Samuel Glusberg/Enrique Espinoza
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ESPINOZA, ENRIQUE (seudónimo de Samuel Glusberg; 1898–1987), autor, editor y periodista argentino. Su seudónimo combina los nombres de Heinrich Heine y Baruch Spinoza. Nacido en Kishinev, Espinoza llegó a la Argentina a los siete años. Fundó y editó las revistas literarias Cuadernos Americanos (1919) y Babel (1921-1951), primero en Buenos Aires y luego en Santiago de Chile, donde se instaló en 1935 por motivos políticos y de salud, y también fundó la editorial Babel, que lanzó libros de nuevos escritores argentinos. En 1945 realizó un simposio sobre “La Cuestión Judía” entre destacados intelectuales latinoamericanos, publicado en Babel 26. Fue cofundador y primer secretario de la Asociación Argentina de Escritores, y miembro de los movimientos de vanguardia en la literatura y el letras. Sus cuentos y artículos tratan la identidad judía, la inmigración, el antisemitismo y el Holocausto, así como sobre cuestiones sociales éticas y universales. Sus contemporáneos lo vieron como la mezcla intelectual perfecto de cosmopolitismo y judaísmo. Sus cuentos más conocidos aparecieron en La levita gris: cuentos judíos de ambiente porteño (1924); y Rut y Noemí (1934). Sus ensayos se recopilaron en De un lado y del otro (1956), Heine, el ángel y el león (1953) y Spinoza, Ángel y paloma (1978).
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ESPINOZA, ENRIQUE (pseudonym of Samuel Glusberg ; 1898–1987), Argentine author, publisher, and, journalist. His pseudonym combines the names of Henrich Heine and Baruch Spinoza. Born in Kishinev, Espinoza arrived in Argentina at the age of seven. He founded and edited the literary reviews Cuadernos Americanos (1919) and Babel (1921–51), first in Buenos Aires and later in Santiago de Chile, where he settled in 1935 for health and political reasons, and also founded the Babel publishing house, which launched books by new Argentinian writers. In 1945 he conducted a symposium on “the Jewish Question” among prominent Latin American intellectuals, published in Babel 26. He was co-founder and first secretary of the Argentine Writers’ Association, and a member of avant-garde movements in literature and the arts. His short stories and articles deal with Jewish identity, immigration, antisemitism, and the Holocaust, as well as ethical and universal social issues. His contemporaries saw him as the perfect intellectual blend of cosmopolitanism and Jewishness. His best-known stories appeared in La levita gris: cuentos judíos de ambiente porteño (1924); and Ruth y Noemí (1934). His essays were collected in De un lado y otro (1956), Heine, el ángel y el león (1953), and Spinoza, ángel y paloma (1978).
De:/By: Enrique Espinosa. La levita gris: cuentos de ambiente porteño. Buenos Aires: BABEL, 1924.
El final de este cuento describe “La Semana Trágica”, el progrom contra los judío y otros obreros en 1919./The end of this story describes the “Tragic Week. the pogrom against Jews and other workers in 1919.
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“Mate amargo”
A Leopoldo Lugones
El asesinato de su primer varoncito en el pogrom de Kishinev, más el nacimiento anormal de la segunda criatura, a causa de los trastornos durante la matanza sufrió la madre, fueron causas harto suficientes para que Abraham Petacóvsky, dejando su oficio de melamed (preceptor de hebreo), se decidieron a emigrar de Rusia. Dirigiéndose en principio a los Estado Unidos (la América por excelencia de los judos de ayer y yanquis de hoy). Pero, ya en Hamburgo, vióse por razones diplomáticas—según bromeó después-a cambiar de rumbo. Y en los primeros días de noviembre del año 1905, con su mujer y las dos nenas, a Buenos Aires.
Abraham Petacóvsky era un judío pequeño, simpático, con el aire inteligente y dulce de las personas amables. Sus ojillos claros, amortiguaban hasta la palidez cadavérico, el rostro alargado por una barba irregular y negra. La nariz, de punto estilo hebraico, parecía caerse en la boca de gruesos labios irónicos. Aunque no contaba más de treinta años, su aspecto er el de un viejo. Por eso, tal vez, sus parientes de Buenos aires llamáronlo tío Petacovsky, contra la voluntad de Jane Guitel, su esposa, una mujer fidelísma, tan devota como fea, pero de mucho orgullo. De tanto, que no obstante haber pasado con el tío Patovsky años difíciles, lamentaba siempre el tiempo antiguo en nuestra Rusia.Y resignada en sus veintisiete años escasos, fincaba toda su esperanza en las dos criaturas que habían sobrevivido a los horrores del pogrom: Elisa, de siete años, y Beile, uno apenas.
No se arrepintió el tío Petacóvsky de su arribo a la Argentina. Buenos Aires, la ciudad acerca de la cual había tenido tan peregrinos en el buque, resultó muy agrado. Esperándolo en el viejo Hotel de Inmigrantes dos cercanos parientes de la mujer y algunos amigos. Gracias a ellos- a quienes ya debía parte del pasaje- logró instalarse en seguida bajo techo seguro. Fue una pieza sub-alquilada a cierta familia criolla en el antiguo barrio de Corrales. Para instalarse allá, tanto el tío Petacóvsky como su mujer tuvieron que dejar al lado escrúpulos religiosos: resolverse a vivir entre goim.
Jana Guitel, por cierto, resistióse un poco.
¡Dios mío!, – clamaba ¿Cómo voy a cocinar mi pescado relleno junto a la olla con puerco de una cristiana?
Pero cuando vio la cocina de tablas frente a la pieza clavada rente a pieza, como garita de centinela junta a una celda, no tardó en conformarse. Y la adaptación vino rápida, por cuanto la facilitaron los dueños de la casa en el respeto a los extraños costumbres de los judíos, y en el generoso interés por ellos.
La misma discreta curiosidad que los criollos mostraban por la forma rara que la rusa salaba la carne al sol, y el tío Petacóvsky guardaba el sábado, lo sentían los recién llegados por las manifestaciones de la vida argentina. De aquí que a los pocos días ya todos se entendieron por gestos, Jane Guitel fuera rebautizada con la traducción de Guillermina, por su segundo nombre y el apelativo doña en lugar del primero.
Por su parte, el tío Petacóvsky aprendía a tomar mate sin azúcar, con los hijos de la patrona: dos buenos y honrados muchachos argentinos. Y aunque como gringo legítimo, les daba las gracias después de cada mate, no suspendía hasta el séptimo, pues encontraba el mate sin azúcar las mismas virtudes estomacales que su mujer atribuía al té con limón.
Después del mate amargo, las alpargatas criollas constituyeron el descubrimiento más al gusto del tío Petacóvsky. Desde la primera mañana que salió a vender cuadros, las encontró insustituibles.
Sin ellas- juraba- jamás habría podido con esa endiablado oficio- tan judío errante, sin embargo- que le proporcionaron sus parientes.
Las alpargatas criollas y el mate amargo fueron los primeros síntomas de la adaptación del tío Petacovsky, pero la prueba definitiva la evidenció dos meses más tarde, concurriendo al entierro del general Mitre. Aquella imponente manifestación de duelo lo conmovió hasta las lágrimas, y durante muchos años la recordó como la expresión más alta de una multitud acongojada por la muerte de un patriarca.
