hablas hija, zeide enoja.

         Y no sabía por qué ese misterioso silencio, cuando los oía en el baño, ella enjabonándolo macizamente el cuerpo regañándole mientras él gemía con dulzura.

         Piotr viajaba de pueblo en pueblo ofreciendo sus telas. Un día llegó a Shmérinka.

         Se hizo amigo de los Talésnik, dueños de ferretería donde Ana la hija soñaba en las matemáticas. Sus padres le habían dispuesto al hijo del rabino Bogomolny por marido. Pero Ana amaba en secreto.

         –Ay hija, si yo contarra… anduvíamos en carreta hasta bosque, scapábamos…Era tan gvapo… pero era casado hija, ni modo.

         Los padres presionaron tanto, que por liberarse de aquel al que abominaba, se casó con Piotr.

         –Muy decente, sí, pero pior que rabino de tan kosher!

         ¡Quién iba a decirle que cincuenta años después habrá de darle el sí al abominable Bogolmony, que convertido en millonario la llevó a pasear el mundo a los setenta años!

Piotr y Ana tuvieron dos hijos: Lázar y Mitya. Lázar se robaba el para dárselo a los pobres. El padre lo azotaba, Veinte años después Lázar sería el mejor guard entre los Pumas de la UNAM. Rompía quijadas a diestra y a siniestra, y se gana el temible apodo Ochichornia. Pero entonces, los golpes lo acicateaban para seguir robando una papa, una cebolla, un poroto.

         Un día se perdió en los trigales, y ocultó entre las varas vio cómo llovían cabezas: la del herrero, la del sastre, la del vecino…cabezas de verdad, cortadas con la hoz de Pet Lúra, el cosaco que dirigía los pogroms en los poblados de Ucrania. Lázar se desmayó. Lo encontraron de milagro tres días después, y entró con fervor en las juventudes comunistas.

         La revolución fue sangre y hambre, fríos de muerte sin carbón y madrugadas en la cola de racionamiento. Para conservar agua la gran casa, los Talésnik metieron en ella a todos los hijos, nueras, yernos y nietos que se apretaron hasta la asfixia. Salas, pasillo y comedores se improvisaron en recámaras, separadas por cortinas. Sólo un soldado se les coló vivir allí. Fueron gentiles con él, y él dio la firma que falta en los documentos que los sacarían de Rusia para siempre. Piotr se despidió de su mujer y sus hijos: iba a “hacer la América”, es decir, a hacer la fortuna en la tierra de la abundancia y oportunidades”, y luego mandaría por ellos para instalarse definitivamente en los Estados Unidos. Pero la frontera estadunidense se había cerrado a los inmigrantes. Así que Piotr llegó en un barco de tercera a Veracruz, y luego en tren con guajalotes y huacales a la ciudad de México. La fortuna no llegaba. Y sí la persecución a los que se habían quedado del otro lado del mar.

         No hubo más remedio. Ana empacó su samovar con cubiertas de plata escondidas entre la ropa, y un hijo a cada mano, se lanzó. Llegaron a Vínnitza, donde el río Bug, Y ese acaso fue el primer lazo entre Lázar y Réizel, porque del otro del Bug, en el poblado de Vískof, en Polonia, Réizel oía a sus padres hablar en secreto; una palabra que no conocía se le quedó grabado: América. Pero ese encuentro no se daría sino años después, en un camión Roma-Mérida, hacia Chapultepec.

         De Vínnitsa se fueron a Odesa. Ana coechaba con la plata a los aduaneros, se escondía en los baños de los andenes, de frontera a frontera. Sólo le quedó el samovar, y los hijos, cuando su hermano David la recibió en París. Era médico eminente, había salido tiempo antes de Rusia. La llevó al Moulin Rouge y le compró un sombrero. La mandó en primera clase a rumbo a Veracruz. Pero le pidió que le dejara a Lázar, porque él y su mujer no podían tener hijos. Ana lo consideró largamente.

         –Pero hija, ¿ya vez? no pudía quitar hijo a tu zeide ¡y primer hijo! No, veis míer, hubiera matado a mí y tu hija, no hubieras nacido… O quién sabe, a lo mejor foiras hoy francesita.

         Lázar vivía un gran acontecimiento: pelear con las pieles rojas le parecía lo más divertido del mundo, según había leído en Fenimore Cooper. En el barco, se hizo amigo del capitán, que le enseño maniobras navieras. Mitya lo seguía entusiasmada. Ana meditaba en su camarote: “indios con plumas en cabeza, Dios, Dios”. Y de pronto: ¡Nash parajod potonít!, ¡el barco empezó a naufragar! Entre gritos y marejadas Ana vio cómo a sus niños se los llevaba el bote salvavidas, y ella, aferrada a su samovar—todo el equipaje fue a dar a la caldera para tratar para tratar de sostener el barco–, maldecía a los tripulantes que querían quitárselo.

         –Pesa mucho, deje eso señora, ¡no sea necia, parece loca! ¡Con una chingada, se va a hundir esta porquería!

         –“Si va samovar, voy yo, si no aquí quedo”. … Ay hija, llegó verde de óxido de mar. Pero vino.

         Cuando veinte años después se lo robaron en la colonia Álamos, lloró todo no había llorado por dejar su tierra para siempre.

         Su madre Bela, fue enterrada viva en la fosa común de los nazis. Sus hermanos Rosa y Yosik desaparecieron en campos de concentración. Mark se hizo comunista del partido en Jarkov, se cambió su nombre y no quiso recibir cuarenta años después a una embajada—amistades de Piotr y Ana—que fue a buscar rastros de la familia a la Unión Soviética. Sólo murió Faña de vieja y en paz, a los 93 años, cuando iba a abandonar su querido México para hacerse ciudadana estadunidense en pos de su anciana hija en Boston. La víspera del viaje, con pasaporte y permisos especiales, en una suave tarde de septiembre, suavemente cerró los ojos y logró lo que quería: quedarse en este suelo.

         Dos años después de haberse despedido de Rusia, Piotr y Ana se abrazaron en Veracruz. Fue el 13 de diciembre de 1930. Ana cumplía ese día 35 años. Lázar estaba vivamente decepcionado: no había pieles rojas ni plumas en la cabeza, sólo pantalones blancos y “sarapes” en un color endemoniado y verdísimo.

         Llegando a las calles de El Salvador, en pleno centro merolico, la tierra dio un vuelco al revés. De pronto la gente se arrodillaba en la calle gritando hacia el cielo con las manos extendidas.

         –¡Nie krichai! ¡Nie biegní! ¡Ani moshiet ubit nas! –mumuró casi a gritos el papá: “no griten, no se mueven, porque nos matan, nos matan”, y los detuvo jalándose a un rincón del modesto edificio.

