Thea Segall (Rumania, 1929 โ Caracas, 2009) fue fotรณgrafa y editora de libros. Se inicia en la prรกctica fotogrรกfica a la edad de 19 aรฑos como reportera grรกfica de la Agencia Internacional de Noticiasย AgerPres, en Bucarest (1949-1957). Llega a Venezuela en 1958, con una solida formaciรณn fotogrรกfica que le permite abordar varios gรฉneros fotogrรกficos desde elย Studio Thea: fotos carnรฉ, primeras comuniones, retratos, eventos familiares, ceremonias de la comunidad judรญa, fotografรญa cientรญfica en el Instituto Venezolano de Investigaciones Cientรญficas (1964โ1970), registros de temas corporativos, actividades mineras, petroquรญmicas e hidroelรฉctricas para las industrias bรกsicas del Estado, al sur del territorio venezolano (1980-2007) y representaciones de contenido etnogrรกfico que forma parte y definen su discurso autoral. Particularmente, Segall se detiene en procesos artesanales de elaboraciรณn de alimentos (arepa y casabe), medios de transporte (curiara y carpinterรญa de ribera), instrumentos musicales (tambor), proceso de hilado, cesterรญa, alfarerรญa, en รกreas rurales de los Andes y en Barlovento (afro-venezuela). Representa tambiรฉn la arquitectura y los trabajos manuales que realizan las mujeres en comunidades indรญgenas (yekuana, yanomami, piaroa y wayรบu). Vertebra sus registros fotogrรกficos en secuencia que poseen un inicio, se desarrollan y finalizan, apuntando a una representaciรณn temporal con cualidades de narraciรณn visual. Organiza cuerpos de trabajo afines al gรฉnero fotolibro que denominรณ โfotosecuenciasโ en la trilogรญa:ย El casabe,ย La curiaraย yย El tamborย (1988). Como editora Segall publicรณ, ademรกs, veinte libros con diferentes tรณpicos. Sus fotografรญas ilustran textos antropolรณgicos, entre ellosย Religions et magies indiennes dโAmรฉrique du Sudย de Alfred Metreaux (Bibliotรจque des Sciences Humaines, Parรญs, 1967) yย Los waraoย de Marรญa Matilde Suรฉrez (IVIC, 1968), entre otros. Bajo su propio sello editorial, โImagen y Huellaโ, imprime compendios sobre la vida y obra de cientรญficos y humanistas venezolanos (1981-1988). Su sรณlida trayectoria no sรณlo se refleja en temas etnogrรกficos, sino tambiรฉn en una amplia documentaciรณn corporativa y en el registro de fotografรญas para pasaportes, retratos o conmemoraciones. Su vastรญsima obra estรก recopilada en el libroย Luz de Venezuelaย (1978).
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Thea Segall (Romania, 1929 โ Caracas, 2009) was a photographer and book editor. She began her photography practice at the age of 19 as a photojournalist for the International News Agency AgerPres, in Bucharest (1949-1957). She arrived in Venezuela in 1958, with a solid photographic training that allowed him to approach various photographic genres from the Thea Studio: passport photos, first communions, portraits, family events, ceremonies of the Jewish community, scientific photography at the Venezuelan Institute of Scientific Research ( 1964โ1970), records of corporate issues, mining, petrochemical and hydroelectric activities for the basic industries of the State, in the south of Venezuelan territory (1980-2007) and representations of ethnographic content that are part of and define his authorial discourse. Particularly, Segall focuses on artisanal processes of food preparation (arepa and casabe), means of transportation (curiara and riverside carpentry), musical instruments (drum), spinning process, basket weaving, pottery, in rural areas of the Andes and in Barlovento (Afro-venezuela). It also represents the architecture and manual work carried out by women in indigenous communities (Yekuana, Yanomami, Piaroa and Wayรบu). She structures his photographic records in sequence that have a beginning, develop and end, pointing to a temporal representation with qualities of visual narration. He organizes bodies of work related to the photo book genre that he called โphotosequencesโ in the trilogy: El casabe, La curiara and El tumba (1988). As editor, Segall also published twenty books with different topics. His photographs illustrate anthropological texts, including Religions et magies indiennes dโAmรฉrique du Sud by Alfred Metreaux (Bibliotรจque des Sciences Humaines, Paris, 1967) and Los warao by Marรญa Matilde Suรฉrez (IVIC, 1968), among others. Under his own publishing imprint, โImagen y Huellaโ, he prints compendiums on the life and work of Venezuelan scientists and humanists (1981-1988). His solid career is not only reflected in ethnographic themes, but also in extensive corporate documentation and in the registration of photographs for passports, portraits or commemorations. His vast work is compiled in the book Luz de Venezuela (1978).
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Exposiciรณn de fotos de las sinagogas de Venezuela/Exhibition of Photos of the Synagogues of Venezuela
Stephen A. Sadow es profesor emรฉrito de literatura latinoamericana y estudios judรญos en la Universidad Northeastern de Boston. Se especializa en literatura y arte judรญo-latinoamericano. Entre los libros de Sadow se encuentran King David’s Harp: Autobiographical Essays by Jewish Latin American Writers, ganador de un Premio Nacional del Libro Judรญo, y sus traducciones de Mestizo, A Novel by Ricardo Feierstein, Unbroken: From Auschwitz to Buenos Aires, la autobiografรญa del sobreviviente del Holocausto Charles Papiernik y Filosofรญa y otras fรกbulas, ensayos breves de Isaac Goldemberg. Con J. Kates, ha co-traducido la obra de 40 judรญos latinoamericanos, entre ellos Cรฉsar Tiempo, Rosita Kalina, Angelina Muรฑiz-Huberman, Ricardo Feierstein, Isaac Goldmberg Sonia Chocrรณn y Jenny Asse Chayo. Su beca eciente aborda las obras mรญsticas de Juan Garcรญa Abรกs, Josรฉ Luis Fariรฑas de Cuba, la poesรญa de Rosita Kalina de Costa Rica y la reacciรณn literaria al atentado a la AMIA en Argentina. Stephen A. Sadow dirige el blog semanal https://jewishlatinamerica.com que presenta el trabajo de escritores, poetas, artistas y sinagogas de toda Amรฉrica Latina.
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Stephen A. Sadow is Professor Emeritus of Latin American Literature and Jewish Studies at Northeastern University in Boston. He specializes in Latin American Jewish literature and art. Among Sadowโs books are King Davidโs Harp: Autobiographical Essays by Jewish Latin American Writers, winner of a National Jewish Book Award, and his translations of Mestizo, A Novel by Ricardo Feierstein, Unbroken: From Auschwitz to Buenos Aires, the autobiography of Holocaust survivor Charles Papiernik, and Philosophy and other Fables, short essays by Isaac Goldemberg. With J. Kates, he has co-translated the work of 40 Jewish Latin American, including Cรฉsar Tiempo, Rosita Kalina, Angelina Muรฑiz-Huberman, Ricardo Feierstein, Isaac Goldmberg Sonia Chocrรณn and Jenny Asse Chayo. His recent scholarship deals with the mystical works of Juan Garcรญa Abรกs, Josรฉ Luis Fariรฑas from Cuba, the poetry of Rosita Kalina, from Costa Rica and the literary reaction to the AMIA bombing in Argentina. Stephen A. Sadow directs the weekly blog https://jewishlatinamerica.com that features the work of writers, poets, artists, and the synagogues from of all of Latin America.
From I Am of the Tribe of Judah: Poems from Jewish Latin America,.
Rosita Kalina.