A fuer de israelita piadoso, el tío Petacóvsky sabía de grandes hombres y de grandes duelos.
Ya dijimos que el buen hombre comenzó su vida de porteño ofreciendo cuadros por las calles de Buenos Aires. Pero no sabemos si el lector por haber visto alguna vez una figura de talmudista metido entre dos parejas de estampas evangélicas sospechó que nos referimos a cuadros religiosos. Sin embargo, la cosa, además de pintoresca, es importante y hasta tiene su historia.
Vender estampas de santos, era en 1906 un negocio recién iniciado por los judíos de Buenos Aires. Hasta entonces, los israelitas que no vinieron para trabajar en las colonias agrícolas de Entre Ríos o Santa Fe, se dedicaron a vender a plazos: muebles, joyas, trajes, pieles… Todo, menos cuadros. El tío Petacóvsky fue tal vez el número uno de los que salieron a vender estampas a plazos. Y es cierto que no resultó que el más afortunado (no hay ahora ninguna marca de cuadros Petacóvsky) fue en su tiempo más el más eficaz.
Dueño de un innato gusto eclesiástico, el tío Petacvsky sabía recomendar sus láminas. En su rara lengua judaica-criolla hallaba el modo de hacer en pocas palabras el elogio de cualquiera. Unas, por el tenue azul de sus ojos de una virgen; otras, por el gesto derrotado de un apóstol. A cada cual por lo más impresionante…
Nadie come el tío Petacoóvsky para explicar las virtudes de un San Juan Evangelista. Equivocaba, tal vez, desmemoriado, un San José con un san Antonio. Pero jamás olvidaba señalar un detalle del color, un rasgo patético capaz de entusiasmar a una María.
De lo que se lamentaba con frecuencia era de la escasez de su léxico. A cada instante veíase obligado a juegos de mímica moviendo manos, cara y hombros a un mismo tiempo… con todo, sus ventas nunca fracasaron porque no lo entendieran o porque él extendiera los recibos con nombres de Josefa o Magdalena, en caracteres hebraicos, sino por falta de religiosidad de las gentes.
Él, que era tan profundamente religioso hasta cumplir- no obstante, su oficio- con las oraciones cotidianas y el sábado sagrado, no se explicaba cómo habiendo tantas iglesias en Buenos Aires, eran tan pocos los creyentes. Por eso, cuando a fuerza de recorrer la ciudad, comprobó que en la Boca era donde se congregaba mayor número de fieles, trató de formar su clientela entre ellos. Y, en efecto, le fue mejor.
Después de trabajar un año junto al Riachuelo, saliendo a vender casi todos los días menos los sábados y los domingos- el tío Petacóvsky pudo crear su clientela y dedicarse solo a la cobranza y entrega de los cuadros que le encargaban directamente. Entonces saldó las deudas con sus parientes, obtuvo otra pieza en la misma casa de la calle Caseros, y planteó el negocio por realizar con los hijos de la patrona: negocio que consistía en asociarse a ellos para armar los marcos de las estampas y confeccionar los cuadros por cuenta propia.
Todo pudo realizarse al espíritu emprendedor del tío Petacóvsky. Los dos muchachos criollos, que no fueron desde niños otra cosa que jornaleros en una carpintería mecánica, viéronse convertidos en pequeños industriales. Entretanto, el tío Petacóvsky dejó de ser vendedor ambulante, para dirigir el taller.
A su nombre, o más bien a nombre de la fábrica de cuadros Petacóvsky-Bermúdez, trabajaban varios corredores judíos. Además, muchos otros, colegas del devoto oficio, compraban allí sus cuadras para difundir por toda la República.
Cerca de tres años trabajaron los hermanos Bermúdez en sociedad con el tío Petacóvsky. Como fuera bien desde un principio, lo hacían con gusto y sin honorario determinado. A las seis de la mañana ya estaban los tres en el taller, y se desayunan con amargos y galleta. Luego, mientras los mozos preparaban las estampas encargadas, el tío Petacóvsky, que ya borroneaba en castellano, hacía las facturas y tomaba nota de las láminas que era necesario llevar al centro.
A la venta de estampas evangélicas los fabricantes habían agregado, siempre por la iniciativa del tío Petacóvsky, marinas, paisajes, frutas… y, en gran cantidad escenas del teatro shakesperiano: Otelo, Hamlet, Romeo y Julieta… A las ocho, cuando doña Guillermina, o Jane Guitel, despachaba a Elisa para la escuela, el tío Petacóvsky íbase de compras en el centro. A pesar de que lo hacía casi todas las mañanas, los hermanos Bermúdez nunca dejaban de bromear en las despedidas.
-Tío Petaca- le gritaban, no olvide de traerme una paisanita, y prefiero rubia, ¿eh?… Tío Petaca…
Pero el aludido no se enojaba. Con una comisura de ironía y superioridad en los labios, contestaba: -Está boino, pero no olviden los noive San Antonios para San Pedro.
Y salía riéndose, mientras los mozos, remedándole, gritaban:
Cabayo bien, Tío Petarca…
A Jane Guitel, desde luego, no le agradaban estas bromas. Cada mañana las oía y cada noche se las reprochaba al marido, rogándole que se mudaran antes de evitar “tanta confianza”.
-Una cosa- protestaba la mujer- es el comercio y otra la amistad. No me gusta que tengas tanta confianza con ellos. ¿Acaso han fumado ustedes en la misma pipa?…
En realidad, lo que Jane Guitel concluía preguntando a su marido no era precisamente si había fumado en la misma pipa con sus socios, sino muy otra cosa. Pero, a qué repetirlo… Lo que molestaba a la mujer, sobre todo, era que los Bermúdez llamaron Tío Petaca a su marido. Desde que Elisa iba al colegio, doña Guillermina averiguaba por ella el significado de cualquier palabra. Y aunque la chiquilla solo cursaba el tercer grado, sabía ya expresarse correctamente en castellano, hasta el punto de no querer hablar el idish no con su propia madre.
Pasaron, no obstante, dos años más. Por fin, a principios de 1910, Jane Guitel pudo realizar su propuesto de abandonar la calle Caseros. Una vez en claro el balance definitivo, la sociedad Petacóvsky-Bermúdez quedó disuelta, sin que por ello los socios quebraban su amistad. Después de tres años, cada uno se retiraba con cerca de diez mil pesos. Los hermanos, con sus partes, decidieron reconstruir la vieja casa familiar y establecer en ella una carpintería mecánica. Mientras el típ Petacóvsky, qua a cambio de su parte de la maquinaria conservaba un resto de la antigua clientela boquense, instalábase en una cómoda casa de la calle Almirante Brown.
Sabido es: de cien judíos que llegan a juntar algunos miles de pesos, noventa y nueve gustan instalarse como verdaderos ricos. De ahí que el tío Petacóvsky, que no era la excepción, comprara piano a la pequeña Elisa, y con motivo del nacimiento de un hijo argentino, celebrara la circuncisión en una digna fiesta a la manera clásica. Era justo. Desde el asesinato de primogénito, en Rusia, el tío Petacóvsky esperaba tamaño acontecimiento.