         Lázar sintió que se moría. Pero se quedó callado, porque lo matarían.

         Y así recibió México a mi padre, con un Mercali 5.9. Cincuenta y cinco años después volvió a mirar las frondas de los abedules que hacían pared a los lados de Lenin-grado. Volvía a Rusia por primera vez, ahora con pasaporte mexicano. Llegaba de un recorrido en Europa, por Helsinki. Desde que vio los abedules se le aguaron los ojos. En la frontera el oficial soviético le pidió sus papeles. Y mi padre contestó con un titubeo: “Dóbroye utro, ya ruskii, ya radilsia vrasiye, ¡ya semú scazal shto ya ischóras ruskoi zimlet!”. ¡Ya estoy otra vez en en el suelo ruso! El oficial sonrió, y el resto de los viajeros mexicanos se le quedaron mirando con asombro y admiración; en esos cuatro días en la Unión Soviética mi padre habló ruso hasta por los codos, y probablemente dijo más palabras de las que había dicho hasta entonces, en setenta años de vida. Volvió a México, a la colonia Condesas y México lo recibió de nuevo como la primera vez: terremoto del 19 de septiembre de 1985. 8.1 grados Richter.

______________________________________________________

Terremoto Ciudad México 1985/Mexico City Earthquake 10085

__________________________________________________

From Shmérinka and From Vishkof

In the snow-covered Ukraine of Tzar Nickolas, Railincova was a spot on the small maps, surrounded by wheat fields. The Kolteniuk family had five children. Piotr followed in the trade of his father, that were two: to pray and to sell cloth. Although the second fed him more often poorly than wee until his peaseful death en the Colonia Condesa in Mexico City, the first gave an odor of blessed wax, of the wine of the prophet Elijah in an adorned metal cup, of the ram’s horn that opens God’s ears on Yom Kippur, to the canopy for the marriage of King David. Of Cohen lineage, a princess for the Jews, he could play the role of a rabbi, and in any ceremony, he brought on solemnity and sighs toward heaven.

         I see him enormous and blond in the breakfast chair wrapped up in his blue tallit, murmuring over the Book.

         “Shsss…” grandmother would say. Don’t speak daughter, zeide gets angry.

         I didn’t know why this mysterious silence, when I heard the two in the bathroom, she soaping his body robustly, while he sighed sweetly.

         Piotr traveled from town to town offering his cloths. One day, he arrived at Shmérinka.

         He became friends with the Talésniks, owners of a dry goods store where their daughter Ana dreamt with precision. Here parents had promised her in marriage to the son of Rabbi Bogolmony. But Ana loved secretly.

Piotr and Ana had two children: Lazar and Mitya. Lazar stole potatoes to give them to the poor. His father whipped him. Twenty years later, Lazar would be the best guard for the Pumas of UNAM. He broke jays from left to right, he won the terrible nickname of Ochichornia. But back then, the blows spurred him on to continue stealing a potato, an onion, a bean.

         One day, he got lost in the wheat fields, and hidden among the stalks, he saw how it was raining heads: that of the blacksmith, that of the tailor, that of the neighbor… real heads, cut down with the sickle of Pet Lúra, the Cossack who directed the pogroms in the towns of Ukraine. Lazar fainted. They miraculously found him three days later, and, with fervor, he joined the Communist Youth.

         The revolution was blood and hunger, deadly cold with- out without coal and mornings in the rationing lines. To save water in the huge house, the Talesnik put into it all the children, daughters-in-law, sones-in-law and grandchildren that were squeezed to asphyxia. Living rooms, and dining rooms were cobbled together into bedrooms, separated by curtains. Only a soldier let them live there. There were gentiles with him, and he signed what was necessary in the documents that would them take them out of Russia forever. Piotr said goodbye to his wife and his children; he was going to “make it in America,” that is, to make a fortune in the land of abundance and opportunities,” and then would send for them to settle permanently in the United States. But the American border had been closed to immigrants. So, Piotr arrived in a third-class ship to the port of Veracruz and then in train with the turkeys and squashes to Mexico City. Good fortune didn’t come. But, persecution of those who had stayed at the other side of the ocean did.

There was no choice. Ana packed up he samovar with settings of silver hidden in the clothing, and a child in each hand, she set off. They arrived at Vínnitza, by the Bug River. And that might be the first encounter between Lazar and Reizel, because on the other side of the Bug, in the town of Viskif, in Poland, Reizel heard her parents talking in secret; a word she didn’t know was printed in her mind: America. But that meeting wouldn’t happen until years later, in a bus, Roma-Mérida, to Chapultepec.

         From Vínnitza, they went to Odessa. Ana bribed customs officers with the silver; she hid in the bathrooms of the platforms, from border to border. Only her samovar and her children were left, when her brother David received her in Paris. He was an eminent physician he had left Russia some time before. He took her to the Moulin Rouge, and he bought her a hat, He sent her to Veracruz in first class. But he asked her to leave Lazar behind, because he and his wife could not have children. Ana considered it at length.

“       But, daughter, don’t you see?  You couldn’t take a son from your zeide! And his only son! No veis mir, woman, he might have killed me and your daughter, you wouldn’t have been born… Or, who knows, you might have turned out a little French girl.”

         Lazar had a great time: fighting with the red skins seemed to him to be the most enjoyable thing in the world, according to what he read in Fenimore Cooper. On the ship, he became friends with the captain, who taught him navalmaneuvers. Motya followed him, excited. Ana meditated in her stateroom: “Indians with feathers on their heads, God, God! And suddenly, Nash parajod potonít!  The ship is starting to sink! Among shouts and heavy seas, Ana saw how her children were carried to the life boat, and she, holding tight to her samovar—all her luggage was thrown into the caldron to try to keep the ship afloat–. She swore at the crew members who tried to take it from her.

         “It weighs a lot! Let that go, madam, don’t’ be stupid! Because of this piece of shit, that piece of junk, the ship will sink!

         “If the samovar goes, I go, if not, if stay here…” Ay, daughter, it arrived rusted green from the sea. But it came.

         When twenty years later it was stolen in the colonia Alamos, she cried all that she had not cried about leaving her homeland for good.     

               Her mother Bela was buried alive in a Nazi common grave. Her sister Rosa and her brother Yosik disappeared in concentration camps. Mark became a member of the communist party in Jarkov; he changed his name and forty years later, at an embassy, he didn’t want to restore friendships with Piotr and Ana, who were looking for what was left of the family in the Soviet Union. Only Faña died old and in peace at 93 years old, when s to become an American citizen, she was about to leave her beloved Mexico after her aged daughter in Boston. The evening before the trip, with passport and special permissions, in a soft September afternoon, softly closed her eyes and succeeded in what she wanted, to stay on this soil.