Rosita Kalina (1934-2004) was born in San Josรฉ, Costa Rica. She graduated from the University of Costa Rica with a degree in English literature. She taught English at the high school level and helped to found the Santa Ana High School in San Josรฉ. From 1965 to 1970, she lived in the United States. She returned to the University of Costa Rica, where she taught English. Kalina published much short fiction in the literary supplements of La Naciรณn newspaper in San Josรฉ, for which she also wrote social criticism. She often contributed to Herencia judรญa, a Jewish journal in Bogotรก, Colombia. In 1988, she was awarded the National Poetry Prize for her Los signos y los tiempos. Though not an observant Jew, in her poetry, she frequently explored Jewish religious and existential themes in highly original in poetry collections such as Detrรกs de las palabras (1983), Cruce de niebla (1987), and Mi paz guerrero (1998).
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โI Am of the Tribe of Judahโ
I am of the tribe of Judah.
That of my grandparents and great-grandparents.
That of Solomon, of Jesus and Einstein.
Not to mention Freud
whose valuable Kabalistic secret
leaped to the therapistโs chair.
I donโt forgive the thousands of Holocausts
that in the name of false truths
were devised against my people,
against other extremely old peoples.
wiser than the law of the powerful.
I am horrified by the man who takes part in religious wars.
That we are one in the immense ship
Mother Earth, that transports to
unlimited dimensions.
That we all breathe a like destiny.
I am universal. Simply a woman
who dares to dream of a brotherhood
of souls and of wings.
Precisely because of my origin,
I well understand the sadness of others
brought down by color or angle of eyes.
Let the era of man come,
marvelous being who populates existence!
In him, I see as unique, unrepeatable,aress.
Loving even to ecstasy.
Translation from the Spanish by Stephen A. Sadow and J. Kates
Daniela Roitstein naciรณ en Buenos Aries. “Escritora, editora, comunicadora. Profesora de estudios hebreos y judaicos. Me especializo en comunicaciรณn escrita y redes sociales. Soy autora de la novela Escote hombre publicada en Chile, y obtuve premios literarios en Argentina y Australia, tanto en textos de no ficciรณn como de ficciรณn. Soy cofundadora y directora de Editorial Furtiva. He traducido textos del inglรฉs al espaรฑol. Soy Licenciada en Derecho por la UB de Buenos Aires, y Postgrado en Comunicaciรณn y Periodismo. de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn. Hablo hebreo e inglรฉs con fluidez. Comunicaciรณn y Periodismo de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalรฉn. Hablo hebreo e inglรฉs con fluidez”.โโ Desde su pรกgina de Facebook.
Daniela Roitstein was born in Buenos Aires. “Writer, editor, communicator. Professor of Hebrew and Judaic studies. I specialize in written communication and social networks. I am the author of the novel Escote masculino published in Chile, and I was awarded literary prizes in Argentina and Australia, both in non-fiction and fiction texts. I am co-founder and director of Editorial Furtiva. I have translated texts from English to Spanish. I have a Law degree from the UB in Buenos Aires, and a Postgraduate Degree in Communication and Journalism from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I am fluent in Hebrew and English.”โโโFrom her Facebook page.
Despuรฉs del incendio fui una vez a la sinagoga. Era viernes a la noche, habรญa salido la primera estrella y un impulso entre atรกvico y moderno me llevรณ al templo de mi juventud.
En medio de la crisis econรณmica habรญa resurgido en Buenos Aires una tendencia a la religiosidad practicante.
El Antiguo Testamento es una fascinaciรณn para mรญ. Sรฉ que Eva naciรณ de la costilla de Adรกn, que Caรญn matรณ a Abel y que Esav se perdiรณ por un plato de lentejas. Pero, ademรกs de los relatos bรกsicos, me atrapan los personajes menores. Del relato de Job, por ejemplo โel sufriente sin motivo, el conejillo de Indias de Diosโ mi preferido es Elihรบ: un personaje que aparece apenas perfilado, joven testigo del sufrimiento de Job que acude silencioso al drama. Elihรบ, que escucha atento y calla. El que cuando ve que las palabras de los Sabios no prosperan y que Job las rebate con argumentos que los deja mudos, se convierte en orador incisivo. Nace. Puedo imaginarlo con su tรบnica larga y una mirada avivada de color azul como el Mediterrรกneo. Es รฉl quien le reprocha a Job ยซยฟpiensas ser mรกs justo que Dios?ยป, dejando en claro que ve lo que otros ignoran: el mayor pecado del supuesto justo es su soberbia. Elihรบ conoce a Job. Sabe de รฉl. Cuando Job afirma: ยซHabรญa hecho yo un pacto con mis ojos y no miraba a ninguna doncellaยป, ยฟquรฉ habrรก pensado Elihรบ? ยกUna mentira y una injuria para el gรฉnero masculino, mi queridรญsimo Job! ยกUna invitaciรณn a que te despreciemos, por hacerles creer a nuestras mujeres que semejantes pactos son siquiera factibles!
Job me era indiferente. A quien yo admiraba era a Elihรบ.
Eso, junto con ciertos recuerdos de infancia, hicieron el resto del camino.
El frรญo habรญa guardado a los judรญos de Belgrano en el calor de sus casas calefaccionadas y no รฉramos muchos los feligreses. Me sentรฉ bien al fondo, en una fila de sillas azules en la que no habรญa nadie mรกs. Siempre olรญa a reciรฉn pintado allรญ. La alfombra, tambiรฉn azul, obraba maravillas para contrarrestar la frialdad que generaba el gran tamaรฑo del lugar. Era desconcertante que solo se llenara de verdad en las Altas Fiestas. Para esas fechas yo iba al templo que solรญan ir mis abuelos, el de la calle Cosio, donde nadie rezaba mucho, pero tampoco simulaba hacerlo. Indescifrables hilos unรญan las palabras sagradas que los viejos decรญan a destiempo, mientras las viejas intercambiaban recetas de strudel de manzana y el dato de la pescaderรญa en la que molรญan mejor el pescado, la cebolla y la zanahoria para el guefilte fish. Cosio era el รบtero, Belgrano el corazรณn. Yo, quemadas mis cosas, necesitaba recuperar mi ritmo cardiaco, sentirme vivo. Me llevaron mis piernas hasta la fila donde me sentaba cuando llegaba tarde, aunque esta vez eran reciรฉn las siete y media y รฉramos pocos. Era temprano pero tarde, muy tarde; en algรบn lugar era muy tarde para mรญ. Tomรฉ el libro de rezos. Mis manos sudaban sin motivo. Me las sequรฉ en los costados de mi Leviโs 501, el mรกs clรกsico de la marca, que adquirรญ en la primera compra grande que hice con Laura para reaprovisionarme. Vestirme con un 501 era reafirmar lo existente, saber que el cielo no habรญa caรญdo. Para arriba me habรญa puesto una Lacoste rosa, regalo de Norita: No te hubieras molestado, Norita/ยซPero necesitรกs ropa, Ignacio, y ademรกs la comprรฉ en ofertaยป/Esa frase se esperarรญa que la diga yo, Norita/Se sonrรญe, cรณmplice, y me abraza.
Sonaron los acordes anunciando la entrada del rabino; en los รบltimos aรฑos la gente tomรณ la costumbre de ponerse de pie para recibirlo, como si fuera el Santo Padre. Yo no, siempre me incomodaron las jerarquรญas. Me quedรฉ sentado y me sentรญ pequeรฑo viendo desde mi รบltima fila las espaldas de toda la congregaciรณn de pie frente al altar. dio miedo y yo apuraba mis pasos torpes para no detenerme demasiado frente a รฉl. ยฟQuรฉ ven que yo no veo? ยฟQuรฉ miran? ยฟSerรก quรฉ me estoy perdiendo el fin del mundo? La espera de Oelze, artista de la dรฉcada del treinta que mi abuelo admiraba a pesar de su origen alemรกn, que pendรญa majestuoso sobre la cรณmoda de estilo de la casa, se quemรณ con todas mis otras cosas. Mi mamรก quiso dรกrmelo cuando muriรณ mi padre. Recuerdo un detalle del cuadro en el que una mujer y un hombre parecieran estar desertando de la escena. Si siguieran caminando tropezarรญan el uno con el otro, pero el misterio de los cuadros reside, justamente, en su quietud. De chico pensaba que el hombre lo sabรญa todo y por eso huรญa. ยฟY ella? Entendรญa algo que los demรกs solo alcanzaban a atisbar. Huรญa a conciencia.