Igual que Jane Guitle, él había soñado siempre un hijo varón que a su muerte dijera el Kádish de recuerdo, esa noble oración del huérfano judío, que el mismo Enrique Heine recordaba en su tumba de lana.
Nadie ha de cantarme musa
Nadie “kádish” me dirá
Sin cantos y sin plegarias
Mi aniversario fatal…
Pero dejemos la poesía y los poetas. No por tener kádish, [1]el tío Petacóvsky
echóse muerto. Al contrario, el feliz avenimiento en vísperas del centenario de 1819, le sugirió un negocio patriótico. Y con la misma fe y el mismo entusiasmo que el anterior, el tío Petacóvsky lo llevó a término. Tratábase en realidad del mismo negocio, Sólo que ahora en vea de estampas de santos, serían relatos de héroes, y en lugar de escenas shakesperianas, alegorías patrióticas.
Los hermanos Bermúdez, que seguián siendo sus amigos, lo informaron acerca de la historia patria, pero con un criterio de federales que el tío sospechó lleno de parcialidad. No era que él estuviese en contra de nadie, sino que le faltaban pruebas de la gloria de Rosas…
Como bien andariego, el tío Petacóvsky había aprendido su historia nacional en las calles de Buenos Aires. Así juzgaba como héroes de primera fila a todos que daban nombres a todos aquellos que daban nombres a las calles y las plazas principales. Y si bien este curioso entendimiento de aprender había sido ya metodizado por los pedagogistas, él, que allá en Rusia, fuera pedagogo en el original sentido de la palabra, lo ignoraba sabiamente. No por ignorar su denominación científica: visoaudmotor, (perdón), el metido dióle mejor resultado. Respeto de Sarmiento- verbigratia domine– que entonces prestaba su nombre glorioso a una humilde callejuela de la Boca, el tío Petacóvsky habíase formado un concepto pobrísimo. Y no de ser escritor -¿Qué judío no admira a un hombre que escribió libros?- había privado su colección de una figura tribunicia.
Por suerte, esta falla inefable método lo salvó de la corriente pedagógica. Al no dar tampoco, en lugar visible, en el monumento a Rivadavia, resolvió no guiarse por el sentido didáctico… y comprar ejemplos ilustrados de todos los patriotas. Aquellos que conocía y aquellos que no conocía. Y todo quedó resuelto.
[1] Por extension, los judíos llaman así a sus hijos varones.
Antes del primero de mayo- día señalado para inaugura su nuevo comercio, el tío Petacóvsky descargaba en su casa cerca de un millón de láminas entre estampas para cuadros, retratos, alegorías patrióticas, copias de monumentos y tarjetas postales. Varios viajantes se encargaron de las provincias y el tío Petacóvsky de la capital. Durante seis meses las cosas anduvieron a todo trapo. Mas, no obstante, esa actividad y las proporciones que alcanzaban las fiestas de centenario en toda la República, el negocio fracasó.
Cuando a fines de 1910- hechas las liquidaciones en el interior del país- realizó el recuento de la mercadería sobrante, aprendieron más de seiscientas mil cartulinas. En resumen: había perdido en una aventura de seis meses sus ganancias de cinco años.
Naturalmente, este primer fracaso enturbió el humor del tío Petacóvsky . Como en verdad no tenía pasta de comerciante, se sintió derrotado. Y si bien a los pocos meses ya soñaba otro negocio a propósito del Carnaval, sus parientes, entre burlas, negándole crédito para realizarse. ¿Quién no desconfía del hombre que fracasó una vez?
En esa desconfianza, más que en la pérdida de su dinero, sintió el tío Petacóvsky su desgracia. Para ayudarse, sin recurrir a nadie, mudóse a una casa más económica, vendió el piano y aplazó el ingreso de su hija en la Escuela Normal. Pero nada de esto fue remedio. Sólo una nueva desgracio- ¿vendrán por eso seguidas” – le cur del anterior. Fue nada menos que la muerte de Beile, la menor de las hijitas.
Este lamentable suceso hizo también olvidar a sus relaciones el fracaso del centenario. Por una parte, de sus parientes, y por otra los amigos, con esa solidaridad en el dolor tan característicos de los judíos, compitieron en ayudar al infeliz. Y otra vez gracias a ellos el tío Petacóvsky pudo volver a su oficio de corredor. Ahora ya no solo de cuadros, sino también de muebles, telas, joyas, pieles…
Durante cinco nuevos años, el tío Petacóvsky trabajó para rehacer su clientela. Canas costábale ya el maldito oficio, venido a menos por la competencia de las grandes tiendas y alza enorme los precios con motivo de la guerra.
Pero hasta mediar el año 1916 no pudo abandonarlo. Sólo entonces, una circunstancia lo sacó de él. El caso puede resumirse de esta manera:
El menor de los hermanos Bermúdez, Carlos, lo recomendó al gerente de una fábrica de cigarrillos, y éste adquiróle, como objetos de propaganda para el centenario para el centenario de la Independencia, el sobrante de estampas patrióticas.
Mil quinientos pesos recibió el tío Petacóvsky por sus láminas. Con ese dinero en el bolsillo sintióse optimista. En seguida liquidó su clientela- ya padecía el reumatismo- y se puso a la tarea de buscar un negocio en el centro. El quid era un comercio con puerta a la calle. Que los clientes lo fueron a buscar a él. No al revés, como hasta entonces. Ya le asqueaba hacer el marchante.
De nuevo burlándose los parientes de sus proyectos. Mientras uno, aludiendo a su afición por el mate, lo aconsejaban una plantación de yerba en Misiones, otros le sugerían una fábrica de mates…
Mas el tío Petachóvsky, contra el parecer de todos en general, y de Jane Guitel en particular, compró una pequeña librería cerca de Mercado de Abasto.
Con el nuevo negocio, la vida del tío Petacóvsky se transformó por completo. Ya no recorría la ciudad. Vestido a gusto, con amplio guardapolvo de brin, y tocado con oscuro solideo, pasábase las mañanas leyendo y mateando junto al mostrador, a espera de clientes. Elisa, su hija, que ya estaba hecha una simpática criollita de dieciocho años, le cebaba el amargo por intermedio de Daniel; mientras arreglaba la casa antes de que Jane Guitel volviera del mercado.
Después del almuerzo, el tío Petacóvsky hacía su siesta. A las cuatro ya estaba otra vez en su puesto y Elisa volvía a cebarle mate hasta la noche.
Ahora bien: de rendir la venta diaria un poco más dinero que el indispensable para el pan y la yerba, es posible que todos vivieran tranquilos. Pero como después de un año ilusiones, se vio que esto no acaecía, las disputas renovaron.
-De no querer tú – increpábale Jan Guitle- reformar el mundo y hacer que tantos israelitas hacen en Buenos Aires, estaríamos bien.
A lo que el hombre contestaba:
-Es que cuando a uno no le va, todo es inútil.
Y si Jane Guitel lo instaba a vender del tenducho, el reargüía con agrio humor:
-Seguro estoy que de meterme a fabricar mortajas, la gente dejaría de morirse. ¡Es lo mismo!