         Two years after saying goodbye to Russia. Piotr and Ana hugged each other in Veracruz. It was December 13, 1930. An had her 35th birthday. Lazar was enormously disappointed; there were no red skins with feathers on their heads, only white pants and “serapes” in an hell of a color and very, very green.

         Arriving at the streets of El Salvador, in in the center of street hawkers, the earth turned backward. Immediately, the people went down on their knees, shouting at the sky with their hands extended.

“¡Nie krichai! ¡Nie biegní! ¡Ani moshiet ubit nas!” Papa murmured almost out loud, “don’t yell, don’t move, because they are killing us, they are killing us.” And he stopped them, while rushing to a corner of a modest building.

       Lazar felt that he would die. But he stayed quiet, because they would kill him.

          And so, Mexico received my father with a Mercali 5.9. Fifty-five years later, he again looked at the birch trees that made walls in the sides of Leningrad. He was returning to Russia for the first time, now with a Mexican passport. He arrived as part of a tour of Europe, starting in Helsinki. From the time he saw the birches, his eyes watered. At the border, the Soviet official asked for his papers. And my father answered with a stammer, Dóbroye utro, ya ruskii, ya radilsia vrasiye, ¡ya semú scazal shto ya ischóras ruskoi zimlet!” “¡I’m once again on Russian soil! The official smiled, and the rest of the Mexican travelers, stayed looking at him with amazement and admiration; in those four days in the Soviet Union, my father spoke Russian incessantly; he probably said more words than he had spoken before, in seventy years of life. He her returned to Mexico, to the colonia Condesa, and Mexico received him again like the first time: the earthquake of September, 19, 1985. 8.1 points Richter.

______________________________________________

Lilliana Torreh-Bayouth — Jueza y escritora judío-puertorriqueña/Puerto Rican- Jewish Judge and Writer — “Nací en el ala sureste del Aeropuerto”/”I Was Born in the Southeast Terminal of the Airport” — un cuento satírico/a satiric short-story

Lilliana Torreh-Bayouth

Lilliana Torreh-Bayouth nació en Puerto Rico de padres judíos sefardíes. Recibió una Licenciatura en Artes de la Universidad McGill en 1980 y un Doctorado en Jurisprudencia de la Universidad de Texas en 1982. Desde 1987 hasta 1995, la jueza Torreh-Bayouth ejerció su práctica privada en Miami. Antes de esto, trabajó como abogada en las firmas de abogados Greenberg, Traurig, et al., y Finley, Kumble, Wagner, et al., también en Miami. El juez Torreh-Bayouth es miembro del Colegio de Abogados de Florida. Fue nombrada Juez de Inmigración en diciembre de 1995 y sirve en Miami.

_______________________________________________

Lilliana Torreh-Bayouth was born in Puerto Rico of Sephardic Jewish parents. She received a Bachelor of Arts degree from McGill University in 1980, and a Juris Doctorate from the University of Texas in 1982. From 1987 to 1995, Judge Torreh-Bayouth was in private practice in Miami. Prior to this, she worked as an attorney with the law firms of Greenberg, Traurig, et al., and Finley, Kumble, Wagner, et al., also in Miami. Judge Torreh-Bayouth is a member of the Florida Bar. She was appointed as an Immigration Judge in December 1995 and serves in Miami.

___________________________________________

“Nací en el ala sureste del Aeropuerto”

Nací en el ala sureste del Aeropuerto. El aeropuerto consiste en un número infinito de salidas. Cada ala tiene su propio estilo y diseño y sus propios reglamentos. Algunas alas tienen sofás en las salas de espera, otros bancos, otras sillas, otras hamacas, otras butacas o combinaciones de éstos. Las azafatas de cada salida tienen un uniforme distinto y en cada salida se habla un idioma diferente. Además, los reglamentos para anuncios de vuelo son específicos a cada salida; de modo que al anunciar los vuelos que llegan y salen de cada ala se forma una confusión irremediable.

         He recorrido miles de salidas del ala sureste del aeropuerto y algunas del área sur. He aprendido los idiomas de casi todas esas salidas y he tratado de memorizar miles de reglamentos con fin de lograr salir en el vuelo que me lleve a El Destino.

         Tras todos estos años, no he lograr a tiempo a ningún vuelo. En la confusión del ala, no puedo escuchar bien los anuncios del vuelo. Entender las instrucciones se complica porque cada idioma utiliza una expresión distinta para anunciar un mismo evento. Por ejemplo, “el avión va a despegar”, traducido al idioma de la salida 9999 de mi ala, significa, “el avión ya se despegó”. Por culpa de estas idiosincrasias lingüísticas, he perdido muchos vuelos.

         Más complicados aún son los cambios de reglamentación. En una salida la fila para validar el boleto es la roja, pero en salida contigua, puede ser la fila azul. Ya son innumerables las veces que he pasado horas haciendo cola, para luego descubrir que estaba en la fila equivocada y ver partir el vuelo sin poder hacer nada.

         Ha habido otras veces que he acertado en los reglamentos y he logrado montar el vuelo para luego percatarme que era el vuelo equivocado. Tantas veces rogué que detuvieran el avión y me dejaran bajar, pero siempre me hicieron caso omiso a mis súplicas.

         Durante todos esos años, he visto rondar a varios portadores de profecías que deambulaban por las alas del aeropuerto anunciando vuelos que nunca llegaban, o que ya habían partido o señalando con el rumbo equivocado. Por culpa de ellos he perdido incontables días de filas tumultuosas, amotinadas por el afán de montar el vuelo pronosticado sin resultado alguno.

         Sigo sin perder las esperanzas de alcanzar el vuelo. Tengo que alcanzarlo. Me espera mi propio ser.

_____________________________________________________

“I Was Born in the Southeast Terminal of the Airport”

I was born in the southeast terminal of the Airport. The airport consists of an infinite number of gates. Each terminal has its own style and design and its own regulations. Some terminals have sofas in the waiting rooms, others benches, others chairs, others hammocks, others seats or combinations of all these. The staff at each gate have a different uniform and a different language is spoken at each gate. In addition, the regulations for flight announcements are specific to each departure; so that by announcing the flights arriving and departing from each terminal, hopeless confusion is formed.

I have walked thousands of departures from the southeast wing of the airport and a few from the south area. I have learned the languages ​​of almost all those gates and I have tried to memorize thousands of regulations in order to get out on the flight that takes me to Destiny.