Sobrecogido me hundรญ en la silla azul. Por instinto me toquรฉ la cabeza confirmando que todo โpelos y kipรกโ estaba en su lugar. Con ese gesto, una mujer sentada a cierta distancia de mรญ creyรณ que la estaba saludando y me sonriรณ con una familiaridad que me incomodรณ. No lograba ubicarla en ningรบn compartimento de mi memoria. Con su mano derecha, con breves sacudidas espasmรณdicas de su palma, bajito y apenas por encima de su ombligo, me saludรณ, como una adolescente contenta. Agucรฉ la vista mientras hacรญa una mueca, mezcla de sonrisa y estornudo reprimido, un enjambre de movimientos con mi cabeza, ojos y manos para disimular el olvido con un saludo cordial. La que me saludaba no era una visiรณn del famoso cuadro sino una mujer entre robusta y contundente vestida de verde, con cartera verde, zapatos verdes y un pequeรฑo paรฑuelo alrededor del cuello. El pelo negro lacio y corto, y anillos verdes, pulseras verdes y uรฑas muy largas. Maquillaje en los pรกrpados del mismo color. ยฟDe dรณnde la conocรญa? Seguรญ el servicio religioso en una especie de trance, ya que por algรบn motivo que yo a conciencia ignoraba, la apariciรณn me habรญa encendido una reserva de energรญa de la que carecรญa desde el incendio. Me ponรญa de pie y sentรญa su mirada en mis omรณplatos. Me volvรญa a sentar y veรญa su sonrisa, pero la sonrisa seductora era ahora como de abuela, de amiga de mi madre, como diciendo ยซcuรกnto has cambiadoยป. O ยซno cambiaste nadaยป. Lo mismo da: una sonrisa de alguien que no me ve hace mucho tiempo.
Poco a poco, la sinagoga se fue llenando, la gente ocupรณ los asientos de siempre, como si fueran entradas de cine numeradas. Allรก la que tiene una hija bulรญmica, pero lo esconde. Mรกs a la izquierda, de traje a rayas y zapatos lustrados en la calle Florida, el dueรฑo de la importadora de televisores. A su lado, el del quebrado Banco Patricios, impasible, seguido de una rubia envuelta en una remera de color plata que le marca rollos desagradables. A todos, todos, los conocรญa mรกs o menos bien, en sus miserias y glorias. Pero la mujer de verde se me escapaba del fichero. Cuando abrieron las puertas del arca donde estรกn guardadas las Torot, disponiรฉndonos a cantar la plegaria Aleinu, en la pรกgina ciento cuarenta seis de nuestros sidurim, y quedaron a la vista las sagradas escrituras en rollos vestidos de hilos dorados y plateados, se elevรณ mi espรญritu. Quien no ha visto nunca la recรกmara de la sinagoga abierta de par en par, mostrando los rollos de los cinco libros de Moisรฉs engalanados, no ha visto nada aรบn. El Pueblo del Libro ataviaba a su obra magna con corona y vestido de reina. Y en el interior, la palabra. Los allรญ presentes estiramos nuestros brazos en sรญmbolo de respeto, besando de lejos el texto, reverenciando en ese beso la tradiciรณn y, por quรฉ no, una cierta magia. Era el momento de pedir, esa era la costumbre en mi familia. Resultaba un poco pagano, como si reverenciรกramos al becerro de oro, pero funcionaba. Cerrรฉ mis ojos y me conectรฉ con una parte de mรญ que solo se me revelaba en esas circunstancias. Lo normal hubiera sido pedir algo cercano a: Dios, dame fuerzas, ayudame a salir adelante, a no deprimirme y a recuperar todas mis cosas. Pero en lugar de ello, pedรญ: Dios, me siento mal pero no abatido, solo quiero saber quiรฉn soy ahora. No permitas que recupere mis viejas cosas.
En el balanceo natural de quienes estรกn rezando, mis pies se despegaban del suelo medio centรญmetro hacia adelante, hacia atrรกs, hacia adelante, hacia atrรกs, de forma automรกtica y sin ninguna intenciรณn de mi parte de sumarme a los pรกjaros danzantes. Era solo una inercia del cuerpo que resultaba bastante ventajosa.
After the fire I went to the synagogue once. It was Friday night, the first star had risen and an impulse somewhere between atavistic and modern took me to the temple of my youth.
Amid the economic crisis, a tendency toward practicing religiosity had reemerged in Buenos Aires.
The Old Testament is a fascination for me. I know that Eve was born from Adam’s rib, that Cain killed Abel and that Esau was lost over a plate of lentils. But, in addition to the basic stories, the minor characters captivate me. From the story of Job, for example โ the sufferer without reason, God’s guinea pig โ my favorite is Elihu: a character who appears barely outlined, a young witness of Job’s suffering who comes silently to the drama. Elihu, who listens attentively and remains silent. He who, when he sees that the words of the Wise Men do not prosper and that Job refutes them with arguments that leave them mute, becomes an incisive speaker. Born. I can imagine him with his long robe and a lively look of blue like the Mediterranean. It is he who reproaches Job “do you think you are more just than God?”, making it clear that he sees what others ignore: the greatest sin of the supposedly righteous is his pride. Elihu meets Job. He know about him. When Job states: “I had made a covenant with my eyes and looked at no maiden,” what must Elihu have thought? A lie and an insult to the male gender, my dearest Job! An invitation for us to despise you, for making our women believe that such pacts are even feasible!
I was indifferent to Job. The one I admired was Elihu.
That, along with certain childhood memories, made it the rest of the way.
The cold had kept the Jews of Belgrano in the warmth of their heated houses and there were not many of us parishioners. I sat at the back, in a row of blue chairs where there was no one else. It always smelled freshly painted there. The carpet, also blue, worked wonders to counteract the coldness generated by the large size of the place. It was disconcerting that it only really filled up on the High Holidays. Around that time, I went to the temple that my grandparents used to go to, the one on Cosio Street, where no one prayed much, but they didn’t pretend to do so either. Indecipherable threads united the sacred words that the old men said at the wrong time, while the old women exchanged recipes for apple strudel and the information about the fishmonger where they best ground the fish, onion and carrot for the guefilte fish. Cosio was the womb, Belgrano the heart. With my things burned, I needed to get my heart rate back, to feel alive. My legs carried me to the row where I sat when I was late, although this time it was only seven thirty and there were few of us. It was early but late, very late; somewhere it was too late for me. I took the prayer book. My hands were sweating for no reason. I dried them on the sides of my Levi’s 501, the brand’s most classic, which I acquired on the first big purchase I made with Laura to restock. Dressing in a 501 was reaffirming what existed, knowing that the sky had not fallen. Upstairs I had worn a pink Lacoste, a gift from Norita: You wouldn’t have bothered, Norita/”But you need clothes, Ignacio, and I also bought them on sale”/That phrase would be expected from me, Norita/He smiles, complicit, and hugs me.
The chords sounded announcing the rabbi’s entrance; In recent years people have taken to standing up to receive him, as if he were the Holy Father. Not me, hierarchies always bothered me. I stayed seated and felt small watching from my last row the backs of the entire congregation standing in front of the altar. It was scary and I hurried my clumsy steps so as not to stop too long in front of him. What do you see that I don’t see? What are they looking at? Am I missing the end of the world? The wait for Oelze, an artist from the 1930s that my grandfather admired despite his German origin, who hung majestically over the style chest of drawers in the house, burned up with all my other things. My mother wanted to give it to me when my father died. I remember a detail of the painting in which a woman and a man seemed to be leaving the scene. If they continued walking, they would trip over each other, but the mystery of the paintings lies precisely in their stillness. As a child I thought that man knew everything and that’s why I ran away. And she? She understood something that others could only glimpse. I consciously fled.