Tales discusiones reproduciéndose en el mismo tono, casi todos los días. Desde la muerte de su hijita, Jane Guitel estaba enferma y frecuentes crises de nervios le debilitaban. El tío Petacóvsky, al tanto de ella, trataba siempre de calmarla con alguna ocurrencia. Y si doña Guillermina, como la llamaba por broma en esas ocasiones, se resistía, él invocaba los aforismos de Scholem Aleijem, su escritor predilecto: “Reír es saludable, los médicos aconsejan reírse, o “Cuando tengas la olla vacía, llénala de risa”.
Pero lo cierto es que a pesar de Scholem Aleijem, el tío Petacóvsky se había contagiado de la tristeza de su mujer. Ya no era el alegre tío Petaca de la fábrica de cuadros. Nada le quedaba del entusiasmo y del humor de aquella época. Si aún reía, era para esconder sus lágrimas… Porque como él mismo decía: “Cuando los negocios van mal, se puede ser humorista, pero nunca profeta”. Y él ya no trataba en serio de nada.
Había ensayado, al reabrirse las escuelas, la compra y venta de libros viejos, con algún resultado. Pero al llegar las vacaciones- ya conocido como cambalachero- nadie entraba sino para vender libros usados.
En tanto los días pasaban monótonos, aburridos, iguales. El hombre, siembre con su amargo y los libros, y la mujer con su eterna loa del tiempo antiguo y su constante protesta contra el actual.
¡Dios mío! – se quejaba al marido- ¡lo que has llegado a ser en América: un cambalachero! – Y lloraba.
En vano, el tío Petacóvsky intentaba defender la condición intelectual de su oficio y fingir grandes esperanzas para la temporada próxima.
-Y verás- le decía- cuando empiezan las clases, cómo van a salir todos estos grandes sabios y poetas. Entonces hasta es probable que encuentre un comprador de todo el negocio, y me quedo solo con los textos de medicina para que más trade Daniel estudie de doctor.
La mujer no dejaba de mortificarlo. Menos soñadora que él, calculaba el porvenir de su hija. Y en momentos de amargura, los insultos estallaban en su boca: ¡Cambalachero!… ¡Cambalachero!… ¡Dios mío!, quién se casará con la hija de un cambalachero!…
Primero, un chisme en la familia la enteró de que Elisa era festejada por Carlos Bermúdez. No quiso creerlo. Luego, alguien que los vio juntos, le confirmó el chisme. Y vinieron las primeras sospechas. Por último, la misma chica instada por la sinceridad del padre, confesó sus relaciones con el ex-socio… Y aquí fue la ruina de Jerusalem… Jane Guitel puso el grito en el cielo. ¿Cómo una hija suya iba a casarse con un goi? ¿Podría olvidar, acaso, la ingrata, que un bisabuelo de ellos (Dios lo tenga en la gloria) fue gran rabino en Kishinev, y que todos sus parientes fueron santos y puros judíos? ¿Dónde había dejado la vergüenza esa muchacha?…
Y, en su desesperación, acusaba de todo, por milésima vez, a su marido y sus negocios.
Ahí tienes a tus grandes amigos de mate (¡Dios quiera envenenarlos!) Ahí están las consecuencias de tus negocios con ellos (¡Un rayo los fulmine!) Todo por culpa tuya…
Y, vencido por los nervios, se echaba a llorar como en Iom Kipur- el día del perdón.
A todo esto, el tío Petacóvsky, que a pesar del mate no había dejado de ser un buen judío, la calmaba, asegurándole que Dios mediante, el casamiento no llegaría realizarse.
Aunque por otras razones, él también era contrario al matrimonio de Elisa con Bermúdez. Sostenía al respeto a la antigua fórmula de nacionalistas: “No podemos dejar de ser judíos mientras los otros no dejen de ser cristianos…” y como en verdad ni él se creía un hombre libre, ni tenía por tal a Bermúdez, hacía lo posible por inculcar a Elisa su filosofía
Mira – le decía una tarde mientras la muchacha le cebaba mate – Si te
prohíbo el casamiento con Carlos, no es por capricho. Tú sabes cuánto lo aprecio. Pero ustedes son distintos: han nacidos en países opuestos, han recibido diversa educación, han rezado a distintos dioses, tienen desiguales recuerdos. En resumen: ni él ha dejado de ser cristiano, ni tu judía.
Otra vez agregaba:
-Es imposible. No se van a entender. En la primera pelea- y son
inevitables las primeras peleas- te juro que tú le gritarás cabeza de goi, y él, a manera de insulto, te llamará judía… Y puede que hasta se burle de cómo tu padre dice “noive”.
Mas, tan inútiles fueron las sinceras razones del tío Petacóvsky como los desmayos frecuentes de Jane Guitel. La muchacha, ganada por amor, huyó a los pocos meses con su novio a Rosario.
La fuga de Elisa acabó por romper los nervios de la madre. Dos semanas se pasó llorando, casi sin probar alimento. Nada ni nadie pudo tranquilizarla. Al fin, por consejo médico, tuvieron que internarla en el San Roque donde al poco tiempo moría, acrecentando el escándalo que la escapada produjo en la colectividad.
Con la muerte de Jane Guitel, la muchacha volvió al hogar. Y tras de ella vino Bermúdez. Como si los dos fueran los causantes directos de esa muerte, lloraron lágrimas amargas sobre la tumba de la pobre mujer
El mismo Bermúdez, antes tan inflexible, renunciaba a Elisa y consentía que ella se quedara del hermanito. Pero el tío Petacóvsky tuvo la honradez de perdonarlos y autorizar el casamiento a condición de que vivieran felices y para siempre en Rosario.
Después de hacerles notar a qué precio habían conseguido la unión, el tío Petacóvsky, contra el parecer de todos, resolvió seguir en su cambalache solo con su Daniel.
-Yo mismo – dijo, me encargaré de hacerlo hombre. Pierdan cuidado, no nos moriremos de hambre.
Y no hubo manera de disuadirlo.
Abandonado durante tantos meses, el negocio se había convertido del todo en un boliche de viejo, sin otra mercadería que libros y folletos españoles que se ven en todos los cambalaches. Pero Jane Guitel ya no podía manifestar escrúpulos, y Elisa estaba casada y lejos, el tío Petacóvsky se dedicó de lleno a sus librotes, dispuesto a ganarse el pan para su hijo. Ya no vivía sino por él y para él. Todas las mañanas se levantaba temprano y después de preparar el mate, despertaba a Daniel. Ambos desayunábanse y en seguida iban a la sinagoga, donde el chico decía kádish en memoria de la madre. A las ocho, ya estaban las dos en la acera de la escuela, mientras Daniel entraba a su clase, el tío Petacóvsky se volvió a abrir el boliche, que ya no cerraba hasta la noche. Y así lograron mantenerse durante seis largos meses.
Cuando las vacaciones escolares el mismo tenducho dejó de producir para las reducidas necesidades de la casa, el tío Petacvsky reunió uno cuantos muchachos judíos para enseñarles el hebreo. De esa manera, con la vuelta a su primitivo oficio, afrontó la penosa situación. Y a cualquier otro sacrificio estaba dispuesto, con tal de ver algún día hecho hombre a su Daniel.
Corrían los primeros días del año 1919. Una gran huelga de metalúrgicos habíase generalizado en Buenos Aires y las noticias más inverosímiles acerca de una revolución maximalista, propagándose de un extremo a otro de la ciudad. De la ciudad. La tarde del 10 se enero, el tío Petacóvsky estaba como siempre, sentado junto a sus libros, tomando mate. Había despachado a los chicos temprano, por se víspera de sábado, y porque en el barrio reinaba cierta intranquilidad.