After all these years, I haven’t made it to any flight on time. In the confusion of the terminal, I can’t hear the flight announcements very well. Understanding the instructions is complicated, because each language uses a different expression to announce the same event. For example, “the plane is going to take off”, translated into the language of my terminal 9999, means, “the plane has already taken off”. Because of these linguistic idiosyncrasies, I have missed many flights.
Even more complicated are the regulatory changes. At one exit, the line to validate the ticket is the red one, but at the next exit, it can be the blue line. There are countless times now that I have spent hours queuing, only to find out later that I was in the wrong line and watch the flight depart without being able to do anything.

There have been other times that I have been correct in the regulations and I have managed to mount the flight only to later realize that it was the wrong flight. So many times I begged them to stop the plane and let me off, but my pleas were always ignored.
During all those years, I have seen several prophecy bearers wandering the wings of the airport announcing flights that never arrived, or had already departed, or pointed in the wrong direction. Because of them I have lost countless days of tumultuous ranks, mutinous by the desire to mount the predicted flight without any result.

I still do not lose hope of making the flight. I have to make it. My own being depends on it.

Jorge Santkovsky — Poeta y escritor judío-argentino/Argentine Jewish Poet and Writer — “El después es ahora”/”Later is Now” — poemas breves y profundos/short and profound poems

Jorge Santkovsky

Jorge Santkovsky:

Nací en la ciudad de Bahía Blanca en el año 1957

Estudios cursados de Matemática en la Universidad de Buenos Aires

Escribí más que nada poesía desde muy joven, a menudo con desesperación.  Expresar en palabras el dolor resultó una forma sutil de autosanacion.  Varios de esos poemas se plasmaron en los cinco libros que menciono más abajo. Desde hace un tiempo incursionó en el relato. Diario de un cuéntenik se basa tanto en personas que conocí trabajando como en mi imaginación. Muchos otros relatos, sobre temas variados, aún permanecen inéditos. Están esperando, pacientemente, la forma adecuada de salir a la luz. 

     Es del comercio de lo que viví toda mi vida, debo decir que con suerte diversa. Actualmente me siento cómodo dedicándome al tratamiento de rezagos electrónicos y a la venta por internet. Me gusta pensar que soy un cuentenik tecnológico, pero un orgulloso cuentenik al fin. 

Presidente durante 8 años de la Asociación Argentina del juego de go.

_________________________________________

Jorge Santkovsky:

I was born in Bahía Blanca in 1957 and moved to Buenos Aires in 1976. 

I took courses in mathematics at the University of Buenos Aires.

I wrote more poetry than anything else, often out of desperation. To express pain in words resulted in a subtle form of self-cleaning. A number of those poems were embodied in the five books of poetry that I mention below. A while ago, I made an incursion into the short-story, Diario de un cuéntenik is based as much on people I met while working as in my imagination. Many other stories, on varied themes, still remain unpublished. They are waiting, patiently, to see the light.

     It is from commerce that I have lived my entire life, with varied luck, I should say. Right now, I’m comfortable dedicating myself to the handling of remaindered electronic devices and to internet sales. I like to think that I am a technological cuentenik, but a proud cuentenik in the end.  

     These days I find myself writing about the magic of visible and invisible beings that inhabit the neighborhood of San Telmo, old neighborhood where I live in Buenos Aires.

For eight years, I was president of the Argentine Association for the Game of Go.

Libros de Jorge Santkovsky/Books by Jorge Santkovsky

“Revelaciones “por la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2010- Ciudad de Buenos Aires

 “Revelaciones acerca de otras criaturas” por la Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2011

“Breves “por la editorial Colectivo Semilla 2013 de la ciudad de Bahía Blanca 

“El sonido de la atención” Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2014 Ciudad de Buenos Aires

“La incomodidad” Editorial Huesos de Jibia 2015 Ciudad de Buenos Aires

“El después es ahora”. A :Capela Ediciones 2022 Ciudad de Buenos Aires

Narrative:  “Diario de un cuentenik” de la editorial Leviatán 2020

Mantengo el blog http://otrascriaturas.blogspot.com.ar

____________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________

Es cierto que hay muchos poemas, no es necesario leerlos en el orden establecido. Propongo una lectura aleatoria, sobrevolando los versos. Varios de ellos vivieron en libros anteriores. Vuelven modificados por el tiempo y la relectura. Las mismas obsesiones con la esperanza de que alguien las escuche. Jorge Santkovsky

“It is true that there are many poems, it is not necessary to read them in the established order. I propose a random reading, flying over the verses. Several of them lived in previous books. They return modified by time and rereading. The same obsessions in the hope that someone will listen to them.” Jorge Santkovsky