Overwhelmed I sank into the blue chair. Instinctively I touched my head confirming that everything โ hair and kippah โ was in place. With that gesture, a woman sitting at a distance from me thought I was greeting her and smiled at me with a familiarity that made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t locate it in any compartment of my memory. With her right hand, with brief spasmodic shakes of her palm, low and barely above her navel, she greeted me, like a happy teenager. I squinted as I made a grimace, a mixture of a smile and a repressed sneeze, a swarm of movements with my head, eyes, and hands to hide the forgetfulness with a cordial greeting. The one who greeted me was not a vision of the famous painting, but a robust and forceful woman dressed in green, with a green purse, green shoes, and a small scarf around her neck. Short straight black hair, and green rings, green bracelets, and very long nails. Makeup on the eyelids of the same color. Where did you know her from? I followed the religious service in a kind of trance, since for some reason that I was consciously unaware of, the apparition had ignited a reserve of energy in me that I had lacked since the fire. I would stand up and feel her gaze on my shoulder blades. I would sit down again and see her smile, but the seductive smile was now like that of a grandmother, of my mother’s friend, as if to say, “how much you have changed.” Or “you didn’t change anything.” It doesn’t matter: a smile from someone who hasn’t seen me in a long time.
Little by little, the synagogue filled up, people occupied the usual seats, as if they were numbered movie tickets. There is the one who has a bulimic daughter but hides it. Further to the left, in a striped suit and polished shoes on Florida Street, the owner of the television importer. At his side, the man from the bankrupt Banco Patricios, impassive, followed by a blonde wrapped in a silver T-shirt that gives him unpleasant impressions. They knew everyone, everyone, more or less well, in their miseries and glories. But the woman in green escaped my file. When they opened the doors of the ark where the Torot are kept, preparing to sing the Aleinu prayer, on page one hundred and forty-six of our siddurim, and the sacred scriptures came into view in scrolls dressed in gold and silver threads, my spirit was lifted. . . He who has never seen the chamber of the synagogue wide open, showing the scrolls of the five books of Moses decorated, has not seen anything yet. The People of the Book adorned their magnum opus with a crown and a queen’s dress. And inside, the word. Those present stretched out our arms as a symbol of respect, kissing the text from afar, reverence in that kiss the tradition and, why not, a certain magic. It was time to ask, that was the custom in my family. It was a bit pagan, like we were worshiping the golden calf, but it worked. I closed my eyes and connected with a part of me that was only revealed to me in those circumstances. The normal thing would have been to ask for something close to: God, give me strength, help me move forward, not get depressed and get all my things back. But instead, I asked: God, I feel bad but not down, I just want to know who I am now. Don’t let me get my old things back.
In the natural balance of those who are praying, my feet left the ground half a centimeter forward, backward, forward, backward, automatically and without any intention on my part to join the dancing birds. It was just an inertia of the body that was quite advantageous.
Carlos Szwarcer es historiador, periodista y cuentista judรญo-argentino. Es especialista en la historia de los sefardรญes en la Argentina y ha coleccionado muchos testimonios orales de la gente vieja sefaradรญ de los barrios de Buenos Aires.
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Carlos Szwarcer is an -Argentine Jewish historian, journalist and short-story writer. He is a specialist in the history of Sephardic Jews of Argentina, and he has collected many oral testimonies from older people in Sephardic neighborhoods of Buenos Aires.
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Caminata otoรฑal -regreso a la inocencia-
Por Carlos Szwarcer
Cerrรณ la puerta de la pensiรณn en la que mal vivรญa y se echรณ a andar. Le habรญan dado un lugar para dormir gracias a la gestiรณn de un influyente sefaradรญ que se apiadรณ de รฉl. Estaba abatido. No podรญa creer que su malhadada existencia galopara desbocada por senderos tan antojadizos. โUna bien, otra mal, una bien, otra malโฆโ, pensaba. Arrastrando sus pies, cambiรณ su habitual recorrido, sin motivo alguno. Esta vez encarรณ la calle Gurruchaga hacia la izquierda. Mirรณ hacia la vereda de enfrente. Dos รกngeles de estuco lo observaban con misericordia desde los altos muros de la Iglesia San Bernardo.
โยกQuรฉ gameo! ยฟQuiรฉn me habrรก dicho que me meta en el negocio de las licitaciones? Yo sabรญa que me iba a pasar esto. Vender camisas, tocar el cielo, casa nueva, auto รบltimo modelo, guita[1]โฆ Y despuรฉs, como siempre, ยกperder todo!se decรญa, repasando sus รบltimos aรฑos, moviendo la cabeza hacia uno y otro lado y apretรกndose los labios entrecortando ese rezongo que le brotaba como quejosa plegaria.
Dos chicos que volvรญan a sus casas desde el Colegio Herrera lo observaron y se codearon. Su aspecto era lo suficientemente extraรฑo como para llamar la atenciรณn. Habรญa salido de esa pensiรณn-geriรกtrico tan ensimismado como desalineado; ni se habรญa peinado. Su cabello, otrora renegrido, encanecido demasiado rรกpidamente desde la muerte de su esposa, mostraba cientos de pelos parados como un cepillo viejo y escarchado. Josรฉ percibiรณ esas miradas raras, frunciรณ el ceรฑo y atinรณ a aplastarse con la mano derecha su abundante y desprolija pelambre, volviendo tan profundamente a sus embarullados pensamientos que no advirtiรณ las risotadas juveniles a su espalda.
En la esquina de la calle Murillo se frenรณ instintivamente poco antes de llegar al cordรณn de la vereda. Vaya a saber por quรฉ caprichos de su mente apareciรณ la inesperada y brillante imagen de su abuela fumando aquellos cigarros negros que apestaban el aire del inquilinato. Linda, robusta, peleadora. Hasta habรญa acuchillado a un turco allรก en Esmirna. Tuvo que hacerse respetar e ingeniรกrselas para darle de comer a sus tres hijos. En Turquรญa, su marido, Jaim, cumpliรณ cinco aรฑos de servicio militar y fue larga su ausencia durante la guerra. A Josรฉ le contaron que sus familiares vinieron a Buenos Aires desde el sector mรกs pobre del Karatash, el barrio judรญo de Esmirna, y que su abuelo demostrรณ tempranamente quiรฉn era, como para que no quedaran dudas: perdiรณ la pilcha[2] del casorio[3]jugรกndosela a los dados. Josรฉ mostraba su pรญcara sonrisa cuando tenรญa la ocasiรณn de explicar su teorรญa: la descendencia masculina heredarรญa de aquel patriarca familiar esa irresistible inclinaciรณn por el juego. En charla de amigos, ademรกs, reconocรญa con orgullo el carรกcter fuerte y pendenciero de su abuela, la que habรญa dado tanto que hablar a medio barrio. Cรณmo se peleaba esa mujer con los vecinos, sentada en su destartalada silla de mimbre en la vereda, alardeando con su infaltable cigarro negro a un costado de la boca y seรฑalando con el dedo รญndice. Nadie se le atrevรญa.
โยกQuรฉ tiemposโฆ! โmurmurรณ Josรฉ, emprendiendo absurdamente el cruce de Murillo a ciegas. Una bocina desesperada y el escandaloso ruido de los frenos de una camioneta Ford 400 lo ensordecieron hasta paralizarlo. El paragolpes metรกlico estaba a no mรกs de un centรญmetro de su rodilla. Se quedรณ aturdido y temblando. โยกQuรฉ torpeza la mรญa!โ, rumiรณ asustado.
โยกImbรฉcil! ยฟCรณmo te largรกs a cruzar de golpe? ยฟTe querรฉs matar? โlo increpรณ el conductor del vehรญculo.