La calle Corrientes, tan concurrida siempre, ofrecía un aspecto extraño, debido a la interrupción del tráfico y a la presencia de gendarmes armados a máuser.
A eso de las ocho y media, un grupo de jóvenes bien vestidos hizo interrupción en la acera del boliche, vitoreando a la patria. Atraído por los gritos, el tío Petacóvsky, que seguía tomando mate, asomó la cara detrás de la vidriera, todo temeroso, porque, hacia un momento, Daniel había salido a decir su kádish.
Uno del grupo, que divisó el rostro amedrentado del tío Petacóvsky , llamó la atención de todos sobre el boliche, los mozos detuvironse frente a; escaparate.
-¡Libros maximalistas! – señaló a gritos el más próximo. ¡Libros maximalistas!
Ahí está el ruso detrás – objetó otro.
-¡Qué hipocrata, con mate, para despistar!…
Y un tercero:
-Pero le vamos a dar libros de “chivos”…
Y, adelantándose, disparó su revolver contra las barbas de un Tolstoi que aparecía en la cubierta de un volumen rojo. Los acompañantes, espoleados por el ejemplo, lo imitaron. En un momento cayeron, todos los libros de autores barbudos que había en el escaparate. Y en verdad, la puntera de los jóvenes habría sido cómico, de no faltar una vez y costarle con eso la vida del tío Petacóvsky.
Ahora el buen hombre debe hallarse en el cielo, junto a los santos, héroes y artistas que por su industria hicieron soñar a tanta gente en Buenos Aires. Y es cierto que la divina justicia es menos lenta y más segura que la humana, ella de concederle, como a los elegidos, una gracia a su elección. Entonces. Buen seguro, como aquel Bonchi calla de I. L, Peretz (poetizado en el idioma de Maupassant en Bonchi el silencieux– que en circunstancias idénticas pidiera a los ángeles pan con manteca- el tío Petacóvsky les ha de pedirles mate amargo para la eternidad.
__________________________________________________________________________________
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“BITTER MATE”
for Leopoldo Lugones
The murder of his first-born in the Kishinev pogrom and the ab-
normal birth of his second child, caused by the excitement which
the mother sóóuffered then, were good enough reasons for Abraham
Petacovsky’s deciding to emigrate and to give up his position as melamed
[Hebrew teacher]. At first, he thought of going to the United States. But once
in Hamburg he found himself obliged, for diplomatic reasons, as he afterwards
jested, to change his plans As a result, in November, 1905, he arrived
at Buenos Aires with his wife and their two babies.
Abraham Petacovsky was a friendly little Jew, with an air of in
intelligence and sweetness. His small clear eyes made his face, lengthened
by a black and irregular beard, seem deathly pale typically Jewish, his
nose seemed to precipitate itself down toward his mouth with its thick,
ironic lips. Although he was only about thirty, his appearance was that
of an old man. It was due to this that his relatives in Buenos Aires called
him Uncle Petacovsky, despite the protests of Jane Guitcl, his wife. She
was a faithful woman, as devoted as she was ugly, but with much pride.
Although she had passed many trying years with Uncle Petacovsky, she
would continually refer to the “good old times in our Russia.” Not quite
twenty-seven, she was already resigned to Fate, and rested all her hopes
on the two children who had lived through the horrors of the pogrom.
They were Elisa, seven, and Beile, one.
Uncle Petacovsky never regretted his choice of Argentine. Buenos
Aires, the city about which he had heard varying reports on the boat,
turned out to be much to his liking.
Waiting for him in the old Immigrants’ Hotel were two of his wife’s
relatives, and some friends. With the help of these people, to whom he
was already indebted for some of the passage money, he succeeded in
finding a place in which to live. It was a room, sublet to a Creole family,
and was in the old suburb of Los Carrales. To live there Uncle
Petacovsky, as well as his wife, had to set aside certain religious scruples
and make up their minds to live with goyim.
Jane Guitel, of course, offered a little resistance.
“My God,” she cried, “how can I possibly cook my gefilte fish right
next to the Christian woman’s pork stew?”
But when she saw the wooden cooking pantry perched in the front
of the room like a sentry-box near a jail, she finally yielded. The owners
of the apartment made every effort to help the newcomers and showed
great respect for the strange Jewish customs. The new arrivals soon felt
at home.
Even as the Creoles were politely curious about the strange way the
Russian woman salted her meat out-of-doors and about Uncle Petacovsky’s
habit of keeping the Sabbath, so did the immigrants reveal a similar
curiosity about the ways of their Argentine neighbors. After a few days
they understood each other by gestures. Jane Guitel was renamed Dona
Guillermina. As for Uncle Petacovsky, he learned to take mate [Argen-
tine herb used for making tea] without sugar and drink it with the
sons of the landlady, two good, industrious Argentine boys. Although
like a real gringo he thanked them after each cup of mate, he never
stopped drinking until after the seventh cup, for he found that mate
without sugar had the same medicinal virtues which his wife attributed
to tea with lemon.
Next to bitter mate, the discovery which gave Uncle Petacovsky the
greatest pleasure was the Creole sandals [alpargatas]. From the very first
morning he went out to sell pictures he found them invaluable.
“Without them,” he would say, “I never would have been able to go
on with that accursed peddling,” a business so characteristic of the
wandering Jew, which his relatives had given him.
The use of alpargatas and bitter mate were the first signs of the
adaptation of Uncle Petacovsky to Argentine life. Definite proof of this
was shown two months later when he went to see the funeral of General
Mitre. That imposing manifestation of popular sorrow moved him to
tears. For many years he recalled the event as the highest expression of
an anguished multitude at the death of a patriarch. As a pious Israelite,
Uncle Petacovsky knew about great men and great mournings.
We have already said that the good man began his life as a resident
of Buenos Aires by hawking pictures through the streets. But we do not
know if the reader, because he may once have seen a man of Talmudic
appearance sandwiched between two pairs of religious engravings, has
realized we were referring to religious pictures. This, besides being quaint,
is important and has its history.
Selling prints of saints was in 1906 a business but lately initiated by
the Jews of Buenos Aires. Until then the Israelites who did not go to
work on the farming colonies of Entre Rios or Santa Fe devoted them-
selves to selling on the instalment plan: furniture, jewelry, furs, and so on,
— everything except pictures. Uncle Petacovsky was perhaps the very
first to sell engravings on the instalment plan. And he was in his way an
efficient salesman.
Possessed of an inborn ecclesiastical sense. Uncle Petacovsky knew just
how to hawk his pictures. In his strange Judeo-Creole speech he found a
way to praise in a few words every one of his pictures. Some for the deh-
cate blue of the Virgin’s eyes, others for the downcast mien of an apostle.
Each was recommended for its most impressive characteristic. No one
could explain the virtues of Saint John the Evangelist better than Uncle
Petacovsky. Sometimes, forgetful, he would confuse a Saint Joseph with a
San Antonio. But never did he fail to point out some aspect of color, some
pathetic touch, which could move a Maria to tears.