El después es ahora/Later is Now

Momentos íntimos”/” Intimate Moments

1

elegí con prudencia

las circunstancias de mi nacimiento

y no sin sobresaltos

logré llegar hasta aquí

_________________

I prudently chose

the circumstances of my birth

and not without stops and starts

I was able to make it here

_____________________

2

mi aspecto confunde

dibujo nuevamente mis fronteras

sin reconocer dónde comienzan

ni dónde terminan

necesito ocupar mi rostro en otros fines

llevo demasiado tiempo

intentando este encuentro

__________________

my looks confound

I once again sketch out my frontiers

without paying attention to where they begin

nor where they end

I need to put my face toward other things

I take too much time

planning this meeting

______________________

3

habiendo tanto vacío

me dispongo a llenarlo con mis sueños

cada tanto me sorprende

alguien que sin reparos confía

que volveré a estar despierto

________________________

There being so much emptiness

I resolve to fill it with my dreams

every once in a while, someone who

surprises me trusts without qualms

that I will wake up again

__________________________

4

el temido después ha llegado

necesito recordar

aquello

que no cayó en el olvido

______________________

the fear has arrived later

I need to remember

that

that didn’t fall into oblivion

___________________________

5

evito risas y sombras

las temo pasajeras

mientras espero

en algún atardecer

reconocer en nosotros

algo de lo sembrado

____________________________

I avoid laughs and shadows

I fear them fleeting

while I wait

in some dusk

to recognize in us

something of the planting

I avoid laughing and shadow

I fear them to be fleeting

_______________________

6

puedo esparcirme por el mundo

por que tengo un lugar donde volver

mis raíces crecen

embravecidas por la lluvia

mientras me comunico

con el vientre de la historia

_________________

I can spread myself through the world

Because I have a place to return to

my roots grow

furiously with the rain

while I communicate

with the belly of history

_________________________

7

me he liberado tantas veces

ya no lo intento

dejo pasar los efectos de la niebla

y me detengo a respirar

__________________________

7

I have freed myself so many times

I no longer try it

I let pass the effects of the mist

and I stop my breathing

________________________________

8

todas las mañanas me pregunto

qué hago atrapado

en este túnel de palabras

__________________________

every morning I wonder

what I’m doing trapped

in this tunnel of words

____________________________

9

Alejo mi mirada hasta el punto

donde la reconciliación es posible

nací para esto

lo demás fue un accidente inevitable

__________________________________

I turn away my gaze to a certain point

where reconciliation is possible

I was born for this

everything else was an inevitable accident

___________________________________

10

yo también he prendido las velas

buscando guía y consuelo

no me es ajeno

el deshonor de la envidia

______________________

I too have lit the candles

looking for guidance and consolation

and it it’s not foreign to me

the dishonor of envy

___________________________

11

estuve en ese mismo lugar

esgrimiendo la tensa sonrisa

de quienes son el centro de las burlas

fue ese desprecio

el que me rescató del olvido

_____________________________

I was in the that same place

exhibiting the tense smile

of those who are the butt of jokes

it was that scorn

that rescued me from oblivion

________________________________

12

me advirtieron

lo que ya sospechaba

carecía de las miserias necesarias

para protegerme de mí mismo

_____________________________

they warned me

of what I already suspected

I lacked the necessary suffering

to protect me from myself

_________________________

13

me elevo sin ningún esfuerzo

hasta el improbable lugar

donde los bordes se diluyen

_____________________

I raise myself up without any effort

to the improbable place

where the boundaries dissolve

__________________________

14

cuando niño no fui niño

solo un adulto secreto

por momentos pienso

que he tardado demasiado

son días en que he perdido la memoria

ningún otro pensamiento me ha atacado tanto

______________________________________

14

when I was a child, I wasn’t a child

only a secret adult

at times I think

that I have I have delayed too much

there are days in which I have lost my memory

no other thought has assaulted me so much

____________________________________

15

no los controlo ni puedo hacerlo

a lo sumo si estoy alerta

pinto mis ojos con sangre

para protegerme

de los ojos que temo

_____________________________

15

I don’t control them or can I do it

at the most if I am alert

I paint my eyes with blood

to protect myself

from the eyes that I fear

_________________________________

16

la realidad me toma de rehén

es cruel y me aprisiona

contra anhelos y fantasías

y encima me es infiel

____________________

reality take me as a hostage

it is cruel and imprisons me

against wishes and fantasies.

and beyond that, it is disloyal to me

_________________________

17

siempre vuelvo

a las enigmáticas cuadras

que tantas veces atravesé aturdido

veo pasar el mismo infierno

algún día espero

no volver

a sentirme encadenado

_____________________

I always return

to the enigmatic squares

that I so often crossed, confused

I see the same hell pass by

one day I hope to

not feel still

in chains

_______________________

18

ya nada queda del día

me atrapa el camino de cenizas

el barro decide que brillará

bajo la secreta luz de la hipocresía

________________________

nothing yet remains of the day

the way of ashes traps me

The mud decides that it will shine

Under the secret light of hypocrisy

__________________________

19

aunque no quiera ser como ellos

limito conductas de egoístas

las necesito para no perder el equilibrio

así me preservo

de la temida humillación de desamparo

_____________________________

since don’t want to be like them

I limit the conduct of egoists

I need them so as not to lose my equilibrium

so, I save myself

from the feared humiliation of abandonment

____________________________

20

fuerza al destino

a no volver a mentirme

buscaré otro titiritero cómplice

tal vez más osado

quizá el más temido

quizá el más odiado

_____________________________

it forces destiny

to not lie to me again

I look for another complicit puppeteer

perhaps more daring

perhaps more fearful

perhaps more hated

___________________

21

mi infancia fue tan breve

que apenas la recuerdo

me faltó odio y me sobró misterio

_____________________

my childhood was so brief

that I hardly remember it

I lacked hatred and I had too much mystery

______________________

22

estar vivo fue el milagro

a salvo de la ira

o el descuido del instante

estoy entero

quisiera que lo sepas

solo me deshice en el firmamento

_______________________________

to be alive was a miracle

in spite of the anger

or carelessness of the instant

I am complete

I wish you to know

I fell apart alone in the firmament

____________________________________

23

soy un habitante más de esta ciudad

sé de brumas y veredas

valoro entonces al hombre que susurra

en esta noche de otoño

una canción inesperada

_______________________

I am one more inhabitant of this city

I know of fogs and sidewalks

I then value the man who sighs

on this October night

an unexpected song

_________________________

24

viene de la mano de un gesto

de un grito o de un paisaje

es como un beso inocente

de viento o fe tristeza

trataré de estar listo cuando llegue

____________________________

it comes from the hand of a gesture

of a shout of a landscape

it is like an innocent kiss

of wind or of sadness

I will try to be ready when it arrives

____________________________

25

lo viejo y lo nuevo

lo alberga todo ser viviente

eso no me conforma

sigo sin discernir

los pliegues del tiempo fragmentado

_______________________________

the old and the new

harbor every living thing

it doesn’t feel right to me

I go on without discerning

the folds of fragmented time

___________________________

26

el reloj de la pared tiene agujas livianas

me tienta detenerlas con mis manos

en la noche religiosa

de la vigilia poco reclamo

ahora que vuelvo a sentirme

refugiado en útero nocturno

_______________________________

the clock on the wall has lightweight hands

I am tempted to stop them with my hands

In the religious night

from the vigil I reclaim little

now I feel myself again

sheltered in the nocturnal uterus

__________________________________

27

todo lo que soy

se resuelve en este instante

me cobija el dolor

embebido en la belleza

___________________________

everything that I am

is resolved in this instant

pain shelters me

soaked in beauty

____________________________

28

saco la cabeza fuera del agua

puedo descifrar las tempestades

que el mar sabiamente esconde

______________________________

I take my head out of the water

I can decipher the storms

that the sea wisely hides

__________________________

29

tengo la oportunidad

de develar lo que la rutina orada

en la poca intimidad

que permite la vigilia

aún así

no puedo librarme

del sopor de la ignorancia

__________________________

I have the opportunity

to reveal what the spoken routine

in the small amount of intimacy

that the vigil allows

even so

I can’t free myself

from deep sleep of ignorance

_________________________

30

aprendí del ángel de la guarda

el placer de la ironía

lo quiero y le perdono

sus bromas pesadas

un legítimo recurso

para lidiar

con la fragilidad de la materia

_________________________________

I learned from the guardian angel

the pleasure of irony

I like it and I pardon him

its heavy jokes

a legitimate recourse

for fighting

with the fragility of the matter

________________________

34

aceptarnos como criaturas

que vagamos en el tiempo

saber del solitario comienzo

y de nuestro veloz declive

celebremos

todo podría haber desembocado

en tiempos peores

____________________________

accepting ourselves as creatures

that wander in time

knowing of the solitary beginning

and of our rapid decline

let’s celebrate

everything could have been happened

in worse times

________________________________________

Danilo Danzinger (1958-2013)– Escultor judío-argentino/Argentine Jewish Sculptor — Arte de lo prehistórico/Art from the Prehistoric