Josรฉ, casi sin entender quรฉ le habรญa sucedido, recorriรณ la otra mitad de la calle, pero ahora con sus ojos exageradamente abiertos y abotargados clavados en la figura del joven que aรบn le gritaba por la ventanilla de la Ford. Su corazรณn agitado le percutรญa en la garganta y se balanceรณ sobre el cordรณn de la vereda como si estuviera sobre una baldosa enjabonada. Se recompuso, sacudiรณ la cabeza y tomรณ conciencia de que estuvo a punto de perder su frรกgil vida.
โยฟPero estoy charpeado, en dรณnde tengo el meoio? โexclamรณ apretรกndose las manos y mirando el cielo demasiado celeste.
Dio unos pasos y, tal vez porque instintivamente sabรญa que no habรญa peligro inmediato en los prรณximos cien metros โhasta la prรณxima esquinaโ, volviรณ a meterse de lleno en el tรบnel de los recuerdos mientras caminaba. Que lo echaran de la casa de su hijo era lo รบltimo que hubiera esperado. โยฟPor quรฉ no habrรฉ sacado el carรกcter temerario de mi abuela y atreverme a ponerle un cuchillo en el cuello a mi nueraโฆ, ยฟcรณmo pudo tratarme como un perro?โ, rezongรณ. โNoโฆ estas reacciones no son de gente como yo. ยฟQuรฉ me estรก pasando?โ, se sorprendiรณ de sus disparatados razonamientos. โยกEn quรฉ jal vinimos!โ[4], solรญa decir su abuela para expresar los malos momentos, y a Josรฉ le rondaron estas antiguas y lejanas palabras. Sentรญa amargamente que en el รบltimo tramo de su vida se encontraba en una humillante situaciรณn que no creรญa merecer. De chico habรญa sido rebelde, buscavidas, peleador, pero los aรฑos lo amansaron; los infalibles porrazos en su camino y su mala estrea fueron domando, de a poco, su carรกcter dรญscolo, restos de una remota osadรญa. Estaba entregado. En los รบltimos tiempos se sentรญa como aquel barrilete de su niรฑez al que se le cortรณ el hilo y fue llevado por el vientoโฆ hacia ningรบn lugar.
Al llegar a la esquina de Padilla decidiรณ abandonar por un momento sus pensamientos y mirรณ la calle antes de cruzar. Dejรณ pasar un micro naranja con niรฑos que iban o venรญan de algรบn colegio cercano, esta vez con los pies firmes apoyados en el cordรณn y, ya sin vehรญculos cercanos, apurรณ el paso y cruzรณ. Al llegar a la mitad de la cuadra escuchรณ la voz estridente de Roberto, su amigo de juergas, que le gritaba desde la entrada del mercadito de enfrente: โEh, Josรฉ, ยฟvas al Cafรฉ San Bernardo?โ.
โNo, no tengo un mango[5]para morfar[6]โฆno voy a ir al cafรฉ a jugar a las cartasโle contestรณ, arreglรกndose otra vez la cabellera y levantando la mano para saludar a su amigo.
โยกNo seas llorรณn! โle recriminรณ Roberto, que resignadamente encogiรณ los hombros y mientras se alejaba le gritรณ su frase habitualโ: ยกChau!โฆ Cheโฆ, ยกno te pierdas Josecito!
Josรฉ continuรณ su periplo en ese dรญa frรญo y esquivo, aunque el sol que le daba de frente acariciaba su rostro. Por un rato disfrutรณ de ese regalo de la naturaleza que le arrancรณ una media sonrisa de satisfacciรณn. Pero enseguida volviรณ a sumergirse en sus largas cavilaciones: โยกCuรกnta plata perdรญ en el juego, con la cuarta parte de lo que despilfarrรฉ podrรญa vivir tranquilo y no de la compasiรณn de los demรกsโฆ!โ.
Al llegar a la ochava de la calle Camargo mirรณ a la izquierda, hacia la mitad de cuadra, no habรญa nadie conocido en la puerta del Templo Sefaradรญ, excepto dos mastodontes del servicio de seguridad. Ese sitio ya no era el mismo desde los atentados a la Embajada de Israel y la AMIA: habรญan construido esos pilares para protecciรณn y tenรญa custodia permanente. Posรณ sus ojos marrones en la vereda de enfrente, en el nuevo negocio que por aรฑos fuera el almacรฉn de โmuรฑecoโ Goldfarb. โยฟQuรฉ habrรก sido de aquel flaco y pรกlido ashkenazรญ que rara vez su rostro veรญa la luz del sol? El pobre se pasaba dรญa tras dรญa parapetado detrรกs de su roja mรกquina de cortar fiambresโ, recordรณ con nostalgia.
Dejรณ pasar un colectivo 65 y cruzรณ la calle. Los cien metros siguientes hasta la gran avenida Corrientes no fueron sencillos de recorrer. La enorme red de su memoria lo atraparรญa hasta casi inmovilizarlo. Intuรญa que los recuerdos le traerรญan imรกgenes inevitables. Se dejรณ llevar lentamente por sus flacas y huesudas piernas, atraรญdo por los claroscuros de su pasado. De chico habรญa vivido en un inquilinato de esa cuadra por casi veinte aรฑos, cuando todo era distinto. Buenos Aires, Villa Crespo, la calle Gurruchagaโฆ, cรณmo habรญan cambiado, tanto como su propia vida.
Momentos de su infancia fueron pasando del sepia al color. Su padre โque habรญa hecho de todo para sobrevivirโ fue changarรญn[7]en el puerto, mozo de bodas y de cafรฉ, vendedor ambulante y โยกquรฉ gran bailarรญn!โ: por el arte de su danza armoniosa manteniendo una botella sobre la cabeza sin que se le cayera, acompaรฑรกndose con un par de cucharas marcando el ritmo oriental, tuvo cierta fama como para ganarse muchos aplausos, unos pocos pesos de propina y algunas copas sin cargo. Los รบltimos aรฑos se chupaba hasta una botella de whisky en el dรญa. Fue tan bueno como tarambana, se gastaba todo con los amigos, en el cafรฉ, en las carreras de caballos, jugando en el pรณquerโฆ hasta lo que no tenรญa.
Ese trรกgico gen familiar los persiguiรณ por generaciones. El abuelo de Josรฉ vino a โla Amerikaโ con ese vicio del juego, y un tรญo abuelo fue cรฉlebre por sus juergas desmedidas, jugosas anรฉcdotas que hasta se mencionan en algunos libros que cuentan la historia del barrio. Ni su padre fue ajeno a esta pasiรณn lรบdica y, para quรฉ negarlo, Josรฉ tampoco. ยกEse maldito gen! Pobre su madre, tuvo que rebuscรกrsela lavando ropa para los paisanos. Pero claro que era otra รฉpoca. Si no habรญa plata se las arreglaban. Ella, con un peso que le daba su esposo, hacรญa las cuatro comidas. โยกEra un milagro!โ. Comรญan โqueso rallado al tandurโ[8].โยกQuรฉ ricoโฆ, habรญa alegrรญa!โ. Derretรญan el queso con pan y lo acompaรฑaban con tรฉ y salmodiaban:โHoy cumimos, a Dios bendicimos y maรฑana veremosโ.