He often lamented his limited vocabulary. He was constantly forced
to resort to pantomime, to use his hands, his face, and his shoulders, all at
one and the same time. Yet he never failed to make a sale because some-
one had not understood him or because he wrote out receipts for a
Joseph or a Magdalena in Hebrew letters. He failed because of the lack religion among the people.
Despite his work, he, who was so religious and said his daily prayers
and kept the Sabbath, could not understand why with so many churches
in Buenos Aires there were so few believers. With this in mind, he
searched through the whole city and found that it was in La Boca that
the greatest number of the faithful congregated. He tried to form his
clients from among them and, to tell the truth, his business improved.
After working for a year near Riachuelo, where he went out to sell
his pictures almost every day except Saturday and Sunday, Uncle Peta-
covsky acquired a steady clientele. He could devote his time to collecting
and delivering pictures which people ordered directly from him. It was
then that he settled his debts with his relatives and rented another room
in the same house on Caseros Street. He conceived the plan of a business
to be carried on with the sons of his landlady. This consisted of manufac-
turing the frames for the pictures which Uncle Petacovsky sold.
Thanks to Uncle Petacovsky ’s enterprising spirit, the plan proved a
success. The two Creole boys, who had only been workers in an electri-
cal wood-working shop, found themselves suddenly transformed into
petty industrialists. In the meantime, Uncle Petacovsky stopped peddling
in order to take charge of the shop.
In his name, or rather, m the name of the Petacovsky-Bermudez
“Without them,” he would say, “I never would have been able to go
on with that accursed peddling,” a business so characteristic of the
wandering Jew, which his relatives had given him.
The use of alpargatas and bitter mate were the first signs of the
adaptation of Uncle Petacovsky to Argentine life. Definite proof of this
was shown two months later when he went to see the funeral of General
Mitre. That imposing manifestation of popular sorrow moved him to
tears. For many years he recalled the event as the highest expression of
an anguished multitude at the death of a patriarch. As a pious Israelite,
Uncle Petacovsky knew about great men and great mournings.
We have already said that the good man began his life as a resident
of Buenos Aires by hawking pictures through the streets. But we do not
know if the reader, because he may once have seen a man of Talmudic
appearance sandwiched between two pairs of religious engravings, has
realized we were referring to religious pictures. This, besides being quaint,
is important and has its history.
Selling prints of saints was in 1906 a business but lately initiated by
the Jews of Buenos Aires. Until then the Israelites who did not go to
work on the farming colonies of Entre Rios or Santa Fe devoted them-
selves to selling on the installment plan: furniture, jewelry, furs, and so on,
— everything except pictures. Uncle Petacovsky was perhaps the very
first to sell engravings on the installment plan. And he was in his way an
efficient salesman.
Possessed of an inborn ecclesiastic sense. Uncle Petacovsky knew just
how to boost his pictures. In his strange Judeo-Creole speech he found a
way to praise in a few words every one of his pictures. Some for the deli-
cate blue of the Virgin’s eyes, others for the downcast mien of an apostle.
Each was recommended for its most impressive characteristic. No one
could explain the virtues of Saint John the Evangelist better than Uncle
Petacovsky. Sometimes, forgetful, he would confuse a Saint Joseph with a
San Antonio. But never did he fail to point out some aspect of color, some
pathetic touch, which could move a Maria to tears.
Despite his work, he, who was so religious and said his daily prayers
and kept the Sabbath, could not understand why with so many churches
in Buenos Aires there were so few believers. With this in mind, he
searched through the whole city and found that it was in La Boca that
the greatest number of the faithful congregated. He tried to form his
clients from among them and, to tell the truth, his business improved.
After working for a year near Riachuelo, where he went out to sell
his pictures almost every day except Saturday and Sunday, Uncle Peta-
covsky acquired a steady clientele. He could devote his time to collecting
and delivering pictures which people ordered directly from him. It was
then that he settled his debts with his relatives and rented another room
in the same house on Caseros Street. He conceived the plan of a business
to be carried on with the sons of his landlady. This consisted of manufacturing
the frames for the pictures which Uncle Petacovsky sold.
Thanks to Uncle Petacovsky ’s enterprising spirit, the plan proved a
success. The two Creole boys, who had only been workers in an electri-
cal wood-working shop, found themselves suddenly transformed into
petty industrialists. In the meantime Uncle Petacovsky stopped peddling
in order to take charge of the shop.
In his name, or rather, in the name of the Petacovsky-Bermudez
Company, worked various Jewish peddlers. Many others bought pictures
from the company, and went out to sell them throughout the Republic.
The Bermudez brothers worked with Uncle Petacovsky for nearly
three years. Since from the start they had liked the work, they labored
happily without setting any definite hours for themselves. At six in the
morning the three would be at the factory and they would breakfast on
“amargos” and “galleta” [onions and biscuits]. Then, while the boys
prepared the orders. Uncle Petacovsky, who learned how to scribble in
Castihan, would make out the bills and note the number of engravings
it was necessary to buy at the dealer’s.
In addion to selling evangelical pictures, they added, through the
initiative of Uncle Petacovsky, seascapes, landscapes, still-lifes, and a great
number of scenes from the Shakespearean theatre, Othello, Hamlet,
Romeo and Juliet. At eight o’clock when Dona Guillermina (or Jane
Guitel) sent Elisa to school. Uncle Petacovsky went shopping in the art
market. He did this almost every morning, yet the Bermudez brothers
never failed to make some parting wtsecrack when he left.
“Tio Petaca,” they would yell, “don’t forget to bring me a nice little
peasant girl.” “Tio Petaca, I like a blonde one. What do you say, Tio
Petaca?”
But he never got angry. With a blend of irony and condescension, he
would answer, “All right, but don’t forget the nine San Antonios for San
Pedro.” And he would depart laughing, while the boys would mock him,
“Have a good time, Tio Petaca.”
From the beginning, Jane Guitel did not like these jests. She heard
them every morning, and every night she reproached her husband for
permitting them. She begged him to put a stop to them at once, so as to
avoid “so much intimacy.”
“Business is one thing,” his wife would protest, “friendship is another.
I don’t hke you to place so much confidence in them. Have you, by any
chance, smoked the same pipe together?”
In reality, what Jane Guitel was inferring when she asked her hus-
band this question was not exactly whether he had smoked the same pi pe,
but quite another thing. But why go over that? What above all ^Isc
bothered the woman was that the Bermudez brothers kept calling her
husband “Tio Petaca.” Since Elisa had started going to school. Dona
Guillermina had been finding out through her the meaning of every
strange word. Although the girl was only in the third grade, she could
speak Spanish correctly. She even went so far as to want to speak Spanish
with her own mother.
Two more years passed. At last, at the beginning of 1910, Jane Guitel
could realize her wish of moving away from Caseros Street. Once the
decision was made, the firm of Petacovsky-Bermudez split up without the
partners breaking off their friendship. After three years’ work, each re-
tired with nearly 10,000 pesos. The Bermudez brothers decided to rebuild
the old family house with their share and to establish a woodworking
shop there. As for Uncle Petacovsky, he kept what remained of the old
clientele of La Boca as his share of the business.