Danilo Danzinger

Danilo Danzinger nació en Buenos Aires en 1956 y falleció allí en 2013. Con su obra participó en importantes espacios de Buenos Aires: el Premio Braque, Joven Generación del Centro de Arte y Comunicación, Espacio Giesso, Harrods y en la Fundación San Telmo a inicios de los años 1990. Obtuvo una beca de la fundación Antorchas en 1996, una Mención en el Salón de la Sociedad Hebraica Argentina en 1982, y el Primer Premio en 1993, el Premio Banco Ciudad en el Museo de Arte Moderno de Buenos Aires en 1996 y Mención en el Salón Nacional en 2000. Si bien participó en muestras colectivas, desde 2002 hasta 2012, no hizo presentaciones individuales. Invitado a exponer en Río Gallegos, viajó a Tierra del Fuego, adonde volvió 27 veces más. De esta experiencia nació Paleobotánica Australis, su última muestra.

________________________________________

He was born in Buenos Aires in 1956 and died there in 2013. He participated in important spaces in Buenos Aires: the Braque Award, Young Generation of the Center for Art and Communication, Espacio Giesso, Harrods and the San Telmo Foundation in the early 1990s. He received a scholarship from the Antorchas Foundation in 1996, a Mention in the Argentine Hebraic Society Hall in 1982, Third Prize in the Quinquela Martin Hall in 1989 and First Prize in 1993, the Second Prize at the Manuel Belgrano Municipal Hall in 1994, the Banco Ciudad Award at the Museum of Modern Art in Buenos Aires in 1996 and Mention at the National Hall in 2000. Although he participated in group shows, from 2002 to 2012 , did not have individual presentations. Invited to exhibit in Río Gallegos, he traveled to Tierra del Fuego, where he returned 27 more times. Paleobotánica Australis was born from this experience, his last exhibition.

María José Herrera , historiadora del arte argentino

______________________________________

La prehistoria es algo más que un tema en la obra de Danziger: es el testigo inexorable del paso del tiempo y los procesos de la vida. Por eso, a sus ojos, los misteriosos fósiles eran esculturas naturales. Piedras “talladas” por el reemplazo mineral de una antiquísima vida orgánica, la transformación de esa energía. Danilo contaba que solía visitar los jardines botánicos y que uno de sus lugares predilectos eran los museos de ciencias naturales.

María José Herrera , Historian of Argentine art

_____________________________________

Prehistory is more than just a theme in Danziger’s work: it is the inexorable witness to the passage of time and the processes of life. Therefore, in their eyes, the mysterious fossils were natural sculptures. Stones “carved” by the mineral replacement of an ancient organic life, the transformation of that energy. Danilo used to say that he used to visit the botanical gardens and that one of his favorite places was the natural science museums.

Y una pintura: “Dos tramas selladas por un solo corazón de mujer “- Óleo sobre papel.

__________________________________________________________________

Jacques Fux — Escritor y novelista brasileiro judaico/Brazilian-Jewish-Writer and Novelist–“No lembro”/”I Don’t Remember” Fragmento de uma novela/Section of a Novel — ״Amnésia ou no?״/ “Amnesia or not?״

Jacques Fux

Jacques Fux é um autor brasileiro. Foi Visiting Scholar na Universidade de Harvard (2012–2014), realizou pós-doutorado na Universidade de Campinas, recebeu seu Ph.D. em literatura comparada pela UFMG e em língua, literatura e civilização francesas pela Universidade de Lille III. Possui mestrado em ciência da computação e bacharelado em matemática. Publicou quatro livros: Literatura e Matemática, premiado com o Prêmio Capes de Melhor Dissertação em Letras e Lingüística no Brasil; Antiterapias, sua primeira ficção, que recebeu o Prêmio São Paulo de Literatura; Brochadas; e Meshugá: um romance sobre a loucura.

Tradutora:

Hillary Auker se formou recentemente na Boston University com mestrado em Estudos Latino-Americanos com foco em tradução e escrita brasileira contemporânea. Ela também tem um B.A. em linguística com foco nas línguas espanhola e portuguesa, e atualmente trabalha no Departamento de Línguas Românicas da Universidade de Harvard.

_____________________________________

Jacques Fux is a Brazilian author. He was a visiting scholar at Harvard University (2012–2014), performed post-doctoral studies at the University of Campinas, received his Ph.D. in comparative literature from UFMG and in French language, literature, and civilization from the University of Lille III. He has a Master’s degree in computer science and a Bachelor’s degree in mathematics. He has published four books: Literatura e matemática, awarded the Capes Prize for the Best Dissertation in Letters and Linguistics in Brazil; Antiterapias, his first fiction, which received the São Paulo Prize for Literature; Brochadas; and Meshugá: um romance sobre a loucura.

Translator:

Hillary Auker recently graduated from Boston University with an M.A. in Latin American Studies with a focus in translation and contemporary Brazilian writing. She also has a B.A. in linguistics with a focus in Spanish and Portuguese languages, and is currently working in the Romance Languages Department at Harvard University. 

Por: Jacques Fux and Raquel Matsushita. As coisas de que não me lembro, sou. Aletra Editora

___________________________________________________

Por Lee Wan Xiang, Asymptote Magazine

_________________________________________________

As coisas de que não me lembro, sou

Não me lembro do dia em que fui para escola pela primeira vez. Não me lembro de nenhuma mordida, nenhum soco, nenhuma briga que tive com algum colega. Nem me recordo de ter sido colega de ninguém no jardim de infância. Não me lembro das brincadeiras, dos sorrisos, das corridas e saltos mirabolantes. também não me lembro das lágrimas da minha mãe quando me deixou pela primeira vez nessa escola. Não me recordo do meu desespero, do meu pranto, dos soluços e da dor de barriga de tanto chorar. Não me lembro da professora, de sua tentativa em ludibriar, transformar e recriar um mundo fora do útero dos meus pais. também não me lembro do dia em que a escola passou a ser essencial e que os amigos se tornaram fundamentais. Não lembro da profunda atenção que meus pais davam ao meu irmão, da completa ausência de tios e avós na minha criação. Não me lembro (e gostaria muito de reviver) o carinho especial da minha bisavó. O amor que ela viveu com minha mãe e que revivia comigo. também não me lembro do seu desaparecimento. de ser capaz de ressignificar amor e ausência.