โYo fui felizโ, se decรญa Josรฉ y, atraรญdo por una fuerza extraรฑa que lo sacรณ abruptamente de sus elucubraciones, se detuvo frente al nรบmero 432. El local exhibรญa sus persianas marrรณn oscuro bajas y oxidadas. Era el Cafรฉ Izmir, que habรญa cerrado tiempo atrรกs. ยฟCuรกnto hacรญa que no pasaba por su frente? Los รบltimos aรฑos habรญa cambiado mucho porque se fueron muriendo los viejos turcos sefaradรญes como su padre. El local cerrado que tenรญa ante su vista habรญa perdido sus caracterรญsticas orientales y tambiรฉn la fama que supo tener en el barrio. Lo habรญan dejado deteriorarse, fue agonizando de a poco. Pero todavรญa estaba allรญ, resistiรฉndose a desaparecer del todo. Josรฉ se quedรณ duro frente a la persiana central, la mรกs angosta, la que ocultaba la doble puerta vaivรฉn de madera noble por la que habรญan pasado cientos de veces su abuelo, sus tรญos, su padre y tantos otros. Hubiera sido un pecado seguir de largo y no recordar que sus familiares contaron mรกs las horas allรญ que en sus propias casas. โยฟQuรฉ encanto habrรก tenido este sitio para atrapar tan fuertemente a los varones de mi familia?โ, se preguntรณ. รl no podรญa explicarse con exactitud quรฉ representรณ ese cafรฉ para los sefaradรญes, griegos, armenios, pero estaba seguro de que pasar, aunque sea un rato por allรญ, fue casi una obligaciรณn para todos ellos; era como ir a un templo o a una iglesia, encontraban algo de sus lejanas tierras. Se entretenรญan, jugaban a los naipes, escuchaban mรบsica, comรญan y bebรญan esos exquisitos manjares orientales, y las bailarinasโฆ ยกAhโฆ las bailarinas!, cรณmo les gustaban a sus mayores. Tantas veces su madre lo mandรณ a buscar a su padre y cuรกntas veces รฉl le contestรณ โยกVรกte de aquรญ hiyico, no fastidies!โ. Frecuentemente Josรฉ observaba de reojo el interior tras esa neblina impregnada del espeso humo de tabaco fuerte y de las comidas turcas, aromas imprescindibles que llegaban hasta la calle. Sus tรญos y su padre, eternos jugadores de cartas, cuando lo veรญan parado y desgarbado en el umbral de entrada mirando hacia adentro, empujaban el aire rรญtmicamente con las manos, desde el fondo del local, enviรกndole la seรฑal cotidiana: โno molestesโ. Tampoco conseguรญa que sus parientes le dieran los cinco centavos que valรญa la pelota para jugar con los pibes de la barrita de Camargo. Siempre ese ademรกn desde el fondo del cafรฉ lo invitaba a irse. Era parte de los tantos ritos cotidianos. Su madre lo volvรญa a mandar una y otra vez: โยกDile a tu padre ke ya me enfaziรณ[9], que o viene ya o se queda sin cumida!โ.
โCuรกntas cosas, ยฟno? ยฟEn quรฉ lugar estarรก guardado todo lo que pasa en la vida, Dios mรญo?โ, filosofaba abstraรญdo ante los vestigios del bar cerrado. Su abuela siempre le decรญa: โยกTรบ te akodrarรกs de tu chikez kuando peor estรฉs!โ.
Y parado como un soldado, frente al viejo y gastado umbral del Izmir, Josรฉ sintiรณ un escalofrรญo que le subiรณ desde la espalda y por los brazos hasta el cuello. Se vio sesenta aรฑos atrรกs, frente a ese mismo umbral, un gรฉlido dรญa de otoรฑo preรฑado de dignidad yhonor. Tenรญa ocho aรฑos. Salรญa del colegio camino al conventillo. En la vereda del cafรฉ escuchรณ que un metro atrรกs Simรณn, un compaรฑero ashkenazรญ, le gritaba: โยกEhโฆ sardina!โ. La inversiรณn de la tercera y cuarta letra de su apellido tenรญa el objetivo evidente de la burla, de dejarlo contrariado, le estaba diciendo โpescadoโ.
Josรฉ se dio media vuelta, tirรณ su portafolio al piso y dio comienzo a una memorable batalla que le dejarรญa una huella imborrable en el corazรณn. Los imberbes parecรญan dos feroces combatientes a muerte. Los nudillos vรญrgenes de Josecito dieron de lleno en el ojo derecho del provocador. Rรกpidamente algunos vecinos y vendedores ambulantes los rodearon y uno de ellos intentรณ separarlos, pero fue imposible. Dentro del cafรฉ estaban su abuelo, su padre y sus tรญos sentados impasibles en dos mesas, escuchando un chiftetelli de un gastado disco de pasta. Ninguno atinรณ a moverse ni cuando el pequeรฑo, la flor y nata de su linaje, recibiรณ una patada en el estรณmago que lo obligรณ a doblarse por el dolor.
Frente a las persianas bajas y mortecinas recordรณ a su padre con los brazos cruzados sentado en el ventanal, con el cigarrillo en la boca y una copa de rakรญ a medio tomar sobre la mesa, sin hacer un mรญnimo gesto cuando delante de sus propios ojos su รบnico hijo, enredado con el adversario se revolcaba por el piso. Incluso, despuรฉs le contarรญan que su progenitor frenรณ a los gritos a un parroquiano que salรญa a parar la lucha: โยกDรฉjalo!โ, habรญa ordenado secamente, โยกquรฉ se haga hombre!โ.
Con un pรกrpado hinchado y el labio inferior ensangrentado Simรณn saliรณ corriendo para evitar otra dura mano del pequeรฑo Josรฉ, que con voz llorosa y entrecortada le gritaba: โยกVenรญ, cobarde, no te escapes! ยกSardinas te voy a dar!โ. Medio maltrecho se acomodรณ el guardapolvo, mirรณ a su padre a los ojos a travรฉs del vidrio de la ventana guillotina, pero no obtuvo ni una ligera mueca de รฉl. Levantรณ su portafolio del piso mientras algunos vecinos le palmeaban la espalda por su faena: โยกBien Josรฉ, bienโฆ asรญ se hace!โ, le decรญan. Se sintiรณ casi un hombre.
Habรญa salvado el honor y la dignidad. Ese chiquito, que apenas empezaba a vivir, observรณ de soslayo a los parcos y circunspectos varones de su misma sangre reprimiendo exteriorizar el primitivo placer de la victoria de uno de su tribu. El grupo escondiรณ su alegrรญa detrรกs de extraรฑas seรฑas y ademanes contenidos que Josรฉ no lograba entender. Cuando apenas habรญa hecho unos pasos hacia el conventillo, distante a pocos metros del cafรฉ, reciรฉn ahรญ se escuchรณ un estallido de aplausos esmirlรญes: era el jolgorio djidiรณ[10]por su victoria. El tiempo le harรญa comprender la aparente indiferencia y apatรญa de su parentela durante aquel combate iniciรกtico. Esa noche su padre extraรฑamente llegรณ temprano a cenar ante la sorpresa de la familia, y despuรฉs de saludar con un grito a su esposa Rebeca, se acercรณ a Josecito y simplemente, sin decirle palabra, le manifestรณ su orgullo revolviรฉndole el pelo con sus enormes dedos รญndice y anular, apenas unos segundos, pero fue un gesto que su hijo jamรกs olvidarรญa.
โยกQuรฉ maneras tenรญan antes para decir te quieroโฆ!โ,se lamentรณ Josรฉ con la mirada colgada en el vacรญo del presente. De pronto, una hoja cayรณ del aรฑoso fresno; apenas le rozรณ la mejilla, pero le dio la sensaciรณn de un cachetazo. Se vio nuevamente frente al aรฑoso umbral del cafรฉ y advirtiรณ que dos lรกgrimas se le deslizaban, sin querer, zigzagueando entre los pelos de su breve barba de seis dรญas. Quiso ignorar el llanto que se precipitaba, pero le fue imposible, no solamente porque enseguida le llegรณ un sabor salado a su boca, sino porque aquellos dos hilos salobres se encargaron de llamar a la mar. Josรฉ comenzรณ a sollozar desconsoladamente frente al Cafรฉ Izmir. Tocรณ unos instantes la persiana herrumbrosa y en un gesto de reverencia llevรณ los dedos a sus labios y los besรณ con ternura, cerrรณ fuertemente los ojos y volviรณ a apoyar su mano en la cortina metรกlica, como si fuera un sector del Muro de los Lamentos. โยกTรบ te akodrarรกs de tu chikez kuando peor estรฉs!โ,volviรณ a escuchar las palabras sabias y premonitorias de su admirada abuela. Hizo unos pasos, mirรณ el lugar donde aรฑos atrรกs estuvo el conventillo en el que viviรณ hasta los veintitantos, y para no volverse a emocionar continuรณ su marcha hasta la avenida Corrientes.