It is well-known that ninety-nine out of one hundred Jews who man-
age to get together some thousand pesos like to show off their riches and
live like really wealthy people. Uncle Petacovsky, no exception to this rule,
furnished his house lavishly and bought a piano for little Elisa. When an
Argentine son was born to him, he held a big feast in classic style on the
day of the circumcision. It was no more than right. Ever since the murder
of his first-born in Russia, Uncle Petacovsky had been looking forward
to such an event. Like Jane Guitel, he had always dreamed of a male
child who at his death would say the Kaddish of recall, the mourner’s
prayer … the Kaddish, that noble prayer of the Jewish orphan, which
Heinrich Heine himself remembered on his wool-draped deathbed:
“No one will sing mass for me;
No one will say Kaddish for me,
Nor celebrate with songs and prayers.
My death anniversary.”
But enough of poetry and poets. Now that he did have a a Kaddish (by
extension the Jews thus call a male child). Uncle Petacovsky did not die.
Quite otherwise. The celebration of the unknown Argentine soldier on
the eve of the centenary of 1810 suggested a patriotic enterprise to him.
And with the same faith and enthusiasm as of old. Uncle Petacovsky car-
ried out his idea. It was really the same old business. But now, instead of
saints’ pictures, there would be pictures of heroes, and, in place of Shakes-
pearean scenes, patriotic allegories.
The Bermudez brothers, who were still his friends, told him the
history of their country, but with the stress placed so on the side of the
Federalists that Uncle Petacovsky suspected that their information was
biased and one-sided. It wasn’t that he was against anybody, but that
proof of the glory of Rosas (Argentine dictator) was lacking.
Good peddler that he was, Uncle Petacovsky had learned his national
history in the streets of Buenos Aires. Thus he judged as heroes of the
first order, all those whose names adorned the principal squares and
streets. This curious way of learning history had already been used by
the pedagogue, although he who had been a teacher in the true sense
of the word back in Russia was not unaware of it.
But even though he did not know the scientific term for this ap-
proach — visioaudiomotor — the method gave him the best results. As for
Sarmiento (verbi gratia domine) — who at that time had an alley of La
Boca named after him. Uncle Petacovsky had formed a very low opinion
of him. If he had not known that he was an author,— and what Jew
ever failed to admire a man who writes books? — he would have left out
of his collection a truly great figure.
This exception to his hitherto unchallengeable system saved him from
the “pedagogic” method. When he did not come in contact with a
patriot in a visible place, he resolved not to allow himself to be guided
by the empirical method. He bought illustrated samples of all the patriots,
those he knew as well as those he did not know, and thus solved his
problem.
A few days before May 1st, the day chosen to start his new business.
Uncle Petacovsky had nearly a million engravings of all kinds. The sale
began promptly. Various peddlers took charge of the provinces and
Uncle Petacovsky of the capital. For six months things went at full blast.
But despite the great hustle and the centennial celebrations throughout
the Republic, the enterprise proved a failure.
Toward the end of the season, an inventory was made of the goods sold
in the interior of the country, and of the merchandise left over. Six hun-
dred thousand pictures remained. In his six months’ venture he had lost
his earnings of five years.
This first failure naturally disturbed the good nature of Uncle Peta-
covsky. As he lacked the nature of a businessman, he felt upset. And
even though a few months later he thought of some business which
would take advantage of Carnival time, his relatives, mocking him, re-
fused to give him credit Who trusts a man who has once failed?
Uncle Petacovsky suffered more from this lack of confidence than
from the loss of his money. He moved to cheaper quarters, sold his
piano, and put off registering his child in Normal School But none of
these things helped, as a new misfortune (how many more, O Lord?)
made him forget the previous one. It was nothing less than the death
of Beile, the younger of his two daughters.
This sad event made his relatives forget his failure in the centenary.
On the one hand, his relatives, and, on the other, his friends, with that
solidarity in mourning so characteristic of the Jew, comneted in helping
the unfortunate man. And thanks to them, once again he was able to
become a peddler. Now he sold not only pictures, but also furnishings,
clothes, jewelry and furs.
For five years Uncle Petacovsky worked to regain his clientele. His
accursed business gave him grey house. Indeed, what with the compete
tion of the big stores and the great rise in prices because of the war it
all came to nothing. But until the middle of 1916 he could not leave it.
Then only a happy circomstance took him out of it. The event can be
summed up in the following way:
The younger of the Bermudez brothers, Charles, recommended him
to the manager of a cigarette factory, and this man bought from him,
as propaganda for the Independence centenary, the patriotic pictures that
he still had left.
Uncle Petacovsky got 1500 pesos for his pictures. With this money in
his pocket he felt more cheerful. Promptly he gave up his clientele, as
he now suffered from rheumatism. He set to work looking for a store
he could open in the heart of the city. He did not care whether it was
a cigar store or some other kind of tiny shop. What he wanted was a
store with a door on the ma street. Let the customers look for him.
Not the other way round, as had hitherto been the case. He was sick and
tired of peddling.
Again his relatives laughed at his plans. While some, alluding to his
fondness for mate advised him to buy a mate plantation, others advised
him to open a mate factory. But Uncle Petacovsky, against the advice of
the world in general and of Jane Guitel in particular, bought a tiny
bookstore near the food market.
The new business completely changed the life of Uncle Petacovsky.
He no longer made the rounds of the city. Dressing as he pleased, in a
thick sail-cloth dust-cloak and a small, silk skull cap, he would spend
the mornings reading and drinking mate near the counter, while wait-
ing for customers. His daughter, Elisa, who by now had become like a
friendly little Creole of eighteen years, would prepare the bitter drink
and send it to him by her brother Daniel while she tidied up the house
before Jane Guitel returned from the market.
After his lunch. Uncle Petacovsky would take his siesta. At four
o’clock he would be at his post again, and Elisa would again prepare
mate for him to last until night.
Now, if the daily sales had provided a little more than the money
necessary for bread and yerba mate, it is probable that they would all
have lived happily ever after. But since, after a year of vain dreams, it
was clear that this was not happening, the quarrels at home started,
again.
“If you didn’t want to reform the world, but did what so many Jews
in Buenos Aires are doing, we’d be ail right,’’ Jane Guitel would scold.
To which he would answer:
“It’s simply that when I’m not fit for a thing, it’s no use ’’
And if Jane Guitcl pressed him to sell the store, he would retort
with bitter sarcasm:
“1 am sure that if I set out to manufacture shrouds, people would
stop dying. It’s the same thing.”
Such arguments were almost daily repeated in the same tone. Since
the death of her little girl, Jane Gmtel had been sick, and frequent ner-
vous attacks weakened her. Aware of this Uncle Petacovsky would try
to calm her by telling her of some event of the day. And if Dona Gml-
lermina, as he would jokingly call her on these occasions, resisted, he in-
voked the aphorisms of Sholem Alechem, his favorite author;
“Laughter is healthful; doctors advise people to laugh.” Or “When
the pot IS empty, fill it with laughter.”
The truth was, despite his Sholem Aleichem, Uncle Petacovsky had
become infected with the melancholy of his wife. He was no longer the
jovial “Tio Petaca” of his picture-frame factory. None of the enthusiasm
and good humor of that period remained with him. If he still laughed,
it was only to hide his tears. For as he himself said:
“When business is bad, one can be a humorist, but never a prophet.”
And he certainly did not try to be a humorist.