Não me lembro do primeiro grito de reprovação que recebi (nem do segundo, nem do terceiro). também não me lembro de ter aprendido algo com esse grito, com esse tapa, com o dedo em riste, com o olhar sério, com a voz grossa, com a necessidade de ser educado. Não me lembro dos professores da minha infância. devem ter sido sensíveis, carinhosos e tolos. Não me lembro de colorir, de encaixar brinquedos, de jogar objetos em rebeldia, mostrando que eu tinha vontade própria, de gritar, fazer pirraça e calar quando bem entendia. Não me lembro de começar a escrever, de repetir infindavelmente as letras do meu nome, de descobrir o som distinto e paradoxal da última letra do meu sobrenome. de entender a herança pesada da minha família e da minha cultura. Não lembro de descobrir o fabuloso mundo que se desvelava com a minha alfabetização. mundo imponderável para meus avós e bisavós. Não me recordo de trazer para aula o nome e a profissão dos meus pais, avós, tios. Não me lembro de construir a árvore genealógica de minha família, de escutar sobre a origem dos meus ancestrais e dos ancestrais de meus amigos. Não me lembro de me dar conta de que as professoras não eram judias, de que o mundo não era judeu, de que tatuagens com números estranhos nos braços dos avós não eram coisas normais, comuns e cotidianas. Não me lembro de estranhar o nome Auschwitz ou de compreender que genocídios não eram coisas cotidianas e banais. Não me lembro de associar as palavras barbárie, poesia e amor.

Não me lembro de ter aprendido o alfabeto. de repetir fastidiosamente o som das vogais e das consoantes. Não me recordo de ter aprendido o estranho som da letra h e nem de ter a percepção e consciência do w. Não me lembro de sentir nenhum desejo, cobiça e volúpia pelo outro. ele ainda fazia parte de mim. Não me lembro da disputa e da competição pelo olhar da professora. Por seu amor e admiração. Não me lembro das brigas, das desilusões, das primeiras angústias que só aconteciam na escola. Não me lembro quando diferenciei pela primeira vez meninos de meninas. Não me recordo do dia em que olhei para uma menina e algo diferente se passou em mim. talvez um brilho mais intenso no meu olhar. talvez uma quentura inaugural percorrendo meu corpo.

Não me lembro da primeira vez em que cheguei em casa desiludido. Não me lembro do dia em que descobri que todos os outros alunos da escola também eram especiais, e que uns eram muito mais especiais e queridos pelas professoras que os outros. e eu não era um dos queridinhos. Não me lembro do dia em que algum amigo preteriu outro a mim. também devo ter apagado completamente a lembrança do dia em que uma menina escolheu olhar para outro e fechar os olhos para minha perfeição. Não lembro de compreender que o mundo poderia ruir um dia. Que eu podia me abalar. Que eu poderia sofrer.

Também não lembro do dia em que descobri que meus pais não eram perfeitos. Que meu pai não era herói. Que minha mãe o havia escolhido antes de me gerar. e que eu era somente o segundo, ou o terceiro. Não me lembro do dia em que reparei algum defeito nos meus pais. Não me lembro do dia em que eu percebi o cheiro deles. um cheiro que já não era meu. Não me recordo do dia em que tive vergonha dos meus pais. em que concebi as terríveis diferenças e limitações do meu irmão. e também tive vergonha e me escondi. e passei a esconder as histórias da minha casa. também não me lembro do dia em que comecei a invejar as outras famílias, fantasiadas na minha mente como normais, e que desejei estar no corpo de outro. também não sei quanto tempo isso tudo durou. e quanto tempo depois descobri que nada disso tinha sentido. Que cada um tinha que viver com suas próprias dores. e com suas próprias invenções.

Não me recordo de aprender hebraico. Não me lembro de saber que hebraico não se falava correntemente no Brasil. também não me lembro do dia em que comecei a esquecer propositalmente essa língua. Nem de quando percebi que iídiche não se falava na rua. também não me lembro do dia em que entendi que as palavras em iídiche tinham uma conotação negativa. uma conotação de dor, de saudade da diáspora da minha família e de sentir no corpo e na fala o não pertencimento a lugar algum. uma tentativa inútil de preservação cultural. de recordar tempos e épocas em que meus antepassados tinham que fugir constantemente. também não me lembro quando entendi que falar essa língua era discriminar as pessoas e o país que acolheram minha família. também não sei se eles foram acolhidos, se foram felizes, se viveram em paz. Não me lembro de conversar com eles sobre isso. Nem sei como eles me passaram os valores culturais, históricos, familiares e dolorosos do judaísmo. também não lembro da primeira vez que comi guelfite fish.

Não me recordo da paixão pelas rezas matinais. Não me lembro o porquê cantava com tanto fervor e alegria versos em hebraico (que eu não entendia nada). Não me lembro da certeza que tinha em relação à existência de deus. do deus judeu. Não sei dizer quando eu rezava acreditando que deus me ouviria. e quando eu trapaceava, e era vil e mesquinho, almejando que deus me esquecesse naquele momento. Não me lembro do dia em que deus me abandonou e nem do dia em que eu o abandonei. eternamente. Não me lembro de tê-lo matado, e nem de quando ele matou meu tio. também não sei quem o fez. tampouco entendi a dor da minha família, da minha avó, dos meus primos. também não lembro do dia que compreendi que eu e meus pais éramos mortais.

________________

Não me lembro mais do dia em que passei a considerar o amor como sofrimento. Não me recordo o dia em que amei a primeira menina que não me queria. em que passei a me tornar melancólico. também não lembro da certeza que tinha que era o melhor e o mais inteligente de todos. Não me lembro de me tornar estúpido, arrogante e metido. de me retrair. de ficar na minha. de blasfemar. de achar que o mundo não era bom o suficiente para mim. também não me lembro do dia em que gostei de me ver inserido no mundo goy, e que passei a detestar e amar simultaneamente o judaísmo. A detestar fazer jejum e lembrar, constantemente, das infelicidades desse meu povo. A me encantar com a possibilidade de viver em um país forte, novo, briguento. também não me lembro do dia em que tive pela primeira vez ojeriza da sinagoga e de muitos de seus membros. Não lembro mais o motivo. Não me lembro mais da aversão que tive dos seus cheiros, roupas e mesquinharias.

Não lembro mais por que me achava diferente e melhor em meio ao mundo católico. também não me lembro da razão por me considerar um estranho e pior no mundo judeu. Não me lembro por que comecei a ler. Não me lembro mais do primeiro, do segundo e do terceiro livro que li. Não me lembro das sensações que senti. Não me lembro por que me achava especial por carregar um livro nas mãos. Não me lembro de gostar de ler nenhum livro para o colégio.