Todavรญa aturdido, no alcanzรณ a recordar de quรฉ se lamentaba al salir de la pensiรณn, ni hacia dรณnde iba. Y con paso cansino, acompaรฑado por un pertinaz sรฉquito de รกngeles y demonios que se resistรญan a dejarlo en paz, se perdiรณ entre la gente, โcomo aquel barrilete a merced de los caprichos del vientoโฆ hacia ningรบn lugarโ.
He closed the door of the boarding house where he lived poorly and began to walk. They had provided him with a place to sleep, thanks to the management of an influential Sephardic man who took pity on him. He was dejected. He couldn’t believe that his unfortunate existence was galloping along such capricious paths. โOne good, one bad, one good, one badโฆโ he thought. Dragging his feet, for no reason, he changed his usual route, for no reason. This time he faced Gurruchaga Street on his left. He looked toward the sidewalk in front of him. Two stucco angels contemplated him with pity from the high walls of the Church of Saint Bernard.
What game! Who told me to get into the bidding at auction business? I knew this was going to happen to me. Sell โโt-shirts, touch the sky, new house, latest model car, guitaโฆ [1] And then, as always, lose it all!โ he said to himself, reviewing his last years, moving his head from side to side, and pursing his lips between breaths. That grumble that came out of him like a pitiful prayer.
Two boys who were returning home from Colegio Herrera observed him and nudge each other. His appearance was strange enough to attract attention. He had left that pension-nursing home as absorbed as he was disheveled. He hadn’t even combed her hair. His hair, once black, graying too quickly since the death of his wife, showed hundreds of hairs standing up like an old, frosted brush. Josรฉ noticed those strange looks, frowned, and managed to flatten his abundant and untidy hair with his right hand, so deeply in his confused thoughts, that he did not notice the youthful laughter behind him.
At the corner of Murillo Street, shortly before reaching the curb of the sidewalk he instinctively stopped. Who knows by what tricks of his mind the unexpected and brilliant image of his grandmother appeared– smoking those black cigarettes that reeked the air of the tenement. Pretty, robust, feisty. She had even stabbed a Turk there in Izmir. She had had to make himself respected and manage to feed her three children. In Turkey, her husband, Jaim, completed five years of military service and, during the war, was absent for a long time. They had told Josรฉ that his relatives came to Buenos Aires from the poorest sector of Karatash, the Jewish neighborhood of Izmir, and that his grandfather showed early on who he was, so that there would be no doubt: he lost the pilcha [2] of the casario \[ 3] playing dice. Josรฉ showed his mischievous smile when he had the opportunity to explain his theory: the male offspring would inherit from that family patriarch that irresistible inclination for gambling. In conversation with friends, he also proudly recognized the strong and quarrelsome character of his grandmother, who had given half the neighborhood so much to talk about. How that woman fought with the neighbors, sitting in her dilapidated wicker chair on the sidewalk, boasting with her inevitable black cigarette at the side of her mouth and pointing with her index finger. Nobody dared her.
โWhat timesโฆ! โJosรฉ murmured, absurdly crossing Murillo crossing blindly. A desperate horn and the loud noise of the brakes of a Ford 400 truck deafened him to the point of paralysis. The metal bumper was no more than a centimeter from his knee. He was left stunned and shaking. โHow clumsy I am!โ he ruminated in fear.โFool! How do cross suddenly? Do you want to kill yourself?โ the driver of the vehicle rebuked him.
Josรฉ, hardly understanding what had happened to him, walked the other half of the street, but now with his exaggeratedly open and bloated eyes fixed on the figure of the young man, still shouting at him through the Ford window. His heart pounded in his throat. and he tried to balance himself on the sidewalk, which felt like soapy tiles. He pulled himself together, shook his head, and realized that he had almost lost his fragile life.
โยฟPero estoy charpeado, en dรณnde tengo el meoio? But I’m confused, where am I?โhe exclaimed, squeezing his hands, and looking at the sky, that seemed too blue.
He took a few steps and, perhaps because he instinctively knew that there was no immediate danger in the next hundred meters, to the next corner. He plunged into the tunnel of memories as he walked. Being kicked out of his son’s house was the last thing he would have expected. โWhy couldn’t I have taken my grandmother’s reckless character and dared to put a knife to my daughter-in-law’s neck… how could she treat me like a dog?โ he grumbled. โNoโฆ these reactions do not come from people like me. What is happening to me?โ He was surprised by his crazy reasoning. โยกEn quรฉ jal vinimos!โ[4] โ his grandmother used to say to express bad times, and Josรฉ was haunted by these ancient and distant words. He bitterly felt that, in the last stretch of his life, he found himself in a humiliating situation that he did not believe he deserved. As a boy he had been a rebel, a hustler, a fighter, but the years tamed him. The unending blows in his path and his bad attitudes were taming, little by little, his wayward character, what was left of long-ago audacity. He was beaten. Recently, he felt like the kite from his childhood whose string was cut and was carried by the wind… to nowhere.
When he reached the corner of Padilla Street, he decided stop thinking for a moment and looked at the street before crossing. He let an orange bus pass by with children who were going or coming from a nearby school, this time with his feet firmly resting on the curb and, with no vehicles nearby, he quickened his pace and crossed. When he reached the middle of the block he heard the shrill voice of Roberto, his party friend, shouting to him from the entrance of the market opposite: โHey, Josรฉ, are you going to Cafรฉ San Bernardo?โ
No, I donโt have a mango[5]para morfar[6]“ I’m not going to go to the cafe to play cards,” he replied, fixing his hair again and raising his hand to greet his friend. โDon’t be a crybaby!โ Roberto reproached him. He resignedly shrugged his shoulders, and as he walked away, he shouted his usual phrase: โBye!… Hey…, don’t get lost, Josecito!โ
Josรฉ continued his journey on that cold and scornful day, though the sun shining in front of him caressed his face. For a while he enjoyed that gift of nature that made him smile with a bit of satisfaction. But he immediately plunged back into his long musings: โHow much money I lost in that game. With a quarter of what I wasted I could live in peace and not on the pity of others…!โ
When he reached the corner of Camargo Street he looked to the left, toward the middle of the block. There was no one he knew at the door of the Sephardic Temple, except for two mastodons from the security service. That site was no longer the same since the attacks on the Israeli Embassy and the AMIA. They had built those pillars for protection and had taken permanent custody of the place. He placed his brown eyes on the opposite sidewalk, at the new business that for years had been so-called Goldfarb’s store. โWhat had become of that thin and pale Ashkenazi whose face rarely saw the light of the sun? The poor guy spent day after day sheltered behind his red cold cuts slicer,โ he recalled wistfully.
He let a 65 bus pass and crossed the street. The next hundred meters to the large Corrientes Avenue were not easy to travel. The enormous net of his memory would trap him until he was almost immobilized. He sensed that memories would bring him inevitable images. He slowly let himself be carried along by his skinny, bony legs, attracted by the chiaroscuros of his past. Starting as a boy, he had lived in a tenement on that block for almost twenty years, when everything was different. Buenos Aires, Villa Crespo, Gurruchaga Street…, how they had changed, as much as his own life.