When school reopened he tried, with some success, to buy and sell
old books. But when vacation came, because he was already known as
a second-hand dealer, no one entered except to sell used books. In the
meantime, the long days, all alike, passed by tediously. The man, always
with his bitter mate; the woman with her incessant harping on the good
old times and constant protest against the present.
“My God,” she would complain to her husband, “see what you’ve
made of yourself in America, a second-hand dealer.” And she would cry.
In vain did Uncle Petacovsky try to defend the intellectual aspect
of his work and promise great results for the following season.
“You’ll see,” he would say to her, “as soon as classes begin, all these
great wise men and poets hidden in my books will leave the store. Why,
it’s even possible that by then I’ll find a buyer for the whole business
and I’ll keep only the medical books so that later on Daniel may study
to be a doctor.”
The woman never stopped nagging. By no means the dreamer that
he was, she was looking forward to the future of her daughter. In her
bitter moments, insults were always on her tongue.
“Second-hand man! My God, who will want to marry the daughter
of a second-hand dealer!” Jane Guitel found out who wanted to marry
her daughter much before she expected. Gossip had it that Elisa was
being courted by Carlos Bermudez. She would not believe it. Then some-
one who had seen them together confirmed the malicious rumors. Her
suspicion was aroused. At last, prevailed upon by her father, the girl
confessed her intimacy with his ex-partner. There was the deuce to pay.
Jane Guitel shrieked to high heaven. Her daughter to marry a goy! Was
It possible that the ungrateful wretch had forgotten that her great-grand-
father (may he rest in peace) was the chief rabbi of Kishinev, and that
all her relatives were pure and holy Jews? Where was the girl’s modesty?
In her despair she blamed her husband’s business for the thousandth
ume.
“So that’s what comes of your great tea-drinking friends! (Would
that God had poisoned them!) Here’s the result of your dealings with
them’ (If only a streak of lightning would blast them’) It’s all your
fault.”
And, overcome by her excitement, she began to cry as if it were the
Day of Atonement.
Uncle Petacovsky, who despite his mate had not stopped being a
good Jew, tried to calm her, assuring her that with God’s grace the mar-
riage would never take place.
He was against the marriage for other reasons. He respected the an-
cient code of the nationalist Jews: “We cannot cease being Jews while
others do not cease being Christians.” And, in truth, since he believed
that neither he nor Bermudez could be said to have free will, he did
everything in his power to inculcate Elisa with his philosophy.
“Look,” he said to her one night, while the girl was making mate,
“if I forbid you to marry Carlos, it is not a whim. You know how much
I respect him. But you are different; you were born in different coun-
tries; you have been brought up in different ways. You have prayed to
different Gods and you have different histones. Above all, he is still a
Chnstian and you are still a Jew.”
At another time he said:
“It is impossible. You won’t get along. In your first arguments, and
first arguments are inevitable, I can swear you will yell at him, ‘You
goyishc kopf’ (Genule head) and by way of insult he will call you a
‘lousy Jew.’ And he might even make fun of how your father says: novo, “
“neuve.”
The honest logic of Uncle Pctacovsky was as futile as the frequent
fainting spells of Jane Guitel. A few months later, the girl, deeply in
love, eloped with her sweetheart to Rosario.
Elisa’s elopement gave her mother a nervous breakdown. She cried
for two weeks, hardly taking a bit of food. Nothing could pacify her.
At last, under doctor’s orders, she was sent to “San Roque,” where she
died shortly afterward, aggravating the scandal made in the community
by the escapade.
The death of Jane Guitel brought the girl home. With her came
Bermudez. The couple acted as if they had been the direct cause of
her death and they wept bitter tears over the grave of the poor woman.
Bermudez himself, who before had been so inflexible, now renounced
Elisa and consented to her remaimng behind to take care of the little
boy. But Uncle Pctacovsky was honorable enough to forgive them and
to sanction the marriage on condition that they live together happily and
forever in Rosario.
After making them realize at what a price they had married. Uncle
Petacovsky, against everybody’s judgment, determined to go on with his
second-hand book store with his son Daniel.
“I alone,” he said, “will see to it that Daniel becomes a man. Don’t
worry. We won’t die of hunger.” And there was no way to make him
change his mind.
Neglected for so many months, his was now a run-down shop with
little merchandise except for such Spanish books and pamphlets as are
to be found in all second-hand book stores. Now that Jane Guitel could
no longer reproach him, and Elisa was married and far away. Uncle
Petacovsky gave himself over whole-heartedly to his books, determined in
this way to provide for his son. Now he lived wholly for his son’s sake.
He rose early every morning and, after preparing the mate, he woke
Daniel. After breakfast they went to the synagogue, where the son said
Kaddtsh in memory of his mother. At eight o’clock both would be out-
side the school and while Daniel went to his class Uncle Petacovsky went
to open the shop, which he now kept open until nightfall.
In this way they lived through six long months.
When vacation came, the miserable little store failed to produce
enough for the small necessities of the house; so Uncle Pctacovsky
brought together several Jewish boys to teach them Hebrew. Thus, re-
turning to his first profession, he faced his difficult situation. And he
was prepared for any other sacrifices in the hope of seeing Daniel a
grown-up man some day.
Unfortunately, Uncle Petacovsky was not going to realize even this
dream. We snail soon see why.
The first few days of 1919 went by. A great strike of metal mine
workers had broken out in Buenos Aires and the most incredible report
of a communist uprising was spread from one end of the city to the
other. On the afternoon of January l0th, Uncle Petacovsky was seated
as usual near his books, sipping mate. He had sent the boys home a
little earlier because it was the Sabbath eve and because there was a cer-
tain restlessness in the neighborhood. Corrientes Street, usually crowded,
now looked strange on account of the halt in traffic and the presence
of policemen bearing rifles.
About five-thirty o’clock a group of well-dressed young men started
shouting outside the shop — “Hurrahs for the republic.” Attracted by the
shouts. Uncle Petacovsky who kept on sipping his mat, looked out the
window, fearful, because only just a moment ago Daniel had left to say
Kaddish.
One of the mob, seeing Uncle Petacovsky’s frightened face, called
the attention of the others to the shop, and the youths came in and
stopped before the counter.
“Marxist books’” the nearest one shouted. “Marxist books’”
“There’s the Russian over there!” put in another.
“What a hypocrite, trying to fool us with his mate!”
And a third. “We’ll teach him to carry books with goat-like men on the covers!”
And stepping forward, he aimed his revolver at the beard of Tolstoy,
whose picture was on the cover of a red volume. His comrades, spurred
on by his example, imitated him. In an instant, amidst laughter, all the
books of bearded authors in the show case tumbled down. And, to tell
the truth, the sport of the youths would have been great fun, had not
one shot gone wrong and cost Uncle Petacovsky his life.
Now the good old man must be in Heaven together with the saints,
heroes, and artists who, through his industry, inspired so many people.
And if it be true that divine justice is less slow and more sure than
human justice, it must certainly have granted him that which he craved
most as he entered Heaven, just as the chosen ones have always been
favored. Then surely, even as Perez’ Bontche Shweig, who in identical
circumstances had asked the angels for bread and butter, — so Uncle Peta-
covsky was entitled to ask for mate amargo forever.
Translation by Stephen A. Sadow
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