_______________________________________

By Lee Wan Xiang, Asymptote Magazine

________________________________________

I Am What I Can’t Remember

I can’t remember the very first day I went to school. I can’t remember biting, punching, or fighting with classmates. I can’t remember being anyone’s classmate at all. I can’t remember the games, the smiles, the running, the spectacular somersaults. Nor can I remember how hurt I was when my mother left me alone at school for the first time. I can’t remember my despair, my weeping, my hiccups, and my stomach aches from crying so much. I can’t remember the teacher thinking she could play the part of my parents. I also can’t remember the day school became essential and that the friends became fundamental as well. I can’t remember the considerable attention that my parents paid to my brother, or the complete absence of uncles and grandparents in my upbringing. I can’t remember (and I would like very much to relive it), my great-grandmother’s special affection. The love that she shared with my mother and that she continued with me. I also can’t remember her becoming unable to show love and affection.

I can’t remember the first time I was scolded (nor the second, nor the third). I also can’t remember having learned something from this scolding, slap, pointed finger, serious look, or stern voice about the need to behave myself. I can’t remember the teachers from my childhood, but I imagine they should have been sensitive, loving, and silly. I can’t remember coloring, playing with toys, or throwing things in protest to demonstrate that I had my own will, or shouting, or being stubborn, only quieting when I wanted to. I can’t remember beginning to write, infinitely repeating the letters of my name, discovering the distinct and paradoxical sound of the last letter of my last name. Or understanding the heavy past of my family and my culture. I can’t remember discovering the bright, new world that unfolded with literacy. An unimaginable world for my grandparents and great-grandparents. I can’t remember coming to class and sharing the names and professions of my parents, grandparents, and uncles. I can’t remember making a family tree or hearing the origin of my ancestors and my friend’s ancestors. I can’t remember realizing that my teachers weren’t Jewish, that the world wasn’t Jewish, and that tattoos with strange numbers on your grandparents’ arms weren’t a normal, common, everyday thing. I can’t remember ever finding the name “Auschwitz” peculiar, or understanding that genocides weren’t normal, common, everyday topics either. I can’t remember connecting the words savagery, poetry, and love.

I can’t remember having learned the alphabet. Or carefully repeating the sounds of the vowels and consonants. I can’t remember having learned the strange sound of the letter h or having discovered the sensation of the w. I don’t remember feeling any coveted or sensual desire for another. That wasn’t yet a part of me. I can’t remember competing for a teacher’s attention. For her love and admiration. I can’t remember the fights, disappointments, the frustrations that only happened in school. I can’t remember the first time I saw a difference between boys and girls. I can’t remember the day that I looked at a girl and noticed something change in me. Like a more intense sparkle in my eye. Like an initial heat moving through my body.

I can’t remember the first time that I came home disappointed. I can’t remember the day that I discovered that all the other students were also special, and that the professors loved some of these special students more than the others. And I wasn’t special. I can’t remember the day one friend chose someone else over me. I should have completely erased from my memory the day that a girl chose to look for someone else, ignoring my perfection. I can’t remember understanding that the world could collapse one day. That I could be upset. That I could suffer.

I also can’t remember the day I discovered my parents weren’t perfect. That my dad wasn’t a hero. That my mother had chosen my father before she chose to conceive me. That I was only her second choice, or maybe her third. I can’t remember the day that I noticed my parents’ flaws. I can’t remember the day I first perceived their scents. A scent that wasn’t quite mine. I can’t remember the day I felt ashamed of my parents. When I could conceive the terrible differences and limitation of my brother. I was ashamed of being ashamed, and hid myself. I started to hide the stories of my house. I can’t remember the day I started being jealous of other families I thought to be normal, or the day I started wanting to be someone else. I don’t know how much time it took to create these fantasies. And how much time after their inception I discovered that they were impossible, and made no sense. When I discovered that everyone had to live his own pain and his own stories.

I can’t remember learning Hebrew. I can’t remember learning that Hebrew wasn’t spoken correctly in Brazil. I also can’t remember the day that I started to forget this language deliberately. Or when I perceived that Yiddish wasn’t spoken out in the streets. I can’t remember the day that I understood Yiddish words to have a negative connotation. A connotation of pain, of longing, of the diaspora of my family and feeling like neither my language nor my body could belong to one place or another. A useless attempt at cultural preservation. Of remembering times and epochs when my ancestors had been constantly on the run. Also, I can’t remember when I understood that to speak this language was to discriminate against the people and the country that had welcomed my family. I also can’t know if they truly felt welcome, if they were happy, if they lived in peace. I can’t remember conversing with them about it. Nor do I know how they passed on to me culture, history, family values, and the pain of Judaism. I also can’t remember the first time I ate gefilte fish.

I can’t remember the passion I had for the morning prayers. I can’t remember the reason I sang the Hebrew verses (of which I understood nothing) with such fervor and happiness. I can’t remember the certainty I had regarding the existence of God. Of the Jewish God. I can’t say that when I prayed, I believed that my God could hear me. I also can’t say for certain when I deceived Him, and when I was vile and petty, longing for God to forget me in those moments. I can’t remember the day that God abandoned me nor the day that I abandoned Him. Forever. I can’t remember having killed Him, or when He killed my uncle. I don’t know who did it. I can’t remember my family’s pain—my grandparents’ or my cousins’. I can’t remember the day I understood that my parents and I were just human.

 
____________

I can’t remember most of the day that I began to consider love to mean suffering. I can’t remember the day I first loved the first girl that didn’t love me back. When I started to turn melancholy. I can’t remember feeling certain that I was the best and most intelligent of anyone. I don’t remember feeling stupid, arrogant, and brazen. Being a wallflower. Hiding within myself. Cursing others. Finding out that the world was not good or good enough for me. I also can’t remember the day that I liked being embedded in the goy world, and that I started hating and loving Judaism simultaneously. When I started detesting fasting and remembering, constantly, the unhappiness of my people. I was enchanted by the possibility of living in a strong, new, aggressive country. I can’t remember the day that I had, for the first time, a grudge against the synagogue and many of its members. I can’t remember why anymore. I can’t remember the aversion I had to their scents, clothes, and stinginess.

I can’t remember why I found the Catholic world to be different and better. I can’t remember the reason for considering the Jewish world strange and worse. I can’t remember why I started to read. I no longer remember the first, second, or third book that I read. I can’t remember how they made me feel. I can’t remember why I found carrying a book around in my hands so special. I can’t remember liking any of the books I read for high school.


_______________________________________________

Books by Jacques Fux

Jacques Fux | Facebook
Premio Nobel