Moments of his childhood went from sepia to color. His father, who had done everything possible to survive, was a changarรญn[7] at the port, a waiter at weddings and cafes, a street vendor and โwhat a great dancer!โ: for the art of his harmonious dance, holding a bottle on hith his head without falling. Accompanied by a couple of spoons marking the oriental rhythm, he had a certain reputation for earning a lot of applause, a few pesos as a tip and some free drinks. In recent years he drank a bottle of whiskey a day. He was as good as a taramban; he spent everything with his friends, on coffee, on horse races, playing poker… even what he didn’t have.
That tragic family gene followed them for generations. Josรฉ’s grandfather came to โAmerikaโ with that gambling addiction, and a great uncle was famous for his excessive parties, juicy anecdotes even mentioned in some books tell the history of the neighborhood. Not even his father was a stranger to this playful passion and, why deny it, neither was Josรฉ. That damn gene! Poor mother, she had to earn a living washing clothes for her countrymen. But of course, it was a different time. If there was no money they made do. She, with a peso that her husband gave her, made the four meals. “It was a miracle!” They ate โ โqueso rallado al tandurโ[8].โยก โHow deliciousโฆ, there was joy!โ They melted the cheese with bread and accompanied it with tea and chanted: โToday we eat, we bless God and tomorrow we will see.โ
ย โI was happy,โ Josรฉ said to himself and, attracted by a strange force that abruptly brought him out of his musings, he stopped in front of number 432. The establishment displayed its low, rusty dark brown blinds. It was Cafรฉ Izmir, closed some time ago. How long had it been since you passed it forehead? In recent years it had changed a lot because the old Sephardic Turks, like his father were dying. The closed establishment in front of him had lost its oriental characteristics and the fame it once had in the neighborhood. They had let it deteriorate, it died little by little. But it was still there, refusing to disappear completely. Josรฉ stood hard in front of the central blind, the narrowest one, the one that hid the double swinging hardwood door, through which his grandfather, his uncles, his father and so many others had passed hundreds of times. It would have been a sin to pass by and not remember that his relatives counted the hours there more than in their own homes. โWhat charm must this place have had to hold on to the men of my family so strongly?โ he asked himself. He could not explain exactly what that cafe represented for the Sephardic, Greek, and Armenian people, but he was sure that spending even a little while there was almost an obligation for all of them; it was like going to a temple or a church. They found something from their distant lands. They entertained themselves, played cards, listened to music, ate and drank those exquisite oriental delicacies, and the dancers… Ah… the dancers! How their elders loved them. So many times, his mother sent Josรฉ to look for his father and how many times he replied, โGet out of here hiyico, don’t bother us!โ Josรฉ frequently looked out of the corner of his eye behind that fog impregnated with the thick smoke of strong tobacco and Turkish foods, essential aromas that reached the street. His uncles and his father, eternal card players, when they saw him standing ungainly on the entrance threshold looking in, they rhythmically pushed the air with their hands, from the back of the room, sending him the daily signal: โdo not disturb.โ He also couldn’t get his relatives to give him the five cents the ball cost, required to be able to play with the group of kids from Camargo Street. Always, that gesture from the back of the cafรฉ invited him to leave. It was part of the many daily rituals. His mother ordered him again and again: โTell your father that he has already angered me: [9], that either he comes now. or he is left without food!โ
ย โSo many things, right? โWhere is everything that happens in life stored, my God?โ he philosophized, while distracted in front of the vestiges of the closed bar. His grandmother always told him: โYou will yearn for your childhood warmlywhen you are worse off!โ
And standing like a soldier, in front of the old and worn threshold of Izmir, Joseph felt a chill that rose from his back and up his arms to his neck. He saw himself sixty years ago, in front of that same threshold, on a cold autumn day, full of dignity and honor. He was eight years old. He was leaving school on his way to the tenement. On the sidewalk of the cafรฉ, he heard Simรณn, an Ashkenazi fellow, shout from a meter behind him: โHeyโฆ sardine!โ The inversion of the third and fourth letters of his last name had the obvious objective of mocking him, of making him upset; he was calling him โfish.โ
Josรฉ turned around, threw his briefcase on the floor, and began a memorable battle that would leave an indelible mark on his heart. The two beardless ones looked like two fierce combatants to the death. Josecito’s virgin knuckles hit the provocateur’s right eye squarely. Quickly some neighbors and street vendors surrounded them, and one of them tried to separate them, but it was impossible. Inside the cafe were his grandfather, his father and his uncles sitting impassively at two tables, listening to a chiftetelli from a worn paste record. None of them managed to move, not even when the little boy, the cream of his lineage, received a kick in the stomach that forced him to double over in pain.
In front of the low and dim blinds he remembered his father with his arms crossed sitting at the window, with the cigarette in his mouth and a half-drunk glass of raki on the table, without making the slightest gesture when before his very eyes his only son, tangled with his adversary, was rolling on the floor. Later they would even tell him that his father shouted at a local man who was going out to stop the fight: “Leave him!” he had ordered dryly, “let him become a man!” With a swollen eyelid and a bloody lower lip, Simรณn ran to avoid another harsh hand from little Josรฉ, who with a tearful and broken voice shouted at him: โCome, coward, don’t run away! I’m going to give you sardines!โ Half battered, he adjusted his overalls, looked into his father’s eyes through the glass of the sash window, but did not get even the slightest grimace from him. He picked up his briefcase from the floor while some neighbors patted him on the back for his work: โGood Josรฉ, goodโฆ that’s how it’s done!โ they told him. He felt almost a man.
Still dazed, he couldn’t remember what he was complaining about when he left the boarding house, or where he was going. And with a weary step, accompanied by a persistent entourage of angels and demons who refused to leave him alone, he got lost among people, “like that kite at the mercy of the whims of the wind… towards nowhere at all.”
He had saved his honor and dignity. That little boy, who had just begun to live, looked askance at the restrained and circumspect men of his own blood, repressing the expression of primitive pleasure at the victory of one of his tribe. The group hid their joy behind strange signs and restrained gestures that Josรฉ could not understand. When he had barely taken a few steps towards the house, a few meters from the cafรฉ, he heard a burst of applause from Smirli: it was the djidiรณ [10], rejoicing over his victory. Time would make him understand the apparent indifference and apathy of his relatives during that initiation combat. That night his father strangely arrived early for dinner, to the family’s surprise, and after greeting his wife Rebeca with a shout, he approached Josecito and simply, without saying a word, expressed his pride by ruffling his hair with his huge fingers. index and ring finger, just a few seconds, but it was a gesture that his son would never forget.
โWhat ways did they have before to say I love youโฆ!โ Josรฉ lamented with his gaze hanging in the emptiness of the present. Suddenly, a leaf fell from the old ash tree; It barely touched his cheek, but it felt like a slap. He found himself again facing the aged threshold of the cafรฉ and noticed that two tears were slipping, involuntarily, zigzagging between the hairs of his short six-day beard. He wanted to ignore the crying that was precipitating, but it was impossible, not only because a salty taste immediately came to his mouth, but because those two salty threads were in charge of calling to the sea. Josรฉ began to sob uncontrollably in front of Cafรฉ Izmir. He touched the rusty blind for a few moments and in a gesture of reverence he brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them tenderly, he closed his eyes tightly and rested his hand again on the metal curtain, as if it were a section of the Wailing Wall. โYou will yearn for your childhood warmly when you are worse off!โ, he once again heard the wise and premonitory words of his admired grandmother. He took a few steps, looked at the place where years ago the tenement where he lived until he was in his twenties was, and so as not to get emotional again, he continued his walk to Corrientes Avenue.
Still dazed, he couldn’t remember what he was complaining about when he left the boarding house, or where he was going. And with a weary step, accompanied by a persistent entourage of angels and demons who refused to leave him alone, he got lost among the people, “like that kite at the mercy of the whims of the windโฆ towards nowhere.”
Notes:
[1] Money (from lunfardo, a criole language, once spoken in Buenos Aires).
